The Lavender Garden (10 page)

Jacques sighed. “It is a long story. And one which I never thought I would tell.”

“Please, Jacques,” begged Emilie, “I’d be fascinated to hear it. I’m realizing every day how little I know, especially of my father.”

“Édouard was a wonderful man. He was awarded an Ordre de la Libération for his bravery and services to France but”—Jacques shrugged sadly—“he refused to accept it. He felt others deserved it more.”

“Please, Jacques, could you at least begin?” Emilie urged him. “After all, I’m about to marry Constance’s grandson, and I feel it’s important I understand the past connection between us.”

“Yes, you’re right. You should know. It is your family history, after all. But where to start . . . ?” Jacques looked off into the distance for guidance. “So,” he said eventually, “I shall begin with Constance. There is little I do not know of her.” He smiled. “During the long evenings here in the cottage, she talked of her life in England many times. And how she came to be in France . . .”

I’d like to see the red

Of the roses in full bloom.

I’d like to see the silver

Of sun’s reflection on the moon.

I’d like to see the blue

Of the ocean when it’s roaring.

I’d like to see the brown

Of the eagle when it’s soaring.

I’d like to see the purple

Of grapes hanging on the vine.

I’d like to see the yellow

Of the sun in summertime.

I’d like to see the russet

Of the chestnuts on the tree.

I’d like to see the faces

Of those that smile at me.

Sophia de la Martinières
1927, age 9

London

March 1943

C
onstance Carruthers opened the plain, brown envelope she’d found sitting on her desk when she’d arrived at work and read its contents. The letter was requesting her to attend an interview that afternoon in Room 505a at the War Office. As she removed her coat, she wondered if they had managed to mix her up with someone else. Connie was quite happy in her current position as filing clerk—a “snagger,” as the clerks were affectionately known at MI5—and had no interest in working elsewhere. Walking across the busy room, she tapped on the door of her boss’s office.

“Come in.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Cavendish, but I’ve had a letter requesting me to go for an interview at the War Office today. I wondered if you knew what it could be about.”

“Ours is not to question why,” barked Miss Cavendish, glancing up briefly from her desk, piled high with files. “I’m sure they will explain everything when you attend the interview.”

“But . . .” Connie bit her lip. “I hope you’re happy with my work here.”

“Yes, Mrs. Carruthers, I am. I suggest you leave all your questions until this afternoon.”

“So I must go?”

“Of course. Will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you.” Connie closed the door behind her, walked back to her desk, and sat down, realizing it was a fait accompli.

That afternoon as she was led through the maze of subterranean passages that composed the basement of the War Office, housing the heart of the British government’s war operations, Connie was aware
that this would be no ordinary interview. She was led into a small, bare room, furnished with a table and two chairs.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Carruthers. I am Mr. Potter.” A portly, middle-aged man stood up from behind the table and reached across it to shake her hand. “Please, kindly sit down.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m told you speak fluent French. Is this true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you won’t mind if we conduct the rest of our little chat in French?”

“I . . .
non
,” Connie agreed, switching languages.

“Now, tell me how you came to speak French so well?”

“My mother is French, and her sister, my aunt, has a house in Saint-Raphaël, where I’ve spent most summers of my life.”

“So you are passionate about France?”

“Of course. I feel I’m as much French as I’m British, even though I was born here in England.”

Mr. Potter’s gimlet eyes appraised Connie’s thick chestnut hair, brown eyes, and strong, Gallic bone structure. “Yes, you certainly look like a Frenchwoman. I see from your file that you also studied French culture at the Sorbonne?”

“Yes, I lived in Paris for three years. And adored every second of it,” added Connie with a smile.

“Why did you choose to return to England once you had completed your studies?”

“I came back here to marry my childhood sweetheart.”

“Quite,” said Mr. Potter. “And you currently reside up in Yorkshire?”

“Yes, my husband’s family estate is up on the North Yorkshire moors. Although, for now, I’m staying at our flat in town while I work at Whitehall. My husband is abroad, in North Africa.”

“He is a captain in the Scots Guards?”

“Yes. But currently missing in action.”

“So I heard. My sympathy is with you. No children yet?”

“No. The war rather put paid to all that.” Connie sighed grimly. “We’d barely been married a few weeks before Lawrence was called up. So rather than sitting knitting socks in Yorkshire, I thought I would come down south and find something useful to occupy me.”

“Are you a passionate patriot, Mrs. Carruthers?”

“I am, Mr. Potter.” Connie raised an eyebrow at the direct line of questioning.

“Prepared to give your life for the countries you love?”

“If it came to it, yes.”

“I hear you are also something of a crack shot.”

Connie looked at him in surprise. “I’d hardly say that, although I’ve certainly shot on my husband’s estate since I was young.”

“Would you say you are a tomboy?”

“I’ve never thought about it,” Connie stuttered, struggling to give lucid responses to these most unusual questions, “but I certainly love outdoor pursuits.”

“And you enjoy robust health?”

“I do, I’m very lucky.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Carruthers.” Mr. Potter snapped the file closed. He stood up. “We’ll be in contact. Good day.”

He held out his hand and Connie shook it.

“Thank you. Good-bye,” she replied, surprised at the way the interview had come to such an abrupt end and having no idea how she had acquitted herself.

Connie emerged from the stuffy basement into the spring air of the busy London street. As she walked back toward her office, she gazed upward at the barrage balloons that hung menacingly on the London skyline. And began to ponder why she had been called in to meet the man named Mr. Potter.

