Dottie took a deep breath and prepared for another round of unburdening. But she had survived a wartime France riddled with danger, for almost two years, then lived through peacetime only to find herself back where it all began. And just like last time, she would have to buckle up, take a breath and dive into her memories, and face her fears head on.
11
Maude and The Tanners
London, New Year’s Eve 1942
Dottie’s eyes were drooping as she listened toWorkers Playtimeon the Home Service, the fire in the grate fending off the chill while opposite, Delphine concentrated on darning socks.
It was such a pleasure to be home, and had she been allowed, Dottie would’ve gone downstairs to help in the café just so she could spend more time with her parents because every second counted, it really did. Instead they had insisted she rest, she was too thin and looked tired, and the bruises on her legs were a sight for sore eyes, something that had raised many questions around the kitchen table, none of them she was able to answer. How could she tell them where she’d been or what she’d been taught? Part of Dottie wanted to explain because she was sure they’d be in awe of their little sparrow while the other part knew it would scare them to death. They didn’t deserve that or for their heads to be filled with images while she was away, and that was another thing, for how long.
When she said goodbye to them in two days’ time, Dottie had no idea when she’d be back. They had been told to report to an address in the West End, a holding house where they would be given their code names and final orders before being moved to a forwarding base in Sussex, then dropped into France. It was the culmination of months of gruelling training that had begun on their first full day in Scotland, where the skills she had learned were designed to keep her alive or end the lives of others.
* * *
The journey from Scotland to the New Forest had seemed to last forever, but Dottie and Maude both agreed that their new billet was much nicer and a whole lot warmer than the chilly Highlands. Hidden in the grounds of a country estate, the cottage had been their home for the past two months and compared to the rigours of Glenmore House and then a stint at Ringway Airport in Cheshire for parachute training, it was a doddle.
Basically, they’d lived in a make-believe world. F-Section was solely for agents being sent to France where they would work behind enemy lines. The intense training prepared them for a clandestine life, learning a range of techniques so they could operate in the field, communicate with other networks and London. Consequently, Dottie and Maude were adept at making imprints of keys, picking locks, and more than capable of burglary. Hopefully, the skills they’d learned to complement their training in Scotland would keep them alive and prevent them from making stupid mistakes that would mark them out as agents. It was the simplest of things that could get you killed, like asking for black coffee or looking the wrong way when you crossed the road. They had to think and act French which was why from the moment they arrived on the estate, that was the spoken language at all times, even in private.
It would have been easy to break the rules but others had done so, up in Scotland, and the consequence of that was failing the course and being sent to the cooler, another mausoleum on another isolated estate in the Highlands. According to rumour, that’s where you would remain for the duration of the war, so that all Glenmore’s secrets and training methods would be secure. Dottie and Maude had agreed, in French, that they hadn’t come all this way and achieved so much to get packed off to a Highland hotel for losers, regardless of the three decent meals a day and stunning scenery.
Parachute training had been the least arduous, for Dottie anyway. Even though they’d practised over and over, she was getting used to being bawled out, maybe she had perforated eardrums or something but a daily beasting was water off a duck’s back.
It was hard to believe she was the girl who used to blub if she was told off and sent to the back of the class by the teacher, Mrs Hitchen. This new Dottie had recently jumped from a static balloon and then an aeroplane, 400 feet above Tatton Park in Cheshire, just about missing the lake and landing with a wallop into a field of surprised-looking sheep. Or that she’d endured and survived a mock interrogation, been strip-searched and kicked, handcuffed, had her face slapped, her hair pulled and the verbal abuse… Mrs Hitchen was a pussycat in comparison.
The hardest part of training without a doubt had been in Scotland where Dottie had faced her toughest challenges both mentally and physically, thrown in at the deep end like all the others, men and women alike.
Conversely, she’d relished that aspect, being pitted against the men, and had striven to hold her own. It had occurred to her during survival training that out there in the wilderness, when you were cold, wet, starving and alone that gender didn’t matter. The person that survived would be the one who found shelter, could light a fire and catch, kill and prepare a rabbit, and if they could navigate their way back to the starting point first, it was a bonus. Dottie carried this theory throughout her training.
Even weapon handling allowed her to excel, it was a skill that allowed her to hit the target well, same with the art of sabotage. She could set a charge and knew how to demolish a building or blow up a bridge or railway line with explosives as well as the man in line beside her. Dottie could move with stealth, plan escape routes, read a map, use Morse code, and she truly believed she could kill.
This had been the highest hurdle to jump. Dottie had worried that physically, one on one, she might fail. Their burly instructor, an ex-police officer recruited from Hong Kong and an expert in martial arts and hand-to-hand combat convinced her otherwise. Dottie now knew how to kill silently with a stroke of the blade, and that when using her firearm, the double tap method of elbow resting on hip, aim, fire two shots, should always be used by the agent. Clean, quick and sure.
It had been hard but in between the exhaustion were moments so magic, ones where they laughed till they cried, that she would remember forever and the spell was always cast by Maude.
The bedroom was filled with smoke as Dottie and Maude lay on their beds covered in mud, aching all over, too tired to speak, just about able to drag on their cigarettes while they rested weary bones.
Dottie to Maude: ‘I’m starving, aren’t you?’
‘Mmm… but I cannot get off this bed, darling, I simply can’t. I will just have to starve to death right here on this yucky eiderdown rather than face the bathtub again… scatter my ashes on the roses, won’t you?’
Dottie giggled then yelped. Her stomach muscles, no, every bloody muscle in her whole body was pulled and sore. ‘You are so dramatic, Maudie… you really are. I know, why don’t we have a stand-up wash, we could just scrub the bits that show and have a bath tomorrow. It’s only mud and nobody will know especially if we wear slacks.’
A pale arm flopped over the edge of the bed, a delicate hand dangled while a dramatic groan escaped from Maude’s lips. ‘Oh, darling, it’s simply too much trouble so could you please just strip me off, chuck a bucket of water on me and wash me down with the sponge because I really don’t have the energy.’
Dottie chuckled and then tried to cajole Maude. ‘Ivy told me that it’s haggis for dinner and someone got their hands on two bottles of malt, and it’s jam roly-poly for pud–’
‘Perhaps I might just make it down… if there’s whisky.’
‘And you might win at gin rummy again. That Hugh chap was most put out the other night, I’ve not seen him since, that’s how upset he was.’
At this Maude became revitalised and flipped onto her side to face Dottie, a wicked grin spread across her face. ‘Yes, I really got his goat, didn’t I? Good, odious man. I think he must have passed the training and been sent on. I hope that’s the last we see of him.’
Dottie turned to face Maude but winced as she did so, in real pain. ‘I felt sorry for him. He had quite a bad stammer and his skin, the poor man must have had terrible acne when he was young. His face is covered with scars and it still looks quite sore.’
Maude made a sort of humming noise but didn’t add to Dottie’s observations.
‘Why don’t you like him? You didn’t say you knew him.’
