The girl ran into the cobbled courtyard where the washing on the line flapped against her face. Her mother was pegging Aimee’s clean smock dresses to the line. Colette Fletcher was a strong woman, running the farm while her husband fought in the French army. Her dark hair had strands of grey in it and her pale eyes were calm and smiling. Aimee panted, ‘The Germans really are coming.’

‘The ribbon in your pigtail is coming loose,’ Mrs Fletcher said.

‘You said the Germans were coming, Maman. Before I left for school, you said. We’ll have to move to Amiens. We’ll have to leave the farm.’

Mrs Fletcher picked up the empty clothes basket and moved into the kitchen. ‘We won’t be going to Amiens,’ she said.

‘But...’

‘The Germans will not hurt us. We are farmers. They need our land for their horses, our barns for their men, our eggs and cattle for their food. When the Germans were here four years ago they treated us well.’

Aimee had been so young back then. She had memories seen through a fog of time. ‘They bombed us,’ she said.

Mrs Fletcher laughed. ‘No, our friends the British bombed us to drive the Germans out. And it worked. If the Germans get this far again they will treat us well.’

Aimee was soothed by her mother’s gentle voice. She watched her put a log in the stove and heat another pan of water for the washtub. ‘Maman... no one in the school knew the Germans were on their way. Not until a British Captain told them.’

Her mother didn’t answer.

‘But you knew. You knew before anyone in Bray. How did you know?’

Mrs Fletcher poured a cup of milk for her daughter and sat at the table. She was silent for a long time and finally said, ‘Aimee, I am going to tell you a secret. It is so dangerous I really shouldn’t. But... I want you to know in case the Germans do get as far as Bray. Then I may... I may do some strange things and I want you to understand why.’

Aimee shivered though the weak sunlight beamed through the dusty window and the stove hissing with logs made the kitchen warm. She waited. Finally Mrs Fletcher started to speak.

‘The British and French armies have a team of spies. Not soldiers. Ordinary men and women living in France who want them to win this endless war. The group is known as the White Lady.’

‘Are they led by a white lady?’ Aimee asked.

‘No. There is a story that one day the ghost of a woman, dressed in white, will appear. When she is seen it will mean the end of the German king’s rule.’