This is the final chapter of the story and it has turned out to be a very long one, so make yourself comfortable! Thank you for all your lovely reviews and for taking the time to read this story. I'm sorry if Chapter Fifteen didn't end quite as you might have expected but I thought it was important to show that women like George did make difficult decisions, leaving loved ones behind, including their own children, in order to do the job that they felt uniquely equipped to do and, as we know, some of them made the ultimate sacrifice. I also wanted to keep the character of George as close to the original 'Georgie' as I could and she certainly believed that she had an important job to do. However, the chapter that follows is the one that I always intended to conclude with and so, on this occasion, there is just a little more of George and Emile's story to tell…
Chapter Sixteen
August 1944
Emile placed the report back in the foolscap folder and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost six and he knew he might as well head home. He had been struggling to keep his attention on the job all afternoon but pen-pushing behind a desk in Baker Street was not something that sat well with his temperament. He could imagine a few people who would have found the idea of him working in an office hilarious but he tried to keep such thoughts at bay and content himself with the knowledge that he was making a contribution to the war effort in the best way he could, even if it tried his patience.
The last three months had been a trial of his patience on so many levels. When headquarters had announced a scaling down of agents' training and he had been told that he would no longer be required to work as an instructor at the Finishing School he had realised that it signalled the beginning of the end. Any hopes he might have entertained of returning to France as an agent had rapidly disappeared. Once the invasion of France had begun in June he had known it was only a matter of time before they would all be out of a job as the need to send agents into occupied countries would evaporate with the advance of the allies in Europe. However, he had been offered a desk job at F-Section in London and had accepted it as he was reluctant to leave the outfit while he still felt he had something to give. He had other good reasons for staying with SOE and remaining close to the heart of the action but he hadn't admitted them to anyone here and there were times that he even denied them to himself. However, if the past month had been anything to judge by then he had begun to think he had entirely wasted his time.
He cleared his desk and put the files into his out tray for the section secretary, Miss Stephens, to deal with tomorrow. He was just preparing to leave when Phillip Bailey, a fellow F-Section officer, appeared in the doorway.
"Just leaving Harte?"
Emile nodded, "As you see."
"A few of us are heading out for some drinks and there's a dance band at the Carlton, if you feel like joining us."
Emile had turned down several offers of this kind in the last few weeks and as much as he had little desire to prop up the bar yet again and listen to his colleagues chatting up a variety of young women, the thought of returning to his rather austere flat filled him with little enthusiasm.
"Alright, I'll meet you downstairs."
"Rightho. I'll just go and rustle up the rest of the troops."
Emile let him go about his business. Bailey was a social animal and never happier than with a large group around him. It was no surprise he'd been turned down for work in the field as he would never have coped with the solitude. However, he had skills that F-Section had harnessed and was well-liked. The only problem was that girls also flocked to him like a magnet and the last time Emile had been out in company with him a rather brassy blonde by the name of Daphne had detached from the group around Bailey and stuck to him like a limpet all evening. In the dim distant past he might not have minded but he had little appetite for playing the field anymore and Bailey, for all his socialising, had noticed and questioned it the following morning.
"What's up with you, old man? Daphne took a real shine to you and you couldn't have looked less interested if you'd tried."
Emile had shrugged, "I'm just not in the mood at the moment."
Bailey had leaned over his desk and said in an undertone, "Anything to do with a certain person who's overseas?"
Emile was taken aback by the remark. He had no idea that his past relationship with George was apparently known by anyone within F-Section and he had no intention of discussing it with Bailey.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Bailey had raised his eyebrows suggesting he didn't believe him but not pressed the point and Emile had been left to contemplate the remark.
Emile knew that being closer to the nerve centre of F-Section operations where he could hope to gain some news of George's situation had certainly been an inducement in accepting the job in Baker Street but the information when it did filter through to him was often very scant and out of date. He had a vague idea that she was working as a courier between two sections in north eastern France and knew only there had been nothing in any wireless traffic to suggest that she had been arrested. Beyond that he was completely in the dark and he had learned to live with it; he hated it but he had no choice. He knew well enough that everything was run very much on a need to know basis and as far as his superiors were concerned he didn't need to know anything. He had found excuses from time to time to ask specific questions about activities in George's section in the hope of gleaning some news. He supposed it was this that had caused Bailey to prick up his ears and put two and two together. It wouldn't have been difficult to find out that she and Emile had worked closely together and made their escape together last year. He wasn't the first agent to have become emotionally attached in the field but he and George hadn't made a song and dance of the situation and he didn't like the idea that it was being talked about, not that there was anything much to talk about and certainly not if the past few weeks were anything to judge by.
The news had come through a month ago that George was returning. The allies had overrun her area and now her work was done. She was among a growing number of surviving field agents to be recalled and F-section activities were being scaled back. Emile had felt a tremendous sense of relief to know that she was safe and coming home but this feeling was quickly succeeded by a huge sense of uncertainty. George had been in France for more than six months and he knew very well the strain that such a long deployment could create. She would have been better prepared for what lay ahead the second time but even so he knew she was probably exhausted and needed time to adjust. He desperately wanted to make contact with her but he had no idea how the land lay between them now and he didn't want to go blundering in and making life any more difficult. He thought about it long and hard before finally having a word with Miss Watkins. He'd managed to catch her as she was leaving her office and casually mentioned that he'd heard George had returned. Miss Watkins had given him one of her small tight smiles that implied she knew there was more to his remark than met the eye.
