The Postcard (23 page)

She found the nearest café and pored over the postcard in disbelief. It looked as if it had once been rolled tight into the size of a cigarette, and the tinted photograph was cracked.

There was no signature, nor was one needed. There was nothing mentioned to incriminate anyone else, no names or places, just her name and address. Who had brought this out of the country? What
did he mean by helping people to safety? Every sentence was full of hidden meaning and she scoured it again with tears misting the words.

Oh, why have I not told you about Desmond? What danger are you in, helping escapees to safety and a chance of freedom?

So much was left unsaid. Because of this simple postcard she was part of some secret world. The man at that desk hinted that her language, tainted as it was, might be useful. What would this
mean if they called for her again? Did she want to get involved? She could walk away right now and catch the first train home and no one would judge her or think the worst of her if she did. But
her feet were rooted to the spot. Maybe at last she could be useful in this clandestine shadowy world that lay beyond the brown-stained door. She sensed danger and she sensed challenge, but the
decision to act was not in her hands yet. Had she failed at the first hurdle? Would she even get a second chance? Only when she knew the outcome of this strange meeting could she decide which path
to take.

Phoebe was enjoying her new role in ENSA, the entertainment wing of the Forces. It was like the old days in Boulogne all over again, when she sang in Lena Ashwell’s
concert party for the YMCA. Yet despite the initial derision of her theatrical friends that ENSA stood for Every Night Something Awful, she was back in uniform and doing war work. It was good to
smell the greasepaint again, even if they were as often as not bumping up some remote track in a charabanc, rolling over stones and cowpats to some far-flung outpost to give the frozen soldiers a
bit of cheer.

The Stardrop Troupe were a motley crew: a tenor with a suspicious toupee, a pretty concert pianist with corkscrew curls and an amazing embonpoint, three giggling chorus girls whose high kicks
with their tree-trunk legs would send the poor conscripts into raptures, and a sad-eyed Jewish violinist who got them weeping in their tea. Phoebe was the classy bit, reading poetry and stirring
speeches, with the odd comedy sketch to lighten the mood. It was all a bit makeshift, especially when the piano was in the last stages of consumption, the stage was only a pile of pallets covered
with old carpet and the theatre a freezing barn with flickering footlights, but they always finished with a rousing singsong; and she was the mother hen, making sure all the girls got back to their
billets with their virtue intact.

There was usually a potato-pie supper with suet pastry as thick as a doormat, followed by slabs of army fruitcake, and drinks in the officers’ mess if they were lucky. If they were
honoured by some bigwig musical star arriving at the last minute they had to give him or her the curtained-off bit of room, press the star’s costumes or find some orderly to do so, and see
them to the nearest good hotel.

Phoebe loved visiting hospitals best, seeing the eager faces of convalescing soldiers and sailors as the troupe sang through their repertoire of old songs. It brought back such memories of being
in Miss Lena’s concert party and that first encounter with Arthur in the officers’ mess after a show. He looked like a demi-god, home from the battle, mud-stained, but so handsome and
weary. How could she have nearly not gone and missed the love of her life . . .? She’d never forget those wondrous days when she was young and full of hope, lying in his arms in the Cavendish
Hotel, shopping for a ring in Burlington Arcade. If only Arthur had lived . . . but would he now be in danger a second time? She was so weary of war and the misery it brought.

It was good to be heading back to Dalradnor for a few days’ respite; a bath and a hearty meal and she was revived. The routine of the house ran like clockwork. Mima and Madame Laplanche
saw to the children while Jessie Dixon kept Desmond amused. Caroline kept disappearing in her brand-new uniform of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, an outfit that seemed to have her traipsing here
and there on courses. She was vague about her duties, something to do with translating messages in a clerking office. What a change in her when she’d returned from London, excited to be
offered this role, though Phoebe had been horrified.

‘How can you think of joining up with a baby?’ she’d said.

‘I’ve not joined up . . . I’ve got a job being useful. I can’t just sit here for the duration when there’s a houseful of women quite capable of keeping the home
fires burning. You should know that after your experience.’ She’d given her mother an accusing look. Why did it always come back to this? Phoebe asked herself. How could she disapprove
when she’d done exactly the same in leaving Caroline with Marthe in this very place all those years ago?

Jessie had the measure of her charge but Phoebe didn’t want her daughter to miss out on her child, who was growing fast, three years old now and full of curiosity. Desmond was an
intelligent little chap, tall for his age, independent, and he didn’t look a bit like Toby, thank goodness. Jacques was his playmate and together the four children romped around the gardens,
getting in Burrell’s hair, collecting eggs, making dens in the wood. Anyone could see he was a happy boy. When Caroline came back from London she brought everyone treats and the children
precious sweets. She devoted all her leave to her son.

There’d been rumours of terrible raids in Glasgow but no one knew much as some areas were cordoned off. The Clyde docks were regular targets and housing was destroyed close by. At
Dalradnor, they only heard the drone of planes at night and were spared, being deep in the countryside.

Phoebe reasoned with herself that Caroline should be allowed to play her part in the war effort as she thought fit, but why was she never in the same place twice? Once, she came back bruised,
with her fingernails torn and her palms blistered. She said she’d fallen badly in the blackout but she couldn’t look Phoebe in the eye. Phoebe sensed not to pry but something kept
niggling her about this new job. She wondered just how safe it was, and quite what Caroline was hiding from her now.

Callie stared at her reflection in the mirror. She’d lost weight with all those early morning crosscountry runs, night marches and lectures in the country house outside
London. She still couldn’t believe they’d chosen her for training for overseas service. When the interviewer explained the dangerous work being done behind enemy lines, she swallowed
hard for a second and then didn’t hesitate to ask to be considered for duty. He explained she’d have to risk her life, be at the mercy of strangers, ignore people who might recognize
her and live undercover.

