The Paris Agent(15)

On my lunch break, I pick up a pen and write to the professor who taught the handful of history classes I took at university. I don’t tell Professor Berrara much about my father’s quest. The details don’t really matter. I just ask what advice he’d give to someone looking into the history of the SOE. To my surprise, less than a week later and on the last day of my school year before summer break, a letter lands in our postbox.

Dear Charlotte,

It is true that increasingly I forget the students who pass through these halls, but I do remember you as a diligent student who did not miss a lecture and could be relied upon to deliver essays of the highest quality. I expect that by now you’re married to that nice young chap of yours and hope life is treating you well.

I cringe at the reference and the memories that rise with it. Billy and I met on the first day of university and we were inseparable throughout our studies—so much so that he would often swap subjects so we could attend the same lectures. That seemed romantic at the time, but now it just seems pitiful.

There is much secrecy around the SOE even to this day, but even so, in some ways you are fortunate that this is the area of study that has piqued your curiosity. There are several historians with a special area of focus on the SOE, most notably Prof. Harry Read of Manchester University. He is official historian to the British government and I understand he is trying to write a book on this very subject. If it’s the SOE you want to research, he’s the first person you should reach out to.

As my father reads the letter that night, he beams with such pride and excitement that my cheeks flush.

“Clever Lottie,” he says, shaking his head in wonder. “It didn’t even occur to me that what I really need is a historian, not a bureaucrat! Look what you have done with one attempt after those fruitless weeks this old fool has spent barking up the wrong tree…” He scratches the back of his neck, then looks at me hesitantly. “I’m not smart like you are, love.”

“Dad!” I protest. “You’re plenty smart—”

“You know what I mean,” he interrupts, but he’s cringing awkwardly. “I’m just a simple man and I don’t know how to research like you do. I really don’t have a clue how to talk to…” He motions toward the letter. “You know. Professors and such.”

Dad’s a successful, accomplished man—but I’ve seen people treat him as though he were lacking in intellect once they hear him speak. He’s always been especially intimidated by the academic world. Dad was bursting with pride for me at my graduation, but when he thought I was looking elsewhere, his sparkling gaze would drop until he was staring at the ground while he scratched the back of his head or adjusted the collar of his shirt, over and over again. Archie’s graduation twelve months later was no better.

I only pause for a single moment to consider Aunt Kathleen’s concerns before I dismiss them once again.

“Okay, Dad,” I say, as his eyes brighten with hope. “It looks like we have a father-daughter summer project ahead of us.”

I enjoy a long lie-in on Monday, the first day of summer break. Dad is long gone by 10:00 a.m. when I finally drag myself out of bed to call Professor Read’s office. I’m disappointed and a little alarmed when the call rings out. I thought the timing of Professor Berrara’s letter was fortunate—arriving when it did as my school year ended. But what if Professor Read is one of those lecturers who disappears to Spain or France or the countryside for the entire summer, totally out of reach until the new academic year? I try again several times in the hours that follow and as every call rings out and I become increasingly alarmed, I start to hope that Professor Berrara has accidentally given me the wrong number. I call the university’s main switchboard to check.

“Professor Read works all year round but he doesn’t ever answer his own phone. I expect his secretary Mrs. White will be in sooner or later but you’ll have to keep trying until you reach her.”

I drag an armchair into the hallway and sit by the phone to read my novel. I try the number again at the end of every chapter. By late afternoon I’ve just about given up hope of getting through today and I’m startled when the call connects.

“Manchester University History Department. This is Professor Read’s office.”

The woman’s voice is husky and rough, almost as if I have just woken her up, but then she gives a hacking cough and I hear a purposeful inhalation. This is a woman who enjoys a cigarette.

“Hello there,” I say politely. “Who am I speaking with?”

“This is Mrs. White. Professor Read’s secretary,” the woman says before she gives another cough.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. White. My name is Charlotte Ainsworth. I’ve heard that Professor Read is something of an expert in the history of the SOE and—”

Mrs. White interrupts me, her tone sharp. “Young lady, Professor Read is not ‘something of an expert’ in the SOE. He’s the only sanctioned SOE military historian for the British government.”

“Of course,” I say hastily, wincing. I’m caught off guard, first that someone has finally answered the damned phone, secondly by the mild hostility.

I draw a breath and try to refocus.

“The thing is, my father was involved with the SOE at some point—”

“Are you calling to schedule an interview for him with the graduate students for next academic year?”