Emile had cleared his throat, "I was wondering if you were likely to be going to the Reception Centre this week?"
"It is my normal routine, as you well know, Flight Lieutenant Harte."
Her expression was neutral and it seemed to Emile that she certainly had no intention of making this easy for him so he risked one of his wide boyish smiles on her and saw at once that it had no effect. He felt himself starting to flounder and decided that honesty or at least partial honesty might be the best policy.
"Could you pass on my telephone number here to her? It would be good to catch up after all this time as we're old friends and colleagues…"
Miss Watkins was raising her hand to him, clearly intent on stopping him before he said any more and he was certain she was going to give him some nonsense about security and not passing on any information to or from returning agents but, to his surprise, she lowered her voice, "I think you know that you shouldn't be asking me to do this and certainly not whilst standing around here in the corridor. However, I know you went through a lot together and she might want someone to talk to who understands. I'll allow it just this once, Emile, but don't mention it to anyone."
He nodded, "Thank you."
Miss Watkins had walked away and he was left surprised that she had agreed to his request and pleased that it had been easier than he had expected. However, several weeks had passed since their conversation and George still hadn't called him. At first he had thought that she might have misgivings about him and the past. It was natural to think that way, after all, he hadn't been able to hide the fact that he didn't want her to return to France. He could see that her feelings might have changed towards him with the time and distance between them. However, as the weeks passed he began to have other less selfish thoughts and worried that there was more to Miss Watkins words than he had initially suspected. She had implied that George might be in need of an experienced and sympathetic ear. He was more than happy to be that person but this idea raised other concerns. They had been living entirely separate lives in completely different circumstances for months and Emile was deeply uncertain as to what the future held for them, if anything. The only fact that he could cling to was that no matter what had happened since they had parted on that cold grey December morning eight months ago he was sure of one thing; he still loved her.
X-X-X-X
The train was late. George had lost count of the number of times she had been delayed on overcrowded trains in the last year or the number of hours she had wasted on such journeys. Departures and arrivals had been a major feature of her day to day existence for so long and her fellow passengers had mostly consisted of the same types: commercial travellers, stressed housewives with bored children, grumpy middle-aged men, over-dressed young women and, inevitably, soldiers. The only difference today was the colour of the uniforms. The wall-to-wall grey had been replaced by khaki, navy and airforce blue and these men did not have to endure the barely disguised loathing of their travel companions. These men, no matter from which part of the world they hailed, were welcome.
An RAF Squadron Leader, sporting impressive handlebar moustaches, a supreme air of self-confidence and shoulder flashes declaring he was South African, had been trying to persuade George for the last half an hour that she would be mad to turn down the offer of dinner with him after she had made the fatal mistake of admitting she was heading to London. She had been polite but firm in her rejection and eventually he had settled for telling her, "You don't know what you're missing," before taking up a newspaper in a mildly disgruntled manner no doubt hoping to while away the time and cover his embarrassment at his lack of success.
George had looked out of the window as the train very slowly chugged along at what seemed like a snail's pace. She tried to keep a clear mind and focus on what lay ahead but found herself fighting so many thoughts not least of which was the uncomfortable memory of another train journey during which she had endured the unwelcome attention of Major Weber. That occasion had been akin to a slow torture as she had desperately tried to think of a way to escape his company. She remembered briefly the suspicious manner in which she had been greeted by Jacques and Emile when she had finally reached the farmhouse at La Chapelle. This was a very different journey with a very different purpose but she was nevertheless wondering how she would be received.
She had returned from France four weeks ago once the allied advance had reached and overrun her area. As the allies had pushed ever nearer, she and her comrades had moved increasingly out into the open, fighting their battles like a guerrilla army now that it was obvious the Germans were in retreat. Most of George's time in the months before D-Day had been engaged in helping to organise and co-ordinate groups being trained to carry out sabotage work in readiness for the invasion for which they had all been longing. When the news came from London that D-Day was finally underway and signals were received they had embarked on a long period of harrying the enemy, causing distractions, sabotaging road and rail links, in short putting out of action anything that might help the Germans. She had been living from day to day with a rifle at her side and had seen so many acts of courage and self-sacrifice that she was truly humbled. As soon as the first American troops had reached her area she was summoned back to London and had returned once again to the Reception Centre. It was when she had reached the quiet and safety of the remote country retreat that she had suddenly been overcome with utter exhaustion and the overwhelming feeling that there was nothing for her to do.
