Time Passes Time Read online

  Dedicated to my wonderful husband, Roy, for his belief in me and for his encouragement during this long journey to realizing my dream. His love has helped me to reach the top of my mountain. Thank you.

  Contents

  One: War is a Tangled Memory Linked to the Present

  Two: A Journey into the Past

  Three: Lizzie Meets the Theresa of the Past

  Four: Patsy, Theresa Crompton’s Long-lost Daughter

  Five: Jacques – Theresa’s Long-lost Son

  Six: Gaining Strength from the Past

  Seven: Finding the Link

  Eight: Bitterness Corrodes

  Nine: Meetings of Significance

  Ten: The Return of Evil Unites Patsy and Lizzie

  Eleven: Jacques’s Research Pays Off

  Twelve: Doubts Cling but Hurt Unites

  Thirteen: A Watery Grave

  Fourteen: Spiral Downwards and Theresa’s Encounter

  Fifteen: Harri’s Heart is Rocked

  Sixteen: A Love Across the Generations

  Seventeen: Love is a Promise

  Eighteen: Jacques – A Father by Proxy

  Nineteen: Life Changes for Lizzie and Theresa is Captured

  Twenty: Jacques – A Sadness Beyond Measure

  Twenty-one: Harri in Love

  Twenty-two: Escape

  Twenty-three: Harri’s Shock Decision – Patsy’s Shock Reaction

  Twenty-four: A Fragile Mind and A Family Disrupted

  Twenty-five: Jacques – A Shocking Revelation Back in England

  Twenty-six: Patsy – A Tangled Mind

  Twenty-seven: Jacques – A Chance Meeting

  Twenty-eight: Lizzie and Theresa

  Twenty-nine: Lizzie and Jacques

  Thirty: A Helping Hand for Recovery

  Thirty-one: Lizzie’s Doubts, Theresa’s Capture, Pierre’s Death

  Thirty-two: A Reunion

  Thirty-three: Theresa’s Liberation, 1945

  Thirty-four: Theresa’s Fragility Destroys the Dream

  Acknowledgements

  One

  War is a Tangled Memory Linked to the Present

  Theresa – London 1963

  ‘Hey, let go, you old hag . . .’

  Theresa staggered. The hooded young men in front of her grabbed at her bag. Fear paralysed her. Unreleased screams filled her head . . . My secrets . . . Oh, God!

  Images flashed into her memory, but faded away into a haze of confusion as she tried to decipher the snippets of information that her brain managed to filter. She struggled to make sense of them and to separate the now from the past. Her fragile mind had little capacity to give her reality, having never recovered from the mental breakdown she’d suffered after the suicide of Terence, her twin brother, in 1958. And now it took her back in time, compounding her fear as she desperately sought for answers: What’s happening? Are they SS?

  Frail, and old beyond her years, every bone in her body hurt. The sockets of her arms burned as she fought valiantly. Stay quiet, she told herself. Name and number only . . . Don’t give in.

  A sudden thought trembled a deeper dread through her. The training officer of the Special Operations Executive had warned, ‘If caught, you may be subjected to torture.’ He’d listed several possibilities, but one had stuck in her mind: ‘Sometimes they resort to pulling out your fingernails . . .’

  Her terror of this often catapulted her from sleep in the middle of the night. How close she’d come to such a fate! Betrayed and captured, she’d felt the chafing of the irons that had held her and had sweated the cold sweat of terror as she’d thought her fate the same as her fellow SOE officers, Eliane, Yolande, Madeleine and Noor. Just saying their names was an honour, as they were the bravest women she’d ever known. The Germans had captured and executed them. After forcing the women to kneel in pairs, they had shot them in the head.

  With these thoughts intensifying her fear, the cloying darkness of the cell the Germans had thrown her into enclosed her once more, as did the desperate feeling of being alone. Alone and about to die.

  Was it happening again? Were these Nazis? Had they found her? Would she tell them what she knew? Please, God, help me not to . . .

  ‘For fuck’s sake! She’s got some strength for an old ’un.’

  ‘What’s that she said? Did she call us Nazi bastards? The bleedin’ old cow . . .’

  Theresa’s head flew back with the force of the blow. Her fingers felt the cold pavement slab but could not prevent her fall. A boot hovered over her hand.

