3 Secrets: a Three Book Bundle

Secrets

A Three Book Bundle

Keeper Of Secrets

Secrets Kept

Boris

Terry R Barca

© 2019

Published by WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Keeper Of Secrets

Terry R Barca

Published by Written With A Pencil

© 2015

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

For Molly Barca, who kept my secrets.

Foreword

I love writing short stories and KEEPER OF SECRETS started life in that way. Sometimes a short story demands a second part or possibly a prequel and this has happened to me a couple of times. Recently I put all these multiple-part stories together into an anthology called PASSERBY.

I published the original short story, The Keeper Of Secrets, on my web site and I received quite a few comments from people I admire and respect, all saying the same thing, This feels like the beginning of an interesting longer work. I had to agree that it felt that way to me as well, so I stopped what I was working on and began writing the novella that you are about to read.

The first thing that became obvious was that both Daisy and Susan had a story to tell and their lives are now so tied together that it seemed only fair to give them both a chance to live out their adventures.

I have enjoyed their company and I was sad when our partnership came to an end. So much so that I have decided that there should be a second book and, when time permits, I will share with you the further adventures of Daisy and Susan and of course, the little rag doll.

November 2015

Unseen

"The hardest thing in the world to keep is a secret.

No matter how hard you try, someone always finds out.

Even the best-kept secrets are eventually exposed to the light of day."

T.R. Barca

The dust from the yellowing pages irritated my eyes.

The writer was a shadowy figure in my life.

I had met her a few times, but she’d been very old, and small children were of little interest to her; who could blame her?

When she died I was too young to go to the funeral. Not that I threw a tantrum or anything, but I was curious.

She was the first person to die during my brief existence.

When you are a kid, old people are like creatures from another planet. So far removed from your world as to seem genuinely alien.

There are exceptions of course.

If you're lucky enough to have grandparents, you'll know what I mean.

Mine were too old, too far away, or too dead to play a role in my life.

I've heard friends talk about their grandmothers as being the one person they could tell anything to.

It’s good to have someone who will keep your secrets.

Grandparents don’t feel responsible in the same way that parents do, so they tend to relax. They have been there and seen it all happen. They come at each problem with a calmness that young people react to.

I yearn to say that that's how it was with Daisy, but it wasn't.

You notice that I didn't say Grandma Daisy.

That's because my mother always referred to her mother as Daisy.

I’d been putting off the task of ‘going through my mother’s things’ because it was just too painful; too real. I’d had a few weeks to get used to the idea that she was going to die, but in the end it didn’t help. My husband had offered to help, but I’m a capable woman who is well into her fourth decade and this is a job best done alone.

Reading through these old notebooks and loose pages, sitting in the attic of my mother’s house, I've discovered that Daisy liked me, although why she should, I have no idea. I was barely aware of her existence, and I don't ever remember having a conversation with her, although I must have because she mentions me here in her beautiful handwriting.

The little one asked me what I was looking at. Both hands on her hips and a defiant look in her eyes. It was all I could do to contain my smile. This little one is going to make her mark in the world.

The little one, that was me, Susan way back then. I must've been about six years old. That was the last time I saw her.

Naturally, I wanted to find more references to me in this box of handwritten memories, but there were precious few.

I discovered the old wooden trunk in the mid-morning and I sat in the attic and read until it got dark. Time went by in a flash, but that was what these papers were about: time.

Daisy was my grandmother and she was also a spy.

She didn't set out to be a spy, it just worked out that way. Her world dipped headlong into the deadly conflict of World War Two, and Daisy decided that she had to do her bit. No one forced her into it, it was all her own idea.

These were patriotic times and young men were signing up to ‘do their bit’. Her female friends were ‘joining up’ and some were heading off to the country to join the Land Army. Daisy had skills and confidence and she was smart enough to know that this was a time in history where women could show their worth. They were needed, and men would have to take them seriously. She was brighter than most and her language skills made her stand out. She was fluent in German and French. She learned German at school but more importantly, she learned and practised her French while on holiday in Paris. Every summer, for most of her childhood, she spent time with her aunt and uncle playing with French children, adopting their accent and style of speech.