The first time she and Emile had returned from France she had found the adjustment difficult but there had also been relief at being safe and having returned but this time had been different. Her strain and tiredness, borne of an extended period in the field combined with the last few weeks of intense, dangerous activity, had turned into something more. The doctor who had examined her had referred to it as something akin to battle fatigue. She had lain in bed for three days, mostly sleeping or simply contemplating the walls around her in silence, disinclined to talk to anyone but she had been allowed to do so without anyone trying to 'chivvy' her along, as Emile had once called it. On the fourth day Miss Watkins had arrived. She had knocked softly at the door and hearing only the faintest response had risked entering. George had been sitting on the bed, still dressed in her nightclothes even though it was almost lunch time.
"May I come in?"
George had nodded and Miss Watkins had walked into the room and sat down opposite her.
"How are you Georgina?"
Her eyes had flicked in Miss Watkins direction. Even her own family seldom referred to her by her full name and she found it strange. It was even stranger to be addressed by her real name after being known only as Hélène for so many months and it almost grated on her.
"I'm tired."
If Miss Watkins found her reply to be curt to the point of rudeness it certainly didn't show in her expression or response. "That's only to be expected. You've been in the field for a long time."
George didn't know whether a reply was required so she remained silent. Miss Watkins looked around the room, "You could probably do with a change of scene…it might help."
It was only her fatigue that prevented George from advising Miss Watkins in no uncertain terms that a different view from the window was hardly likely to help her come to terms with the continual stress, danger and bone-aching weariness that seven months of covert activity had created followed by this odd, eerie vacuum.
Miss Watkins got to her feet, "Why don't you get dressed and come down for some lunch. You don't need to talk to anyone if you don't want to."
George turned to look at her, "That's just it. I'm too tired to talk."
Again Miss Watkins nodded, "I understand but it will help to do something, even if it's just as simple as eating your lunch."
George looked unconvinced. Miss Watkins lowered her voice and George heard a softer, more sympathetic tone, "You're not the first agent to find this very difficult. You've been away a long time, probably too long and mentally you've travelled a very long road but it's time to think about returning and that involves taking small steps even ones as simple as getting dressed and eating your lunch."
She headed for the door but paused with her hand on the door knob.
"Oh, there's something else. I was asked to give you this." She reached into her pocket and drew out a small folded note. She crossed to George and offered her the paper.
"It's from a friend. You might like to talk."
George took the note without looking at it and Miss Watkins returned to the door.
"I'll see you downstairs, Georgina, when you're ready."
George listened to the sound of her footsteps disappearing along the corridor and then heading down the ancient creaking staircase. She had no doubt that Miss Watkins would be waiting in the Dining Room for her. She let out a long breath and gazed up at the ceiling. There had been ample time to study it for the past three days and she doubted there was any inch of it that hadn't received her attention at some point. Miss Watkins might be right that a change of scene would be better for her but she wondered if she would ever be ready to talk.
The note was still in her hand and she unfolded the paper. Emile's name and telephone number stared back at her, yet another stark reminder of the world she had left behind. She shook her head as she thought of Miss Watkins words to her just now; if attending lunch was a small step then contacting Emile was a giant leap.
She had kept that piece of paper with Emile's number upon it, tucked away for safekeeping in a pocket notebook and had told herself she would think about it later when she was feeling more like her old self. However, the days had passed and still she felt caught between the life she had left behind in France and the one here that she barely recognised. She went through the motions of debriefing sessions with F-Section officers but felt a sense of detachment from the proceedings. She knew what they wanted to hear and she passed on the information but without any sense of unburdening. It seemed as if all they wanted was intelligence and it didn't matter how she felt because she knew that they didn't need her anymore. Her job was done.
George knew that she ought to go home and see her parents. She had read all the letters from her family that had been passed to her and could sense that they were hurt that she hadn't managed to find any time to see them in more than six months. However, in their innocence, they had blamed her absence on the ATS being unfair and not giving her a long enough leave to travel to Manchester. She remembered her last visit home after the escape from France with Emile and she didn't relish returning too quickly, particularly when she felt so out of sorts and unable to cope with the barrage of questions that would undoubtedly follow a return after such a long absence.
She had stayed at the Reception Centre for two weeks until it had been politely suggested that she ought to consider venturing further afield beyond the confines of the manor house. She had been at a loss as to what to do or where to go until Miss Watkins had mentioned that she had a friend in Oxfordshire who took short-term lodgers and might be able to accommodate George for a week or so if she felt she needed more time before facing her family. George had accepted the offer seeing it as a half-way house and somewhere that would allow her a little more time to get her thoughts together in peace and quiet amongst people who didn't know her.
The weather had been very fair and George had taken the opportunity to go for long walks. She needed and embraced the solitude of the woods and countryside and it was on one of these long walks that she finally came to the conclusion that it was wrong to stay away from her family. They weren't responsible for the choice she had made and although they didn't know it she was punishing them by staying away when it was obvious from their letters that they were desperate to see her again. The next day she had sent a telegram advising them she had four days leave and would be home in the morning. She hadn't dared to suggest it would be longer, having no idea how she would stand up to the questions and the scrutiny.
