An Ordinary Life

by Amanda Prowse

  In the middle of the room stood a small, beaten-up sofa. A dark spring poked out from one of the arms and ragged strips of faded red velvet, hinting at a former luxury almost unimaginable now, hung from the horsehair still tightly packed within the wooden frame. Also in the room were a couple of cane dining chairs that had seen better days and a small paint-spattered card table.

  ‘Wait here.’ Jacques shut the door behind him and Molly swallowed. How long was she supposed to wait and what was she waiting for? She ground her teeth in impatience.

  The door opened with a bang and Molly spun round, relieved to see it was Violet staring back at her, with her hands on her hips and a broad smile on her mouth.

  ‘Hello again.’

  ‘You speak English?’ Molly was surprised.

  ‘Well, I should bloody well hope so. Would have been hard to understand me in school if I hadn’t!’

  ‘You are English?’ This thought had not occurred to her at their last meeting.

  ‘A bit,’ was all Violet was prepared to say on the matter. She parked her bottom on the edge of the old card table and folded her arms across her chest, seeming to study her. ‘I cycled from the café. Took the back roads – only four minutes off my record. Not bad, eh?’

  ‘Not bad at all.’

  Violet pulled half of a cigarette from her front pocket, lit the stub and inhaled deeply. ‘So how are you feeling?’ she asked.

  ‘I guess I was surprised to have such a public arrival,’ Molly said.

  Violet snorted with laughter. ‘It was important you were seen to be arriving. It means no one gives a crap if you pop up again.’

  ‘Of course, yes.’ You dunce, Molly.

  ‘So,’ Violet said, taking another drag, ‘I don’t know how much you know about what happens next?’

  ‘I’ve had a full briefing.’

  Her instructions had been clear: ‘. . . Hand the bag over and then travel back with Violet to the Café Hubert when she goes for her evening shift. A motorbike will take you back to the railway station – and then you will simply do the journey home in reverse. Keep your papers on hand at all times and remember your training.’

  ‘Okay, good.’ Violet rolled the cigarette between her thumb and forefinger. ‘And you have the bag, I see.’ She eyed the rattan holdall that Molly still clutched in her hand.

  Molly nodded.

  ‘May I take it from you?’ Violet asked.

  ‘No.’ Molly gripped the handle. That was not the code.

  ‘Good girl.’ Violet winked at her.

  The door opened and in walked a man in his mid-forties. His skin was dark, his close-shaven beard even darker, but his eyes were the colour of caramel. Violet turned to him with a smile that lit her whole face, a smile that came from within. Molly felt a jolt of envy and the memory of being within touching distance of Johan folded her gut with longing, instantly followed by the tightening of her nipples as the desire to feed her little boy pawed at her. She pushed both images from her mind and focused.

  ‘Claudette!’ Violet beamed. ‘This is Pascal.’

  Molly rose to her feet. ‘How do you do, Pascal?’

  ‘It’s good to meet you.’ His accent was heavy.

  Violet ground the last remnants of her cigarette into the dirt floor under the heel of her boot.

  ‘Can I take your bag?’ he asked.

  ‘My handbag?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. A gift from your mother, no?’

  Molly nodded: that was the phrase she had been waiting for. She handed the bag over to Pascal, noticing how he and Violet locked eyes momentarily, and then watched rapt as he took a small, sharp knife from the inside pocket of his jacket and started to cut away the lining. There under the rim of the frame was a flat, sewn pouch, barely discernible from the inner fabric of the bag itself. Pascal cut through the stitches with the utmost care to detach it, and then held it up to the dull beam of the single light bulb hanging in the centre of the room. He smiled at Violet. In her role as a courier, Molly was still unaware of exactly what she had carried all the way from London.

  Pascal stared at her for a moment before carefully opening the pouch and placing the contents on the table, including a letter, which he read slowly, the only clue as to its content being a slight twitch below his left eye. Along with this came a grainy photograph, which he studied, holding it close to his face as if to better discern the image, and five small keys, each wrapped in tissue, one of which he opened. His expression was hard to read, his tone deadly serious.

