The convent was in the quiet part of the old city, which had escaped the devastation of the invasion. Small houses, painted in pastel colours, lined the canal sides, lending a surprisingly bright note to the dreary day. Catherine, who had been mostly silent on the journey, gazed out at them and marvelled at the sight of a few market stalls, which had been set up. Winter vegetables were being sold, mostly cabbages, turnips and a few potatoes. Apples, taken from the store and slightly wrinkled, were fingered carefully by tired-looking housewives, and she even saw a few bottles of what she supposed was cider or even Calvados.
Half an hour before, they’d stopped at a cafe on the edge of the city for omelettes and a glass of wine. ‘Eat up,’ commanded Frances to Catherine, who was listlessly pushing her omelette around with her fork. ‘You’ve had a terrible shock, but you’re going to need your strength for the next bit.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But it’s so hard getting it all straight in my head. My grandfather being shot dead, and my poor grandmother losing her mind. I can hardly believe it.’
Frances and Della looked at each other. They didn’t know what to say.
But Guy did. He put his arm around Catherine’s shoulders. ‘Listen to me,’ he said firmly. ‘Your grandfather was a very brave man. Braver than many of us could be, because I have to tell you that I was frightened all the time, and it would have been the same for him and for your grandmother. You never knew who to trust or who to turn to for help.’ He frowned. ‘People you thought were on your side often weren’t. I know now that there were many collaborators, not just the ones we saw, day in, day out, helping the Nazis, but those who were in the shadows, who pretended to be our friends.’ He took her hand. ‘Take comfort, Catherine. Jean Albert’s name will never be forgotten. Not as long as I and the others who fought alongside me are alive.’
‘Thank you, Guy,’ she murmured, and wiped away the tears that were finally beginning to flow.
‘What I don’t understand,’ Frances said, after finishing her wine and leaning back, ‘is who this Father Gautier is. Why hasn’t he got in touch with Catherine’s mother? It’s months now since the liberation – surely the post is working again.’
‘Mm,’ Guy frowned. ‘That is strange.’ He turned to Catherine. ‘Was Father Gautier the parish priest of the village when you were last visiting?’
She shook her head. ‘No. It was Father Bernard. I remember him so well. He would often come to the farmhouse for dinner. I don’t know this Gautier at all. But remember, it was five years ago.’
Frances was translating the conversation to Della, who said to Guy, ‘You know him. You said so. What’s he like?’
Guy lit yet another cigarette. ‘He’s a priest – what is there to say? He’s young, though, and not from around here. From the east, I think, by his accent. He collects food and clothes for the refugees who have been bombed out, and he let us store our weapons in the vestry. He’s a good man, I think.’ Then added, ‘Everybody likes him.’
Frances nodded. ‘That’s exactly what old Cousin Jacques said. Father Gautier is well respected; everybody likes him. He does sound like a good man. Anyway’ – she got up from the metal cafe chair – ‘let’s get moving. Catherine wants to see her grandmother, and we’ve got a show tonight, in case you’ve forgotten. Beau will kill us if we’re late.’
They left then and got into the car and drove quickly into Amiens.
‘D’you know where we’re going?’ Frances asked Guy. He’d stopped for directions a few streets back, asking a woman with a shopping basket the way to the Convent of the Grey Sisters. He seemed confident that they were heading the right way, but after driving down a few streets, she’d pointed out that he’d missed the turning and he had to reverse and go back.
‘It’s down here, I think,’ he said. ‘A brick building with a stone chapel at the side – that’s what the woman said.’
‘Is it there?’ called Della, pointing ahead. ‘There’s a couple of nuns going in. It must be it.’
It was the right place. A small painted sign beside the oak front door announced that it was the Hôpital des Sœurs Grises.
‘Hospital?’ said Della. ‘Is this a hospital?’
‘Perhaps,’ Frances replied.
‘Take your time,’ said Guy, when he’d parked in front of the convent. ‘They won’t appreciate a man who isn’t a priest going inside. I’ll walk up the road to the tabac. I need cigarettes.’
