‘Until Jerry caught up,’ I said.
‘Until Jerry caught up,’ Matthew confirmed. ‘The little scrapper seems to have survived an awful lot.’
‘You should congratulate him.’
‘I will,’ Matthew said, standing up. ‘As soon as I’m convinced he’s telling the truth.’
‘What makes you think he isn’t?’
‘Bit too convenient, my dear. He gets out of Fresnes, out of France and is the only survivor from a submarine? A tad too convenient. But . . .’ Matthew sighed, ‘his company awaits.’
Grateful that the Consul-General in Madrid was more trusting, I followed my godfather up a flight of stairs. He stopped briefly in another office to pass on a file. It wasn’t until the man turned that I noticed his Adam’s apple. I stepped back and kept my head down, hoping he wouldn’t notice me, or worse – connect the blonde in front of him to the brunette from the train.
A secretary carrying a silver tray with tea and biscuits met us on the top floor. Matthew held the door open, allowing her to enter first. The summer heat was oppressive and the interview room was stifling. Sweat gathered under my wig and I wondered how long I’d last before having to take the blasted thing off.
Jones sat at a low table. He was short and squat, with eyes too close together and a neck that must have been left in France. His nose had been flattened from repeated breaks and he sported a white scar above his left eyebrow. A newer wound oozed through the white bandage taped to what should have been his hairline. He might not have been a bad-looking man once, but wasn’t likely to be again.
He was mopping his brow as we entered, his massive hand freezing on his forehead at the sight of me. Bright eyes raked me from head to toe.
‘Hallo, Mr Harrington.’ He greeted Matthew cordially and returned his gaze to me. ‘Hallo, miss. And miss.’
He nodded to the secretary as she put down the tray, poured three cups, and retreated.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Jones,’ I replied, not bothering to introduce myself. ‘I understand you have an interesting story to tell.’
‘Ain’t a story, miss.’
He put the white handkerchief down and I realised that his hands weren’t that large per se. They’d been bandaged in several layers of white linen.
‘Very well then. Why don’t you tell me what happened?’
He shrugged. ‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘The beginning. I want you to tell me your full name and why you were sent into France.’
‘Bert Jones, at yer service.’ He pulled a non-existent forelock; what little hair Nature had left him with was shaved off.
‘Please proceed, Mr Jones.’
‘Started simple enough. I was about to be shipped out to France with my unit when I shot me mouth off an’ got hauled in. Someone looked at me sheet an’ asked if I spoke French. Mum was from Tours, wasn’t she?’ He selected a wafer, crunching on it noisily.
‘And you volunteered?’
He spoke through a full mouth. ‘CO called me in for a chat. Asked if I wanted to volunteer for “Special Service”. Me, I thought it’d be safer than having Jerry shoot at me.’ He shook his head, disgusted. Brushed the crumbs off his chest. ‘Safe, my rosy arse.’
‘Where were you trained?’
‘For what? Started off at Beaulieu, then went to a few other sites.’
He tried to lift the porcelain cup; cursed as it threatened to slip from his bandaged hands.
‘Tell us about it,’ Matthew suggested.
‘What do you want to know? The shooting was easy enough. Weapons, then fighting without weapons. I was pretty good at both.’ He smirked.
‘I have no doubt of that,’ I said. I also had no doubt that whatever skills His Majesty’s academy at Beaulieu taught Mr Jones would be put to good use once he returned to the East End. Even if those hands didn’t heal. ‘What else?’
He ticked them off. ‘Signalling, how to move about at night, how to blow up an old railway line. Enough to make me pretty clear about this “Special Service” bollocks.’ He ducked his head. ‘Sorry, miss.’
I waved away the apology. ‘And afterwards?’
‘Stomped about Scotland for a bit. Then learnt to jump outta planes and the like.’
He looked closely at me, as if trying to determine if he’d surprised me. It would take a lot more than that.
‘And then off to France?’
‘I was s’posed to be dropped into a field near Tours last February. I knew the area – Mum’s people was still there. Supposed to recruit the lot of ’em, then train ’em up in weapons. Fancy that – me, the weapons instructor,’ he snorted.
I’d have bet he had a criminal record back in England.
‘They were waiting for us at the airfield. The lights looked right enough. Four of ’em, forming an L.’ He raised the cup to his lips again; his hands had begun to shake. ‘Could have been laid out with a square. “It doesn’t get better than this!” the dispatcher said, and kicked us down the hole.
‘Glad to have been out of the plane too, miss. You have no idea how it stinks in there. Kerosene and petrol. Vomit and fear. Terrible.’ He rubbed a bandaged hand over his eyes.
‘There was a woman on the plane, pretty little thing. Green as you like the entire flight, but she weren’t the one to be sick. No, it were the lad from Liverpool.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘So we dropped. Halfway down, searchlights caught us.
‘The girl dropped first,’ Jones said, his eyes faraway.
‘Always,’ I murmured.
The instructors did it to spur on the men. And if it was more dangerous, at least it taught us to be self-reliant.
Jones stared at me and, finding the answer he sought, nodded.
‘She was almost to the ground before they started firing. The Scouse got it first, still in the air. Then the girl, caught up in her ropes. Me and the other lad, we got off a couple of shots but