Returning home for a few days had its share of tense moments for George but the absence of Marie, who was now working as a W/T operator on an RAF station in Lincolnshire, had made the visit slightly less stressful. Her sister's ability to pick up on the changes in George's demeanour the last time she had been home had made her very uncomfortable. Marie seemed to know her better than any of them even if she hadn't learned to keep her opinions to herself. George could certainly do without Marie's prying eyes, particularly this time. She had managed to keep up the pretence for a few days and was grateful that she had restricted the duration of the visit. Her parents frequent comments about Marie's diligence at letter writing in comparison with her own and suggestions that George ought to apply for another posting began to wear on her. In response she trotted out the usual excuses and cited a list of activities that she had been busy with but without sounding very enthusiastic and it was on the last morning of her leave that her mother had gently reasserted her view that George ought to consider change of scene.
"We've hardly seen you in the last year, George, and to be honest, you haven't seemed yourself at all not since you've been in Scotland. We were all so pleased that you were coming home but it worries me that you don't seem very happy."
George had said nothing, not wishing to engage in the conversation and assuming that her mother would drop the subject if she didn't offer anything in return but her mother pressed on. "Marie thinks it's something to do with a man. Is it something like that, dear?"
Even though she wasn't here in person Marie was still interfering and George was irritated. "It's nothing to do with a man, mum. I don't know why she'd say that."
"Well, you did rush off to visit someone in hospital the last time you were here and you wouldn't tell us anything about it."
George felt her patience snap, "Because there was nothing to tell you. I really haven't had my heart broken or anything stupid like that, so you can stop mithering on about it." Her voice had risen in volume and tone and she could tell at once from the startled expression in her mother's eyes that she had gone too far.
"I'm sorry," she reached out to grasp her mother's hand, "I think you're probably right, I've been in Scotland too long. I'll try to get a new posting."
Genevieve squeezed George's hand, "That's what you need, my darling, a fresh start."
George thought ironically that she had no choice in the matter but if it pleased her mother to think she had persuaded her then so be it.
In all this time she was still conscious of the piece of paper sitting in her notebook, just a small insignificant scrap with Emile's number upon. She had taken it out a few times, just to look at it and gazed at his name written in that slightly haphazard, indecisive style of his; half French, half English. She had started to come to terms with being back in England now but it was Emile that bothered her most because she simply didn't know what to say to him. She remembered so clearly the last day they had been together, how little he had wanted her to return to France and how he had struggled with his feelings. She knew now how difficult it must have been to let her go when he knew that he couldn't play any part in the secret war that was continuing out in France but understood like no one else the dangers it entailed.
For the first two or three weeks after her return she had felt too mentally exhausted to even contemplate her feelings for him. In France she had divorced herself as much as possible from thoughts of any life beyond her immediate situation, switched off her emotions and concentrated on her job. She had been so busy that most of the time it had been easier than she had expected to forget there was any other life but there had been a few moments, a few very desperate moments when she had missed him intensely and longed to be with him. In those dreadfully low moments when she felt as if everything was on the verge of being lost she had wished she could see him just one more time, feel his arms around her and know that she was loved. The piece of paper in her hand nagged at her, telling her that he wanted to see her but still she hesitated for fear that too much might have changed.
As she left home on the final day of her leave, intending only to return to her temporary lodgings in Oxfordshire, it struck her that she was fooling herself if she thought she would ever be able to move on without confronting her feelings for Emile. She had to see him again, to know how he felt about her but more importantly to decide how she felt about him now. Conscious that she must seize the moment while she still had the courage, she bought a ticket to London and boarded the train before she could change her mind.
Now the train was late and every extra half hour sapped her confidence still further. George had hoped to reach London by mid-afternoon but by the time the train rolled into Euston Station it was almost six o'clock and her plan to catch Emile at Baker Street looked destined to fail. Having set off on the journey on the spur of the moment she hadn't been able to call him and let him know she was on her way. All she had known was that she needed to see him face to face and to explain her long silence; he deserved that.
By the time she reached Baker Street it was almost quarter to seven and she knew she was probably wasting her time but having come this far she didn't want to walk away without at least trying. To her immense surprise the Commissionaire at the reception desk called out to her as she entered, "Miss Lane. How very nice to see you again."
She approached the desk and said with genuine surprise, "Do you remember everyone who comes in here?"
He smiled at her, "No, not everyone but some people are etched in your memory." He leaned over the desk, "It's quite late, did you have an appointment because I hadn't been informed you would be coming here today."
She shook her head, "No, I've got no appointment but I had hoped to see someone, Flight Lieutenant Harte?"
She saw the look of regret on his face before his words confirmed the outcome of her enquiry, "I'm sorry but you've missed him. He left at least half an hour ago. Do you want to leave a message for him?"
It was disappointing but not entirely unexpected and she shook her head, "No, nothing."
It had taken her four weeks to get this far and she couldn't possibly leave a scrap of paper with a message. She felt deflated and turned to go but was stopped by the sound of the Commissionaire's voice.
"If it's urgent you might find him at the Carlton. He left with a group of people and I'm sure I overheard them say they were heading there."
