quickened his step, the sooner to get to Ma’s and the bed he would share with her. They would love, then she would fall asleep in his arms, her ridiculous baby-soft curls tickling his nose. And in the morning when she opened her eyes and smiled and said, throatily, ‘Hullo, you,’ they would make love again because it would be the last time for only God knew how long.
He took her arm and she demanded to know what the hurry was and he told her she knew damn well.
‘And, Kitty, hear this! Next time I get long leave we’re getting married and no messing – even if it’s a special licence job!’
She said that was fine by her, because maybe being deliciously unconventional and doing what nicely-brought-up girls shouldn’t do every time they found themselves within spitting distance of a double bed was wearing a bit thin now.
‘You’re right, Drew. Reckon we’ve come as far as we can and I guess you should make an honest woman of me. Come to think of it, it might be nice to be Lady Sutton.’
She stopped walking and gazed up at him with eyes so blue and serious and appealing that he took her in his arms, right there in the middle of Bold Street, and kissed her hard and long.
And didn’t give a damn who saw them!
Keth stood unmoving in front of the mirror and, unmoving, Gaston Martin stared back. Those who kitted him out had done a good job, he grudgingly admitted. The clothes fitted; even the shoes and the socks, of which one pair was neatly darned, could have been worn by himself – times past, that was, when Keth Purvis wore darned socks and cheap, well-worn shoes.
Yet he must forget his other self. He was Gaston Martin now. In the pocket of his belt was five hundred francs in notes; in his trouser pockets a knife, a handful of small coins and a packet of Gauloises, even though he did not smoke. Inside one of the three very ordinary buttons on his jacket was a compass, though why a compass was necessary if he was to be taken to a safe house, hidden away, then returned to his point of departure, he had no idea.
In a brown paper carrier bag which he was told to get rid of at once if there was even the slightest risk of being picked up, were carefully packed valves and a small, heavy packet. Valves for wireless operators to replace broken ones – valves were notorious for their fragility, it seemed – and spares for the firing mechanisms of two automatic revolvers. Just to be carrying such things gave reality to his journey; a shivering awareness that began when he was checked and checked again for incriminating evidence by a man who could once have been a police detective.
No English brand names on any of his clothing; no London Tube tickets or bus tickets in his pockets or evidence that his underwear and handkerchiefs had been laundered in England. Laundrymarks were a big giveaway, the man said as he left, satisfied.
Keth dug a hand into his trouser pocket, bringing out the coins, placing them on the window-ledge to familiarize himself with their values. The coins made sense to his mathematical mind; tens were easier to calculate than twelves; you just stuck in a decimal point. Twelve pence to the shilling was all wrong, really.
He turned as the door opened to admit his inquisitor of yesterday; the man Keth had dubbed Slab Face and against whom he still felt resentment, even though his cheek had not bruised.
‘You’ve had your final check?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Feeling all right?’
‘No, but I’m working on it.’ Why did the man irritate him so?
‘You’ll be leaving in the morning about ten; arrive at the naval base about eleven. When you sail will be up to the submarine people. Their ops room will work out your expected time of arrival and tell us so we can alert our people at the other end.’
‘Seems all very straightforward, sir.’
‘We like to think we know what we are doing, Captain. Good luck.’ He held out a hand and Keth was surprised its grasp was firm and warm. It comforted him until the man turned, hand on the door knob and said, ‘You’ll be given your D-pill in the morning, by the way.’
‘My …?’
‘Dammit, man – do I have to spell it out?’
‘But I hadn’t thought –’ Keth stopped, all at once feeling real fear.
‘What hadn’t you thought?’
‘That I was all that important. No one told me about anything like – well, that …’
‘Then you should have been told. And we do not consider any of our operatives unimportant, Captain. You are being sent to France because you have special knowledge of the machine you are to bring back with you and not because of your prowess as an SOE operative – nor your ability to survive under questioning.’
‘No, sir.’ He was doing it again: putting him down.
‘You have more knowledge than you think. Under duress not only would you tell them why you were in France, but before they’d finished with you you’d have told them about Bletchley and how much we know already about their Enigma machine. They think their signalling system is safe because they change the code every day, but with persuasion you would tell them that we are breaking their army and air force codes whenever we want to, and that soon we hope to be breaking their U-boat signals, too.’
He paused, breathing deeply and loudly as if allowing time for his words to be given fullest consideration.
‘So that is why, before you leave, Captain, you will go through your final briefing, be given your codename – Gaston Martin’s codename – and advised where best to hide your pill. And that when you swallow it you will be dead in fifty seconds.
‘I have had grave doubts about sending you, but it is too late now to do anything about it. But of one thing I am sure. You, as an individual, are of little value; what you know is. Never forget that. Good day to you. Good luck.’
Keth stood transfixed, wanting – needing – to yell, ‘Bastard!’ at the top of his voice, wanting to tell him to find some other fool to do his dirty work. But he did not because now there was no going back and anyway, all at once he seemed incapable of speech or movement. All he could be sure of was his love for Daisy and his need to hold her close.
Damn Slab Face! Petulantly he swept the coins from the window-ledge and into his pocket. And in the morning when he left this place, he would not think of Keth Purvis nor his mother, nor Rowangarth. And especially he would not let himself think of Daisy because Gaston Martin was going to France and only when he returned could Keth Purvis be himself again.
‘I love you, Daisy,’ he said out loud. ‘I’ll love you till the day I die.’
Then he thought of the D-pill and wanted to weep as he had not wept since the day his father died, but instead he sucked in his breath and said very slowly and deliberately, ‘Wherever you are, my darling – take care …’
Grace Fielding gave the apple a final polish then laid it carefully on the rack. She knew all about the storage of apples and pears now; had no need to ask instructions. Yet the trouble with grading and wiping and storing fruit for the winter, Gracie frowned, was the time it gave her to brood; think that for three days had there been neither a letter nor phone call from Bas – which was unusual.
The crunch of footsteps on the path sent her hurrying to the door and down the wooden steps of the apple loft to find not Bas, nor Tilda, who had said she would call in for apples, but a tall army sergeant who smiled and said, ‘Afternoon, miss. Can you tell me where I can find Mr Jack Catchpole?’
‘He’s over yonder in the far corner, seeing to the winter chrysanths.’
She pointed to where late-flowering chrysanthemums, grown to bloom at Christmas, were being