own fault, I suppose, for even allowing myself to think Bill could be Tim. I tell myself that Tim is dead, but the minute I see Bill, hear his voice, take his arm – because he can’t see, so I have to – then it’s Tim I’m with. But sometimes I want him so much, Kitty, I feel real pain! He isn’t a prisoner of war, or even missing. He’s dead! It’s so cruel and uncaring and – and final!’
‘Tatty, what am I to say to you? There’s nothing I can do to help. I’d do it if I could. But if you want to go on with your fantasies, then I hope I’m there for you when the bubble bursts and you have to accept it isn’t Tim.’
Now Kitty was weeping but for whom she did not know. For Tatty, was it, and Tatty’s tearing grief? Or was it for herself, because she was too happy and couldn’t even begin to imagine how it would be if one day a telegram came to Rowangarth and Aunt Julia had to tell her? Oh, please not Drew.
They held each other tightly, then Tatiana pulled away, sniffing loudly.
‘You look a mess, Kitty Sutton. Your mascara’s run all down your cheeks. Serves you right for having mascara when we can’t get it in here!’
‘You look pretty rough yourself, Tatty. Guess we’d better wash our faces and powder our noses or Sparrow’s going to notice and you know what she can be like!’ Kitty forced a smile.
‘But you won’t tell Sparrow I was crying over Tim and don’t ever tell her about Bill, or her Joannie won’t let me do escort duties any more.’
‘I won’t tell. And I think you’re very brave, honest I do.’
‘So I’m no longer that brat Tatiana? And don’t deny it, I was a whinge. But that spoiled-rotten kid has grown up now and knows what she’s doing. Well, mostly she does. It’s just that at times like these she sometimes goes to pieces still.’
‘You can borrow my cold cream if you’d like,’ Kitty whispered, offering a pot. ‘Go on! It’s okay. I brought loads of make-up over with me.’
So Tatiana said thanks, she’d like that, and since her cousin was in such a generous mood, how about the loan of her dusky-rose lipstick next time she went out?
And Kitty laughed, relieved, and said, ‘Sure, honey. Anything you want! Be my guest!’
The Commanding Officer of HM Submarine Selene stood on the bridge within the conning tower, his first officer at his side. The stars were gone now, and drifts of low cloud streaked the horizon.
‘Everything close up, Number One?’
‘Yes, sir. Dinghy inflated. Crew at the ready.’ He lifted his binoculars, sweeping them from left to right and back again. ‘Seems quiet, over there …’
‘Yes.’ The CO did not like operations such as this. It was his first drop and he resented hazarding his boat, engines stopped, silhouetted against the skyline. Syrtis usually put agents ashore – knew how it was done. Apart from the seaman loaned from spare crew for the trip, no one on Selene had a clue about such things and he wondered why the SOE bod couldn’t have parachuted in!
Below, clinging to the running rail on the upper casing, one of Selene’s seamen held fast to the dinghy; beneath him a sailor climbed the ladder to the bridge, the SOE man at his heels.
‘Any questions, Leading Seaman?’
‘Thank you, sir, no. Think we’ll make for that far headland – get to the lee side of it.’
The headland cast a long, wide shadow and the sailor had done it all before, knew that there they could blend into shadows and the sea, on the lee of the jut of rocks, ran calmer.
‘Recognition signal R-Roger. Dit-dah-dit.’
‘Got it. Reply with H-Harry.’
‘All set, then?’ The submarine commander turned to Keth. ‘Climb over. I’ll pass your case to you. And the leading seaman is in command of the dinghy. Take your orders from him and don’t try to pull rank.’
‘I will – and I won’t. Thanks a lot, skipper.’ Keth offered a hand which was shaken firmly. ‘Best press on …’
His throat was dry as he arranged himself in the bows of the dinghy, his case wedged between his knees, arms clutching the bag of precious spares. He felt nothing; neither hope nor fear. He only knew his mouth made little clicking sounds as he pulled his tongue round his lips and his heart beat too quickly. He could feel its insistent thuds in his throat, his ears and behind his nose.
The leading seaman waited, paddle poised, on the port side of the fat, bouncing craft; a second seaman took his place beside him. From the conning tower came the hoarse whisper, ‘Good luck!’
Keth raised his hand in acknowledgement. The dinghy bucked as, at the push of a paddle, it left the submarine’s side.
Carefully, strokes matching, the paddles cut into the water with hardly a sound, a splash. Keth fixed his gaze on the submarine. He had felt acute discomfort so closely confined on board; now, as the vastness of sea and skyline opened up, he wanted nothing more than to be back in its claustrophobic safeness.
The paddles picked up speed, racing for the shadow on the far side of the headland. Keth sucked in a deep breath, then let it go in little huffs. The seamen knew what they were about.
They reached the shelter of the headland just as the cloud drifted away from the moon and the sea was again lit with silver. The two men breathed evenly, paddles lifting, slicing. The blur that had been France was sharper, darker, now. Keth wanted to cough and swallowed hard on it.
The paddling ceased and they floated in on the breakers to a scraping stop. The younger seaman jumped out, heaving the dinghy onto firm, wet sand, holding tightly to the mooring rope. The elder man reached for the battered case, leaning over to pass it out. Paper bag in hand, Keth swivelled round, then stepped ashore.
‘Thanks,’ he whispered.
‘We’ll wait,’ came the brief reply.
They stood unmoving, eyes ranging the dark of the landmass.
‘That’s it!’ The leading seaman pointed to a briefly flashing light.
Keth reached for his torch. His hand was shaking. He pressed four times on the switch.
‘Right, sir. They’re over there. Stay here, close to the rocks. The beach could be mined. They’ll know the way through if it is. They’ll fetch you. Good luck, Captain.’
Hands grasped his, then he was alone. The seamen dipped their paddles deep, straining against the incoming tide. Soon, they would be back on board Selene; back to the stifling, protecting closeness. Soon, the commanding officer would give the order to start engines and they would make for deeper, safer water – and home.
Keth stood very still, holding his breath then letting it go in a little hiss. Soon someone would take him to a safe house, and soon a signal would go out that Hibou had arrived and the whole thing would be set in motion. It might only take days, or a week, two weeks, but for Keth Purvis, the messenger, the risk was small compared to that of the men of the secret, hidden army of partisans.
Close ahead of him a light flashed
