La Femme Page 8
“But?”
The girl took a deep breath. “There is more than one race whose people are in some sense refugees upon this continent. My family too once came from Saravey. We were… We were driven out.”
The countess gripped Mimosa’s shoulders, shook her slightly. “Mimosa, please tell me this isn’t some personal vengeance you’re enacting upon Zachary Wilde’s people – his ancestors, even.”
Mimosa would not meet her eyes. “The Wildes were part of it, the cabal of men who stole our land, accused us of crimes we didn’t commit.”
The countess expelled a small groan. “You speak of ‘we’ and ‘us’, child, but whatever happened was hundreds of years ago, terrible though it might have been. Your family have lived and prospered in this land for centuries, as have the Wildes. If anything your father is richer and more powerful than Zachary Wilde. Can’t you see that the past is not relevant to you now?” She held Mimosa close. “My dear child, don’t let your young heart be corrupted by these bitter feelings. Please!”
Mimosa’s voice was muffled, as her face was pressed against the countess’ chest. “I never wished you harm, my lady. Haven’t you enjoyed our story? It has brought you happiness, hasn’t it?”
The countess held the girl at arm’s length. “Yes, it has; a pleasant dream, but perhaps not for him. Wasn’t that your design?”
“To ruffle his smug existence?” Mimosa smiled wanly. “A little maybe.”
“A lot, I think!” The countess sighed. “Now this sport must cease.” She kissed Mimosa’s brow. “Go to your bed, my dear. We have much to plan for the festivities ahead.”
Left alone, the countess allowed a few tears to fall, but only for a short while. After this, she dried her eyes and confronted herself in her mirror. She and her reflection smiled at one another. Then she went to bed.
*
On the festival day, after a late lunch, Zachary Wilde felt an urge to leave his family and the warmth of the house. He went out onto the terrace beyond the drawing-room. Even so close to his people he felt alone. He found waiting for him a black lioness, seated upright on the cold pink granite that had been swept of snow earlier by servants.
He stared at her and said, “Is this you, my heart?”
The lioness stirred, and as she rose to her four great paws, obsidian wings unfurled about her. The bright winter sun conjured shades of blue, purple and deepest green in the jetty feathers. She regarded him with snow-blue eyes, and as if dreaming he took a step towards her, with every intention of climbing onto her broad back.
But then it happened that his youngest grand-daughter came out onto the terrace, running and chattering, as a child will. In a moment the lioness spread her wings and then was in the air.
“What are you waving at, Grandpapa?” asked the child.
“A lioness with wings,” he replied.
“I want to see her too.” The child came to stand before him, leaned against his legs. “But where is she, where?”
“There, my dear.” He pointed.
“Does she want us to go with her?”
“We can go with her if we want to.”
“She’s flying away.”
“Yes, she is. This time.” He lifted the girl in his arms and together they gazed at the already distant speck.
Softwood
Andrew Hook
Apricot brushed a strand of brunette hair away from her right eye. It was a self-conscious movement, yet utterly natural; like a leaf falling from a tree. She stared forwards at the vacant chair behind the large oak desk, resisting the urge to look around the empty, windowless, office. She had been ushered into the room and told to wait until Mr Grantham was available. One of her legs was crossed over the other and she sat straight. She had a feeling there might be a recording device present and so she considered her posture as if Mr Grantham were already in the room. She wanted to keep it professional.
If there were a device, it might be concealed within any of the books which flanked the opposite wall, or within the back of the anglepoise lamp, or be monitoring her through one of the whorls of wallpaper that covered the left hand side of the room. The wallpaper was incongruous with the rest of the office. Yet the office itself seemed incongruous with the rest of Softwood.
She had been employed for over six months. It was a large, rambling estate, filled with intellectuals and scientists, set amongst several acres of woodland populated by both roe and muntjac deer. One of her roles was to decipher any meanings which might be found within the extracts of Linear A, yet she had made little progress. She was expert in Latin and Greek, had studied Linear B and considered Alice Kober to have been a role model, but the data that was available was simply insufficient to discern patterns. This was frustrating, but it was also interesting and the pay was good. Not only that, the company was even better. Being a residential establishment, the evenings at Softwood were filled with conversation which she found stimulating, never wondering why she was there.
The door opened and Grantham entered. She smiled and he acknowledged her with a nod before taking his seat opposite.
“Apricot.”
“Mr Grantham.”
She had seen him before, of course, but, as with the deer, not up close. She guessed that he was in his seventies; he had a good head of only slightly receding white hair, thick black-rimmed spectacles, a brown tie over a cream shirt, and his customary jacket which wasn’t part of a suit. Unlike her, his clothes were mismatched. But this leant him a certain charm. In fact, Apricot was a little overawed. If this registered with Grantham it didn’t show.
“I’ve been looking at your findings with Linear A,” he began.
Apricot held back from voicing that findings might be a generous word.
“To be honest,” he continued, “I’m rather disappointed.”
She struggled to maintain her posture. So this was it, she was being discharged from her duties.
