Summer Blossom

September fled from our lives quickly, and I had already been in Paris for going on a month now. My hotel room was far from homely, and I found the comfort of Eliza’s much more soothing. I spent most of my evenings there, finding some form of comfort in the company of her body next to mine in the double bed. My parents came to visit on one occasion with Lillian, and I arranged for the day off work, from planning Eliza’s and my trip, to spend the day with them before they returned to Lannion then boarded the ship for home. I had tried to avoid thinking about Peter and Sebastian, who had been gone for a month now, as I was moving through the City fluently. My father had grown distant, and quiet, after Sebastian and Peter had left, and my Mother had grown even more maternal towards Lillian and I. My attempts to take all of their minds off the war along with my own begun that day as I entertained them with the sights of Paris. I focused any thought I had of Peter on that night I had spent with him before I said goodbye. I had danced like I didn’t know he was leaving. In the city I had moved into a small hotel room above a bakery on a small back street of Paris, and begun the work I had signed up for with the government. I had introduced Eliza, my linguistic friend who was worriedly volunteering herself along with me into the government’s hands, to my parents the day they came to visit. My parents had known about my choice to join the reinforcement of interpreters that the government were asking for, but they had no idea where I would be going or the work I would be conducting with the French resistance. My French skills would do well in the line of work that I had signed up for. A British agent working for the Special Operations Executive sounded exciting to me, and I wanted more than anything to use my languages for the good of the war. Missions were told to us on a weekly basis, and the past month in Paris had served as a whirlwind of orders and missions which held little purpose; gathering maps we would need and just one visit to a shop on the back streets where Eliza had spoken with an elderly man and his pretty daughter in a back room whilst I had flicked through a French cartoon magazine. I had decided upon the fact that finding Peter and my brother was a ridiculous notion, though it still lingered like mould in my mind.
Paris had been a new experience for Lillian more than anyone; she had kept exclaiming that she thought she saw her older brother, and then she saw Peter. At the first sound of this, my parents had searched through the faces in the crowds eagerly, then realised that childish hope was something they could understand but not believe in. I had tried to block out Lillian’s mixed up thoughts and concentrate on showing them the parts of the city that I knew. My parent’s knew parts well enough, having visited many years ago, though neither of them had been back for at least a decade now.
We had sat in a café on the edge of the Seine, and sipped tea and ate biscuits like any normal family visiting the capital city; taking in the life and feel of the place. I had taken Lillian up the tower on an unfortunately windy day, Eliza explaining to her that morning as she had briefly met my family, that if you dropped a penny from the highest platform, it could kill someone. This had confused and amazed Lillian, and my mother had found the humour in the story and laughed along with it, but my father had found it hard to hear anything that anyone said since his son left. I could not understand his complete disregard for my mother’s wellbeing; it was as if he wanted her to think about it. She had comforted him and agreed with him that she missed her son but she was stronger, I knew. She kept her brave face on for Lillian and me and in respect for my father also. I really didn’t know what to speak to him of anymore, and so I told him about Peter and me at the Jazz Bar. It was a brave step; he had no idea I’d even been within a near proximity of a bar, though I knew he adored the thought of the music. I had told him how I’d seen the dancing, how I’d danced myself, and how Peter was an excellent dance partner for me. I had felt like a small child during the story, reminding myself that I was still his child, and the thought of Peter and I may not have helped his feeling of loss; but the effect of my story seemed to work well, he laughed about how my mother couldn’t beat his dancing when they had met, although she disagreed. The mood lightened and I felt the tone of his voice ease into the memories again. He was back momentarily, until they had to return home and I stayed where I was in the city, the walls of my family dynamics firmly built, yet the doorway had opened slightly more, and I was free to the city and my new job.
The night that they returned back to the house, to venture back to England in the early morning sunlight, I sat alone in my room. The one floral wall ahead of me was elegantly coloured and added a hint of femininity to the cream room, which felt wide and empty. Staring directly ahead I thought about the next few months that I would be spending around this city. I had never really been encouraged to work such as I would be soon, and had been, though at this stage I had only spoken to a few resistance workers that Eliza had connections with. There were few things that I felt comfortable with; worrying was a trait that I loathed of myself but had accepted over the years. Things got to me easily and I had learnt to live with my critical analysis of situations and people. Peter’s face blurred in my mind momentarily and I felt a prickling feeling across the backs of my upper arms, as if winter was crawling in on me in the late October night. November was almost upon us, and I would be travelling with Eliza to our first away mission in around two months. I had two months to wait.
