Thank you for all the kind reviews to Chapter One.
Chapter Two
Emile Harte stared at the young woman before him in utter disbelief, disbelief bound up with more than an ounce of irrational pleasure which almost immediately turned to concern when he considered the circumstances in which they were meeting again. George's brow was furrowed as she looked up, squinting in the poor light and he realised that she hadn't recognised him yet but he knew there would be no escaping the moment that must follow and wished fervently that it hadn't been here and now after almost two years of silence. He leaned towards her faking the normal French greeting of a kiss on each cheek as he whispered in English, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Startled by the familiar voice, her eyes flew open and she turned her head sharply, her face brushing against his. He took in the scent of her hair and momentarily closed his eyes recalling other times. The fierceness of her reply matched his initial question, even though she spoke so quietly that only he could hear the words.
"I can't believe you've got the nerve to ask me that."
Emile thought better of saying any more and drew back from her.
"Phillipe."
He introduced himself by his codename even though he knew it was pointless. She already knew him far too well.
She took his hand and regarded him with hostility. "Madeleine."
He raised his eyebrows slightly in response and, stupidly amused by the name, fought to suppress a smile although seeing a look of annoyance cross George's face he feared for a moment that she might slap him. Almost as soon as the amusement passed he acknowledged with the experience borne of command, the difficulties this situation could pose. The sound of conversation between the three men behind him masked his next comment.
"I should get you sent back straight away."
She glared at him in astonishment and anger. "On what grounds?
He stared back at her. Even in this poor light, with her hair unkempt and seeing her dressed in such an unusual ensemble she was the same fierce, spirited, determined woman he remembered. He shouldn't have been surprised to see her here. It was the just the sort of outfit a woman like her would volunteer to join. Why would he expect her to be any different to himself? Hadn't his own restlessness and sense of purpose motivated him to put himself forward for this work. What was clear right now, however, was that whatever there had once been between them had passed a long while ago and it was obvious from the look in George's eyes that there was no room here for personal sentiment. She was right. He had no grounds to send her back at least none that he could freely admit. He took a deep breath and turned to call to his comrades behind him.
"Jacques, take Madeleine and Louis to the safe house."
He glanced once more at her. "Jacques will check your identity papers and give you details of how to contact me."
He turned away from her and left the room but he was sure she was watching him. He could feel her eyes boring into his back as he shut the door to the farmhouse behind him. As he made his way quietly across the farmyard he found himself breathing deeply whilst memories of that last day together began to seep into his mind. He tried to push them away. He didn't need this right now. He needed to be professional and to separate himself from her and anything she had once meant to him. He wondered again if it would be better to dispatch her on the first Lysander out of here but then took pity on the poor pilot who would be desperate to turn his little aircraft around as quickly as possible and fly it out of whichever landing strip had been chosen for the task. He wouldn't want to be held up whilst someone attempted to bundle George into the aeroplane, no doubt unprepared to go quietly and kicking up a fuss.
George. He had to forget that name, forget he had ever known her before or that there had been a life before this one. She was Madeleine now. He repeated the name to himself with emphasis. They were living in a very dangerous world and they couldn't afford any slip-ups.
As he continued on his way, creeping through the forest, scanning the darkness for any unexpected outlines and with his ears tuned-in for the sound of voices, footsteps or the crack of twigs underfoot his thoughts, despite his best intentions, inevitably strayed back to England and a life which had once contained George. He should have known that a girl like her would end up in a place like this.
The first moment he'd clapped eyes on her at the dance hall that Saturday evening more than eighteen months ago he knew she was different but he was also sure no one else could see it. He didn't deserve any praise for spotting that she was easily the most attractive girl in the room, plenty of others had seen that but he saw more. He saw energy, an independent mind and a girl who wouldn't be easily tamed, not that he felt the slightest inclination to do so. From the very first moment she opened her mouth and told him with her mancunian charm to, "Shove off. I don't dance or go out with Brylcreem Boys," he knew he had fallen for her. She'd remained true to her word and refused to dance with him all evening no matter what method of persuasion he had tried and it had intrigued him but when he'd finally caught up with her as she and her fellow ATS friends were leaving the dance hall he'd managed to extract one small concession from her, she had agreed to meet him the following day at a local café.
"It's not a date, so don't get any ideas" she had told him, "I've got to come into town and I'll have half an hour to kill."
She had been true to her word. It had been half an hour no more, no less but it had been worth it. He had introduced himself properly.
"Flight Lieutenant Emile Harte."
"Why are you called Emile?"
She busied herself stirring her tea. He knew she was curious and trying to hide her interest but he remained serious.
