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‘My father’s adamant that they want to do their bit, but I would ask you to leave at once if . . .’

He didn’t need to finish his sentence. ‘Of course I will,’ Beth said swiftly.

‘It’s a good way to walk. We didn’t dare have the drop take place anywhere near the farm.’

‘Of course.’

‘One of our guides – it’s best you don’t know his name – will take you there now. Please tell my parents that you have seen me and that I’m well.’

‘I will,’ she promised.

‘I’ll see them – and you – very soon. I come at night sometimes on a motorcycle we’ve – er – “borrowed” from the Germans. So don’t
have a fright when I turn up dressed in a German uniform, will you?’

The man who was to take her to the farm beckoned urgently.

She gave Emile a swift hug and whispered, ‘It is good to see you again,’ and then, following her guide, she was soon swallowed up in the darkness.

Arriving at the farm, Beth was enveloped in a bear hug by the big farmer, Raoul Détange. He was tall with grey hair and, despite the sadness and anxiety in his eyes,
his smile was warm. ‘It’s good to see you again, but I wish it was in happier circumstances,’ he said in his native tongue and Beth responded in French too. His wife Marthe smiled
a welcome too, but her eyes were wary. She was small and stooped a little and her pure white hair was scraped back into a bun. She was dressed in a long black dress that reached almost to her
ankles and a white apron. Once, Beth thought, she must have been plump, bustling about her work like any typical farmer’s wife, but now she was thin and her face was gaunt, the skin hanging
loosely beneath her jawline. What an awful effect the occupation of their country was having on these kind people, who only wanted to live out their lives in peace and harmony.

As soon as he saw that she was welcome at the farm, the man, who had brought her and whose name she didn’t even know, disappeared into the blackness with a quick wave of farewell. Beth
turned back to the elderly couple.

‘Are you really sure you want me here? I’m so afraid it’s putting you in danger,’ Beth said, taking the elderly woman’s wrinkled hands into hers.

‘No more than we’re in already with Emile hiding in the forest about sixty kilometres away. We know he’s involved in acts of sabotage,’ Raoul said, but far from sounding
afraid, there was pride in his tone.

‘Have you seen Simone and the children?’ was all Marthe wanted to know.

Beth shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, not recently, no. I’ve been—’ She’d been about to say that she’d been in London and then in Scotland training, but she
bit back the words. The less these good people knew about her, the better, so she ended lamely, ‘. . . away a lot.’

‘Of course.’ Raoul seemed to understand, though disappointment crossed Marthe’s face.

‘But I’ve seen Alan and I do know they’re all safe and well.’

Marthe smiled thinly and nodded.

‘And I must ask you to call me “Leonie”. My name’s Leonie Moreau now. Later, I’ll explain the background story they’ve cooked up for me. It’s quite
easy.’

Once she was settled into the small, but neat, bedroom with its pretty curtains and patchwork bedspread, a small rug at the side of the bed and a blue and white patterned bowl and ewer on the
washstand in the corner, Beth went back down the stairs.

Marthe was setting a meal on the table. ‘It’s not much,’ she apologized. ‘The Germans take everything we have and leave us very little.’

‘Little more than a starvation diet,’ Raoul said bitterly.

Beth looked startled. ‘They come here?’ she asked in a whisper, as if fearing they might already be at the door.

Marthe nodded, but it was Raoul who advised, ‘The best way to hide, my dear, is in plain sight. Meet them, talk to them – just as we have to.’

‘I didn’t realize I’d have to do that,’ Beth sighed. This seemed to be the way the British wanted some of their agents to act – in full view of the enemy, not
skulking in hiding places. ‘But you’re absolutely right and it fits in with my background story.’

‘Tell us.’

‘My name is Leonie Moreau and I’m the daughter of a distant cousin of yours, Madame.’ She chuckled. ‘So distant, in fact, that you weren’t even aware of my
existence until I arrived on your doorstep to get away from the bombing at home.’

‘And how are you supposed to have got here?’ Raoul wanted to know.

Beth laughed. ‘That’s a good question. I borrowed some money and caught a series of trains. And I hitchhiked some of the way.’

‘And where is home?’ Marthe asked, serving potatoes onto Beth’s plate.

‘Boulogne-Billancourt.’

