Escape by Moonlight (13 page)

‘A lot. God, it’s coming. The baby’s coming.’

He scrambled out of bed and dressed hurriedly, helped her to dress, bundled her in his car and drove to the Norfolk and Norwich hospital, frightened to death by her groans of agony, though she did her best to stifle them. She was put in a wheelchair and taken from him, leaving him to pace up and down the corridor all night. The nurses brought him cups of tea and advised him to sit down, but he couldn’t. He was wound up like a coiled spring; it was worse than going on ops. He had never expected that. Did all prospective fathers feel this gut-wrenching apprehension?

Amy came to him in the early hours. ‘I asked the midwifery section to let me know when Lucy came in,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect it to be tonight.’

‘Neither did I! Amy, does it always take this long?’

‘It’s hardly started. Why don’t you go and rest somewhere?’

‘I can’t. I keep thinking of all the things that could go wrong. If anything happens to Lucy, what will I do? It doesn’t bear thinking of and yet I can’t stop thinking of it.’

‘You’re really rather fond of her, aren’t you?’

‘She’s the mother of my child. Or will be. All being well. But what if it isn’t? What will I do? I don’t know anything about babies.’

‘You are being a pessimist. Of course nothing bad will happen. Lucy is young and healthy. Stop worrying.’

A midwife came to them at six o’clock. She was smiling. ‘Lieutenant Storey,’ she said, addressing Jack. ‘You have a fine son. Seven and a half pounds.’

He had been persuaded to sit in the waiting room, but jumped up as soon as he saw her approaching. He hardly registered the name she had given him. ‘And Lucy?’

‘Your wife is fine. You can come and see her now.’

He followed her in a daze and into the delivery ward. Lucy was sitting up in bed with the baby in a shawl in her arms. She was smiling and crying at the same time. She held out her free hand to him. ‘Jack, come and see him. He’s beautiful.’

He took her hand and sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the new life he and Lucy had created. There was a huge lump in his throat. He hadn’t expected to feel so moved. He reached out and touched the baby’s cheek with
the back of his finger. ‘What are we going to call him?’

‘Not Jack.’

‘No, better not Jack.’

‘Have you got a second name?’

‘Pierre Albert, after my uncle and grandfather.’

‘That’s French, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, English translation Peter Albert.’

‘I’m certainly not calling him Albert, that’s my fa— his name. But Peter is nice.’

‘Peter, it shall be.’

‘You’ve got to report back on duty, haven’t you?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘You had better go, then.’

‘I don’t want to, I want to get to know this little chap.’ He reached out and took the baby from her, holding him in his arms and gazing down at him, holding out a finger for the little one to clutch. He did not speak. He was overwhelmed. After a minute or two, he handed him back. ‘Look after him, sweetheart, and take care of yourself. I’ll come back as soon as I can.’ He stood up and turned towards the door just as Amy came in.

‘Can I see my nephew?’ She came forward and stood by the bed. ‘Off you go, brother dear. We’ll be fine.’

He left them and walked out to where he had left his car. He didn’t have enough petrol to take him back to Biggin Hill and so he drove it to a garage and asked them to lay it up somewhere for the duration, then he took a train to Liverpool Street.

He had plenty of time to think on the journey. His thoughts were a mass of contradictions. Where was the happy-go-lucky, somewhat indolent young man he had been at the start of the war? Where was his ambition
to marry someone with breeding who was prepared to overlook his lack of it and give him
entrée
into the world of the aristocrat in the same way that his mother had done? Where was that man? Was he still around? Could anyone resembling that man survive amid the mayhem of war? More to the point, did he want to? But it was hard to let go.

After reporting to Norwich, Max had been given fourteen days leave and had taken a train to Nayton to deliver news of Elizabeth and hand over her letter and snapshots. Lord and Lady de Lacey had quizzed him almost as hard as his army interrogators, but he knew they were anxious and he had done his best to reassure them. He had gone from there to finish his leave with his sister in Scotland, going for walks, amusing his nephew and niece and trying to pretend all was well, though the anger never left him. And then it was back to the war and waiting for something to happen. When it did, the nature of it took him by surprise.

