“She did come back briefly one morning—just to tell us she wouldn’t be in touch for a while,” Drusilla says, suddenly avoiding our gazes. “Suffice to say we quarreled. I was half-asleep when she arrived and completely unprepared for the difficult conversation we had that day. I had no idea it was the last time I’d ever see her.”
“And did the SOE keep you abreast of whatever she was doing?”
“Not at all,” Drusilla says, her tone fierce. “She’d told us she had enlisted in the WAAF, although by the time she left, I knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Still, in lieu of any useful contacts, I kept calling various WAAF offices, hoping if I made a nuisance of myself someone would figure out where she really was and put me through to the right agency. One day, I found myself on the phone with a man named Gerard Turner. He wouldn’t tell me which agency he represented, but he was at least a helpful fellow, at least initially. He confirmed my suspicion that she’d been posted somewhere overseas but assured me that she would be well cared for. I called him every few weeks for a while, but then one day I called and he was unavailable too. And this time, his secretary suggested I stop calling—that I’d hear from them as soon as they had news. Well, France was liberated, and still nothing! Jocelyn could have walked through the door without warning one day, just as she had done in 1942. Or she could have been long dead. I had no way of knowing and for the longest time it was as though both realities were true.”
“The authorities eventually did update you, didn’t they?” Theo asks uneasily. Drusilla’s eyes are hollow as she nods.
“In late 1944, I opened the door one day and a stranger was standing there. I could tell the minute I made eye contact with him that something was wrong, but for a long time, he just stared at me…it was quite unnerving. Then finally, he asked me if I was Jocelyn’s mother. It was dreadfully awkward. He looked as if he was going to cry. I didn’t know what to do, but by then, I was starting to wonder if this chap was her friend. She made so few friends in her life—my Jocelyn was quite self-sufficient—but she returned from France with a young man—”
My heart leaps. Theo glances at me, then croaks to confirm, “Was it Noah Ainsworth?”
Drusilla nods.
“Yes! After her return to the UK they were constantly exchanging letters and I think they even managed to meet up a few times, although I never met him personally. So when I saw how upset the man on my doorstep was… I just assumed he was a friend and, well, Noah was the only male friend she had once she arrived here so…”
“Was it him?” I manage.
“No,” Drusilla murmurs. “No, but as soon as I asked if he was, the man’s entire demeanor changed. He introduced himself as Gerard Turner and told me that Jocelyn was gone. I didn’t believe him at first, but he was adamant and I had no choice but to accept it eventually. It seems she made a crucial mistake on a mission in France. According to Mr. Turner, that error led to her capture and the capture of another agent.” Theo and I both gasp in surprise. Drusilla’s gaze drops again. “I was very concerned that my daughter’s mistakes would become public knowledge and that this would be how people remembered her. He assured me I need not worry—everything was highly classified, so as long as I kept her story to myself, no one else would ever know she’d been involved with the SOE at all.” She flicked a glance at us. “But now you’ve tracked me down, so I’m guessing that wasn’t an accurate take on the situation.”
“Her records are still classified,” Theo said quickly. “No one outside of this room will know what you just told us.”
“Even if she made some mistakes, Doctor Sallow, she still did an incredibly noble thing,” I say.
“I know. And I knew my daughter so I’m certain she went into that crazy role with the very best of intentions.” Drusilla reaches into her pocket and withdraws a handkerchief. She taps delicately at the corners of her eyes as we all sit in a horrified silence, pondering everything she had shared with us.
“Dr. Miller,” Theo asks suddenly. “Did your daughter have a child?”
Drusilla lowers her handkerchief. She reaches for the photo album and starts to flick through the pages. I entertain a fantasy of Drusilla turning to a page featuring a beautiful baby with a striking likeness to Theo. I’d get to bear witness to an emotional reunion between mourning grandmother and lonely grandchild.
But instead, she turns to a page in the middle of the book and I am suddenly staring into the eyes of an adult woman who is clearly very ill. Her cheekbones jut out from her face, and her hair hangs limply around her shoulders. She’s wearing a hospital gown and sitting slumped in a wheelchair.
“You don’t have to be a doctor or even a woman to understand how taxing pregnancy can be on a woman’s body. Does that look like a body capable of the demands of pregnancy and childbirth?” Drusilla says, pointing toward the photo.
“But… I believe she was hospitalized in early 1942,” Theo says urgently. “Perhaps she had a child and you didn’t know—”
“That photo was taken in early 1942,” Drusilla interrupts him. “Yes, she was hospitalized—she had surgery to remove a significant ovarian cyst and her body just would not heal. That’s it. She wasn’t physically strong enough at that point to bear a child. Why are you asking me this?” Her gaze narrows. “And how did you come to hear about my daughter, anyway?”
“Part of Theo’s work is looking for the children of the SOE agents who served,” I say, surprised at how easily the lies are rolling off my tongue. Drusilla nods and closes the album, giving us a thoughtful look.
“It must have been very difficult for those women to leave their children behind to go to war,” she murmurs. “Just as it was very difficult for those of us left behind to learn our children were gone too. I only wish Jocelyn’s sacrifice meant something. To know that she is gone, all for nothing, haunts me to this day.”
I understand senseless loss better than I might have, once upon a time. We thank Drusilla for her time and walk slowly back to the car.
“Not her, then,” Theo says lightly.
“No, it doesn’t seem so,” I say. “Are you okay?”
He assures me he’s disappointed but otherwise fine, but when I offer to come in to his flat for a while to keep him company, he tells me he needs some time alone to think.
“This is a nice surprise,” Dad says. I can’t remember a thing about the drive back to Liverpool but I find myself in his office at the main branch of his workshops. I’m sitting opposite his desk, my foot tapping impatiently against the floor. Dad peers at me, frowning. “Unless this isn’t a social visit.”
“When I asked you about Josie Miller a few weeks ago,” I blurt, “you said she was one of the best women you ever knew.”
“She was.”
“I hate to ask you about her again, but I have to know.” I suck in a breath. “Dad. Was she competent?”
“What a strange question,” Dad says, startled. “Why are you still thinking about this?”