‘So we’re restricted but they’re not. How many processing plants there are in Germany?’
‘Three that we know of.’
‘Presumably processing to capacity. I assume the RAF is doing its best to neutralise them? Although until they do, the unlimited supply fuels the German war machine, and keeps this blasted conflict going.’
‘So far so good, old girl. Glad you were listening.’ Matthew’s voice was flat.
‘But what I don’t understand is why you’re not doing something about it.’
‘So you weren’t listening, after all.’
‘Oh, I was. You said that your lads complain more than Lady Anne. That’s all well and good, but when all you do is complain and don’t back it up with any action, it’s not that effective, is it?’
Matthew stared, as if seeing me for the first time. The mantel clock ticked several times before he responded:
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I don’t know yet. Let me think about this.’
I picked up my handbag and hat. Paused halfway to the door in time to see Matthew sink back into his chair, the picture of frustrated despair.
*
I was shaking by the time I dismounted from the bicycle in Oeiras. Passed a pair of chattering women as I entered the lavatory of a busy waterside restaurant. For one moment it sounded as if they spoke Italian, and the next Spanish. Then I realised that it wasn’t any one language they conversed in, but both. The languages were similar enough to understand one another, and if following the conversation was frustrating, at least hearing their speculation about the romantic prospects of one of the women with some new officer was distracting.
When was the last time I’d been able to laugh that freely? Not since dropping into France, where my life depended on never making a wrong move. Maybe even before then, at the first training school SOE sent me to, where a small group of strangers with different backgrounds and different skills became the best friends I had. The commanding officer was clear about our odds: in all likelihood, only one in two of us would return. I would never have put Robert into the group that wouldn’t.
I slipped past a woman preening in front of the looking glass and locked the door to the stall. Intent on applying her lipstick, Laura, the Spanish countess, didn’t appear to notice me. Or rather, she didn’t notice the blonde Englishwoman. She wouldn’t have forgotten the Frenchwoman who’d given her the dressing-down at the casino. I’d have to take my time changing from one into the other.
The cotton shift I’d left home in was wrinkled after being crushed in my bag, but would have to suffice. I hung it on the doorknob and wrapped the wig in my discarded clothes. A knot rose in my throat and I closed my eyes against the tears, bit my fist to stop the howl. Waited until I heard Laura leave the room, before I sat heavily on the commode and wept, my sobs muffled by the damp dress folded neatly in my hands.
*
That night I dreamt I was standing in the courtyard of the manor house where I trained. The thatched barn is behind me, and crouching on the periphery is the ridge I knew as the Hog’s Back, alive with the eyes of a thousand bufos. SS thugs watch from the guardhouse, their assault rifles gleaming in the moonlight. My friends stand with me: Dom and Jérôme, Big André and Philippe and Robert. But Dom isn’t Dom. She’s the dead Frenchwoman, Mireille, and as Robert breaks cover, she throws Alex’s sgian dubh. He crumples.
‘We don’t tolerate traitors,’ she explains. I blink and they’re gone – vanished into the thistle.
I know I need to break something out, but I don’t remember what and there’s no one to ask. I reach for my gun, but it isn’t in the waistband of my skirt or in my bag. I must have forgotten it at home and instead of the dark clothes I thought I’d worn, I’m wearing a green twinset and a tweed skirt. How could I have done that? I don’t own a green twinset.
My curse carries on the evening breeze and the guards come to investigate.
‘Traitors,’ one says. Sees the knife in Robert’s body. ‘Bloody English knife.’
‘Scottish,’ I correct automatically.
‘Spy!’
The other raises his gun. I know better than to argue. Know better than to run, and I will not beg. I close my eyes and wait for my end.
In the darkness, there’s a giggle and a bang.
*
I woke in the darkness of my bedroom, sitting up straight, covered in sweat. Heart pounding, I rested my head against the window frame behind me, allowing the night air to cool my body.
A car growled as it climbed the hill, its occupants laughing and urging it on as it backfired again. Not a gun, just an old jalopy. Padding to the parlour, I poured a large brandy and, saluting the ghost of my fallen friend, drained it in a single gulp.
Even after a second glass, sleep was elusive. I waited for the sky to lighten before dressing in a red linen sheath and a pair of espadrilles. Strapped Alex’s knife to my thigh and grabbed my bicycle.
With no destination in mind, I headed to the beach, and the soothing sound of the waves. I turned left at the base of the hill and cycled along the embankment toward Carcavelos until I reached the chunky fort of São Julião da Barra.
As the sky changed from cerulean to lavender, a man appeared on the beach below the fort, running in the surf with an Alsatian dog. He threw a ball into the water, barely breaking his pace. I watched his laughter when the dog returned it, drenching him when it shook the water from its fur. Spellbound, I watched them cavort in
