And suddenly she felt very, very alone. She made her breathing as quiet as possible, calming the sense of panic that was welling up in her chest. Her guide was just late, that was all, she reassured herself. There was still plenty of time to get back to the tiny airstrip before the plane arrived to pick her up. She stood, leaning against the reassuring bulk of an ancient oak. A few acorns lay at her feet, and she stooped and picked one up, rubbing her thumb against its rough cap as she tried to stay calm.
The minutes ticked by. After almost an hour, she realised that it was now time to go if she was to make it to the rendezvous point in time. Desperately, she scanned the woods and the clearing one last time. Across the river, the white fairy-tale castle glinted in a ray of moonlight, a mythical place of safety that she could no longer get to.
She needed to stay focused, not to allow herself to be distracted by panicked thoughts of what might be lurking in the pitch-black shadows between the trees.
She had no option. She had to go.
Taking her bearings from the moon and the river, she set off in what she hoped was the right direction, trying to spot waymarks as she went, in case she got lost and needed to retrace her steps. But it was difficult in the dark woods and, once she’d turned away from the faint, moonlit glow of the river, she felt disorientated amongst the trees that pressed in all around her. She followed the narrow path – she thought it was the one they’d been on the night before – but the forest was criss-crossed by an intricate network of such trails, some made by human footsteps, others by animals. Every now and then she paused, straining to hear the sound of a breaking twig or to glimpse a dimmed torch between the trees, but there was nothing.
A ray of moonshine penetrated the canopy of leaves above her and she tilted her wrist towards it to read her watch. Ten more minutes until the plane would land. She needed to find the clearing, fast. She jumped as an owl hooted on a branch somewhere above her. Was it really an owl? Or was it a signal? She hesitated for a few precious moments, listening, hoping; but then she glimpsed the bird, swooping silently away on pale wings into the darkness. Which way now? She’d lost her bearings completely and the moon had disappeared again. She set off, almost blindly, panic thumping against the tight drum of her chest.
And then she heard it. The distinct thrum of the plane’s engine. She turned towards it. She’d gone off course, she needed to get there fast. Angus had warned her: ‘The pilot can’t wait, it’s just too dangerous. In and out fast, remember. If you’re not there . . .’ he’d tailed off.
Then he’d said, quietly, ‘Just be there, Ella.’
She was running now, stumbling over tree-roots, her breath coming in gasps, burning her throat. The engine noise grew to a roar as the plane flew directly over her, dropping towards the airstrip. ‘I’m here,’ she screamed, but the words were only in her head.
Desperately, she ran in the direction of the noise, which had descended to ground level somewhere ahead of her. Then the roar quietened suddenly as the plane drew to a halt, its engine idling. Running headlong now, she tripped and fell, sprawling on to the earth, scraping her hands on stones. She scrambled to her feet, no time to check the damage, and ran onwards.
And then the sound of the engine changed, picking up again as the plane turned and taxied. ‘No! I’m here! Come back!’ But again the screaming was only in her head.
She blundered onwards through the trees towards the noise, but the pitch changed and she knew the pilot was revving for take-off. She reached the edge of the clearing just as the plane left the ground at the far end of the runway and climbed steeply into the night sky.
Then she slumped down, her back against the trunk of a tree, trying to draw breath, but her inhalation took the form of a single, involuntary sob of despair.
Her palms stung and throbbed and she realised there was blood oozing from a deep cut just above the ball of her thumb. She reached into her coat pocket for a handkerchief to tie around it and then stood stock still because, off to her right, through the trees, she could see a bright light, weaving to and fro. She froze, shrinking back into the shadows, listening with every fibre in her body.
And then she heard the voices. Two of them. Speaking German.
They’d spotted the plane. Thank God it had got away in time. But the drop site was compromised. And she was in dire danger.
All of a sudden, a deathly calm descended over Ella. The panic she’d felt before evaporated. She waited, watching as the light drew closer. Silently, she slipped the knife from its sheath at her waist. And then she quickly unscrewed the button on her overcoat and felt for the hard capsule contained within it. She held the pill between her fingers, not wavering for a second. She knew what she would have to do. She waited.
In that moment, which seemed to stretch to a small infinity, she realised that she didn’t fear death; because it meant she would be where Christophe was.
