The Paris Agent(14)

So I maintained my polite facade by reminding myself that I was playing along with the charade so that later, I could wreak havoc upon these men and everything they stood for.

C H A P T E R 4

CHARLOTTE

Liverpool

May, 1970

At first, Dad is so cheerful as he goes about his project to find Remy that I feel certain I’m right to ignore Aunt Kathleen’s warning. I don’t mind that my skirts are soon snug from the endless stream of rich meals he’s cooking for us, I’m just pleased to see he’s filling out in the face a little too. He clams right up when I try to talk to him about the project or ask questions about his war days, but I remind myself that Dad told me about the SOE when he was good and ready, and he’ll tell me more when the right time comes, too.

He was semiretired before Mum died. He still worked five or even six days a week, but they were short days, focused on oversight of his managers at each of his six workshops rather than business specifics. He had reached a point where he was financially secure and didn’t need to continue expanding the company so instead, he delighted in extra time for family, golf and gardening.

Right after Mum’s death, Dad went back to working full-time and then some, but now for the first time in months, I’m leaving the house before him and returning to find him already home. He’s in his study most waking hours around his work, on the phone or reading or pecking away at a typewriter. Letters come in the post with return addresses from all manner of government agencies across the UK and even France.

But his mood slowly drops again. First, he starts leaving for work earlier, and then I come home a few nights in a row to find he’s still at the office and the kitchen is dark and still. Within a week or two, the light has faded in Dad’s eyes. He once again looks on the outside as I feel on the inside—frustrated, depressed, angry.

Has he found Remy? Does he have any answers about that wartime accident? I’m curious about what he’s discovered that’s caused such a change in his mood. I’m also starting to think I should have listened to Aunt Kathleen, because Dad does not look happy. He doesn’t even look well.

One night, he comes home from work late and sits down to the subpar sausages and mashed potato I’ve prepared for us. The bags under his eyes are shadowed and heavy. He sits slumped and weary at the dining room table and my heart aches as he shovels my terrible food into his mouth.

“How’s the SOE project going?” I ask gently.

“Ah, that.” He swallows the last chunk of potato on his plate, then dismisses me with a limp wave of his hand. “I never thought it would be easy to find Remy but I assumed I’d at least be able to confirm that he was an agent. It turns out even that is just about impossible. I’ve gotten nowhere.”

This surprises me. I foolishly assumed he learned something upsetting or was finding it challenging to confront the past. It didn’t occur to me that he isn’t finding answers at all.

“Have you given up?” I ask him. I’m equal parts relieved and concerned by the thought.

“I think I’m running out of people to approach, to be honest.” He pauses, then laughs self-consciously. “I’m a silly old fool, Lottie.”

“You’re none of those things—” I start to say, but it’s clear Dad is ready to change the subject, because he stands and forces a smile.

“You cooked. I’ll do the dishes,” he says, even though most nights recently he’s been doing both. Wrigley, who had been asleep by my feet as I worked at the kitchen table, stands and follows Dad toward the sink, shooting me a doleful look.

Dad is gone when I wake up the next morning. I dress early and plan the school day in my mind, groaning as I ponder the long list of things I have to do before I can crawl back into bed—end of the school year is a brutal time for teachers. I pass Dad’s study on my way out but pause, staring inside. When Mum was alive, Dad was perpetually untidy but now, he keeps most of the house pristine, just as she preferred. The only place he allows his own standard of cleanliness to stand is this study, which is in its usual state of chaos.

I glance back down the hallway, double-checking that Dad has really left the house, then step into the room. The rubbish bin is overflowing and one of the cabinets where he keeps his business paperwork is half-open, overstuffed files peeking out the top. I straighten the folders then push the drawer closed before I wander to his desk. There’s a leather folio beside the phone and I pull it toward me, then open the front cover to find dozens of pages of handwritten notes. Each page is a long list of times, dates, phone numbers and remarks. Every entry has been crossed out. Some of those lines are drawn with a heavy hand, the page almost torn with the force of the slash. I flick across a few more pages and find more of the same.

Poor Dad. No wonder his optimism is fading. As far as I can tell, he’s contacted just about every government department and military organization in existence but if this list is anything to go by, he really is getting nowhere. On the corner of one page, he’s scrawled a note diagonally in letters so heavy I can picture the confusion and disbelief on his face as he wrote them.

The SOE ceased to exist in January 1946?

My heart aches for him, but right off the bat, I can’t help but wonder if he’s approaching this the wrong way. Maybe to my dad, the war is a living thing—active in his mind even across the decades, even though he’s kept all of that to himself until now. To the rest of the world, the war has been consigned to the history books. For all of these calls my dad has made and for all the letters he’s sent, he hasn’t contacted a single historian.