The Guest Who Stayed

Chapter 6 - September 1920

It was against everything he'd been taught - to get emotionally involved with informants. The rules were precise. The informants knew the risks and they volunteered their services. You didn't ask why, you just did your job. So why had he allowed himself to get involved with Yvette and potentially risk the operation?

He looked at her sleeping now beside him. For a short while the tension under which they constantly lived had gone. She looked peaceful, her long black hair spread across the pillow. He knew she had lovers in the past - she was skilled at making love. But they didn't speak of this or of their past. They lived only for the moment. They both knew this time would come - the looks, the touches, the innuendo. In peace time there would have been flirting, laughter, banter - perhaps talk of love. But in war you seize what you can quickly. So whilst Simone was out visiting newly recruited informants, they had taken the opportunity. There were few words spoken - just greedy and passionate sex. He had sensed past pain in the way she made love. There was anger. She bit and clawed at his back. She made it clear what she wanted him to do. When she reached a climax, it was intense and private. He was there as a means to an end - not as her lover. Yet somehow he was excited and exhilarated by their lovemaking. It was free of commitment and took place in a vacuum suspended somewhere between life and death.

In her dreams he could see that she was elsewhere. Her face was relaxed and happy now. Perhaps it was her childhood on this small farm. Perhaps she was with a former lover. Once a whispered name slipped from her lips; was it Gilbert or Pierre? It didn't matter. It was another world - a different universe.

She stirred and her eyes opened. Their eyes met briefly.

"Ma cherie," he whispered. She smiled, kissed him briefly on the lips then rose quickly from the bed. He watched her silhouetted against the window. Her body was contoured with firm muscles developed from working on the farm but the roundness of her hips and breasts endowed her with a simple beauty. Her olive skin suggested a Mediterranean link somewhere in her ancestry.

She dressed quickly in a shirt and trousers, then with just a fleeting look that conveyed both longing and regret, she was gone from the room leaving Jack to his own confused thoughts.

The hot summer of 1920 ended early in Norfolk. In the first week of September, cold winds blew inland from the North Sea and rain squalls sprinted across the flat autumnal countryside.

For Alice, Flora and Jed, leisurely country walks were now a distant memory and the three of them took to meeting in Dan's parlour after work. The parlour was a dark room lit by one small window. It was full of various trophies that Dan had collected through his life, including a Zulu warrior's spear and the severed head of an African gazelle. The room was dominated by a huge open range which served as a means to cook food and boil water. Hanging from the grey stone mantle were an assortment of copper pans, ladles and cooking implements which provided all the hardware required by Dan and Jed to cook their simple meals.

It was early evening. Jed stoked the fire ready for Alice and Flora to join him. At precisely six thirty, the door opened and Alice came in, her head covered by a thick grey shawl which extended over her shoulders.

"Evening, Jed, let me close to that fire fast. There's a fierce wind out there tonight."

"You warm yourself, Alice, I'll get you a mug of tea. Have you seen Flora today?"

"I saw her briefly at lunch time. She called into the bakers for bread. Must say, she seemed a bit odd, not her normal bright self."

"Maybe she's not well."

"I'm not sure. She'd normally say if she was ill. It was more like she was embarrassed to see me."

Alice and Jed were joined by Dan and the ritual of toasting muffins began. By seven o'clock there was still no sign of Flora.