Voices on the Wind (4 page)

‘Kate.' He hugged her, held her out to look at her. ‘You're looking well. Very well, just my little Kate again.'

There was a special bottle of wine opened for the dinner conjured out of rations like a miracle. They talked and laughed and interrupted each other, and after dinner, the questions began.

‘Tell me,' her father said, ‘how did you get this job? And why do you have to change services?'

‘Because they want interpreters in the WAAF, and as soon as someone realized I was bilingual, they thought I'd be better employed speaking French than scrubbing bloody floors – sorry, Daddy, that slipped out. Don't you think pale blue will suit me better than that navy serge?' She laughed and they joined in. She hated lying to them. More questions, forcing her to elaborate. ‘Six months' training … why six months, Maman – I don't know. No not training, really, just going to courses and learning to type and use some shorthand. Then maybe some lovely cushy job in the Air Ministry! Just think, I'd be able to get home at weekends.…' She saw the joy on their faces.

‘We're thrilled for you,' her mother said.

They talked about her elder brother, David; he was taking a gunnery course at Manobeir. She was given his last letter to read. It was funny and individual, just like him. They had got on well as children; having a brother made Kate more of a tomboy. That night, lying in the comfort of her own bed, nursing the luxury of a hot-water bottle, Kate thrust the memories of her childhood aside. It was no good slipping back mentally, when she had made the decision. Lying to the people she loved had been both difficult and shaming. But that was part of the price she must pay every day of her life from now on. She didn't belong to herself or her family any more. It was a chilling thought, and for a moment the niggle of fear stabbed like a pain. Of course, she wanted to tell her parents, to ask for their support, even to share her excitement and, yes, fear again, with them. But it wasn't possible or kind. They'd worry themselves to death. Her father knew the situation in France better than most. Her mother fretted over David in the safety of Wales. Besides, wasn't she taking too much for granted – how did she know she'd even pass the rigorous tests ahead? Scotland was going to sort out the candidates, she'd been told, seeing the Colonel on her way through London. A lot of people got injured or gave up. Only the fit and the courageous got past that initial stage. She had no guarantee. She fell asleep thinking about it, and didn't wake till lunchtime.

It was a bright day outside. Her father worked in a reserved occupation in London; she spent a happy day with her mother, helping her in the house, drinking cups of tea and gossiping. The mood of childishness had passed. She was a woman, with another woman, who was a loved friend and companion as well as a mother. Denise Fitzgerald saw the change in her daughter, and thought it was sad and wonderful how quickly that change had come about. Still so very young, but with a confidence that hadn't been there when she left for Portsmouth, only a few months before, red-eyed and uncertain of what was waiting for her.

‘Kate,' she said, ‘is there a young man?'

Kate was surprised. ‘Good Lord, no. What makes you ask that?'

Denise Fitzgerald shrugged. ‘Nothing. You seem so grown up. I wondered if you had fallen in love. I'm being silly, take no notice.'

‘I haven't even met a man, Maman,' Kate said. ‘I told you, I've been marching up and down the parade ground and scrubbing floors as a punishment, and putting on weight because all we do is eat and scrounge off each other. I haven't been off with a sailor, I promise you!' She laughed and kissed her mother. ‘Maybe I've had to grow up in a hurry,' she said. ‘What are we going to have for dinner? I'm starving.'

The week went by too quickly; she avoided telling more lies by busying herself and refusing to think about it. Every night she helped her father check the blackout when he came off the smelly, stuffy train from Victoria. Three times the sirens wailed and they went down to the Anderson shelter in the garden, but no bombs fell. They went for walks with the terrier, Mimi; she started making herself a blouse with a remnant her mother had saved up, and refused to wonder when she'd finish it. Already, the crisp east wind was stinging her in the face, warning that winter was coming, and the leaves were deep on the ground. It was comforting to be with them, but by the end of the week she was ready to go. She said goodbye to them at the local station early on Saturday afternoon. She had a travel warrant to get her to London and from London overnight to Scotland. She would be met, her instructions said, at Lossiemouth.

