‘It’s just as well not to let ideas like that bother one.’ Stephen looked in turn at his sons, thinking that it was probably a lot healthier not to be restrained by the invisible bonds of conformity and to let one’s feelings rip. But he did not feel that he ought to encourage extreme attitudes which would bring them more mental anguish than the very fact of what they were both doing in this war already imposed on them. ‘It’s understandable that you should have that kind of prejudice, but I’m not sure that it’s necessarily wise to involve others. It could be, James, that your fitter and your batman will make a damned bad pilot and air gunner. If so, they could be a danger to the people they fly with. Perhaps they would be best left alone where they are.’
‘I still think I did them a good turn, Dad.’
Stephen recognised the stubborn Fenton look on James’s face. He knew it only too well. It had nearly cost him his life more than once in his own war. And perhaps without it James wouldn’t be in command of a fighter squadron or have a Distinguished Flying Cross and bar at the age of twenty-two, or something over twenty kills on his record. Perhaps he himself would not have survived from 1914 to 1918.
*
It was quiet that night. Stephen and Sheila Fenton slept all the year round with a bedroom window open, in the Spartan tradition of the British middle and upper classes. They had been inured to the cold by a decade in bleak dormitories from the age of seven or eight. Despite their considerable knowledge of France and liking for its people, if asked to sum up the French in a few words neither would have hesitated: ‘They’re scared to death of draughts and fresh air, never open a railway compartment window even on the hottest day.’ As far as their kind of British were concerned, this was the great divide between the two nations.
They lay in the dark, subconsciously listening for die sound of aero engines, bombs, gunfire or an air raid siren. The sounds carried far, borne on the winds that blew from the Channel. There was none tonight except a faint drone.
Sheila reached for her husband’s hand and held it lightly.
‘One of ours,’ he murmured. They both recognised the unsynchronised fluctuating note of German Jumo and B.M.W. engines.
‘I know. I’ve been thinking about the boys.’
‘I know you have. So have I.’
‘You used to look the same when you came on leave from the Front.’
She remembered the lines that had come from years of vigilance, responsibility and weariness. She had seen them reproduced on James’s face.
‘Christopher looks much better. Life must have been a bit easier for him up there.’
‘He doesn’t look as tired and strained as he did, but there’s something worrying him.’
‘I expect he’s anxious about how he’ll do on his Beaufighter course.’
‘But James says he’s a very good pilot.’
‘I’m sure he is, but he’s too sensible to take anything for granted.’
‘He must have been having an easier time up in Scotland to be looking so well. But James worries me. He’s changed so much and he looks so… so careworn.’ Sheila hesitated. ‘And he sounds so… fierce… and… well, bigoted.’
‘None of us is proof against the demands of other people. No amount of cunning - which James certainly hasn’t in his nature; nor Christopher - or intelligence or battle experience can provide total protection against that. Anyone in James’s position is under constant pressure from above and below. And he’s young for it. He has to satisfy his wing commander and group captain and the Air Officer Commanding. He has to take care of his pilots.’
Stephen did not add that their son had also to be ceaselessly vigilant in order to stay alive.
‘And Nicole. I’m sure he’s serious about her, Stephen. Do you think she’s gone back to France on some secret job? It’s the only explanation I can think of for their being out of touch. They’re so fond of each other; not to put it any more strongly.’
‘You could be right.’
Stephen regarded Nicole much as he regarded Roger, with avuncular affection and interest. He did not like to think of her exposed to Nazi brutality. But he was more concerned with the effect of her activities on James; supposing Sheila were right: and he shared her suspicion, although he would not say so. There was virtue in deceit, he told himself; sometimes, and ibis was an occasion for it. He grieved that there was a point beyond which a parent could not share a child’s burden, however close their intimacy. The passing of the years did not weaken mutual love, but it increased the children’s self-sufficiency.
