The Sea Garden (20 page)

“I'm sor—”

“It's quite possible to work out what was blotted. Do you think that we are simply playing at war here, Miss Nightingale?”

Mavis Acton raised her hand for silence as she began a tirade that rapidly increased in volume and fury: anything Iris saw or heard in the department was strictly confidential; she knew that she should speak of it to no one, should deflect any inquiries about her line of work; and yet what was the purpose of any of that if she was leaving matters of the highest national security out in full view for anyone to see?

Iris could think of nothing to say in her defence. She was sent to collect a file from the Firm's offices at Norgeby House, across the road. (“I suppose you can manage that?”) In the ladies' washroom on the half-landing there, Iris splashed cold water on her blotchy face and tried to calm herself. She was furious to find that she was still trembling.

“It's Iris, isn't it?”

A face bobbed up behind hers in the mirror. Auburn hair and wide eyes.

Iris nodded.

“Nancy. Nancy Bateman. I'd only been here a couple of days when you arrived.”

“In the big room . . . yes, I recognize you.”

“That's right. I was moved over here a few days later. How are you finding it?”

“Well, it's certainly an interesting ‘little job' . . .”

“You don't want to get on the wrong side of Miss Acton, though,” said Nancy Bateman, twisting and repinning her hair in two large combs.

Iris finished washing her hands, wondering how much it was possible to say. “Is it that obvious?”

“Let's say you're not the first to have to come in here to repair her face. What did you do?”

“I left out some blotting paper last night.” A few inky marks on which two lines of reverse writing were barely visible.

“Heinous crime.”

“I wasn't thinking. She was right. I was utterly boneheaded. But no one told me—no one says anything!” Iris looked up and met Nancy's eyes in the mirror. “No one talks to anyone else. It's all little bits of paper with typed messages and brown envelopes and never quite explaining what's going on.”

“Talking would be far too sensible. Though of course Miss Acton is right. She's always right. But it's not the end of the world. You do know that she's known to be hardest on those she thinks have most potential?”

“Is that true? Or are you simply saying it to make me feel better?”

“Both.”

There was a firmness in Nancy's tone that made them both laugh suddenly.

“Oh, well—thank you. You
have
made me feel better.”

“Everyone's frightened of Miss Acton, even the men, though most of them have developed a manner with her that they imagine covers it up.”

Nancy was right. Iris had seen the way men stood in the presence of that husky yet clipped voice. Madam, they called her, to her face.

“What are you doing for lunch?” asked Nancy.

They had tea and toast at the Lyon's Corner House. Nancy was twenty-one, from Lincolnshire, and had a fiancé in the RAF. She was a slip of a girl, with a determined look in those big eyes, a striking mixture of blue and green. She chatted easily about her training as a teleprinter and her previous posting to RAF Duxford near Cambridge, a Spitfire base and Fighter Command.

“When I told my mother I was off to Duxford, she kicked up a dreadful fuss. ‘Think of all those men!' she said, and did everything she could to persuade me not to go,” said Nancy.

“Sounds like she was right to worry.”

Nancy grinned. “She certainly was.”

It was a great relief to make a friend. With her old school chums, even the girls she had met on the course in Bedford, Iris felt uncomfortable lying about what she was doing. Some seemed to look down on her for not joining the Wrens to do her bit. One by one they had dropped away. You were only ever completely at ease with others in the same position, and even then you needed to be certain exactly which spot on the same side they occupied.

 

I
n the capacity of a secretary at Baker Street, Iris had typed reports and kept files on the men and women who were sent undercover to France, but had never met them. Two years later at Orchard Court, she came face to face with them all, from the admired veterans to the new recruits.

As she was tall and slim with dark blond hair falling in natural waves to her shoulders, the men would invariably flirt with her; men who were confident and, if not good-looking in too striking a way, then invariably charming, with a certain allure. Miss Acton always called them “our friends,” never anything else. The “girls,” too, were lovely. Iris once overheard someone else remarking on that undeniable fact, followed by Miss Acton's response: “Yes, because that gives them self-confidence.” Perhaps she hoped that their charms might prove protective, and in this, as in other matters, she was often proved right.

For some who returned to Orchard Court, having passed their training at various secret northern locations, it would be the last visit to London before being sent to France. Others would never make it past initial training and assessment at Wanborough Manor near Guildford; for them, the drink in the bathroom followed by a chat with some strangers who asked personal questions would be relegated to a memory of another odd episode during the war.

When the last of the potential new agents had gone, packed off with instructions to present themselves at Wanborough, Iris took out the small notebook she always kept in her pocket and studied the scribbles she had made. At a rickety table in the minuscule kitchen, she pulled the typewriter towards her, rolled up paper and carbon, and made sense of her shorthand. On separate papers for the files, she noted idiosyncrasies of speech and phrase, the cadence and tone of each recruit's words, in French and English. What she wrote now might never be needed, but in certain circumstances it could prove vital, and it was never too early to start. When the only means of communication with the agents on the ground was by coded wireless messages, there had to be safety checks in place to guarantee their authenticity.

