The Lavender Keeper (13 page)

Lisette smiled and kissed her cheek. ‘But I have you to spoil me.’

‘We’re in Farnborough now, in case neither of you has noticed,’ Grandad grumbled from the small kitchen table where he sat dunking a digestive biscuit into his tea. He’d married his sweetheart when they were both twenty, and
she had been working in England as a French governess for a wealthy family. Granny had embraced the English way of life quickly. Now she was, at times, more British than her husband, Lisette often thought; she’d even grown to love tea.

‘In English, please,’ he admonished.

They were in the kitchen of her grandparents’ small but picturesque cottage in Hampshire, and she felt the memories beginning to crowd in. It was in this room, leaning just as she was now against the sink, that the news of her parents’ accident had been delivered. She’d been spending the weekend with Granny and Grandad and they’d all got up very early for a picnic at nearby Frencham Pond. They were sipping their hot beverages at the crack of dawn while her grandfather was telling one of the many amusing stories of his childhood. His humour was dry, and a lot of the time her grandmother missed the fun of the tale.

As a couple they nagged and harried each other constantly, but they were useless without each other. If her granny was absent for more than ten minutes, Grandad would go hunting for her, while her granny never made any decision without running it by him. They’d been married before either turned twenty-one. They were such opposites, from the way they dressed – Granny was still extremely stylish – to their taste in music and food. Her grandfather was still trying to teach his wife the rules of cricket and how to say sorry even if someone else trod on one’s toe. They had been happily bickering for nearly sixty love-filled years.

Lying in her tiny attic bedroom Lisette would hear them talking quietly, often late into the night, and she would revel in the deep rumble of her grandfather’s laughter and the sweet giggles of her granny. She was convinced their sparring was all
for show, and wondered whether she’d ever find someone she could spend a lifetime with.

But there was no laughter the morning when the police arrived at the cottage. At nearly eighteen, Lisette had been old enough to hear the news rather than be shielded from it, as was her granny’s natural instinct.

Her grandfather had answered the door, still in his pyjamas and dressing-gown, and invited the inspector and his uniformed offsider into the house, leading them through to the kitchen. Before the inspector had even opened his mouth, Lisette and her grandmother had reached for each other. Only bad news came at this time of the morning, when people were still rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

And it was the worst sort of news.

Even now, years on, looking at her grandmother smiling as she prepared their lunch, she could recall Granny’s wail of disbelief at their tidings and the stream of despair in French. Lisette could even conjure the feeling of how her grandparents had put their arms around her, and the three of them had stood, locked in a forlorn embrace of disbelief, as the policemen had cleared their throats and haltingly explained the news of her parents’ car crash.

Details were still incomplete, as it had only been hours since the accident, but none of them had wanted to know more. The questions and soul-searching, the anger and despair … that all came later. Granny and Grandad had never quite been the same. Their only child was gone, Sylvie’s precious existence winked out just as they were to be reunited as a family. Granny dipped into a melancholy that was close to madness for a few months; meanwhile her grandfather had used routine to keep his emotions anchored. He’d gardened and cooked, tidied and stepped out for a few provisions each
day, avoiding others as best he could, and he had done his best to move on for his ‘two girls’, as he called them. Lisette had taken a month’s compassionate leave from school and during this time her grandfather’s hair had turned silver-white.

They’d all helped each other through those daunting weeks of black sorrow, and while Lisette realised none of them would ever be the same, they were now eight years on and a measure of jollity and acceptance had crept back into their lives. Now they could talk – even laugh – about her parents without tearing up.

And so it was with the deepest of regret that Lisette was now in the midst of bringing fresh pain to her grandparents.

‘Why can’t you tell us?’ her grandfather demanded, sounding anguished.

‘I’m working for the War Office. They’re all crazy about secrecy. I’ve signed papers. They could toss me into prison if I break my agreement.’

He gave a fresh growl of disgust accompanied by a sneer. ‘They think we might tell the Nazis, I suppose.’

She sighed. ‘No, Grandad. No one speaks about their work. It’s a general precaution that all undertake. It’s not personal.’

‘And you’re going away, you say?’ Granny said, her French accent more pronounced when she was upset.

‘Scotland’s not that far,’ Lisette said, fashioning her lie.

‘Why Scotland?’ her grandad asked, draining his mug of tea.

