Always In My Heart. Freda Lightfoot

was taken across Paris to the Gare de l’Est, together with dozens of other women: dancers from the Folies Bergére, governesses, nannies and even prostitutes, despite that rogue’s assurance that such a job would keep a woman safe. They were all bundled on to a train. More arrived in the hours following as they waited in the cold and the dark, with no light or heating on board. Like everyone else, Brenda was suffering badly from anxiety about where they would be taken. Germany, perhaps? The only comfort she could find to stem the flood of emotional trauma pulsating through her was that at least her child was safe. If she was to be interned in a prison camp, the last thing she would have wanted was for Tommy to suffer that too.

      ‘Why are they doing this to us?’ she couldn’t help but ask the woman sitting next to her, as anger ricocheted through her.

      ‘It’s in revenge for the British government interning supposed enemy aliens, including Germans and Italians.’

      ‘So we women are putty in their hands, despite being entirely innocent?’ Brenda snapped.

      ‘We are indeed, as are many of those interned in England.’ She was a most elegant lady clad in a fur coat with a small turban wrapped around her fair hair. ‘I’m Emma. Happy to make your acquaintance, particularly in these circumstances,’ she said, holding out a hand sparkling with rings. ‘We were here in France because my husband is involved in the silk industry. He’s also been arrested for having a British passport. I pray to God he will be safe.’

      ‘I’m Brenda.’ They shook hands and soon became good friends as they shared their agonies of war.

      The journey took days, the train constantly shunted into a siding where it would stand for hours on end. In a way they welcomed this, as with no toilets on board it allowed them to go outside and relieve themselves—if, sadly, in front of the guards. When there were no stops for hours on end the very young and old found it hard to hold on to their bladder, and the stink in the carriages was horrendous. Brenda would use a spare bag, then empty it out of the train window, curling her nose in disgust as she did so. Many women spent much of the journey weeping, children screaming, having tantrums or being sick.

      Sometimes they’d stop at a station to queue for food and water, as there was none of that on the train either. It would generally be soup, or bread and sausage provided by the Red Cross or German nurses.

      Eventually they arrived in Besançon, an internment camp that looked very like a fortress situated quite close to Switzerland in the foothills of the Jura Mountains.

      ‘At least we’ve not been sent to Germany,’ Brenda said on a sigh of relief.

      ‘Which would be far worse,’ Emma agreed. ‘And we can now finally leave this foul-smelling train.’

      The town appeared ancient but rather beautiful, encircled by a river with woods stretching for miles all around. ‘I’d love to explore it,’ Brenda said. ‘Although I doubt they’ll ever allow that to happen, as we are about to be interned.’ Camille and Adèle would presumably be on their way to the Loire Valley by now. How she envied them. It occurred to Brenda in that dreadful moment as they climbed out of the train on to a platform slippery with ice, that she had no idea of the address. Bugger! Why hadn’t she thought to ask? Sadly, there’d been no time to check such details, as she’d been hustled off under arrest in such a rush. She would simply have to be thankful that at least Tommy was safe.

      The women were met at the station by German soldiers barking orders furiously at them. Exhaustion and the freezing cold made her feel so numb, Brenda could barely take in a word they were saying. Not that she understood a word of German. Packed into lorries, the women were taken to the camp, then lined up in the courtyard while the luggage was brought from the train. The cast-iron gates were finally closed and locked behind them.

      So here they were, trapped in hell.

Eight

       1944

      ‘By heck, you’re a good little baker, chuck,’ the housekeeper said, reaching for another slice of the blackberry shortbread Brenda had spent the afternoon making. ‘Where did tha learn this?’

      Brenda laughed. ‘As you know, the nuns taught us all how to cook, clean, wash and iron. They considered such skills necessary for every woman. And, of course, I learned a lot from you when I worked here, Mrs Harding. Then while in France with Camille, I was in charge of all the cooking.’

      ‘Well, tha’s improved a great deal, I’d say that for thee,’ Mrs Harding said as she happily chewed the biscuit. ‘The sweet taste of these blackberries makes up wonderfully for the lack of sugar, since rationing puts it in short supply. What are thee making now?’ she asked, seeing Brenda start to grate a Bramley apple.

      ‘Bread-and-apple pudding,’ Brenda told her. ‘Can’t use up too much of your flour, but we do at least have some butter from the farm cows, and there’s some bread in the bin that’s a bit past its best. I thought I’d add apple and a few currants, if we have any to spare.’

      ‘Eeh, I’m sure Master Hugh would love that. I take it you’ll be joining the family for dinner tonight? I believe Miss Melissa is expected too, coming up by train today from London, where she now lives.’

      Brenda bit on her lower lip as she looked up at the housekeeper in dismay. ‘Hadn’t thought of that. Not sure they’d welcome me, particularly Miss Melissa.’

      Carter the butler gave her shoulder a gentle pat. ‘I’m sure they will. Miss Prudence certainly would. And you really shouldn’t be working in the kitchen with us. You’re no longer a servant, remember.’

      ‘Hugh might disagree with you on that.’

      Giving a little chuckle, he said, ‘I could ask if you will be expected to attend?’

      ‘Don’t bother, I’m really not eager to intrude.’ Then with a slight frown, she instantly changed her mind. ‘Although perhaps I should, as before I head off to Manchester tomorrow in search of a job I need to know the name and address of the family solicitor. That’s where Jack sent a copy of his will. I’ve no idea what’s in it but really should find out, as his mother instructed.’

      Carter gave a sad nod of his head, then quickly disappeared up the back stairs.

      Brenda pondered this decision as she returned to the kitchen table. A lawyer might also be able to help her find Tommy, for which she’d no doubt need a considerable sum of money to pay him. But she was willing to work her socks off to achieve that. Determined to keep her mind off her worries by remaining busy she thinly sliced the bread, added a drop of lemon juice, lined a basin, then sprinkled on raisins, grated apple and a touch of cinnamon. Topping the pudding off with a second layer of bread, she added a drop of milk to moisten it before putting it in the oven.

      Just as she started the washing up, Mrs Harding having nodded off in her chair, the butler returned. He wore a grim expression upon his usually cheerful face as he burst through the kitchen door, his round cheeks flushed scarlet, clearly as much from anger as the heat and steam from the baking.

      Woken from her sleep by the bang of the door, Mrs Harding cried, ‘Dear lord, what’s going on?’

      ‘I’m afraid the answer is no to both questions,’ Carter sourly remarked. ‘Master Hugh made it very clear that he has no wish for you to join them for dinner. And absolutely refused to provide the address of the family solicitor.’

      ‘Oh, my word.’ Mrs Harding looked horrified. ‘Does this young lady not have the right to see her late husband’s will?’

      ‘Good question. I did ask him that, but since she cannot prove that they truly were married, he says no, she has no right at all.’

      Brenda sighed with frustration. ‘He clearly has no notion of how difficult life was in France for us British. I’ll perhaps have a quiet word with him, and try again to convince him.’

      ‘No need,’