Page 55 of Tides of Resistance
The granite farmhouse was homely with its traditional shutters that needed a fresh coat of paint. Maintaining his paintwork was the least of Fabian’s worries, by the sounds of it.
Lizzie propped her bicycle against a wall and used the iron ring to knock twice. There was no sound of movement from inside, so Lizzie knocked again. Several minutes passed, and then she retrieved her bike and walked around the property, to where they had sat outside drinking coffee in the backyard. The gate creaked, and she walked slowly, coughing to alert Fabian in case he was working, or wanted to warn Judith.
She scanned the area, which was much like it had been last time. The yard was scattered with pieces of old furniture, and tools lay on a tabletop nearby. Lizzie noticed a pair of shabby women’s sandals, and she guessed they were Judith’s.
Lizzie knocked on the back door but was met with more silence. She shrugged her arms out of her coat and walked over to the small wooden well Fabian had collected water from on their last visit. There was an earthen pitcher full of water, and Lizzie washed her hands and then formed a cup with her fingers and sipped the cool, refreshing well water. It seemed likely Fabian had drawn the water earlier that day and had gone out. She would wait for him, but in the meantime, this was the ideal time to send her message to London. She had planned to confide in him if necessary. Fabian was risking his life by hiding Judith, so she hoped she could trust him to keep her secret. What choice did she have anyway?
But with no one at home, there was no need. The fewer people involved in her operation, the better. On one side of the yard there was a flourishing vegetable garden, which made Lizzie wonder why Aunt Giselle had sent fruit and vegetables, but she knew the answer and smiled. Mothers would be mothers. Her own mother’s face appeared in her mind, and she hoped all was well at home. A pang of fear clutched at heras she thought of her grandparents. She didn’t know how she would have the strength to tell her father that Seagrove had been requisitioned and his parents had been evicted from their home. Worst still, she didn’t know where they were. How could she tell him that? It would break his heart.
The family didn’t express it in words, but she sensed the common thread keeping them all going through this horrific war was the hope that Nan and Pops were alive and well, living at Seagrove and soon, somehow, they would all be reunited in Jersey. It was a naive hope, but they clung to it.
The idea that had taunted her since soon after her arrival forced its way into her thoughts again. What if she travelled to Jersey and searched for her grandparents? It was beginning to seem like the only thing she could do if she were to live with herself when this mission was over. Not trying to check on her grandparents when she was this near to Jersey seemed wrong. They were not getting any younger and were presumably living under harsh conditions, like everyone under Nazi occupation. This might be her only chance to see them again.
Based on the hold the Germans had over the Jersey coast and the major plans for the Atlantic Wall fortification, which seemed to involve Jersey, this could be the last window of opportunity an agent would have to get onto the island. Lizzie built her case for going to Jersey as though she were talking to Val. She didn’t imagine she was talking to Jack because there was absolutely no way he would approve the plan she had brewing, which refused to leave her in peace.
Further into the garden, a small grassy mound indicated what looked like the site of a stone storage chamber that led back to the kitchen door. This must be the underground storage, so she descended the stone steps and reached a wooden door that moaned as she pushed it open.
An earthy, musty smell assailed her nostrils, and her eyes moved to the tiny window near the ceiling, which wove rays of pale daylight across the thick stone walls. Stacked crates lined wooden shelves, and baskets covered by cloths stood against the walls. They must be for whatever produce Fabian grew in the vegetable garden and orchard.
It was pleasantly cool below ground after the strength of the morning sun, and Lizzie’s shoes scattered the sawdust on the floor, and she let out a piercing sneeze as she walked around the small cavern.
Her plan would work, but the light was too dim to set up her radio. After running back up to the garden to get the equipment and making sure the grounds were still deserted, she extracted her tiny torch and began assembling the radio the way she had been taught on her latest training at Bletchley Park where they showed her how to use the new technology radio crystals.
So many agents and Resistance members had been caught, it was no longer practical for a network to depend on a solo wireless operator. Agents who infiltrated France alone must be self-sufficient and multi-skilled. They had to know how to set up a radio and send and receive messages quickly, without detection, often whilst constantly on the move.
The range of skills agents needed, to have even a slim chance of operating successfully and surviving their missions was becoming more complex by the day. She worked in silence, her hands deftly putting the pieces of the machine together and preparing her system on the surface of a low, dusty table. The thick stone walls would muffle any sounds, which made this the best possible spot for transmission.
Lizzie sat back on her heels on the ground, satisfied with her handiwork. She found it helpful not to focus on the risk of what she was doing and just take it step by step or fear would immobilise her. In moments like this, she had learnt to act, notthink. She laid a thin blanket, which she found on a shelf, over the equipment and then walked back up to the gardens for one last check before beginning her transmission.
Her bicycle was concealed in a small shed at the back of the farmhouse, and just as she was about to descend the stone steps after looping around the property and knocking on the back door again with no response, she heard voices echoing from the front of the farmhouse.
Damn it. She was so close.
The voices grew louder, chatting in French. The gate creaked open, and Lizzie rushed back up the steps and sat on a bench, panting slightly, near Fabian’s workspace as if she was waiting for him.
Two figures came into view. Fabian and a young woman at his side. For a second, Fabian froze when he saw her.
‘Li—Rose,’ he said, recovering quickly. ‘What are you doing here?’
Lizzie stood and went to greet him. ‘Not quite the welcome I expected,’ she said, her tone lightly teasing.
Fabian removed his brown farmer’s cap and pushed his fingers through his thick hair. ‘Forgive me. How rude of me. What I meant was, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon!’
Lizzie laughed, and they kissed, their affection for each other clear. The young woman hovering behind him was petite, with dark hair and guarded brown eyes. This must be Judith Cohen. Lizzie detected a hint of fear in their soft brown depths, but then Fabian introduced them, and she stepped towards Lizzie with a shy smile playing around her pale lips.
‘Rose meet Fleur. She is a friend of the family and helps me out with the workload. Fleur’s house in Brest was bombed in a terrible raid, and her family sent her here for safety.’
Lizzie knew Brest was a major naval base, and the Allies had bombed it repeatedly, which resulted in droves of refugees fleeing the raids.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Lizzie said, smiling warmly, going along with their fake cover story. ‘I hope your family is safe.’
Judith said that she hoped so too, but she hadn’t heard from them in some time. They made small talk and discussed the hardships of wartime as Fabian unlocked the backdoor and went inside to make them coffee.
Lizzie’s thoughts kept straying to her radio lurking beneath the blanket. It would be obvious to anyone entering the underground chamber, and she excused herself and went to bring her bicycle from the shed to buy herself some time.
Judith looked as if she was trying to figure out why she had hidden her bicycle.
‘I didn’t want to risk it being stolen whilst I looked for you,’ Lizzie said. ‘It’s my only mode of transport back to St. Malo!’
