Page 5 of The Paris Agent
“That’s just the thing—I had no idea at first. I didn’t even know my ownname right at the start. Many memories returned eventually, but even now, I look back at the war years through a thick mental fog. In time, I became reasonably certain Remy was an agent like me. But if I’m right about that, there’s a good chance I never knew his real name.”
“You’re going to try to track this Remy down?”
“Everything I’ve enjoyed in this life in the years since then—marrying your mum, the honor of being her husband for decades, being Dad to you and Archie, even being little Poppy’s grandfather... I’d have missedallof it but for this Remy. You and Archie and even Poppy might never have been born. Isn’t that strange to think of it like that? This man’s actions changed the course of all of our lives and I have no idea who he was. After so many years, maybe the best I can do is lay some flowers on his grave, or make sure his family knows what he did for me. But I need to do it. I need to try to find him.”
“But...why now, Dad?”
“It’s like I said: life moved on so quickly after the war. First I had to focus on my recovery from that head injury and that really was a full-time job. Even once I found my feet, it was better...so much easier...to avoid examining those years too closely. The downside is that there are things about my own past I don’t know and plenty of things I don’t understand. I’d like to change that and I just have an inkling that Remy is the key to it all. I’ve set myself a real challenge because I’m not even sure where to start, but having a goal has left me feeling much more myself, even if I’m not sure how to achieve it.”
“I’m glad, Dad. Maybe I need to find a project of my own,” I say, but then slump. Eventhinkingabout finding a new project is too exhausting for me. The way Dad glances at me tells me he understands.
“Only when you’re ready, Lottie. I’m sorry to tell you that grief is forever, but the acute phase does ease—in its own time. I just wanted to remind you today that your mother knew we all adored her. She wouldn’t have needed us to stay miserable to prove it.”
I look down at Wrigley and my gaze sticks on the scar on his left front shoulder—where his leg used to connect to his torso. I always feel a pinch in my chest when I see that scar. Wrigley lost more than a limb that morning.
The dog looks up at me then rises, pushing himself effortlessly onto his three paws. He bends to stretch, wobbling just a little on that single front leg, then sprints down to the water’s edge, where he splashes his front foot in the water and gives a bark of joy.
“Hi, Aunt Kathleen. It’s Charlotte.”
I’m home from the beach, and Dad has retired to his study to start work on his project, but I have one last task left to do before I turn in myself. I invited Mum’s sister, my aunt Kathleen, to join us for the picnic. She said she was too busy with end-of-year work at the girls’ college where she’s headmistress and maybe there’s some truth in that, but it’s not thewholetruth. Since Mum died, Aunt Kathleen is busy just about every time I invite her somewhere unless I make it clear the invitation is just for the two of us. She and Dad have always had an odd relationship and I suspect she doesn’t want me to be put in the position of buffer, as Mum so often was.
“How was your picnic?” she asks me now. She sounds miserable, and I wonder if I should have made the effort to visit her alone after the picnic instead of calling. She and Mum were so close. Kathleen is as heartbroken over Mum’s loss as Dad and I am.
The whole reason I chose Formby Beach for the picnic today was that many of my happiest childhood memories of Mum are from Saturdays there. We’d throw the family dog into the car and we’d drive, the radio blaring and the windows down, wind in our hair and smiles on our faces, to meet Aunt Kathleen in the parking lot. She and Mum would often walk so they could gossip or brainstorm some school issue in privacy, while Dad supervised me and Archie as we paddled in the water or played in the sand. Afterward, we’d sit on a blanket together and share fish and chips, just as Dad and I did today. Despite the ever-present hint of friction between her and Dad, Kathleen is a branch of our family and the distance between us now just feels wrong.
“How are you holding up?” I ask her gently.
“I should be asking you that question, Charlotte,” she sighs. I can’t answer her honestly, so I lie and tell her what she needs to hear.
“I’m okay,” I say, then I force a positivity I don’t feel. “The ‘firsts’ are hard, but we’ve survived her first birthday without her now. Next year will be easier.”
“Hmm,” she says noncommittally. “And Noah?”
“He’s doing a little better, actually.” It strikes me that Kathleen has known Dad for as long as Mum did. “Did you know Dad was in the SOE, Aunt Kathleen?”
She sucks in a breath and seems startled as she says, “I...well, yes. I did.” There’s a pause before she adds cautiously, “Why do you ask?”
“He never told me and Archie.”
“I know that. I’m curious how you know now.”
“Dad told me he’s starting a project to try to find some man who helped him when he was in France—” I say, but I’ve barely finished the sentence when Kathleen says abruptly, “Your mother would havehatedthat.”
My eyebrows lift in surprise.
“Dad just says he wants to focus on something else. Something other than his grief for Mum.”
“Geraldine was always adamant that the war years were best left forgotten,” Kathleen says stiffly. “She was a wise woman, Charlotte.”
“You think I should discourage him?”
Aunt Kathleen doesn’t answer me at first. There’s a long, strained silence before she sighs.
“I really don’t know, darling. But the timing of this is awfully strange, isn’t it? Your mother dies and Noah starts dredging up the past like this? What good could possibly come of that?”
Despite her abrupt tone and how certain she sounds, it seems to me that something good already hascome of Dad looking back.
“He’s struggled so much since Mum died. We all have. But now, he seems relieved to have something else to focus on. Isn’tthata good thing?”