She thought she would be shuffling papers in some anonymous war office, but doors opened quickly for Daisy and she found herself being trained to work behind enemy lines. The theory in those days was that the enemy was less likely to suspect a woman of being a spy. With what I know of the history of warfare, this was a stunning underestimation. Famous female spies go back as far as anyone can remember. So why did these bozos think that females would be safe behind enemy lines?

From her notes, I read that a number of Daisy's friends lost their lives. Many because they were betrayed.

Students of warfare know that spies and codebreakers win wars, whereas everyone else thinks that guns and tanks are the only things that matter.

Secrets were one thing, and their procurement was a dangerous business. But the secret alone was useless unless it could be conveyed to the right people.

Codes could be broken and often were.

Both sides went to enormous lengths to safeguard their secrets.

Mathematicians were in great demand.

Knowing that any code could be broken at any moment must have made these agents very nervous.

The only unbreakable code, the so called book code, could be dangerous in itself, particularly if other agents had been captured carrying the same book.

From what I was reading, Daisy had developed her own system, but for the life of me, I didn't understand how it worked.

She seemed to be referring to some person as the keeper of secrets.

It was now very dark and I was hungry.

Daisy’s trunk full of secrets would have to wait until tomorrow. My comfortable house in quiet suburban Melbourne was beckoning. It’s a long way from modern day Melbourne to war torn London and occupied France.

My husband and two young teenage boys were mildly put out when I got home because there was no food on the table.

I suggested that there were matches on the stove and that the top drawer held a can opener.

My suggestions were not well received.

My husband can manage an office full of professionals, but he can’t boil an egg. My two sons can dismantle and reassemble a computer but they cannot handle the intricacies of a toasted cheese sandwich. They loved their grandma, but life goes on and I like being needed.

I didn't sleep very well that night, and the next morning after I had bundled everyone out the door with their tummies full of warm breakfast (it seemed the least I could do after the previous night’s lack of dinner), I got in my car and drove around to my mother’s empty house.

This time I was a little better prepared. I brought coffee, sandwiches and eyedrops.

I always loved this house, but it wasn’t the same without my mother’s presence. My heart was broken and there had been a lot of tears, but now I was all cried out, and as my mother would have done, I was getting on with things. My mother survived my beloved father by only a couple of years. I’d had parents for all of my thirty-two years and being alone was not something that I relished. Of course, I have my husband and sons.

Daisy’s papers held countless references to the mysterious, keeper of secrets. But by mid-afternoon I was no closer to finding out who this person was.

Daisy wasn't just a good spy, she was a heck of a good writer. I was quickly transported into her wartime world, and I could feel the fear and excitement that she felt. My heart was racing as I followed her adventures. I scanned through the pages eager to find out what happened next.

She would've been in her early twenties and probably quite pretty, but inexplicably, my family did not have any photographs of her from this time, so I'm only guessing. She did mention several times that she was able to achieve her objectives because of the effect she had on men, so pretty seemed like a good bet.

There were many references to a rag doll which was sent back and forth from occupied France. I jumped to the conclusion that messages were concealed within the doll, but this was never spelt out. That doll must've racked up some serious miles. I hoped it hadn’t gotten airsick, or seasick for that matter, as there were references to the doll being smuggled out on fishing boats, and collected by daredevil pilots landing in open fields on moonless nights.

I wondered what had happened to this doll after the war.

If it had been me, I would have kept it as a reminder of my adventures.

I headed home at a reasonable hour, and while I was chopping up vegetables and preparing dinner, my mind was imagining a young woman living out her adventure in a mild state of terror. I wondered how she managed to assimilate back into civilian life. Had she found housework as boring as I did?

The notebooks I was reading talked mostly about this exciting part of her life.

Maybe there were other notebooks that talked about the struggles of her postwar life, but they were not in this old wooden trunk.