He had seen James change and develop in two years from an independent, self-assured boy blessed with the fiery gift of leadership, into a tough man; an uncompromising, battle-hardened leader. James was one of those on whose example, and, more important, judgment, victory increasingly depended. He was one of those who exerted the greatest influence on others. If the war had made him in some ways callous, if it had nurtured the ruthlessness without which nobody could lead others - Christ, in his own fashion, was ruthless - that did not diminish his stature. Singleness of purpose, which was to some extent a euphemism for ruthless determination, had a special value in the eyes of any high command. It also dazzled those who were led.
Stephen Fenton could only hope that his elder son had not been endowed with too much of it.
*
When the telephone rang the following morning, James happened to be the nearest and answered it. As soon as it rang, his first thought was that he was being urgently recalled to camp.
‘Hayling one-two-three-four, Squadron Leader Fenton.’
There was no immediate response. After a few seconds a voice, French-accented and hesitant, said ‘Hello. Who is speaking, please?’
Oh, God! Was this some awful news about Nicole? Had she left instructions for his parents to be informed in the event of her reported capture or death? It was more likely that she would do so than leave instructions for him to be informed: for all she knew, he might have been killed or shot down and taken prisoner the very day after she last saw him. ‘Squadron Leader Fenton.’
Another pause, another two or three seconds, then, with a note of wonder, ‘James?’
‘James Fenton, yes.’
The unpractised English gave way to excited French.
‘James! It is Henri… Henri Girard.’
‘Henri? But this is unbelievable… a wonderful surprise. Can you tell me where you are?’
‘In London. I arrived here last week. What are you doing at home? Are you all right, my dear James? And your parents? And Christopher? What is he doing?’ ‘Everyone is well. Christopher and I are on leave: I have to return tomorrow evening, but Christopher has another seven days. He is flying too. Can you come and see us?’
‘There is nothing I would like better… except… ‘ The exultant excitement faded from Henri’s voice and he sounded sad and grim. ‘Except to go home.’
‘Have you had any news from your parents?’
‘Not for nearly six months. They said they were all right.’
‘Did they say anything about Nicole?’
‘Only that she is all right. I don’t know where she is: not at home with them, anyway.’
‘Hold on a moment, Henri, I want to have a word with my mother.’ Sheila had appeared from the kitchen where she and Daisy, the maid, had been in discussion over rations and what to cook for lunch and dinner. James put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Mummy, it’s Henri.’
‘Henri Girard?’ He nodded. ‘Oh, what a relief!’ ‘He’s in London. Could we put him up for a night or two?’
‘Of course. Tell him to come right away.’
James was uncertain whether his mother was relieved because the telephone call was not to recall him, or by Henri’s arrival in England.
‘Hello, Henri. There’s a train from Waterloo at five past twelve.’ He looked at the grandfather clock in the hall, next to the telephone table. ‘In fifty minutes. We’ll meet you at Havant station. It’s due in at one-
twenty.’ His own M.G. was at camp, but Christopher’s old Talbot Fifteen was at hand. How long can you stay?’
‘May I stay tonight?’
‘Of course. As long as you wish.’
‘I must come back to London tomorrow: there is much to arrange.’
Christopher was on the drive in front of the house, tinkering with his car, which had been standing on blocks in a corner of a local garage while he was in Scotland. James went out to tell him about Henri’s call. They went indoors, where their mother joined them.
James said ‘Either he was being discreet on the telephone, or he doesn’t know that Nicole escaped from France fifteen months ago. My guess is that he doesn’t know. He’s going to want to see her.’
Christopher said flatly ‘And she’s not here. She’s in France.’
‘I told you not to jump to conclusions.’
‘Surely, if she’s in England, they’ll let her own brother get in touch with her? And see her?’ said Sheila.
‘We’ll have to break it to him that she’s here, but we haven’t been able to contact her for more than three months.’
Christopher grinned. ‘You'll have to break it to him old boy.’
‘Is that jalopy of yours capable of getting us to Havant and back?’
‘If you’re going to be so grumpy, you can stay behind.’
James put his arm around his mother and propelled her gently towards the door. ‘Back to the kitchen, Mummy: I want to say something to your younger son that isn’t fit for a lady’s ears.’
