Claire opened the small square red and blue Paris Nouveau Plan. ‘It’s lovely, Éric. Are you sure you want to part with it?’
‘Yes, if it will take you to my mother.’
‘Repertoire Des Rues Métro,’ Claire read. ‘Directory of Streets and the Métro.’
Éric cuffed a tear from his cheek. ‘You must think I’m a baby, always crying.’
‘I don’t think anything of the sort. I can’t begin to imagine what it was like for you, and your sister and father, to have to leave your home and move to another country--’ Claire’s voice faltered and she cleared her throat. ‘And to leave your mother and grandparents behind... I think you are very brave, Éric.’
Éric glanced at the door. ‘My father would be furious if he knew I was asking you to put your life in danger when you are… I mean, if you are ever in France.’ Claire smiled. Éric had worked out that she hoped to go to his country. It wouldn’t have been difficult.
Mélanie tested her almost every day. She asked questions about France and the different zones, regions and borders. She changed her accent, impersonating her father and brother, as well as Prime Minister Pétain and a dozen celebrities that Claire had never heard of. And while they walked along the seashore, or drank coffee in the Beach Café, Éric told her about the people he knew and the place where he was brought up, which Claire used to invent her French family. With discussions on politics, French history, and the Professor teaching her how to read maps, Claire’s stay with the Marron family was busy and productive. She had read French novels, listened to French music and eaten French food, when rationing allowed. For two weeks she had enjoyed everything French. She had even started to think in French. It was a happy time. She wasn’t looking forward to leaving.
On her last morning, the Marron family sat down to a special breakfast of French coffee, buttered croissants, crusty bread and soft creamy Brie. ‘Will you write to me, Claire?’ Éric asked. ‘When you return to the WAAF, I mean.’
The request took Claire by surprise. ‘Yes, I shall write to you,’ she said, smiling at Mélanie, so she didn’t feel left out. ‘But don’t expect me to write for a while, or often. I shall be busy when I get back.’
When they had finished eating they all piled into the Professor’s car and set off for Newcastle. Éric and Mélanie got out at their respective schools and Professor Marron took Claire on to Newcastle Central. Her train was in the station when they arrived, so there wasn’t time for a long goodbye. Kissing him on both cheeks, which was the French custom, Claire thanked Professor Marron for his hospitality and set off across the platform. As the attendant blew his whistle, Claire spotted Eddie leaning out of the window, waving. A second later Eddie flung open the door and Claire jumped in.
Arriving at the house in Morecambe where she and Eddie shared a room, Claire found several letters. One was from her sister, Bess. She read it and squealed. ‘Tom’s alive, Eddie!’ she shouted. Crying and laughing at the same time, she shouted again, ‘My big brother is alive. He got out of Dunkirk in one piece. Bess said he telephoned her from a hospital in Kent. He said he’d been ill, but was better, and was going up to Foxden to recuperate.’ Tears spilled onto Claire’s cheeks.
Eddie put her arms round her. ‘Come on, Dudley, no blubbing. Your brother’s home and safe.’ Eddie looked at her wristwatch. ‘I’m starved. Let’s go to the NAAFI and have tea.’
‘And afterwards we’ll put on our glad rags and go to the pub in town. I feel like a gin and orange.’
‘Atta girl. Can I borrow your white belt?’
CHAPTER THREE
Eddie leapt from her bed. ‘Well?’
‘RAF Coltishall.’
‘Me too.’ The two friends danced around hugging each other.
‘Bomber and fighter squadrons are stationed there. We’ll see some action, Ed.’
‘What? With all the scrummy pilots?’
‘No! With the aerodrome being on the east coast. Oh, I give up!’
‘Only joking, Dudley old thing. Come on, let’s go to the flicks.’
‘I think not!’ someone barked from the door. Claire and Eddie stood to attention as a corporal marched into the bedroom of their billet. ‘Get your kit together. You leave for RAF Coltishall in the morning at 0:600 hours.’ She looked at Eddie. ‘I suggest you get your beauty sleep, ACW Mountjoy. They’re still building the WAAF’s quarters at Coltishall; you’ll need all your strength for cleaning them. Goodnight!’
‘Miserable old besom.’ Eddie flopped onto her bed and let her shoulders sag.
‘Come on, Ed, let’s pack. We’ll go to the pictures next week, in Coltishall.’
Too excited to sleep the night before, and up early to be at the administration building at six, Claire and Eddie dozed as the train from Morecambe to Norwich chugged its way south to Peterborough, before going east to Norwich, where they changed to a local train that took them the last eight miles to Coltishall.
Outside the station, Eddie dropped her kitbag, sat on it, and with her face turned to the sun, closed her eyes. Claire put her bag down and sat beside her. After three-quarters of an hour – and not a sign of transport to take them to the RAF base – Claire suggested they walk. ‘The train was late getting in. I bet we’ve missed our lift.’ Getting to her feet, she picked up her