  ‘Give us yer bag, you stupid old witch. Let go . . .’

  The boot came down. Bones cracked. ‘14609, Theresa Laura Crompton, Officer . . .’

  ‘Christ, she’s bleedin’ mad. She’s saying something about being an officer. Ha, she must be ninety-odd. Fucking officer, my arse. This is 1963, you stupid old bat! Get her bag, quick, she’s let go of it. Come on, leg it.’

  Pain seared her. Jumbled questions frustrated her: Is this London? Is the war over? Oh, dear God, what year did he say it was?

  No answers came, only the knowledge that she had lost the fight and that her attackers had gone. So too had the spirit that had powered her efforts. In its place lay a pit of despair.

  The leg she lay on started to throb. She had to shift position to release the pressure on her hip. As she did, an agony beyond endurance brought vomit to her throat. She swallowed it down. Felt the choking sting it left in its wake. How could Derwent have thought her capable of doing this job? Yes, she spoke French, and yes, she knew the country well. But she wasn’t brave enough . . . She wasn’t brave enough . . .

  And what about the mission? Pierre will be waiting . . . Oh, Pierre, my love. Please, God, keep him safe from capture. And our son, protect our son. For hadn’t she put them in grave danger? Those Nazis had her bag, her papers and the secrets she was charged with keeping. ‘Never write anything down!’ they’d told her. She’d disobeyed that golden rule. She’d written everything down. She’d told where her baby son and his grandparents were and that they were Jews. The Germans would . . . Oh, God! Why had she done it? Why had she compiled a complete record of her life from the day she’d had to give her first child away? Now the Nazis would know everything: the rendezvous point, the codes . . . Millions will die . . . But, no, that wasn’t right. It was 1953 when I began to write about it all – long after the war. Oh, why do my thoughts swim away from me?

  A voice with a twang of Cockney to it broke into her thoughts, ‘Blimey, it’s that Miss Crompton. Have you fallen, love? It’s alright, don’t be afraid . . .’

  It sounds like Rita, but no, Rita wouldn’t call me ‘Miss Crompton’. Rita loved her and called her nice names. Rita was a Land Girl on her brother’s farm. They were having an affair, a liaison. Exciting, different . . . Oh, God! Stop it, stop this confusion . . . That was then. Rita is old now and smells of drink. She can be cruel and demands money. Has Rita sent these people to hurt me?

  ‘Her nose is bleeding, Mum. She’s shaking . . .’

  ‘Okay, Trace, don’t just stand there. Nip across to that phone box and dial 999. Now then, love, help will be here soon. You keep yourself still. Bleedin’ ’ell, this is a turn-up, but you’re safe now.’

  Theresa’s trepidation intensified as her yesterdays crowded her brain once more: These people seem to know me. Are they the ones who will be nice to me and try to gain my confidence?

  ‘Don’t be scared. We ain’t going to hurt yer, love.’

  Opening her eyes she tried to focus, but the glare of the sun overwhelmed her and she snapped them shut again. Before doing so she’d seen a blue light flashing. She’d never known the Germans to use such a warning sign. Would they take her back to Dachau? Would they shoot her? Or – no, dear God, not that
. . . Not burned alive in the oven as they’d done to one poor girl. Oh God, help me!

  More voices. How many were there? Men’s voices, trying to soothe her and to calm her. I must stay strong. Sing, that’s the thing. Concentrate on a song. ‘There’ll be blue birds over . . . Tomorrow, just you wait and see . . .’

  ‘That’s the spirit, love. My old mum used to tell us to sing when we were afraid or in pain. I’m Marcus, and I’m just going to give you an injection to make you more comfortable, then we need to put a splint on that leg. We think you may have fractured it. Lie still now.’

  ‘No . . . No . . .’ She tried to push the man’s hand away, but couldn’t. Her thigh stung; her head swam. Oh, God, no! They had warned her about this new method. ‘They may inject you,’ they’d said. ‘It’s not lethal, but it relaxes you and you are no longer on your guard. If they do, try to think of something important and concentrate on it. Shut everything else out.’

  ‘Don’t like needles, eh? Nearly done. You’ll be better for it, love.’

