8

Alice

THIRTY MILES FROM PARIS, MARCH 1941

THE PRESENT MEETS THE PAST

Entangled in her harness, Alice removed her goggles and resisted the panic that was threatening to grip her.

Juste Alberto must be nearby. He’ll come to help me, he will. Hauling in the parachute as best she could, she waited. Beneath her the ground felt hard. The landing had juddered through her body. Tarmac? She was meant to land in a field!

The darkness closed in on her. Unfamiliar noises set her heart racing. Animals scurried, trees rustled their branches. A squeal told that a lesser mortal of the food chain had been caught. But none of the sounds that she needed to hear – of men approaching, reassuring her she would be safe – came to her. She feared that Juste might have been captured and she’d be left until dawn, when the same fate would await her.

She and all the trainees had listened in shock and horror to the tale their instructor had told of an agent dropped into France and shot by the Germans, who were lying in wait. It wasn’t known how they became aware of the drop, but it illustrated to them all that they must be on their guard at all times. Thinking about it now deepened her dread of such a fate awaiting her.

Peeling off her balaclava and shaking out her hair helped Alice to feel cooler. Though the padded jumpsuit she wore made her body sweat, she knew she was better for having it. The darkness cloyed at her; if only she could see, she would be able to discern how her legs were trapped. This had never happened in training. She’d always made a good clean landing, and had been up and disposed of her parachute well within the time limit that the tests they had been through demanded.

The sound of a jeep coming towards her instilled a feeling of despair in her. Germans! Oh God, help me!

Two circles of light shone in her direction. My God, I’m on the road! Lying flat, she made an extreme effort to roll, but the parachute wrapped itself around her like a blanket. Softer ground told her she’d reached the grass verge. One last effort and she dropped like a stone. Every part of her stiffened, waited – had she fallen over a cliff edge? But she didn’t drop far before she sank into water. The splash she made let her know this wasn’t a puddle, but a deep ditch, or even the river that she knew to be near to her designated landing spot. The same river that flowed through Paris some thirty miles away – on the other side of the water.

Terror seeped into her as the water chilled her body. Trussed up like a mummy, she could not stop herself from sinking. The water reached her neck. God, help me! Help me. But as her ears immersed and the water ebbed towards her mouth, her prayer had a futility to it.

Light lit up the area around her, but then ebbed away, trailing on the bushes and disappearing. The vehicle hadn’t stopped. She hadn’t been seen! But then what did it matter? Either way she was going to die.

Spitting the filthy-tasting water away from her mouth, she took a huge gasp of air and tried to lift her head, but her mouth went under, despite this effort, although her nose hadn’t yet submerged. Still she could feel herself sinking and sliding, helpless to resist as the parachute held her prisoner.

A feeling of extreme helplessness came over her. This was it then. This was how she would die. No . . . No! I can’t die – don’t let me! Steve, my Steve, help me . . . Just saying his name in her head helped her to make one last effort to lift her mouth above water level. As she did so, she screamed, praying someone would hear her.

Birds took to the air in a flurry of squalling panic, filling her with a hope that the men in the jeep might have their suspicions aroused and come looking – being shot was preferable to this slow death. But as the birds quietened a whisper came to her, cross and afraid, but an indicator that there was someone who knew she was there.

‘Chut, ne faites pas de bruit.’

With the relief came a protest, but not one she could voice, as once more water flowed over her mouth: Hush, bloody hush! Christ, I’m drowning, and all whoever-that-is can say is, ‘Hush, don’t make a sound!’

Bubbles formed around her as she breathed in through her nose and blew out through her mouth. It had become impossible to lift her mouth high enough to cry out. The seconds passed, her body slipped once more. Her head slid under. Holding her breath, her lungs burned. Pressure built up in her throat. They don’t care. Oh God, they aren’t going to save me! She couldn’t hold on a second longer. Her head hurt, a blackness crept up on her, threatening to engulf her. She was going to faint . . . Steve, oh, Steve, my love . . .

‘Everything is all right, Madeline, ve are here.’