X-X-X-X
Emile stood at the bar with a pint glass in his hand and watched the dancers on the crowded floor trying to move in the crush of bodies. He'd been here for nearly an hour, propping up the bar. He'd chatted with one or two chaps he knew in passing, listened to the band and been approached once or twice by women who weren't afraid in this day and age, it seemed, to take the lead and move in on him. He'd been polite, smiled and chatted amiably but he had no desire to dance with any of them and having taken the hint they had eventually drifted away, disappointed that the handsome RAF officer seemed disinterested.
He sipped his beer and listened to the saxophone as it launched into the instrumental part of the tune. He recognised the song, of course. How could he not when it reminded him of other evenings and other people, one in particular. He sang it softly under his breath, "A nightingale sang…."
"Would you like to dance?"
He turned his head in shocked surprise and his heart missed a beat. George was standing before him resplendent in her smartest ATS uniform, hair neatly curled and pinned up off her collar, a hint of powder and lipstick, every inch of her giving the appearance of a confident young woman serving her country and enjoying a night out in the capital. In a moment the world seemed to turn full circle and all Emile could think was that they were here again. It was almost as if they were back in that dance hall on the south coast three years ago, long before anything else had ever happened.
"You're back."
A statement of fact and yet he shook his head at the sight of her hardly recognising her after so long and still scarcely daring to believe his eyes. Four weeks with no word from her and then here she was without any warning.
"So…would you like to dance with me?"
He knew she was watching him, trying to gauge how he felt about her but he was almost lost for words. She had caught him completely unawares but in the end humour saved him.
"I don't dance with ATS girls."
She frowned. "Why?"
"Because they're rude about Brylcreem."
She raised her eyes to look at his hair and suppressed a smile.
"You don't use Brylcreem."
He put his pint glass down on the bar, his eyes never leaving her face and George took a hesitant step towards him. He'd imagined this moment so many times and never doubted in all his imaginings that anything would stop him just sweeping her into his arms and making sure she'd never consider leaving again. However, now the moment had arrived he felt strangely diffident. He wanted her. The split second he'd clapped eyes on her he knew without doubt that nothing had changed for him but he was afraid that this might be another short stop-off on her way to some other destination and he wasn't sure he could bear it a second time. He took a short uneven breath, not sure if he was doing the right thing but he held out his hand to her and without a word she took it. He turned from her and led her to the dance floor.
It was very crowded and they were only able to venture in just a little way from the edge of the floor before Emile was obliged to slide his arm around her and move in close. She placed her hand on his shoulder and they started to shuffle around the floor in the crush of bodies to the slow, romantic ballad. They danced in silence listening to the sad melody and haunting words of reminiscence and longing and Emile couldn't help but bend his head in just a little closer to George's. Her hair brushed against his cheek and he caught her scent reviving so many old memories. She seemed to lean into him, her head almost resting on his shoulder and he closed his eyes hardly daring to believe they were here together again. He had waited so long for a moment like this and yet now it had arrived it was like an exquisite pain to him. He was afraid of being hurt but he couldn't resist her.
They danced without uttering a word to each other for a long while until the ballads drew to a close and the band stopped to take a break. The dancers began to move apart and drift away from the dance floor but Emile was reluctant to let George go. His arm stayed around her and he held her hand fast. She lifted her to head to look at him.
"How are you, Emile?"
He shook his head. "Right now, George, I'm afraid."
She was surprised. "Of what?"
He shrugged and it worried her. She had never seen Emile like this before, unsure of himself and struggling to find the words.
"I'm…afraid of this…well, of you and me or what any of it means."
She was quiet and her face was still. He couldn't read her expression. For a moment he wondered if she was annoyed and trying to hide it from him but then she raised her eyes to meet his and said in a quiet voice that trembled a little and for the first time betrayed to him her own nerves.
"I'm back and I'm here to stay…if you still want me."
It was all he needed to hear, all he had longed for throughout the many months they had been apart. He pulled her to him, his arms tightening around her and his lips close to her ear as he whispered in a long sigh, "Thank God."
Whether it was the news that she had no intention of leaving again or simply her safe return for which he gave thanks George had no idea as, not caring that they were now isolated on the dance floor, he kissed her with such warmth and passion that a few people turned to stare, surprised even in these days of apparent liberalism by such a display.
If people were turning around to stare, George certainly didn't notice because she thought only of Emile. In truth, she hadn't really known how she would feel until the moment she saw him again. On the way here from Baker Street her nerves had been increasing at an alarming rate. She had even paced up and down outside the hotel for ten minutes trying to bring her emotions into check before venturing in as she was desperately unsure of her reception. However, the moment she caught sight of him standing at the bar, alone and lost in thought she had felt the familiar tug at her heartstrings and as soon as his arms were around her she knew nothing had changed, at least nothing between them.
They hadn't stayed at the Carlton for very long and George was glad. She didn't want to be around other people and told him so.
"Let's get out of here."
He nodded, took her by the hand and they headed out into the night, not really knowing where they were going but ending up after a short while at his flat. He led her up two flights of stairs and opened the door which led into the small, rather bare apartment. It looked as if he spent little time here as there were no homely touches and nothing much in the way of comfort. She could imagine that to him it was just a place to rest his head at night.
