Keeper Of Secrets

Books by Terry R Barca

Schoome

The Long Weekend

Loyal and True

Passerby

Trust

Slightly Spooky Stories

Red Wheelbarrow

Rufus

Keeper of Secrets

Foreword

Keeper of Secrets started life as a short story.

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 website, 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 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 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

Table of Contents

Books by Terry R Barca

Foreword

Unseen

Behind Enemy Lines

Don’t Call Me Susan

General Arrival

Qualifications

Time to Go

Barry and the Back Door

Leave

First Bite of the Apple

Paris

Columbus Petillo

Constant Danger

Payday

Knitting or Crochet?

Something Is Different

Confirmation

You Can’t Keep a Secret

Speak Your Truth

Closure

Green Coat, Black Gloves, Red Handbag

The Stillness of the Night

I Shot Him

Aunty Peg

Don’t Shoot Billy

Canadians

In the Fullness of Time

Pay the Piper

Other Books by Terry R Barca

About the Author

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 when she was 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 midmorning, 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 II, 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 had learned German at school, but more importantly, she had learned and practised her French while on holiday in Paris. Every summer, for most of her childhood, she had 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. Everyone else thinks that guns and tanks are the only things that matter.

Discovering the enemy’s secrets 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 my tummy rumbled with hunger.

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 I relished. Of course, I had my husband and sons.

Daisy’s papers held countless references to the mysterious keeper of secrets. But by midafternoon I was