  Pierre, oh, Pierre, I have let you down. Please, God, don’t let them capture him. He will face certain death! No, I couldn’t bear it . . . I love you, Pierre. The words he had said to her came into her mind: ‘Tu es le souffle de mon corps. Le sang qui coule dans mes veines et la vie dans mon coeur.’ That is what I will think of. She could hear his voice, and drank his words deep into her as she said them in her mind over and over: ‘You are the breath in my body. The blood that courses through my veins and the life inside my heart.’

  Two

  A Journey into the Past

  Rita, Lizzie and Ken – London 1963

  ‘’Ere, sis, you said you wanted a new bleedin’ handbag, so I bleedin’ got yer one.’

  The brown, square-shaped bag landed in Lizzie’s lap. She could see it wasn’t new, and this set up a worry in her. Turning it over she noticed, though old-fashioned, it showed hardly any sign of wear. The leather, soft and of good quality, was gathered into a brass trim with a tortoiseshell clasp that she had to twist to undo. As she did, a fusty smell clogged her nose. Sifting through the contents – some papers, a few exercise books rolled up and secured with an elastic band, and several photos, all yellowing with age – she found the bag didn’t contain a purse or anything of value. But then, she hadn’t expected it to. Ken or his cronies would have removed anything of that nature.

  ‘Look at you, ferreting already. I knew it would suit yer. You’re a right old square.’

  ‘I ain’t—’

  ‘Well, what’s with the Perry Como, then?’ A screech set her teeth on edge as Ken shoved the arm of the gramophone, causing the needle to slide across the long-playing record. Perry’s ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ stretched and distorted on the last line.

  ‘Don’t do that! You know it scratches the record! And I ain’t a square. Rita put that on before she fell asleep. I just didn’t bother to change it, that’s all.’

  ‘Huh, in that case yer won’t like rummaging through that crappy old stuff, then. No one who’s with it likes the stuff you like. Who digs history and antiques these days? Accept it, me little skin and blister: you’re a square.’

  Ken came towards her. A cold feeling of apprehension clenched her stomach muscles. She turned in her wheelchair, but what she saw gave her no hope of help from Rita. Slumped on the settee, dead to the world, Rita’s lips flapped on every exhaled breath, filling the room with alcohol fumes. One slack arm rested on the empty gin bottle lying on the floor.

  ‘What’s up, darling? You look like a bleedin’ caged animal. Don’t yer like the present I got for yer?’

  His voice soothed some of Lizzie’s fear. It didn’t hold a hint of what had fuelled her dread. His mood changes had her treading on eggshells. She didn’t like how he talked at times, joking in a way she knew wasn’t a joke about how, even though she was disabled, she shouldn’t be deprived. At these times his body leaned closer than she was comfortable with, and his eyes sent messages she didn’t want to read as he made out that one of his mates – the one he nicknamed Loopy Laurence – fancied her.

  She kept her voice steady as she answered him. ‘Course I do, but it’s where you got it from that worries me.’

  ‘Found it.’

  She doubted that – more like half-inched it, as he called pinching stuff. He always used Cockney rhyming slang. It was as if he thought it added to the tough, bully-boy image he liked to portray. Snatching bags was a bit below his league, though, so he wouldn’t have done the deed himself; he’d have got it from someone who owed him. It must have seemed strange to them, him wanting the bag as well as the valuables it contained.

  Rita stirred and opened one eye. ‘You bleedin’ got it, then? How much were in it? The old cow’s been a bit tight lately with what she’ll give me.’

  ‘Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for yer, you bleedin’ drunk.’

  ‘Don’t talk to Rita like that, Ken . . .’

  ‘Don’t you bleedin’ start or—’ The shrill tone of the phone cut his threat short. ‘Fuck! That’ll be bloody Rednut. He can’t do pig-shit on his own.’

  Relief slowed Lizzie’s breath and released the tension in her as she heard him say he would meet Rednut in ten minutes. From what she picked up of the conversation, something had gone wrong with a collection. She didn’t know the extent of Ken’s dealings, but he’d talked about some of the known gangs running protection rackets and that kind of thing, but to what extent he was involved and exactly who with she wasn’t sure. She knew he wasn’t big-time, not in the league of the Krays and gangs like that, but she hated to think of what he did get up to. If she could get real proof, she would go to the police. But then, would she? Always conflict raged inside her where her brother was concerned, one minute wanting him to get caught, and the next praying for his safety.