  ‘Thank you, Claudette,’ he said.

  ‘You are most welcome,’ Molly offered in all sincerity.

  The door opened and in walked the woman Molly recognised from earlier out in the barn, still in her overalls and with engine grease over her fingers and all up her arms.

  ‘We have a problem.’ She was a little breathless, glancing nervously at Molly. It reminded her of when Mrs Templar would cast an irritated eye in her direction when it was Geer who was in trouble, as if she were guilty by association.

  ‘What kind of problem, Lisette?’ Pascal asked calmly while Violet tensed, folding her arms across her chest.

  Again the woman looked at Molly and jerked her head in the direction of the door. Pascal followed her out. Molly and Violet were left staring at the door, doing their best to listen as the two outside whispered inaudibly, save for the odd sharp intake of breath and then what sounded like a short, angry curse from Pascal. A minute later he returned alone.

  ‘Bernardine is sick,’ he said, addressing Violet.

  ‘Shit!’ Violet knitted her fingers in her hair and closed her eyes briefly.

  ‘Yes, shit indeed!’ Pascal paced the room, his hands on his hips.

  Molly felt like an interloper, an encumbrance.

  ‘What will we do?’ Violet asked.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ he fired, before coming to a standstill and gazing at Molly.

  ‘She could do it!’ Violet stared at Pascal, as if both were on the same page.

  ‘I could do what?’ Molly asked, hiding the leap of nerves at just what might be being suggested.

  Pascal took up a rickety wooden chair at the little table. Violet stood behind him with her hands on his shoulders.

  ‘I need you to listen, Claudette,’ he said. ‘We need your help. We can get word to delay your transport by a few hours. If you agree—’

  ‘What am I agreeing to?’

  ‘We have an operation planned for tonight—’

  Molly breathed slowly, trying to calm her heart rate. ‘What kind of operation?’

  ‘We’re going to cause a break in the chain that will impact the Nazis. What you English would call “throwing a spanner in the works”. It will cause sufficient delay that could mean freedom for numerous individuals who can take advantage of the opportunity.’ He placed one of the five small keys from the pouch in the palm of his hand. ‘We are hoping this one small thing will become a mighty inconvenience to Herr Führer.’ Molly and Violet stared at the little key.

  ‘How so?’ Molly wondered what it might unlock, or the other four like it.

  Pascal spoke slowly. ‘It contains the thing that will kill General Heistermann.’

  Molly had so many questions but as she took a step backwards her calves bumped into the sofa and she sat down abruptly. She had been prepared to make the drop, but this?

  ‘So that’s it? I give him the bag and then what?’ she had asked.

  ‘Then you will come home. And you will have done more than enough; transporting the bag is not without considerable risk. The less detail you know of the wider plan, Miss Collway, the less you can tell if asked. Do you understand?’

  Pascal carefully unscrewed the shaft of the key, which to the untrained eye looked solidly fixed but was easily removed. He tilted the metal case and out popped a tiny scroll of brown film rolled into a tube with a minute white shape nestling inside.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Poison. He eats this and he dies
. Voilà!’

  ‘How . . .’ she swallowed, ‘how are you going to get him to eat it?’

  ‘Well, General Heistermann is a glutton. Violet has prepared sweets for the pig for months now; he can’t get enough of them. They will be there as always for him at the Café Hubert and Violet will feed him one; he always has two or three.’

  ‘Supposing he doesn’t—’

  ‘Here’s the thing,’ Violet interjected, clicking the side of her mouth, ‘you don’t have time to worry about the things that can, might and often do go wrong. You have to make a plan and find a way to carry out your orders. It really is that simple.’

  Molly nodded, but in truth really couldn’t see it was that simple at all. The blood was rushing in her ears and her mouth had gone a little dry. The stakes had been raised. They were talking about murder and this was about as far from couriering as she could possibly have imagined.

  Pascal tipped the poison back into the key and popped it in his pocket.

