Swim Until You Can't See Land (8 page)

‘To be honest, Mr Thompson, I don’t know much about it, but it seems to me that the Germans aren’t exactly playing by the rules themselves, therefore I don’t see why we shouldn’t do the same.’

He nodded, didn’t say anything.

‘It’s our freedom at stake, isn’t it?’ she continued. ‘We have to fight for that.’

‘Quite.’

She thought she saw a flicker of a smile, a dimpling in his cheeks, but then he bowed his head, scribbled something down. He scratched his moustache with the end of the pencil before he looked up again, as if the smile was nothing more than an itch in his whiskers.

Marièle had memorised the letter but that didn’t stop her from reading it over and over. It contained just the basic information, all that she needed and nothing more. They hadn’t even given her enough time to reply to it. There was faith being shared on both sides. Faith that she would turn up. Faith that they would be there and be legitimate.

But an interview for what?

She fingered the cross around her neck. Faith. Times like this you needed it more than ever.

She looked up as the compartment door slid over.

‘Tickets please,’ said the conductor.

She handed her ticket over.

‘London, eh?’

‘Yes, I’m visiting a friend.’

The lie came naturally, without thinking. Why? She could have said interview, appointment, meeting.

Interview for what?

‘To quote the Prime Minister, our objective is to set Europe ablaze.’

‘Before the Nazis burn it first?’

‘Indeed. Now, Miss Downie, just because you speak the language doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re suitable. There are various skills we are looking for which we hope you will display during training.’

‘What sort of training?’

‘Oh, nothing to worry about now. Just basic stuff at first, a bit of PT, map reading, that sort of thing. The Germans have a very backwards attitude towards the fairer sex – don’t think you girls are up to the task.’

She felt the fire in her belly. How dare they?

Oh, he was good, he was very good. Manipulating her. Making her angry so she would agree to help him and ignore the fact he was being so evasive. She  was still none the wiser as to what the interview was for, but she was determined to sign up anyway.

London was cold and grey when she stepped off the train. Gosh, and people thought that Aberdeen was bleak. Aberdeen sparkled like glitter.

The fog was damp and clung to her and she pulled her coat tight. Where was the sky? She couldn’t see it. She’d never been so far South before, the sky had disappeared somewhere on the way down.

She needed to find somewhere to freshen up, get something to eat before the interview.

Motorcars, army vehicles, buses and trams drove past, while the pavements were just as busy with people. London looked familiar but strange to her. She’d heard about it on the wireless, seen film of it in newsreels and at the pictures. She recognised bits of it without ever having been there before.

Sophisticated looking girls hung on the arms of men in uniform. Smart looking girls, also in uniform, hurried past, full of purpose, busy. Doing something. She looked down at herself. Her knee length skirt and silk blouse, the best clothes she owned. She felt so young and pathetic next to these girls. No, not girls: ladies, women. Maybe she’d join them, be one of them soon?

‘Les Allemands
, we want you to get under their skin, annoy them, hinder them, do you think you can do that?’

‘
Bien sûr
. I want to help, only I’m still unsure what you’re asking me to do. Do you want me to go to France?’

‘Miss Downie, you’re getting ahead of yourself. One step at a time,
s’il vous plait
.’

God, he infuriated her. She wanted to shake him – stop being so evasive and answer me. It was okay for him to pry personal information out of her, but God forbid she asked him a question. Like a politician, Father would say.

‘You want to help liberate France, don’t you? Help end the war, bring our boys home?’

‘
Oui, bien sûr
.’

‘
Formidable
, that’s all we want to know for now.’

Was that it, interview over? And who was ‘we’? She had agreed to do something but she wasn’t very sure what it was. She had signed on without realising.

She looked up as she went, a lot of the street names had been taken down, blanked out in case of invasion. She had the map from Father to help if she got lost.

Interview.

She looked for 143, walked on until she spotted a door number.

71.

She was on the right side of the road at least. She continued, counting the doors as she went.  

73. 75. 77. 79. 81.

For what?

She stopped outside 143. Was this the right place?

It didn’t look like much. What had she been expecting? Maybe a sign on the door, a plaque, a clue? Something to explain why she’d been asked to travel all the way down here.

Nothing though. As uninformative as the letter. She took a compact out of her bag and checked herself, ran a comb through her hair and applied a bit of lippy. It was an odd shade, two old stubs of lipstick melted together. Better than nothing though.

It was real, all of a sudden, and she felt the nerves flutter in her tummy. Back at home, telling her parents and Cath, it had been a game. Marièle playing at being a grown up. Yes, I have an interview. In London. You know? It’s all very hush-hush, important War Office stuff.

For what?

She didn’t feel so grown up now. A long way from home and out of her depth.

She snapped the compact shut.

Out of your depth you either sunk or swam, and she didn’t plan on sinking.

‘We’ll need you to see our psychiatrist before we sign you on officially for the training.’

‘Do you think I’m mad, Monsieur?’

‘
Non
,
non
, please don’t worry, just a formality you know. Now…’ he rifled through his papers, ‘we may be able to fit you in this week. Can you stay in London?’

‘
Oui, pas de problème
.’

What would Mama and Father say? What would she tell them? She didn’t know herself what was going on.

