The Way Ahead Read online

  About the Book

  It is 1944, and the Adams family, along with the rest of the people of the United Kingdom, are beginning to weary of the seemingly never-ending war against Hitler’s Germany. Bobby Somers and Helene, living dangerously in the French countryside with a group of Resistance fighters, find themselves in great peril. Boots returns from the war in Italy, to the delight of Polly and their two little rascals, twins James and Gemma – but he brings with him a German prisoner who has a horrifying story to tell of the concentration camps. And while Sammy and Susie Adams are keeping the family business going as best they can during the privations of wartime London, their son Daniel catches the eye of a lively young American girl who brings a welcome breath of fresh air to the Adams household, so many of whose younger members are doing their bit for the war in various far-flung places of the world.

  As plans for the long-awaited invasion of France get under way there is excitement and danger, but love continues to blossom in the most difficult of circumstances.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Family Trees

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  About the Author

  Also by Mary Jane Staples

  Copyright

  THE WAY AHEAD

  Mary Jane Staples

  To Sheila, Liz, Janet, Lyn, Fay, Joan, Ron and all other friends who gave so much happiness to Florence.

  Chapter One

  March, 1944

  MOONLIGHT OVER FRANCE. An RAF Lysander was flying low over the department of Marne, famous for its champagne vineyards.

  Lysanders, high-wing planes that could land almost at a walking pace on a short strip of level or rough ground, had proved superb in the carrying of SOE agents to and from German-occupied France. Tonight was no exception for this particular machine. It flew ahead of desultory flak thrown up by an anti-aircraft battery manned by a French crew under the supervision of German officers. The gunners seemed incapable of hitting a flying elephant, much to the disgust of the Germans. But perhaps there was more to it than inefficiency. Perhaps the image of General de Gaulle and his Free French Army was looming larger day by day, for there were few people in France who did not suspect the Allies would open a Second Front sometime in the near future, and that de Gaulle would arrive with them to settle his account with Marshal Pétain, Pierre Laval and other men who had sold France to the Germans in 1940.

  The Lysander flew on in the moonlight. All flights undertaken in aid of the French Resistance took place during the full moon periods. Navigation demanded visibility to enable pilots to accurately pinpoint landing strips.

  On this mission, the pilot, descending at decreasing speed, searched for the prearranged tiny lights marking the selected strip. Three lights, hand torches fixed to sticks in the form of an inverted ‘L’, were the established way of guiding a Lysander in, always providing a fourth torch, hand-held, flashed the coded all-clear signal.

  There it was, the inverted ‘L’, clearly visible, and there too was the flashing code giving the pilot the signal to land, and he brought the plane safely down on the rough grassy ground with the lightest of bumps. The moment it stopped, out jumped a man and a woman, and from a point just beyond the nearest light several men and women of the Resistance came running. Stoutly bound packs containing arms, explosives and detonators were quickly hauled from the plane, and within minutes the Lysander was moving again, turning to taxi. It took off with a wave of good luck from the pilot.

  The landing lights were switched off and collected, and the men and women melted away in company with the two SOE agents from London, Captain Bobby Somers, RA, and Lieutenant Helene Aarlberg, FANY, both of whom had survived other missions of underground activity in France.

  ‘Bobby, how far this time are we from my home?’ It was a quick whisper from Helene.

  ‘Only a few hundred miles,’ whispered Bobby. ‘Were you thinking of dropping in for Sunday tea?’

  ‘Idiot.’

  She had called him that countless times, but not without a note of endearment. There was no-one quite like Bobby to Helene Aarlberg, daughter of a Belgian father and French mother. They were lovers, she and Bobby, and from him she had a firm promise of marriage when this disgusting war was finally over.

  They ran on with the partisans, and the little group disappeared into a wooded valley, packs of arms and explosives strapped to backs.

  There was work to do of a dangerous, hair-raising kind, and Bobby and Helene were as much committed as the men and women of the Resistance.

