‘Anywhere to stay, love?’ an official asked. She shook her head at first. Then she remembered.
‘I’ll go to my daughter’s,’ she announced.
‘Where’s that then? We need a forwarding address for your papers.’
‘Dalradnor Lodge in Stirlingshire. There’ll be a bed for me there.’
‘Not tonight, there won’t,’ came the reply. ‘We could find you a hotel.’
‘The Cavendish, Jermyn Street . . . I’ll go there, if it’s still standing.’ She sighed: that was where she’d once been so happy. Arthur would be waiting there.
The evacuee family arrived at Dalradnor one afternoon in July 1940. They’d been billeted in a Glasgow church hall for a week after arriving by ship from Guernsey,
welcomed into the city and promised homes for the duration. Callie had bedrooms to spare and didn’t mind being first on the list, having learned that this poor family had been on the move
since 21 June. She was given a mother and three children. Madame Laplanche was a native of Brittany, married to a resident Guernsey farmer who had shoved his family onto the waiting ships while he
remained to tend their market garden on the island, now under occupation. There were two girls, Bettine and Louise, and a boy called Jacques, all of them of school age. Louise looked as if she was
recovering from something infectious.
‘Mercy me, look at the poor wee souls,’ said Mima as she hurried off to boil the kettle. ‘They’ll need a bath, by the smell of them.’
‘
Merci, madame
, thank you . . .’ said Madame Laplanche. ‘We are most grateful.’
There was little luggage, just a battered suitcase full of clean underwear and rosaries and photos of their market garden. The clothes had been donated by the refugee reception committee, but
very few fitted them. It was a warm summer and the children could play outside and be kitted out later with uniforms for the start of school at the end of August.
Callie knew it was her duty to give a home to refugees. She kept thinking about how Marthe and her family had fled to Britain and been taken in by Aunt Kitty’s parents in 1914. She knew
they were now living under occupation too. Ferrand wrote briefly saying he’d joined Jean-Luc in the army, but his letters stopped coming once the country was overrun. It was too late now to
send the letter she’d attempted so many times and shoved in a drawer. No doubt the château would be in foreign hands by now, and she felt sorry for the countess.
They were getting to be a houseful: Jessie and Desmond in the Nursery, Madame shared a large bedroom with her girls, and Jacques slept in the dressing room next to it. Phee’s room was
filling up with clutter. Then one day in September she suddenly appeared on the doorstep without warning, clutching all she had left from her London life and needing a permanent roof over her
head.
She looked stricken as Callie hugged her and led her to a chair, and Mima plied her with tea with a spoonful of the precious sugar ration. Only when she told them all the sad news of
Kitty’s death did she collapse on the sofa and cry over her loss. It was awful to see her so shell-shocked, and Callie wept with her over the sad news.
With so many mouths to feed at the Lodge Callie thanked goodness for the hens and the pig and the rows of vegetables in the kitchen garden and the borders. Madame was happiest helping in the
kitchen, and Mima enjoyed her company. She could make meals out of nothing and added new ideas to Mima’s old dishes to make them taste richer. She was an excellent seamstress, sewing shirts
out of thin sheets, turning collars, altering donated skirts into little outfits for the girls, and making Desmond a winter coat and bonnet out of a man’s old tweed jacket. She even found
favour with Mr Burrell for showing him how her husband tended his crops.
It was quiet enough while the children were in school, but when they rampaged around the house on wet afternoons they gave Phoebe a headache.
Callie felt the strain of keeping the peace and giving her mother time to recover. She took her for long walks to let her talk out all the things she’d seen in London. Phee was in no hurry
to return there, but she knew that if her agent rang she must leave.
‘I feel like a spare part here,’ she sighed one morning as Callie prepared to go to her WVS meeting. ‘You’re all so busy, what should I do?’
‘Do what you do best, Mother,’ Callie said, pausing to realize what she’d just said. ‘Get back on the stage and cheer us all up. There must be concert parties in need of
your direction.’
‘I’m too old for prancing about,’ Phee sighed, looking at her crow’s feet in the mirror.
‘No, you’re not; just ring round. I’m sure the hospitals are always on the lookout for entertainers with your experience. Listen to me telling my grandmother to suck
eggs.’ They both laughed and Callie was relieved to see a spark of life back in Phee’s eyes.
