The Lavender Garden (11 page)

“Please, sit down, dear,” said Miss Atkins, fixing her piercing blue eyes on Connie. “We are pleased you’re joining us for your special employment. I’m here to answer any questions you may have and to explain what will happen next. What have you told your family so far?”

“Nothing, Miss Atkins. My husband is missing in action in Africa, and I telephone my parents once a week on a Sunday. It’s only Friday today.”

“Your parents are up in Yorkshire, and you have no siblings,” Miss Atkins read from a file in front of her. “That makes it easier. You will tell your parents and any friends who enquire that you’ve been transferred to the FANY, which as you know, Constance, is the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. You will say you’ve been enlisted for driving services in France. You are not under any circumstances to tell them the truth.”

“No, Miss Atkins.”

“You’ll be leaving shortly for training at a location outside London. You’ll be there for a number of weeks, and your progress in all aspects of your forthcoming tasks will be monitored closely by me on a day-to-day level.”

“What will the training program consist of?” Connie enquired.

“You will learn all the skills you will require, Mrs. Carruthers. Smoke?” She offered Connie a cigarette.

“Thank you.” She took one from the packet and Miss Atkins did the same.

“You live alone in your flat in London?”

“I do.”

“Then there’s no need to change your address. However, having discussed your name with Mr. Buckmaster, we’ve decided you should use your mother’s maiden name from now on, which I believe was Chapelle. And your maternal aunt, who lives in Saint-Raphaël, is the Baroness du Montaine?”

“Yes.” Connie nodded.

“Then you will be as you are in France: your aunt’s niece. It’s a good idea, we find, to get used to your new name as soon as possible. So, are you happy with Constance Chapelle?”

“Perfectly. How long will it be before I leave for France?”

“We like to give our agents at least eight weeks’ training, but, with things as they are in France and the need to deploy our girls there urgently, it may not be that long.” Miss Atkins sighed. “We are all indebted to you and your fellow agents for being prepared to carry out such dangerous work. Any further questions, dear?”

“May I ask exactly what my duties will be once I arrive in France?”

“Excellent question. Many of the girls who come here seem to think they’re being deployed as spies, but that isn’t what F Section does. Our agents are there for both communication and sabotage purposes. Our only objective is to frustrate and handicap the Nazi regime in France. The SOE works alongside the Maquis and the French Resistance, supporting them in any way we can.”

“I see. I would have thought there were better-qualified people than me for this role?” Connie frowned.

“I’d doubt it, Constance. Your impeccable French and knowledge of both Paris and the south of the country, combined with your Gallic looks, make you perfect for purpose.”

“But surely men are more suited to this task?”

“Interestingly, that isn’t true. Any French male can now be routinely pulled in for questioning to their local Milice, or Gestapo headquarters. They can also be strip-searched. Whereas a woman traveling through France, whether by rail or bus or bicycle, is far less likely to attract attention.” Miss Atkins raised her eyebrows and gave a grim smile. “And I’m sure that with your attractive looks, Constance, you would know how to charm your way out of trouble. Right then”—she looked at her watch—“if you have no more questions for now, I suggest you return to your flat, write a letter to your parents telling them what we have discussed, and then enjoy what may be your last weekend on Civvy Street for some considerable time.” Miss Atkins’s blue eyes appraised her. “I think that you will do very well, Constance. And you should be proud of your achievement: we only take the best at F Section.”

O
n Monday morning, Connie found herself deposited on the steps of Wanborough Manor, a large country house on the outskirts of Guildford, Surrey. She was ushered upstairs to a room containing four single beds. It seemed that, so far, only one was occupied. Connie unpacked the contents of her small suitcase and hung her clothes in the spacious mahogany wardrobe, noting that, whoever her roommate was, she had a far more bohemian approach to clothes. A gold sheath evening dress hung haphazardly next to silk smoking pants and a long, colorful scarf.

“You must be Constance,” drawled a voice from behind her. “So glad you’re here—didn’t fancy going through the next few weeks being the only girl. I’m Venetia Burroughs, or should I say, Claudette Dessally!”