Secret work, helping France in some way.

‘
Bon
. If you speak to the young lady at the reception desk, she’ll sort you out with a place to stay and pass on any messages to your family.’

He put the paperwork down and stood.

Oh, she hadn’t realised that was it. Interview over.

She breathed in, pressed one hand flat against her chest where the cross lay underneath her blouse. Pressed until she felt the shape of it on her palm. Then she pushed open the door.

A girl sat at a reception desk inside. Marièle looked around. She wasn’t expecting this. What was this place? A block of flats? An office? A hotel?

‘Can I help?’ The girl at the desk looked up.

‘Yes,’ Marièle held up the letter, ‘I have an appointment with Mr Thompson.’

‘May I see the letter?’

Marièle handed it over. The girl read it, looked up at Marièle, looked at the letter again.

Marièle flushed, could feel the heat running through her. The girl was at least two or three years younger than her, but she looked so secure, so in charge. What would she make of the letter? When she’d spoken aloud there it sounded like a sleazy rendezvous. God, what if it was?

An interview.

But.

‘It’s been a pleasure, Miss Downie,
merci d’être venue
.’

He shook her hand as she stood up and they walked to the door.

‘When do I…’

‘
Ne vous inquiétez pas
, we’ll be in touch with you.’

That ‘we’ again. She left with more questions than she’d come in with. It felt like a dream. Yes, that’s what it was. A surreal, dream-like experience. Had it gone well? He seemed happy enough, but again, was that a smile or an itch? He’d asked her to stay around, that had to count for something.

She felt sweat prickle up her back and she exhaled deeply as he shut the door behind her. Phew, she hadn’t realised how nervous she’d been, how much she’d been holding her breath in there.

The girl on reception probably knew the score. Maybe she sat there while an endless supply of girls arrived for an ‘interview’ with Mr Thompson.

Mr Thompson.

That probably wasn’t even his real name. God, why hadn’t she thought of that before? It was so generic, it had to be fake.

For what?

She could still leave. Turn around and walk out the door.

No. She had to see this through.

Interview.

‘Mr Thompson is in room 26 on the second floor. Stairs are through there,’ the girl pointed, ‘then turn right.’

‘Thank you,’ Marièle nodded.

Had the girl smirked there? Marièle couldn’t tell if it was a friendly smile or not. Oh hang it, if Mr Thompson or whoever he was tried anything fresh, she’d sock him.

‘Between the legs,’ George had told her when she’d started to get attention from members of the opposite sex. ‘If anyone tries something you’re not happy with, hit him between the legs.’

Mr Thompson better watch out. Marièle made her hand into a fist, punched the air a few times. Between the legs.

Out of sight of the receptionist, she checked herself in her compact again, put her hand under her hair, tried to bounce some life into the waves. The long journey had taken the curl out of them.

She turned right, followed the corridor. It was like a rabbit warren, door after door, while the corridor twisted and turned. She wasn’t sure where she was anymore, disorientated – was she still facing the street?

She found herself counting door numbers again.

22, 23.

She stopped outside room 24. Darn it. That girl still had her letter.

Should she go back and get it?

No, keep going. She could get it on the way out. Not that she needed it. She had memorised the little information it contained.

25, 26.

This was it. Door 26.

Behind this door she would finally get some answers. She knocked twice, hard. Didn’t hesitate, didn’t want to give herself time to chicken out. She knocked once more, harder, scraped the skin on her knuckles. A final practise in case she had to put George’s advice into action.

She heard footsteps on the other side of the door, then the lock turned. A man in a suit and tie stood facing her.

Mr Thompson.

An interview for what?

July
2005

Going in the Wright Direction

GB call up for Scottish swimmer

Hannah Wright (16) has been named in the Great Britain team for the World Swimming Championships in Montreal. Hannah is one of the youngest competitors to be selected and is relishing the opportunity to make her mark on the world stage.

‘I’m so excited to be included in the squad,’ said Hannah. ‘My swimming’s been going really well and this is the reward for all the hard work I’ve been putting in.’

Hannah knows that she’ll be less experienced than others in the team, however she insists she’s not just going to make up the numbers.

‘My aim is to get a new PB for the 100m Butterfly and if I do that then I’ve got a good chance of making the final.’

7

I COUNT AS I
swim, add the metres in my head.

(the only way I know how to count)

25
m

50
m

100
m

I swear I would have done better in Higher Maths if they’d asked me questions about swimming.

Pete’s coach tells him to do 1,000m warm-up then 8 x 200
IM
followed by 200m swim down. How many lengths will Pete swim?

Susan swims 100m freestyle in 1.02.33. What time should she be doing for 400m freestyle?

I’m tired, can’t get a speed up. My arms are heavy and my legs slip through the water instead of propelling me forward.

150
m

200
m

Yesterday’s taken it right out of me. What a strange fucking day.

I keep going for
800
m then stop, lean against the tiled wall, out of breath. I give my steamed up goggles a wipe and rest them on my forehead. The days are gone when I could swim
70, 80,000
metres a week. Sprint
100
m in less than a minute. How far have I swum in my lifetime? I’ve gone round the world a few times.

Where does your fitness go when it leaves you?