He was told to present himself at the Inter-Services Research Bureau in Orchard Park, not far from Baker Street, where he was to report to Major Lewis Gielgud. ‘He’s heard about your escape from France and he’s keen to learn about it from your own lips,’ his commanding officer told him. Max had already been thoroughly debriefed at the War Office and he didn’t see what more he could tell.
Major Gielgud was the brother of the famous actor and he guessed they were going to use it in a propaganda film or something of the sort. He didn’t like that idea. He hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. In fact he still felt guilty for surviving when his men had not.

On arrival, a doorman took him by lift to a second-floor flat where he was ushered into a room and asked to wait. He looked about him. There was a desk and chair, a couple of armchairs and a cupboard. There was an ashtray on the desk. He sat down and lit a cigarette. He had smoked half of it when Major Gielgud entered the room; he stubbed it out and stood up.

‘At ease, Captain. Sit down again, there’s a good fellow.’

Max sat.

The major perched himself on the edge of the desk. ‘Do you know why we have asked you here?’

‘I was told you wanted to know about my escape from France.’

‘That’s right. You will forgive me if I ask seemingly foolish questions but I need to know every tiny detail.’

‘You doubt I did it?’

‘Good heavens, no! But it’s only through chaps like you, who’ve been through it, that we can learn what life is like over there and perhaps help others. So, let me have your account, especially the difficulties you encountered.’

Max went over it all again. Major Gielgud listened attentively, now and again interrupting with a question. One of the most difficult to answer was, ‘How did you find the mood of the French?’

‘I didn’t come into contact with many – Justine was anxious about my English accent – but to me they seemed resigned, almost apathetic, but she assured me there were
others with the spirit to resist. She said she would help anyone trying to escape and there were others who would do so too.’

‘That is heartening. And the people in the village? Dransville, you said?’

‘Yes. I only met the grandparents of my girlfriend. She is staying with them.’

‘She is French?’

‘No, English. The daughter of Lord de Lacey. Her mother is French.’

‘Didn’t she want to come home with you?’

‘No, she felt her grandparents needed her. Her grandfather has had a stroke and can’t manage their farm.’

‘Isn’t she afraid?’

Max laughed. ‘She doesn’t see the need to be afraid, since the village is in the
Zone Libre,
but she has taken the precaution of pretending to be French, the daughter of her uncle. She is completely bilingual, of course. Whether that will be enough to protect her, I have no idea.’

‘She sounds like a spirited young lady.’

‘Oh, she’s definitely that.’

‘And Mademoiselle Justine Clavier seems to me to be another spirited lady. Courageous too, don’t you think?’

‘Very.’ He paused. ‘What’s this all about, Major?’

Gielgud smiled. ‘You have no doubt gathered that I do not ask out of idle curiosity. Our work is very hush-hush, but I think you can help us in a practical way.’

‘Anything.’

‘How’s your French?’

‘Reasonably good, but my French friends laugh at my accent.’

‘We can work on that. Would you be prepared to go back?’

‘Go back?’ Max queried. ‘You mean back to France?’

‘Yes. There will inevitably be downed airmen, escaped POWs, Frenchmen needing to join the Free French, and we are trying to organise escape routes, safe houses, and recruit people like Mademoiselle Clavier who can be trusted to help, that sort of thing. And sabotage, of course.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you want time to consider?’

‘No.’ He didn’t need to think about it; he wanted revenge for what the Huns had done to his men. He had written a personal letter to their next of kin, emphasising the bravery and devotion to duty each had shown. It had been a harrowing task and left him feeling close to tears and very angry. ‘If it helps, I’ll do what I can.’

‘You will be required to sign the Official Secrets Act and you will not utter a word of what you are being trained to do to anyone, anyone at all, not even your nearest and dearest.’

