Catriona was conscious of her father gazing at her with a smile, and she knew what he was thinking: the same as he always did when he’d not seen her for a while. He was thinking that she was so much like her mother, it was uncanny, and that she grew more like Eloise every year.
Back in 1920, nineteen-year-old Eloise de Clairand had been studying English in Dublin when – much to the horror of her aristocratic French parents – she had fallen for a young Irish cub reporter and brought him back with her to France. They’d lived together in a tiny apartment in Lyon, where Catriona was born. The scandal of having a baby outside of wedlock was the last straw for Kieran’s parents, who hadn't approved of him running off with a strange French girl in the first place. Luckily, the young couple were so in love and so delighted with their new baby girl; they didn’t care what their respective families thought. They had each other and that was enough.
Kieran got a job with Le Progrès, a Lyonnais newspaper, as their international correspondent, and Eloise – a natural linguist – taught English and cared for their little girl.
Six years later, and married, they decided they could finally afford a honeymoon. They rented a small chalet on the banks of Lake Mirabel. Eloise was a brave swimmer and on the first day, leaving Kieran to mind Catriona, she set out to swim the lake. That evening, her body was found washed up on the far shore, and Kieran McCarthy’s halcyon days were over forever.
Six-year-old Catriona’s life also changed beyond recognition. Not trusting their son-in-law to bring her with him on his travels, Eloise’s parents had insisted on funding a boarding school education for their granddaughter. Since that day, Catriona had been waiting to be old enough to be permanently reunited with her father, and to travel with him to every corner of the globe.
Now that time had come.
‘Catriona?’
She smiled to herself. It was hard to pretend to be annoyed with Kieran for very long. He was so handsome and charming – tall, with a warm smile and jet black hair that came to his collar, and such vivid green eyes. Her classmates would swoon over him, on the rare occasions he came to visit. She turned and handed the lighter back to him and he returned it to the pocket of his linen jacket. His wife’s last gift was always on his person; it was never thrown carelessly on a table or left in a drawer.
‘Are you hungry, pet?’ he asked.
Her eyes lit up. ‘Did you bring something to eat? Please say you did, the nuns had us all starved at the convent.’
Smiling, he pointed to a paper bag between the seats.
With a cry of joy, she pounced on the patisserie bag, extracted a custard tart and gratefully sank her teeth into it, wiping the crumbs with the back of her hand before digging into the bag again. The girls in school used to marvel at how perfect Catriona’s slight curves remained, considering all she ate. Another legacy from her mother, by all accounts.
‘So, how’s everything at home?’ she asked through a mouthful of fresh buttery Madeleine cake. Despite being born in France and growing up in Belgium, she always thought of Ireland as her home. It was her father’s country, and therefore hers.
‘I’ve not been back for a while.’ He crushed out his cigarette in the car’s ashtray. ‘I’ve been in Germany this summer, covering the latest Nazi rally in Nuremberg. They get more elaborate every year. This time it was all about the glorious Anschluss between Germany and Austria. They just love him, that Hitler. It’s almost a religion, the way they adore him. Still, he’s saying all the right things, and Germany was flattened after Versailles so you can kind of see why – but it’s weird there now, the Nazis control everything and anyone who has anything negative to say about them...let’s just say, it doesn’t end well.’
Catriona loved it when her father spoke to her as if she were an adult. She tried to sound knowledgeable. ‘I suppose he’ll want to take over Belgium next.’
For a while, Kieran remained silent, and she feared she’d said something stupid, but then he answered lightly. ‘Who knows? This German-speaking bit of Belgium is probably too insignificant for the Führer.’
She felt relieved. ‘And it’s not just German-speaking, of course. Everyone here speaks French as well.’
He glanced at her. ‘And you?’
‘Yes, I’m officially trilingual now,’ she acknowledged with a flourish and a grin. ‘The nuns made us speak nothing but French. Learning German was harder, but I’m good at languages. Trudi – she’s from Frankfurt, remember her? – says my accent is quite acceptable for a girl educated in Belgium.’