Miss Acton put her head round the door. “Would you type up Thérèse's debrief before you go?”

“Just about to.”

“Any thoughts?”

She meant about that afternoon's four new faces. “The girl seemed a cool customer,” said Iris. “I rather liked her. First man in was very young—a bit twitchy.”

Miss Acton nodded, and left her to it.

Iris made brisk work of the first job and inserted a fresh sheet of paper. After five months in France, Thérèse had brought back a substantial amount of information: details of changes to identity documents and travel permits; current living conditions; the most frequently voiced complaints; snippets of news that provoked the most comment; alterations to train timetables. Noting changes was crucial. The French magazines and newspapers she brought back would be scoured for nonsense about the latest fashions as well as the papers French citizens were expected to carry, the hours of curfew, and how often ration cards were now being issued.

The first time Iris met Thérèse at Orchard Court she had put her age at about twenty. She had taken her wisp-slim figure, timid manner, and perennial concern for her parents to indicate a girl way out of her depth. She was a private seamstress from the East End by trade, which seemed the perfect gentle occupation for her. Wrong on almost every count, it transpired. Thérèse (real name Lucienne Jarvis) was almost thirty and adept at self-effacement, at stepping back and observing. A Belgian mother had passed on a perfect command of the French language, and the accent had been refined by a number of years at a Parisian couture house; her father's background as a merchant seaman from the Mile End Road provided a tough resourcefulness.

She was friendly and funny, though never overplaying either quality. Not far beneath the surface was a nervousness that was considered more good than bad: the nerves would keep her alert to danger. There was no doubting her courage and determination.

Iris was not sure she could have done what Thérèse and the others did. It was suggested at one time that her name be put forward for consideration, but nothing came of it. She would have gone, thought Iris, but she wouldn't have rated her chances of coming back. She had never regretted not being chosen. Miss Acton said she was of more use where she was; she shared with her boss a sharp memory and an instinctive grasp of detail. So London was where Iris stayed, her relief the secret she kept most securely of all.

2

The Making of an Agent

London, June 1943

T
he self-contained girl in the bathroom made the grade at Wanborough Manor. She was sent on to the Western Highlands to learn how to handle guns and explosives and commit acts of sabotage. There, she had confounded expectations, hitting more targets with her quiet accuracy than quite a few of the men. She had emerged unscathed, apart from a sprained ankle from parachute training. She arrived back at Orchard Court in the uniform of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, the usual cover, newly purchased from the Lillywhites department store at Piccadilly.

She was no longer Rita Williams; she had a code name now: Rose.

The physical exercise had trimmed a few pounds from her face and waist, and the hacked-about hair was greatly improved, cut short by the French hairdresser working from one of Thérèse's magazines. It was tinted a rich chestnut shade that complemented her shrewd brown eyes, and gave her an undeniably Parisian look.

“It suits you,” said Iris.
“Vraiment très chic.”

“Je vous remercie, Mademoiselle.”

Rose's accent was impeccable, with an easy roll of the
r
.

“You've lived in France, haven't you?” said Iris conversationally.

“Yes.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Paris. I spent time in Nice, too.”

She was a year older than Iris, and she had been a companion to a wealthy elderly woman. Not the kind of job Iris would have relished, but you never knew what circumstances dictated choice. The girl's quiet composure radiated patience. No doubt she had learned to be resourceful in attending to the whims of her employer. According to the file, Rita Williams had spent her childhood in Camberwell, South London. She had left school at sixteen and spent two years in France before the outbreak of war. Her widowed mother was killed when a bomb struck the house in Camberwell in the Blitz of 1940.

Rose sat with her hands resting on her handbag, a delicate cobweb of black crochet work.

“That's an awfully pretty little bag,” Iris persisted. “Did you make it yourself?”

“As a matter of fact I did.”

She didn't ask Iris how she'd guessed, though. She was friendly and polite in response to Iris's questions but did not chatter. Miss Acton rated her very highly. Self-containment and concise answers were always a plus with Miss Acton.

A click-clack of heels sounded on the polished floor of the corridor, and Rose was borne off in a waft of tobacco and steely purpose.

 

A
ll the preparations seemed easier than normal with Rose.

Before the agents were sent to France, a tailor skilled in the continental style made clothes for them: suits, jackets, skirts, appropriate to their cover story. The men's suits carried forged trade tapes, indicating in which town the clothes had been made to fit these fictions. Shirts, underwear, socks, shoes—all these too were carefully assembled. But Rose already had a substantial and authentic French wardrobe of her own, dresses she had made herself from French fabrics and patterns, though not nearly to Thérèse's standard. The odd stretched or puckered seam gave the impression, quite usefully, of stoic vulnerability. Other authentic items of clothes had been altered and refitted from her employer's castoffs. There would be no need to change her profession once she arrived. The backstory would be that her previous employer had only recently died; it was vague enough, and she would be kept well away from Nice to avoid any chance of being recognised. Easily confirmable facts were overlaid with fantasy, but it worked best to leave in an element of truth.