‘My nearest and dearest is in France.’

‘Have you any way of communicating with her?’

‘No, none at all.’ Max brightened at the prospect of letting Lizzie know that he might be seeing her again sooner than they thought, but he was soon disabused of that idea.

‘Good. You will not on any account attempt it. I’m going to hand you over to someone else to complete the formalities and then you will be one of us and under our direction. You will return to your unit until you are sent for, probably in two or three weeks. Your commanding officer will be informed. No one else. Security is of the utmost importance.’

‘I understand. How will I be sent back and when?’

‘No idea. You’ve some intensive training to get through
before that happens and there will have to be reports on your suitability, both mental and physical, and only if you pass all the tests will you be sent out and then it might be by sea or air. Now I will introduce you to Miss Atkins. She will ask you some more questions and will fill you in on the next step.’

Miss Atkins was in a smart civilian suit so he had no idea what rank she held, if she had one at all, but she had seemed very contained, charming but contained. She managed, without in any way appearing to interrogate him, to find out all about him from the cradle to his service with the BEF and escape over the mountains of Haute Savoie. At the end of the interview, conducted in French throughout, he left with his head buzzing, knowing his life had taken a dramatic turn. He was going back to France, back to a country occupied by the enemy, to be an undercover agent, and for that he would be trained. Miss Atkins’ last words had been: ‘I should practise your French, Captain. The more fluent you are the better. If we can’t eradicate your accent, we can give you a cover story to account for it.’

Arriving at Liverpool Street station to wait for a train to take him back to Britannia Barracks, he sat on a bench and imagined himself in France, concocting conversations with himself in French. When the train came in, it brought Jack de Lacey with it.

‘Hallo, Max,’ he greeted him cheerfully. Jack was always cheerful. ‘I haven’t seen you since you got back. Mother told me all about it. It was a damned gutsy thing, getting yourself out of France under the noses of the Boche.’

‘I had help. Justine and Lizzie were the gutsy ones, not me.’ After the warnings about security he had just had he wasn’t disposed to talk about it. ‘How are you?’

‘Tickety-boo. I’m just going back from leave. What about you? Not been invalided out, I see.’

‘No. I’m fully fit.’

‘Have you heard anything of Lizzie since?’

‘No, have you?’

‘No. It’s a bugger, isn’t it, not knowing?’

‘Yes.’

‘At least, she’s saved the blitz,’ Jack said, ‘I shouldn’t think they’re being bombed in Haute Savoie.’

‘No, there is that. What are you doing these days?’

‘Flying Spitfires, trying to stop the bombers, but once they reach London …’ He shrugged. ‘We can’t go in after them for fear of our own guns and the barrage balloons but you can see the fires for miles and I keep thinking of all the poor devils on the ground having to put up with it night after night. I get so ruddy angry. I want to hit back.’

‘Me too.’

‘Are you due to go abroad again soon?’

‘Probably. Waiting for orders.’

‘Well, good luck to you.’

‘You too.’ They shook hands and parted.

Max boarded the train and found a corner seat, where he sat down to muse on his meeting with Jack. Aware of the strictures he was under for secrecy, he had been wary of answering Jack’s questions. It was symptomatic of what his life was going to be like in the future. Secrecy and lies, playing a part, pretending to be something he was not. It was bad enough in England, it would be a hundred times worse when he went to France. One false move, one cover story demolished through carelessness could cost him his life and that of everyone else involved. He had to learn to be a disseminator and think on his feet.

It went against the grain to lie. His parents had brought him up to be strictly honest in all his dealings. At school he had had the reputation of being a goody-goody, especially after his parents had died, one after the other, in the space of a year. His mother was already terminally ill when his father had been killed in France in the last days of the Great War, the war, so they said, to end all wars. He had only been ten at the time and doing his best to be brave. His mother’s death had been slow and painful. Her last words to him had been, ‘Be good, Max; work hard, always be truthful and honest and make me proud of you. And look after Sylvia for me.’

