Always In My Heart. Freda Lightfoot

she would have returned to Manchester long since. She missed it badly, and her many dear friends, particularly Cathie whom she’d known for most of her life, as well as Jack’s sister Prue. There were times when she ached to hear a northern voice cracking jokes with their deliciously dry sense of humour. But here she was, stuck in France.

      Thousands of Parisians had already fled the city. Just days before the invasion, at Camille’s insistence she and Jack had tried to leave. They’d found the Gare de Lyon packed out. There were hundreds of people carrying mountains of luggage, desperate to get on a train and escape the threat of occupation. There were women wheeling babies in prams, young men barging about, and children and dogs running everywhere. Then a station porter had called out, ‘Il n’y a pas de trains.’ As there were no trains, with a resigned sigh she and Jack had drifted back to the apartment.

      As summer progressed Brenda noticed many neighbours who had escaped returned home, having suffered from starvation, bombing raids and severe losses to their families or belongings out on the open roads. Some were ordered back by the Germans, yet other people were still desperately striving to get away. And who could blame them? France was in complete turmoil: shops and restaurants closed, clothes, shoes and even furniture littering the streets. Chaos reigned as the Germans now occupied and ruled most of the country.

      Brenda’s mind flipped back to the day in June when the enemy had first entered the city. It was a moment in history that would never be forgotten. Jack had held her close, his arm tight about her shoulders as they stood together watching the rumble of tanks, guns and thousands of soldiers stream along the streets, the crowds mingling around them eerily silent.

      ‘We can’t allow them to get away with this,’ he’d murmured through gritted teeth. ‘We need to drive them out.’

      ‘How can we possibly do that?’ she’d asked. ‘These German soldiers look extremely tough and determined, and very strictly disciplined.’

      ‘We should make life as difficult as possible for them. If they request information or assistance for any reason we could pretend not to understand, send them in a different direction, or tell them the wrong train time.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Believe me when I say there will be huge objections and resistance to their attempt to control the French.’

      That night they’d made love with more passion than ever before, feeling the need to overcome fear and depression by putting some happiness back into their lives. It was a time Brenda would always remember, the moon shining upon them as if to glorify their love.

      Jack spent all of the next day out with friends. The phoney war was over and their lives had changed forever. A Resistance movement did indeed spring up, intended to provide the Allies with intelligence, attack the Germans at every opportunity, as well as assist any Allied soldiers or airmen in need of escape. Many such groups emerged across all occupied territory.

      Having a French mother, Jack showed far more compassion for the French than he did for the Nazis, and gladly joined the group in Paris. How brave he was. He used the code-name Randall, a slight variation on his father’s name, and quickly became involved in many dangerous projects. He did a great deal of good for the cause. Fearful though she’d been for his safety, Brenda had felt enormous admiration for his courage. He was a man of honour, so not for a moment would she have attempted to stop him. She would spend a largely sleepless night awaiting his safe return. Then, tragically, one morning she was visited by a colleague who sadly informed her that while engaged in a valiant attempt by the local Resistance group to blow up a tank, he’d been shot dead by the enemy. She’d been utterly devastated.

      As always, pain tightened her throat at the thought, her mouth feeling dry and rancid now that he was gone forever from her life. She was quite alone, locked in her own private world. If only…

      ‘I’ve had a letter from my cousin Adèle,’ Camille said, thankfully interrupting these distressing memories. ‘She asks if she can come on a visit, as she’s quite alone now that she’s a widow. Her poor husband died of a heart attack around the same time we lost Jack. I shall write and say that she would be most welcome, don’t you think?’

      ‘Of course. What a splendid idea.’

      Camille’s cousin arrived just a few days later. Smartly dressed in a green coat with padded shoulders and a big fur collar, a wide-brimmed velvet hat and matching gloves, she looked very much an aristocrat. She was small and neat in stature but big of heart, with a pert mouth, chestnut-brown bobbed hair, and caring dark eyes that gleamed out at the world from behind gold-rimmed spectacles. Brenda saw her arrival as a good thing. The cousins had long been close friends and were clearly both in need of company to help cope with their grief.

      Perhaps the poor lady also felt a certain fear in living alone, as did everyone these days.

      If Adèle decided to stay on, Brenda thought she might try once more to return home to England, although she really had no idea how that could come about. In the meantime she must concentrate upon keeping in good health. Her pregnancy seemed endless, and due to the shortage of food, not at all easy. But she could not wait to hold Jack’s child in her arms.

       *

      The situation worsened considerably in the months following Jack’s death. Paris became a different place. Coupons were needed for bread, meat, groceries, clothes, coal, everything. And they became increasingly hungry and cold. Each day Brenda would join other local Parisians in the public squares to search for any scraps of wood she could find to burn. Since the apartment had no open fire or chimney and they’d run out of gas, she made a brazier from an old tin that provided a small amount of heat, the smoke dispensed through a pipe that ran out of a nearby window.

      Every street, including the beautiful Plâce de Concorde, the Eiffel tower and all public buildings, bristled with swastika flags. There were posters depicting John Bull as a killer, among many other anti-British images. Signs that gave directions in German with barely a word in French visible. And the sound of goose-stepping boots was everywhere.

      On visiting the British Embassy, Brenda found that it was indeed closed. Even the skeleton staff present at the start of the occupation had departed south. According to reports the borders into Spain were also kept largely barricaded. Trains to England were still not available. Sending a letter to England was also a problem as they were generally blocked. It was very evident that finding a way out of France would be almost impossible.

      She felt trapped.

      Many other women were too: dancers, singers, nurses and governesses, rich ladies who loved to spend their time travelling around Europe. Even French widows who had married Englishmen were likewise looked upon as outcasts. The German hatred of the British was all too evident. People without the right documentation or who were Jewish tended to hide away, desperate to avoid being imprisoned or shipped to Germany. Some would be arrested simply for listening to the BBC. A dreadful prospect.

      Brenda gave birth to a son on 27 November, less than a month from her own birthday, which helped to ease the dark pit of anguish devouring her. The two ladies took good care of her and all went well. How fortunate she was. She would sit and gaze in wonder at his tiny fingers and toes, the soft pale baby-blue eyes, and the way his sweet lips pursed or smacked together whenever he was hungry. He was utterly adorable. She spent every moment of every day bathing, feeding and nursing him, and tucking the little fellow into his crib cuddled up with the silver-grey fluffy monkey she’d bought for him just before his birth.

      Now it was Adèle doing all the cooking, cleaning and shopping, running up and down stairs, fetching and carrying, without a word of complaint. Even Camille did what she could to help, despite her rich, aristocratic heritage and fragility.

      ‘I do appreciate the care you’ve both given me. Being illegitimate, I was born in a home for unmarried mothers,’ Brenda said, giving a wry smile. ‘So I have no family of my own.’

      ‘Goodness, I didn’t know that,’ Adèle said, looking slightly surprised by this news.

      ‘The nuns were extremely good to her. Did you ever find out who your mother was?’ Camille asked.

      Brenda