Three days later, Connie found herself summoned again to sit beneath the harsh artificial lighting of Room 505a. Another grilling ensued: Was she carsick, airsick, how were her sleep patterns, would she know how to navigate the French railway system, was she familiar with the layout of Paris . . . ?

Even though nothing had been said about the task they had in mind for her, Connie had begun to formulate a definite inkling. She went back to her flat just off Sloane Square that night knowing that if she had been successful today, her life could be about to change forever.

•  •  •

“So, Mrs. Carruthers, we meet again. Please, sit down.”

Connie read that Mr. Potter was visibly more relaxed with her today. For a start, he smiled at her.

“I am sure, Mrs. Carruthers, that you may by now have an idea of why you are here.”

“Yes. I believe you’re thinking I may be suitable for some form of work in France?”

“Correct. You will have heard of F Section and the Special Operations Executive through your work at MI5?”

“Files have passed through my hands, yes. But only to vet the girls concerned.”

“As we have vetted you in the past few days,” said Mr. Potter. “And nothing of concern has emerged. We now believe that you are suitable to become one of our band of SOE agents. However, Mrs. Carruthers, so far we have skirted around the gravity of not only the trust that we in Britain and France would place in you, but also the very real threat of death.” Mr. Potter’s face was serious. “How do you feel about that?”

Connie, already aware of what was going to be asked of her, had suffered a week of sleepless nights pondering this very thought and her response to it. “Mr. Potter, I believe passionately in the cause the Allies are fighting for. And I would do my best to never let you down. However, I also understand that I have not, so far in my life, been tested sufficiently to answer that question. I’m twenty-five years of age, with no experience in such matters, and I have a lot to learn about both myself and life.”

“I appreciate your thoughtful personal appraisal, Mrs. Carruthers, but I wish to reassure you now that your inexperience presents no problem. Most of the women we employ in this highly sensitive role have no more experience than you. Currently, we have a shop assistant, an actress, a wife and mother, and a hotel receptionist. On a positive note, we will do all we can to help and support you before you leave. You will be sent on an intensive training course, which will equip you as far as possible to handle the many dangerous situations you may find yourself in. And I can assure you, Mrs. Carruthers, at the end of that process, both you and the heads of SOE will know whether you are capable of carrying out the tasks you will be set. So, I must ask you
again now, are you prepared to take up a role which may subsequently lead to your death?”

Connie stared straight back at him. “I am.”

“Excellent, then that is settled. As you are employed at MI5, you have already signed the Official Secrets Act, so I need not trouble you further. You will be hearing from F Section directly in the next few days. Congratulations, Mrs. Carruthers.” Mr. Potter stood up and this time walked around the table to shake her hand, then led her to the door. “Both Britain and France are grateful for any sacrifices you might make.”

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. May I ask—”

“No more questions, Mrs. Carruthers. All you’ll need to know will be answered shortly. It goes without saying that our meetings here and your future are to remain of the utmost secrecy.”

“Yes.”

“Good luck, Mrs. Carruthers.” Mr. Potter shook her hand again and opened the door for her.

“Thank you.”

•  •  •

Arriving at the office the following morning, it was clear that Miss Cavendish, her boss, had already been informed of her departure.

“I hear you’re moving to pastures new,” she said, her harassed eyes managing the ghost of a smile when Connie came into her office. “Here.” Miss Cavendish handed her an envelope. “You’re to report to that address tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Thank you for your commitment here. I’ll be sorry to lose you.”

“And I’ll be sorry to go.”

“I’m sure you will cope with whatever lies ahead of you, Mrs. Carruthers.”

“I’ll do my best.” Connie replied.

“Jolly good. Don’t let me down.” Miss Cavendish added as Connie walked toward the door, “it was I who recommended you.”

•  •  •

At nine o’clock the following morning, Connie reported, as ordered, to Orchard Court, just off Baker Street. She gave her name to the doorman, who nodded and opened the gilded gates of the lift. He escorted
her up to the second floor, unlocked a door along the corridor and ushered her inside.

“Right, miss, wait in here, please.”

Rather than finding herself in an office, Connie saw she was in a bathroom.

“They won’t be long, miss.” The doorman nodded as he closed the door behind him. Connie sat down on the side of the jet-black bath, choosing that over the onyx bidet, and wondered what on earth would happen next. Eventually, the door reopened.

“Follow me, miss,” said the doorman, leading her out of the bathroom and along the corridor into a room, where a tall, fair-haired man was sitting atop his desk waiting for her.

He held out his hand and smiled at Connie as the doorman withdrew.

“Mrs. Carruthers, I’m Maurice Buckmaster, head of F Section. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard many positive things about you.”

“And you, sir.” Connie returned the firm handshake, trying to hide her nerves. She’d heard this man’s name mentioned many times at MI5. Reputedly, Hitler had commented of him recently, ‘When I get to London, I am not sure who I will hang first—Churchill or that man Buckmaster.”

“Would you prefer to converse in French or in English?” Buckmaster asked.

“Either is fine.” Connie confirmed.

“That’s the ticket,” he said with a smile. “So, French it is. Now, I’m sure you’re eager to find out more about what we here at F Section are up to, so I’m going to pass you over to Miss Atkins, who will be looking after you from now on.” Buckmaster swung his long legs down from his desk and moved toward the door. Following him, Connie caught his energy and purpose as he strode off along the corridor and into another room, thick with cigarette smoke. “Now then, Vera”—he smiled at a middle-aged woman sitting behind a desk—“this is Constance Carruthers. And I shall leave her in your capable hands. Constance, meet Miss Atkins, the power behind the whole of F Section. See you shortly.” Buckmaster nodded at both of them and left the room.