  April, 1944

  By this time, the extensive family of Mrs Maisie Adams, known as Chinese Lady because of her almond eyes and her addiction years ago to the quality work of Walworth’s Chinese Laundry, had experienced all the shifting patterns of a war that seemed to have no end.

  Britain, along with its Empire, was well into the fifth year of the conflict with Germany, and its people were bruised and battered. But so were the people of Germany who, suffering continuous assaults from the air by the bombers of the RAF and the USAAF, were at last coming to realize exactly what kind of hell their demonic Fuehrer had fashioned for them. That hell was about to become an inferno, for not only were the Russian hordes scorching German armies in the east, but the South Coast of England was soon to receive the men and machines of a colossal seaborne invasion force designed to set fire to Germany’s defences in the west. An armada of ships and landing craft was to assemble in ports, and the South Coast to become a guarded encampment of men and machines. The Press printed nothing and the radio breathed not a word about these forthcoming preparations for the opening of the long-awaited Second Front.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Lizzy Somers to her husband Ned over breakfast, ‘the news is getting more cheerful every day.’

  Their kitchen wireless was in full flow, the BBC announcer as measured of tone as he had been all through the war, come storm or sunshine. The Allied armies in Italy were hammering away at the Germans, the Americans and British beginning to crack the Japanese in the Far East, and to get the better of the U-boats in the Battle of the Atlantic.

  ‘Yes, everything’s more encouraging, Eliza, no doubt about it,’ said Ned. He was now forty-nine, with greying hair, and as manager of a wine merchant’s in Great Tower Street, he was forever striving to survive a shortage of imports. That, of course, didn’t help to slow the greying process. However, having lost a leg in the Great War, he made do very well with an artificial limb, and carried out his ARP duties in the kind of valiant way that aroused emotional pride in Lizzy. Nearly forty-six herself, she still owned her admirable Edwardian figure, despite food rationing. Improved corsetry, lighter and better designed than formerly, was a delightful friend to her. She looked an extremely well-
preserved woman, her wealth of chestnut hair and the deep brown of her eyes matchless. Ever a supportive wife and a caring mother, Lizzy represented to Ned a very rewarding investment in marriage. ‘I suppose we still can’t look forward to seeing much of our sons and daughters,’ he said, tackling his breakfast toast with strong, crunching teeth.

  Their sons, Bobby and Edward, were twenty-four and nineteen respectively, Bobby an artillery officer, Edward an aircraftman in the RAF. Their daughters, twenty-seven-year-old Annabelle and twenty-one-year-old Emma, lived in the country. Annabelle and her two children had been in Wiltshire since the bombing began in 1940. Her husband, Nick Harrison, was a fighter pilot in the RAF. Emma and her husband, Jonathan Hardy, were in Somerset, Emma working for a farmer, Jonathan a gunnery instructor at an artillery training camp.

  ‘Oh, we’ll be seeing Emma and Jonathan soon,’ said Lizzy. ‘I did tell you Jonathan’s getting seven days’ leave, and that Emma will be with him.’

  ‘So you did,’ said Ned. ‘Well, that’s something. They’re two of my favourite people.’

  ‘Ned, you shouldn’t have favourites,’ said Lizzy, ‘it causes little ructions.’

  ‘Well, if big ructions arrive,’ said Ned, ‘don’t open the door to them.’

  ‘You’re just like Boots,’ said Lizzy, ‘you’ve always got an answer that’s a bit comical.’

  ‘My other favourite people’, said Ned, ‘are Annabelle and Nick, Bobby and Helene, and our one and only Edward.’

  ‘You said that just in time,’ smiled Lizzy. ‘Listen, love, about Bobby and Helene. Don’t you wonder sometimes what they get up to?’

