Swim Until You Can't See Land (18 page)

‘I know you’ve not been given much time for leave since completing the training, but I’m afraid it is vitally important that we get you out there sooner rather than later. The network is in a bit of a pickle and we think you can help.’

She was being sent to France. For real. All that play acting, pretending the boys were Gestapo Officers as they interrogated her, learning how to strip and reassemble a Bren, memorising the Morse alphabet. There was always a voice at the back of her head, whispering, this isn’t real, no danger here, it’s all pretend.

It was unlikely she would die during training, no matter how bloody awful she felt during a six am ten-kilometre run.

Being sent to France meant putting herself in actual danger. It meant the possibility of her parents receiving another telegram.

If she was caught they wouldn’t care that she was young, that she was female. She was a spy, and in the real world spies were tortured and executed. This had been drummed into her constantly over the last few months.

The average lifespan between arrival and capture for a
W/T
operator in France is six weeks.

‘
You’re being sent out as pianist for the Sand Dune circuit but it’s more than likely that you’ll need to help with courier work too – they’re a bit short-staffed. You will report to Alex Sylvan.’

Six weeks. Six weeks. Six weeks. Six weeks.

One, two, three, four, five, six.

Forty-two days.

One thousand and eight hours.

Funny to think this could be all the time she had left. Even funnier the way she kept nodding, as if this was completely fine with her.

In Britain, you listened and nodded.

In France, you tried to survive. Stay alive.

Six weeks was an average, she might not even last that long.

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But she was different.

Clever, above average.

She would come home.

There was a car parked outside the farmhouse, a black Citroën. She had heard an engine. God, why hadn’t she acted on it?

A man dressed in black and a driver sat in the car.

The soldier pushed her into the back seat, followed in behind. He pushed his pistol into her ribs, handcuffed her.

Sabine.

She was Sabine.

What had the training reports said about her? Was she up to this? Or had they sent her over here with the hope that they’d get a couple of weeks out of her?

She’d lost count. Had she made it to six?

At least she’d made it through the training, that was more than some.

Celia received a telegram about her husband, left and hadn’t come back.

Doris, ‘dismissed with regret’ after being monitored talking English in her sleep. Too much of a risk, everything had to be done in French, even sleep-talking.

The others had been sad to see her go until Marièle pointed out it meant they were being monitored while they slept.

Maybe it was that sort of thinking that had got her this far? What did her brain tell her to do now?

‘There’s still time to say no.’

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‘I want to go.’

‘We would never force someone into going, despite the value we place in your work. It’s a huge risk, you do understand that?’

Marièle nodded, didn’t ask what had happened to Sand Dune’s previous pianist. Was it someone she’d trained with?

‘You will travel by felucca on Sunday evening.’

‘Felucca?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he shuffled some papers, ‘I can see that you’re a whizz at parachuting, but I’m afraid a parachute landing isn’t possible at this time. I know you’ll be disappointed, but really how you get there isn’t important. More that you get there and help Sand Dune back up and running again.’

What had happened to Sand Dune?

If she asked, she might change her mind about going.

But I’m Merle, she wanted to say. She felt sick at the thought of going by felucca, it was a bad omen. This was her life they were playing with. They didn’t care if she lived or died, she was just w/t replacement, just like the girl who came after her would be w/t replacement. They didn’t care that if she didn’t parachute in, the whole mission was doomed, jinxed from the start.

But of course she had to stay quiet. If they knew she had thoughts like that they would stamp her record.

Not in a fit mental state.

Flights of fancy equalled no France, and she still wanted to go. She had to go.

It was stupid of course, he was right, it didn’t matter how she got there. She couldn’t shake it off though, that nagging feeling of doom.

She looked down, tried to avoid eye contact with the men. Nobody spoke.

Should she protest?

Je m’appelle Sabine Valois
, what is the meaning of this?

Madame Poirier. That moan she gave out.  Worse was the sinking realisation that fear of being shot herself cancelled out some of her grief for Madame. She wasn’t ready to die. She didn’t want to die.

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‘Press here, and here.’

Sabine pressed her finger into the ink pad, then marked her new document with the printed loops and whorls.

Funny, how similar Sabine’s fingerprints were to Marièle’s. Or was it the other way around?

Froggy Marie, Froggy Marie. Her name embarrassed her when she was at school. She avoided saying it. Now she was sad to let it go. Even if it was only meant to be temporary.

Would she ever be Marièle again? Had she lost herself forever to Sabine? Marièle felt like a friend from back home. Someone she used to know. The only part of her they let her keep was the cross from George. It was French, looked authentic. And Marièle’s grief, of course, that never left her.

Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.
I am twenty-one. I am blah, blah, blah.

She was fed up repeating the story over and over and over.

As her departure date got closer, they played tricks on her, tried to trip her up.

‘Marièle, please can you empty out your coat pockets for us.’

‘Je suis Sabine.’

‘Good girl, Sabine,
très bon
.’

She emptied her pockets. They’d given her a French coat to wear, complete with French labels, wanted to double check she hadn’t pocketed anything that would give her away.

