Swim Until You Can't See Land (7 page)

Shirley? Shirley? Still half-asleep, I fumble about for why that’s relevant.

The old woman’s hands, grasping for the top button of her blouse
.

‘Was she okay?’

‘Aye, aye, nothing a couple of gin and tonics couldn’t fix. It’s you I’m worried about though.’

‘I’m alright.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yeah.’

He hovers in the doorway.

‘Okay, I’ll let you get back to sleep.’

‘Night, Dad.’

‘Night.’

He shuts the door, the light from the hallway fades. I pull the duvet over me, can hear Dad pissing, the flush of the toilet, the creak of the hall floorboards, the
TV
switching on in his bedroom.

I can’t sleep now, lie awake in the darkness. I slide my fingers underneath my jeans, inside my pants, rub myself. Impatient, aggressive. I rub harder and faster, harder and faster, harder and faster, until it hurts.

Keep going, keep going, keep going,keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoingkeep fasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfaster

I come, out of breath, let the sleep take me.

6

‘MISS DOWNIE?’ A
man in a suit and tie answered the door.

‘Yes.’

‘Come in, come in.’ He held the door open and she stepped inside the room.

‘Sit down.’ He gestured to a chair. The room was almost bare of furniture. Two chairs faced each other with a small table in between. A pile of scattered paperwork lay on the table alongside a jug of water and two glasses.

She sat down facing the man. He didn’t say anything, but filled the two glasses with water and handed her one.

‘Thank you,’ she said, taking a sip. Her lips were dry and she swirled the water around in her mouth before swallowing.

‘
Je suis Monsieur Thompson. Parlez-vous Français
?’

‘
Oui. Ma mère m’a appris
.’

Do You Speak French?

Have you ever been on holiday to France?

Do you have photographs of France?

You can help!

Blackout
10.59
pm to
4:59
am

Moon Set
5:36
pm Rises
4:23
am

du Maurier Cigarettes –
The filter tip will keep you fit!
It is now more important than ever that you empty your packet at time of purchase and leave it with your tobacconist.

‘
Look at this in the newspaper, Mama, we have photographs we can send,’ Marièle said.

‘Ne sois pas bête.
Why would they want our old holiday snaps?’

‘They wouldn’t ask unless they needed them.’

Marièle looked out the shoe box of photographs that Mama kept under the bed. She pulled out a handful of them.

Her and George as children.

Mama and Father.

Mama with Mémé and Grand-père. They called him Grand-purr because of his two cats.

George had his arm around Marièle in one of the photos, was dressed in shorts and t-shirt, socks and sandals on his feet. One of his socks had fallen down, hung around his ankle. He wasn’t looking at the camera, had been distracted by something off to the side. What was it?

She ached looking at these photos of him. That wee boy who lived to be barely a man. It wasn’t fair. The missing him sucked all the air out of her.

Miss Marièle Downie
24 Blackness Road
Aberdeen

TO WHOMEVER IT MAY CONCERN

As per your recent newspaper advertisement, please find enclosed a selection of photographs taken while on holiday in France.

My mother is French and therefore we have spent a great deal of time in France over the years.

I hope they will be of some use to you. Please return them to us when you are finished with them, as they hold a great deal of sentimental value.

Yours faithfully,

Miss Marièle Downie

War Office

London SW1

Dear Miss Downie,

Thank you for your recent letter and photographs which were gratefully received. We request that you attend for interview on Friday 23 at 3pm to the enclosed address.

Yours Sincerely,

Mr Thompson

‘An interview for what?’ Mama asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Marièle replied.

‘
Je n’aime pas ça
. You can’t go off to London alone. She can’t go off to London on her own.’

‘
She’s a big girl, Claudine,’ said Father. ‘She’ll be fine.’

‘But we don’t even know what it’s for.’

‘It’s from the War Office, Claudine, they don’t have to explain. You know how dangerous gossip can be.’

Marièle re-read the letter. Was it real? What if she got there and discovered it was a hoax?

It didn’t matter really. Whatever happened, she planned to join up as soon as she returned home. She wasn’t going to spend the rest of the war counting ration coupons, totting up accounts, writing up receipts. Hang Mr Jackson and his excuses.

But I need you.

You are helping the war effort.

People need food, don’t they?

I’ve pulled a lot of strings to keep you here.

It may not be glamorous but it’s still an important job.

Someday they would ask her what she’d done during the war and she didn’t want to be ashamed to answer.

She’d only ever had one job, one interview. And Mr Jackson’s questioning had hardly been conventional.

MR JACKSON:  So, Susan, you’re here about the job?

MARIÈLE:  My name’s not Susan, it’s Marièle.

MR JACKSON:  What sort of a name is that? I’m going to call     you Susan. Congratulations, Susan, you’ve got the job. Let’s get you started.

MARIÈLE:  Now? But, I’m supposed to go to school. Mama    will wonder where I am.

MR JACKSON:  No more school for you, Susan. You’re a working woman now.