  ‘Well, they’re young and healthy, of course, and Helene’s French, and there’s a war on,’ said Ned, ‘so I daresay they—’

  ‘Ned Somers, I don’t want to hear what you’re going to say,’ said Lizzy, refilling his teacup, ‘and I wasn’t meaning that, anyway, which you knew I didn’t. What I do mean is that we get hardly any letters from them, and when we do they never give us a hint of where they might be or what they’re doing. It’s worrying sometimes. I mean, what sort of a regiment are they in, for goodness sake?’

  Ned had long had his ideas about what kind of a war Bobby and Helene were engaged in. Helene was French, her home in the agricultural region east of Dunkirk. Bobby was familiar with France, and spoke the language fluently. Everyone knew the British were giving all kinds of help to French Resistance groups, and it was reasonable to suppose Bobby and Helene had been recruited to work with them. Ned, however, was not going to let Lizzy know he suspected exactly that. It would give her sleepless nights. She’d think about them being caught, tortured and shot as spies. If I’m right, thought Ned, that’s actually a frightening possibility.

  ‘Whatever unit they’re in, and whatever they’re doing, I’ll wager they’re giving a good account of themselves,’ he said, and washed down toast with hot tea. ‘Rely on it, Eliza.’ He had always called Lizzy by her baptismal name.

  ‘I hope you don’t mean Helene is firing guns,’ said Lizzy. ‘Mum’s been saying ever since the start of the war that it’s not natural turning women into soldiers. I admit she goes over the top a bit sometimes, but she’s right generally speaking.’

  ‘Women in khaki are supportive, not combative,’ said Ned. ‘They don’t take part in battles, and I think you know that, Eliza.’

  ‘It’s what my commonsense tells me,’ said Lizzy, ‘but Helene’s very independent, and the sort of woman who’d think she could fire a gun as good as Bobby. When we’ve had them staying here, we’ve heard her tell him she’s as good as he is.’

  ‘Which she is, of course,’ said Ned, ‘but she’s not the same. No woman is the same as a man, and vice versa. Look up the biology of the sexes—’

  ‘Do what?’ said Lizzy.

  ‘Yes, we’re biologically different,’ said Ned.

  ‘Are you showing off?’ asked Lizzy.

  ‘Only a bit,’ said Ned. ‘Helene won’t be firing big guns, Eliza, or be charging at the enemy. She’ll be doing a good job in regimental administration work, or something like that.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Lizzy, as Ned rose from his chair, ‘isn’t she something to do with that special women’s thing?’

  ‘I could ask what special thing women have got,’ said Ned, ‘but I won’t, in case you mean that women’s special thing, and even at my age I can still get embarrassed.’

  ‘A thick ear is what you’ll get in a minute, my lad,’ said Lizzy. ‘I was talking about that special unit called FANY, and you know I was. What do FANY officers actually do?’

  ‘Oh, all kinds of work, including driving generals, driving ambulances, or making express deliveries of the choicest cigars to our Prime Minister,’ said Ned. ‘Very special, that, and good luck to the girls and the old boy. Must go now, love. See you on time this evening, if the railways don’t get bombed during the day.’

  ‘But Hitler hasn’t done any daylight raids for ages, or at night,’ said Lizzy.

  ‘For which we’re all truly thankful,’ said Ned, ‘but I don’t trust the bleeder.’

  ‘Now, Ned.’ Lizzy got up.

  ‘All right, blighter,’ said Ned. ‘And in addition to that, he’s the world’s number one gangster. Now I’m off. So long, Eliza.’ He kissed her. Lizzy detained him for a moment.

  ‘Ned, I just want to tell you how glad I am we’re seeing this war through together,’ she said. ‘There, now you can go.’

  ‘You’re still my girl,’ said Ned.

  ‘I’m glad about that too,’ said Lizzy with soft affection.

  While she was washing-up the breakfast things, she thought about her day ahead. She was going to Kennington to have Camp coffee with Jemima Hardy, Emma’s very likeable mother-in-law, then on to Walworth to enjoy a light lunch with Rebecca Cooper, adoptive mother of Horace, who was married to Sally, Susie’s sister. And in the afternoon she was going to share a pot of tea with her mum and Susie. Susie and Sammy, whose house had been flattened by a bomb ages ago, were still living in the large family house in Red Post Hill.