I felt ashamed about Peter and I. My parents had surprised me when they had not shown their disapproval of the relationship I had embarked on. Perhaps they did not know the extent of it as of now. I felt upbraided with myself; I had never felt like this before, but nothing else had felt more comfortable. Peter knew me only a little, but he had seen me in ways I had never imagined I could be comfortable with. His eyes had scoured my body on two occasions now, and I had never known such familiarity as that. My face felt hot and I ran my hands over my face whilst pressing down on the warm flesh that burnt in flames of shame. Would Peter return to me after all of this? I did not know how to feel any longer. The wall before me had begun to grow dark as I had been sat thinking about everything. The flowers were darkened and wilting into shadows before me, and I heard the faint laughter of a young man from the room below just before I rolled on to my side and covered my head with a feather pillow.

Two months later I sat on a train, staring at Eliza and the map; at the carriage and the countryside outside.
‘You’re the French linguist; you tell me where this place is!’ Eliza laughed, as we both puzzled over our destination, even as we sat on the train.
‘I think it’s near the border with Belgium. It sounds like it, but I’m not sure. Do we have that map book anywhere in here?’ I looked down at the bag below my seat, it had clothes and make-up in; an attempt to look normal, as if we weren’t employed as spies for the British government. I reached in and found the small map book that my mother had given me; it had lived in the summer house, which they had left two weeks ago for home, for around thirty years now. The names would still be the same, although new towns would cause some confusion with the old map. I flipped the pages through my fingers, looking at my newly painted red nails, and tracing them down from the letter and across from the number on the map. I had memorised the square that we were heading for, the train was rickety and full of soldiers. I had searched each cabin subtly for Peter and Sebastian, completely unknowing about their current whereabouts, hope pulsing through my veins; useless, as I knew full well that I would not find them sat on the train, a book in Sebastian’s hand, and the familiar, subconscious smile set upon Peter’s dozing face.
The landscape hurtled by slowly, the distance never changing as the pastoral scenery remained green and cold, dappled by many tiny towns in the foreground, whose frail train stations we shimmied through, uncaring of their names and people, ignorant of the whereabouts of their settlements. In our cabin, we had closed the door tightly, and sat together at the edge of our three person seat, next to the window. I glanced out every now and then, looking for something familiar that I knew I would not find. I had never been to this area of France before, I knew nothing of it. My area was the south, the summer house, and Lannion’s comfortable streets. Eliza carefully questioned me about my name, my French name and my false English name. I was Anne. I thought about my mother with this name, as her middle name resounded in my brain. I knew she would be worrying about me, about Sebastian, and also Peter; she would worry about him also because he had no one else to, and they had all grown rather fond of him over the time they had shared with him. A faint scent of bread carried through the corridor of the train and through our door somehow; I felt my stomach stir at the smell, and Eliza frowned at the rumble that it produced.
‘Me too,’ She laughed, stepping up to the door and opening it, peering out to see the food cart travelling through, being stopped often by soldiers asking for home comforts that they knew they would not find in the trolley of the little man in an old brown suit. He looked sad to tell them the news, and empathy was passed from him to the soldiers as he gave them food that they did not entirely want, but settled for. I longed for some coffee, thick and creamy, and knew I would not get any. As he reached us Eliza bought some bread and two coffees, contained in thick plastic cups that felt spongy and odd in my hands. Closing the door firmly behind her after thanking the man in a stutter of French words that she struggled with, she returned to me and the map, which I had covered with my thick, winter jacket as the man had passed by us.