He had promised to do so and, always aware of that promise, had grown up a rather serious young man. He and his sister had lived with their Aunt Gladys in Edinburgh, who was very strict and not given to shows of emotion. He felt she had taken the orphans in out of duty, not love. When he won a scholarship to St Andrews he had left home and, after graduating, had looked about for a way of earning a living, as far away from Edinburgh as possible. His father had been in the Royal Norfolk Regiment and so to Norfolk he had gone and joined the regular army. It was a life he liked. He was fed and housed and could be his own man. For the first time in his life he had learnt to enjoy himself. One of his teachers had been Elizabeth de Lacey.

He had been staying on one of his leaves with James Davenport, a friend from college, at his home in Devon. The Davenports were a gregarious family and had a huge number of social contacts. James had been convinced he would instantly fall in love with his sister, Belinda, but his eye had lighted on Lizzie who was also staying with them, part of a noisy house party of young people. By the
time the party broke up, they had agreed to correspond and everything went on from there. He had been invited to stay at Nayton Manor with her family and found himself welcomed and made a fuss of by her delightful mother. Everyone was so open and affectionate, so different from his own childhood, and he had been warmed by it. Had he not already been in love with Lizzie, he would have fallen for her then. She was caring, loving and fun to be with. She made him laugh. If the war had not come they would have been arranging a wedding by now. Instead she was in France and he was in England, waiting to be called back to Baker Street. He was full of a mixture of trepidation and excitement.

He had no idea where he would be sent to in France and had been told he was not to contact Lizzie and that would be hard, but at least he would be nearer to her, and when the Allies turned this war around and invaded the Continent, he would be there, ready to whisk her away. It was, as far as he was concerned, the light at the end of the tunnel.

Jack was not due back at base until the following morning and decided to have a night on the town. In spite of the air raids, London was trying to carry on as normal. The cinemas, theatres, concert halls and nightclubs were all functioning. In fact they were busier and noisier than usual as people tried to forget the war for a few hours. He went to the cinema. The air-raid siren sounded just as the film was finishing and he joined the exodus leaving the building for the shelters.

‘Jack de Lacey, by all that’s wonderful!’

He swung round to face Belinda Davenport. She was
elegantly dressed as always, fur coat, felt hat with a sweeping feather, silk stockings and smart high-heeled shoes. ‘Belinda, how are you?’

‘The better for seeing you.’ She linked her arm in his. ‘My date stood me up and I had to sit through that awful film alone.’

‘Perhaps he couldn’t help it. In wartime these things happen.’

‘True, but it doesn’t matter, I’d just as soon have you for an escort. You aren’t in any hurry to go somewhere, are you?’

‘Only to the shelter.’

‘Oh, I can’t be bothered with that. It’s dreadful with everyone sitting about eating, drinking and knitting and trying to organise sing-songs to drown out the noise of the bombs. And they smell disgusting. I’d rather be out in the fresh air.’

‘We can’t stay on the streets, Belinda. I didn’t come through the Battle of Britain to be killed by a bomb.’

‘No, I suppose not. I’m staying at Daddy’s pied-à-terre. There’s a shelter in the basement for the residents. Let’s go there. It’s only round the corner.’ She took his hand and began to run as the drone of aeroplanes could be heard approaching. Everyone else was running. He went, willy-nilly.

They dived into the block of flats just as the first bombs began to fall. ‘Down here,’ she said, leading the way to the boiler room in the basement, where two or three people were already making themselves comfortable and were bringing out hip flasks of spirits and thermos flasks of tea. Jack and Belinda sat side by side on an old sofa which the caretaker had brought down along with some armchairs
and a coffee table or two. There were magazines scattered about and a few books. It was unlike any public shelter he had been in.

‘Well now, tell me what you’ve been up to?’ she said in a low voice so the others could not listen in, though they didn’t appear interested. ‘What are you flying?’

‘How do you know I’m a flyer? I might be ground crew.’