British bus tickets, British money, British cigarettes, British wrappers.

‘Now, we’ll swap your documents. You’ll get them back when you return.’

If she returned.

-.... / .-- . . -.- ...

Sabine handed over her identity card, her clothing coupons, her ration book, replaced them with French ones.

‘We get to dress you up like a French doll,’ one woman laughed as she fixed Sabine’s head scarf.

‘It feels like I’m being dressed down, look at me,’ Sabine replied.

Frumpy skirt, woollen pullover, flat shoes.

Lucky for Doris she talked in her sleep, you would have had a fight on your hands, Sabine thought, as they wiped off what little make up she had on. 

One of the men said something in German and the others laughed. Sabine didn’t know much German, but she understood enough to know it was a joke about her appearance. At least that meant they probably wouldn’t rape her. That was the part of the training where nobody had laughed.

What was her limit? Could she take the pill if she had to?

‘This is the bit that’s always a bit sensitive.’

He held a lipstick in his hand, French branding of course. The attention to detail was astonishing. Sabine doubted that your average German soldier would recognise the name and style of a French lippy, but she didn’t want to end up dead over something so trivial.

‘Sensitive?’

‘This isn’t just a lipstick.’

‘Ahh, I see, another one of your gadgets. What’s this one, a flick knife, a compass, a machine gun?’

He didn’t smile, looked at her with that same apologetic expression that people had worn after George. He clicked something with his fingernail, unhinged the bottom of the lipstick. A small, translucent pill fell out onto the palm of his hand.

Sabine looked at him, nodded, and he put the pill back inside, clicked the catch shut again, handed her the lipstick.

The woollen jumper they’d given her irritated her, she scratched at the crook of her arm until she broke the skin.

‘Now, let’s go through the contents of your handbag.’

‘A girl’s handbag is very personal to her.’

‘Not in France,’ he smiled.

‘Torch, compass, six hundred francs, comb, hair ribbon, head scarf…’

Sabine only half-listened. She picked up the photograph of her fake Parisian family.

Fake mother.

Fake father.

Fake sister.

‘I always wanted a sister,’ she said, looking at the strange girl who smiled back at her. The photo was creased, worn around the edges. It had to look well-used.

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Mama and Father back home. So many, many miles away. The middle of the night there too. They would be in bed. Were they asleep? Mama always claimed to have a sixth sense. Was she lying awake right now while Father snored? She wished she was home with them, that last visit on leave had gone so quickly. They’d never recognise her now. Would walk past her in the street. Sabine couldn’t bear to think of what Mama and Father would do if they received another telegram.

She handed the pile of letters over, she’d spent the last couple of days writing them. Part of the procedure for being sent to France.

Just a quick letter to say I’m doing fine. Sorry, I’ve been unable to write more. I’ve been so busy here, they certainly keep us on our toes.

Hello from London, not much has changed in the last week or so. Still driving the top brass around. 

Met my first Yank today. Very nice despite what we used to say in the shop. He gave me some nylons and a bar (a whole bar!) of chocolate for driving him and his
CO
around London.

Went with a couple of the girls to the flicks to see the new Clark Gable picture.

Missing you both dreadfully and, of course, still think of George everyday. I hope to be able to get some leave soon, but we are terribly busy and the girls with husbands and families seem to take priority.

If you’re reading this letter, then I’m afraid that something terrible has happened to me. I suppose I can tell you now that I have not been in London these past few weeks. I’m so sorry for deceiving you. I only did it to stop you from worrying, a white lie, Mama. I love you both very much. Please know that you were never far from my thoughts and thinking of you helped me through my darkest times. 

The Last Will and Testament of Marièle Francesca Downie, being of sound mind.

‘A parting gift for you, my dear, from Major Buckmaster.’

‘Thank you,’ Sabine opened the gold plated powder compact.

‘No tricks with this one, it is what it is.’

‘Did I look so disappointed?’

‘He likes to give everyone one, as a parting token of his appreciation.’

She clicked the compact shut, slipped it in her handbag.

‘Now I can see how dowdy you’ve made me look every time I powder my nose. I’m joking of course,
merci, c’est trés joli
.’

‘If you wait here now, someone will come and get you when it’s time to leave.’

He held out his hand and she shook it.

‘We don’t say good luck,’ he said, ‘so I’ll just say
au revoir, jusqu’à la prochaine fois.’

The driver started the engine and the car moved forward. What about the rest of the circuit? Had they all been caught, killed? Was she the only one left?

The Germans are fond of night-time raids.

Oh God, she needed to start thinking straight. Caught. No idea what had happened to the rest of them. No idea how much the Germans knew.

What did they tell her in training?

Don’t speak. Try not to speak. Even under extreme torture…

Her hands shook, handcuffed behind her. She clasped them, picked at the swollen chilblains.

She didn’t want the men to see how afraid she was.

The headlights of the car lit up Madame Poirier’s farmhouse. Madame had been so good to her, sheltering her, feeding her, caring for her.

As the car turned and drove away, Sabine caught a glimpse of something.