  ‘Right, I have to go. Will you be alright, love?’ His tone surprised her. She’d thought she would bear the brunt of his anger at Rita and Rednut. Still might, but that didn’t stop her retorting, ‘If you would stop doing whatever it is you are up to, I would be.’

  ‘Not that again. Whinge, whinge, whinge. You don’t mind when I get things for you out of the proceeds, do you? Look at that chair. The National Health Service would never have got you one like it. You’re such a bleedin’ ungrateful sod!’

  Taking hold of the handlebars and squeezing the lever set her wheelchair into motion. She needed to get out of his presence. He jumped in front of her. ‘Where’re you going?’

  ‘To my room.’

  ‘Look, sis, I brought the bag back for you, didn’t I?’

  His pleading look sickened her, but the softening of his attitude towards her gave her courage to take him to task again. ‘Ken, it ain’t right what you do, why can’t yer see that? I know yer mean well, and think getting me things will make up for everything, but the way yer get them ain’t right. I’d rather go without. What happened to the lady this belonged to? Is she hurt?’

  ‘Lady? She ain’t no bleedin’ lady! I could tell yer tales. Anyway, Ken, where’s me cut, then?’

  This from Rita shocked her. Rita knew the owner! And by the sounds of things she’d helped to set up whatever Ken had done to get the bag.

  ‘You’ll get it when I’m good and bleedin’ ready.’ Ken had moved towards Lizzie’s bedroom, a ground-floor room originally intended as a front room. A beam of sunlight shone through the door as he opened it for her. It lit a trail back to the sofa and glinted off the gin bottle. Ken stood still. His face held a look of contempt. ‘That bag was a payment. I earned it for you, sis. I hurt no one. What others did, including her,’ he pointed at Rita, ‘ain’t my fault. Christ, you’re a bleedin’ hypocrite, sis. Look how you’re clinging to it, afraid I’ll take it back, and yet you’re on your high horse about my morals!’

  As she passed him, tension and fear tightened her throat. Please don’t let him follow me in.

  He didn’t. The door slammed shut behind her, giving her a feeling of safety fro
m the threat of him, but the knowledge of why he did what he did completed the circle of her inner conflict. He wanted – no, needed – to get things for her to assuage the constant guilt that nagged at him over her disability, and it was this need that had started him down the road of his illegal activities.

  Throwing the bag onto her bed, she let her head drop and screwed up her eyes. The latch to the part of her she kept locked away had shifted, letting in unwanted thoughts. She tried to fight them, but her mind ran back down the years. Shudders rippled through her as she saw again the blood – always the blood. Her mum’s blood, spurting from her nose, her lip and her forehead. And Ken’s, seeping through his shirt as their dad’s belt lashed his back. The screams and the vile threats assaulted her ears afresh. Her dad’s face, ugly with his intent, flashed into her mind, and she saw again his big, muscle-bound body dripping with sweat as he turned and aimed another blow at their mum as she tried to stop the onslaught on Ken. And into the memory came the moment when something had snapped inside her and had taken away her fear . . .

  Her teeth clenched, as if they remembered independently of her how they had sunk into her dad’s leg. The taste of the oil and gunk spilt onto his jeans came back to her. Its tang stretched her mouth and brought her Aunt Alice to her mind. Her dad had been mending Aunt Alice’s car. Hate welled up in Lizzie. Alice should be the one to shoulder the guilt. She shouldn’t have told their dad about Ken pinching from her purse. She’d have known what would happen. Mum would have sorted it on the quiet.

  Lizzie held her ears, trying to block out the memory of her dad’s howl of pain. Like the soundtrack to a horror movie, it had stayed with her down the years, filling her head each time she relived the scene. With it came the feeling of her hair being wrenched till she’d been forced to release her bite, and the sensation of hurtling through the air and down the stairwell. He’d thrown her! Her own dad had thrown her as if she was nothing. The world encompassing her had changed from the moment she’d hit the bottom step.

  She’d never seen her mum again. A brain haemorrhage that night had taken her. Her dad, wanted for her murder, had been missing ever since.