A French voice, a woman’s, soothing but with a German accent to it, and sounding just like the matron at her school had – she had been a German working in Belgium. Am I dead? The matron had died, but why would anyone think it would be the matron that she would want to greet her? No. Bren should be the one. ‘Bren . . . Bren?’

‘Ah, it is her man she is calling for. Poor Madeline; don’t fret, you are safe. Juste has bought you to our home. You are very velcome. Ve vill take care of you. Here, I have some broth for you to drink. It vill varm up the inside of you.’

This time, though speaking in English, Alice knew for certain the woman was German. Oh God, have I been captured? But no, she thought, the woman had said Juste had brought her here. Opening her eyes and trying to focus, she found that she couldn’t. Cringing against the light, she squeezed them closed again, unsure once more. Is Juste a traitor – has he turned me in? That light is like an interrogation lamp!

Trying again, she managed to keep her eyes open this time. A woman bent over her, offering her a spoon of steaming liquid. As much as she wanted it, she raised her hand and hit it away. ‘I – I will never talk . . .’

Though she’d tried to put defiance into her voice, the words croaked out. Shaking her head in an effort to clear her mind, she let her eyes wander around her. This wasn’t an office, or an interrogation room, but a bedroom. A peace entered her. Juste had brought her to his home. Ashamed now, she looked at the woman brushing steaming liquid from her apron. ‘I’m sorry. Désolé. Entschuldigung.’ Saying sorry in all the languages the woman spoke made it feel more real.

‘It is fine. I know you must feel afraid. I shouldn’t have lit that lamp, it is the one my Gertrude used when she did her studies. This is her room. And, Madeline, you have the look of my Gertru—’

‘Oh, my God!’

‘Vhat? Vhat is it?’

‘Why have you got a picture of my father on that dresser? Where did you get it? Oh, God, you can’t be . . . ?’

‘You mean my Ralph? My Ralph is your father! No, it cannot be . . . You are the daughter of Lady Louise?’

‘I am. And you? Are you, I mean, were you, his . . . I mean, is Gertrude . . . ?’

Sitting on the edge of the bed, the woman blocked her view of her father’s photo – an exact replica of the one whose frame she had smashed all those years ago. Looking into the eyes of the woman she assumed was Madame Alberto, she saw a goodness in her. And a gentleness that defied her heavyset face. A handsome face, she would call it. The woman had piercing blue eyes that were a mirror to her soul and held no badness in them. When she’d been standing, Alice had seen that Madame was tall, like herself. Her figure, though larger than it should be, did her proud, as it looked both strong and shapely at the same time. Her head nodded. ‘Yes, I vas; and Gertrude is your half-sister . . . Oh, my dear, do not cry.’

She saw Madame Alberto falter under a look that had come from somewhere deep within her, as the truth hit her. Gentle? Kind? What was she thinking? ‘My God, you made a traitor out of my father. You got him shot, by making him do your filthy work. Are you still at it? Do Juste and Gertrude know you are a German spy, eh?’

‘No! No, Non, ce n’est pas vrai . . . that isn’t true. Your father vasn’t a spy or a traitor, and neither vas I. Ve vere set up. My poor, poor Ralph vas innocent.’

Confused, something in Alice told her this woman really believed what she was saying. ‘Then who set my father up?’

‘Officer Vestlin . . .’

‘General Westlin? But . . .’

‘He is a general now? He is still serving in the Army? Non, ce n’est pas possible! Non! He is a traitor. He vill do harm.’

Lying back, Alice felt sick. Her stomach heaved. Madame Alberto dashed across the room, returning with an enamel bowl. Dirty bile came from Alice’s stomach; it clogged her nose and stung her throat, but she couldn’t stop retching.

‘This is good. It is because there is still some of the river inside of you and you are getting rid of it. Oh, Madeline, Juste is heartbroken he had to leave you as long as he did. But there vas another jeep coming along behind the one that he saw you roll avay from, and he had to keep out of sight.’

She could not answer this as the vomiting continued, but inside her she thought: What was he playing at? Several minutes must have passed before the first jeep came into sight. Is Juste a coward?