‘There’s a lot of work that goes on in far-flung parts of Britain that most of us don’t know about. Including me. I don’t know what my role is to be yet, but they trained me in all sorts of activities. I think I’ll be doing some wireless operation. I was good at that,’ she said.

‘John,’ Granny admonished, although it sounded more
like the French name Jean. ‘Be happy she’s out of London and away from the bombings.’ She reached up and touched Lisette’s cheek. ‘I’m glad you’re going away, my darling, and that you will be safe.’

Lisette smiled weakly. The coffee soured at the back of her throat. If only they knew the truth.

‘I suppose that is a mercy,’ he replied. ‘Well, you can bring me back a lovely old malt Scotch when you get leave.’

Lisette nodded, hating herself. ‘Of course. Write down the name and I’ll hunt it out for you.’

Granny took her empty cup from her. ‘Come, darling. I’ve found some of your mother’s clothes and want you to help me go through them.’

Lisette frowned.

‘Don’t pull that face. You’ll get wrinkles. Come on, your grandfather got an old trunk down from the loft. It’s full of teenage diaries and old photos, some of Sylvie’s dolls and childhood things. You’ll enjoy them. I’d forgotten we had it all.’

Lisette glanced at her watch. ‘I’m leaving on the 4.09.’

‘Plenty of time,’ Granny said.

The precious hours flew by and suddenly Lisette was back on the platform of Farnborough station, Grandad pushing a bar of chocolate into her hands. He also handed her an envelope. ‘That’s for the Scotch,’ he said, with a soft shrug. ‘If you can find it, of course.’

She took the envelope, hoping he didn’t see her shame.

‘Many stops to Waterloo on this one?’ he asked.

Lisette knew he was making conversation, deliberately trying to distract them from the farewell. ‘No, I think it’s just Woking and Clapham Junction. I should be back in London at quarter-past five or thereabouts.’

‘And do you leave for Scotland immediately?’ Granny asked.

‘Tomorrow,’ Lisette replied, the thoughts of her night parachute-drop into France at the forefront of her mind.

‘Can you not tell us where in Scotland?’ her grandfather pressed. ‘What if we need to reach you?’

‘I can’t. I’ll have someone call you so you know where to ring and they can contact me if you do need me,’ she said. She could hear the train coming now, would see the steam soon. Lisette kept talking. She had to fill these last few moments to prevent her tears – but especially to prevent theirs. ‘I think I’ll have to go through some more training. I’m really such an amateur.’

‘It’s good to be useful,’ Grandad said, and there was longing in his voice.

‘We must all do our bit,’ Granny echoed. ‘We’re proud of you, darling. And when this is over, come and have a proper holiday with us. We can have that picnic at Frencham Pond we never got to enjoy.’

Lisette wished her granny hadn’t mentioned it, and if the train hadn’t suddenly whistled, its wheels screeching as it drew level, she was sure they’d have all been a bit of a mess.

‘Here’s the train,’ she said, far too brightly.

‘Farewell, my beautiful girl,’ Granny said, reaching for her. It took every ounce of Lisette’s willpower not to cry. She hugged her grandmother a little longer and just a bit harder than she meant to, but it was her grandad who noticed it.

‘You can give me one of those big hugs too,’ he said, and his look told her he knew that she was keeping something from them. ‘Come here,’ he added, and wrapped long arms around her. She smelt coal tar soap as he pulled her close. ‘Now you keep yourself safe, do you hear?’ His voice shook slightly. ‘Come home to us soon.’

She couldn’t reply for the lump in her throat. And he seemed to understand that they would keep whatever secret was passing between them. She squeezed his hand silently and hard, sure her knuckles turned white.

‘Look after each other,’ she urged, busying herself in her bag for her ticket, even though she knew it was in her pocket. The train wheezed to a stop and her grandfather opened one of the big doors.

She all but leapt inside. She’d been lucky enough to be given a first-class ticket by SOE, and relished the thought of a quiet, private space. She took the opportunity to wipe her eyes surreptitiously, take a deep breath, fling her coat down at a window seat and return to hang out of the window facing the platform, feeling more in control of her emotions.

‘I love you,’ she called to her grandparents as doors began to slam up and down the platform and a whistle drowned out their responses.

