Page 77 of The Paris Agent
“Theo is a postgraduate history student.” I blurt out the lie before I even have a chance to think it through. “He specializes in the SOE.”
Drusilla sighs and gives us a disappointed look.
“I see.”
“We wondered if perhaps you are Jocelyn Miller’s mother,” I say weakly.
“If you are here, young lady, you know the answer to that question,” she says tightly. “What is it you want?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know much about Jocelyn at all, but I was hoping you could tell us a little bit about her,” Theo asks softly. “Who was she? What was she like?”
Drusilla eases herself into an armchair.
“If you’re going to scam your way in here and start dredging up the past—” she points to me with her cane “—you, make me a cup of tea.” She turns the cane toward Theo. “And you. Unpack these groceries. I’ll rest until you’re done, then we’ll talk.”
“You might not have thought of her as strong-willed if you met her—she was sick all of the time as a child and I know she seemed very timid to most, but she had a real knack for getting her own way. I mean, just take her name, for example. I named her Jocelyn after my grandmother and I loved that name, but some terrible child down the street from us in Paris once told her it sounded like his grandfather’s name. She was so stubborn about it, and by the time Jocelyn was eight or nine, everyone else in her life called her Josie,” Drusilla says, chuckling, but then she sighs. “I was the only holdout for most of the rest of her life.”
“She was an unwell child?” I ask. We’re all seated in the armchairs now, nursing cups of tea, the groceries packed away. I’m getting the sense that once she got used to the shock of our visit, Drusilla might just relish the opportunity for a trip down memory lane.
“For most of her childhood, I was convinced I’d lose her young,” Drusilla says, her eyes misting. She clears her throat. “She had Coeliac Sprue. At that time, no one really understood what it was or how to treat it, and somewhere around thirty percent of children who suffered from it didn’t make it to adulthood. Of course, since the ’50s we’ve known that it’s an autoimmune disease—in some small percentage of the population, ingesting gluten triggers the body to damage its own small bowel. Well, long before medical science figured that out, Jocelyn modified her diet to relieve her symptoms. She and I used to bicker about it because there seemed to be no scientific basis for such a cure! But you see what I mean about her strong will?”
“So she was frail and unwell,” Theo says hesitantly. “And yet she somehow ended up enlisting in the SOE?”
Doctor Sallow sips her tea delicately, then sits the cup down on a saucer on a little lamp table beside her chair. She takes a long, slow breath in, as if fortifying herself, then she folds her hands in her lap and says, “Every year, I liked to come to London to visit my friend Quinn...”
“So that was it? She finished her training and you never heard from her again?” Theo asks, an hour later. We have listened, riveted, as Drusilla Miller explained the story of her daughter’s involvement with what appeared to be the WAAF, but she now understands was the SOE. She’s been into her room to retrieve a small photo album, which I’m flicking through as she talks. There are a handful of photos of Josie, mostly as a girl, some of which reveal a child looking so ill it almost breaks my heart.
“She did come back briefly one morning—just to tell us she wouldn’t be in touch for a while,” Drusilla says, suddenly avoiding our gazes. “Suffice to say we quarreled. I was half-asleep when she arrived and completely unprepared for the difficult conversation we had that day. I had no idea it was the last time I’d ever see her.”
“And did the SOE keep you abreast of whatever she was doing?”
“Not at all,” Drusilla says, her tone fierce. “She’d told us she had enlisted in the WAAF, although by the time she left, I knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Still, in lieu of any useful contacts, I kept calling various WAAF offices, hoping if I made a nuisance of myself someone would figure out where she really was and put me through to the right agency. One day, I found myself on the phone with a man named Gerard Turner. He wouldn’t tell me which agency he represented, but he was at least a helpful fellow, at least initially. He confirmed my suspicion that she’d been posted somewhere overseas but assured me that she would be well cared for. I called him every few weeks for a while, but then one day I called andhewas unavailable too. And this time, his secretary suggested I stop calling—that I’d hear from them as soon as they had news. Well, France was liberated, and stillnothing! Jocelyn could have walked through the door without warning one day, just as she had done in 1942. Or she could have been long dead. I had no way of knowing and for the longest time it was as though both realities were true.”
“The authorities eventually did update you, didn’t they?” Theo asks uneasily. Drusilla’s eyes are hollow as she nods.
“In late 1944, I opened the door one day and a stranger was standing there. I could tell the minute I made eye contact with him that something was wrong, but for a long time, he just stared at me...it was quite unnerving. Then finally, he asked me if I was Jocelyn’s mother. It was dreadfully awkward. He looked as if he was going to cry. I didn’t know what to do, but by then, I was starting to wonder if this chap was her friend. She made so few friends in her life—my Jocelyn was quite self-sufficient—but she returned from France with a young man—”
My heart leaps. Theo glances at me, then croaks to confirm, “Was it Noah Ainsworth?”
Drusilla nods.
“Yes! After her return to the UK they were constantly exchanging letters and I think they even managed to meet up a few times, although I never met him personally. So when I saw how upset the man on my doorstep was... I just assumed he was a friend and, well, Noah was the only male friend she had once she arrived here so...”
“Was it him?” I manage.
“No,” Drusilla murmurs. “No, but as soon as I asked if he was, the man’s entire demeanor changed. He introduced himself as Gerard Turner and told me that Jocelyn was gone. I didn’t believe him at first, but he was adamant and I had no choice but to accept it eventually. It seems she made a crucial mistake on a mission in France. According to Mr. Turner, that error led to her captureandthe capture of another agent.” Theo and I both gasp in surprise. Drusilla’s gaze drops again. “I was very concerned that my daughter’s mistakes would become public knowledge and that thiswould be how people remembered her. He assured me I need not worry—everything was highly classified, so as long as I kept her story to myself, no one else would ever know she’d been involved with the SOE at all.” She flicked a glance at us. “But now you’ve tracked me down, so I’m guessing that wasn’t an accurate take on the situation.”
“Her records are still classified,” Theo said quickly. “No one outside of this room will know what you just told us.”
“Even if she made some mistakes, Doctor Sallow, she still did an incredibly noble thing,” I say.
“I know. And I knew my daughter so I’m certain she went into that crazy role with the very best of intentions.” Drusilla reaches into her pocket and withdraws a handkerchief. She taps delicately at the corners of her eyes as we all sit in a horrified silence, pondering everything she had shared with us.
“Dr. Miller,” Theo asks suddenly. “Did your daughter have a child?”
Drusilla lowers her handkerchief. She reaches for the photo album and starts to flick through the pages. I entertain a fantasy of Drusilla turning to a page featuring a beautiful baby with a striking likeness to Theo. I’d get to bear witness to an emotional reunion between mourning grandmother and lonely grandchild.
But instead, she turns to a page in the middle of the book and I am suddenly staring into the eyes of an adult woman who is clearly very ill. Her cheekbones jut out from her face, and her hair hangs limply around her shoulders. She’s wearing a hospital gown and sitting slumped in a wheelchair.
