The Life That I Have

Chapter 28

At the airdrome, back in England, things were busy. At first, Anya shied back. She had got into the habit of avoiding all soldiers like the plague, and no sooner had she stepped of the plane, feeling a little windswept, with a squirming Tippy in her arms, and not being able to see properly because her hair was being blown into her face, she felt a reassuring hand on her arm and a little pull. Gratefully, she followed the person into a brightly lit hanger.

  Before her was a woman of about forty, tall, with perfectly golden hair, swept back neatly.

  "Hello. I'm Phillipa Haycock. You must be Anya Devlin," she held out her hand, which Anya took. "I know you must have about a thousand questions, which I will all try to answer. First of all though, I'm afraid some of the men will have to search your things. We don't usually, but we just want to make sure you don't have a radio hidden somewhere."

  Anya was trying to get her head around all this.

  "I'm sorry, but... how do you know you can trust me?" she asked.

  Miss Haycock smiled.

  "But we know all about you, Miss Devlin."

  "Oh. I suppose you've spoken to my Uncle then," Anya said shortly.

  "I'm afraid we did. He is your legal guardian, after all."  

  Anya looked down miserable at the concrete floor.

  "I can't go back there. I won't. Besides," she shrugged, "he wouldn't have me."

  Miss Haycock continued smiling.

  "We'll arrange something. Now, shall we go back to my office?"

  To bewildered and tired to do much, Anya let herself be led off by Miss Haycock to a car, which drove them to a large building in the posh area of London. And before she knew it, Anya found herself sitting in a cosy leather armchair by a crackling, warm fire.               

  I must wake up, she told herself. I can't sleep now. I must answer all her questions the best I can.

It was about this time Marilyne was peddling through the gates of the prison. There, abandoning her bike, she made her way to the grimy kitchen where the cook was busy preparing some indistinguishable food.

  "Morning," he said amiably.

  "Mmm," was all he got as a reply.

  Scowling, Marilyne began to mindlessly stir some brown slop inside a boiling pan.

  "Be careful with that! If you stir it too much it'll ruin," the cook called over to her.

  Marilyne began to feel sick and stepped away from the pan. If that was the chef's idea of not 'gone wrong', she didn't want to imagine what HAD gone wrong looked like.

  "At least there will be one less mouth to feed," Cook said dryly.

  "What do you mean?" Marilyne asked, only half listening.

  "Day after tomorrow that one you're always about is going."

  Marilyne nearly dropped the glass jar she was carrying.

  "Going? Going where?" she tried to ask as if she wasn't interested.

  The cook shrugged.

  "Either the Gestapo or a firing squad. Why are you so interested, anyway?"

  "Well," she said flatly, "he is very good-looking."

  Cook, who seemed satisfied, carried on chopping up unidentified vegetables. Marilyne was desperate to go and tell Jean-Marc about her discovery. She felt like this was her mission, her part in the war, and if she failed, she had failed her friends, the Maquis and France.

  I'd rather kill myself than do that, she decided.

Anya awoke early the next morning on a proper bed for the first time in over a year. At first, she couldn't remember where she was. But then, it all came flooding back. She looked at her watch. Seven o'clock. Her meeting with Miss Haycock was at ten thirty, so she had plenty of time.

  Anya had been to tired to talk to her last night, so Anya had been escorted to a hotel.

  She fingered her engagement ring comfortingly. She felt homesick. She missed her friends– and she felt sick with worry and fear every time she thought about Rudi. What he must be going through– how she might not ever see him again, and how she might not ever know what happened to him.

  She felt small tears pricking the back of her eyes. Anya rolled over and groaned. What a mess it all was.

A few hours later, Miss Haycock collected Anya from her hotel.

  "I've managed to sort out some temporary papers for you, so you're all up to date, document-wise," Pip Haycock told Anya in her office.

  Anya was seated in the same leather chair as she had been the previous night.

  "So," Miss Haycock coaxed. "Tell me everything."

Marilyne peddled home furiously. Normally, she would meet someone half-way and would pass any information onto them, and then would make her way to the house of a resistance worker nearby.

  But today, she needed to cycle all thirty-whatever it was miles back to the Maquis because she needed to tell and receive instructions from Jean-Marc.

  At last she reached the meeting point; a gatepost of a field just off the road. Today, it was Gilles who was waiting for her.

  "Oh, Gilles!" she said breathlessly. "I've got to see Jean-Marc!"

  "Whoa," Gilles said calmly. "What about?"

  "Rudi! They're going to shoot him or give him to the Gestapo or something! The day after tomorrow!" At this point, she nearly collapsed, but caught herself in time. "Gilles, we've got to get back there!"

  She made a dash for her bike, but was stopped by Gilles.

  "Look, we're not going anywhere until you've had a few minutes to get your breath back."

  "Oh, no! We've got to go!" she screeched.

  "You won't be able to get very far like this," Gilles said. "You'll get tired, and then we'll have to stop."

  She scowled and slumped down onto the long grass. After a few minutes of silence, she looked up at Gilles.

  "I'm ready now."

  Springing into action, Gilles helped Marilyne get up, and then sprinted to his bicycle.

  "Let's go!" he called to Marilyne.