Aimée leaned forward, took the photograph of Claire from the dressing table, looked at it, and her bottom lip quivered. Claire thought her heart would break. She cleared her throat, put the hairbrush down and knelt beside Aimée. ‘I’m sorry, darling. It will be the last time Mummy leaves you, I promise. All right?’ she said, pushing a wisp of hair from Aimée’s face. The little girl nodded. ‘Good girl.’ Forcing herself not to show how upset she was, Claire put her arms round her daughter and held her tight. ‘And,’ she said, ‘while I’m away, I would like you to look after Grandma Édith and Aunt Thérèse. Will you do that for me?’
Brightening, Aimée nodded. Jumping down from the stool, she put the photograph and her doll on the bed and clambered onto it. Taking the doll by the arm, she put her under the covers, leaving only her head showing. Then she took the photograph of Claire, kissed it and said, ‘Night, night, Mummy.’ Kneeling on her pillow, she put the photograph on the small table between her bed and Édith’s. Without taking her eyes off the photograph, she wriggled down and pulled the bedclothes up to her chin.
‘Aimée, have you got a kiss for Mummy?’ Aimée looked up at the photograph. Claire realised that for a long time Mummy had been the photograph and her daughter was preparing herself for that again. Claire bit back her tears and sat on the edge of Aimée’s bed. ‘I promise--’ She had no right to make her daughter promises that she might not be able to keep, but she did it anyway. ‘I promise I will come back soon, and when I do, I will never go away again.’ Aimée reached up, put her arms around Claire’s neck, and hung on. Claire lowered her head until it was on the pillow. Her face was so close to her daughter’s she could feel her warm breath on her cheek. She watched Aimée’s eyes grow heavy and close.
Claire sensed someone at the door. It was time to go, but she didn’t move. She didn’t want to wake her daughter. When she was sure Aimée was asleep, Claire kissed her on the forehead and slowly shifted her weight from the bed. Kneeling beside her, Claire took Aimée’s small hands, put them under the bedclothes and tucked her in.
Claire clamped her hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying out, left her daughter’s bedroom and went into her own. Trying to put Aimée into a safe but unobtrusive place in her mind, she quickly took off her dress and put on thick socks, trousers, boots, shirt, and combat jacket. She went to the wardrobe and from the small space between the top and the ceiling she took a knife and truncheon. She wrapped them in a towel and hid them in the false bottom of her rucksack. She packed her wash bag, towel, and a spare set of clothes. When she was satisfied she had everything, she returned to the wardrobe and took down her gun. She checked it carefully and put it in the front right-hand pocket of her jacket. She was almost ready.
Claire looked in the long mirror at the side of the door and stood up straight. She had a job to do, which she would not be able to do unless she was fully committed to it. She picked up her rucksack, threw it over her shoulder and slipped her hand into her pocket. The hard cold metal that met her fingers reminded her why she had joined the SOE, and why she had chosen to work with the Resistance in France. Putting everything and everyone she loved into the furthest compartment of her mind, Claire affirmed her commitment to a free world and to ending fascism, whatever it took. She left her bedroom, mentally and physically ready to do that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Moving quickly and quietly, Claire followed Pierre. André led the way and Marcel brought up the rear. They stayed close and moved swiftly through woods and copses that ran parallel with the country roads. It took them two hours to get to Meung-sur-Loire, three times longer than it would have taken them had they been able to travel by road, but they had seen spotter planes flying low over the Loire and doubling back above the roads, so they stuck to the woods.
Other Resistance groups that Claire had worked with were north of Gisoir, around Orléans, or in Paris. This terrain – dense woodland and ground cover so thick in brambles and briars it cut and stung your legs – was alien to her. It was hard going and Claire was relieved when André stopped in a small clearing. Taking the map and a torch from his jacket pocket he beckoned Pierre, who shaded the faint beam beneath his large hands. A second later André whispered, ‘Devil's Bridge.’ Folding the map and returning it to his pocket,