“What do you think of these specs?”

“I thought you didn't need glasses?” Iris had a jolt of panic. One of the very first criteria when the agents were recruited in London was 20/20 vision. In the rough and scramble of their work in the field, the last worry they needed was keeping their glasses safe.

“I don't—these are plain glass. But if I do this”—Rose squinted—“I can look really quite the shrinking violet, can't I? And . . . oops, just a bit clumsy.” She caught some papers on the desk with her elbow.

“Very convincing.”

It was true. The old wire spectacles gave her a disconcertingly timid and ineffectual look, yet seemed to relax her at the same time. It made all the difference to her to play a part. She was almost ready to go to France as a wireless operator for the Swagman circuit operating between Paris and Tours. The wireless set was hidden in a small leather suitcase. False identity papers had been prepared for her, and fake German-stamped passes of various kinds, food cards and bread coupons, a Carte de Vêtements et d'Articles Textiles, all of which had to be up-to-date.

For weeks now she had been rehearsing her story with Miss Acton as well as Iris, immersing herself in every aspect of her fictional background until it seemed real, coming out perfectly naturally if she were challenged, however tired she was, or if taken by surprise.

“How did you meet your ‘fiancé'?”

“In the Parc Zoologique in Lille, where I had my first job. I was out strolling by myself, and so was Hubert. He does sound suitably boring.” Rose pulled a deadpan face and then laughed, showing pretty teeth.

As the preparations went on, she was becoming less reserved, more confident about showing a bit of personality within the Firm. Iris was pleased about that. “The point is that it doesn't involve anyone else or any awkward details except for the layout of the park. Where is Hubert now?”

“He's working in a factory in Germany. He's a model citizen who answered the call. And if I absolutely have to give his name, it is authentic?”

“It will be there in the official files. When you get to France you will have to immerse yourself in being this character, this Rose Mielhan, originally from Paris, from the area that you know well, who worked for a time in Lille for an elderly widow who died. Her name is also in the official records, with a headstone in the cemetery there.”

“I know. I've done nothing else for the past week but memorize my dull life there with her and Hubert.”

The life expectancy of a wireless operator in a French city was put at six months. Iris was uncertain whether Colonel Tyndale or Miss Acton had passed on that information.

 

I
ris thanked God she could talk to Nancy. Not all the time, nor of every detail, but the pressure was eased by not having to pretend when they were finally off duty. By the end of 1942 Iris and Nancy had taken a small flat together. They were putting in longer and longer hours, and if the bombing had been bad, it could take hours for the bus to cross the river and grind into town from Battersea, and Nancy's tram to come up from New Cross, where she had dismal digs. It was just too far every day, and Iris's Aunt Etty (whom in truth, she hardly knew) had not bargained on Iris staying for longer than it took to get herself set up with a job.

Nancy and Iris sublet an attic flat off Tavistock Square from a friend of a friend. The two bedrooms were tiny, but they could walk to work. With Nancy's fiancé Phil serving abroad with his squadron, it seemed the ideal solution.

They rarely brought other friends back, not through a lack of them but because they each understood implicitly that this was their sanctuary from watching what they said outside the Firm, from speaking about cyanide pills sewn into shirt hems, and explosives, and keeping up morale. Sometimes they spent the whole weekend in companionable silence. Nancy wrote long letters to Phil, while Iris composed bland little missives to her mother in Salisbury, saddened by the realization that they had no secret language forged in closeness.

Other times, they went out to clubs and pubs with the crowd. There were always invitations on offer to the Café Royale, to the Dorchester bar, and to the shows. As the agents passed through Orchard Court and Iris got to know them, flirting a little with the men and befriending the women (though always alert to their behavioral quirks and speech patterns), some of them would be asked along. As often as not, it was a means of eating, as one of the many wealthy men who had taken what was known as “special employment” in the secret services would settle the bill before anyone had a chance to offer to pay a share.

When they were left to their own devices, meals seemed to consist of tea and toast. They were almost always too tired to cook after work, and usually too late for the shops. Once they tried to cook a pigeon on the kitchen fire. It was not an experiment they repeated.

Iris had no shortage of admirers. There was John from the War Office, older and wiser than the others, and a full deck of servicemen: Alan, who was in the navy; Peter from the Royal Engineers; RAF pilots Jack and Rory, when they were in town. None of them was special.

“Your trouble is, you've too many to choose from,” Nancy said.

“So how did you know Phil was the one?”

“I just did.”

“No help at all! But listen, I won't be back tonight.”

Nancy raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing like that. Full moon—I'm going down to Sussex.”