If my mother had been alive I would've asked her, but my only link with that time was now gone.

Maybe they were up there somewhere talking about times gone by.

Being a mother myself, I wondered how Daisy's mum felt about this young girl being so close to danger. Something told me that Daisy's mum did not know what she was up to, which was probably just as well.

The next day when I had returned to my mother's attic I continue to read Daisy’s wartime journals, but something else was nagging at me.

Finally, I put the journals to one side and began going through the other boxes in this dusty old attic.

This task was made more difficult because my mother never labelled anything.

It had always been a voyage of discovery going throughout our pantry and refrigerator when my brother and I were young, because you never knew what was in a jar, or can, or bottle.

It's amazing that we didn't poison ourselves.

The first few boxes were full of children's toys and clothing, some of which were mine and some of which belonged to my brother, Darren. He stayed as long as he could and he helped with the funeral arrangements, but he had a family of his own to look after.

I know I live on the other side of the country, but you only have to ask and I’ll be here.

I knew he meant it at the time, but once he got back home he would not want to be disturbed again. I’ll put his childhood things to one side and he can collect them the next time he comes to visit.

My brother is sad, but also guilty. He moved about as far away as it was possible to do without being in another country and our mother felt his absence deeply. He rang her every week and they talked for a long time, but to a mother there is no substitute for being able to hold a son in your arms and hug him and not let go.

The family always felt that Darren had been planning to leave home from the time he was six months old. He had a singular vision and that did not involve looking back. I always knew that he would leave as soon as he could and I cherished him for as long as he was there.

You go back home and be with your family. They need you and don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I looked him in the eyes and he knew that I meant what I had said. His sadness made me feel worse and I wished that he would get in his car and go. His guilt was not going to be lessened by standing in my driveway looking like a lost puppy.

I stood and watched him drive off up the street. I knew that we would always be brother and sister, but I also knew that we were progressively becoming strangers. His life was a world away from mine and that was unlikely to change.

I feel terrible writing this, but I felt a relief when he was gone.

Eventually, I found a box that was full of things that I did not recognise, and among these things was an item wrapped in layers of old newspaper.

The layers of newspapers were protecting an old rag doll.

A very old rag doll.

I'll bet you could tell some stories, I said to the doll as I held it gently in both hands.

I would never tell. I'm the keeper of secrets.

The voice was a faint one, but I didn't imagine it.

The doll was speaking to me, and amazing as it may seem, I wasn't surprised.

It seemed as natural as it could be.

What secret do you have for me today, Daisy?

The little doll's features were now faded and worn, and this made the situation even more bizarre; I was being spoken to by a crudely shaped, almost featureless rag doll.

I don't have any secrets and my name is not Daisy, I said, feeling slightly foolish for arguing with a rag doll.

It did occur to me that leaving this house as quickly as I could would be a wise move. Possibly even an appointment with a competent psychiatrist could be called for.

But my curiosity got the better of me.

You must be Daisy. I only speak to Daisy and the person who Daisy tells me to talk to, said the little doll.

Daisy was my grandmother.

You must be very much like her for me to have made that mistake.

Daisy was brave, but I don’t believe that I am, I said, and the words made me sad.

How did my grandmother find you, and how did she know that you can keep secrets?

I cannot tell you. It’s a secret.

It doesn't matter. Even if you told me, it wouldn't make any difference. No one is ever going to believe me when I tell them this story.

So don't tell them then. It can be our secret.

I should've been frightened, or at least a little apprehensive, but I wasn’t. Was I channeling my grandmother? Was being close to this rag doll from that dangerous time giving me a sense of my own inner courage? All I knew at that moment was that I had to protect this ancient little rag doll. Call it maternal instinct, call it what you will. This doll is a connection to my mysterious grandmother, but the emotion that was rushing over me was even bigger than that.

It felt like an ancient quest.

My sworn duty would now be to keep this piece of magic safe and warm.

Magic frightens most people. They don’t understand it. People try to destroy what they don’t understand and I’m not going to let that happen, not if I can help it.

