The Lavender Garden (12 page)

The room was hushed now, sober suddenly. All eyes were on the captain.

“But may I also add that without the caliber of men and women like yourselves, who know and understand the grave danger and yet are prepared to take up the challenge, this war and our victory could never be achieved. So, on behalf of the British and French governments, I thank you all. Now, there’s coffee and brandy in the drawing room for those who wish it. For those who don’t, I will say good night.”

James and Connie were the only two who declined the offer of coffee, finding themselves standing in the entrance hall together as the others disappeared into the drawing room.

“Not joining them?” James asked her.

“No, I’m a little tired.” Connie wanted to say “overwhelmed,” but refrained.

“Same here.”

They both took a couple of paces toward the stairs.

James stopped on the bottom step and turned to her. “Are you frightened?”

“I’m really not sure.”

“I am,” James admitted. “But I suppose one must do one’s bit. Good night, Constance.” He sighed as he walked up the stairs.

“Good night.” Connie watched him disappear out of sight. Shivering suddenly, she folded her arms about her and walked over to one of the huge windows, gazing up at the full moon.
Was
she frightened? She didn’t know. But perhaps the war, which had raged for almost four years of her young life, had blunted her emotions. Ever since Lawrence had left to fight within weeks of their marriage, Connie had felt as though her life was in a holding bay, at a moment when everything should have begun. At first, she’d missed him so dreadfully she’d hardly been able to bear it. Living in his huge, drafty house in Yorkshire, with only his brusque mother and her two aging black Labradors for company, she’d had far too much time to think. Her mother-in-law hadn’t approved when she’d decided to go to London to take up the offer of a job at MI5, gleaned through a contact of her father, who could see she was wasting away alone up on the bleak moors.

Many of the girls who had worked with her at MI5 had enjoyed the oddly gay atmosphere of wartime London; they were constantly being asked out by officers on leave, who took them for dinner and on to a club. And a number of those women were already either engaged or, even worse, married. Like her, their young men were fighting somewhere abroad, but that didn’t seem to stop them.

For Connie, it was different. Lawrence was and always had been, since she’d met him at a tennis party in Yorkshire at the age of six, the only man she had ever loved. Even though she’d been bright enough to pursue a career after her course at the Sorbonne
and
preferred France to the grimness of North Yorkshire, she had willingly signed up for a lifetime of being no more than the eventual chatelaine of Blackmoor Hall and wife to her beloved Lawrence.

And then, after the happiest day of her life, when she’d walked into the small Catholic chapel on the Blackmoor estate and said her vows, the man she’d loved for fourteen years had abruptly been removed from her just a few weeks later.

Connie sighed. For four years, she’d lived every day in fear of receiving the telegram that would tell her that her husband was missing in action. And subsequently it had arrived. Working at MI5, she knew all too well that the chances of Lawrence’s still being alive after two months of not being accounted for were receding by the day.

She turned and walked back across the hall toward the stairs. She’d faced the greatest fear of her life when she’d opened that telegram a few weeks ago. And with Lawrence still missing, she no longer particularly cared whether she lived or died.

She settled herself into bed, leaving the night-light on for Venetia. It was almost dawn before Connie heard her enter the room, emitting a small giggle as she stumbled over something on the floor.

“You awake, Con?” came a whisper.

“Yes,” she answered sleepily as she heard Venetia’s bed creak.

“My goodness, that was a fun night! Henry is completely dreamy, don’t you think?”

“He’s very handsome, yes.”

Venetia yawned, “I’m thinking the next few weeks may be far more pleasurable than I thought they were going to be. Night, Con.”

•  •  •

Contrary to Venetia’s initial assessment, the following weeks tested every one of the trainee agents to his or her limits. Each day was packed with rigorous physical and mental exertion; if they were not in a trench learning to detonate dynamite, they were shimmying up trees and hiding themselves among the branches. Edible nuts, berries, mushrooms, and plant leaves were identified, accompanied by endless shooting practice and the daily early-morning five-mile run. Venetia, engaged as much in her rip-roaring affair with Henry as she was with her daily activities, and often rolling into bed past four, groaned at the back of the pack.