Marthe looked up in surprise. ‘Where you lived with Simone and Alan and the children?’

‘Yes. We chose there because it’s a place I know well, so I can be truthful about it if – if I’m ever questioned.’ She saw Marthe and Raoul exchange a glance.
‘What?’ she asked, glancing from one to the other. ‘What is it?’

‘We haven’t heard from Simone for some time now. Emile has tried to find out about them, but—’ She paused and asked again, ‘Are they really all right?’

Beth smiled. ‘They’re all fine,’ she said again. ‘They’re living just outside London.’

‘But the bombing?’ Marthe’s eyes were wide with fear. ‘And Simone? She hasn’t been interned, has she?’

‘Gracious, no. She’s not an enemy. We’re all on the same side. Besides, she’s married to an Englishman, who’s—’

She stopped suddenly, realizing that she shouldn’t say any more. Alan’s work was so secretive that even the slightest hint could be catastrophic. All she could do was to assure this
lovely old couple that their family was safe and well, which she knew they were.

‘So,’ Raoul picked up her story again. ‘Are we supposed to know any more about your family?’

Beth shook her head. ‘No. You’ve never known them. The relationship goes back as far as your maternal grandparents, Madame, who’d lost touch with that branch of the family and
you have never even heard of such a connection.’

‘Won’t they think that’s suspicious?’

‘I don’t think so. When it gets down to generations of second and third cousins once or twice removed, I think we all get a bit vague. I certainly don’t know some of my
father’s nephews and nieces and they’re my first cousins.’ She didn’t mention her Aunty Jessie living two streets away. It was best that she forgot all about those at home,
though the thought that she must do so saddened her.

‘Very well, let’s get this straight,’ Raoul said. ‘You are a very distant cousin who just turned up on the doorstep looking for somewhere to stay and work because your
home has been bombed. Is that right?’

Beth nodded. ‘You are the only relatives I have who live in the countryside and I worked out how I could get to you.’

‘But how were you supposed to know about us?’

‘My supposed grandmother was very interested in genealogy and used to reel off all the names of family members and where they lived when I was a little girl. And I remembered hearing about
this farm.’

‘And your grandmother? Who and where is she now?’

‘My pretend grandmother? Oh, she died several years ago.’

‘And your parents? Brothers and sisters?’

‘All killed in the bombing. I was the only survivor.’

‘And all this is made up?’ Marthe was incredulous.

Beth nodded. ‘But there’s no need for you to worry about remembering any of it. All you’ve got to do is call me “Leonie”. Leave the rest to me, if it becomes
necessary.’

‘Leonie, Leonie, Leonie,’ Marthe murmured. ‘I’ll try.’

Raoul was glancing down at the clothes she was wearing. ‘And how old are you, Leonie? That, at least, we ought to know.’

‘I’m fifteen now and my birthday is the twenty-third of June, so next year I’ll be sixteen.’

It had been decided to give Beth a totally new birth date.

‘It’s very easy,’ Sybil had warned, ‘if we use part of your true birth date, that you’ll reel it off automatically. Far better that you learn a totally new
one.’

So Beth must now remember that she’d been born in Boulogne-Billancourt on 23 June 1927.

‘Good, good,’ Raoul said, picking up the second of her two suitcases. It was much heavier than the one he’d already carried upstairs for her. He glanced at Beth. ‘Is this
what I think it is?’

Beth smiled. ‘It’s a wireless transmitter.’

‘Then first thing tomorrow, we must hide it. I know just the place.’

The following morning after her arrival, Beth woke to the sounds of clattering hooves and the lowing of cows as they were herded into the milking shed. Even though it was
early, sunlight streamed through the thin curtains and, despite only a few hours’ sleep, Beth found she was wide awake and anxious to begin the day. Hiding the wireless transmitter was a
priority. She dressed quickly, splashed her face and hands with cold water, hastily plaited her hair and went downstairs. There was no one in the kitchen, but bread, cheese and a glass of milk had
been left on the table for her. Only a few minutes later, as she left the house, a dog came bounding towards her, his tongue lolling out.

‘Hello, boy,’ she said, holding out her hand in friendship to him. The animal was wary for a moment but then came towards her and stood in front of her, looking up at her as if
assessing her. He was about two foot in height, with pointed, alert ears. His fawn-coloured coat was rough and wiry to the touch.