As if reading her thoughts, Madame said. ‘You vere early. Juste and André hadn’t arrived at the meeting point. They saw the plane vhen they vere half a mile from you. They ran, but had to dive into a ditch vhen the jeep came along. They didn’t know vhere you vere until you screamed. At that time another German vehicle vas bearing down on them. They had to stay vhere they vere, they did not know you vere in the water; they vere on the other side of the road, still a long vay from you. Juste ran across, risking being seen vhen he heard you. Then as soon as the jeep passed he climbed down the embankment and, in the light of his torch, saw a piece of your parachute flapping in the vater. He and André managed to get you out and vorked on you, getting the vater from you. André is . . . vas training to be a doctor and knew how to get you breathing. They did all they could.’

Still choking, Alice nodded her head to tell the distraught woman that she understood.

Madame placed a hand on her. ‘Come on, take a sip of this vater, it vill help.’

It didn’t, for the water came back quicker than she could swallow it. Madame left the room saying, ‘I’ll fetch André. He vill know vhat to do.’

Fighting her way through the fogginess of her brain, Alice had no idea if she’d been asleep or if she’d fainted again, but she knew she felt better. The awful trembling she hadn’t been able to control had left her. Strange, she’d had a dream that she’d met her father’s mistress . . . Sitting up, the truth of it hit her. And there, in front of her, was the evidence. Her father smiling at her. His handsome face showing love. Madame Alberto must have taken it, for her to have a copy. And the look that Alice had always imagined was for her – she now knew it was not for her, but for Madame Alberto. A pang of disappointment dropped like a heavy weight into her stomach. But then she was being silly. How could her father have had love in his eyes for her, when he didn’t even know she existed in her mother’s womb? God, did he have Gertrude before me? Was I not his first child? Did he get to see Gertrude and to love her? Would he have loved her more, because he’d had her with the woman he loved . . . ? Stupid questions of the kind, on different subjects, that had caused her so much pain as she’d grown up. Stop it, Alice; you always try to see things that probably never happened that way. Of course your father would have loved you. But then, Mother never did . . . Except . . . Well, somehow a copy of the photo had come into her mother’s possession and she had framed it and stood it on her dressing table. Just as Madame Alberto had done for Gertrude.

A cough made her swivel her head in the direction from which the sound had come. A young woman sat on a chair watching her. A woman not unlike herself in looks.

‘Gertrude?’

‘Yes.’

‘We . . . we are sisters . . .’

‘I know.’

Compelled to rise, even though her legs didn’t feel as though they would hold her, Alice stood. Gertrude did the same, and within seconds they were hugging and crying.

‘It’s incredible!’

‘I know, and yet it feels so right. Have you had a happy life, Gertrude?’

‘Mostly – some was bad, but that can wait. And you, Madeline? Have you had a happy life?’

‘I’m not Mad—’

‘I know, but I refuse to know any of the group’s real identity – those I didn’t know when I was growing up, that is. That way I will not slip up. Of course I know your real surname; it is the same one I was born with, and will return to when all this is over. But don’t tell me anything more, not yet.’

Alice swallowed. God, she’d nearly told Gertrude her real first name. But she hadn’t. And it hurt that she couldn’t. ‘A good plan. Juste knows my name, but he is the only one, and I know yours and his, and your cover names. But to answer your question: no, I haven’t had a happy life, although I found some happiness recently. You know about our father being a traitor? Well, I have had to live in the public face of that, and it has cast a shadow over me all my life, and an even worse one over my mother.’

‘He didn’t do it.’ They were standing together holding hands. Gertrude’s conviction held the truth that she’d detected in Madame Alberto.

‘I would love to think he didn’t. But we only have his mistress’s – your mother’s – word . . .’

‘No, we have our father’s account, too. He kept a journal throughout his life, right from when he was a boy, until the accusations against him took root. He asked Mama to keep the journals for him and to use them to clear his name, if the worst happened. She continued the story, or at least what she had discovered. The journals are fascinating. They tell of your mother and his love for her, and how she couldn’t return it. You should read them, Madeline, they would help you.’

How this newly found sister of hers knew she needed that kind of help Alice couldn’t understand, or ask about. Nor could she refuse to see the journals, even though everything about them made her feel afraid. Did the truth always do that to you? Or was it that she would see that the truth hadn’t been written . . . ? But no, she had to believe her father had written what really happened and not concocted a fabrication of the truth.