He offered her a drink. "I've got a small bottle of scotch, don't ask me how I got it but I've been saving it for a special occasion."
"And this is it?"
He poured out two glasses and handed one to her, "You know it is."
George sat down on the sofa and Emile sat opposite in the only armchair. She sipped the fiery amber liquid and felt its warm glow spread to the pit of her stomach. He was watching her intently and cradling the glass in his hands with a thoughtful expression on his face. She knew that he was going to ask her the question soon, the one she would struggle to answer but she hedged around it, "Tell me what you've been up to, Emile."
They chatted very generally for a while, just like two acquaintances catching up on their news. He told her a little about his time at the Finishing School and his work at Baker Street without revealing any information to which he thought she shouldn't be party. Old habits died hard. She asked him about his family and what he'd been doing when he wasn't working and he answered with fairly mundane information about his father's domestic trials and attempts to 'dig for victory' and the social scene at F-Section, what little there was of it and how much of it seemed to centre around Phillip Bailey.
"I almost forgot," he added as an afterthought, "I was invited to a wedding."
George was surprised, "Whose?"
"My old friend, Charlie, the one I saw in hospital. He got married to a nice WAAF mechanic called Molly. I told you there was a girl involved somewhere. Bit of shock for his parents, I think, especially his mother but her mum and dad were a hoot at the reception and had everyone in stitches. Anyway, last I heard, there's a baby on the way, so it's happy families from here on."
George smiled, "So, all's well in the world."
He nodded, "Yes, it certainly is for them."
She noted that he hadn't included them in his assessment and an awkward silence fell between them. She could tell the moment was coming. He fidgeted slightly with the glass in his hand and cleared his throat.
"Why didn't you call me, George?"
There it was; the inevitable question. How could she sum up in one sentence all the reasons that she hadn't been able to speak to the one person who mattered the most. She hesitated before answering, wondering if he would understand. "I'd forgotten who I was."
He raised his glass and drank some of the whisky, clearly considering this for a few moments.
"And now?"
George took a deep breath, "I'm trying to remember and I'm trying to work out who I'm going to be. Does that make any sense?"
He nodded, "It does to me. It takes time to work out what the hell you're going to do after…that." He knew so little of what she had been doing recently that he couldn't think of any better way to phrase what he meant.
"I'm sorry I didn't telephone you." Her voice trembled and the hand holding the glass shook. Emile got up from the armchair, took the glass from her and placed it on a side table.
"Come here."
She stood up and he wrapped his arms around her whilst she held on tightly almost as if she was clinging to dear life itself.
"There's no need for any apologies. You came back."
It wasn't her fault but he sensed the gulf that had grown between them because of this last mission in France. He had no doubt she had performed her duty in an exemplary manner. He'd seen what she was capable of with his own eyes but now he wondered at what cost it had been to herself.
When George finally loosened her hold on Emile he stepped back and took a really long look at her. Beneath her attempts to brighten her appearance with some make-up he could tell that at heart she was weary. She couldn't hide anything from him because he knew her too well.
"Why don't you get some sleep?" He inclined his head to the right, "The bedrooms's over there. Just make yourself comfortable and get some rest. You look tired out."
She lifted her eyes and held his gaze for what seemed like a full heart-thumping ten seconds before she replied, "Only if you come with me."
He took a deep breath and tried to bring his conflicted emotions under control. He had missed her intensely and the thought of making love to her was at risk of overpowering his sense of decency. "I'm not sure it's a good idea, George. I don't want to get in the way. You need rest now."
She shook her head, "No, I need to feel alive again. I've been alone for too long." Her hands reached out to touch his face. He felt the light pressure of her palms on his skin and as her fingers slowly traced the line of his jaw and slid down his neck urging him to lean towards her, he saw her lips raised to meet his own and bending to kiss her he knew he had lost the fight.
X-X-X-X
Emile heard the sob in the darkness and rolled towards her.
"What's wrong?"
There was no reply and her silence worried him. He wondered for a moment if she was asleep and dreaming and was fearful of startling her but then another sob came and he felt the rustling of the sheets as she raised a hand to her cheek to brush away a tear and he waited no longer as his arms slid around her, "What's the matter, George?"
She took a deep shuddering breath, "It's all over."
He tightened his hold on her, "Yes, it's over but don't try to hold it in." He knew only too well how this felt. It had taken him many weeks to sleep soundly and not wake in a sweat, overcome with irrational fear of some unknown danger and accept that he could relax.
"You don't understand."
"I was there too, George."
She turned her head towards him and he felt her breath upon his face, "I know that but I meant that part of my life is over. I'll never feel that way again, Emile, about anything."
He understood this too. It had taken him a long time to adjust to life out of the field. The last three months, sitting behind a desk in Baker Street, had been the most difficult as he had realised that there would be no return to active service and he was faced with only an unknown future and the certainty that he would probably never feel as alive again as he had during his time in France.
