Croix de Guerre – Magpie Tales

June 29, 2014freyathewriter 31 Comments

A Game of Patience, 1937, Meredith Frampton

‘They don’t know who I am,’ thinks Sarah, placing the cards deliberately, slowly, carefully on the table in front of her. The waiter walks past with a tray of drinks. He is heading to the back room, the private room, which hasn’t been available to anyone but a select few for several months. It is what it is, for now.

“Mademoiselle Dupont?”

The voice is firm and confident. Good, he has belief.

“Oui, Monsieur Levillaine. But please, call me Elodie.” She gesticulates to the chair opposite her, sweeps the playing cards together and returns them to their tattered cardboard case.

“And please, call me Guillaume.”

He takes a seat, places his newspaper on the table, a half-smile playing around his lips. He is handsome, with a five o’clock shadow just beginning to show even at this early hour. It covers the light scar creasing his jaw line from earlobe to chin – the scar that Sarah knows so well.

Drinks are brought to the table and sipped, and desultory conversation follows. The streetlights glow as evening descends. The men in the private room prepare to leave, chairs scrape the parquet floor as they gather scarves, coats and hats. The mood appears to be light, oiled by brandy. They have no reason to be serious or concerned, after all.

Her guest takes his leave just before the private room empties. He places his hat on his head at a jaunty angle as she stands and they faire la bise – one, two, three – then he is gone.

The grey-uniformed men flow past, paying no attention to the quiet woman sitting at the corner table, reading Le Figaro intently.

The pack of playing cards is safely ensconced in her guest’s coat pocket. The next link in the chain is complete.

The man stands outside in the shadows, lights a Gauloise, watching his wife through the windows of the restaurant. He has never been more proud, never been more afraid for her.

Hidden in plain sight is a dangerous, dangerous game, even in these desperate times.

——

Here’s my latest entry to Magpie Tales. I’ve not heard of this artist before but I do love this painting. I have no idea why my mind went to World War Two and the Special Operations Executive – but there you are. She just looked like she was waiting for something.

I hope you enjoy it – and please do visit Magpie Tales for more poetry and prose!

Blueprint – Friday Fictioneers

March 21, 2014freyathewriter 45 Comments

Here is my late entry into the weekly challenge brought to us by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Here are the rules: Use the photo as inspiration, write a hundred(ish) words – and share! Here goes my offering for this week – and I welcome your comments again!

Copyright – Rochelle!

– Blueprint –

Of course, they thought of it as a cruel and unusual punishment, something in which they had delighted since 1933.

Hire a Jewish architect to draw up the plans, engage a firm of Jewish builders, take on Jewish craftsmen. Everyone knew the purpose behind the building – it was the Nazi regime’s pride and joy.

The HQ of the Third Reich’s railway system was a grand affair. The hub of their efficient cargo transportation across the continent of Europe, Poland a special destination.

The workers were just grey, miserable, expendable creatures. The grill pattern in the stairwell, their final, finishing touch…

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Click on the blue froggy below to read others’ offerings!

Time for Tea! – dVerse Open Link Week 117

October 8, 2013freyathewriter 33 Comments

Here’s my latest entry into the dVerse Open Link – why not take a look at everyone else’s wonderful responses?

This piece is about a great British tradition, inspired by an overheard snatch of conversation and a memory of growing up that gave me that warm, fuzzy feeling. I hope you enjoy it!

*****

– Time for Tea! –

A cup of tea, it cures all ills
Here in England, the land of Wills
& Kate, and Good Queen Bess
Forgive me now, I must confess

To being rather a fussy type
You know the sort, it must be right,
First you have to warm the pot
Then add the leaves, use a lot

There’s not much worse than a feeble brew
Unless of course you let it stew –
Under-steeped or left too long
Third-rate tea, well that’s just wrong!

A china cup is just the thing
From which to let the flavours sing
And lift you after a long, hard day
You know, we won the war that way

Or so my grandma used to claim
When I was young, the old refrain
Of ‘Shall we have another pot?’
Was something she would say, a lot

I drank it, though I wasn’t fond
Because she made it very strong
The way my grandad liked it, see
It was his perfect cup of tea.