The Glory Girls (22 page)

‘You can refuse, of course,’ Brigadier Beasley said quickly. ‘You are, after all, a volunteer.’

‘There’s an underground medical unit operating a safe house under the nose of the Gestapo, who are using Chateau Grovignac as a kind of holiday home.’ Smith eyed her speculatively. ‘You know the chateau, I believe?’

Mary’s eyes grew wide. ‘Yes, that’s right. I spent a lot of time there with Anne when I was a child.’ She glanced at Miss Croft, who was
looking
anything but happy. ‘It belonged to relatives of Miss Croft. A French couple by the name of Laroque. They were always very kind to me.’

‘An aunt and uncle … yes.’ Miss Croft nodded gravely, then cast her head to one side as if trying to shed the burden of guilt for what was about to descend on Mary. ‘I’m so sorry about this, my dear.’

‘Mary, if you are willing,’ said Smith, with a caustic glance at Frances Croft, ‘you will be sent to the chateau as Monsieur and Madame Laroque’s granddaughter, Marie-Jo Laroque. You will have the necessary identity. The girl did exist until she was killed a year or two ago in a
motor-car accident. The Germans would not know this and the only photographs the elderly couple have are of Marie-Jo when she was very young.’

‘But this traitor, Mr Smith,’ Mary wanted to know. ‘How do you know he is in that vicinity?’

‘Because our contacts in the Resistance tell us he has almost certainly moved down there from the north. He was feeding information to the Germans throughout the Dunkirk landings. The field hospitals seem to have been the source.’

‘You think it’s someone connected with the hospitals?’

‘That’s what we believe, though all we have to go on is a nondescript message from an agent very close to the chateau, but before we could ascertain more on the identity of the traitor our communications were wiped out. We haven’t been able to make contact since. Whoever this traitor is, he does seem to know about every strategic move before it happens. That can only mean that he’s one of ours … or someone very close.’

‘And you want me to go in and winkle him out?’ Mary laughed drily. ‘I’m no spy, Mr Smith … or whatever your name is.’ He flinched at that. ‘I’m trained in basic engineering skills and communications. I haven’t done much more than drive an ambulance, man a mobile canteen and teach English to a few Polish refugees all the time I’ve been in the FANYs. What makes you think I can help?’

‘Firstly, you speak fluent French, according to Miss Croft here. Secondly, you speak sufficient German to understand what’s going on, although we must impress upon you not to show that you understand. Thirdly, you know Anne Beasley, who has had SOE training, but is
probably
in a tricky situation right now. Lastly, we think you have already shown that you can keep your head in a difficult situation. Your CO has recommended you highly, Miss West.’

Mary blew out her cheeks, her eyes sliding from Smith to Brigadier Beasley to Miss Croft. The two men were staring at her hopefully. Frances Croft seemed detached, her eyes melancholy, the corners of her mouth turned down. She plainly did not want to be there.

‘I think you’re expecting an awful lot of me, quite frankly,’ Mary said at last.

‘Yes, we are, but we wouldn’t ask if we didn’t think it wasn’t absolutely necessary.’ Smith was pacing the lounge, his hands clasped behind his back.

‘If it’s any help, we believe you will be absolutely safe,’ said Brigadier
Beasley. ‘You just have to behave like any young Frenchwoman visiting her grandparents, keep your eyes and ears open and wait to be contacted.’

‘Normally, you would have been interviewed and trained in London or Scotland before being sent into France, but we don’t have time.’ Smith watched her closely as he spoke. ‘Evacuation plans for a lot of these safe houses were issued some time ago, so the Germans must already be aware of them by now. We no longer trust our communications system at this point, so we would be asking you to deliver a message by word of mouth. It is of utmost importance that the message gets through. We believe it’s only a matter of days, or hours, before the hospital’s cover is completely blown. There are many lives at stake here and you could help save them.’

‘Whom would I contact?’ she asked, steeling herself against the
fluttering
butterflies that were invading her stomach. ‘And how?’

‘A French Resistance worker,’ Smith said. ‘Codenamed
Le Blaireau
. He’s a local wine-grower and his vineyards are in the vicinity of the chateau. We will put you down near Paris under cover of darkness. It will be necessary for you to take a train to Toulouse. From there you must make your own way to the chateau.’

‘As Marie-Jo Laroque.’ Mary nodded. She closed her eyes tightly and held her breath for just a few seconds. She wasn’t convinced that she was the right person for the job. ‘What message am I supposed to give
Le Blaireau
?’

‘You must tell him to look for the nightingale with the loudest song. He will know whom you mean and act accordingly.’