The girls climbed out of the Citroën and went up the broad stone steps to the door. When Catherine knocked, a square grille at eye level opened and a face looked out. ‘Yes?’
‘I believe Madame Béatrice Albert is staying with you. I’m her granddaughter and I would like to see her.’
The face gazed at Catherine for a moment and then the grille banged shut.
‘Crikey,’ said Della. ‘What did you say?’ But as she was speaking, the door was opening and the nun who had peered through the grille beckoned them inside.
‘Wait, if you please.’ Leaving them by the door, the little nun folded her hands into her grey sleeves and walked swiftly away from them down the corridor.
‘It doesn’t look much like a hospital,’ said Frances, frosted breath coming out of her mouth when she spoke. She gazed around at the spotless, unadorned walls and down to the shiny tiled floor. ‘I’ve never been in a convent before. Are they always so cold and so … stark? And that disinfectant smell … I swear it’s the same stuff we use in the glasshouses at home.’
‘Oh Christ, yes,’ answered Della. ‘It was just like this where I was. Jeyes Fluid and floor polish. The nuns believe that not scrubbing the pattern off the floors is a mortal sin. And as for lighting a fire? Not a cat in hell’s chance.’ She shuddered. ‘I hated them.’
‘Shush,’ said Catherine as the little nun returned.
‘You must speak to Mother Paul,’ she whispered, and indicating that they were to follow her, walked before them towards a door at the far end of a bare and icy hall. Taking a deep breath, she rapped on the door.
After a moment, a deep voice begged them to enter and the nun opened the door and ushered them through.
Mother Paul was a tall, imposing woman with strong, almost mannish features, which her religious habit didn’t soften. She was standing behind a large oak desk, which was bare of papers but had a telephone and a small brass bell. She gave each of the girls a long stare, her eyes taking in their uniforms, before saying, in English, ‘Which one of you is Madame Albert’s granddaughter?’
Catherine stepped forward. ‘I am. My name is Catherine Fletcher.’
‘And your companions?’
‘They are my friends. Frances Parnell and Della Stafford.’
To Frances’s surprise, Della bobbed a little curtsey when she was introduced, keeping her eyes lowered, and Mother Paul acknowledged it with a brief nod before drifting her hand to the chairs that were placed against the wall. The girls sat down.
‘I see you are in the British Army. Are you nurses?’
‘No,’ said Catherine. ‘We are entertainers.’
The atmosphere in the room got even more chilly, and Mother Paul folded her lips together as though to stop herself from yelling, ‘What!’ Instead, she said, ‘How can I help you?’
‘I want to see my grandmother,’ said Catherine. ‘I have only today been told that she is here with you. We, my mother and I, have been very worried about her and, of course, my grandfather. I have now learnt that he is dead.’
Mother Paul nodded slowly. ‘He has been remembered in our prayers. But, mademoiselle’ – she looked at Catherine’s hand and saw the wedding ring – ‘er … madame, your presence is a surprise, perhaps a shock. We believed that dear Béatrice had no family left. That you and your parents were killed in the bombing.’
The girls looked at each other. ‘As you see, Reverend Mother,’ Frances said, not in the least awed, ‘Catherine is very much alive. As are her mother and her daughter.’
‘Yes.’ Mother Paul’s strong eyebrows drew together in a slight frown. ‘Of course, I have no proof that Madame Fletcher is who she says she is. And you say she is.’
‘But I am,’ Catherine said angrily. ‘However could you doubt me? I have my identity papers, and my father’s cousin, Jacques Albert, could vouch for me if you don’t believe those. He was the one who told me to come here.’ She stood up. ‘My grandmother, if you please, Reverend Mother. Take me to her.’
The nun didn’t move from her chair, but brought one of her hands from her lap and opened the drawer in front of her. She withdrew a small black notebook. ‘I will telephone to get permission.’
‘Permission?’ asked Frances. ‘I think not.’ Her voice was very much that of an earl’s daughter. ‘Catherine is Madame Albert’s next of kin. She doesn’t need permission. If you refuse to let her see her grandmother, we will return with the authorities.’
