‘Of course not. Let me know you’ve arrived safely if you can.’
‘I will.’ Claire kissed Esther and hurried across the platform to the train bound for Paddington. The station attendant helped her to board, passed her suitcase to her, and slammed the door shut. Claire pulled down the window and thanked him. A second later he blew his whistle. She raised her arm to wave goodbye to Esther, but she had gone.
On the occasions she had travelled by train during the war, it had been standing room only. She’d had to fight her way through crowded corridors, sometimes changing carriages until she found a seat. And when she did it was like sitting in a fog, there was so much tobacco smoke in the air. Now, because passenger trains were no longer used to transport troops and freight, they were cleaner, less crowded, and there were always vacant seats.
She took a few steps along the corridor to the first compartment, opened the door, and put her handbag and gloves on the nearest seat. She hauled her suitcase onto the overhead rack, closed the door and sat down. She felt sick with anticipation. The feeling of not knowing what lay ahead had once excited her. But that was in wartime, when she was with the Special Operations Executive. She had been young and idealistic, determined to beat the Germans into submission and send their army back to Germany defeated.
Claire inhaled and let out a long calming breath. It wasn’t a decade ago, but it felt like a lifetime. She was a different person then, with only herself to worry about. Now she was a mother and a wife - and she was separated from both her child and her husband. Claire bit her lip. She had a long journey ahead of her. She must call on her training, be detached and committed to the job she had to do. If she let sentimentality get in the way, she wouldn’t get beyond the next town along the railway track.
When the train pulled into Didcot station the woman sitting next to the window on the opposite side of the aisle to Claire gathered her belongings and left the compartment. Claire glanced at her fellow travellers. One man was asleep, one was engrossed in the financial pages of The Times, and the other passenger, a woman, was frowning as she pondered an official-looking document that she had been reading since Claire entered the compartment. No one attempted to move to the seat next to the window, so Claire jumped up, grabbed her handbag and gloves and claimed it.
She relaxed back in the seat, took a French dictionary from her handbag and began to flick through it. She had been teaching French to new recruits at Brize Norton for three years. It had kept her fluent in the language, but she needed to remind herself of the regional accents. She needed to be confident if she was going to pass herself off as French. Eight years ago she had not only been fluent in French but she spoke and understood German. She could also get by in Polish. Not that she needed Polish when she worked and lived with the French Resistance in France. French was vital - a matter of life and death - and understanding German came in very handy, especially as German officers spent their days sitting in cafés bragging about their army, toasting its successes and plans. Not in a million years did they think Claire, an ordinary young French girl, could understand what they were saying - and often said things in front of her that were helpful to the Resistance.
Claire’s cover story at the time was that she was born and brought up on the French coast and her parents had sent her to stay with her aunt in Gisoir. Claire had lived in France and worked with the French Resistance for several years. One mistake, however small, could have been fatal. That care she needed to apply now if she was going to find Mitch.
She looked out of the window at the English countryside blanketed in snow. The train pulled into stations and people boarded laughing and joking, looking forward to a day out in London. The war seemed like a very long time ago.
Standing in a queue at Calais, Claire looked at her watch. By now Commander Landry would have sent a car to collect her, as she’d been told he would, and he’d have been informed she wasn’t at home. He’d have deployed a number of intelligence officers to search the house again. The commander was an intelligent man who would assume she had gone to France to look for Mitch. Claire smiled to herself. He’d be dumbfounded when his officers found her passport beneath a loose floorboard behind the tallboy in her bedroom. She hadn’t made it easy for them to find, but she knew they would. Landry’s men were thorough.
Claire opened her handbag and took out the French passport and identity papers that she had retrieved from the attic of her mother’s house at Foxden and handed them with her ticket to the port official in Calais. The official glanced at the passport thanked her and handed it back. He was on to the next passenger before Claire had returned her papers to her handbag.
No matter which mode of transport Commander Landry’s men checked, they wouldn’t find her name on the passenger list of any ferries or ships crossing the English Channel, nor on the passenger list of any aeroplanes flying out of Croydon to Paris. Claire smiled, said Merci to the port official and walked away, exhaling with relief.
FRANCE
January 1950
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The train from Calais slowed as it approached Gisoir station. Claire looked out of the window. The view was familiar. She gathered her belongings and left the compartment.