Connie surprised herself by coping far better than she’d expected with the demands of the course. Always athletic due to her outdoor life on the moors, she could feel her physical strength growing apace. She was the best shooter in the class and had become an expert with dynamite, which was more than could be said for Venetia, who had almost managed to blow them all up by detonating a grenade in the trench itself.

“Well, at least it shows I can do it,” she’d said as she’d stomped back to Wanborough Manor afterward.

“Do you really think that our Venetia is suited to the job ahead of her?” asked James one evening as Connie and he sat over coffee and brandy in the drawing room. “She’s hardly the discreet type, is she?” He laughed as they watched her and Henry in a full-blown embrace on the terrace outside.

“I think Venetia will do very well indeed,” Connie defended her friend. “She lives on her wits, and as we keep being reminded, ninety percent of the reality when we get there will be down to that.”

“She’s jolly attractive, certainly, and I’m sure she’ll be able to charm herself out of most situations. Far better than I will,” James added morosely. “This really is the lull before the storm, isn’t it, Con? And, frankly, I’m dreading it, especially the parachute jump in. My knees give me hell as it is.”

“Never mind,” said Connie, patting his hand, “you may get the luxury of being flown onto terra firma in a Lizzy.”

“Hope so. Extricating myself from a tree, which is where I’m bound to end up knowing my luck, is sure to attract attention.”

Out of all the trainees, James was the only one to express his nerves at the task ahead. Connie and he were the quieter, more cerebral members of the pack and had formed a supportive friendship.

“Isn’t it strange, the path that life can take you?” James continued, after sipping his brandy. “If I’d had the choice, I’d have opted for a very different life to this.”

“I think that goes for most of the human race just now. If it wasn’t for the war, I’d be sitting on the North Yorkshire moors, probably getting fat and producing a baby a year.”

“Any news?” James knew about Lawrence.

“No, nothing.” She sighed.

“Don’t give up hope, Con.” It was James’s turn to pat her hand. “It’s such a bloody mess out there. There’s as much chance your husband’s alive as the other alternative.”

“I try not to,” said Connie, but every day that passed felt like another spade of soil on Lawrence’s grave. “If this damned war ever ends,” she said, changing the subject to a less maudlin topic, “what will you do?”

“Golly!” James chuckled. “That seems such a bizarre thought at the moment. My life is similar to yours, in that I will simply return home and take over the family heap. Get married, produce the next generation . . .” He shrugged. “You know how it is.”

“Well”—Connie smiled—“at least you’ll be able to teach your children French. Really, you’ve improved so much in the past few weeks,” she said encouragingly.

“That’s kind of you, Con. But I must tell you that I overheard the captain discussing all of us over the telephone in his office earlier with Buckmaster. Yes, I lurked.” James grinned. “Haven’t we been told to always use our ears to glean information? Anyway, the captain was waxing lyrical about you, saying you were the surprise star of the pack. An ‘A Grade’ student, it seems. F Section is expecting great things of you now, my dear.”

“Thank you for that; I was always rather a swot at school,” Connie said with a laugh. “The trouble is, I’ve never had the opportunity to test myself at life.”

“No fear, Con. I think your chance may be upon you.”

•  •  •

A month later, the preliminary training was over. Each agent was called in for a long, grueling session with the captain, who bluntly pointed out his or her strengths and weaknesses.

“You’ve done extremely well, Constance. And we’re all satisfied with your progress here,” the captain confirmed. “The only critical comment that has been made by your training officers is on your somewhat ponderous decision-making. Out in the field of operations, your fate can be decided by your immediate reaction to a situation. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve proved you have good instincts. Trust them and I doubt they’ll see you wrong. We’re sending you off now to Scotland with the other agents who have passed muster here. It will fit you out further for the job ahead.” He stood up and offered his hand to her. “Good luck, Madame Chapelle,” he said, giving her a smile.

“Thank you, sir.”

As Connie closed the door behind her, he added, “And may God go with you.”