Our instructions were to accompany the soldiers to the meeting point, in Lille, close to the border or Belgium. I knew little of the whereabouts of the town, but I had heard that it was becoming a large meeting place for the French and British soldiers that were attempting to hold back the border for the expected attack to gain Paris. We were to ‘infiltrate’ ourselves in the town life, and follow the normal ways of the world. I felt a little dumbfounded by this order, as we had been told it as if it was the easiest thing to achieve. I had wondered about Eliza’s French, which was hardly fluent and she struggled with the words, the accent; she struggled with the entire language. Her German would help tenfold though, and she had spent hours re-teaching me the things that I had learnt in school. I was almost comfortable with the accent, although with my familiarity with the French dialect, the language felt harsh and hurt my throat. We had decided upon the tactic that if we were to speak French, I would handle the entire conversation, and if German linguistic skills were called upon, I was to remain silent. It would work hopefully, and we would have to rely on this decided way of things to get us through. I could easily find my place in a French town with my language, as mother had taught me well, having spoken to me in only French when my father had been on business trips; allowing me long periods of time as a child when I would only be allowed to speak in French, to both my mother and my brother. Sebastian was also fluent, which I hoped would help him out at the front, as although many soldiers could speak a little school French, he could converse with ease. Peter could speak French also, and I had reminded him of a few words on the ship months before.
The train was beginning to slow, and I could feel the creaking brakes easing us to a slower pace, the sound jumping from carriage to carriage as the motion set in. Under the train I felt the elderly metal moan under the rust, and the movement felt awful, as if we were torturing the old machinery. In the noise I heard some soldiers applauding and shouting their excitement at our near arrival. The small houses on the outskirts of the large town came into view, and slowly passed us, slow enough to let me admire the architecture of the north of France. It was different to the south, where white houses were favoured, and every now and then someone stepped out of the mould and painted their exterior a pastel yellow, or blue, as a seaside town in England would do. These houses looked wind-bitten and malnourished, their colour faded to a grey or mould brown, their bricks battered by a wind that presumably approached from across the flats from the English Channel. I suddenly realised that I did know the name of the town, Lille. It was positioned directly below the border with Belgium, and Ypres was not far from the area. My history lessons that focused on the Great War and the battles returned, and I was pleased with myself, my knowledge of Ypres that flooded back; not that it would do me much good. This was an entirely new war, it was unknown and unfamiliar, which meant it was dangerous. It had felt strange when we had boarded the train, to be travelling towards Germany rather than away from the country that threatened both ours and the one that we were in. I could not decide whether I felt comfortable in France anymore, was I still classed as a part-citizen with my dual heritage? Or was I a guest? An Intruder, perhaps? I blew this thought from my mind as I gathered my things into my suitcase, and purse thrown around my shoulder to hang at my waist, I left our carriage behind Eliza, watching her sleek walking technique that accentuated her curvaceous figure so that soldiers appearing in carriage doorways watched her, then turned to me and smiled gently. I was the gentle one, I gathered, as they felt more obliged to gawp at her than me.
The station became more and more crowded as the train burped out the soldiers, and we stood in disarray on the station together. Eliza and I the only women I could see, other than the few older women who stood gossiping at the crowd of young men in uniform who had just arrived. The train let out a moan again, creaking its way into movement, and exited, leaving the way it had come. There was nowhere to go further on, Belgium waited in the near distance, and I could see a French flag slung over the pole, which begun to flap in the wind from the moving train. The station smelt like men, and I paused to watch them standing without a clue about where to go, until an authoritative man dressed in an immaculate uniform, with medals placed carefully on his breast pocket, shouted their attention. He did this both in French and then English, and I understood both with a smile. The young men stood to attention, and I saw their expressions change immediately. Some of them looked far too young to be dressed in the uniforms, which were both endearing and welcoming. I pulled my long, thick trench coat around me and huddled down in to the collar. The bitter winter air pressed down on my skin and produced a pattern of goose bumps across my skin.
I looked around when I heard a rumbling from above, and turned my head upwards to the grey sky where I saw two planes covering the sky above the station. Their engines hummed in the air around us, and I noticed that none of the soldiers broke their gaze from the man who was speaking to them. His voice rose as the humming got louder over head, just as the planes got out of view, and one of the young soldiers who stood closest to me winced at the heightening of the volume of his voice. His head was turned up as he stood to attention, and he glanced down at me as I looked up at him, suitcase in my hand, having just watched a plane go by. I smiled at him, and thought I saw his mouth twitch. He must have been about seventeen, younger than me I realised, as my eighteenth birthday had passed the month before as I was in Paris.