‘Ah yes, Trudi. What’s she going to do now?’
‘Go home to Germany, probably to marry Gerhardt, who wrote to her every week since our first year. He’s nice, he came with her parents last summer and they all took Trudi and me out for a picnic on the banks of the Vesdre. They felt sorry for me being virtually an orphan…’ She glanced at him mischievously to show she was only joking. ‘Anyway, her parents came to collect her in July. I’ve really missed her since. It’s hard to imagine them all as supporters of Hitler but I think they are. Her father works for some official organisation and her little brother is in a thing like the boy scouts except it's all about Hitler apparently. We were kind of sheltered from the world by the nuns but the letters the German girls kept getting from home were a bit eye-opening.’
He looked grim. ‘Hitler means business anyway, no doubt about that.’
The German-language road signs and shop fronts were falling behind them as they passed out of this part of Belgium towards Calais in northern France. There, they would catch the ferry to Dover and then drive across England to catch another ferry to Dublin.
‘So, back to Dublin and then where?’ she asked him, licking the last of the crumbs from her fingers and wiping them on her skirt.
Acting as if he hadn't heard her, he opened up the little MG on the longer, wider road. He drove too hard and fast but she felt safe with him. She would always feel safe with him. Whether he liked it or not, she was determined to travel the world with him, wherever his reporting took them. She was a grown woman now, not a silly little girl who could be left behind.
Chapter 2
August, 1940. Dublin
‘I’m twenty, I’m an adult! If you won’t take me with you this time, I don’t care; I’m going to London anyway. Dublin is driving me insane. Do you know what I did last week? I’ll tell you, shall I? Folded three hundred linen napkins and I only had the pleasure of folding the stupid things after I’d ironed them. No, I’ve decided. I’ve had enough of this. I’m coming with you this time and I don’t care what you say.’
Catriona wished her voice didn't sound so whiney. When she’d been preparing this conversation in her mind, she’d sounded like an adult. In reality, she found herself on the point of childish tears.
It was all Kieran’s fault. Despite her hopes for travelling everywhere with her father, he had constantly refused to take her with him. Instead, he’d made her take a job in the Royal Hotel on Dame Street where she was supposed to be front of house – her ability to converse in three languages being her greatest strength. Yet since the war broke out there were no tourists and she’d been demoted to housekeeping, which she absolutely loathed. Last week she’d had to rebuff the advances of the married and distinctly slimy manager, Mr Kingston, by kneeing him in the balls when he’d cornered her in the stationery cupboard.
She couldn’t stick it a moment longer.
She accepted that Kieran felt war-torn Europe was too dangerous for her right now. She hadn't tried to make him take her with him when Reuters sent him to Paris to report on the fall of France to the Nazis. However, his next assignment was in London, and that was where she wanted to be. There was no real war raging in England, there were so many opportunities there, and Margot, her English friend from the convent days, kept on urging her to come over. It was all dances and uniforms and so much fun.
Kieran stood in the sunny kitchen of their two-bedroomed terraced house in Rathgar, rifling through al
l the post that had come for him in the month he’d been gone and clearly only half-listening to his daughter’s rant. He looked more dishevelled than usual – his hair needed to be cut and his clothes were very worn.
She grabbed the letters from him, throwing them on the draining board, her brown eyes flashing with fury. ‘I’m speaking to you!’ she shouted.
‘No, you’re not,’ her father replied calmly. ‘You’re roaring at me, an entirely different thing. Now, I’m starving, and since I wouldn’t dream of asking if there was anything to eat in this house, I’m going to the Shelbourne for lunch and you are welcome to join me – but the fishwife impression has to stop.’ He smiled sweetly at her, which drove her even more mad. However, she knew if she kept on shouting, he would just walk away.
‘Fine, I’ll get my coat.’ She turned on her heel, seething internally.
When she returned to the kitchen, she saw him wince as he stretched to put the bills on the shelf.
‘What’s wrong?’ she cried in alarm – her anger forgotten. ‘Are you hurt?’