  ‘Bernadine was supposed to be waitressing with Violet tonight in the back room of the Café Hubert, but she can’t make it. We need two of you in there, to look out for each other, but also because two girls serving is the norm. It can get busy and we don’t want to arouse any suspicions. No one will think it unusual if Violet brings her cousin in for a shift to help out. All hands on deck when needed, and there aren’t too many locals willing to work at the Café Hubert. There will be a plate with six bonbons. Violet will offer him one and he will take one, as he always does, but if on the odd chance he does not, she will eat one herself, the one without poison, naturally, and encourage him that way. If he’s smart, he may make Violet eat one first, and she knows to pick the one next to the letter C written on the edge of the plate – the gold lettering of the Café Hubert is stamped on all the china. You’re quite clear on this, Violet?’

  ‘I am.’

  Molly envied the girl’s steady composure.

  ‘So I would be waitressing with Violet?’ she asked, putting her own thoughts in order, feeling a throb of nerves, but wary also of these two strangers, who could discuss an act of murder quite so matter-of-factly. She wasn’t sure what their reaction might be if she declined to help, now that she knew the plan . . .

  ‘The poison acts within a few seconds and death will be quick once it hits his system. At the first sign of it taking effect, you and Violet will shout vigorously for help, throw up an audible smokescreen, while at the same time you get as far away from him as possible and as quickly as you can – get to the edge of the room, keep your back to the wall and head out of the building. You haven’t met him yet, but Jean-Luc and I will be on motorbikes and we will carry you both out of danger. In case things don’t go quite to plan, Jacques will be on standby at the end of the main street by the river, in the truck.’

  ‘Supposing—?’

  Pascal and Violet both shot her a look, a reminder that they did not want to hear Molly ‘supposing’.

  She closed her mouth. She had been about to ask what would happen if the General did not fancy a bonbon – what were they to do then?

  ‘Think you can do it? Help Violet, serve food and drinks to the pigs?’

  ‘It would be my honour.’ She fixed Pascal with a steady look, as if she had done this kind of thing many times before.

  ‘Good, good.’ He breathed with relief.

  ‘If I were you, I would get some sleep.’ Pascal nodded towards the sofa before standing and turning towards Violet. They were close, facing but not touching, and yet the energy they emitted almost gave off sparks in the gloom.

  Molly remembered what it had felt like to have a man look at her like that, and to know that with no more than a glance you could make a promise that bound you like no other. Her very presence here felt like an intrusion.

  ‘À bientôt.’ Pascal reached out and ran the pad of his thumb along Violet’s jawline before sweeping from the room. Violet slunk down on the sofa next to Molly and placed her hand on her stomach. Molly wondered if she was imagining what it might feel like to have a baby nestling in there and felt a sudden punch to the gut. She would do whatever it took to make the world safer for her baby boy, to create a home and get him back.

  Sentimentality is a distraction you can ill afford. She heard the reminder in her head.

  Violet sighed and pulled off her headscarf to scratch her scalp all over.

  ‘I would love to wash my hair right now, you know – with lashings of hot water and Pears soap.’ She continued to scratch her head. ‘I can’t remember the way it smells, and that really bothers me.’

  ‘I think your hair looks fine.’ Molly meant it.

  ‘Thank you, Claudette.’ Violet considered her. ‘You look . . .’ she began.

  ‘I look what?’

  ‘Angry. Others I’ve met in situations like this are sometimes wired, sentimental or else afraid and edgy, but you’ – Violet held her eyeline – ‘you just look furious.’

  Molly swallowed. ‘I have a lot to feel furious about.’

  ‘Okay,’ Violet said, patting her leg, ‘we are going to divert you from that anger and pass the time!’ She lay back on the sofa and closed her eyes. ‘So, Claudette, my sweet, sweet cousin, if you could eat anything right now, any food you can imagine, what would it be?’