Della, finally overcoming her nervousness, stood up. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, ‘enough of this nonsense. Let’s go and find her. This place isn’t very big, so we’ll look in every room.’
This last galvanised Mother Paul into action. ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘That won’t be necessary.’ She picked up the small brass bell that was on her desk and gave it a determined ring. The door was immediately opened and the little nun came back in. ‘Take these ladies to Madame Albert.’
As they were going out of the door, Frances stopped and turned back to Mother Paul. ‘Who were you going to call for permission?’ she asked. The black notebook was still on the desk, and the reverend mother’s hand was hovering over the receiver.
‘Father Gautier, of course. He is Madame Albert’s legal guardian.’
‘Not any more,’ said Frances. ‘Her family have found her. Madame Fletcher will make the decisions now.’
As she left the room and followed the girls up a broad, uncarpeted staircase, she knew that in the room below Mother Paul would be dialling Father Gautier’s number.
They found Grandmère Béatrice in a cold, bare day room. She was sitting on a hard chair by the window and was leaning forward, looking out at the buildings opposite and the road below.
Frances grabbed Della’s arm. ‘Let Catherine go alone to her,’ she whispered, and the two girls stood by the door as Catherine went to kneel beside the old lady.
‘Grandmère,’ she said softly. ‘It’s me, Catherine.’
At first, Béatrice didn’t move and Catherine took hold of her gnarled, veiny hand. ‘Grandmère,’ she repeated. ‘It’s me.’
Slowly, the old woman turned her head away from the window and gazed at Catherine. As her eyes scanned her face with seemingly no recognition, Catherine was certain that what Jacques had said was true. Poor Grandmère had lost her mind. She didn’t know her.
Catherine looked over her shoulder to her friends, who were standing by the door. ‘She doesn’t know me,’ she said, with a sob in her voice, and they nodded sympathetically and moved forward to comfort her.
But as they did, the old woman suddenly spoke. ‘Catherine, chérie? Is it you?’ Her voice was filled with wonder. ‘Are you a dream?’
‘Oh no, Grandmère.’ Catherine put her arms about her and held her tight. ‘I’m here. I’ve found you.’
In the minutes that followed, there was much kissing and many tears. ‘How have you got here?’ asked Béatrice. ‘Is the war over?’
‘It is in this area,’ Catherine said, smoothing back Grandmère’s tight grey chignon, which had become dislodged with all the hugging. ‘I’m going to take you back to England. Maman has been so worried about you. And you have a great-granddaughter to meet.’
‘Lili,’ said the old lady, and Catherine looked at her in amazement. ‘How—’
The door opened suddenly and a different nun came in, carrying a small steel tray that contained a medicine bottle and a little glass. She wore a stiff white apron over her habit, as though she was afraid that her clothes were about to be stained. ‘Madame Albert,’ she said briskly, ‘it is time for your medicine.’
Béatrice clung to Catherine’s hand. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘I don’t want it. I have told you, over and over.’ She was shaking and Catherine held her and scowled at the nun.
‘What medicine is it?’
The nun ignored her and measured a dose into the glass. ‘No spitting it out, this time, if you please, madame.’
‘Tell me,’ said Catherine angrily. ‘What is the medicine?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ Della stepped forward and grabbed the bottle off the tray. She held it up to the light and peered at the label. ‘It says, “L’hydrate de … something,”’ she muttered, and Frances had a look.
‘“L’hydrate de chloral,”’ she read. ‘Chloral hydrate.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Della spluttered. ‘I’ve heard of that. It’s a Mickey Finn. It’ll knock her out.’
The nun approached Béatrice with the glass of medicine and Catherine stood up. ‘Take that horrible medicine away,’ she said, giving the nun a steely glare. ‘I refuse to let you anywhere near her.’
‘But, madame,’ the nun faltered, looking confused, ‘it is my duty. Madame Albert must have this three times a day.’