‘The French shoot nightingales, don’t they?’ Mary said with a wry smile.

Smith ignored her remark. ‘You must deliver your message, then wait for your next contact, which will be about your lift out of France.
Le Blaireau
is head of a large band of Resistance fighters. They will get you safely out of the danger zone. But if you can’t deliver the message, many lives will be lost.’

‘One of those lives could well be my daughter, Mary,’ Brigadier Beasley said, nervously fingering his moustache. ‘The last we heard was that she was due to visit Chateau Grovignac sometime soon.’

‘I really don’t think I’d be good enough for this job,’ Mary said, shaking her head. ‘It’s far too important.’ 

‘We do not agree, Miss West!’ Smith’s patience was wearing thin.

‘Smith…?’ The brigadier looked at the MI6 man for permission to continue and received an almost imperceptible nod. ‘The thing is, Mary,
there’s a British serviceman there whom we think you know. He was reported dead, but turned up at a safe house and has been very active ever since the Dunkirk evacuation. He’s been working under cover for a long time, running the hospital at Grovignac.’

‘Who is that, sir?’ Mary steeled herself for his answer, hardly daring to hope.

‘Captain Alexander Craig.’

‘Alex!’ She felt her blood run cold, then boil inside her veins. ‘You’re speaking of Dr Craig of Felling? Dr Gordon’s nephew?’

‘The very same. The thing is, Mary, we know there’s a spy – someone either working with him or who knows him. Unfortunately, our contact has not been in touch for some time and we fear that …’

‘When do I leave?’ Mary asked, not waiting for the brigadier to finish speaking.

She saw him relax, though Miss Croft maintained her rigid posture, closing her eyes, her lips moving as if in prayer.

‘Thank you, Mary,’ the brigadier said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘Thank God for people like you. We will leave immediately. Your family will be informed. Shall we go?’

T
HE
drone of the Lysander light aircraft reverberated in Mary’s head. At the same time, her heart reverberated in her chest. Her mouth was dry and every nerve in her body was screaming with panic. Breathing was difficult and she thought that any minute now she was going to pass out. But she kept telling herself that she was doing the right thing. Now was not the time to get cold feet. It was far too late now to change her mind.

Inside the plane, it was freezing cold, and although Mary was
shivering
, she was also burning with anticipation at what she was about to do. Someone tapped her on the shoulder, making her start. She looked up into the face of a young, rosy-cheeked airman.

‘We’re there,’ he said and Mary’s stomach churned. ‘Get ready.’

There was a sinking feeling as the plane landed, bumping along on uneven ground. As it slowed, Mary got to her feet, her legs feeling rubbery. She moved slowly into position. The airman opened the aircraft door, revealing the dark, empty land and she felt a blast of icy air like needles pricking her skin.

‘Now – quick!’ A voice hissed urgently in her ear, but she couldn’t let go. Her hands had become paralysed, her brain numb.

Whether she jumped or was pushed, she couldn’t remember, but suddenly she was stumbling down the fixed ladder and jumping the rest of the way to the ground. Someone threw her bag after her. She grabbed it and ran, bent double, for cover towards a copse of nearby oaks and pines. The Lysander had already gone, flying off with hardly a sound.

Mary stood up and looked around her, glad there was a moon and enough light for her to see her way, although it could be tricky if there were any Germans about who might spot her. Not even genuine Frenchwomen would be abroad in the middle of the night.

She checked that she had everything she needed. The clothes, the bag and the papers were all authentic French. Before she boarded the plane
they had stripped her of anything that might be construed as English, even her underwear. Ever since she had agreed to come on this mission, she had forced herself to think in French whenever possible, and now she muttered in French under her breath as she made her way towards the city of Paris.

By the time she reached the outskirts, the morning sun was beginning to rise. She enquired from a street-sweeper where
la gare
was situated and he pointed her in the right direction, warning her that there were checkpoints everywhere and hoped she had all her papers intact. She assured him that all was well and continued on her weary way.

The railway station was empty but for a few early morning travellers, some of whom wore German uniforms. All she could do was imagine herself as Marie-Jo Laroque, on her way to visit her grandparents for Christmas. It wasn’t too difficult, since the Laroques had treated her as one of their own. They were a delightful couple and she could remember exactly what they were like and how they lived in the grand chateau.

‘Your papers,
mademoiselle
?’

Had she reacted like an ordinary citizen of France, or like a British spy? She looked up at the tall young Gestapo officer, standing proudly erect in his smart black uniform. He was smiling at her. Automatically, she returned the smile.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, delving into her bag and producing the papers she had been provided with.