The loch was like a sheet of dirty steel on that October day. Massed clouds overhead gave it their own sombre colour. There was no shift of wind to move them. They lowered over the water and the house close by the edge of it like God the Father's frown. It was a place built to withstand the weather, with thick walls and deep-set windows. A high hedge separated it from a second house, humbler in origin, built of the same heavy stone, with a low sloping roof. There was room for twelve students to be housed in both buildings, four instructors, two senior officers and a commandant, apart from domestic staff.

It was an isolated place, part of a group of similar centres in the Highlands, chosen for their locations in bleak countryside. In the depth of winter they were cut off by snow. A Major in the Scots Guards and a Captain in the Royal Corps of Signals were walking by the side of the loch. The house, with its big domestic annexe, belonged to the Major's grandfather.

‘Bloody shame about Harris,' the Major said. ‘He was shaping up well.'

The Captain shrugged. ‘Too cocky, that was his trouble. He's the “I'm out for a gong” type and we don't want those. I'm not sorry he's out.'

Major McKay didn't answer. Arthur Taft took dislikes to people and there was nothing to be done about it. The trainee they were discussing had antagonized him from the start. Personally McKay regretted losing him. He had courage and an aggressive spirit, and even Taft had to admit that if he had got through the physical training, he would have made an excellent pupil for the sabotage section. He had tried an over-ambitious descent in the rope-climbing two days before, hit an outcrop and cracked his shin bone in three places.

McKay and Taft had been senior selection officers at Loch Gary for eighteen months. They had a good team; four top instructors, experts in their fields. They concentrated on the French Section, known as F. Their students were all destined for the SOE operation in France if they survived the final selection course. Activity in F Section had been building up steadily in the last year. Some of their pupils, as McKay called them, had already distinguished themselves establishing resistance groups all over France. A number had been captured and were dead.

He wondered sometimes whether Taft worried about them as much as he did. It would be difficult to judge. He never referred to anyone after they left. He was a dour, surly man, devoid of charm. McKay had nothing in common with him but a determination to pick the very best out of the men and women and not let anyone doubtful slip through. They often disagreed until the last moment.

‘Well,' McKay said at last. ‘We'll have the new ones by tonight. Derain, Le Brun, Hunter, Sansom, Gunn and Fitzgerald. Let's hope we'll find one of them turns out useful.'

‘Fitzgerald's only a kid,' Taft said snappily. ‘Bloody ridiculous sending someone of that age.'

‘That's what I said,' McKay agreed. ‘But the boys in Baker Street hand-picked this candidate for some reason. I made no impression at all.'

‘Must have lost a few then,' Taft grunted. ‘But that's not our responsibility. We send them out of here able to look after themselves, fit as fleas and raring to go. What gets buggered up in Hampshire is another matter. Getting cold out here.' He hunched his body up against a sudden squall of wind that tore at the loch water, lashing and whipping at it in a fury. The rain spat down on them.

‘Christ, what a climate,' Taft muttered.

McKay ignored the remark. ‘Michaelson is the conducting officer; this is his fourth group in three months. I hope he's in a better state than last time.'

Taft turned away from the sheeting rain, his head sunk down into his shoulders like a turtle. He surprised McKay by saying something in defence of Captain Michaelson.

‘He looked at the end of his tether last time,' he said. ‘Living with them day and bloody night without a break for weeks on end. He shouldn't be back so soon. Typical Baker Street.'

There was a running war between Taft and the senior officers in F Section. The last time Captain Michaelson had spent five weeks with a group of six trainees on the loch, Taft hadn't found a good word to say for him.

‘Let's turn back,' McKay suggested. He looked at his watch. ‘Hickey and his lot will be back in half an hour. The new lot should get here around seven if the train's on time.'

The storm was passing and, as the clouds cleared, a brilliant patch of sky was reflected like a sapphire in the loch. Taft hated the place; McKay had grown up there and he loved it above anywhere else in the world.

Katharine was so stiff she ached when she got up and pulled her baggage off the rack above her head. The train hissed at the platform, sounding like a punctured tyre. Doors were opening and banging shut and the guard was shouting ‘Lossiemouth, Lossiemouth'. The station's name had been blacked out.