Sheila went off, laughing. Last night’s shadows had been lifted; although she knew it was only a temporary surcease. For the moment, they were not two war-tired young men with wary eyes and fast, highly-strung reactions, burdened with their diverse fears and responsibilities. They were her boys again, wrangling amicably; home, not from the war but from school, and the sun shone on a land of peace and plenty. It was in fact a fine sunny crisp autumn day and a walk along the seafront before the boys went off to fetch Henri would do them all good. No use putting it off until after lunch, when Henri would have arrived: the French didn’t think much of brisk walks in the autumn sunshine; or at any other time. She was humming ‘The White Cliffs Of Dover’ when she rejoined Daisy in the pantry.
Lieutenant Henri Girard was a year older than James and a regular officer in the French Navy. They had not met since the summer of 1937. James’s first thought was that Henri showed no signs of the ravages of war. Life must have been comfortable in Algiers. He looked well fed and bronzed but his eyes betrayed the same underlying unhappiness and anxiety that he had seen in other Frenchmen and the other exiles, Poles, Czechs and Norwegians, with whom he had served.
Stephen Fenton had declared that he would be home at two-o’clock, to make the most of having both his sons there. Sheila had telephoned to tell him about their surprising visitor. They sat around the log fire in the drawing-room grate, listening to Henri.
‘I was fortunate. At first, I admit, I did not know what was the right thing to do. The Vichy Government were legally my masters. I had taken an oath, when I joined the Navy, that I would serve my country faithfully: that meant its legal Government. Then, after France signed an armistice with Germany and your fleet shelled our ships in port at Oran, it did not make matters any easier for my conscience. I happened to be at Algiers, but many of my friends died in Oran.
‘As time went on I realised that my real duty lay in fighting the Boches: because a victory for England would liberate my country. If Germany won, the Nazis would be our overlords for ever. But how to reach England? The shortest route, of course, was from Tangier to Gibraltar: but that was too closely watched. From Algiers I had been transferred to Oran and it was very tempting to try to cross the Straits and reach Gibraltar. I was coming to the conclusion that if I wanted to get away I had no alternative but to try the crossing, when I was moved to Casablanca. Actually that is a little closer to Gibraltar, but instead of a dash across the Mediterannean it meant sailing along the Atlantic coast. By then I was very depressed and frustrated. We had several ships at Dakar. There were vacancies, caused by death and illnesses. I knew one or two people in the right places at Naval Headquarters, and I managed to arrange a transfer to a cruiser at Dakar. Once in Senegal, I was next door to a British protectorate, Gambia. I was able to cross the border and reach the capital, Bathurst. Your authorities there were very good: they put me on a flying boat to Freetown, Sierra Leone. So there I was, in a British Crown Colony.
‘Of course there was a lot of security rigmarole to go through once I arrived there, but eventually I was put on a ship in a convoy returning from South Africa to England. So here I am. I reported to the Free French Naval Headquarters a week ago, but I did not dare to get in touch with you until they were thoroughly satisfied with by bona fides. And now I hope to join a French destroyer and go out and sink some U-boats.’
‘Well done indeed, Henri.’ Stephen looked at his sons and his meaning was clear. He had seen James’s mouth tighten and a frown appear when Henri confessed his doubts about where his duty lay.
James said ‘You can hardly blame us for sinking your ships at Oran: Petain and Admiral Darlan would have handed them over to Germany.’
‘I don't blame you: that is why I am here. But you’re wrong: even a collaborationist Government would never have been able to compel our Navy to fight on the side of the Boches. We would have scuttled every vessel afloat and blown up every one in dry dock rather than do that.’ Henri’s expression and tone were as hard as James’s.
Stephen intervened. ‘You’ve been through an agonising experience, Henri. I admire you; we all do. You took a very courageous decision.’
‘I kept thinking about my parents and sister in France under Nazi brutality, and it became plain that the only way to liberate them is by taking an active part in the defeat of Germany. It was a simple enough decision, really. The logical one.’