But what am I doing for the war effort? she pondered in the night when sleep was elusive. Bringing up a child, helping evacuees and WVS work – is it enough? Anyone can do those things
efficiently, given all the help and space in the house.
She’d been impressed by Primrose in her smart suit arriving on her doorstep one weekend. She was now working for the Ministry of Economic Warfare but was vague about her duties as if they
were hush-hush in some way. Callie felt a surge of envy at her freedom and the stories of the famous parties she’d been to in London. But Primmy was single and fancy-free – why
shouldn’t she make the most of all the fun going on down there?
‘Have you ever met any Belgian soldiers, officers who might know the van Grooten brothers?’ Callie asked. It was a long shot to expect them to have come over with the Dunkirk
evacuation. Ferrand would have telephoned her.
‘There’s plenty of Free Frenchies and Poles. They make broadcasts to the Continent, I think. Come to London and I’ll take you to some hidey-holes where they might know.
It’s about time you hit the town.’
‘I can’t, not with all this lot to sort out.’
‘Rubbish. There’s enough adults here to allow you a weekend pass. Little Des has got his jolly Jessie at his beck and call until she’s called up.’
‘Oh, please, not yet. She’s such a bouncy girl, and practical too, but Phee’s not herself. The bombing’s unnerved her, and Aunt Kitty going like that, but she’ll
buck up once she treads the boards again. How’s your lot?’
‘Daddy’s in the Medical Corps, Mummy’s taking on all the welfare clinics and Hamish’s joined up. Haven’t a clue what he’s up to now.’
‘Who knows where any of us will be by the end of the war,’ Callie said.
‘Goose-stepping to Hitler’s tunes perhaps?’ Primmy smiled. ‘I think not . . . May take some time, but we’ll get there in the end.’
‘I just wish I could do more.’
‘You’re bringing up the next generation, keeping the home fires burning and all that. Surely that’s enough?’
‘I’m sure you’re doing something far more important, making a real difference. I ought to join up too,’ In the face of all Primrose’s news, Callie suddenly felt
guilty about her situation.
‘You can’t, you’re needed here. It won’t come to that.’ Primmy was trying to reassure her but it wasn’t working.
‘Remember what Corky used to say at St Maggie’s? “Miss McAllister . . . be useful and be a trailblazer!” ’
‘And look where that got us, stuck up a gumtree with no ladder!’ Primmy roared. ‘What you need is a break from all this domesticity. You are coming up to town and that’s
an order.’
Primrose returned to London leaving Callie to chew the cud on all these frustrations during a sleepless night. They’d not even had one air raid here. She couldn’t just sit out the
war in comfort and safety. It wasn’t right.
As if in answer to a prayer, the very next morning a letter arrived that was to change everything.
‘What’s it all about? It looks official,’ asked Phee, watching her picking the letter up and then putting it down all through breakfast.
‘You know we sent all those photographs of Ostend and all the countryside round the château, the ones they asked us for on the news? I think it’s to do with that. I’ve
been asked to go to London to discuss things further.’ Callie couldn’t quite believe in the coincidence of such an unexpected request.
‘That’s a long way to go just for some holiday snaps. It’s not a ruse to do with Toby, is it? Perhaps they’re testing you,’ Phee replied, looking concerned and
rereading the letter for clues.
‘I haven’t heard from him in years, and probably never will until we divorce. Perhaps they want more details of the area. I did get to know it quite well. Primmy offered to put me up
if I need a break. She’s been on at me to visit her.’
‘London isn’t safe. Don’t put yourself at risk, not with a baby.’ Trust Phee to be sensible.
‘I’ll be careful. I’m curious, and the Ministry do offer a travel permit. Desmond will be fine surrounded by his devoted fans while I’m away.’ There was something
about the letter that intrigued her, something vague yet official in its letterhead. She’d never heard of the Ministry of Economic Warfare – or had she? Didn’t Primmy work there?
Perhaps she’d put them up to this?
Callie dressed with care for the interview, trying not to look as if she’d been awake all night, stuck in a railway siding during an air raid, listening to bombs blasting in the distance.
