The Lavender Garden (13 page)

Connie and Buckmaster shared a chuckle.

“Any questions, Constance?”

“None that I can think of, sir, except has there been any word from Venetia?” Connie asked eagerly. “I know she flew out a few days ago.”

“No”—even Buckmaster’s face darkened for an instant—“not so far. But I wouldn’t worry, it often takes time for a wireless operator to send their first transmission. And there have been a few problems in her region lately. Anyway . . .” He walked back to his desk, opened a drawer, and produced a small box that he duly handed to her. “A present for you, to wish you luck.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Open it,” he urged. “It’s what I give all my girls as a parting gift. Terribly useful and, as I say, if in dire straits you can always sell it.”

Connie pulled a small, silver powder compact from the box.

“Like it?”

“It’s perfect. Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t want to let my girls’ standards of appearance slip, even when out in the field of operations. Right, Constance, all that remains for me
to say is thank you for your diligence so far. I shall no doubt be hearing of your activities in the coming weeks. God speed and
bonne chance.
”

“Yes, sir. Good-bye.”

Connie turned and left the room.

•  •  •

On the evening of the seventeenth of June, Connie drove down from London with Vera Atkins to Tangmere Airfield in Sussex. Inside the hangar, they sat at a small table at the back and Vera handed Connie a sheet of paper.

“Please spend the next twenty minutes memorizing everything written on there. Your code name will be “Lavender,” and that will be used at all times when you’re in contact with us or other agents in the field of operations, both British and French. You’ll be joining the Scientist network, which operates mainly in and around Paris. When you land in France at Vieux-Briollay, you’ll be met by a reception committee. They will look after you and provide the necessary transportation, plus the contact details of your organizer, wireless operator, and other members of your circuit.”

“Yes, Miss Atkins.”

“I should warn you, Constance, that we’ve had trouble recently communicating with your network. Your reception committee on the ground in France can probably give you more accurate information than I can at the present time. However, I’m sure that with your intelligence and common sense, you’ll manage. Now”—Miss Atkins pulled a small leather suitcase up onto the table—“in here is everything you will need. Identity papers, naming you as Constance Chapelle, a schoolteacher living in Paris. You have many relations in the south of France, which is where you’re originally from. You will use this as your reason if at any point it’s necessary for you to travel down through the country. There are still many checkpoints on the old Vichy Line.”

Connie watched as Miss Atkins then produced a small vial containing a single tablet.

“This is your C pill. You will put it now inside the heel of your shoe.”

Having had prior warning, Connie removed the specially adapted shoe from her foot and opened the sole of the heel.

Miss Atkins dropped the pill inside. “Let’s hope you never have to use it.”

“Quite,” agreed Connie, knowing the innocent-looking pill contained a lethal dose of cyanide, in case of arrest and subsequent torture.

“Now then,” Miss Atkins said brightly, “all set?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s get you on board the Lizzy.”

The two of them walked toward the little plane painted black to avoid detection on a moonlit night. At the bottom of the steps, Miss Atkins paused. “I nearly forgot.” She pulled out an envelope from her jacket pocket. “This is for you.”

She handed the envelope to Connie, who opened it, then read the words in disbelief.

“Good news, eh?”

Connie’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears. “Miss Atkins, Lawrence is alive! He’s alive!”

“He is indeed, dear. And the ship bringing him home docked safely three days ago in Portsmouth. He has a nasty wound to his chest and a broken leg, but the doctors say he’s in good spirits and doing well in hospital.”

“You mean he’s
here
? Lawrence is in England?” Connie repeated in disbelief.

“Yes, dear, he’s home, safe and sound. Isn’t that nice to know?”

Connie looked down at the date of the telegram informing her that her husband had been found alive and was being shipped home immediately. The date was the twentieth of May, nearly a month ago.

“Now then, I thought that would be good news to take with you, and it certainly gives you an incentive to return safely. Time to board, dear,” Miss Atkins said briskly as she removed the telegram from Connie’s grasp. The propellers on the plane sprang into action. Vera Atkins held out her hand to Connie. “Good-bye, Constance, and good luck,” she said as Connie shook it.