The others all looked expectantly at James. There was a silence of the kind which inept writers describe as ‘pregnant’, a peculiarly fatuous use of the adjective. Henri sensed that the moment was ominous and also stared at him; he hoped, with encouragement.
James looked straight back at him. ‘There is one thing about which you need not worry, Henri: Nicole came to England in August last year.’
Tears came into Henri’s eyes and he blinked, an expression of delight appeared on his face. Tears trickled down his cheeks, but he was smiling broadly and his voice was almost steady.
‘She’s here? My God! That is the most wonderful news that I have had since the day France surrendered. Where is she? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’
‘I couldn’t tell you on the telephone, Henri. And we’ve been waiting for an appropriate moment to give you the news: we wanted to hear all your news first, my friend. And let me say that I agree with my father: it must have been damnably difficult for you and… well, we’re proud of you.’
‘But Nicole? Tell me about her. How did she make her way here?’
‘Through Spain to Gibraltar, like so many others. As soon as she arrived she telephoned us and came to stay as soon as she could. She’s a lieutenant in l’Armee de 1’Air. working in a special planning section at Air Ministry.’
‘She is in London?’ Henri leaped up. ‘May I telephone her? When did you last see her?’
‘Sit down, mon ami, there is more to tell.’
Henri sat down, chewing his lower lip, his fists tightly clenched and tapping the arms of his chair.
‘Nicole and I have been seeing a lot of each other. I meet her in London as often as possible and she has been down to stay at a hotel near my station. It is over three months since I last saw her, however, and I have not heard from her in that time.’
Henri sprang up again, his face no longer showing joy but concern.
‘Then I must telephone your Air Ministry at once and find out where she is.’
‘Just sit down and keep calm,’ Stephen said. ‘In the first pl
ace, you would have to identify yourself before they gave you any information: you can’t do that on the telephone… ‘
‘Then I must return to London immediately.’ James and his father looked at each other. Henri watched them, poised on the edge of his armchair like a sprinter on his blocks.
Christopher tried to be helpful. ‘Before you go rushing off to London to enquire about Nicole, Henri, just consider this. If she has neither written nor telephoned to James for more than three months, it suggests that she has been sent abroad on some secret duty. She may be in America, for instance. Or in Egypt. Or, more likely, in one of the French Mandated countries: Lebanon or Syria. Or one of your colonies; Martinique, perhaps.’
James said ‘I can give you some reassuring news. It is highly confidential, but Nicole had a letter from your parents some months ago and they were safe and well, unmolested by the Gestapo or the S.S., and your father was being allowed to continue in his work at the dockyard.’
Henri looked hard at him. Then he gave a deep sigh and a tragic look returned to his face. Tears appeared again and when he spoke his voice was very quiet.
‘I think you know a lot more than you feel you are free to tell me, James, my friend. I respect your discretion; and since my first encounter with British officials in Gambia, I have learned how strongly disciplined you all are about security. Haven’t I seen enough warning posters everywhere I go in London! I believe my sister has returned clandestinely to France, my dear James, and I believe you are well aware of it. If that is so, there is no point in my hurrying back to London. If you will tell me the name and address of the section where she has been working, and the names of any of her colleagues, I will try to find out more tomorrow.’ He smiled. His voice rose. ‘Meanwhile I am very happy to be among old friends… to be with those who are such close friends of my whole family. Believe me, I have thought about all of you, too, almost as much as about my parents and Nicole. The whole world admires the Royal Air Force. I knew James would be in the thick of the fighting. And now I see that Christopher is another hero… and I hear that Roger has two decorations and has been wounded. It makes me feel ashamed that I did not make my escape from North Africa sooner. But I hope now to make up for lost time. There are other quarry than U-boats. I hear that your motor torpedo boats and motor launches fight battles almost every night in the Channel. Perhaps I should try to join one of those flotillas: it would be something at least to fight within sight of France.’
Too Late the Morrow Page 7
