A Gathering Storm (39 page)

Pictures spooled through her mind, newsreels she’d seen in the cinema, of marching soldiers, lines of refugees, huge-eyed children, families pushing cartloads of belongings, men covered in burning oil, screaming in the sea. She thought of her mother’s family in Occupied France, of all the other families like them who were suffering. She was being given a part to play to win this war.

And yet here at home her innocent young baby needed her.

She dropped her head into her hands and wept.

The worst thing of all was that she could speak of this matter to no one. Each day for the next week, she went through the usual motions, dropping her child with Mrs Popham, going on the bus to work, shopping in the lunch-break or the early evening, putting the baby to bed. She hardly saw Dinah. And her thoughts raked deep and agonizingly into her mind.

She tried to imagine what the work Mr Potter had alluded to might mean. Would she be brave enough? It was impossible to say; only that she had no fear of the idea. She knew she was strong, physically and mentally; she had always had an innate sense that she’d get through. The important thing in life, she’d already learned, was to put one’s head down and get on with the next thing. This had always worked for her. If they’d asked her, they expected her to be able to do it, whatever it was. People got on and did things; she’d seen the most extraordinarily brave people in this war, people pushed to the limits of their endurance. Why should she be excused?

She was a little shocked to find excitement in the idea. She wasn’t sure how to regard this aspect of herself, whether with horror or delight. All she knew was that she wanted to meet this challenge. She wanted a more active part.

Yet as she gave the baby his bottle and watched his dark dreamy eyes as he drank; as she cuddled his strong little body, felt his chubby arms tighten around her neck, she knew she couldn’t bear to be separated from him.

Gradually she started to be able to rationalize it. Perhaps she could go a little further, see what might be involved. She could always pull back; Mr Potter had given her that impression. It would be the least she could do.

Her supervisor, Miss Goodwin, a trim, efficient woman, with short greying hair and black-rimmed spectacles that she wore on a ribbon, called her into a side office one morning and said, ‘Mrs Marlow, I understand your difficulties, having a young child, but I am beginning to question your commitment to your work here. You are frequently absent, and when you are here, it seems to be in body rather than in mind. One or two of the other girls are complaining that you’re not pulling your weight. Now I do like to try and help if I can, dear. Is there anything that’s bothering you?’

‘No, Miss Goodwin. I’m sorry. I shall do my best to remedy the situation.’

‘Good. I don’t expect you to enjoy the job, an intelligent girl like you, but I do expect you to try your best. We all have to do things we’d rather not if we’re to win this war.’

When Beatrice returned to her desk in the airless room she shared with the other girls, no one raised their eyes to smile at her. She wondered which ones had complained.
I don’t belong here,
she thought, as she mis-fed a blank form into her typewriter and ripped it out again.

That evening she began to make plans.

She spoke to Mrs Popham, said she might be changing her working hours. The woman agreed to look after her son overnight very occasionally, if necessary, for a higher rate. That had to be good enough for all of them at present.

From a public phone she rang the number Mr Potter had given her, and was put through first to one switchboard, then another and another, before she heard his voice.

‘Yes,’ she told him, when he’d greeted her by name. ‘The answer’s yes.’

‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ he told her. ‘Now listen carefully to what I have to say. I’m going to give you some instructions. You must remember them, not write them down. It’s important that you learn to do this.’

The next week was full of purpose. She had a second interview with Mr Potter, after which she resigned from her job at the War Office. ‘A terrible nuisance, frankly, Mrs Marlow, but given your general attitude, perhaps it’s for the best,’ Miss Goodwin sighed. There were forms to sign – the Official Secrets Act – and Mr Potter said her new role required her to be a FANY, so there was a fitting for another uniform.

At this time, she learned something that strengthened her belief that Michael Wincanton had been involved in her new appointment. It was that the organization she was joining – the Special Operations Executive – had its headquarters in Baker Street. Michael knew someone senior there; she remembered driving the grey-haired soldier with the twinkly eyes. She wasn’t invited to visit these offices – agents were kept away for security reasons – but she remembered they’d had no name or number. She’d met Peter outside that time. That was something else interesting.