I had celebrated quietly with Eliza, in a small café on the edge of the Seine. I had bought myself a Parisian coffee, and treated both of us two a slice of chocolate gateau. Mine had arrived late, a lit candle perched on top of the chocolate icing, with a grinning waiter winking as he left. Eliza had told him it was my birthday, she had admitted, and I had teased her about how she would have asked clumsily with her awkward French if she could have a candle in the cake. It was a sweet gesture, and that day I had greatly missed my mother’s warm birthday cake mix; a special method that she had picked up from her mother, somehow creating a fluffy inside to the cake that no cake maker could challenge.
I turned then, feeling guilty for distracting the young soldier from his authoritative speaker, and he returned his gaze to the man who was still speaking loudly on the platform. I rearranged my sweaty palms on the wooden handle of my suitcase, and glanced at Eliza as she motioned for me to follow from where she was advancing towards the exit of the platform. I watched her heels tapping on the tiled floor, and caught up with her, attempting to speed myself up in heels and realising that my heels had become far more comfortable after two weeks of wearing them without fail. She had mastered walking in heels long before I knew they could be this comfortable, and I noted the way she walked gracefully in them; with me hobbling beside her trying to keep myself upright. She had almost two years more practice than me, as she was due to turn twenty soon. I looked sideways at her, looking up a bit as she was slightly taller than me, but I realised not that much as I had gained the extra height of my heels. She glanced at my feet, smiling at my speedy walking in the heels in order to keep up with her quick pace and heel familiarity. She stopped abruptly as we entered the street; the walkway on both sides was occupied by soldiers, and civilians who were weaving around the soldiers with baskets of food and purchases. I looked right and then left, taking in the entire length of what must have been the main street. We were more or less directly in the middle, the station’s entrance and exit opening up into the wide cobbled street. I could see a church at the end of the road to my right, which looked well-kept but empty today; although, it was a Wednesday afternoon.

We set off down towards the church, and I wondered how Eliza knew where to go. She must have memorised the directions that were given to us in Paris; as we had chosen not to bring anything that might hint we didn’t know where we were other than the map book, which would seem completely innocent if it were to be found on me, as I could talk my way out of it with my French knowledge. Eliza, on the other hand, would present a different situation if it were to be found on her by anyone German. I admired the houses and buildings around us; there were so many Boulangerie’s that the smell of fresh bread became overpowering on the walk down the cobbled pavement. Children scattered out of a shop on our right as we passed, and Eliza turned away, as if she disliked the sight of the children. One bumped into me and I laughed as he apologised, and I told him it was quite alright. He murmured something about his mother in the shop and some stolen bread, and I laughed aloud, seeing Eliza smile at my mixing with the locals. She turned back and continued down the street, stopping before a side street and then taking it with a fluent movement.
The thin road was towered above by the bending houses, which seemed to be sweeping to one side of the street, their windows at the top pointing towards the sun like flowers in the morning. They leant inwards, and some houses were so crooked that they seemed about to topple over. I glanced in doorways to see tiled walls and floors, a foreign smell meeting me from each house. Along the street, I could see a pale grey house sitting comfortably between two darker houses, and a sign that hung from above its door read Hotel, in French writing, with a translation into Belgian below; we were closer to the border than I thought. I wondered why it had been translated; it seemed very un-nationalistic of the proud French, and then the thought dispersed as Eliza’s excitement overtook her. She pushed the door open and the smell of fresh flowers welcomed us. It felt very homely inside, with patterned wallpaper and bright coloured walls; the curtains matching the decoration perfectly. Underneath the curtains I saw thick, sweeping netting hanging down like drapes across the pane. There was a shuffling in the room attached to the one we stood in, which homed a large sofa and two worn arm chairs. A woman presented herself from what I gathered to be the kitchen, rubbing her hands on a dish cloth that had been carefully embroidered. She smiled broadly, and stepped into the room.
‘Ladies, Ladies.’ She smiled, holding out both hands in welcome. Eliza smiled, understanding the French word and looking pleased. ‘Come in to the kitchen, I have some fresh cake here for your arrival. Did you have a good trip?’ Her eyes were dark green and peered out of her slim face happily. Securely fastened at the back of her head, I noticed when she turned, her hair was wrapped into an intertwining bun with three pins holding it securely. She bounced through to the kitchen, slim dress hugging her slightly plump, middle-aged figure.