"My mother was French
She seemed to notice the use of the past tense and risked a half-glance in his direction at this news so he added, "She died when I was eight and I went to live with my Grandparents in Paris until I left school and came back to England to live with my father."
Her eyelashes flickered at the news. "I'm surprised you didn't try to impress me by speaking French last night."
He thought he sensed a thawing of her attitude and leaned towards her over the table. "Would it have impressed you?"
She held his gaze. "No. I'm not that shallow."
He suppressed a smile. "Neither am I."
They talked more generally about their work. He told her a little of his role as a pilot in Coastal Command and she told him about life on the ack-ack battery. It was strange he thought as he watched her recalling anecdotes with such an animated expression, how he spent his time patrolling sectors out at sea, reporting on shipping movements and never firing a shot and she was the one in the thick of the action whenever there was an air raid as part of the team manning the big guns that tried to shoot down enemy aircraft. He knew it could be dangerous work and he admired her pluck and determination to do the job properly. She seemed to enjoy what she did and it only served to heighten his sense of dissatisfaction with his own contribution to the war effort. After half an hour, she glanced at her watch and announced, "Time's up, I've got to meet my transport or I'll be late and get into trouble." She stood abruptly and he scrambled to his feet as well, sorry that the meeting was over so soon.
"Would you like to go to the pictures next week?"
She frowned. "I told you I don't go out with Brylcreem Boys."
"I don't use Brylcreem."
George gazed at his short, dark, neat hair, swept to one side. He was telling the truth. There was no slicked-back style so favoured by his comrades in arms.
"You're still a pilot."
"Not the sort you're thinking of. I'm not shooting you any lines."
She pulled a face and he could tell she was struggling to find a reason to turn him down.
"What have you got to lose?"
She raised her eyebrows and he laughed. "No funny busy, George, I promise."
He saw her note the way he had shortened her name. She didn't seem to mind. She sighed. "Alright. Seven o'clock, Tuesday evening. The Roxy. Got it?"
"Yes. ma'am."
They parted outside the café. He was pleased she'd agreed to meet him again even if she had pretended she didn't really care. He wasn't fooled by her. He turned to go and had walked only a few steps before she called to him.
"Emile!" He turned his head to look at her. "Ne sois pas en retard! Tu n'auras pas de deuxieme chance!"
She saw the astonished expression on his face at the sound of her words and her faultless accent and she laughed, throwing her head back clearly enjoying his surprise, adding in English, "And I mean it."
He laughed too and shaking his head replied, "I don't doubt it for a minute."
She walked away and he stood there watching her. He exhaled and smiled a little ruefully at his miscalculation. She had fooled him already.
He'd always seemed to be at a loose end in those days and the arrival of George in his life was a very welcome diversion. Life on an RAF Coastal base was monotonous and he was itching for change. He'd been even more disenchanted since the departure of his friend and fellow pilot, Charlie James, although he hadn't been tempted yet to follow his example and make the move into bombers. He would have preferred fighters but the powers that be thought he was more use in Coastal. There had been some mutterings from on high that he was prone to the occasional impetuous act and they didn't trust him with a Spitfire. Even Charlie had once remarked, "Face it, Emile; they're not keen on mad bastards." Emile had been quick to point out that he was surprised anyone would trust Charlie with a bomber after that little escapade a long time ago involving a low level fly past and a Rear Admiral's daughter. Charlie had mellowed over time it seemed and Bomber Command was crying out for experienced pilots. He knew it was probably wrong to feel this way but he was restless for action.
The summer with George had helped him to forget some of his discontent. He loved their times together and realised very soon that he was in love with her. It wasn't the first time he had been in love but it was different this time. Her feelings, however, were harder to fathom. He didn't think it was a case of her playing hard to get, he thought it was probably a case of whether she really wanted to be caught at all. They went on regular dates, enjoyed each other's company, she had a good sense of humour and made him laugh as well as being able to take a joke at her own expense. He was sure she preferred his company to any other man's and yet there was something missing, a little piece of her that had just eluded him, part of her that wouldn't admit to her feelings until that very last day.
He paused in the darkness and listened to the breeze rustling the leaves high above him in the trees. For a moment it felt as if it had only been yesterday and he wanted her every bit as much as he had then but it was no good thinking that way. He had to put it behind him and be professional. He dragged his thoughts back to the work in hand. At least Henri had got away safely. It was vital that Emile's report made it back to London. They needed London's approval for their plans not to mention weapons and explosives. Hopefully, Jacques would drive their two new arrivals to the safe house and ensure they were hidden away before dawn provided they didn't run into any German patrols although there was no safer pair of hands for such a task than Jacques. As for himself he needed to get back to his safe house and had eight kilometres to cover on foot and off road if he wanted to be sure of no trouble. If he was lucky he could grab a few hours' sleep before he was due to depart for a rendezvous with the leader of the local communist cell. There were plenty in his group who detested the communists and argued against working with them, Maurice had been arguing just that point this evening at the farmhouse before the others had arrived but Emile knew they had no choice. They had a common purpose and a common enemy, at least for now, and it was his job to co-ordinate sabotage and the resistance groups in the area. He couldn't do that effectively without a courier and that would be George's job.