‘I will read them. And gradually I will tell you about my life and you can tell me about yours – we have a lot to catch up on. But I understand, for now, that the less we know about each other, the better. Then we have little chance of slipping up.’

They hugged again and, in its spontaneity, Alice found a comfort and a love. A love for this long-lost sister of hers, and a love that she knew was returned as she heard it in Gertrude’s voice. ‘You’re tired, lie back down and I will fetch you a drink and then I will tell you what I am doing in my role. I haven’t long, as I have only a half-day off. And I cannot come often to this home, as I might be followed and this could jeopardize everything we are doing.’

Watching her leave the room, Alice felt an emptiness inside her. Finding Gertrude had filled a little place in her that she hadn’t realized needed filling. My God, I have a sister! This revelation sent joy surging through her, but she didn’t expect to feel bereft when Gertrude left the room! How would she feel when Gertrude went back to her assignment later?

Besides a sadness, Alice held another worry within her as she said goodbye to Gertrude. Juste had told her about the assignment Gertrude was undertaking and that it held life-threatening danger. And there seemed a little more to her affair with Herr Eberhardt than just seducing him for the purpose of getting information. The way Gertrude spoke, it sounded as if she was falling in love with him! Oh God, what might that lead to? But no; she should stop thinking like that. She would trust Gertrude as she did Juste – she had to. However, a little voice in her head persisted. Love is a strong emotion; if it comes to a choice between not betraying us and hurting Herr Eberhardt, how difficult would that be for Gertrude . . . ? Let’s hope no such choice ever comes up!

Putting these thoughts from her mind, she reflected on some of the things the two of them had talked about earlier. It had surprised her to hear that Gertrude had known of their Uncle Philippe, and knew a lot more about him than Alice herself knew. It had been shocking to discover that their uncle had also had an illegitimate child – a son. How this came about was, Gertrude told her, mentioned in the journals.

It had saddened her to learn that Gertrude had once taken herself to the gates of their uncle’s house, but had been afraid to ring the bell. The awful thing was, it happened at the same time Alice used to visit – sometime during her fifteenth year – and Gertrude thought she saw Alice sitting in the garden reading. Poor Gertrude, she’d been lost at the time, and was prostituting herself at that young age. She’d gone there looking for help to stop her being on the game any longer. If only she’d rung the bell . . .

Looking at the journals lying on the bed next to her, Alice thought about all that had happened today. Once more the happiness at having found a sibling overcame her and she felt a little giggle escape. It is incredible – I can’t believe it; it hasn’t happened, it couldn’t have – I really did die in that river . . . Twice now she’d cheated death, and so much had happened in between: things that scared her, as well as wonderful things like meeting Steve. Oh Steve . . . Steve . . .

Shaking herself, Alice picked up one of the journals. They were larger than expected – the size of a small desk diary, rather than pocket-sized. She’d imagined they would be smaller, as her father had written in them whilst he was away at the war in France. But, she supposed, being an officer, he probably had the use of a desk in his field tent. How little she knew of the previous war, for it had never interested her as a child. And although it had come to mean a great deal to her as a grown-up, she had preferred not to delve into the history of it. It had only held pain for her. Now here she was, fighting her own war, and in more ways than being a special agent in the British forces.

The pages from the 1910 journal had yellowing, almost tissue-paper leaves. Bound in green leather, which still gave off a special aroma of expensive hide, it matched the other six journals. There wasn’t one for 1916. This was the year that both she and Gertrude had been born to a dead father.

Wiping away a stupid tear, she realized there were no journals about her father’s life before the period when everything of note happened. She thought this was due to Elsbeth – as Madame Alberto had asked Alice to call her – thinking it important that she read about this period of her father’s life first. Probably in the hope that Alice would come to know the truth as Elsbeth herself saw it.

Suddenly she knew there was no need to doubt him. Yes, she wanted to find out all she could about her father’s life, but Elsbeth’s and Gertrude’s conviction that he was innocent now made her believe in his innocence without even reading the journals. She felt the pain of grief for him, and all the disgust she’d felt before just melted away. He was innocent. Somehow she now knew he was and, somehow, she would prove it.