Constance turned around to greet the girl and was struck by her dramatic appearance. She had shiny, jet-black hair, which fell almost to her waist, skin the color of ivory, and huge green eyes, rimmed with kohl to complement a pair of painted red lips. The contrast between the girl’s wild looks and her regulation FANY uniform could not have been more marked. Connie was surprised this woman had been deemed suitable; she would naturally stand out in any crowd.

“Constance Carruthers, or should I say, Chapelle.” Connie smiled and moved toward Venetia to shake her outstretched hand. “Do you know if there are any other women coming?”

“No, when I enquired, I was told there would only be the two of us. We’re training alongside the chaps.” Venetia dropped onto her bed and lit a cigarette. “At least this job does have some perks.” She raised her eyebrows as she inhaled. “You know, we both must be completely mad!”

“Perhaps.” Connie walked to the mirror and checked her hair was still tidily clipped into a neat bun.

“So where did they find you from?”

“I was working as a filing clerk at MI5. I was told it was because of my fluent French and knowledge of the country that I was deemed suitable.”

“The only knowledge I have of France is drinking cocktails on the terrace in Cap Ferrat.” Venetia laughed. “Well, that and the fact that I have a German granny, so I’m rather good at their language, at least. My French, so I’m told, isn’t bad, either. I came from Bletchley Park . . . I’m sure you know of it, if you were working at MI5?”

“Of course. We heard all about the Enigma code.”

“Yes, that was rather a triumph.” Venetia wandered over to a plant pot on the windowsill and tapped her ash into it. “Apparently they need wireless operators desperately out in France. Due to my decoding skills, I’m their girl. Did you know,” she added, walking back to her bed and throwing herself lengthways onto it, “that the current life expectancy of a wireless operator is approximately six weeks?”

“Surely not!”

“Well, it’s hardly surprising, is it?” Venetia drawled. “I mean, one can hardly hide a wireless set in one’s undies, can one?”

Connie could hardly believe the casual way Venetia was talking about her own possible death. “Aren’t you frightened?”

“I’ve no idea. All I do know is that the Nazis have to be stopped. My father managed to get Granny out of Berlin just before the war started, but the rest of his family in Germany have disappeared. They’re Jewish, you see, and our family’s suspicion is that they’ve been herded off to one of these death camps we’ve heard about. So”—Venetia sighed—“whatever I can do to stop them, I will. The way I see it, life won’t be worth living for any of us unless Hitler and his merry gang are buried six feet under. And the sooner the better, in my book. Only bugger is, they’ve told me I have to cut off my hair. Now that,” Venetia said, sitting up as she shook her lustrous ebony mane around her shoulders, “
is
a problem.”

“Your hair is beautiful,” Connie said, thinking that if anyone was likely to outwit and defeat the Nazis single-handedly, it was this extraordinary woman.

“How life changes.” Venetia lay back down on the bed. “Only four years ago, I was coming out as a debutante in London. Life was simply
one big party. And now”—she turned to Connie and sighed conspiratorially—“look where we are.”

“Yes,” agreed Connie. “Are you married?”

“No fear!” Venetia smiled. “I decided years ago I wanted to live life first before I settled down. Looks like I’m doing just that. You?”

“Yes, I am. My husband, Lawrence, is a captain in the Scots Guards. He’s out in Africa at the moment. But he’s missing in action.”

“I’m sorry,” said Venetia, her eyes full of sympathy. “Bloody awful, this damned war. Sure your hubby will tip up, though.”

“I have to believe he will,” replied Connie with more stoicism than she felt.

“Do you miss him?”

“Dreadfully, but I’ve learned to live my life without him, like so many other women with men away fighting.”

“Any
amour
since?” Venetia gave a knowing smile.

“Gosh, no! I would never . . . I mean . . .” Connie could feel herself blushing. “No,” she answered abruptly.

“Of course not. You look like the faithful type.”

Connie wasn’t sure whether this was meant as a compliment or an insult.

“Anyway,” Venetia continued, “I’m jolly glad I’ve been single for the last four years. I’ve had enormous fun. And in these difficult times, my motto is seize the day, because you have no idea whether it will be your last. And with what you and I have lying ahead of us”—she stood up to stub out her cigarette in the plant pot—“that may well be the case.”