He seemed to take a long time inspecting them, but that was possibly because Mary was nervous and struggling to present a calm exterior.

‘
Merci, mademoiselle
,’ he replied after a slight hesitation and returned her papers with a smile.

He looked as if he wanted to converse some more with her, but at that moment the early-morning train for Toulouse approached and his comrades called out to him to rejoin them. He saluted Mary smartly with yet another charming smile and left her to board the train without a
backward
glance.

It was a long, tedious journey. Mary slept most of the way, which was surprising, considering the mission she was on, but the stress of the whole venture was taking its toll. Besides, the carriage was empty for a good part of the way with nobody to hear her if she spoke in English in her sleep.

At Toulouse she changed for Foix, where there seemed to be some confusion on the platform. She gritted her teeth and presented her ticket and her papers to the German soldier who was keeping the guard
company. They were, fortunately for her, too busy searching a family of travellers who were acting suspiciously to bother about a single young woman, plain-faced and shabbily dressed.

‘
Allez-y vous
!’ The guard waved her through and she emerged on to a dark street with people scurrying about, anxious to get home before the evening curfew. She found a small hotel and put up for the night. Very early the next morning she ascertained from the hotel concierge that there was a wagon going in the direction of Grovignac and she could hitch a ride for a few francs. The man in charge of the two magnificent Percheron horses pulling the wagon was pleasant enough, but after asking her where she was headed, he kept himself very much to himself, for which she was grateful.

When they arrived at Grovignac, the village that took its name from the chateau, Mary waited until she recognized the scenery before she got out in order to go the rest of the way on foot. Thereafter, she found it surprisingly easy. Chateau Grovignac, with its widespread vineyards, had not changed over the few years since she and Anne used to play in among the vines in summer and eat the semi-sweet black grapes, which often resulted in griping stomachs.

She remembered the winding track, the avenue of tall plane trees with their marbled bark, and the huge, solitary oak with the branches like outstretched, welcoming arms, and a hole in it big enough for a child to hide in.

The small farmhouse at the top of the hill above the vines looked deserted, though most French houses did after dark, even in times of peace. No dog barked, for which she was grateful, but there was a disturbed cackling of geese and hens as she walked through the forecourt, keeping well into the side of the wall so that she was hidden from view.

Mary was only a yard or two away from the door when it creaked open and the long barrel of a rifle poked out. She sucked in air and held her breath, her heart thudding loudly in her chest. They had warned her that the place had changed hands in recent years, the previous occupants having retired, so the tenants would not recognize her.

‘
Il y a quelq’un
?’ It was a gruff, female voice. ‘
Qui est-ce
?’

‘
Je cherche Le Blaireau, madame
,’ Mary called out softly, giving the phrase she had been instructed to give. Literally, ‘I’m looking for the badger’.

She heard a gasp, then the door was opened more fully, though no light shone out. The rifle was withdrawn and a pale, thin hand beckoned.

‘
Entrez, mademoiselle … vite
!’

With the door shut and bolted firmly behind her, Mary stood
hesitantly
, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the complete lack of light. Then the woman opened an inner door and there was the flickering glow of a fire and the smell of meat stew and garlic, mixing in with the usual odours of damp and mould, and other things that Mary did not ponder on, so glad was she to be inside and warm.

The woman was elderly, brown-skinned and lined like old leather. She ladled out some
cassoulet
, tore off a chunk of bread from a huge round loaf and put it down on the rough wooden table in the middle of the room.

‘Eat!’ she said, pouring a large glass of red wine and pushing that, too, in Mary’s direction. ‘Eat now. We talk later.’

Mary had no appetite, but she managed a few mouthfuls just to please her hostess. The thick bean stew was surprisingly good, but the wine was typically rough. It did, however, warm her and revive her spirits.

‘Madame,’ she said, as soon as she felt the time had come to talk. ‘You know who I am and why I am here?’

‘I know nothing, mademoiselle. Only that my husband … the man you call
Le Blaireau
… told me there could be a visit.’

‘He’s here?’

‘I regret … no. Jean-Pierre died three days ago. Shot through the head by collaborators. His men too … all of them. They fell into a trap.’

Mary felt the blood drain from her face and her hands begin to shake. Who would she deliver the all-important message to now? She reached for her glass and drank down a good third of the disgusting liquid, but it helped calm her.

‘I’m sorry, madame.’

‘It is war, no?’

