I stared at his hand as it circled. For a moment, I was too stunned to speak. It was like some cruel joke. Asking me to become the person I’d ceased to be to fool the enemy. But the logical side of my brain saw that the idea was quite brilliant: Who better than an ex-nun to carry off such an audacious stunt?
“I was dreading telling you.” Jack’s mind was running in the same channel as mine. “I can only imagine how it would feel, getting into those clothes again.”
“It would be very . . . strange.”
“You can say no, of course. It’s much riskier than what you did last time.”
“What exactly would I have to do?”
“Well, you’d do the pickup from the beach, then row back alone, to the harbor upriver at Lannion, with the equipment. There’s a convent in the town. They’d fix you up with the nun’s habit, and a bicycle. The stuff would be hidden under your robe. In the morning you’d cycle to a rendezvous point in the countryside. We’d be waiting offshore to pick you up, once it got dark.”
“How would I know where to go?”
“You’d have a map. They print them on silk: you conceal it in the lining of your clothes.” He looked up from the table. A ray of sunshine caught his eyes, lighting up the flecks of amber and gold in the brown irises. There was something in the look he gave me—a fleeting impression of pent-up emotion, of feelings he couldn’t express. “You’ll be taking radio parts: new transmitters for the sets that have been smashed up. And something else.”
“What?”
“Explosives. The Resistance is planning to blow up roads and bridges to disrupt the German supply lines.” He paused, watching me intently. “As I said, you don’t have to do it.”
“But someone has to.” I held his gaze. “And if there are no other women, it would have to be a man. And that man would almost certainly be caught and probably shot on the spot.” I could see my face reflected in his eyes. It felt as if I were glimpsing the future, my life as it would be in a fortnight’s time. My life. And, quite possibly, my death.
It was a quiet afternoon for messages. Most of the Resistance people led apparently ordinary lives during the day—working on farms, in offices, or in schools—and it was in the evenings that they became active as freedom fighters. In the first couple of hours I translated only two requests, one for fresh supplies of ammunition and another for wound dressings.
When the machine fell silent, I went to sit by the window. I threaded cotton into a needle and set about sewing a tricky pleat into the front panel of the dress I was making. It seemed a ridiculous thing to be doing in light of the conversation I’d just had with Jack. But it stopped me from thinking about what I’d agreed to take on, focused my mind in a way that shut out the terrifying images his words had conjured.
I’d only sewn a couple of stitches when I heard a tremendous thud. I jumped out of my chair as a row of books came tumbling off a shelf near where I’d been sitting. My first instinct was to run out of the room, into the great hall. I stood there for a moment, wondering if anyone else in the house had heard anything. No one appeared.
I made my way down the passage to the kitchen, thinking that perhaps the gas range had blown up. When I opened the door, the room was empty and undisturbed. Molly and the other woman who helped with the cooking had gone back to the village for the Cuckoo Feast.
I ran outside, wondering if the noise had come from one of the farm buildings. I went into the milking shed—deserted at this time of the day—and then into the one where the tractors were kept. I was about to go back into the house when I caught sight of Merle running up the path from the village. She was holding Jacqueline’s hand, tugging the child along. Jacqueline’s white dress was torn and stained. Jacqueline had her free hand up to her eyes, as if she was crying. Behind them I glimpsed Danielle, who was dragging Louis up the hill. Both looked as if they’d been rolling about in mud.
I ran over to them. “What on earth’s happened?”
“A bomb fell on the field behind the school,” Merle gasped. “No one’s hurt, thank God.”
“We saw the plane coming,” Louis piped up. He looked more excited than frightened. His fox head had fallen forward, hanging under his chin like a red beard. “There was a Spitfire chasing it.”
“Where’s Ned?”
Merle put her hand to her chest, too out of breath to speak.
“He ran off.” Danielle spoke for her. “Lordy’s gone looking for him.”