“I appreciate the source material is minimal, but we were rather hoping that someone with your previous experience might have been able to pull a rabbit out of the hat, as it were.” He leant forwards, picked up a stray paperclip which he then unbent within his fingers and used to pick holes in the doodled green blotting paper which covered part of the desk. “Still, the disappointment isn’t with you as such. You’ve proven to be a valuable member of the team. Roche speaks highly of you, as does Miss Cardamon. So highly, in fact, we’ve decided to offer you a new position, a unique position.”
Apricot wondered if her relief showed. She would have been happy cleaning the ladies’ rooms if it meant remaining in Softwood.
Grantham sat back in his chair, regarded the paperclip with curiosity, as if he hadn’t seen it before. He placed it in his pocket. “The work we’re considering is highly confidential. You will be isolated in a wing of Softwood and your movements will be limited. You won’t come into contact with many – if any – of the acquaintances you have already made. Of course, if this isn’t acceptable to you then we might have to let you go. Budgets are tight at the moment, and in six months…” he let his hands speak as they opened and their movement triggered his shoulders to shrug.
“I understand,” said Apricot, her mind a whirl. “What is it you want me to do?”
*
A few days later she found herself hugging Miss Cardamon and giving Roche a playful wink.
“The secrets of Linear A will mean nothing without you,” he said.
Thankfully she wasn’t a girl for blushing. “If you decipher it,” she said, “I hope to be the first to know.”
Their smiles were warm. Roche came and put his arm around her shoulders, gave her a squeeze. “Of course,” he said, then left the room quicker than she expected.
Miss Cardamon looked at her. “He has a crush on you.”
“Maybe.” Apricot detected the wistfulness in her voice.
Miss Cardamon looked as if she might say more, but then the door opened and Grantham’s personal secretary nodded.
She smiled as Miss Cardamon raised an eyebrow. “I’m being relocated both personally and professionally,” Apricot said.
The last words she heard as she left the room were: “Don’t be a stranger.”
Apricot followed the secretary through the winding corridors of Softwood. Grantham’s office had no windows as it was deep in the heart of the building, a nest within a nest of boxes. But on these floors the massive leaded windows of the former stately home shone copious amounts of light onto the highly polished floors and added to the grandeur of the building which was filled with artefacts and the unknown.
Apricot was no less swept away than she had been when she first arrived. A surge of adventure coursed through her, and she reminded herself how glad she was not to have travelled the beauty therapist, housewife, or even librarian route chosen by some of her contemporaries.
The secretary didn’t speak. He avoided direct eye contact and kept himself to himself.
At the opposite end of the house, having passed fewer and fewer people along the way, the secretary unlocked a door which led to a stairwell.
“Your rooms are down there,” he said. “Everything you need.”
She nodded and waited for him to continue, but he simply held the door open. Eventually she realised he meant her to go down alone.
“Thank you,” she said. Then she squeezed past him and her heels clicked out a rhythm on the stone stairway as she descended. It was a spiral. The constant turning proved disconcerting. It was just when she realised that she must be underground that she heard the door lock above her.
She paused and listened. There were no sounds. Knowing it would be churlish to return upstairs, she continued downwards. Without windows, electric light illuminated the way until eventually she reached the bottom.
If the stairway had seemed sterile, the corridor that greeted her was welcoming. Thickly carpeted; with several rooms leading off to each side. At the end, an earthenware pot fired with a deep blue glaze stood on a small table beneath a mirror.
She walked towards it, expecting the corridor to branch either left or right at an angle which she couldn’t yet see, but quickly realised the corridor was the extent of the space. She stood in front of the mirror, saw herself looking querulously back. Her curiosity was piqued. She returned down the corridor, trying each of the four doors as she went. They all opened. It seemed there were no secrets here.
She casually examined the rooms. The one nearest the foot of the stairway was her bedroom. The appearance was functional; she might have been at a budget hotel. Her bags had been laid on the bed and she spent time restoring normality by hanging her clothes in the wardrobe and placing her underwear and personal items in the bedside cabinet. The room across the corridor was the bathroom and toilet. The realisation hit home that she would be the only occupant in this part of the building, just as Grantham had promised. The thought both excited and scared her. Whatever she had been chosen for was indeed secret, yet she was a gregarious creature by nature.
The third room contained a computer and little else. The fourth room she was familiar with having done some radio assignments at college. All the right equipment was there for broadcasting.
On the middle of the desk in that room was a note.
She picked it up. It wasn’t addressed to her. It bore the name Vespertine.
*
From now on, Vespertine is your code name. Your only name.
If we appear to be overly cautious please believe me there is a justifiable reason for this. The work you are to do is highly confidential. You have been chosen because of your background, your past experiences. Should you decide against this task, you can leave at any time. For the moment, however, please take a day or two to familiarise yourself with your surroundings. Your first broadcast won’t be until midnight tomorrow evening.
Apricot read the note several times over. Over the course of two hours she had frequently walked up and down the stairwell, listening to nothing sounds on the other side of the locked door. Her reflection also revealed no answers. She felt like a lioness in a cage.