In a daze, Connie walked up the steps and into the cramped interior of the plane. As she fastened herself into her seat, she tried to process what she’d just been told. Not only was her husband alive, but he was
here
, home safely in England. Maybe no more than a few hours’ drive from where she was now.

And they hadn’t told her . . .

How could they
not
have informed her that Lawrence had been found and was returning home? Connie bit her lip hard to stem the tears, in danger of flooding the tight, uncomfortable goggles she was wearing.

With a heavy heart, she understood only too well why they hadn’t. They’d realized that, if they
had
told her of Lawrence’s imminent arrival in England, she would have swiftly turned tail and backed out of the dreadful task she was about to undertake.

But now, as Connie watched another two unidentifiable humans in flight suits and goggles climb inside the plane, and the door shut behind them, there was no turning back. F Section had manipulated her personal circumstances for their own ends. And then, at the last minute, they’d offered her the one incentive she needed to do everything she could to stay alive and return.

“How can I bear this?” she muttered under her breath as the plane began to taxi out of the hangar into the moonlit night.

“Connie? Is that you under all your gear?” shouted a voice from the seat next to her over the roar of the engines. It was a voice she recognized.

“James!” she shouted back, feeling absurdly comforted by his being there.

It was impossible to talk any further as the plane took off into the night sky. Instead, Connie did not resist as a hand reached for hers, squeezed it, and held it tightly. She gazed out of the window at the pitch-black English countryside beneath her.

“Good-bye, Lawrence, my darling, darling boy,” she whispered. “I swear to you, I’ll be home in your arms as soon as I can.”

T
he Lysander touched down gracefully into a field, guided by small flashlights held by unseen hands on the ground. The pilot turned around and gave them a thumbs-up. “All seems to be well. Good-bye, ladies and gentlemen. And good luck,” he added as they climbed down the steps and onto the grass.

“Bienvenue,”
said a man, who scurried past them up the steps of the plane with a satchel. He threw it inside, then sealed the door and ran back down to survey his newest recruits.

The Lysander was already on the move, commencing its return journey. Connie looked at it jealously, wishing she had the courage to run toward it, climb up inside, and follow her heart back to England.

“Follow me,” said the man who had dropped the satchel inside the plane. “And hurry, I saw a Boche truck passing by only a few minutes ago. They may well have heard the landing.”

The three agents, led by their guide, scurried across the field, James bringing up the rear. The beautiful French night was clear and warm, and as Connie ran with the rest of them, she had a sense of familiar in the unfamiliar. France smelled as it always had: the balmy, dry, pine-scented air, so different from the dampness of the English countryside. She would recognize it anywhere.

Eventually, their guide opened the door to a wooden hut housed in a dense forest. Inside, pallets with blankets atop them lay strewn on the floor. And a gas ring, which their host immediately lit with a match, stood in a corner.

“We must stay here until morning, when curfew has passed. Then we’ll send you on your separate journeys from the station in Vieux-Briollay, a twenty-minute cycle ride from here. Please, make yourselves as comfortable as you can. Put your flight suits in the corner
over there. You will leave them here with me,” the guide instructed. “I’ll make some coffee as you do.”

Connie divested herself of her suit and watched as her fellow passengers revealed themselves. The other man she hadn’t met before. They sat down on their pallets as their guide handed them each an enamel mug of coffee.

“No milk, I’m afraid. I know you English like it,” he said.

Connie was glad of the rich, dark liquid; she was used to the strength of it.

“I’m Stefan,” the guide announced, “and I know you must be Lavender, madame, as you’re the only woman.”

“I’m Trespass,” said James.

“Pragmatist,” offered the unknown man.

“On behalf of France, I welcome you here. We have never been more in need of trained British agents to help us,” said Stefan. “Many of your fellow agents, especially in Paris, have been arrested in the past few days. We’re not sure of their fate, but we believe there must be a traitor among them to enable the Gestapo to swoop so successfully. All I can advise is that you trust no one. Now, it’s time to sleep while you can. I’ll keep watch and alert you if necessary. Goodnight.”