Are you a happy person, Susan?

I am, I said, wondering how it knew my name. My answer surprised me. I was sad because my mother was dead, but sad was natural and even a happy person could feel grief. I’d always considered myself a happy person and sometimes I found this a bit confusing. I don’t feel other people’s pain in the way that most people tend to do. I guess I am more interested in myself. I see other people and I know that they are going through things, but it all seems to wash over me. I don’t think that is a bad thing, but I do remember our family doctor telling my mother that I was ‘detached’. I didn’t know what the word meant at the time and I remember my mother changed doctors after that conversation and she ignored his advice to have ‘someone’ talk to me.

Tell me your secrets, Susan, and I'll keep them safe.

You are my only secret, and from now on it is my job to keep you safe. As I said it, I had a strong sense there were adventures to come, and that a small rag doll who could keep a secret would feature prominently.

I'm up for an adventure as long as I can be home in time to prepare dinner.

Who would ever suspect an ordinary suburban housewife of being a spy?

Behind Enemy Lines

July 14th 1941

It’s been twenty-nine days since I landed in France; behind enemy lines. It feels strange writing those last three words; a line on a map and I’m on one side of it. If my mother knew where I was she would say that I'm on the wrong side of the line. I feel like I'm where I am supposed to be.

The weather has been very good and I'm still alive.

Bastille Day has extra significance for the French under these circumstances and for me it is a day to celebrate being alive.

As I mentioned earlier, my contact was not there to greet me when I landed. Without my contact my chances of finding my safe house and simply surviving were greatly diminished. Greet is probably too grand a word to use under the circumstances, but in any case, with or without a greeting, I was on my own clutching my suitcase, wearing my French clothes and standing in the middle of a field watching the Dakota attempting to clear the trees at the end of the field. He didn't get his undercarriage up in time. His ground crew are likely to be removing a few French tree branches from the landing gear.

Like the rest of us, my pilot is either very brave or very foolish.

Speaking of foolish, I’m the one standing in the middle of a French field on a moonless night with only a small suitcase for protection. No weapons, no maps, nothing that could protect me or guide me. Everything I have with me is designed to reinforce my cover of being a simple French girl. I had memorised my mission and I knew where my safe house was supposed to be, but my contact was supposed to get me there quickly and supply me with anything extra that I might need to fulfil my mission. I wasn’t as frightened as I should have been. Ignorance is bliss and I was fortunate that the pilot had landed in the correct field. I could see the main road through the trees and as long as I turned in the right direction it would lead me to the town where I would be staying. Without the stars to guide me I simply tossed a mental coin and turned to the right and up the hill. My luck was holding because I was heading in the right direction.

I have been well trained and for the past 29 days this training has helped keep me alive. It was a long walk on that night and I cursed the lack of illumination, but in those short 29 days I have come to realise that there is safety in the darkness. I walked all night to reach the small village that was to be my home. I was to find out that my contact had disappeared and had probably been murdered, or worse. I have not been able to locate my radio operator and without her I cannot communicate with London. If I had anything to report, which I don't, it would be impossible for me to transmit information. The success of my mission depends on me finding a radio operator. By now London will know that something has gone wrong and they will assume that I have been captured or killed. It occurs to me that I am very much on my own.

Our training was focused on making us independent thinkers, so being on my own was daunting, but not unexpected. All the training in the world cannot stop a young woman far away from home from being scared. Fortunately, I’ve never been a person who shows fear to the outside world. I might be feeling terrified but no one would know. Or at least that is what I had always believed. If someone had been watching that night I wonder what they would have thought of my state of mind?

The people in the village assume that I am the granddaughter of the old couple who have taken me in. Marie and Jean play their part easily. Their son was killed when the enemy first invaded and there has been no word of what happened to his family. For the time being I am their family.

So young, so brave. Jean says this every morning. I know I am young but I don't feel all that brave. Mostly I just feel worried. Without a radio operator I’m not sure how to proceed.