He led her to the shop counter, gave her an apron and left her to it. The apron was too long, trailed under her feet.  She felt like such a fool, the new girl in the oversized apron. If it hadn’t been for Arthur, she probably would have left then and there. But he stood her on a stool, pinned up her apron, told her if anyone gave her any trouble she was to let him know.

She’d only been fifteen. How the time had flown.

‘
D’accord,
Miss Downie, I expect you’re wondering why we asked you here.’

‘
Oui
,’ she nodded and took another drink of water. It was warm, must have been sitting out for a while. Had he been here all day? Seeing other girls before her?

‘
Merci pour les photos
. They were very useful. You will of course get these back once we’re finished with them.’

He picked up a few sheets of paper from the table. She tried to see what was written on them but the typeface was too small.

‘The letter you sent us. You spent a lot of your childhood in France?’

‘
Oui. Ma mère est Française
. We visited my grandparents every summer until they passed away.’

‘I see. Are you fluent yourself?’

‘
Oui
, my mother brought us up bilingual.’

‘Us?’

‘Mon frère et moi.’

‘Ah, yes, George.’

She nodded. It was still hard to speak out loud about him. It felt strange hearing his name, they avoided using it at home. She hadn’t mentioned him in the letter – how did this man know?

The letter looked official. It was stamped and signed. Besides, Father wouldn’t let her travel all that way on her own if he thought it was anything untoward. He walked her to the station for the overnight train, kissed her on the cheek and wished her good luck. She watched him from the train window as he walked away along the platform, leaning on his stick, limping on his bad leg. The whistle blew and he was obscured in a cloud of smoke as the train pulled out of the station.

She read the letter again.

An interview for what?

You didn’t question things anymore, just went along with them. The war had changed everything.

She folded the letter up, slipped it in its envelope and put it in her pocket. Ate the sandwich Mama made for her, washed it down with the Thermos of tea.

Mr Thompson took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

‘You have fond memories of France?’

‘Yes, very much so.’

‘And what do you think of the current situation?’

‘It makes me very sad. Mama’s glad
Mémé
and
Grand-père
didn’t live to see this.’

‘So you are sympathetic towards France in their current situation?’

‘
Oui, bien sûr
, isn’t everyone?’

‘I should like to think so, but you’d be surprised.’

She glanced around the room.

No clock.

How long had she been here? The blinds were closed, the only light came from a lamp in the corner.

She looked out the train window, at her reflection in the dark glass. She’d never travelled so far on her own before. It was liberating. She was actually doing something.

She opened the letter again.

Friday 23 at 3pm

But an interview for what?

She didn’t even know how long the interview would last. An hour? Ten minutes?

‘You’ve travelled down from Scotland?’

‘
Oui
, Aberdeen.’

‘We appreciate you coming all this way.
Votre Français est très bon.
No trace of a British accent. That’s what gives people away.’

‘Gives people away?’

‘Oui.’

Mr Thompson scribbled on a sheet of paper. Was she saying the right things? She was tired, had barely dozed on the train. This was as strange an interview as the one with Mr Jackson. At least then she had known what the job was.

‘Would you describe yourself as patriotic, Miss Downie?’

‘Oui.’

‘To France or to Britain?’

‘I feel strongly about both countries. They are both home to me.’

‘How have you spent the war so far?’

‘I’ve just been working in a grocer’s shop.’

‘Just?’

She shrugged. She felt as if she was dodging out of real work, hiding.

‘Don’t be embarrassed, Miss Downie – people still need to eat. Grocers are very important, what with rationing and food shortages.’

Exactly what Mr Jackson would say. She took a drink of water to cool the flush that spread across her cheeks. She could hear her tongue clicking against her palate when she spoke.

She smoothed out her skirt. Careful not to catch the stockings with her finger nails. She’d borrowed them from Cath, promised not to snag them. Marièle’s only pair had a ladder in the heel.

Mr Thompson. She was to ask for Mr Thompson. She imagined a middle aged man, but couldn’t conjure up a face, a hairstyle. It was an uninspiring name.

‘Enough small talk. The reason you’re here, Miss Downie.’

She nodded, smoothed out her skirt. Darn it, she’d snagged Cath’s stockings. She hoped they wouldn’t ladder. They were so hard to replace.

‘We need people with language skills to help the war effort in France.’

‘When you say in France?’

‘
Oui
, to help out our French allies.’

‘Doing what?’

‘We have various uses for people like yourself, couriers, sabotage, wireless operators, that sort of thing. How do you feel about this, Miss Downie?’

‘
Je suis désolée
. I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Sabotage, secret messages, that sort of thing. Underhand, some people call it – don’t think it’s very British.’

George had said something to that effect the last time he’d been home on leave. Something about fighting dirty when faced with dirty opposition. He’d argued with Father.

We shouldn’t stoop to their level, George.

We need to if we want to win. You don’t know what it’s like.

Of course I do.

It’s completely different from the trenches.

Yes, luckily for you too.

Father slammed his stick down on the table.

At the time, Marièle didn’t know who to agree with, whose side to take. She just wanted the war to end.

For people to stop dreading the telegram boy.