‘Your husband was my contact. He was to … to help me …’

‘You arrive too late, mademoiselle … you cannot stay here … you understand? Each minute you are in my house puts my life in danger.’ Mary nodded, for the moment rendered speechless. ‘It will be morning soon. You must go then. There is a bicycle in the barn. Jean-Pierre will not be needing it any longer.’

‘Thank you.’ Mary gulped and cleared her throat. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘You speak excellent French,’ the old woman said. ‘But you have the proud and haughty look of an Englishwoman. You must learn to be a little more humble if you want to fool the Germans.’

‘Thank you, madame. I’ll remember your advice.’

The woman nodded, then went to the window, opened it and threw
open the heavy shutters. There was a lilac light in the sky, though there was still darkness all around. Somewhere close by a rooster proclaimed itself.

‘Go now,’ the woman said. ‘Wait an hour in the barn, then leave. It would not be prudent to arrive too early at the chateau.’

‘An hour … yes …’ Mary licked her lips, gave a final glance of
longing
at the glowing pieces of timber in the grate and went to the door.

‘And remember. You do not know me. I have never seen you. That is also the advice you would have been given by my husband.’

‘Yes, madame. I understand. Thank you again.’

‘Go safely,
ma petite. Adieu
.’

Daylight was bathing the hillsides in gold as Mary cycled along the narrow, winding road that led to Chateau Grovignac, which was situated on a hill, its towers protruding from dense woodland. Typical of winter in this part of France, it was a beautiful day with a wide expanse of blue sky and there was warmth in the sun that bathed the landscape in mellow gold. She began to relax, though it was not to be for long. The road veered sharply to the right and there, a few hundred yards on, was the chateau, in all its glory.

There was a car blocking the road, surrounded by uniformed figures speaking in voluble German. From what they were saying, the car had broken down. The driver was peering under the bonnet, red-faced and perplexed.

Mary’s first impulse was to do an immediate about turn and head for cover, but that would appear suspicious. In any case, it was too late. One of the German officers, alerted by the squeak of her bicycle wheels, looked over his shoulder and saw her. Her heart immediately sank.

‘
Alors, mademoiselle
!’ He spoke in French, heavily laden with his German accent. ‘Come here. Quick, quick! Don’t worry. I am not going to eat you.’

The others laughed at their commandant’s attempt at humour. Mary dismounted and approached them on foot, wheeling her bicycle and hoping that they couldn’t see how her knees trembled beneath the long woollen skirt she was wearing.

‘Is there a problem?’ she asked, giving them all an uncertain smile.

‘There is, indeed,
mademoiselle
. This idiot here has driven like a madman for the past hour and now we have broken down. We are already late for our rendezvous at the chateau. Are you from there?’

He was looking her up and down as he spoke, the thick lenses of his
spectacles glinting in the sun so she couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew they would undoubtedly be wary, not to say suspicious.

‘No,
monsieur
…. at least, not exactly. I have come to visit my
grandparents
, Monsieur and Madame Laroque. They are the proprietors of Chateau Grovignac.’

‘Name?’

‘Marie-Jo Laroque.’

‘Papers?’ He held out a gloved hand and she once again presented her forged papers, praying that whoever had created them was a master at his craft, for this man did not look like anybody’s fool. ‘Thank you,
mademoiselle
. Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to ride up to the chateau and inform Oberleutnant Hauptmann what has happened.’

He was obviously satisfied and handed the papers back to her after only a cursory glance.

‘Yes,
monsieur
.’ Mary climbed back on her bike and set off towards the chateau, desperately trying to ride without wobbling.

‘I hope to see more of you in the next few days,
fräulein
,’ he called after her in German.

Mary stopped, put a foot to the ground, then remembered that she was not supposed to understand German.

‘
Comment, monsieur
?’ she said, furrowing her brow at him, but he simply smiled, nodded and waved her on.

Perspiration was pouring from her as if it were midsummer by the time she dismounted at the steps to the chateau. She jangled the bell on her bike, thinking that it might well be the kind of thing a visiting grandchild would do. Almost immediately the door opened and two immaculately dressed people appeared. The old couple came out on to the steps and stared at Mary uncomprehendingly. Behind them, a third figure appeared. Yet another German officer.

Mary ran up the steps, smiling broadly, and threw herself first into the old woman’s unsuspecting arms.

‘
Mamie
!’ She kissed the woman’s cheeks, then passed on to the man, whose wise old eyes were betraying nothing of what must be going on through his mind. ‘
Papie
!
Surprise
! I have come to you for Christmas. Are you not pleased to see me?’

‘You are always welcome here, child,’ said the man, taking her by the arm and turning her so that he could be sure she had seen the German standing behind him.