Dinah was intrigued when Beatrice came home with her new uniform, but she was a girl who’d learned at her aristocratic mother’s knee not to ask too many questions, so she accepted Beatrice’s explanation – a new driving job that might occasionally mean she was away – with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer to look after your baby for you, but I just can’t,’ she said. She was filing her nails, which were always getting chipped from messing about with car engines.

‘I wouldn’t ask,’ Beatrice said. ‘You couldn’t anyway, with your hours. I just need you to keep the room on for me.’

‘Of course,’ Dinah said. ‘As long as the rent gets paid I don’t mind if you’re here or not.’

Anyone who didn’t know Dinah might think that rather off-hand, but Beatrice was used to the way she avoided ever expressing her feelings.

Two weeks later she was idling at home when the letter she’d been waiting for arrived. It delivered a shock. She must report for a further interview, it told her, and if she passed this, she should be packed and ready to leave for several weeks’ training, no mention of where. She looked across the table at the child, who was slamming his spoon on the tray of his high-chair and crowing with laughter at the noise. Several weeks. How could she leave him for that long when she’d only left him overnight once before, the time she’d had to visit Angie in hospital? She put the letter back in the envelope and thrust it into the rack. She could not imagine how she was going to be able to do this task. But as the day passed, her confused thoughts grew clearer. She would have to do it. It was her duty. It would not be for ever. But it was important in the meantime that she do her best for her child.

The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that Mrs Popham wasn’t the best person to leave him with. After all, the woman would only reluctantly have him overnight. And she’d thought of a better solution.

That evening, after he was asleep, she sat down and wrote to Angie. When she read the reply that came two days later she packed a suitcase with her son’s clothes and toys and ration book, and took him down to Sussex. She returned home the next day, alone.

On the train back, the well-dressed elderly woman sitting opposite leant forward and dropped a clean handkerchief into her lap, for tears were running unchecked down Beatrice’s face.

September 1942

It was as though she entered another world, one in which, after a few days, her son faded into a comfortable place in her memory. He was always there, she always thought of him, but she didn’t worry. Now she wasn’t Beatrice any more, but Simone. In this shabby country house in Surrey with its rambling garden, or running through the fields and woodlands around, she was learning to be a different person, one with no life but the one she was being trained for, surrounded by people she was never to get to know in any proper sense, with whom she must live and work. She spoke to them in French, the complexities of which she’d half-forgotten and which at first came thick on her tongue. They were people with whom she must laugh and play and compete, but about whom she was allowed to ask nothing, and from whom she was not to expect even friendship. She shared a room with the three other women, came to know their individual habits, the position they lay in to sleep, what they muttered in their dreams, but not what their real names were or what they kept hidden in their hearts. It was a little like boarding school, but even more lonely.

She knew she was being watched, her conversations overheard and noted; she knew she was in some way being judged. And so she guarded herself carefully, as she’d learned to do since she was a child. The Wincantons had taught her well. She’d learned to fit in, to soothe friction where she found it, to be faithful and to demand little, to cheerfully endure. But she’d learned passion and determination, too. Duty for her was mixed with love. The observers couldn’t see the secrets of her heart, but they saw the strength of character, her watchfulness, her powers of judgement. And she thought they were pleased.

She learned things that thrilled her: how to shoot, how to fall safely, how to set explosives, how to find her way by map and compass, but also, if needs be, by the sun and the stars. How to send coded messages by wireless, how to follow tracks whilst covering her own, how to pass unnoticed, how to answer if picked out for interrogation.

The first time she was given a revolver, she hefted its chilly weight in her hand with awe, recalling the only other time she’d held a gun: Rafe’s antique pistol at Christmas in the Sussex cottage bedroom, while her babe slept and the snow fell outside. She’d felt repulsion then. Now, in one of life’s ironic twists, she must learn to live with one and to master it.