Stefan stepped outside the hut, lighting a cigarette at the door before he closed it behind him. The three agents made themselves as comfortable as possible on their pallets.

“Good night, chaps,” said James, “sleep well.”

“Doubt I shall get a wink,” said Pragmatist, but soon enough Connie heard faint snores emanating from the other side of the hut.

“Connie?” It was James.

“Yes?”

“This is for real now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” agreed Connie, her empty stomach acidic from coffee and emotion, “it is.”

•  •  •

Connie must eventually have drifted off to sleep, as she was shaken awake by James and saw light filtering through the small window.

“Wakey, wakey,” said James. “They’re waiting outside for us.”

She had slept fully dressed, so Connie only had to slip on her stockings and shoes to be ready. Outside stood Stefan and a woman.

“Good morning, Lavender,” said Stefan. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes, but”—Connie looked around the forest—“is there anywhere I can . . .?” She knew she was blushing.

“We have no facilities here. Please find a place in the woods,” Stefan said with a shrug, turning to speak to James.

Connie scurried off to find a discreet place behind a tree. When she returned, James and the other agent were about to set off on bicycles with the woman.

“Good luck,” Connie whispered to James. “I hope we’ll meet again soon.”

“Hear, hear,” said James, his face taut and tense. “In the meantime, I’ll do my best to blow the Boche to smithereens and get us all back home.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Connie, wearing a brave smile for him as he wobbled off through the forest on his bicycle behind the others.

“We’ll wait for a while until they’re a few kilometers away,” said Stefan. “Too many cyclists emerging from the forest will attract attention if someone is watching. Coffee?”

“Thank you.” Connie sat on the doorstep of the hut, watching the sun, now risen above the trees, dappling the ground beneath it.

“So, Lavender, I’ll tell you what will happen to you next.” Stefan handed her a mug of coffee and came to sit next to her on the step, lighting another cigarette. “Now, you will have been told you’re joining the Scientist network, our largest organization, which operates both inside and around Paris.”

“Yes.” Connie confirmed.

“Unfortunately, we’ve had word that various members of Scientist have been arrested by the Gestapo, including Prosper, the leader.”

“I was indeed warned and told you would have further information,” Connie replied, then sipped her coffee.

“We’ve received no word from Prosper’s wireless operator either, which may mean he too has been arrested.” Stefan stamped his cigarette out under his foot. “I had communication three days ago that they were expecting you and would meet you from the train at Montparnasse station, but I can’t be sure now who will be there.” Stefan immediately
lit another cigarette. “It’s too dangerous for me to accompany you at this time—we’ve been warned by headquarters to lie low until we know the situation—so you’ll have to make the journey alone.”

“I see.” Connie gripped her mug like a talisman to stem her nerves.

“As your code name is not yet on any files the Gestapo may have in their possession, it’s very unlikely you’ll come under any suspicion on your journey. Women are stopped for security checks far less than men. It’s a lot to ask of one just arrived, but we need to send someone to Paris who’s unknown to the Boche to find out what’s happened. Are you willing?”

“Of course.”

“You’re due to be met on the station concourse outside the
tabac
. You must buy a packet of Gauloises, and when you have done so, drop them to the ground as if by mistake. Pick them up and then light one with these.” Stefan pulled a box of matches out of his pocket and handed them to her. “At this point, a man should approach you. He’ll then take you on to one of our safe houses.”

“And if he doesn’t appear?”

“Then you’ll be aware something is wrong. You know Paris well?”

“Yes, I studied at the Sorbonne.”

“Then it will be simple for you to find this address.” Stefan handed her a piece of paper.

“Apartment seventeen, twenty-one Rue de Rennes,” Connie read the familiar road name. “I know it well.”

“Good. As you approach the building, you must walk past it to the end of the street and then back along the other side. If you see the Gestapo on the road, or in a truck nearby, you will know the safe house has been discovered. Do you understand?”