That evening, a message came through from London: Noor’s radio set, her suitcase and a new agent were to be parachuted into France. She couldn’t wait to have her own clothes instead of borrowing Marguerite’s. But more than that, Noor was excited about receiving her own radio set.
When Noor turned up at Grignon a couple of days later, Maillard, the gardener, was waiting for her outside the greenhouse. She waved and trotted over to him, delighted to see her battered leather suitcase at his feet. It was full of clothes that had been made especially for her in London in Parisian styles, down to the way in which the buttons had been sewn on.
‘Thank you!’ she said, taking it from him. ‘I’ve been waiting for this. So the parachute drop went well?’
Maillard frowned. ‘No. Your suitcase hit a tree. Everything spilled out. Archambaud had to pick it all up.’
Noor threw her head back and laughed at the thought of her dresses and underwear festooning the branches and scattered over the field, and Norman scampering about collecting them together.
Maillard wasn’t so amused. ‘You’ve got your suitcase,’ he said. ‘But the agent we were expecting has disappeared. The only sign of him was his parachute folded up and left on the ground. This is not good.’ He drummed his hoe into the soil several times. ‘Worse than that – four agents were supposed to turn up at Gare d’Austerlitz. No one appeared.’
Agents failing to turn up could only be bad news. Noor’s stomach clenched.
‘And my radio equipment?’ she asked.
‘It’s been taken to Le Mans. You’ll receive it soon.’ He turned back to his flower bed. ‘Faites attention, be careful,’ he said, his voice thick and gruff.
‘I’ll be back later this week. With Archambaud.’ She took her suitcase. The joy of having her own clothes had evaporated.
Two days later, she went to Norman’s apartment. She buzzed to be let in, glancing around in case she was being watched. The street was empty apart from a few scraggy pigeons scratching in the gutter.
‘Not like Norman to forget,’ she muttered. She set off for Grignon once again, hoping he might be there.
It was dusk when she arrived. She made her way to the greenhouse, only to find it locked, with no sign of Maillard either. She walked over to the Professor’s office. It was open, but no one was in. The sitting room was tidy, and the kitchen was clean, the tea towels folded over the oven door handle.
Noor stepped outside again. What should she do? It was getting late. The Nazis had imposed a curfew on the people of Paris: no one was to be on the streets after midnight. Most people hurried home much earlier, not wanting to be out after dark. Encountering German soldiers in daylight was bad enough. There was a room at the College that the Professor had said she could use, so Noor hurried there to stay the night.
She slept badly. Norman kept popping up in her dream, telling her he wanted a quiet life. Maillard appeared, too, in a hat that looked as though it had been pulled out of the earth. Faites attention, faites attention, faites attention, he said in his gravelly voice.
She woke early the next morning and hurried over to the greenhouse. The sun was shining. Butterflies fluttered amongst the roses, and the air smelled of damp soil. It felt normal. Perhaps everyone had just been busy the day before. Perhaps Norman would be there, transmitting, blissfully unaware of having missed their appointment.
Once again, the greenhouse was locked. Noor pressed her nose against the glass, but the place was empty. Where on earth was Norman? She sat on a bench to wait.
When there was still no sign of him after half an hour, Noor gathered her jacket and handbag, and stood up to leave.
‘Madeleine – wait!’ She turned to see who was shouting out her code name.
It was the Professor, running towards her, his hair wild and his face red. By the time he reached her, he was gasping for breath.
‘Thank goodness you are here – ’ he wheezed, bending over and resting his hands on his knees. ‘Terrible news!’