The train jerked and its wheels squealed. She leant out further and they both grasped her hand. She felt her insides twist as the train lurched forward and wrenched her hand from theirs.

‘
Au revoir!
’ her Granny called.

‘
Au revoir,
’ she said, blowing them both kisses and wondering whether she would ever see them again.

Later, when she opened her grandfather’s note, it said nothing about whisky, and contained no money. Instead he had written that he would come to France and find her himself if she didn’t stay safe. And she believed it.

After dropping by her London flat, Lisette returned to training with a small suitcase of clothes still in their French wrapping. She had never worn the clothes – they had been sent by her mother just a few days before her parents’ accident. The clothing was stylish, tailored and had original labels, including a pair of low heels by Charles Jourdain. Her trainers were delighted. Meticulous care was taken with the clothing agents were provided with. Styling was replicated precisely, down to buttons being sewn on in ‘the French way’. No one would be wearing new styles, and the trainers were pleased her clothes would look more authentic because the style was dated. She had to scuff the shoes and wash the blouses to let their colour fade.

With her training complete, Lisette met with Jepson at Whitehall. It felt exciting to finally be in the War Office.

‘You’ve lost weight,’ he remarked.

‘I haven’t, actually, sir. I’ve just gained muscle.’

He smiled. ‘Feeling positive?’

‘I’m ready, sir. I’ve taken the name of Angeline for the field.’

‘Yes. It suits you. As does your codename.’

‘Lark?’ Her mouth twitched into a smile. ‘They told our group to choose bird names. It has resonance. Lark hunting was banned in Germany and the Leipzig bakers, once known for their lark dishes, invented one of my favourite pastries as a result. I also thought Great Tit would be inappropriate, sir.’

The normally reserved Jepson laughed out loud.

‘I’m pleased to say that my cover story is going to closely follow my own.’

‘Your background is too authentic to ignore. It could keep you safer than most.’

‘We’ve just had to manufacture some details about my schooling in Lille, some early work, and I’m near enough watertight.’

‘Have they said anything about your mission?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘Where have they got you?’

‘A flat in Knightsbridge. Very posh. I’m sharing it with another agent. We’re both awaiting orders, sir. For now we’ve been told to relax.’

‘Not too relaxed. You’re about to join a tough network, with lots of hardened French guerilla fighters.’

‘Absolutely, sir.’ Lisette could sound very English when she wanted to.

‘Right, well. I know you’re going to make all of us proud, Lisette.’

‘Thank you, sir. I hope to.’

‘Come and visit when next you’re back.’

They both knew that the chances of her returning were slim.

They shook hands and then she was gone, out into the watery sunlight of Baker Street to await her instructions.

They were not long coming.

While other girls waited weeks, sometimes months, for their call up, Lisette received a telephone call that evening. She was to report to the new Wimpole Street headquarters with a view to leaving the following night.

It took her breath away to be called up so soon, with barely a chance to enjoy her new address, but once the initial surprise was past she was glad of it. There was nothing to pack. The clothes, even the wristwatch she wore, would be left behind at Wimpole Street. Everything else would be ready and waiting for her in a small French holdall, in a large ground-floor room at the same address. The room held dozens of pigeonholes, each for a different agent, large enough to carry the specially assembled items that each had prepared in readiness for this moment of departure.

Lisette arrived at Wimpole Street and found her pigeonhole – the number chalked above it keeping her appropriately anonymous – and collected her leaving outfit. She could feel the butterflies in her belly but she was already a different woman to the one who had first met Jepson. She had become Lisette Forestier again, field name Angeline, codename Lark, and the fluttery feeling inside was pure excitement.

Eight weeks was not very long to be trained as a special agent, but Lisette knew she’d become physically tougher and could now cope with genuine pain. She was also mentally stronger, having withstood the psychological tests that trainers had put her though. She could keep her wits when thrown into strange and fearful situations; she could force herself to
remain steady and think clearly when everything around was designed to confuse; she could depend on herself to remain calm when others were shouting just an inch from her face. When threatened, she betrayed no fear in her voice or her demeanour.

And so it was something of a relief when Lisette finally took off in the Halifax, bemused when the pilot asked her to empty her pockets before she pulled on her parachute.

‘Why?’ she asked, turning them inside out.

‘Orders, miss. We have to make sure you don’t accidentally take anything incriminating from home. Even a sweet wrapper could jeopardise your cover. And what are they thinking, sending a gorgeous wee thing like you into danger?’