  ‘Oh.’ Molly lay back, matching Violet’s position, as if they were old friends in a dorm and not strangers with an unthinkably dangerous night ahead of them. Closing her eyes too, she pictured a white, starched linen tablecloth, set with a china pouring jug and a large bowl with a polished silver spoon. ‘I haven’t had much of an appetite of late, but I suppose if I could have anything, then it would be suet pudding with golden syrup and piping-hot custard.’ Her mouth watered.

  ‘So you’re a fan of sweet things?’

  ‘Not really, but in the shelter at night I used to think about suet pudding and golden syrup a lot, especially when I got cold, and I’d imagine upending the whole jug of custard, so the pudding would practically float.’

  Molly could almost taste the food she had eaten before the war, before she had known love and loss so intense it had shredded her heart, robbed her of any appetite and left her looking so upset and angry it was obvious even to this stranger.

  ‘And what about you?’ She turned her head to the side and took in Violet’s sharp features, her strong nose and bold brows, not pretty and yet beautiful.

  ‘Oh, that’s easy. I think about it a lot too, but for me it’s not a pudding but a well-baked jacket potato cooked on the fire with butter and salt. The crispy skin, blackened in places, saved until last, when you can put a fresh knob of butter into it, fold it over with your fingers like a crispy sandwich and eat it in two bites – the most delicious thing you have ever tasted, with puffs of fluffy potato clinging to it like little surprises and the butter, melted and running down your chin . . . And to follow’ – Violet turned briefly to face her – ‘as you’ve eaten all the suet pudding with syrup and custard, I’d have blackberries, so plump and delicate that it’s impossible to hold them without the dark purple juice trickling in a sweet river down your fingers. I’d push them up to the roof of my mouth with my tongue, where they’d burst and fill my mouth with the dark sweet jewel of fruit that is sharp and like nothing else . . .’

  The two girls sat in silence, almost in reverence at the delightful memory of favourite foods denied them both for what felt like the longest time.

  ‘Bloody, bloody war!’ Violet huffed.

  ‘Yes,’ Molly could only concur, ‘bloody war.’

  ‘Pascal’s right,’ Violet said, settling back. ‘We should get some sleep.’

  What is your real name? How long have you been here? What have you seen? Are we safe? Where are you from? Do you have family? Do they know where you are?

  ‘Is he your . . .?’ Molly asked, forgetting one of the rules: Overfamiliarity. It’s in these small details where danger lurks, and remember, the danger is not only to yourself but also to others who are r
elying on you.

  As if she hadn’t asked, Violet tipped her head back and closed her eyes with her arms folded high across her chest.

  Johan had been right about how war changes everything. Everything. Here, too, time was compressed. Molly was sleeping on a sofa with a girl she had known for less than an hour and yet who felt like a friend. She missed having a friend and an image of Geer floated into her mind. And she thought of how she had fallen in love in one evening and then lost both her love and her child in a mere matter of months. Yes, everything was condensed, squashed into a small, hard ball that could fly through the air faster than you had time to catch it, because the clock was ticking in time with the firing of machine-guns and none of them knew when the day might come that would be their very last.

  She was jolted from the sleep that had finally overcome her when the door opened a little while later and Lisette came in, bearing two floral dresses over one arm and a shallow basket with a few items of make-up.

  ‘Quickly!’ she said, throwing each of them a dress, without too much consideration, it seemed. ‘Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘Non merci, Lisette.’ Apparently, Violet was in no mood for whatever poor substitute might be offered in place of a jacket potato with butter and salt.

  Molly shook her head too, not at all sure that food would sit well among the tumble of nerves that churned in her gut.

  Lisette shrugged as she left the room, as if it were of very little consequence to her either way.

  Molly held up the dress, a green crêpe de Chine pleated frock with boxy shoulders and a nipped-in waist. The pattern was a sprig in the palest gold with darker blue flowers dotted along the narrow branch and, other than the colourway, resembled cherry blossom. Rising to her feet, she held the dress to her shoulders and took in the scent of mothballs, swallowing the sour query as to whom this frock might belong and where they might be now.