Madeleine's War Read Free Page B

however, as the time was well past midnight, past 2:00 a.m. in fact, and it was still early February, both halves were firmly closed.
    Maps, mainly of France, lined the walls, as well as various charts, showing when the full moons were due.
    A small fireplace burned coal. There was a desk, with a telephone, a sofa, and two easy chairs. Madeleine Dirac sat in one, I sat in the other. Fresh coffee—not the usual wartime chicory substitute—brewed by my aide-de-camp, sat on the low table between us and a half-bottle of Scotch. We were alone.
    Madeleine Dirac looked almost elegant in her tidy nurse’s uniform and slightly prim black lace-up shoes. She had run her fingers through her hair, which was still wet and fell about her shoulders. But she hadn’t put on any make-up and she looked pale.
    â€œAre you tired?” I asked.
    She moved her head from side to side, as if she couldn’t make up her mind what to say. The edges of her hair sparkled in the firelight, making her look younger than she was.
    â€œI’ll sleep tonight, yes,” she said, smothering a yawn with her hand. “But—but what on earth was going on out there? An hour ago I thought I was about to die. It was
not
a nice experience. What have I just been through?”
    â€œToo tired for a whisky?” I leaned forward and lifted the bottle. “Maybe a little Scotch with your coffee? Might give you a lift.”
    â€œGood idea. My mother sometimes has whisky in her tea. But I’m not letting you off the hook. What was—all
that
?”
    â€œOh, don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough. That’s why we’re here now, in this room, alone. Certain things have to be settled tonight.”
    â€œWhat things? Why tonight? I’m lost.”
    Her voice was strangely intimate, yet deep and musical, with a Canadian lilt to it.
    I poured the coffee, and the whisky, and handed them across.
    I put more coal on the fire. Then I crossed the room, picked up a file from my desk, and sipped my whisky as I opened it.
    â€œMadeleine Dirac, aged twenty-five. Born Trois Rivières. Three-Fucking-Rivers”—I looked up and smiled—“on April 20, 1919. Father: Didier Dirac, a dental technician from Louzac originally, in the Limoges region of France. Mother: Victoria Beale, a seamstress, from Chester. Educated at St. Mathilde’s Ursuline Convent, Quebec City, and St. Hilaire Convent, Louzac, after your father decided he missed France. All correct so far?”
    She nodded and sat further back in her chair.
    â€œFather died 1933 in a shooting accident, after which your mother sold the failing dental technician’s business. Eventually, you immigrated to England, where your mother had been born and grew up. Settled in London, though your mother subsequently moved to Blakeney on the Norfolk coast. That was later, in 1938. From 1938 until 1942 you worked as a translator for a publisher. In 1942 you changed jobs, helping to train soldiers to speak French—”
    â€œI wanted to do something more useful in the war. It doesn’t sound like much the way you say it.”
    â€œRelax. I’m testing the file, not you…Last year, 1943, after approaching the commanding officer of the translation unit, you joined FANY, the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. Is all
that
correct?”
    â€œYes, yes. I wanted to work for the war effort, do something…you know,
practical
. But all I got to be was a trainee nurse.”
    I nodded. “While you were training, I understand you saved the life of a mounted policeman. How did that come about?”
    She pulled a face. “You
have
been digging. One afternoon, when we had some free time, a few of us nurses on the course went out together. We went to look at Whitehall—you know, Downing Street, Scotland Yard, Horse Guards Parade. While we were there, part of a barrage balloon that they keep flying over the government offices exploded with a