"There will be other things, George. It will be different but you'll find other things in life."
There was silence until she asked in a faltering voice, "A home, a husband...children? Do you think that's for me?"
He could hear the scepticism in her voice and had to admit it sounded a million miles away from the woman who had raced through a firefight to rescue him as he lay injured in the factory compound over a year ago.
He swallowed hard. "Not if you don't want that."
It surprised him how much it hurt to say it. He hadn't really thought beyond her safe return but he supposed that in time he might have hoped for that life with her.
"But it doesn't have to be a life without love, does it?"
He feared the answer but she turned to him and reached out in the darkness, her fingers gently caressing his face, "I didn't say that."
He kissed her and pulled her in close to him, relieved and yet still slightly wrong-footed, "You're an unconventional woman, Georgina Lane."
"Is it any surprise?"
She had been thinking of the war and everything that had changed for young women like her since it had started but she could tell from Emile's response that he was thinking only of her.
"Not to me. I knew it the first time I saw you and I wouldn't have it any other way."
For some reason the mention of that very first evening brought more tears to her eyes. Memories of so many people she had met flowed through her mind; some who had survived, some who had disappeared to an uncertain fate and some she had lost forever. She couldn't help the feeling of immense sadness that swept over her. Whether it was grief for herself and what was now past or grief for others she couldn't tell but she began to cry in earnest, unable to hold back the flood of emotions that had been repelled for so long by her stubborn self-control. Emile simply wrapped his arms around her, stroked her hair, kissed her forehead and waited for the tears to subside.
When she spoke again many minutes later her voice was a mere whisper, "Did you feel like this too, afterwards?"
"Sometimes but when it was really difficult I thought of you and it kept me going."
George leaned over and tenderly kissed him, "It was the same for me."
X-X-X-X
George was dreaming. She was back in France. Emile, Bernard and Jacques were alongside her out in the open, engaged in a firefight with a German position but the soldiers had turned a machine gun on them. It was rattling away, pinning them down and holding back their attack. Emile was shouting something above the noise and grasping her by the arms, dragging her away.
"Get down, get under cover."
Startled, she opened her eyes, still unfocused and clouded by sleep and felt Emile's hands upon her, grasping her arms, dragging her off the bed, pulling her to the floor as he anxiously cried, "Cover your head, George."
There was a loud, mechanical puttering noise above them. It was very close and with a sudden jolt of fear George realised what was happening.
Twenty minutes earlier the V1 'doodlebug' rocket had been launched from somewhere in northern Europe and was now immediately overhead having reached its destination. At any moment its engine would cut out signalling an immediate descent to earth where it would scatter indiscriminate death and destruction. The puttering stopped. Emile and George held their breaths, frozen in concentration and dreadful anticipation, wondering if after everything they had been through this was to be their fate.
The shattering explosion was close, too close for comfort. The building shook, the windows rattled, the curtains moved back and forth in the wake of the blast. Glass and rubble cascaded into the street and above them the plaster from the ceiling rained down, covering everything in a film of white powder.
Emile got to his feet and reached out a hand to George to pull her up. She joined him and took a few deep breaths to steady the rapid beating of her heart. It had been a shocking awakening and her nerves were still jangling. It had also reminded her very sharply that her own personal war might have drawn to a conclusion but the war beyond was not over yet. Emile headed for the window and pulled back the curtains. The 'doodlebug' had fallen further down the street and the devastated victim had been a tall townhouse. The house had been reduced to a gaping hole of rubble and timber whilst the garden gate, remarkably intact, swung on its hinges as if someone had just walked up the garden path to knock at the door. Already, Emile could see people running to the scene and in the distance the ringing bell of a fire engine announced it was on its way.
George crossed the room to join Emile. She had seen plenty of bomb damage both here in England and more recently in France in the aftermath of the allied attacks on towns and villages of northern France being held by the Wehrmacht but she had never become used to it. She shuddered to think how close they had been to death yet again and Emile turned to look at her, concern written all over his face. "Are you alright?"
"Yes."
She looked out into the street. People were gathering at the bomb site starting to remove rubble with their bare hands and already she knew she couldn't stand by and watch.
"Come on, let's go and help."
They dressed with haste and hurried down the stairs and out into the street. As they drew nearer they could see that an army sergeant was trying to form the dozen or so people at the scene into a human chain as they started to pass the rubble from hand to hand. A man in front seemed to think that a family was trapped. Soon firemen were also on the scene and started directing the rescuers activities.
Emile and George took their place in the line and started the laborious process of helping to remove the bricks and rubble piece by piece, knowing that it was essential that they work carefully to avoid disturbing the unstable scene. When more people arrived a second chain was formed and George and Emile moved nearer to the front of the line. Every five minutes or so someone shouted for silence and everyone stopped still in their place while the person at the front of one of the lines called down into the debris and strained their ears for any sounds of life.
They had been working away for nearly an hour in this fashion when above them came the familiar sound of another puttering engine. Everyone stopped work and raised their eyes to the sky. This doodlebug was further away from them and destined to fall further to the east. Nevertheless, they froze as one, anticipating the moment it would fall. When the moment arrived they waited for the explosion and then one man muttered, "Bloody bastards," under his breath before they all turned back to the work in hand.