He became evasive. ‘No, I’m fine, had a few too many drinks one night and fell down the stairs.’
‘Show me,’ she demanded, pulling open his shirt. To her horror, his entire chest was black and blue; the skin grazed and cut. ‘You never got all that just falling downstairs! Tell me the truth!’
He shrugged, doing up the buttons again. ‘Fine. I was in the wrong place with the wrong woman and her husband had something to say about it. Now, stop fussing. Are we going to eat or not?’ He kissed the top of her head and ushered her out the door. Clearly, he was in no mood to discuss it further.
All the way to St Stephen’s Green, she kept her hand tucked into his arm. She hated the idea of him getting into such scrapes – she knew nobody would ever replace her mother in his heart, but she’d seen how women flirted with him and he clearly needed Catriona to keep him on the straight and narrow.
The Horseshoe Bar in the Shelbourne was thronged. Several people recognised Kieran from the pieces he regularly contributed to the Irish Times. His articles were syndicated wherever a free press remained. Some came up to speak to him, asking his opinion about what was going on in Europe. He was as open and honest in his answers as he was in his journalism, but he wound up the conversations quickly and then gave his daughter his full attention.
‘Now, tell me calmly what you have in mind and we can talk about it like rational adults.’ He ordered a bottle of claret and poured each of them a glass.
Catriona took a deep breath. ‘Please let me come with you to London, Kieran.’
He sighed. ‘Is it really that bad here that you want to leave neutral Ireland to live in a country which is at war?’
‘I’m sorry, but I just hate it here. I know I’m Irish and all of that, and you are too, and we’ll always be Irish in our hearts, but I’ve been away so long, and I don’t feel like I fit in anymore. I loved Ireland when I was a child because it was always time with you and we did lots of great things together, but now, here on my own, I feel like a stranger. I’ll never make real friends. The girls at the hotel think I’m a snob because I use French words by accident. The food is horrible and everywhere feels so small… If I were in London with you, at least I wouldn’t feel so alone.’
He looked sad. ‘I’m sorry you're so unhappy in Dublin, my pet. It’s a shame you can't go to your mother’s family in Saint-Émilion.’
Catriona shook her head. ‘I love Mémé and Pépé and Gaston and Marie-Claire, but that’s not where I want to be.’
‘And even if you wanted to be there, France is too dangerous right now – especially for you.’
She was taken aback. ‘Especially for me?’
He smiled wryly. ‘You're my daughter, Catriona, and I’m not very popular there, to put it mildly. I’ve written very bluntly about what I think of Hitler and his henchmen, and about the pitiful capitulation of the French under their jackboots.’ He took a quick mouthful of his wine, although the action of raising his glass to his mouth caused him to wince slightly, then added under his breath, ‘The arrogance and naiveté of them – thinking the Maginot Line would save them, and then the chaos when the French government scattered, causing the French army to collapse. Pétain is a fool, and worse, a German puppet.’
Catriona shuddered. The idea of Hitler’s soldiers ordering her French family about made her blood boil. It seemed wherever Germany set its sights they just marched in and took over, helping themselves to what wasn’t theirs… It made her think of slimy Mr Kingston. She played her final card. ‘That’s another reason you have to take me with you to London. The hotel manager tried to pin me against the wall in the stationery cupboard so I had to knee him in the balls to escape.’
‘Did he hurt you?’ asked Kieran, suddenly paying close attention.
‘No, I’m fine, but men know I’m here on my own and I feel so vulnerable…’ This wasn’t strictly true. Despite her small size, she was well able to take care of herself and see off unwanted attention. But she had to try everything to win this argument.
Kieran sighed and sat back, fixing his daughter with his steady gaze. She knew that look. It was one of the reasons he was so successful as a journalist: he could sense lies much better than anyone she knew. After what seemed like an hour, he finally spoke: ‘Fine. You can come to London.’
She couldn’t believe her ears. Was he agreeing to let her travel with him?
‘Thank you so much!’ she gasped.
