The Postcard (24 page)

Where am I? What is happening?
Callie staggered along, her sleepy eyes trying to focus on the rough handling. This was some nightmare. Men in Gestapo uniform with those armbands were
dragging her off her feet, pushing her down steps and, when she slipped on the cold stone, kicking her up, pushing her through a prison door in the darkness. All she could see was a blinding light
in her face and shadowy figures standing behind watching, too many to escape. ‘Up there on the chair . . . Who are you?’

‘Charlotte Blanken, sir,’ she found herself whispering.

‘Speak up. These papers are false. You are a British spy.’

‘No, sir, I am a nursemaid. My papers are correct. What is this about?’ She felt a slap across her cheek and her eyes watered.

‘We ask the questions. We know who you are. British whore. Here to make trouble for our men. Strip her . . .’

They tore off the top of her pyjamas and her vest, leaving her breasts exposed, humiliating her in front of the staring faces. What on earth was going on? Had she landed in Belgium? Her memory
blanked for a second. Had she landed badly concussed? How had she got here? Was this real?

‘I assure you, I am Charlotte Blanken. I was going to the staffing agency in Brussels. They have work for me in an orphanage, in the kindergarten—’

‘Enough of these lies. Do you think we believe your story? You are a courier sent to find enemies across the borders into France. Who sent you? Give us the name of your contacts. Stand up.
Look, she’s had a baby; her nipples are dark. She lies. This is no mademoiselle.’ Someone tore at her pyjamas. ‘See, stretch marks on her stomach. You lie, you whore. The British
send us their whores to seduce our men.’

‘I had a baby but he died. I am disgraced from my family. My mother is dead. My father made me leave.’ Why was she saying all this, trying to get their sympathy, trying to cover for
her obvious misnomer? They made her stand for hours until she was hoarse with protesting her innocence.

‘You tell us lies to save your skin. There are better ways to stop these questions. Tell us what we already know. You are a British agent. You flew in from RAF Tempsford and before that
you took your instructions from the Palace House at Beaulieu Abbey. We know everything . . .’

‘I don’t understand. This is nonsense. I am a Belgian citizen. My mother was French my father is Flemish. How can you say I am English?’

They pulled her down into a chair and tied her arms behind her back.

‘Tell us the truth and we’ll spare you the
baignoire.’
Her accuser pointed to a bath full of dirty water and covered in bloodstains. She didn’t want to look at
it but she did, and then shot them a look of pure contempt. It took every ounce of strength not to break into English.
Stick to your story, refuse to be cowed.
Who had betrayed her and
taken her prisoner? She couldn’t remember and their shouting befuddled her. It must be some dream she had to break through.

The questioning went on, her ears stinging from blows, her hands aching with the twisting of the rope. She couldn’t contain her bladder and wet herself. They laughed but she clung to her
story. ‘I am Charlotte Blanken. I am a nurse and I sing “
Slaap, kindje ,slaap” .
. .’ She found herself singing. ‘I am not listening to you. I want to go
home,’ she wept. ‘You have no right to keep me here.’

Suddenly the flashlight went out as someone pulled back a screen and daylight flooded in. She saw the soldiers removing their caps and smiling at each other, familiar faces she’d seen from
training. A blanket was thrown over her but she couldn’t stop shivering. ‘You bastards!’ she yelled as she was escorted out into the corridor. Someone shoved a drink into her hand
but she was too weak to hold it and it crashed on the stone floor. This was the test all agents must pass before they were allowed any further. It was too real for comfort, too embarrassing. How
had she stood up to it? Too weary now to care, she was told to go and sleep it off and return for debriefing later.

What if it had been true? There’d be no bed rest, just a foul prison cell and more of the same day after day until her spirit was broken. Callie sank on her pillow, trying to blot out the
fear, the pain and the humiliation. No one warned her how bad this would feel. How could she survive it for real?

