The Paris Agent(92)

“Everything feels different,” I finish for him, throat suddenly tight. “Like your safety net has disappeared.”

Dad nods sadly. Since my mother died I feel I have been thrust into adulthood in a whole new way, and I am unprepared and floundering. Perhaps the bitterness I have struggled with for these months is rooted in a childish sense of injustice—I needed more time with her. I deserved more time with her.

“I’ve been in love three times in my life,” Dad says suddenly. His gaze meets mine. “I loved your mother first. But you remember I told you I walked the escape line with a friend? Well, that was Josie—”

“So you and Josie Miller did have an affair while you were dating Mum?” I gasp.

“No. God no,” Dad says hastily. “At first, we just shared a special friendship, forged through an incredibly difficult moment in our lives.”

“Good.” I exhale.

Dad pauses, then says reluctantly, “I don’t think your mother ever really believed that though. It didn’t matter how many times I assured her otherwise—she wanted me to cut off contact with Josie from the minute I came back to the UK the first time. I loved your mum, but I needed my friends more than ever at that point in my life, and I just couldn’t push Josie away.”

“You broke up with Mum when you joined the SOE, didn’t you?”

“I did. She was furious with me, but I figured by the time I came back from France, I’d run into her at a pub or the post office and she’d be holding hands with some other bloke and it would break my heart, but I’d be happy knowing she was happy. I knew I had to join the SOE, but I couldn’t put her through another period of waiting, so I let her go.”

“And then you fell in love with Josie,” I whisper. He nods.

“I’m not ashamed of that. We had a unique relationship and we were both single at the time,” Dad says. “But you asked me was she capable? The truth is, there was no one better. She was brilliant. Dedicated and creative. Cautious and persistent. Even in the face of unimaginable danger, her resolve never wavered once, and all of the best things I did through the war, I could only do because she was my partner at the time. I brought out the best in her—and I felt she did exactly the same for me. But…” Dad trails off, his voice breaking, and a strange tension crosses his face. “It all gets a bit blurry after our main mission was complete. I do remember saying goodbye to her at a train station and feeling as if my heart had been torn from my chest. And then of course, my accident happened a few months later—and when I started to get my wits about me again I felt a very strong pull to find her in Paris, but for the life of me, I could not remember the details. I was utterly lost until I saw that poster inviting SOE agents to meet at the apartment the officials had set up. That’s when one of our officials told me she was dead.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say. He sighs, looking out the window wistfully.

“Grief has a way of hitting a person like a ton of bricks sometimes, as you now understand all too well. When I finally came home, I went to your mother because I really didn’t have anywhere else to go. I told myself I’d just ask for her help until I was on my feet again, maybe just a few months, but my recovery took so much longer than that. And your mum always was the kind of woman who found it easier to love wholeheartedly than she did to accept love herself. She was there for me at the worst moment of my life. Of course I grew to love her a second time.”

“I found the letters,” I say slowly. “The ones from Professor Read. Mom had hidden them.”

Dad looks briefly surprised, but his expression quickly shifts, until he’s just resigned. He walks around the desk to sit in the visitor’s chair beside me.

“I wanted to track Remy down right after you were born,” he admits.

“You did?” I say, startled.

“I was so happy and the future felt so bright. I wanted to find him…maybe to show him the beautiful baby girl I would never have known if he hadn’t saved my life that day. But when I told your mum, she just about blew a gasket. Reminded me of what a mess I was when she took me in after the war. I felt so guilty for that, I never brought it up again.”

“How did Josie die, Dad?” I whisper. My dad is very still as he thinks about this question.

“I don’t know the specifics,” he admits heavily. “They just told me the Gestapo executed her.”

“Could Doctor Sallow have been given incorrect information about her daughter’s death?”

“I’m really not sure, love. I doubt it.”

“It’s just she was told that Josie made a mistake. Something that led to her capture, and the capture of another agent.”

Dad hesitates, then rubs his eyes.

“She was dropped into a war zone with just a few months training. I suppose anything is possible, but the Josie I knew was careful and diligent.”

We sit in silence, until I ask hesitantly, “Is there any chance that Josie might have had a child?”

At this, my father looks at me blankly.

“When on earth could she have had a child?”

“Early 1942?” I suggest. His gaze grows skeptical.

“She was definitely not pregnant when we parted in 1941, and after that, she was so unwell. There’s no chance she managed to have a baby at that point in her life.”