‘Will I do, then?’ she asked laughingly and, almost as if he were answering her, he gave a short bark, turned and seemed to lead her across the yard to the byre where she found Raoul
and Marthe milking four cows. Beth hesitated near the doorway, not wanting to startle the animals, until Raoul should see her.

‘Good morning,’ he said, standing up from the low milking stool and moving the pail of milk away from the cow. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Surprisingly well,’ Beth laughed, ‘after all the excitement.’

‘I see you’ve met Jasper. He’s our sheep dog and a very good one he is too.’

‘What breed is he?’

Raoul laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that reminded her poignantly of her father. Sharply, Beth told herself that she must not think of home.

‘You think he’s a breed? I thought you’d think he was a mongrel. People make that mistake, but actually he’s quite a rare breed. He’s a Berger de Picard.’ He
nodded towards his dog. ‘I can see he’s taken to you. He doesn’t act like that when the Germans come. I reckon he’s got more sense than a lot of the folk round here.
Now,’ he went on, changing the subject abruptly, ‘Do you know how to milk a cow?’

‘I’m sorry – no.’

‘Then you had better learn, if you are to help on the farm.’

‘Shouldn’t we hide the wireless first?’

Raoul chuckled – a deep, comforting sound. ‘The Germans don’t get up this early. We’ll be safe for an hour or two.’

So, for the next hour, Beth learned how to milk.

‘Very good,’ Raoul said, smiling. ‘Have you done this before?’

‘No,’ Beth said, stroking the rump of the cow she had just milked.

‘Then you are a natural.’

Beth smiled, accepting the compliment graciously. She was by no means conceited, but she did seem to have a knack of picking things up quickly. She had been similarly praised during the
paramilitary course in Scotland and had passed the Morse code and wireless operator’s course with flying colours too. Her memory was faultless and would be a useful asset out here. She
wouldn’t need to carry a lot of written messages; it was all in her head.

‘We don’t like our agents carrying anything written down if it can be avoided,’ Alan had warned on her last interview with him before boarding the plane to take her to France,
‘Of course, you have to leave messages in the drop boxes but we have secret ways of writing those.’

Beth had nodded. She’d learned all about being able to write invisibly at training school.

‘The only danger in remembering everything is if you get caught and interrogated. You could give away so much more.’ Then he’d added with a smile, ‘Just mind you
don’t get caught.’

And now she was here in France and the German army was just down the road and would even be visiting the farm. Raoul explained: ‘Their headquarters for this district are in the town, but
there are several officers billeted in our village.’ He nodded in the direction of St Michel. ‘Much to the disgust of most of the locals, I have to say, but’ – he frowned
– ‘there are one or two who are a little too anxious to please our invaders. Collaborators!’ He spat the last word out. ‘Just be very careful, Leonie. Trust no one. And,
like I told you last night, we get soldiers visiting here with their lorries to pick up supplies.’

‘Do they pay you for it?’

Raoul laughed bitterly. ‘Very little, if at all. They’d take everything we have and more, given the chance. And when the local Maquis commit an act of sabotage in the area, they take
reprisals. They shot two men from the town last week, though so far no one has been harmed from St Michel
–
yet I suspect it’s only a matter of time. For the moment, they are
thinking of the supplies of food and accommodation the villagers can provide for them.’

Beth was shocked and yet it was what she had been told to expect. As they crossed the yard towards the farmhouse for a welcome mid-morning drink, she glanced around her at the beautiful
countryside through which the River Loire meandered. It was quite flat around the farm and she was reminded of her home county. But she was suddenly aware that it was not as peaceful and innocent
as it looked.

‘Beth can’t get home, Lil,’ Edie told her with disappointment when Lil popped in on the morning of 30 September – the day of the party for
Shirley’s eighteenth birthday.

‘Aw, that’s a shame. But you’re sure Archie’s going to be here?’

‘He’s here now. He didn’t get home until very late last night and he’s still in bed.’

‘What about Jessie and Harry?’

‘Oh, they’re coming. Have you invited your Norma?’

Lil laughed. ‘No, I thought we’d give her a miss. Don’t want a damper on the day and she and Shirley don’t exactly hit it off, now do they?’ She paused and then
added, ‘You’ve told Ursula, I suppose?’