  For all that she had a full day ahead, Lizzy still couldn’t help wondering and worrying about Bobby and Helene.

  The phone rang. Answering it, Lizzy heard her stepfather’s voice.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ said Lizzy, ‘what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m at the office,’ said Mr Edwin Finch, second husband of Lizzy’s mother and an important cog in the high-powered wheels of British Intelligence. ‘I promised your mother to ring you. She doesn’t trust our own phone at the moment, since she’s convinced it’s in one of its contrary moods. You know, of course, that she still regards it as a new-fangled contraption capable of electrocuting her.’

  ‘Yes, I do know, Dad,’ said Lizzy, ‘but we can’t do much about her funny little ways. When Boots first bought his car, she didn’t trust that, either. He told her it would get from A to B safe and easy because it had four new-fangled round things. When she asked what they were, he said “Wheels, old girl.” He’s always been his own kind of comedian.’

  ‘Which we all relish, Lizzy,’ said Mr Finch. ‘Now, I promised to ring you as soon as I reached the office, rather than interrupting your breakfast by ringing from home. Your mother wants to know if you’ve heard from Bobby or Helene.’

  ‘Not a word for ages, Dad,’ said Lizzy. ‘No letter and no phone call. It’s a bit worrying, really.’

  ‘You’d have heard, Lizzy, if anything had happened to them,’ said Mr Finch reassuringly. He was always in tune with the sentiments, emotions and worries of his wife’s large family. ‘It’s possible that because Helene is French and Bobby speaks the language so well, they’re working on liaison duties with the Free French divisions somewhere.’ Like Ned, Mr Finch suspected the work was with the French Resistance. ‘So don’t worry.’

  ‘Oh, worries have been everyday things for all of us since the war started,’ said Lizzy, ‘and we have to live with them, don’t we?’

  ‘I
t helps to some extent, living with them,’ said Mr Finch. ‘My love to you, Lizzy, and my regards to Ned. Goodbye now.’

  ‘Goodbye, Dad, and bless you,’ said Lizzy, and put the phone down. Going back to her kitchen, she again wondered about Bobby and Helene, where they were and what they were doing.

  Chapter Two

  WHEN THE ALLIES invaded Italy in September, Hitler ordered the whole of France to be occupied, and the Vichy Government, tolerated on the basis that it would co-operate with Berlin, found itself a puppet stripped even of its clothes.

  At this moment, the SS and Gestapo establishment in the department of Marne was in a state of fury. With the war now going badly for Hitler on the Russian front, and American and British bombers wreaking havoc on German industry, the French Resistance was becoming bolder, and a group had succeeded in effecting the hold-up and capture of Standartenfuehrer (Colonel) Furstein and his deputy, Sturmbannfuehrer (Major) Grasse. Their car, driven by an NCO, came round a bend on its way into Epernay to find a bicycle lying in the road, a woman sprawled beside it, her face apparently a mask of blood, and a man kneeling beside her, trying to help her. Naturally, the compassion of Herr Standartenfuehrer induced him to tell the driver to stop. As soon as the car came to a standstill, a body of men and women materialized to surround it. It was a plant, a hold-up by obvious partisans, who threatened the occupants with British Sten guns. The driver was knocked unconscious, pulled out of the car and dumped on the verge, while Standartenfuehrer Furstein and Sturmbannfuehrer Grasse were speedily hand-tied and gagged. Three of the scoundrels crowded into the car and it was driven away. The driver subsequently reported the hold-up and what had happened to himself. Being unconscious he did not know what had happened to the officers.

  A telephone call from one of the insolent partisans to the German headquarters in Epernay established the fact that both officers were being held as hostages against the release of six Resistance men and women who were under interrogation. The release was granted on orders from Paris.