‘Let me make something clear. Where you go there’ll be no Free zones. Failure will mean only one thing. I have to be honest with you. This is no place for a woman with a young son,
but your accent and your knowledge of the district might be useful in helping us keep the escape routes open into France and beyond. It is vital work. Many brave couriers have been betrayed and
shot. You don’t have to make your decision now, but sleep on it.’

That night she’d lain on Primmy’s camp bed, eyes wide open, wishing she could share it all with her friend, but to talk would mean she couldn’t keep a secret. How could she
even think of leaving little Desmond motherless and fatherless if the worst came to the worst? How could she live a life of lies, deceiving all who loved her?

She’d prayed for guidance but nothing had come but this overwhelming desire to be useful to her country. She’d had a privileged education, with all the comforts of country living;
now it was time to give something back. Out there somewhere Ferrand was also fighting for his country and in danger. Perhaps if they survived there would be a future for them together with their
boy. It was strange, but she could feel his love for her burning as strongly as hers for him. She must prove herself worthy of that future happiness, not by sitting idly by in her Scottish retreat
but by facing danger head-on. She’d made it through all the initial interviews and tests, unlike many others, so the following day she signed the Official Secrets Act and only then did she
learn what really lay behind these secret missions.

Now her muscles ached but were honed and tougher. She had little aptitude for wireless skills but was learning how to code and decode messages, handle weapons, blend into a crowd and lose her
follower when they practised in the street. She studied maps, trying to memorize all the places she’d visited before the war. To be invisible and not draw any attention to oneself was crucial
to survival as a courier, but to observe the slightest changes around you was a skill that might make the difference between survival or arrest.

A woman alone going about her business was less likely to be questioned than a young man of military age. This was what had decided the authorities reluctantly to allow women into this dangerous
work. In her training group were native French speakers of all types and ages. At every stage they were marked and assessed. She was getting used to feeling observed for any tiny infringement that
might give her away, even down to how she left an empty plate, French or English fashion. Not to look right, left and right again when crossing the road, but the opposite, for cars being driven on
the other side. She must become her new persona: a nursemaid between jobs, travelling to find her next assignment in Brussels.

There was so much to learn and so little time to perfect every detail of dress and hair. Her dental fillings were removed and replaced with continental ones; the clothes she would wear had to be
of the right cloth and labels. Even the seams must be genuine. The couriers’ underwear was brought back from abroad or given by Belgian refugees. Nothing was left to chance.

She was responsible for the safe conduct of important code messages and information. If weapons or instructions were found on her, that meant instant death if she was lucky, or a trip to prison
and the torture cells. She would have to become as good, if not better, an actress than her own mother had been. One slip, one failure to absorb all the new instructions, evasion tactics and
initiative tests and she’d be back in Dalradnor, or sent to the Outer Hebrides to sit out the war sworn to secrecy. It was as if she were living in two worlds now.

Much as she adored her son and her home, they had to come second to this call to duty. They were what she was fighting for. Desmond must grow up in freedom and peace, and if she could help
hasten that day then all the sacrifice would be worthwhile. I’m going to see this through, no matter what, she thought. She hoped Miss Corcoran and the school would be proud of her
trailblazing one day.

The worst course was at Arisaig in the north-west of Scotland. Here, they went through survival training, scrambling up rock faces, living rough, killing anything that would grace the pot,
evading a hunt with dogs on their track. Many were called but few were chosen. All this was designed to give them a fighting chance of survival if the worst happened. Callie learned how to stun a
man, shoot to kill, to fight and knife an opponent if sprung on. Phee had spotted her bruised fingers and hands after the course, giving her a suspicious look, but to her credit she asked
nothing.

If only she could tell her mother a little of this mission, but she feared to let slip anything. There would come a moment when she might have to write a will and prepare a pile of cheery
postcards to be sent on her behalf. She had wrapped presents for Desmond and the others for Christmas, just in case she wasn’t there to give them. That was the worst bit, and she tried not to
choke at the thought of missing his face on Christmas morning. It was a hard decision to stay the course, but there was no turning back when she thought of Ferrand in danger.

She’d scraped through so far, but her cover story was not embedded deep enough yet and the clock was ticking. She had to
become
Marthe, recall how she went about things, those
little phrases she came out with. One day, they would come for her and she’d have to leave silently. This was making every second of her visits to Dalradnor so precious. She tried to prise
Desmond away from Jessie for a picnic and buggy ride but he wanted his playmates to come and had a tantrum. She read him bedtime stories and wrapped him in a towel after bath time, hugging him to
her chest, singing ‘The Skye Boat Song’: ‘Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing . . . over the sea to Skye.’

She would soon be a bird on the wing flying high and then plunging to earth in an alien land, fleeing from the wrath of the enemy as Bonnie Prince Charlie had. Then Desmond looked up at her and
smiled. ‘Sing it again, Mummy.’ How could she ever think of letting him go? It was agony to cut off this natural urge to stay put and forget the whole bally business of secret warfare,
but she must. She was committed to serving her country as best she could.

On the journey back to camp, her training always kicked in. Dalradnor life faded away as she rehearsed in her head how she would approach the parachute course the following week. The very
thought of jumping out of the sky and trusting herself to a piece of silk churned her guts to liquid, but she was not going to let the team down at this late stage. Failure was what she feared
most.

There was a light shining into her eyes, rousing her from sleep. ‘On your feet! What is your name? Speak.’ An arm dragged her out of the bed. ‘Who are you?
What are you doing here?’ First in German and then in French.