The Lavender Keeper (8 page)

Then Luc thought of de Gaulle’s rallying words and how they had affected his grandmother, made her eyes sparkle with mischievous pleasure. That was surely what she wanted now … for Luc to stand up and be counted as a fiercely proud Frenchman who refused to pay homage to Hitler and his swaggering soldiers.

And finally Luc thought of the lavender and whether his fields of blue would ever flourish again.

All of these thoughts melded as he looked at Ida’s face in repose. His heart began to harden, filling with dark stones of hatred. Luc knew that when he left this place, he would walk out a different man.

Outside it was low light, just enough left for them to disappear into the mountains.

‘Can you can lead us in the dark?’ Fougasse said.

‘I know the way blindfolded,’ Luc said, his voice a monotone. He didn’t move.

‘Are you ready, Bonet?’

‘Yes, I am ready,’ he said to Fougasse, turning. ‘And I am now Maquis.’

Lisette Forester usually enjoyed her fifteen-minute walk home from work at Trafalgar Square to her tiny tenement flat, not far from Victoria Station. It was a bonus if she could make it home without having to duck into one of the London Underground stations to avoid the air raids. But even when it was necessary, she didn’t fuss; she took the view that the bombings were so far out of her control it didn’t bear even thinking about. She watched some people panic and scream, fleeing for relative safety, while others froze. She sympathised with the latter – they were usually those with others depending on them, and she could see the anxiety in their faces; the terror not so much for themselves but for their loved ones. Lisette had no one waiting for her at home and few would mourn her passing. Over time this knowledge had turned her inwards, and without her meaning to, it had disconnected her from most to the point where she knew some considered her cold.

Yet if another could walk in her shoes they’d realise she
was a passionate woman, full of drive but lacking a target to aim for. She worked as a waitress, doing one day a week at the French Canteen, frequented by de Gaulle’s followers, but most of her shifts were at the Lyons Corner House at the corner of The Strand and Trafalgar. She had toyed with taking a job at Fortnum & Mason but at Lyons there was the variety of serving everyone from film stars to Whitehall civil servants. And so Lisette became a ‘Nippy’, as the Lyons Corner House waitresses were known, because of the speed at which they wove their way through tables serving customers. She liked her stylish uniform, which began with a loosely pleated black dress. A starched square apron was tied in a neat bow at the back, preventing even a glimpse of thigh, and was completed by a crisp white Peter-Pan collar with matching detachable cuffs and an even stiffer pleated white mitre-style hat. Her dress was studded with thirty pairs of decorative pearl buttons from neck to waist. Unlike some of the girls, who wore kitten heels, Lisette chose comfort with flat, black lace-ups. These days she, like most of the girls, wore short socks, without the access to stockings. She was embarrassed when the management used her in one of its promotional photographs. Lisette couldn’t see the point of smiling while Britain was at war, yet the photographer insisted she look happy and welcoming as she balanced a tray with a pot, tea cup and saucer in one hand and her order notebook in the other. Management was delighted with the result and even gave her a bonus for her help.

Lisette liked to return home via the Admiralty Buildings, passing the army barracks as she strolled through St James’s Park, around Buckingham Palace and back into Eccleston Bridge Road, where her flat was situated. The position was perfect. She enjoyed the atmosphere around Victoria with its
constant movement of people and troops through the busy station, whose forecourt she often cut through. It was sad to see all the railings removed from the flowerbeds and around the parks, even the royal palace, but she knew the metal was needed to make bullets and shell casings.

And now parts of the great parks were being dug up to grow vegetables to feed Londoners. Kensington Gardens was growing impressive rows of cabbages, while Hyde Park had its own piggery! The distinctive
Dig for Victory
posters were everywhere and there was even an anthem on the wireless urging people to find new ways to cook with bland provisions.

People were responding with what Lisette was assured was the traditional British grit, turning their gardens into allotments. She was trying to grow some tomato plants in pots on her wide window ledges, but she wasn’t having much success. In fact, she’d forgotten to water them this morning so perhaps it was a good thing she’d had to come home early today. Nevertheless a fresh frown of irritation creased her face.

What was this about? Lisette’s boss, Miss Mappleton, had insisted it was all above board. She had waved the gentleman’s card in Lisette’s face and insisted she go straight home to meet him at the appointed time.