‘Three times?’ cried Della. ‘No wonder they say she’s losing her mind. They’re poisoning her.’ She snatched the glass off the tray and upended the contents onto the polished floorboards. An unpleasantly musty smell rose up and Della shivered. ‘Jesus and Mary,’ she said, ‘do I remember that stink.’
The nun gazed at the floor with horror.
‘Yes,’ said Della. ‘A bit more cleaning to do.’
‘We must get your grandmother out of here,’ said Frances urgently. ‘I’m sure Mother Paul was about to telephone Father Gautier. He’ll be here any minute, and unless you want a stand-up row with him, we have to go.’
‘I know,’ said Catherine, and hooking an arm under her grandmother’s, she said, ‘Can you walk, Grandmère?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then you’re coming with me and my friends. Is your room close by, with your clothes?’
Béatrice nodded towards a door at the side of the room and Frances and Della ran to it. It was a small cell with a little cupboard that contained a few underclothes and her rosary beads. Behind the door was a hook carrying another dress and a coat. Della looked for a bag to carry them in and, finding none, emptied the feather pillow out of its case and used that. They helped the old lady into the coat, and then with Della on one side and Catherine on the other, they walked to the door.
‘This is wrong,’ shouted the nun, trying to bar the way. ‘Madame Albert must stay here. Father Gautier says so.’
‘And is he the one who told you to drug her?’ asked Frances.
‘But it is a kindness,’ she wailed. ‘So that she doesn’t suffer mental torment at the end of her life.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Frances curtly. ‘Now get out of the way.’
They were in the hall when Mother Paul, alerted by the cries of alarm from the medicine nun, came out of her office.
‘You cannot remove Madame Albert from this house,’ she said, moving to stand in front of them. ‘I insist that she stays.’
‘No, Mother Paul.’ Catherine spoke with her newly found determination. ‘You have no authority to insist, and I’m taking her to her family, where she’ll be loved and properly looked after, so if you will step aside, we’ll be on our way.’
‘I’ve telephoned Father Gautier.’
‘I’ll bet you have,’ said Frances, ‘but it’s none of his business. And if you try to stop Madame Albert leaving, I’ll bring the police and the whole British Army into this convent. I don’t think you’d like that.’
For the first time, Mother Paul looked alarmed, and as she stepped aside, the girls helped Béatrice to the door. Opening it, a blast a fresh air hit them and Béatrice breathed in deeply. ‘Oh, how I’ve missed the outside,’ she said, tears coming again to her old eyes. ‘I’ve been in prison for so long.’
Della turned at the door and looked back. Mother Paul stood in the corridor, and in the background, several nuns, who had come to see what excitement had disturbed their endlessly peaceful days, hovered anxiously.
Della bobbed a curtsey and shouted, ‘Goodbye, you old cow,’ and with a final rude gesture with her fingers ran to the car, where Catherine and Guy were waiting for her.
‘What have you been doing?’ said Frances crossly, getting into the front.
‘Something I’ve wanted to do for ten years,’ laughed Della, getting into the back seat beside Catherine and Béatrice.
As he put the car in gear, Guy asked, ‘Did you have trouble in there?’
‘We did,’ said Frances. ‘At first, they weren’t keen to let us see her, and getting her out was worse. Anyway, we’d better get moving. Mother Paul has phoned for backup.’
‘Who’d she call?’
Frances looked ahead as they pulled away from the pavement and sped along the road. She pointed towards a tall, athletic priest who was walking swiftly towards the convent. ‘I rather think she called him.’
‘Father Gautier,’ breathed Guy, and he pulled down the brim of his navy-blue cap.
The first person Catherine saw as they walked into the hotel was Robert. He was sitting at one of the little round tables in the lobby, deep in conversation with Beau. Papers were scattered on the table, and Robert’s holdall was on the floor beside him. Catherine guessed that he’d just arrived back from England. I wonder what he’s been doing, she thought, and what he’ll say when he notices that Grandmère is on my arm?
‘We’re going to have to get another room,’ said Frances, going to the reception desk. ‘Grandmère Béatrice needs pampering.’