The last weeks in Beaulieu Abbey on the Hampshire coast were intense, living in little cottages within the beautiful grounds, sharing with her fellow agents, none of whom used their real names
or gave any indication where they were heading. Here they were drilled in how to recognize enemy army uniforms and rank, to distinguish between Abwehr and Gestapo ranks and uniforms. All contacts
must be with intermediaries with signals and passwords, and there were danger signs to learn to read on windows and doors. Callie’s role as a courier was made plain to her: to decode messages
and send them to the WT operator; to spot a good landing field. She had to learn how to move safely at night, avoiding the curfew. After months of hard training she knew the real war raged outside
these walls but theirs was a special sort of campaign.

The victory at El Alamein was a signpost to future successes. She was relieved that Cairo was safe. How faraway that life seemed now. She wondered if Monica and Ken were still living there.
These thoughts brought back memories of those afternoon siestas with Ferrand, before the world went crazy. If only she had gone to him when he asked they could be sharing danger together.

Only the knowledge that Desmond would be busy with his little friends and Jessie consoled her. Soldiers across the world would also be sacrificing their babies’ childhoods, too, but her
separation from her little boy hurt just the same. Phoebe would think her selfish to be putting her needs before his. If only she could whisper to her what she was doing, but the trainees were
sworn to tell no one and her oath was sacred. Only when permission was granted to share this secret would she ever tell anyone the truth. They might guess but she would never break the burden of
her silence.

The debriefing was thorough but she’d not done too badly. Just one or two glaring hesitations, and she must think only in French. The Flemish lullaby and the weeping, breaking into a
simpering whine had been convincing, as if her mind could not take in their accusations.

‘The answer to the stretch marks was good. Showed you could think on your feet. Your cover has to be flexible and heartfelt. Impressive, but don’t expect any sympathy from your
interrogators. You saw the bath and what we threaten. To survive the water torture you have to stay calm. They won’t drown you if you’ve told them nothing.’

Callie was glad of the tranquillity of the Abbey gardens to recover from her ordeal. It reminded her of Dalradnor and the rose garden, a quiet oasis of calm in a troubled world. If she passed
she’d be sent to a waiting place to finalize all the necessary arrangements and await the call. If she didn’t pass she’d be sent somewhere out of the way to sit out the war where
she could tell no one of her failure. This test was only a rehearsal but perhaps the experience might help save her life if she was unlucky.

The scent of the roses and herbs mixed together brought back memories of those first months nursing Desmond and singing to him. Would she ever see her son again? How would they explain her
absence to him? She prayed that what she was doing was for the best; to help hasten the end of the war so that all children could live in peace.

‘Would you mind if I took my day off tomorrow?’ Jessie asked Phoebe one morning after breakfast. ‘Only my young man has a pass and I’d like to bring him
home to meet my family,’ she smiled.

Jessie had met a young airman at a dance in Stirling and his name was always on her lips. Bob Kane was Australian, by all accounts, but of Scottish parentage, and he was making a big impression
on the farmer’s daughter. As it happened, Phoebe had no engagements that week and Madame and Mima were always on hand to take over. It was a pity Caroline hadn’t made the effort to get
to her son’s birthday party, but she’d ordered a second-hand tricycle painted in bright red with a little bell on the handlebars, which was his pride and joy. He careered round the
paths full of excitement and it was time they started thinking about his education.

It really was annoying, her being so unreliable. She’d written to say her unit was going abroad but she’d let them know where as soon as she could. They’d gone down to London
for a week, staying in a hotel. Caroline had taken Desmond to the park and used her coupons to kit him out in new clothes. They’d watched a musical together with Primrose, and she’d
given Phoebe a parcel of presents to wrap, should she not be back for Christmas. Primrose was looking shifty but said nothing, so when Phoebe got her alone she pounced.

‘What’s going on? Where’s she off to now?’

‘I don’t know and I won’t ask. That’s not how it works. Careless talk and all that . . .’

‘I do think she’s being so thoughtless,’ Phoebe added.

‘Oh, don’t say that. I think she’s very brave. She doesn’t want to leave you all but she has to do her duty.’ Primrose looked so shocked at this criticism that it
suddenly dawned on Phoebe that Caroline might be doing dangerous work, and she felt a stab of fear.

‘Please tell me what she’s up to.’

‘I can’t. I don’t know, and if I did I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you. All I do know is there are ways to win this war other than a line of tanks in the
desert.’