‘Yes thank you, it was lovely.’ I told her, noticing that Eliza had not understood what she had said. I asked her how she was and sat myself down at the round table in the kitchen, smiling at her continuously; it was hard not to. I felt a little odd; I had no idea who this woman was. I looked to Eliza, who stood up suddenly and helped herself to the cupboard, producing a mug in her hand and heading towards the kettle on the stove.
‘How are you?’ She asked the woman in plain English, her cockney accent reappearing from her throat. ‘It’s been a while since I saw you, Olivia. You’ve changed, have you lost weight?’ Eliza turned her head to the side and smiled at the women; she knew her well. She had not mentioned this to me; in fact, I thought we were staying in an unnamed, unfamiliar hotel.
‘Oh girl, don’t try to flatter me. You know I have not lost the weight!’ Her English was sketchy, and I listened to her accent eagerly, it was so different to the southern accents I was used to. ‘But thank you. I wonder if you have lost weight too, you’ve certainly blossomed,’ she winked at Eliza, turning and pinching her slim waist and laughing.
‘Please have some cake,’ she said to me in French, and I helped myself to the large cake in the centre of the table, already missing half. Crumbs scattered across the table cloth as I lifted my slim section; I did not feel much like eating cake at the moment. I wanted to explore. I wanted Eliza to explain what we were to be doing here. I wanted to know where I was going to go, who I was going to see, and why.

I discovered from conversations with Olivia, the owner of our new home for the near future, that the reason for the Belgian translation on the sign was that her husband was Belgian, and believed that since we were so close it would be nice for the visiting Belgians to experience a little bit of familiarity. Olivia had lived here for many years now, with her two young songs, Jacques and Auguste, and her husband whose name I was not told. I did not question this missing of his name, as I caught a short, straight glance from Eliza who stood behind Olivia at the sink, watching us converse. She had understood the names of the sons, and the word husband, and must have followed the conversation a little. Olivia worked in the hotel all the time, entertaining the guests with her many different selections of cake, to which I was eagerly introduced by the youngest of her songs, Auguste. He must have been all of two years old, and I smiled at his gentle little French accent. He spoke well for a young child, and I could tell he was bright.

‘Her husband works with the French resistance,’ Eliza explained, as she sat opposite me on her single bed, the yellow sheets a perfect combination with the pale, flavescent egg yolk yellow walls. ‘He’s always been a big part of the resistance, but most people in this area have. They’re helped by the Belgian’s. It’s been like that for so many years now.’ Her explanation of the husbands work, and the fact that we had been arranged to stay here, made sense to me now. I had wondered about the Belgian translation and Olivia’s husband, along with the resistance. It made sense that we would be boarded with people who knew of our work. Later in the evening, after we had eaten a hearty meal in the kitchen, passing briefly the one other resident currently staying in the hotel, Eliza told me about our plans for the next few weeks. Our work was not to take place here; we were to visit over the border in Belgium. There was a designated driver who we were to meet in the next few days, and we were expected to immerse ourselves in the resistance’s work. Meetings were to be held directly next to the church in Lille for the first few nights, and then we were to move to the other country. I had never lived this close to a border before. It was strange thinking of two different nationalities living so close.

Thursday morning was a blur, having gone to bed late after sitting up with Olivia for hours on end just talking. I had introduced myself to her two boys and the eldest one had spoken to me in an excited manner. It seemed he enjoyed the company of guests staying in the hotel. I knew of one other guest in the vicinity, an elderly man from Belgium. He had been speaking to Olivia when we woke up late on Thursday morning, and I was greatly impressed with her precise sounding Belgian. He had left the house before I had time to exit our small room, containing our two slim beds and a small round table, and made my way to the bathroom at the end of the hall. The edge of the bath was covered in a disarray of coloured bottles, half filled with a similar array of bright colours of bubble-bath and shampoos. The mirror was grand and framed with a thick gold coloured edge, which glinted in the light as I flicked it on and I was welcomed by the reflection of my face. I looked at myself, before removing my clothes and turning on the shower. Water trickled out in a gentle manner and then the shower gained energy behind its flow. It was too hot at first and I felt it burn the small of my back, which made me jump forward and arch my back inwards. The water then cooled to a warm, easy temperature, and I washed my hair with some of the flower scented shampoo that I had gathered was for guest use, as it was placed separately from the children’s bubble-bath. I towel dried my hair and dressed in a grey pencil skirt and casual yellow blouse, whose sleeves were frilly and the lace had ripped a little. I tucked the loose lace up underneath my sleeve and fastened the button, hoping it would hold together before I could sew it back to repair.