The letter was the only object in her quarters that she could interact with. The computer in the other room appeared to have no on/off switch and she realised its power was maintained elsewhere, independently. The letter confirmed this. From tomorrow and each day onwards she would be sent an email for that evening’s broadcast. The letter made it clear there should be no deviation. It concluded: Above all else we admire your professionalism. It was signed, William Grantham.
Afterwards she found herself fiddling with the broadcasting equipment under the guise of familiarisation. There was no music saved on the hard drive which powered the mixing desk. The only file available was saved as jingle. When she opened it she heard the first two bars of the folk song, The Lincolnshire Poacher, played electronically. There was no soul in the song, but she knew why as soon as she heard it.
Apricot was to be the voice of a numbers station.
*
The door at the head of the stairs remained locked all night.
She had fully investigated all the rooms which led off the corridor by the time she went to sleep. In the room which housed the computer she realised there was a sliding panel that led to a dumb waiter. In it she found a tray holding a ploughman’s lunch. While not feeling particularly hungry, she took the tray to her bed and ate heartily. Having opened the letter the dread she had initially felt began to dissipate. Even so, to be alone didn’t sit well with her, and she found her thoughts continually turning to Roche.
Whilst she had no romantic liaisons during her six months at Softwood, Roche had played an increasing role in her fantasies. His broad shoulders, ready wit, natural intelligence and ease in her presence triggered everything that was female within her. Now, distant from him, she realised she should have eschewed her simmering shyness and played a wider role.
Come morning, she found the computer as awake as herself. A solitary email, under the name of Grantham, sat in her inbox. She opened it and saw a brief instruction together with the list of numbers she had been expecting. In every instance, the email stated, she should voice the final digit in each five number sequence with a lilt to her voice.
Apricot couldn’t help but be intrigued. Numbers stations were known to her. She knew she would be broadcasting on various shortwave frequencies presumably controlled from outside of the environment she was in. Her voice would be artificially altered; synthesised. What she didn’t know – what anyone didn’t apparently know – was the purpose of these broadcasts. Although the speculation that she might be working for the British Secret Service sent a thrill up her spine that was hard to ignore.
She deliberated whether to respond to the email, then decided it wasn’t necessary. She was sure all her movements must be under surveillance, although she hoped this didn’t extend to the bedroom or bathroom.
Much of the day was spent looking into the mirror, practising her tone of voice for the broadcast, and repeatedly making the journey up and down the stairs to check that the door remained locked.
At eleven-thirty pm she initiated checks of the equipment, donned her headphones, and ensured the loudness of her voice was within the boundaries specified in the email.
At midnight she played the jingle.
At fifteen seconds past midnight, she began her broadcast.
0-2-5-8-8
6-9-7-2-1
3-0-1-1-2
9-0-2-3-6
4-4-5-7-3
2-0-0-0-7
The broadcast concluded at one am.
Apricot signed off as directed, a few seconds after the final number, with the solitary word: vespertine.
She smiled and switched off the equipment. Assuming they believed she had done her job satisfactorily, she imagined she would repeat the same task tomorrow.
*
In case you are wondering, the word vespertine re
lates to a genus of flowers which only bloom in the evening.
Apricot re-read the note which had been placed on her breakfast tray. It had been typed on an old fashioned typewriter. She could feel the indentations on the reverse of the paper, and the ‘e’s were blocked with excess ink.
She wondered who had sent this. Imagined it couldn’t be Grantham, yet found it hard to believe his secretary was responsible. Nonsensically, she found herself hoping it had been Roche. And the sensation that he could have chosen her codename appealed to her.
After breakfast she drifted into a dreamless sleep. The day yawned before her. She began to think how long the task might last. Considered it could be indefinite. Searching the rooms she realised she had no way to communicate with the rest of Softwood. There were no writing implements, the computer would print the contents of the email but wouldn’t open programs for anything else, and it had been clear on her first arrival that there was no signal for her mobile.
Again, a sense of panic coupled with excitement gripped her. Whilst she was – in some respects – solely in control of her destiny, she realised this was completely within imposed parameters. So this is what religion feels like, she thought. The sense of predetermination was as comforting as it was compelling.
Days began to slide into one. A succession of numbers. No other notes accompanied her breakfast or any other meal, and the emails from constantly changing accounts contained less and less comment and more and more numbers. Her broadcasts became equally uniform:
5-5-3-2-7
6-8-4-3-2
3-3-2-2-3
0-9-0-2-1
1-2-1-1-2
0-0-0-0-0
The one certainty – she had to remind herself – was that the task held purpose and that her contribution was valued.
She had to remind herself over and again.
Apricot became a creature of habit. She set herself routines to deal with the day and allowed transformation to occur during the evening. She reasoned that if she were Apricot whilst the sun was up, so she should be Vespertine as it set. She began to dress accordingly, choosing items from her wardrobe which could delineate between the two personalities. Apricot: the diligent, demure employee. Vespertine: the spy and potential femme fatale. In perpetuating this format, she effectively halved her days.