She closed her eyes for a second, trying to summon his face but, to her surprise, the face that she saw was Marianne’s, smiling at her gently, comforting her, reassuring her that she wasn’t quite so alone after all.
The German soldiers reached the far side of the clearing and swept the ground with their searchlight, illuminating the runway. The light flooded the corner where Ella stood and she pressed herself closer to the far side of the tree, praying they hadn’t seen her. She gripped the pill between her fingers a little more tightly.
One of the men stepped out into the clearing, backlit by his colleague’s torch, and began to walk in her direction. Ella raised the pill to her lips, still feeling ice-calm.
And then something very strange happened.
The light of the torch described a sweeping arc, up into the air above the trees, then fell again as the Nazi soldier sank silently to the ground. His colleague turned, shouting a question, and in the same split second, a single shot rang out.
Stunned, Ella lowered the hand holding the pill to her side. And then someone picked up the Germans’ torch and stepped out into the clearing, calling her name.
‘Angus,’ she sobbed, and stumbled into the open, sinking to her knees as he reached out an arm and caught her.
He knelt, holding her, calming her, speaking words of reassurance. ‘You’re alright, Ella. You’re alright.’
She wept then, clinging to him, this man who’d snatched her back from the edge of the precipice, sobbing, ‘You came to find me. I was lost and you came to find me.’
He half carried her back into the shadows next to the trees and took both her hands in his. ‘Ella, stay here. Just sit tight.’ He uncurled the fingers of her right hand and found the suicide pill that was clutched there. He took it and put it in his pocket. ‘You won’t be needing this now.’
Then he sprinted back to where the second Nazi’s body lay huddled beside the runway and dragged it into the trees, where he’d ended the life of the first with a silent swipe of his knife. He covered them with branches and leaves and then stepped back into the clearing. As Ella watched, he stood and faced the direction from which the plane had left and opened his coat. He fitted an aerial into the S-Phone strapped to his chest and called the pilot back in.
‘I’ve got her. The area is secured. Safe to return. I repeat, safe to return.’
2014, Edinburgh
The honeysuckle has been cleared away from Ella’s bedside cabinet, but I busy myself arranging the bunch of white lilies that I’ve brought her, hoping they’ll remind her of the night she danced with Christophe back when they were together, happily oblivious to the horrors that were gathering just beyond the horizon.
She glances at me sharply, her eyes bright and clear today, as I set the vase down. Despite a layer of carefully applied concealer, I sense her taking in the dark half-moons beneath my eyes and am conscious, suddenly, that my hair could do with a wash. My hands are shaking slightly, as they do on the days when the exhaustion and anxiety are overwhelming, and a little water slops on to the bedside cabinet. She continues to watch me closely as I reach for a handful of tissues to mop up the spill.
Self-conscious all of a sudden, I reach into my bag, grateful for the distraction. ‘Look, Granny, I’ve brought one of the photo albums with me today.’
It’s dated 1945. Afterwards.
Apart from the snaps of her at RAF Gulford in her mechanic’s overalls, grinning towards Vicky’s camera as she wields a large oil can beside a Hurricane, and a more formal one of her in her WAAF uniform, there are no photos of Ella during the war.
‘What did you do afterwards, Granny? After the S-Phone operation in France? Did you learn how to do a parachute jump? And did you go back again on any more missions?’
She laughs, shaking her head. ‘No, my dear. I’m afraid the remainder of my Air Force career was far more mundane. I wanted to do more, but it was decided by the powers-that-be that I was still “not suitable for Field Operations” and that my French-speaking skills were needed elsewhere. I was sent back to East Lothian, to a prep school which had been commandeered as a specialist training centre for SOE wireless operators. I spent the rest of the war intercepting the Nazis’ French propaganda broadcasts and translating them. We used to transmit rude songs by Spike Jones in return sometimes, to get our own back, and other times we’d broadcast nonsense to make the Germans think it was coded information – I always used to enjoy thinking of them wasting precious resources trying to decode it – as cover for the real messages we were transmitting to French Résistance cells. And then I became one of the trainers at Belhaven Hill, teaching other SOE operatives how to use some of the specialist wireless equipment. I came across many women far more courageous than I. But, no, I never went back on any other missions.’