He pulled a face – half-humorous, half-exasperated. ‘You won’t like it, I’m warning you. For one thing, you eat like a horse and if you think the food here is bad, wait until you’ve tried some serious rationing. I give you six months and you’ll be begging to come home...’
‘I won’t, I promise!’
‘…so I won’t sell our place, we’ll rent it to a woman I know in the embassy looking for a place to live. I’m going back to France for a while next week, provided that my contacts can get me in, although it’s getting harder and harder…’
‘Oh, I see.’ Her heart sunk. He was going again, without her.
‘…so how about you travel over to England, stay with your friend Margot and find us a house to rent in London? I’ll come and meet you there.’
Catriona grinned from ear to ear. Her father trusted her to find them a house. He must see her as an adult after all.
Chapter 3
November, 1940. London
Catriona shivered on the hard wooden bench in the tube station, surrounded by terrified and traumatised Londoners. The pounding of the bombs dropping above them was grating on everyone’s already frayed nerves.
She and her father had barely moved into their house in Holborn before the bombing started. For so long everyone had been calling it the Phoney War, but Hitler had only been biding his time. Since the seventh of September, the city had been bombarded. The wail of the air raid sirens, the ominous humming of the German planes, the fire and ambulance bells, they never seemed to stop. The daytime attack of the fifteenth of September had been especially terrifying, but after that, Hitler seemed to restrict the air raids to the hours of darkness.
Kieran McCarthy had made his daughter promise that she’d take shelter in Chancery Lane tube station every time the air raid sirens sounded – even if he wasn’t there to make her. And of course, he never was there. She had dreamed of taking such good care of him in London, greeting him at the door every night, serving him the beautiful French cuisine she had learnt to cook at the convent. Instead, she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of nights he’d actually slept in the house she’d found for them.
Even now, he was in America. He’d left in the third week of September, to tour America lecturing about his experiences in Nazi-controlled Europe and urging them to join the war. She was glad he’d gone somewhere safe this time, but she still missed him horribly, and worried for his health. Before he’d left, she’d noticed his articles – so outspoken about the Nazi regime
– had become less frequent, and he’d seemed increasingly stressed and harassed. Perhaps he was worried that newspapers no longer wanted his copy.
She herself was now working in the offices of the Daily Express on Lower Thames Street, as a junior copy editor. She longed to be a famous reporter like her father and would have liked him to get her a start higher up the ladder, but he’d only said that he had ‘started sweeping the floor of the Irish Press in Dublin and worked my way up, and if you want it badly enough, you’ll do the same.’
So she made tea, ran errands and occasionally got to proofread the classifieds where people sold furniture or looked for lost pets. Everyone was preoccupied, and she didn’t make any friends. She was the youngest by many years and she was one of only three women – the other two being a pair of sisters that worked in accounts and merely nodded at her whenever she saw them.
It seemed so pointless, being here in London all by herself without her father. He’d warned her that she wouldn’t like it, and he was right. Most of the time she was cold and hungry – and, above all, lonely. Her English friend, Margot, was busy with war work, and besides she lived on the other side of the city. Her other best friend from school, Trudi, had stopped writing to her some time ago. Trudi’s father was high up in the Nazi Party, and had told her that Kieran McCarthy was insulting the Führer with his lies. In her final letter, Trudi wrote that she was embarrassed that she and Catriona had ever been friends. The rejection hurt Catriona a lot, but there was nothing she could do about it.
Dust and plaster fell from the ceiling of the station as another huge bomb dropped overhead. The Central line was closest to her but it was the least deep of all the lines, so it felt the impact of the tonnes of incendiaries the most. She thought longingly of her bed. She had been taking a bath in the regulation five inches of water when the siren started. She had dragged on her nightie and dressing gown, pushing her feet into her shoes and run for the station. She tried to sleep, but the bench was hard and besides, she didn’t want to keel over on the teenage boy sitting miserably beside her. The raid went on and on, hour after miserable hour as the people waited, until eventually the bombs grew fewer and fewer and then there was silence. The all-clear was sounded and wearily she dragged her aching body up the steps.
The Darkest Hour Page 9