This morning I decided to complete my mission and I'm hoping that the French Resistance will find me a radio operator.

I ride my bicycle into town every day and the guards stop me and search me everyday, but yesterday they let me pass after only searching the basket on my bicycle. They are starting to get used to seeing me and this is to my advantage. I have an excellent memory but there is way too much information to memorise it all: guard changes, troop movements, the officers comings and goings; I’m going to have to write something down.

There is no way of knowing if the information regarding the General’s whereabouts that I was given before I landed is correct, but I have been keeping an eye on their headquarters as I was instructed.

London believes that the General will visit this outpost sometime during the summer. Apparently he is a creature of habit and with a bit of luck it will get him killed. My mission was to identify him and let London know when he had arrived. They would then use the BBC to send a coded message to the Resistance and they would carry out the assassination. It was well known in London that the enemy would then take revenge on the local civilian population. This makes me very uneasy. My actions will indirectly bring about the deaths of many innocent people. Command warned us about thinking too much about this kind of brutality.

They do this to frighten the population into being compliant and to inform on the Underground. They are also counting on us being squeamish about seeing all those civilians shot. It is a very effective tactic and it might just get you killed by the very people you are trying to liberate.

For me, it’s a terrible balancing act between not wanting to get the people who I have come to know killed and wanting to wipe out the kind of people who could come up with such barbaric tactics.

It was proposed that after achieving my goal I should either bicycle to another town or if this was not practical they would fly in and collect me and my radio operator.

As you can see, without a line of communication my actions may prove fruitless, but under the circumstances I don't know what else to do.

It might be my imagination, but it looks to me as though the soldiers at the enemy headquarters are making preparations for an event. The soldiers seem to be going through extra drills and there has been a couple of mock ‘arrivals’. A bunch of soldiers ride up on bicycles in front of an honour guard. They event pretend to open an imaginary staff car door. They are very thorough, right down to polishing the brass sign that spells out their headquarters. There is a good chance that this means the general will be visiting soon. Or is that just my imagination? Living with constant anxiety does strange things to the mind.

My job is to objectively assess the goings on at their headquarters, but if I put my imagination to it I can read something sinister into every occurrence. I’ll be no good to anyone if I let my anxiety cloud my judgement.

I'm the only person in this village who knows what the General looks like. He’s a sneaky bastard and often travels dressed as a sergeant in the general’s entourage. Most offices wouldn't take this kind of precaution, and this is why the resistance has been so successful at assassinating enemy officers. So far, the resistance has made five attempts to kill the general succeeding only in killing five junior officers disguised as the General. My General is a survivor and it's my job to make sure that his title changes.

Don’t Call Me Susan

The kitchen was on fire and I was trying to put it out when the phone rang.

Can you just hold the line for a moment, my kitchen is on fire, I shouldn’t be too long.

I heard the caller say, WHAT? as I put the receiver down and returned to do battle with the fire. It was mostly smoke and a bit of paint damage but my husband was going to be annoyed. He hates painting and there is no way you are going to find a paintbrush in my hand, even if this was my fault.

I was about to make myself a cup of tea after opening all the windows to get some of the acrid smell out when I remembered the phone.

Hello, are you still there? I’m terribly sorry. I forgot about you in all the excitement. I must have sounded like an idiot, but at the time I didn’t care, I was just happy that the fire was out.

Mrs Smith, are you all right? You mentioned a fire. Should I call someone?

No, it’s fine, the fire’s out. Just a bit of a mess and a terrible smell. I was reading my grandmother’s diary and I lost track of the time. The dinner is ruined and I’m going to catch hell when my husband gets home. It occurred to me that I was talking a lot and very rapidly. I’d read about this in Daisy’s diary. Shock and adrenaline rush. According to Daisy I was to expect to feel a bit flat as it wore off and I may even throw up.

I don’t feel like throwing up, but I might in a minute or two. I heard myself say. I really needed to stop talking. Ask a question and listen to the answer.

How can I help you Mr………?

"Hoskins. I was told to