The kitchen was chaotic, and the youngest of the boys was crying under the table, curled into a small ball. I crouched to look down at him and he stopped crying abruptly at my gaze. He pulled on his elder brother’s trouser leg, as he was sat swinging both of his legs high above the floor, his brown buckle shoes almost hitting the chair legs as he swung. Olivia said good morning to me, and I was astonished to hear no sound of stress in her voice. She seemed immune to the wailing that had subsided, and I saw her hand a jam sandwich to the older boy. He accepted gratefully in French, and I smiled as I sat down beside him. My hands felt itchy and warm from the shower still and I rubbed them against my skirt to rid the feeling. A steaming mug of coffee appeared from around the side of my head and was placed on the table in front of me by Eliza, and the thick, glossy smell was delicious. Auguste, the youngest boy, then crawled out on his hands and knees, and made an escape for the front room. Eliza made a coo-cooing noise and gripped the child around his waist, lifting him into the air and up to her chest. He squealed out in excitement; whatever had been bothering him had been forgotten now.

On Saturday evening, three days after we had arrived in Lille, Eliza left the house before me so as not to draw attention to two young women venturing in to the night alone in a town they did not live. There was a light in the lower rooms of the church that I could see dimly from the end of our crooked street that we stayed in. It made my way down, looking at the pavement the entire time, apart from when I heard a scuttling and was met by the watching eyes of two middle-aged women, who leant against the wall of a florist, whilst smoking. They watched me pass and as I kept walking towards the church, I could feel their eyes on my back, my skirt, looking me over with interest. The cobbles were difficult to walk on, and few times my heels got caught between two large stones that were cemented to the ground, and I felt myself sway before I was steadied by my other heel in another trapped alcove between some stones. The door to the side of the church opened, and two figures stepped out. Both men glanced up in my direction as I approached the door, and then lit their cigarettes. I saw the lighter burst into orange colour in the darkness. Stopping a few paces away from them, at a distance that I decided seemed safe enough, I looked at them and waited for them to register that I was scheduled to arrive. Eliza peered around the door and told the men to let me in, and they jumped as if they hadn’t realised I was this close to them. They stepped away from the entrance and smiled at me, letting me pass into the light. I was met by a large group of inconspicuous looking people. Men in tailored suits adorned with coloured shirts and well-worn ties sat around, and the group was dappled with a few middle-aged women. I thought that Eliza and I were the only young people there, until I saw two other women wearing similar smart outfits like us. If this was to be seen by anyone else, it would seem like a normal church meeting on a Saturday evening. Someone had started up a record player in the corner as I entered and I could hear the faint sound of saxophones whispering around the room, relaxing the walls and the people. Two men leant against a furthest wall, one of them holding a piece of paper, which he scribbled on every now and then during the conversation.
Eliza sat me down next to a man; I was told that his name was Christian; I had no idea whether this was true or not. He was Olivia’s husband, and once I had been informed of this piece of information, I realised that he bore the same features as the two boys I had spent a few days with. He had the same eyes as Jacques, and the same round face as Auguste, which seemed childish and happy. If I had seen this man on the street, I would never have guessed that he was a high ranking man in the French resistance in Lille. I sat a little uncomfortably between Christian and a younger man, who seemed to have broken a leg in some accident, and bore wooden crutches which looked well used. He said good evening to me in French, and then attempted the English accent that Eliza had used when she had said good evening to Christian moments before. I laughed and begun conversing with him, his name was Pierre, and he had injured his leg badly around a week ago and was sent back home immediately. He seemed afraid that he was letting the French army down by injuring himself, which had occurred in Paris as he was hit by a moving vehicle, and he laughed when he explained that he felt useless for being sent home before he had even experienced war. This was the first conversation I had held with a young man of his want for the passionate war that was raging in only some parts of the country; mainly the north east area towards the German borders. I could not understand the want for violence, but it seemed many young men wanted nothing but this. It was natural.