In doing so, she knew she would need to prove General Westlin’s guilt. This thought evoked a frustration with an action she’d taken not many months earlier. General Westlin had been very agitated when she’d told him about the letter she’d found in her mother’s things . . . Damn, why had she done that? And why had she given the letter to him? Now he had the only thing that linked him in any way to the conspiracy that had brought about her father’s downfall. But she would find a way of making the world believe the truth about him. She felt sure the journals would help with that. With this, all her worries about what the journals contained left her and she opened the first one:

Ralph D’Olivier

My Wedding Day

15th August 1910: I am writing this when I should be snuggled up with my new wife in our bed; after all, this is our wedding night. That I am not was predicted to me earlier. I did not believe it would be so, but here I am in my study, which is feeling cold, now that the last of the embers of the fire have died. But let me begin at the beginning.

When the ceremony was over I couldn’t believe my luck as I watched Louise glide from party to party like a graceful butterfly, chatting to this person and that. Her beauty outshone them all, as it did the grand ballroom of her father’s home, where we held our wedding breakfast. All I could think of was that she was now my wife. And how lucky I was.

Her poise and grace today surprised me, as I had found her to be a delicate being, prone to headaches and near-fainting bouts whenever anything upset her. But this made me love her more and want to protect her.

Irritated by the silly chatter of one of Louise’s younger friends, I excused myself and, as I moved away from her, I caught the eye of my new father-in-law, Lord Shornham, my commander-in-chief. He looked concerned, and indicated with his eyes that I should be with my wife. If only he knew how I longed to be, but she skirted around me skilfully every time I approached her. Why this hadn’t worried me more deeply, I cannot think.

Philippe, my younger brother, crossed over to me at that moment, having chosen today of all days to be the most annoying fart possible. Not that he was ever any different really. A pompous man, his decision to remain a French citizen has been driven more by his pretensions to the titles held by our ancestors than by any real affiliation to France. Why he couldn’t have become a British citizen like me, I do not know! I am proud of being a first-generation Englishman and a serving officer of the British Army. I loved my time at Sandhurst, as previous testimonies in my life’s log have shown.

Philippe has been trying all day – once his duties as groomsman were complete – to talk about something that has been worrying him. He hasn’t given any thought to the fact that our wedding is neither the time nor the place.

Always father’s man, Philippe has been enduring life in the north of England so as to carry on the family business – something I could never do. Give me London and the military any day! But at least it has saved me from having to see how Philippe leads his life, which, judging by the scrapes he’s got into, isn’t in a gentlemanly way.

Our family came to England in the early nineteenth century when my grandfather’s foresight saw the potential for profit in the mills of the north of England, at a time when strife tore through the area. Our father, a boy at the time, had been educated here, and was one of the few French noblemen to retain the defunct but honorary title of ‘Duc’. Mother already held the title of Countess de Lessing when Father married her. And so I could have taken up other defunct titles, as many people with ties to the old nobility still did. However, I am content to leave all that to Philippe.

What I cannot leave to him, but dearly wish to, is the sensible running of his life. Before Father died suddenly last year, there hadn’t been any need for this brotherly counselling of the young whippersnapper. If only Mother would allow Philippe to do what he wanted to do – sell the mill and go back to France to live an idle life. It could easily be afforded, but she won’t hear of it. She has some silly notion that they should continue what Grandfather began and keep the ownership and running of the mills in the family.

The prediction I have spoken of happened when I made my mind up that I couldn’t avoid Philippe any longer and, to my intense regret, tackled him. I blasted him with all my frustrations and gave him an earful about spoiling my day by wanting to impart his blasted troubles to me. Only to learn, horror of horrors, that the rat had made some stupid wench pregnant! According to him, the girl had pursued him until he gave in, and now he thought he should look after her and her child.

Taking him to an anteroom, I exploded. I told him what he already knew: that he would bring the family name into disrepute and break Mama’s heart. Clutching at straws, I begged him to confirm for sure that the child was his. He replied that it had been obvious that the girl was a virgin when he’d taken her down, and this doused any hope I had of stopping this awful situation.

