This office is less chaotic than Mrs. White’s but no less crowded. Behind Read’s desk there are floor-to-ceiling shelves and every single inch of space is filled with books. There’s a door to another room behind Professor Read with an impressively intimidating lock—possibly the largest lock I’ve ever seen on an internal door. The window is wide open and framed by white gauze curtains which wave slowly in the slight breeze. There’s not a hint of Mrs. White’s cigarette smoke back here—the room smells exactly like the library at my college. Old books and leather, a deep note of pervasive dust.
Read pulls a small transcriber from his desk and motions toward my father.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation, Noah? I’d like to have one of my students interview you properly at a later date but if we cover the basics now, I’ll be better placed to figure out who that should be.”
“I don’t need to be interviewed,” Dad says stiffly. “I only wanted to speak to you because I want to find Remy.” Dad’s eyes seem locked on that recorder, as if he’s willing for it to disappear. While Read waits in a patient silence, Dad clears his throat and shifts awkwardly on his chair. “There were many heroes in the SOE, Professor Read. I’m quite certain I was not one of them.”
“Everyone who served in the SOE is a hero, Mr. Ainsworth,” Read says, suddenly aghast. But his lips thin and perhaps his eyes narrow just a little as he adds slowly, “Except the double agents, of course.” My father shifts again, lifts his teacup off the desk to cradle it in both hands. “We have sent you many letters over the years.”
Dad shakes his head.
“So your secretary told me. I’m not sure what address you’ve been—”
Read spins a manila folder on his desk toward us. There are three addresses on the front cover—two have been crossed out, and our current address—the house we’ve lived in for more than fifteen years—is on a typed label beneath them. Read opens the folder to reveal a stack of copied letters inside.
“We’ve sent one every few years. Since about 1948,” Read says quietly, flicking through the pile. “You aren’t the only former agent who ignores them but we do keep sending them unless they specifically ask us to stop.”
“I didn’t ignore them,” Dad says. He reaches forward and picks the top letter up, scans it quickly, then sets it back down. He raises his gaze to Read’s, his expression twisted with bewilderment. “I’ve never seen these before. How did you even know where I lived?”
“We are fortunate to access quality information from other government agencies. And they are your addresses, no?”
Dad gives me a bewildered look. The professor closes the folder again and I lean forward to read the addresses for myself.
“The first one was the flat me and Geraldine moved into after we married. The next was our first detached house, and the last house is our home even now,” Dad murmurs. Our current house was my mum’s dream house. She and Dad saved for years to build it and I know it was a struggle to afford the mortgage at first because Dad’s business was still getting off the ground. The house is a single-story bungalow with four bedrooms plus an office. I was ten when we moved in but I vividly remember Aunt Kathleen playfully calling the house “ostentatious” because it had a second bathroom and two living areas. It certainly was a step up from the homes most of our friends had at the time.
“I never received these letters,” Dad says stiffly. “I might not have agreed to an interview, but I wouldn’t have simply ignored you.”
“It’s perfectly fine if you did ignore me,” Read says, but it’s clear to me that he does not for a second believe my father is telling the truth. “I’m just glad you’re here now. And I have of course heard from Theo that you want to track this Remy down. Let’s get down to it, then. Tell me what you know of him.”
“I don’t know much at all,” Dad says. It’s warm in the office but not unbearably so. There are small beads of sweat over Dad’s forehead and I wonder if this is anxiety, rather than the heat. He takes a handkerchief from the pocket of his shirt and mops his brow. “I woke up in a hospital at Brive-La-Galliarde sometime after D-Day. I’d been shot and—” he points to the jagged scar beside his temple. “My skull was fractured. I completely lost my memory at first—all I really knew was that I was British and a fish out of water in occupied France. I couldn’t remember my name. I couldn’t even figure out how I knew French.”
“How terrifying that must have been for you,” Professor Read murmurs. Dad shrugs awkwardly.
“In time I remembered that I’d been working with the SOE, but many of my memories of the war years remain blurry—especially the months leading up to that day.”
“So you’re looking for a man named Remy because…”
“The nurse told me that Remy dropped me off at the hospital clinic.”
“But you’re not sure if he was an agent.”
“I do think he was,” Dad says. “Am I certain of that? No. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Tell me this, Noah,” Professor Read says quietly. “Does the village of Salon-La-Tour ring any bells?”
My father fumbles for the handkerchief and mops his brow again, but even as he does so, the color is draining from his face. This time, he keeps the handkerchief in his hand and he starts to twist it around his fingers.
“Dad?” I prompt uncertainly.
“My memories are so vague,” Dad croaks.
“But you do have some memory of that village?” Read prompts.
“I think so.” Dad’s voice is little more than a whisper now.
“Were you injured at Salon-La-Tour, Noah?”
“Yes,” Dad says. He clears his throat and lifts his chin. “Actually. Yes, I do believe I was.”
“Your code name was Marcel, was it not?” Read asks. Dad nods again. Marcel. How strange to think of my father using someone else’s name. “There was another agent with you at Salon-La-Tour, wasn’t there?” Dad squeezes his eyes closed for just a moment then nods silently. “Was there anyone else? Or just the three of you?”
“Just the three of us, I think,” Dad says. “But she—Fleur—escaped somehow. I distinctly remember being alone with Remy.”
“So you do remember Remy now?” I ask Dad, confused. He looks at me helplessly as he waves toward the professor.
“It’s like I told you. I have random images that come into my mind…sometimes feelings that don’t necessarily make sense. When the professor prompts me, I can see it just a little clearer. But it’s all still very muddled.”
“Let me tell you why I’m so fascinated, Noah, and why I had so hoped to speak with you one day,” Professor Read says. “I believe the three of you left from a safe house outside of Limoges that morning. I’ve never been able to find out exactly what happened after that.”
“Have you asked Remy…？” I interrupt. “Or… Fleur?”
“Unfortunately, Fleur did not survive the war,” Professor Read says quietly.