She grinned. ‘Careful, lieutenant. I’m trained to kill with my hands.’

‘Aye, I can believe it,’ he said.

If only you knew, she thought to herself.

‘Looks like you’re good to go. Been to France before?’

‘Born there. Haven’t seen it for a while, though.’

He looked impressed. ‘We normally don’t drop this far south but apparently you’re special.’ He winked. ‘Buckle in, then.’

The time seemed to pass in a blink, and suddenly Lisette was freefalling through the sky over the country of her birth. It was exhilarating but dangerous, lit up by the moon. Lisette counted and then on cue pulled the ripcord. The chute opened, she heard the whoosh of the silk streaming out above her, felt the welcome and familiar drag that hauled her ruthlessly back against the harsh pull of gravity, and then came the floating sensation. It didn’t last long; within a few heartbeats she was rolling on the ground, putting into practise all those drills for a safe landing.

The smell of the field and its surrounding orchards on this cool November night transported her instantly back to Lille, at three years old. It wasn’t the same France she’d left, but she could almost have fooled herself it was.

‘All right?’ someone whispered in French, pulling her to her feet.

The line she’d been rehearsing on the flight – from a poem by Baudelaire – came to her in her native tongue: ‘A breath of wind,’ she said.

‘From the wings of madness,’ the man replied, glancing up at the sound of the plane roaring away.

‘I’m Angeline,’ she said, quickly beginning to gather her chute.

‘Welcome to Provence.’

She smiled in the dark. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Frelon,’ he replied.
Hornet
. ‘Forgive the codename. Faucille prefers it that way.’

Faucille.
Sickle
. She’d heard him talked about at HQ – he would be her
passeur
from south to north. But first her mission was to link up with the Jockey circuit’s leader, codename Roger, with an enviable reputation in southern France. Beyond that she would connect with Physician, the biggest clandestine network in all of France, based around Paris, with a contact named Prosper. All these codenames would have baffled her a few months ago. Now she took them for granted.

‘I’m to meet Roger.’

‘Yes. At the next village.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Very well,’ Frelon said, helping her to unhook her parachute.

‘And Faucille?’ she asked, clambering out of the jumpsuit
and kicking off the rubber boots. It must look odd to suddenly be dressed in a wool coat and leather pumps, having just plummeted from the sky.

He pulled her deeper into the shadows of an orchard. ‘Yes, you will meet him too.’

She looked up, could only just hear the haunting drone of the Halifax from 161 squadron that was already on its way back to Tempsford Airfield; her last connection with England.

‘We must hurry,
mademoiselle
,’ her companion urged.

She hadn’t realised she’d stopped moving. Lisette told herself she was French again now; she had to think in French, be French in all her mannerisms. She knew how. She would not let herself down.

‘
Allez, monsieur.
I’m right behind you.’

They found a good spot to bury the parachute and boots. Frelon made short work of it. Satisfied that there was no evidence of her arrival, she walked with him for what must have been fifteen minutes uphill until she realised they were on the fringe of a village.

‘This is Saignon,’ he said softly. ‘Tonight you will have a few hours to sleep in the house of Madame Pascal. Her husband was killed by the Germans two years ago. She sympathises with the Maquis and helps us in any way she can.’

She nodded. ‘And you?’

‘I’ll be fine. I’ll collect you before dawn.’

Lisette looked up. The moon had re-emerged and she could hear voices from the village square.

‘We’ll go around the square,’ Frelon said. ‘Tonight it is one of the oldest villagers’ birthdays. Everyone is involved in the celebrations.’ He checked his watch.

‘What are we waiting for?’

‘They will begin the singing at exactly nine-thirty. Another minute maybe.’

Almost immediately a rousing chorus struck up.

‘Now,’ Frelon urged and grabbed her hand.

‘How do you know we’re safe?’

‘No one in the village would dare not attend Madame Bernard’s celebration. Madame Pascal has claimed a headache.’

At the opening of a small lane she glimpsed the village folk before Frelon was opening a side gate and pushing her through.

‘Hurry,’ he whispered, then pointed to the back door where she could make out a figure waiting. ‘Madame Pascal.’

Lisette was led into the parlour, lit only by a single candle.