‘God, yes,’ said Della. ‘Who wouldn’t after spending time in that lunatic asylum?’ She banged her fist on the bell. ‘Let’s get the manager.’
The clang of the bell made Robert and Beau look up. Robert glanced at Frances and Della; then, knowing that the girls would be together, he looked around for Catherine. When he spotted her, his eyes, behind the tortoiseshell glasses, softened. Catherine, looking back at him, found herself giving him a defensive smile because she knew that his expression would change within the next few seconds.
‘Good God,’ he said, standing up so suddenly that Beau, who was still studying the papers, looked up in alarm.
‘What is it?’ he asked, and then when he saw Catherine with Madame Albert, the colour drained out of his face.
Robert walked across to Catherine and, taking off his cap, bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Who have we here?’
She was utterly disconcerted by that kiss, as she knew he had intended her to be. It was his way of getting back at her. Bastard, she thought, having picked up one of Della’s favourite words, and turning to Grandmère, she explained, ‘This is a friend, Major Robert Lennox.
‘Robert,’ she said slowly, ‘let me introduce my grandmother, Madame Béatrice Albert.’
His surprise was so obvious that Catherine’s frown turned into a small, triumphant smile, but he took no time to collect his wits and thrust out his hand. ‘How d’you do, madame,’ he said, giving Béatrice a slight bow, and she, casting a careful look at him, shook his hand and replied that she was well.
He turned to Catherine. ‘Clever you,’ he said. ‘You found her. And … your grandfather?’
‘He’s dead. The Gestapo shot him.’ Her voice was sharp, and at the mention of the Gestapo, several people in the lobby turned to look at her.
Robert said nothing for a moment, and then he turned back to Béatrice. ‘My condolences, madame,’ he murmured.
For all her previous anger with him, Catherine thought his sentiment sounded sincere. Perhaps he did already know about Grandpère, and by refusing to tell her was trying to save her the added heartbreak of losing both her husband and her grandparents. But he seemed genuinely surprised at seeing Béatrice. He’d thought she was dead. So that meant that his intelligence network had broken down somewhere.
‘When you’ve settled her,’ Robert muttered, ‘I need a debrief. Where was she? Who was keeping her?’
Before Catherine could reply, Beau had joined them and was staring at the old lady. ‘This is your grandmother?’ he asked.
His hand trembled as he was introduced and Béatrice asked if he was in pain. ‘I see you have been injured, young man,’ she said kindly. ‘Sit, do. Standing can’t be good for you.’
‘Oh, he’s alright, Grandmère,’ said Catherine. ‘He’s just surprised to see you. After all, it was only this morning that he told me that you had disappeared. How wrong he was.’
Robert’s face hardened and he slid a sideways glance at Beau. Catherine felt like laughing out loud. Both of them were now in trouble.
Frances called from the desk, where the sweating manager was shrugging and waving his arms about in exaggerated despair. ‘He says that there aren’t any vacant rooms. But Della and I have decided that we’ll sleep in the bus and you and Madame Albert can have the room to yourselves.’
Della nodded her head vigorously. ‘Just let us use it to change, but otherwise, OK, as the Yanks would say.’
‘No,’ Robert intervened, and looked at Catherine. ‘You can have my room. I’ll put up at the officers’ mess. No need for the girls to sleep in the bus. It’s far too cold.’
Beau cleared his throat. He’d got over whatever it was that had frightened him. ‘If you don’t mind me butting in,’ he said. ‘We do have a show tonight, so we need to get a shift on. It’s at the NAAFI and not too far from here, but nevertheless …’
‘Alright.’ Frances had joined them. ‘We’ll be ready.’ She smiled at Béatrice and then said to Catherine, ‘What about Madame Albert? I’m sure she’s tired. Will she stay here?’
But after Catherine had explained to her grandmother what was about to happen, the old lady was adamant that she wanted to see the show. ‘It’s been so many years since I heard you sing, ma chérie. Jean so loved the sound of your voice when you came to visit that it will bring back some happy memories.’