Flat number nine was up in the gods via an open stone staircase but she’d so loved its romantic views across the West End rooftops that she’d moved in the day she saw it. She’d shared with her friend, Harriet, whose father had found the flat for them; he worked for the railways and had access to British Rail accommodation. But since Harriet was now a casualty of Hitler’s bombing raids, Lisette lived by herself, and no one had come to claim the flat back for the railways.

Lisette’s inheritance had made her more than comfortable but she never spoke about it; she barely touched the money, in fact. She didn’t want to live in the empty house in Sussex that was her inheritance, nor did she want to live with her grandparents in Hampshire. And she had quickly tired of the pity she constantly received at losing her parents. Living in the capital, having to find work and coping alone would make her stronger. She was happy in her own company and was rather enjoying life now that she had some good shifts and a regular income. Plus there was that nice airman, Jack, who had asked her out twice. She hadn’t accepted yet but if he asked again, she planned to say yes.

Lisette had only been sharing the flat for nine months when war was declared. She soon found herself daubing the windows she adored with black paint and wondering whether her little home would topple in the Blitz. It hadn’t; she’d been here three years now, and it was the Docklands and East End that had so far borne the brunt of the Luftwaffe’s mass aerial bombings.

Day and night plucky Londoners had rallied their ‘Blitz spirit’ and defied the terror of those raids without respite. Nearly six thousand dead as a result after a fifty-seven-day period of relentless bombing. The Brits carried on, tightening their belts as food rationing intensified and still believing that a pot of tea solved a lot of sorrows, although most were indignant that the government had forbidden production of ice-cream. When Buckingham Palace was bombed Lisette sighed with relief that the West End now shared the heartache of the destruction. So, it seemed, did the stoic Queen Elizabeth, who remained in London as a show of strength and support to her people.

Now Lisette smiled faintly as she watched her visitor, who had introduced himself as Mr Collins, seated in the only armchair in the flat. She was perched on a small cherry leather ottoman she’d picked up on the King’s Road. Behind her guest the blacked-out windows looked like two dark eyes but she’d opened the charcoal curtain on the one other window that overlooked the backyard below, allowing daylight to seep into the room. She watched her visitor sip his tea from a heavily gilded Limoges cup with its handle vividly painted with garlands of roses. Perhaps by today’s conservative tastes it was rather garish but she loved the near translucent porcelain. Lisette knew she hadn’t quite mastered the art of tea-making to English standards yet; privately she didn’t understand the attraction. If he’d asked for a coffee, she might have been persuaded to dip into her meagre stocks and show him how a good cup of French boiled coffee would wipe away that grimace.

He put the porcelain cup back onto its saucer, its contents barely touched. ‘Miss Forestier—’

‘I prefer Forester, if you don’t mind. I’m trying to anglicise my life as best I can.’

‘Of course. Forgive me.’ The man cleared his throat politely. She decided he looked like a fat blackbird chick with his round shape and dun-brown garments.

‘However, it’s your “Frenchness” that has brought me here. I would very much like it if you would agree to meet a colleague of mine. I can’t tell you his name because … well, because it’s a secret.’ He gave a short tight smile. ‘Miss Forester, it has not escaped our notice that you speak several languages … and that you speak them flawlessly.’

She blushed. ‘How do you know this?’

He sighed. ‘We’ve had you under what you might call surveillance for several months.’

Lisette blinked in confusion. ‘Surveillance?’

He nodded and had the good grace to appear embarrassed.

‘What do you suspect me of?’ she asked, almost breathless with shock.

‘Oh, no, no … good grief, no, Miss Forester. Nothing like that! Quite the contrary, in fact. What I mean is we’ve been admiring your skill with language. You are superb.’

Now she didn’t know whether to be flattered or just plain relieved. She frowned more deeply. ‘Why are you watching me?’

‘It was by accident, really. You were serving a colleague of mine at Joe Lyons. She noticed that you moved to another table where some guests were speaking in French, and it was obvious to her that you understood what was being said.’

‘How is that possible?’

Her visitor took a breath. ‘She’s an observer of people, Miss Forester, and noticed that you smirked at something they’d said.

‘A few days later you served another colleague of mine, an English man. But on this occasion he spoke to you in French.’

‘I see.’

‘And he had brought another colleague with him whom he introduced as Swiss. You took it upon yourself to speak quietly in German to that man. I must confess to you, the Swiss visitor was English – a plant, you could say – but your German was spot on. What’s more, you were clearly comfortable in the vernacular.’

