The Paris Agent(27)
“You don’t need to worry about me, Madame Laurent,” I assured her. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
My life had meaning—real meaning, and I was absolutely determined to make it home to Hughie. But no SOE agent went into the field without an awareness that they might not return. We all understood the miserable reality that sometimes, an agent’s death could mean every bit as much as their life.
That would not be me. It didn’t matter what it took—I was going to make it home.
“I need one more favor from you,” I told her quietly.
“Anything,” she said.
“Tell me…where will I find this butcher’s shop?”
It was one thing to confirm that the circuit had been compromised. Now, I had to confirm exactly what remained intact.
C H A P T E R 8
CHARLOTTE
Liverpool
May, 1970
The garden is a chaotic explosion of color this year—sweet peas and roses and lilies and peonies just in this section alone. Closer to the house, masses of sunflowers are stretching higher as they prepare to bloom, and thatches of clematis and creeping thyme border the paved path. Dad planted extra flowers this year, maybe to make up for the ones Mum isn’t here to plant herself.
I’m sitting out in my bathing suit enjoying the sunshine. My book is open on my lap, but I’ve barely read a page all morning. Instead, I’ve been sipping my tea and watching the bumblebees and butterflies flit from blossom to blossom in Dad’s garden.
I’m so relaxed I’m sorely tempted to ignore the phone inside the house when the shrill ring sounds. At the very last minute, I drop my book and sprint through the grass to scoop the receiver up.
“This is Charlotte speaking,” I say, slightly out of breath from the sudden burst of activity.
“Charlotte? This is Theo Sinclair.” He seems a little hesitant, almost as if he’s nervous. That can’t be a good sign. “Are you okay? You sound…”
“I just ran to get the phone,” I laugh. “It’s nice to hear from you, Theo.”
“Is it? I mean, yes. I suppose. I…you see, I spoke with Harry. Do you think you could meet me at the History department at Manchester at three p.m. Friday? Professor Read has agreed to meet with your father after all. I know it’s business hours, but—”
“I’m a teacher,” I interrupt him to explain. “I’m on summer break.”
“I’m a teacher too.”
“I thought you were a student.”
“Ah. No, I was a student—I finished my Master’s then did a teaching certificate. I teach high school history classes now. So will this suit Noah?”
“Dad sets his own hours. We’ll be there. Thank you.”
Theo clears his throat before he mutters, “Yes, well. Let’s see how this goes before you thank me.”
My father and I arrive at Manchester University at a quarter to three on Friday. We consult a campus map then wander in silence through the grounds admiring the beautiful stonework on the old buildings and the careful gardens around manicured lawns.
When we find the right building, Dad and I sit side by side on a park bench beneath a tree, seeking a reprieve from the summer sun. A groundskeeper is mowing the lawn nearby and the air is flooded with the scent of cut grass. Finding myself at a campus again is making me miss my carefree days as an undergraduate student. Life seemed so simple back then.
Theo greets us as he approaches along the path. Once again, he’s dressed as though he slept late and had to rush out the door. I survey his rumpled cords and the misaligned buttons on his collared shirt, the wild way his thick, sandy hair stands this way and that, as if he’s yet to discover how to tame it. He’s not without his charms—those bright blue eyes chief among them—but it’s starting to appear as though last Thursday was no exception and he has a perpetually distracted and disheveled affect. He reminds me of some of the academics I studied under at university but seems nothing like a high school teacher. I wonder if the students make fun of him behind his back. The very thought makes me sad.
Theo leads us up a stairway to a central reception area on the second floor. As soon as he pushes open the door, we’re greeted with a wave of cigarette smoke so thick I immediately start to cough.
Behind the desk, surrounded by piles of folders and books and loose yellowed papers, sits a curvy woman with bright red hair. A Dictaphone headset rests over her ears, pressing her wispy bangs down awkwardly onto her forehead, and a cigarette hangs from her mouth as she types furiously with both hands. She looks up and beams at Theo, sending cigarette ash drifting onto her blouse with the movement, but does not break with the rhythm of her typing even as we stand before her desk and wait.
She reaches the end of a sentence and her hands fly off the keyboard. She scoops the cigarette from her mouth and drops it into an overflowing ashtray on the desk, then she rises and swivels around the desk to throw her arms around Theo.
“Theo, love! It is just so good to see you. Why don’t you visit more often?”
I recognize this as Mrs. White even if her appearance is nothing at all like I imagined. I was picturing a stern woman well past retirement age—but Mrs. White is probably only in her forties, and at least toward Theo, seems very warm.
“You know I’m very busy with my own job these days, Mrs. White,” Theo says, his own voice muffled by the secretary’s smothering embrace. When she finally releases him, he has the slightly embarrassed air of a teenager whose mother has just pinched his cheek at the school gate. He makes an attempt at straightening his shirt, before he motions toward me and my father.