It appears the girl has been opening her legs for him for some time, and he was sure she did not couple with anyone else. The poor girl believed he loved her. And besides, he supplemented her wages as well as threatening her with the loss of her job if she did stray. None of this was out of any feeling for her, but more to ensure that she kept free of disease.

All of it beggared belief. But, on my taking him to account about his unfaithfulness to his wife and counselling Philippe to take care not to cause her any pain by the scandal of it all, he astonished me by hinting at what is coming true at this very moment. He told me that his wife, Annette-Marie, was cold and only gave to him on her own whim, or when she needed to bribe him. He went on to say that I would find out what that meant.

Incensed further, I almost hit him, but instead I listened to him as he continued, ‘I’ve seen the lust in you when you look over at Lady Louise. Well, Brother dear, you have a shock coming. Fainting and headaches, eh? Mostly when she cannot get her own way, no doubt. She knows nothing of what is expected of her, and showed repulsion when Annette-Marie talked to her about it.’

Shocked, I defended Louise as best I could, telling him the reason for that is because the English don’t discuss such things. It is well known they have a shyness and consider it distasteful to talk about such matters.

Then he had quoted that well-known saying about English ladies: ‘Oh, they all know how to lie back and think of England. Frigid – that’s what they are. It is the lower classes here that know how to please a man.’

I couldn’t believe I was having this discussion with him and chastised him for his treatment of Annette-Marie, reminding him that she isn’t English and telling him he should have more respect for her and to stop thinking with his cock, which it is well known that he does. I further told him that his philandering ways would leave Annette-Marie very bitter and make her believe she is the talk of society. Then, when I told him that will not happen in my own marriage, as I will respect my wife at all times and will help her accept that side of things and come to enjoy it, it alarmed me to see him shaking his head in mockery of me!

Changing the subject, I told him to sort things out. Be more ruthless in his threats to the pregnant girl. Tell her that she and her family will be evicted if word of these misdemeanours gets out. She is to keep the father of her child a secret.

But it appeared he’d done all of this and she is demanding that Philippe buys her a cottage. She says she will make her own money by taking in lodgers. She has no family and is from the workhouse, and hates it. I had no other recourse open to me than to sanction such an action, though I insisted on a proviso that any further claim on us will result in the cottage immediately reverting to the estate.

Pleased at this suggestion, but not done with me, Philippe went on to persuade me to talk to Mama again about selling and moving back to France. It appears that Annette-Marie says she cannot stand it in the north a minute longer.

Even though I knew it would be difficult to persuade Mama, I wanted Philippe out of my hair. And so, to this end, I vowed to persuade her to hire a management team to oversee the business here.

After thanking me for this, Philippe reverted to his warnings about Louise. ‘My dear brother, I sincerely hope you find Lady Louise different from what I have told of. But I don’t hold out a lot of hope for you. If you have problems, there are some discreet brothels that I know the name of . . .’

A twinge of doubt about my marriage entered me at this point. It took the place of any anger I had felt towards my brother. Nerves joined the niggling worry I’d had all afternoon about Louise’s obvious avoidance of me; and what I had been looking forward to all day – our coming together at last – began to feel like a mountain that I had to climb. Unfortunately what Philippe warned of has come true. I am rejected. Louise pleaded a headache, and that is why I am sitting here alone in my study, not having had any luck in wooing my sweet wife. Maybe I will have to visit that brothel Philippe spoke of . . . But no. I will give Louise time. She is afraid, that is all. I will make it right for us.

Alice let the journal drop from her hand onto her lap. She was sad that her father had experienced rejection and that it had affected him so strongly he’d felt compelled to tell of it, and of his brother’s misdemeanours, in his journal rather than write about the pleasures of the day, and who had attended and so on.

She wished things hadn’t gone the way Philippe had predicted. Now her father, who came across as an honourable man, was already thinking of visiting a brothel – a path that would lead to his downfall. Oh, Mother, you have done so much damage in your life. Yes, you could not help what you did to me, but to Father . . .