She heaved her bag on to the platform, shoved the door shut and got her ticket ready. She felt creased and grubby after the endless journey. Her smart new WAAF officer's uniform had been slept in and it looked like it. She went through the barrier and waited outside. Five other people stood about, kitbags at their feet. Four men and a woman. Two in army uniform, two in RAF. The woman wore a smart khaki uniform. Kate recognized it. The First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. FANY. The Americans choked on that one. An officer with three pips on his overcoat was walking towards them. Kate didn't hesitate; she joined the group. She saw him frown and wondered what she had done wrong.

‘I'm Captain Michaelson,' he said. He shook hands with the men first, the army nurse and finally with her.

‘I'm Flight Officer Fitz –' she started, hoping to please, and smiling in her most friendly way.

‘I know who you are,' he snapped. ‘There's a bus picking us up. It should be here by now.' It rounded the corner and pulled up. ‘Get in please,' he said. He followed last and sat in the front beside the army driver. The girl had slipped on to the bench seat beside Kate.

‘Charming manners,' she whispered. ‘I'm Judy. No last names.'

‘Thanks for telling me,' Kate murmured. ‘Nobody else did. I'm Kate. I'd love a cigarette. Do you want one?'

‘Thanks. What a journey! Did you sleep?'

‘On and off; more off than on. It's going to be pretty cold up here.'

‘Don't you know Scotland?' She had a pleasant voice, with a trace of accent.

‘No,' Kate answered. ‘We live in Surrey. There's going to be a storm.'

‘It'll pass,' the girl called Judy said. ‘You get sudden squalls of rain and wind, then they blow over and it can be beautiful.'

There was a tap on Kate's shoulder and she looked round. Three rings on the sleeve; the Squadron Leader had a very strong accent.

‘I should put those out,' he said quietly. He nodded towards the silent figure up in the front. ‘He doesn't like to smoke when travelling.'

‘Thanks,' Kate whispered. What pale eyes, she noticed. A French face, under the British cap. Fine-featured, an aquiline nose; a narrow-lipped mouth that was smiling at her. And the ice-grey eyes with flecks of green in them.

‘Did he come up on the train?' she asked.

‘Probably.' He shrugged.

‘Do you know him?' she asked again.

‘Only by reputation,' he whispered back. ‘I'm Philippe.'

‘Judy.'

‘Kate.'

Both girls trod out their cigarettes under their seats. From his position by the driver, Captain Michaelson saw them do it in the driving mirror. He heard a subdued giggle. Christ, how he hated dealing with the women. The tough, butch types were different, but when it came to girls like these two.… He had bitten the head off the youngest one. All bright smiles and puppy friendliness at the station. Giving her rank and real name. And the preliminary Selection Panel had passed her. Easy for them. Not looking beyond the eager candidate, intent on giving the right answers to their loaded questions. He couldn't get Lisette out of his mind, that was the trouble. He kept seeing her in every woman.

He realized that he had clenched his hands to stop them shaking. It took the best part of two hours before they reached the Loch and the darkness was not even lit by a star. A biting wind tore at them as they stepped out of the bus; Kate shivered, glanced round quickly and heaved her bag up. The mass of the house loomed up at them, blacker than the sky. Inside the transformation was dramatic. Lights, a big fire burning in the hallway, a fine carved stair that led out of the hall. A group of people standing by the fire, in khaki and air-force blue, looking at the new arrivals. All men, Kate noticed. The dour young officer who'd travelled with them directed them up the stairs.

‘I'll show you your rooms; have a clean up and come down in fifteen minutes. We'll have a drink and I'll introduce you to the others. We have dinner at eight thirty tonight. Make yourselves at home.'

Kate's room was next to the girl called Judy. It was pleasantly warm. Shabby, but with a comfortable bed and a good light to read by. Plain, solid Victorian furniture, and rubbed chintz. A large coloured print of a child holding two kittens faced the bed. Years ago, she thought, this was a child's bedroom. Now it's mine. God, I wish I could just stretch out and go to sleep. I'm so tired I'm not even hungry. And I don't fancy spending the next six weeks with that Captain Snappit breathing down my neck. There was a knock on the door. Judy looked in.