‘Thank you,’ she said to her host. ‘I am very grateful for the risk you’re taking.’

And it surprised her to feel her heart swell when the small, unassuming woman gave a familiar shrug.

‘What else can we do?’ Madame Pascal replied in a soft voice.

‘I will be back at five, Angeline,’ Frelon said.

‘I’ll be ready.’

He grinned in the low light; they were of similar age, she guessed.

The door was closed and she turned to face her host, who stood by a long cherrywood table that held only a simple jug of flowers. Beneath her she felt the uneven red tiles rubbed smooth over years of wear, and a pot was simmering gently on a wood stove.

‘Thank you. Do you have children?’ Lisette asked.

Madame Pascal nodded. ‘Our eldest son was killed in the fighting. His brother is doing his STO in Germany. Eight months to go and we hope he will return safely.’

Le Service du travail obligatoire,
or the despised STO as it was becoming known, had been introduced earlier that year, replacing the notion of voluntary work in Germany with forced labour. The STO had been responsible for hundreds of Frenchmen being sent to work in Germany each week, labouring on behalf of the Reich. They had no choice.

‘We have a daughter,’ continued Madame Pascal. ‘She is living in Marseille. Her husband is also on STO. She raises our granddaughter alone. I keep telling her to come home.’ She sighed. ‘May I offer you something? Some coffee, perhaps? Are you hungry?’

‘I’m not hungry, thank you, but if you’re having a coffee, I will share some with you.’ Lisette was mindful that people in France were harshly rationed.

‘Please, sit,’ her host said. ‘I baked a small cake earlier this week. I’m sure you could force down a little piece, eh?’ She began to busy herself making the coffee, cutting a slice of the fruit cake.

It was lovely to hear French being spoken, albeit in the Provençal dialect.

‘This clandestine work you do – are you not afraid of being discovered?’

Madame Pascal gave a snort. ‘So they shoot me,’ and gave Lisette a weary grin. ‘I am very careful and I know you will be, so we will all live to fight another day. And his friend is the best in the region,’ she said, nodding at the door.

‘The one they call Faucille?’

‘Yes. I have not met him; I have not met anyone who has met him, other than Frelon and Roger. But he’s good. He will get you to wherever you need to go.’

Madame Pascal set down a small cup with black liquid
in it that smelt nothing like coffee. ‘Follow his ways. Tell no one anything, Mademoiselle Angeline. Then no one can harm you,’ she said.

The drink was hot and strong. It would help to keep Lisette alert. She sipped gratefully, warming her fingers around the cup. Whatever it was tasted vile.

Madame Pascal smiled and in the low light looked somehow sadder for the gesture. ‘Forgive me … we have no coffee any more in the south. We have to use roasted barley.’

‘It is fine,’ Lisette lied.

‘Sometimes we can exchange coffee for our rabbits and a chicken or two from Marseille if anyone is passing through, but I think even the far south has run out of coffee. I taste it in my dreams sometimes.’

‘Rationing is hard,’ Lisette agreed.

‘The Germans take everything; our
milice
is just as bad. But they can’t take our spirit, eh?’

Lisette raised her cup. ‘
Santé!
’

They drank in comfortable silence for a minute.

‘There is an old sofa in our salon,’ said Madame Pascal. ‘I have put a blanket there for you – please forgive that I haven’t lit a fire. If anything happens, there is another small door leading off that room. It’s a trapdoor, hidden behind the sofa. It will take you out into a shed. Do not leave the shed through the entrance. Go up the ladder into the loft and climb out onto the rooftops. Head to your right towards open country. Frelon will find you.’

‘I hope it will not come to that.’

‘We have to be ready for any event. Faucille’s orders. The
milice
raid at all hours and they would probably like to take us by surprise on Madame Bernard’s special evening.’

‘I’m sorry you missed it for my benefit.’

‘It has been a pleasure,
mademoiselle
. I am Gaullist. It is my duty to do what I can, however small.’ Then she added softly with her hand in a fist, ‘
France libre!
’

Lisette was kissing Madame Pascal on each cheek at a minute to five the following morning, and emerging into a cold, crisp and silent Saignon. Her hostess made sure that Lisette had a hot cup of barley coffee, and she’d packed some bread and goat’s cheese into a napkin. She pushed an apple and a pear into each of Lisette’s coat pockets. Frelon was waiting.