•  •  •

Connie, Venetia, James, and, to Venetia’s delight, Henry had apparently made the grade and were sent into the wilds of Scotland to learn advanced guerrilla training. Far from habitation, the four of them practiced blowing up bridges, managing small boats without sinking them, and loading German, British, and American arms, then heaving them onto trucks in the pitch black. The importance of the Vichy Line was explained in detail. Although technically abolished, it was in reality still dangerous to cross as it denoted a border that had cut France in two, dividing the “Occupied” zone in the north from the Southern zone.

The basic survival skills they had been taught at Wanborough Manor were tested as they were left on the Scottish moors to fend for themselves and live off the land for days at a time. A trained assassin arrived to teach them how to kill an assailant outright and silently.

Two weeks into their training in Scotland, Venetia was suddenly removed from the course.

“Thank God for that,” Venetia commented as she hurriedly packed her bags. “Apparently, I’m being sent off to Thame Park for a quick brushup on my wireless skills. There’s some kind of panic over the Channel, and it seems they need wireless operators urgently. Oh, Con”—she flung her arms around her friend’s shoulders—“let’s just hope we meet again soon over there. And take care of my Henry for me, won’t you?”

“Of course I will.” Connie watched Venetia close her suitcase and haul it from the bed. “But I’m sure it won’t take you long to find a replacement.”

“No.” Venetia turned to look at Connie. “Probably not, but it’s been fun.”

There was a knock on their door. “Miss Burroughs, the car is waiting for you downstairs,” came a voice.

“Time to go. Good luck, Con.” Venetia picked up her suitcase and walked toward the door. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

“And you. Please keep the faith,” Connie begged, “and believe you will get through this.”

“I’ll try.” Venetia opened the door. “But I’ll die out there, Con, I know I will.” She shrugged.
“À bientôt.”

S
o, Constance, you’ve completed your training, and you’re ready to leave for France. How are you feeling?”

Connie was back in London at F Section headquarters, sitting on the other side of the desk from Vera Atkins.

“I believe I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be.” Connie gave an automatic answer, which hardly expressed an iota of her thoughts and feelings. After her month in Scotland, she’d been transferred to Beaulieu in Hampshire, another requisitioned estate, where her espionage skills had further been refined. She’d been taught how to distinguish between the different uniforms of both the Germans and the French Milice—the hated police arm of the ruling Vichy government—and learned what to look for in recruiting local French citizens to add to her designated network. She’d also had the importance of never committing anything to paper drilled into her.

“I think I’ll feel better when I’m actually in the field,” she concluded.

“Jolly good. That’s what we like to hear,” Miss Atkins replied chirpily. “You’re scheduled to fly out at the next full moon. You’ll be pleased to know you’ll not have to land by parachute, but will be taken by Lysander aircraft and deposited safely on French soil.”

“Thank you.” Connie was relieved for that, at least.

“So, now you have a couple of days to rest and relax. I’ve booked you in to Fawley Court, a comfortable FANY-run boardinghouse, while you wait to fly over. Now is the time to write a number of letters addressed to your loved ones, which I can send to them over the next few weeks while you’re away.”

“What should I say in the letters, Miss Atkins?”

“I always advise my girls to keep them brief and positive. Say you are well and all is fine. I’ll come to collect you on the afternoon of
your departure, but I’ll confirm exact times on the day. When you arrive at the airfield, I’ll brief you on your new code name, by which we here at F Section and other agents will recognize you. You’ll also be told which network you’ll be joining once you arrive in France. Now, Constance, Mr. Buckmaster would like to see you before you leave.”

Connie followed Miss Atkins down the corridor and into Maurice Buckmaster’s office.

“Constance, my dear!” Buckmaster sprang from his chair behind the desk and walked over with open arms to embrace her. “All set?” he asked, releasing her.

“As far as I can be, yes, sir.”

“That’s the ticket. From what I’ve heard, you were the star pupil on your training course. I’m sure you’ll do F Section proud,” he enthused, ever positive.

“To be honest, sir, I’ll simply be glad now when I’m there.”

“I’m sure. Try not to worry too much, my dear. Last night I spoke to an SOE agent just home from her first tour of duty, and she commented that by far the hardest thing was the miles of cycling every day. She said the traveling had given her thighs the size of an elephant!”