‘All this cloak-and-dagger stuff Phoebe sighed. ‘I hope she knows what she’s getting herself into.’

‘I’m sure she’s only too well aware . . . I’ll certainly miss her company.’

‘But she has a son – who’ll look after him if the ship goes down?’ Phoebe asked, thinking of how dangerous the waters around Britain were.

‘She’ll take every care to come back to him.’ Primrose did not sound too convincing.

Phoebe tossed and turned in her hotel bed, trying to work out what Caroline was doing that was so hush-hush. It could be something to do with speaking French so well, perhaps. Would she be left
holding the baby for the duration? Thank goodness Jessie Dixon was still in post, but for how long? Unmarried girls were needed for the war effort.

Now, in the fourth year of war, the weariness was hitting everyone one way or another: shortages, homelessness, rationing, same old rules and restrictions, no seaside trips, no unnecessary
travel, no new clothes or provisions. She was sick of it all and the lack of real news. She had the worry of Caroline at the back of her mind as well. Every few months, postcards dropped on the
doormat that said nothing much, and Desmond hardly bothered to look at them. Mummy was just a photograph in a silver frame, which they kissed every night.

Phoebe had to smile, knowing he was more worried about getting a fresh egg for his breakfast or some sweeties from the stores in the village, or whether Jacques was still his friend. It was this
overwhelming sense of responsibility for a precious grandchild that worried her. She was not getting any younger and he could be a handful at times. She hoped Jessie wouldn’t leave them to
join up. Then what would she do . . . send him to boarding school? Always at the back of her mind was Caroline. Where was she? What was she doing that was so important it couldn’t be
shared?

The call came at the beginning of March, when a black car with rear windows curtained off from view arrived at the secret house near Huntingdon where Callie was resting up. It
was dusk when she was driven to an airbase somewhere off the Great North Road. She peered out, trying to catch a glimpse of the countryside in the fading light. A long drive led to a mansion where
she met Mrs Cameron, the Belgian Section Liaison officer who had mentored and shadowed her throughout her training. Mrs Cameron was a quiet intense woman with piercing dark eyes and she missed
nothing of Callie’s mission outfit as she stepped out of the car. This specially concocted going-away suit was entirely accurate for an out-of-work nursemaid going about her business on the
streets of Brussels. It had a worn baggy skirt – useful for a quick getaway on a bicycle.

‘The shoes are wrong,’ Mrs Cameron said, pointing to them. ‘Who will have leather shoes there by now? We’ll have to find something more synthetic or sole them with tyre
rubber.’

Callie was made to turn out her pockets in case anything had been overlooked: a bus ticket, an English cigarette stub, matches or lipstick. She had done this many times since she’d be made
to wear these clothes and get a feel for them. Only then was she given a shabby handbag containing her identity card, ration book, a travel permit and a few cheap cosmetics, a crushed photo of an
old couple. Her brief was to make her way from the DZ – the drop zone – take a train to Brussels and wait around a café off the Grand Place until someone would approach her. She
was warned to be careful. There was some uncertainty about how safe some of the resistance groups were now. Her role was to find safe printing houses and distribute leaflets and propaganda around
the streets. She had a bulging wallet of passes and a wad of Belgian francs to pass over.

Later, she was transported to the hangar of the aerodrome where overalls were put on top of her clothes and she was strapped into her jumpsuit and helmet and all the paraphernalia she knew well
by now. Mrs Cameron waited with her as she smoked her last cigarette on English soil, shook her hand and wished her luck, but not before she offered her pills: knockouts to thwart anyone
suspicious, some concoction to keep her awake, and a cynanide lethal pill. This last one she refused, knowing now there would be no way out from torture, but she would not consider the possibility
of death. She had too much to live for. It was the moment when the enormity of what she was about to do thumped into her chest. She walked across the tarmac trying not to shake and wondering if she
would ever return.

There was the routine to follow, the checking of her harness, the hooking- up. As the engines throbbed and taxied away, she couldn’t believe she’d let herself in for this mission.
She just hoped she’d have a decent jump and that the reception party had got the right message over the air waves. She really didn’t want to have to hide her parachute and make her way
alone in a part of Belgium she barely knew.