George worked in silence, methodically taking the rubble from Emile and passing it back to the man next her. Her hands, face, hair and uniform were caked in plaster and brick dust, her throat was dry and the skin on her palms was cracked and sore but neither she nor anyone else had any intention of giving up. The last time a shout had gone up for silence the fireman and ARP warden at the front of the line had reporting hearing something and despite the fact that everyone had been standing in the line for almost two hours they were all heartened by the news. Five more minutes passed and then a call for another silence. George looked over at Emile and he caught her eye. His expression told her he felt the same two emotions; hope and fear. They waited as they had so many times already this morning and then at last came the excited cry, "There's a woman down here with a baby."
They had to move even more slowly and carefully as they grew tantalisingly nearer, desperately trying to ensure that the trapped mother and child were not put in danger from any falling masonry until finally there was the joyous moment of seeing a hand emerge into the open from beneath the pile of rubble, a hand waving at them in the relief of rescue. After a few more minutes the rescue party had scraped out a bigger hole and through it was handed a baby girl who appeared to be little more than six months old. She was passed to the ARP warden who carried the precious bundle down to a waiting ambulance. After another ten minutes the mother appeared, caked in dust with cuts to her head but a smile of utter relief and joy on her face. Apart from the superficial wounds she appeared unharmed and was able to stagger with assistance over the rubble down to the ambulance to be reunited with her daughter.
A WVS mobile canteen had arrived on the scene to support the emergency services and the rescuers, and having been told to take a break whilst the fireman assessed the safety of the site, George and Emile took the chance to get some refreshment. They made their way over to the van to get a cup of tea. The plump, rosy-cheeked woman behind the counter poured the steaming brew into two tin mugs and handed them over with a broad smile on her face.
"You're doing a grand job. Keep it up."
George took the mug of tea from her and retreated a little way to sit on a low garden wall and Emile strolled over to join her. She quietly cradled the mug in her hands and stared into the distance with a frown on her face almost as if she was trying to make something out that only she could see. Emile could tell something was on her mind.
"What's up, George. I know that look."
She gazed up at him with a half-smile on her face, "I was thinking about last night."
He raised an eyebrow in surprise, "Really?"
She knew his sense of humour and thought he was going to misunderstand her so she nudged him with her shoulder, "Nothing like that."
She lapsed into silence again and Emile feared she was going to clam up on the subject, "Go on," he urged.
She took a deep breath. "Last night I felt that coming back here meant that I'd never be needed again. Then this morning this unexpected, terrifying thing happened and its made me realise that it's not over yet. Even when we win this war, and I know we will win, Emile, there will still be so much to do and so many people who will need help. We've just helped to save two people's lives and, God willing, more before the day is out. You were right; there will be other things that matter as much. I just have to find them."
He nodded, "If I know you, you'll make people need you and they'd be fools to turn you down."
She gave him a sidelong glance, "Or maybe fools to take me on?"
He shook his head, "Never that."
They drank their tea sitting close together on the wall, not needing to say anything more. The early morning clouds had parted and the area was bathed in warm sunshine. George closed her eyes for a minute appreciating the gentle comfort of the warmth on her skin and Emile turned his to head to look at her. Despite the awfulness of this situation, the fact that she was filthy dirty and probably exhausted, she seemed at peace.
George opened her eyes and caught him gazing at her and for the first time that morning her face broke into a smile.
"What?"
He didn't want to ruin the pleasure of witnessing that simple moment, "Nothing, I was just wondering if you'd like another cup of tea?" He demonstrated the fact that his mug was empty by turning it upside down.
She reached out and took the mug from him, "I'll go."
She got to her feet and started towards the WVS van but had only taken two paces when she was halted by the sound of Emile's voice calling after her.
"George!"
She turned her head. He looked deadly serious and for a moment she was afraid of what might follow.
"There's something I never said to you. Something that should have been said a long time ago before you went back to France."
She wasn't sure what it could be but remained silent. He got up and walked towards her.
"I should have thanked you for saving my life. I'd never have made it without you. I know that and considering what you thought of me when we first met out there, it's a wonder you didn't shoot me at the outset and save yourself all the trouble that followed."
She couldn't help smiling, "The thought crossed my mind once or twice."
He smiled too, "Can't say I blame you but you gave me another chance for which I will be eternally grateful." His arms crept around her waist and he held her close for a moment affirming their new understanding; he knew that she loved him and that he held an important place in her life but he loved her enough to let her be whatever she wanted.
George looked into his eyes and fleetingly thought of how much had changed for her in the last three years. She had found a purpose in life that she had never expected and been given an opportunity to challenge herself and prove that she could achieve more than she had ever imagined possible. She had the love of a good, brave and decent man but she knew now with surety that this was not the end of the story; if she had learned anything from her experiences it was that she had the strength within her to achieve whatever she set her heart upon.
"It wasn't just you," she asserted, "I gave myself a chance too."
THE END