•  •  •

Later that afternoon, the two women were called downstairs into the grand drawing room, offered tea and cakes and introduced to their fellow trainees.

“You know what SOE stands for, don’t you, darling?” whispered Venetia to Connie. “The Stately ’Omes of England!” She dissolved into silent giggles. “Wonder who lived here before it was requisitioned?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful,” said Connie, taking in the high ceilings, the grand marble fireplace, and the long Georgian windows that led to an elegant terrace.

“And so is
he
.”

Connie followed Venetia’s gaze to a young man leaning against the fireplace, deep in conversation with one of the instructors. “Yes, he is rather.”

“Why don’t we go and introduce ourselves? Come on.”

Connie trailed behind as Venetia walked over to the man and introduced them both.

“A pleasure to meet you, girls. I’m Henry du Barry,” he replied in perfect French.

Connie could only watch in awe as Venetia went into action—charm and sexuality personified. Feeling left out as Henry and Venetia conversed, Connie moved tentatively backward.

“Well now, that’s the Mata Hari of the group,” whispered a teasing voice behind her. “James Frobisher, aka Martin Coste. And you are?”

Connie turned around and focused on a man no taller than her, with thinning hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. “Constance Carruthers—I mean, Chapelle.” She held out her hand and he shook it.

“How’s your French?” James asked her companionably.

“My mother is a native, so I’ve grown up fluent.”

“Sadly, I don’t have that advantage.” James sighed. “I’m progressing after my intensive course, but forget being arrested by the Gestapo. I’m more concerned that I won’t remember on which occasion to say
vous
or
tu
!”

“Well, I’m sure they wouldn’t be sending you out there if they weren’t confident with your language skills.”

“No, although France is in such a mess, they’re bloody desperate for agents. Being arrested like wildfire at the moment, so I hear.” James raised his eyebrows. “Never mind, we’re all on board for our different skills, and I seem to have proved myself rather good at blowing things up. And one doesn’t have to converse much with a stick of dynamite.” He grinned. “I must say, I admire the women who volunteer for the SOE. It’s a dangerous job.”

“Well, I wouldn’t quite say that I ‘volunteered,’ but I’m glad to be able to do my bit for my country,” Connie replied staunchly.

•  •  •

Over dinner in the elegant dining room that evening, Connie got to know the four male agents who would be training with her. Plucked from different walks of life due to their particular suitability for the job in hand, she chatted to Francis Mont-Clare and Hugo Sorocki, both, like herself, half-French, James, and of course Henry the fighter pilot, the heartthrob of the group. As the wine flowed, Connie experienced a sense of the surreal; looking at the people gathered around the table, it could easily have been a dinner-party scene being played out at many similar tables across Britain.

After dessert, Captain Bevan, the instructor in charge, clapped his hands for silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I hope this evening has given you all a chance to get to know one another better. You will be working very closely alongside each other in the next few weeks. But I’m afraid the fun stops here. Breakfast is at six o’clock tomorrow morning, after which you will each receive an assessment of your general health and fitness. From the following morning, you will be obliged to take a five-mile run before breakfast every day.”

There were groans from the assembled company.

“Much of the work you do here will be about building up your physical stamina. I cannot underline how imperative it is that each of you departs for France as fit as we can possibly get you. That strength alone may well save your life.”

“Sir, I’m sure a Nazi with a gun right behind me will make me run very fast indeed, if needs be,” joked James.

Venetia giggled and the captain smiled.

“A number of you have already been through army training, so you’ll be used to the rigors of physical exercise. For some of you, especially the ladies”—the captain glanced at Venetia and Connie—“you may find it tougher. The next few weeks will be some of the hardest of your life. But if you
value
your life, you will give the skills we will teach you every ounce of the concentration and energy you possess. I’ll post the day’s schedule on the board in the entrance hall at six o’clock every evening. During the weeks that you are here, you’ll learn to shoot, detonate dynamite, learn basic Morse code, survival skills, and how to parachute. What you learn will ready you for the challenges that you face. You are all aware that SOE agents perhaps
face the greatest danger of any of your fellow countrymen who are fighting against the Nazis in France for our human right to freedom.”