He stopped, sighed and shook his head. "Madeleine," he whispered under his breath and tapped himself on the side of the head just to reiterate the point. Get it into your thick skull, Emile. It's Madeleine.
X-X-X-X
The engine of Jacque's van as it drove along the deserted roads in the darkness was noisy to George's ears and she was certain that it must attract notice being out here on its own long after curfew. She couldn't help thinking she would have preferred to walk but Jacques had told them it was too far to make it to the safe house on foot before dawn and the sight of strangers on the road with luggage so early in the morning would be far more of a risk than one van in the middle of nowhere. They travelled by a circuitous route and reached the house on the outskirts of the town within twenty minutes.
"You'll have to stay here for a day or two until I can get your papers sorted," Jacques informed them as he switched off the engine.
To their dismay both George and Louis had been informed by Jacques at the farmhouse that their identity papers would not pass muster.
"They're too good," he said with a shrug. "The quality of the paper is far too good. Any German at a checkpoint would spot that. I'll get you new papers but it will take a little while."
Louis had looked alarmed. "But I have to make my sched. London will be expecting me to report our safe arrival."
Jacques looked unconcerned, "They'll have to wait unless you want to risk arrest the first time you set foot outside on your own."
There was nothing Louis could say but accept the advice even though he was loathe to offer up his papers to someone he had only just met but he and George realised they had no choice but to trust Jacques.
"Phillipe said you would tell me how to contact him." George said as she handed over the papers.
Jacques looked her up and down and shook his head slightly.
"The first rule here is don't tell anyone anything that they don't need to know. The less anyone knows the better. When I've got your papers I'll tell you where to contact him. Understood."
George nodded. His words had impressed upon her the deadly seriousness of this situation. She thought when she left England she knew what she was getting herself into but the reality was something different.
Sitting in the back of Jacque's van on the way to the safe house, George realised that she could have had absolutely no idea what a difficult situation she was walking into and she had been able to think of nothing else but the moment she had seen Emile at the farmhouse. How she had contained her shock she had no idea. It was stupid but she had never once considered the possibility that he might be in France. He was an RAF pilot and despite the fact there had been no contact between them for almost two years she had always assumed that he would still be flying aeroplanes, if he was still alive. Her reaction to his question had been instinctive and she wished she had exercised more control. Emile must have been equally surprised, having no idea she would be his new courier and from the tone of his voice it was a very unwelcome surprise. He couldn't wait to get out of the room.
George had tried very hard to forget about Emile Harte and thought she had done a reasonably good job of it. The change of scene when her unit was posted up north had helped but she had never managed to banish the memory of him entirely. Every time she had met anyone new on the rare occasions she had gone to a dance or had a drink in the pub with her friends the shadow of Emile had hung over her. She held every man at arms' length and didn't trust anyone. She knew what some people said about ATS girls and there had been moments in private when she had blushed in shame and remembered her father's concern. She knew it was going to be difficult but the injustice she felt in her heart at Emile's treatment of her, told her not to give way. There was only person who owed any explanations or apologies and it wasn't her.
X-X-X-X
George gazed out of the bus window and watched the countryside flying past in a blur. She wasn't familiar with this part of France. Her own family lived in the Pas de Calais and she had mostly spent her summer holidays at the coast enjoying lazy days on the beach when the weather was warm enough. This landscape was all new to her but she hoped the lack of familiarity didn't show in her face and, in spite of being on tenterhooks as she travelled to the town of Sainte Martin, she appeared at ease. It was her first rendezvous since her arrival four days ago. Yesterday, Jacques had returned to the safe house with new papers for both her and Louis and later that day her colleague had departed on a bicycle with his wireless set in the hidden compartment of the suitcase strapped to the luggage rack at the back. She had whispered a prayer under her breath as she watched him leave hoping he would make it safely. She didn't know where he would be living but she knew several locations to leave and collect messages. He had said he would contact London as soon as he could find a suitable place to transmit and inform them of their arrival.