The first time she fired it, she was shocked by the kick-back and dismayed at how wide of the target the bullet flew. To her surprise she found she enjoyed the challenge and quickly improved. The rifle was easier to aim, held steady on her shoulder, the sights right against her eye, but the resulting ache up her arm and neck kept her awake at night until she was used to the weight. There were other nights she went to bed covered in bruises after a wrestling bout or a bad fall.

Her weak point, as she’d feared, was running. She found she had neither the speed nor the stamina for long-distance, possibly because of her past illness, but she determined to do her best. Morning after morning, she joined the others in the cold dawn to run through misty fields or sometimes along a ridge of hills where a plain rolled out beneath. She liked it up there, not least because she fancied she could see right across to Sussex, the only time she ever allowed herself to think of her son. She was not allowed to use the telephone which, perversely, helped – and because any letter she sent out was read by someone in authority, she dared not indicate that the boy to whom she sent her love was her own child, in case they sent her home.

‘It will help if you don’t think about your family,’ one of them had told her, not ungently, at an interview before she came, an elegant straight-backed woman with a strong, handsome face. Her name was Vera Atkins which, as far as anyone could tell, was her real name. ‘We are here to support you,’ Miss Atkins assured her, and somehow, Beatrice trusted her.

Beatrice strived to please these people with every ounce of her being, to run when she was past exhaustion, to shoot straighter than any of the others, to show cunning when cunning was required, and never, ever to cry out with pain. She tried not to think ahead, about how she might be required to use her training in situations of extreme danger. She’d think about that nearer the time.

One night she was awoken by the sound of weeping, and was surprised that it came from the bed of a quiet, proud-faced young woman known as Françoise. Bright moonlight illuminated the room. Some instinct told Beatrice to do nothing so she lay still, listening to the soft sobbing, wanting with all her heart to go to her and whisper words of comfort but sensing the girl would not like it. She would never know whether or not she was right. The next day, Françoise packed her case and was gone. Beatrice never saw her again.

The month raced past and the band of recruits were told they should go home and wait to hear if they were wanted. Beatrice imagined she’d stay with Angie, so she gave them the address. First, though, she returned to her flat to repack. There she found Dinah, who greeted her with unexpected warmth. She slept for fourteen hours, exhausted beyond all measure. Then she boarded a train down to Sussex.

Nanny was standing in the doorway of the cottage with the boy in her arms. When he saw his mother he gave a shout of anguish. Beatrice dropped her bags and tried to take him, but he kicked and fought and howled, and this cut her to the bone.

‘He’s such a good quiet boy normally, I can’t think what’s the matter,’ Nanny cried. ‘Shh, shh, little man.’

Beatrice knew. He was angry at her for leaving him.

After a while, his rage abated; he reached towards Beatrice with outstretched arms and, when she took him, buried his face in her neck. Nor would he let her go. They clung to each other as though they wanted to be one.

When she looked up it was to see Angie, leaning against the doorway to the living room, her arms folded, a curious expression on her face. She came forward and they embraced.

‘Bea, you do look marvellous. Oh, sweetheart, what a silly fuss. Come here, my love.’ But the child burrowed tighter into his mother.

‘Darling, don’t be like that,’ Angie said, stroking his soft dark hair.

‘He’ll be all right, the love,’ Nanny cooed to him. ‘Such a good boy he’s been whilst Mother’s been away. You’d hardly know he was here most of the time. He never cries, you know. Now I remember Peter, when he was a baby. Just the same. Whilst you, missy . . .’ she told Angie, with a benevolent look, ‘you always made your feelings felt.’

‘Oh, Nanny. What else should I have done when Ed and Pete got all the attention? Well, Ed did, anyway,’ she said, moulding her lips into a soft, downward curve as she spoke his name. She looked quite thin – thin and elegant, Beatrice thought, following her into the living room.