Primmy had left the key to her bedsit under a brick in the wall. She worked out of town during the week so Callie let herself into the chaos of her room. It was a shock to see the ruins and bomb
sites, never shown on the Pathé News. How could people carry on working with buses strewn across the pavements, shops shuttered, broken glass and rubble everywhere? But London was taking it
and she felt proud that nothing was hindering the war effort.
The address was a hotel close to Westminster Abbey. She had to give her name to the doorkeeper and wait until summoned. It was not much of a place, shabby and down at heel; the sort of place
you’d walk past and never notice. But travellers needed beds and they must be in short supply, she thought as she sat at the top of the stairs, waiting for the door to open. This was not what
she had been expecting.
A man came out to greet her – tall, distinguished-looking – but he didn’t give her his name and she found herself in room with a desk and two old chairs, bare and chilly. He
addressed her in French, much to her surprise, expecting her to reply at speed, which she did. On the desk was a picture postcard curled at the edges as if it had been rolled up.
‘I think this belongs to you.’ He shoved it across the desk for her to examine. ‘How do you come to know the person who’s sent it?’
She saw the handwriting and stared at it in surprise. ‘It’s from Louis-Ferrand van Grooten. We met in Cairo.’
‘I gather then he was your lover there.’
Callie stiffened at his bluntness. She shrugged and said nothing.
‘Come now, Mrs Lloyd-Jones, or is it just Mrs Toby Jones?’ He then reeled off all her history with added details of Toby’s fraudulent activities, how he was now living off an
assumed name, and how she’d met Ferrand in Alexandria and begun a relationship with him there.
‘Do you know where van Grooten lives now?’
Callie swallowed the shock of all his revelations and smiled. ‘I thought I was here to discuss some photographs . . .’
‘You lived in Belgium for some months. Your accent is a little tainted but Countess van Grooten took you in at her school. That is correct?’ It was his turn to pause, watching her
very carefully.
‘I was with a group of other girls there, yes, and we went on trips.’
‘You also had a Belgian nursemaid, a Flemish refugee?’
‘Marthe . . . is she safe?’
‘And you understand Flemish?’
‘A little.’ Where was all this leading? ‘What is this about?’
‘We’re looking for suitable translators and others to do various duties. Your background interests us. That is all, Mrs Jones.’
‘So why do you have Ferrand’s postcard?’ she asked.
‘It was given to us by, shall we say, unusual methods to bypass the ruling powers.’
Then he changed the subject. ‘What are your feelings about the occupation of Belgium? Have you maintained any contact with your friends there?’
She sensed he was fishing for the strength of her political opinions and she shook her head. ‘There’s so little to read in our papers. I am worried, of course, about all my friends
there. If there’s anything I can do to help them . . . What is happening?’ The discussion in French was difficult at first, but she relaxed into familiar idioms. Why all this concern
with Belgium, though?
The man then stood up. ‘Thank you for your co-operation. Needless to say this interview is extremely confidential and, should we need to interview you further, I require an
address.’
She gave them Primrose’s address and her own in Scotland.
‘Ah, a beautiful spot, good fishing, too. I see you have evacuees billeted and a young son. I presume he is van Grooten’s boy?’ His homework was so thorough it was unnerving.
No one had ever presumed this out loud before.
‘He’s my son. Who his father is, is my business,’ she snapped.
‘Very discreet of you, Mrs Jones, like the fact that you were never actually married to your husband.’
‘We were married,’ she protested. ‘Off the coast of Marseilles in 1935 on board the
Marie Solange
, by the captain.’ How dare he pry into her personal life like
this?
‘It was not a British vessel, then, and no notification was ever made to the General Register Office at St Catherine’s House? In which case it means nothing,’ he added.
‘I didn’t know that was necessary,’ Callie replied with surprise. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Only if you ever wished to divorce. If there’s no evidence of a legal union you are a free agent, as is Mr Jones, free to marry who you please, and it looks as if there’s a
man in Belgium waiting to do the honour. Good day, Mrs Jones, or is it, in fact, Miss Boardman?’
Callie stumbled out of the door and down the steps in shock. Had she just dreamed this up? Who was this rude man? The cheek of him, prying into her private life, knowing such intimate details.
And why was he saying all this to her? She clutched Ferrand’s postcard with relief. He was alive and still thinking about her. Could she really be free to be with him? Perhaps Toby had always
known their marriage was void. Why would that not surprise her?