Jacques had then taken George part of the way to the town of Bellecourt and after giving her directions for another safe house had left her to walk the final couple of kilometres into town. When she had found the house on a quiet street and knocked tentatively at the door she had been surprised to see it opened by a rosy-cheeked young woman with a baby perched on her hip who had eyed her with caution until George had informed her, "I'm Cousin Yvette from Lyons." The woman had given her a small, tight smile and quickly ushered her into the house then introduced herself as Mathilde. She had showed her to a small, clean but sparsely furnished room at the rear of the house. George looked through the net curtains and noted that the house wasn't overlooked which was good. She also checked the easiest way to escape in a hurry. There was a small outhouse at the rear and she reckoned she could climb out of the window and drop down onto the roof if necessary.
Mathilde and her husband, Patrice, a railway engineer, were kind and welcoming but wisely asked no questions of their guest and George knew she should ensure her presence was an unobtrusive as possible. In any case she would not stay in any one place too long and would be away quite often. Her cover story was that of a sales representative for a medical supplies company which would enable her to travel freely with a legitimate reason to move from town to town in search of doctors' practices and pharmacies she could solicit for business. With trade being so difficult for everyone because of the war there would be less cause to question her need to travel widely. She had been given a small case of samples to carry about with her and business documents to ensure her story seemed authentic and was assured that the director of the company she purported to represent would vouch for her if enquiries were made.
When Jacques had brought George her new papers he had also brought a message that Phillipe needed to meet her and would be at the café on the square in Sainte Martin between ten and eleven o'clock the following day. A few days had passed since their arrival and she supposed that it was time to get to work. She was sure that being active would be better than sitting around waiting for time to pass but even so she was uncertain how it would feel to work alongside Emile. The shock of running into him again here, of all places, had passed but her feelings towards him had not. However, she knew she would have to learn to live with them.
The bus had reached the centre of Sainte Martin and the end of its route. It came to a stop and the remaining passengers stood and began to collect their belongings and make their way along the central aisle. The door opened and the first passengers stepped down but then instead of moving the queue seemed to stop. George craned her neck to see what was causing the hold-up and then to her dismay saw that a German officer accompanied by a soldier and a Gendarme were standing at the door of the bus and by the looks of it they were conducting a spot check on identity papers. Thinking of the new papers in her bag, George silently began to pray that the forgers knew their business and Jacques had been right about the paper needing to be replaced. The progress was painfully slow as the officer opened each set of papers, scrutinised the photographs of each person and asked a few questions in heavily accented French. By the time George stepped down she could almost hear her own heart beating but forced herself to appear calm and unconcerned.
The officer looked up at her for a moment and then returned his attention to her papers. She was sure he was examining them a little longer than anyone else's.
"Yvette Laurent?"
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"What brings you here today, business or pleasure?" He looked her straight in the eye and she forced herself to hold his gaze keeping her expression just soft enough not to seem confrontational. She hoped above all else that she looked as if she had nothing to hide.
"I'm meeting a friend." She knew at once that she had made a mistake by not preparing herself for an eventuality such as this and hoped he wasn't going to ask her the name of the friend or any other details.
"A lucky man." She couldn't decide from the officer's tone if he was fishing for information, flirting or making a joke but the last thing she wanted was to confirm it was a man she had planned to meet.
"Oh, no," she said with what she hoped was an embarrassed small laugh, "An old family friend."
"A pity," the officer replied and glanced in the direction of the next person leaving the bus.
A cry suddenly filled the air and out of the corner of her eye George spotted a commotion about thirty yards away. It looked as if a scuffle had broken out between two men on the other side of the road. The officer, the Gendarme and the soldier all turned away in curiosity and took a few steps before the Gendarme headed over to see what was going on and George seeing them all distracted decided it would be a good time to go. She walked away in the opposite direction moving as quickly as she reasonably could without appearing to hurry. She could still hear the scuffle going on as she reached the end of the street and turned the corner. She glanced behind her, saw no one and taking a couple of deep breaths proceeded on her way a little more slowly relieved that she was now out of sight of the bus.
She turned left into a tree-lined square. In the far corner she could see a café with tables and chairs arranged outside and sitting at one of the tables was Emile. He had a cup of coffee, or what passed for it these days, in front of him. He appeared relaxed but when his eyes swept the area she could tell he had noticed her approaching and forcing herself to put aside all her personal reservations about being here with him, she focused on the job she needed to do and strolled with as casual and unconcerned an air as possible towards him. She was about fifty yards away when she was suddenly halted in her tracks by the sound of boots rapidly approaching across the cobbled square behind her and an authoritative shout.
"Mademoiselle, wait!"
She turned her head a fraction startled by the harshness of the command and her heart almost stopped. The German soldier from the bus was marching purposefully towards her and it was obvious at once from the expression on his face that the situation was serious.
Apologies to any French speakers out there for any grammatical errors - its been a long time since school!