‘Mr Collins. It’s true that I speak several languages; I also have some French dialects to my credit. Language is my
specialty. It’s why I work at the French Canteen and at Lyons, although I refrain from using German, for obvious reasons. I remember that Swiss man. He was very polite. What is this all about?’

‘Miss Forester, we could very much use your services. The, er … the War Office needs as much information as it can gather. Someone with your linguistic skills is a rare prize we cannot ignore.’

It finally dawned on Lisette that the authorities were hoping she’d agree to learn wireless operation or something similar. She felt a thrill of excitement that she might finally be involved in Britain’s war effort. If she was going to risk her life in London, she might as well risk it for a good cause.

‘How do you feel about that?’ he asked, leaning forward.

‘Well, Mr Collins, as my granny says, we must all do our bit.’

‘Oh, indeed,’ he said, nodding. ‘May I set up an appointment for you to discuss this further?’

‘Yes … but I would need to speak with—’

‘Miss Mappleton? That’s all taken care of. Can we say four p.m., tomorrow, then?’

‘That quick?’

He nodded. ‘No time like the present, Miss Forester. Do you know the Hotel Victoria? It’s not too far.’

‘Northumberland Avenue, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Very good. Room 238. Could you be there a little earlier?’

‘Yes, if you wish, and providing my shift has been cleared.’

‘Please don’t fret on that account,’ Collins said, standing and giving Lisette a vague bow. ‘Thank you for the tea,’ he added and looked away quickly from his still full cup. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow.’

Lisette showed him to her door and then raced around,
bathing, changing, primping her hair and becoming quietly excited at the prospect of working with people who were actually helping to change the course of the war. Lisette hoped with all her heart that she’d one day take down a message from one of the spies who courageously sent back messages from France. Maybe that’s why they needed her? To translate messages from French men and women working in the field?

The following day at three, knowing it was far too early to leave but unable to sit still, Lisette walked slowly to Northumberland Avenue. She wore her cream blouse and new chocolate-brown cardigan that had cost her ten clothing-ration coupons. She’d left her face scrubbed clean but at the last minute decided to smudge a soft-pink lipstick lightly across her lips – a gift from her dad before he died. As she’d looked at her reflection she thought it was as though he was sending her a good-luck kiss.

She arrived at the hotel at three-forty. A woman was waiting in the lobby for her. ‘Miss Forester?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, admiring the woman’s thick, dark hair and chiselled features. She could have been French with those looks.

‘Early. That’s what we like. I’m Vera Atkins.’ They shook hands and Vera kept Lisette walking as she murmured to a woman behind the hotel desk.

‘This way,’ Vera said, leading her up two flights of stairs and through various corridors until she tapped lightly on a door. She ushered Lisette inside. ‘Have a seat. Captain Jepson will be here immediately.’

It didn’t look like a hotel room, but rather a sitting room. Another door opened and in walked a lean man in his early forties. He had an oval-shaped face and genial eyes. His long nose led down to a mouth that seemed to be suppressing amusement.

‘This is Captain Selwyn Jepson,’ Miss Atkins said.

Lisette shook Jepson’s hand. She was grateful that he didn’t crush her hand as so many uniformed men were apt to do. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Forestier,’ he said.

‘Forester,’ she corrected.

‘Ah, Collins did mention that. Thank you for seeing us,’ he said, and moved into rapid-fire French. ‘You live alone.’

She shifted into French as well. ‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not?’

He twitched a smile. ‘No friends?’

‘Plenty.’

‘Is that true?’

Lisette held his gaze, and realised she couldn’t stare him down. ‘I prefer to keep my friendship group small.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve been in Britain only since 1938; I haven’t had a chance to develop many relationships since … well, since getting here.’

‘No boyfriends?’ It sounded like an accusation.

‘No one special.’

‘Do you like living alone?’

‘Captain Jepson, is this relevant?’ She only now noticed that Vera Atkins had left the room.

‘May I call you Lisette?’

She nodded. She could hardly refuse.

‘Lisette, presumably Mr Collins mentioned that we are looking to recruit you.’

‘He did, but I don’t see how my living arrangements—’

‘We are at war, and we must know everything – we are handing over our trust to each other.’

‘I understand. Well, I have very few friends, I have no
boyfriend, and yes, I enjoy living alone because I can’t bear other people’s noise and mess.’