The dementia was slowly taking its course. Every visit there was a noticeable deterioration.
The funny thing was the almost perfect French! She'd spent time there before the war, moved from London to Marsailles to teach English in a private girls school and actually saw out most of the war there, it must've been safe. The good thing was one of the daughters was a High School French teacher and could translate for the other two. There was English too but not as lucidly.
The house had been cleared, they'd had garage and yard sales, taken pieces each, sent things to be auctioned and given things to the Sally's. The house sold to the neighbor who'd always coveted it. This was a nice new 24 hour care home and not cheap.
Combined French and English sometimes now. There was apparently a very worn looking leather suitcase, a small one, stored up in the floor joists where it was dry at the back of the basement behind Dad's old workshop, that all cleared now too. She mentioned it more than once, and sounded as though she'd like to have it.
They asked the husbands, who'd organized the garage sale. They remembered it, they couldn't get it unlocked, shaken it and said it sounded like old papers, nothing solid. There were about 5 other old suitcases and they were stuffed with old newspaper clippings so they figured the small one was the same. "What happened to it?"
They remembered a weirdly dressed teenage kid with half his head shaved had thought it was "out there" and had beaten them down to about 5 or so bucks.
One afternoon they'd wheeled her out to the sun porch to get some fresh air. This day she was incredibly clear about things: The little suitcase was to be sent to the "War office" it was important. "Why Mom?"
She'd not liked to mention it before because, (mostly in French,) "you swear an oath, that you'd never say anything, and I never have, neither did your father." She'd met him then, in 1939, she'd have a good cover being a school teacher he said, she could help in getting escaped airmen back to Britain, that's what she did for her part in the war. The little French suitcase still had the ordinary looking school papers that held the codes she would change and use on different dates when she would liaise with her "Contact."
Dad was her contact! They'd never known, they knew they met in the war but it had always been a bit of a vague romance.
She was never as animated again.
What a pity this and other stories as poignant are often lost, if only they'd introduced their Mom to a website (like welcomefolks, she'd been good on the computer) where she could've told her stories, in private, and they would've been accessible to the wider family forever.
