The Girl in the Baker's Van

by Richard Savin

  ‘Hmm,’ she said rather coolly, ‘I think I prefer Richard.’ When she got to the door she looked back over her shoulder and with a mischievous grin whispered, ‘Goodnight, Alpha Six. I hope you sleep soundly.’ After she had gone he laughed quietly, telling himself she had been winding him up and he had fallen for it.

  On the staircase she paused for a moment to see if he would follow her, but he didn’t and a second or two later she went to her room, washed and got into bed. It had been a long and difficult day but she was still free and that gave her comfort. She thought briefly about the man downstairs who had rescued her. He had taken an enormous personal risk when he’d had no need to – after all, she told herself, she brought no value to his mission yet he had gambled his freedom to save her. ‘I would like one day to marry a man like that,’ she thought, ‘one day, when all this other stuff is over and we can live normal lives.’ Her thoughts drifted to Alain and she wondered what was happening to him, if he was still alive. As the image of his face dissolved into sleep her last fleeting idea was to phone Joseph the baker in the morning – he might have news.

  *

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ Madame Varailles greeted Grainger as he reached the last step of the stairs. ‘I trust you slept well. Please go to the dining room. Breakfast has been set out, do serve yourself.’

  In the dining room he found Mathieu eating a croissant, dipping it into the bowl of coffee that was sitting in front of him. ‘My father has gone to Montpellier,’ he said before diving back into the coffee then stuffing the last morsel of damp pastry into his mouth.

  ‘Have you seen Evangeline?’

  Mathieu indicated he had, jabbing the air with a freshly buttered tartine of bread and pointing it in the direction of the salon. ‘She is in there – talking to someone on the phone; might be her parents.’

  Grainger drew out a chair from the table and sat down to eat. He was frustrated; he knew he needed to get a report back to London but Monsieur Varailles had gone to Montpellier and would probably be gone all day. ‘Are there any foreign consulates here in Avignon?’

  Mathieu looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, I think so,’ he finally said. ‘My mother might know, I’ll ask her when I’m finished.’

  Evangeline came into the room and sat down opposite Grainger. She smiled coyly at him across the dish of cut baguette and croissants. ‘Good morning, Richard.’ Her voice held a hint of laughter in the way she said it and he wondered what was going through her mind; he was still trying to work out what last night was about. She was actually quite a pretty girl, he realised, and wondered why he had not properly noticed it before.

  Madame Varailles appeared with fresh coffee and some fruit in a bowl and put them down in the middle of the table. She seemed to have recovered from her grief at the news of the loss of her son, or at least she covered it over with the mantle of her domestic duties.

  ‘Maman,’ Mathieu called to his mother, stuttering on a half-swallowed mouthful of baguette. ‘Are there any foreign embassies in Avignon?’ Madame Varailles hesitated while she considered the question. She hovered over it like a kestrel hunting a shrew hidden in a field of grass, for some time furrowing her brow while she searched her memory. There was not, she finally decided, but said she knew of an Australian gentleman living in the city who she believed acted as an honorary consul in a tenuous liaison between the Vichy government and the British, each of whom held the other in mutual distrust since the Mers-el-Kébir episode. The prospect of this brightened Grainger’s mood as he had little doubt that they would have a regular line through to London. He decided he would pay a call on the Australian after breakfast.

  He looked tentatively at Evangeline, who was elegantly sipping at her coffee bowl between delicately putting small morsels of bread and apricot preserve into her mouth. Seeing him looking at her, she again smiled diffidently, though his gaze seemed to make her a little uncomfortable. ‘Can I ask you to help me?’

  ‘Yes, of course – if I am able.’

  ‘I need someone to go with me to find this consul chap and I think Mathieu has taken enough risks already. A couple will look less conspicuous than a man on his own.’

  *

  They found the house of the Australian consul in a prosperous looking street of fine houses not far from the Palais des Papes. The door was opened by a woman who was clearly a maid and spoke only French, which left Evangeline to do the talking. After a few moments of explanation she asked them to step inside and wait while she spoke with her employer. She returned almost immediately and said they would be seen and to follow her. David Coates was a man in his early 40s; he had an open face with a broad nose that betrayed traces of his younger days as a rugby player.

  ‘Good day,’ he said, nodding to Evangeline and offering Grainger his hand. His voice was deep and educated but with a definitive trace of its native twang. ‘What is it I can do for you?’ He pointed to some stuffed armchairs and invited them to sit, then sat down himself.

  ‘I understand you are in touch with London,’ Grainger said bluntly. ‘I need to get a message back to SOE.’ He felt there was no point in beating about the bush and launched directly into a narrative of the events since being landed in the field near Abbeville. Coates listened without comment until the story had fully unfolded, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together to form an apex with his chin resting on his knuckles. Grainger finished but for a while the consul said nothing; it was clear the request was giving Coates some cause for concern. ‘Would you like some tea?’ he eventually said and, not waiting for a reply, got up and walked to the doorway where he called to the maid to bring some tea.

  He sat back down and after a further short silence while he gathered together some carefully chosen words he finally let out a long slow breath. ‘I can certainly send a message to London,’ he paused, ‘but it could be awkward. We operate on an uneasy platform here; you could call it a position of trust. Vichy allows us to take in British and allied refugees who’ve made it across the line from the north. They let us repatriate non-combatants, usually the badly wounded – openly – through a pickup operated by British boats lying just off Marseille.’ It was clear to Grainger the request was creating a conflict but he had to get hold of London; he had to get instructions.

  Coates furrowed his brow and looked thoughtful, a signal he wasn’t too happy with the prospect. ‘They also turn a blind eye to the more able-bodied servicemen,’ he went on, ‘those we pass on to the escape committees who organise their evacuation across to Spain. They pretty much leave us alone.’

  He stopped as the maid came in with a tray and, getting up from his armchair, went to the corner of the room and brought back a coffee table onto which the maid set a gaudy Limoges tea service together with a tiered stand loaded with slices of Madeira cake. ‘Ah, cake,’ he said, rubbing his hands together, ‘kindly provided by my neighbour, an English lady; she makes it herself. The French may claim to be the best chefs in the world but when it comes to proper cake they can’t hack it. Dive in.’ He poured the tea and after adding a touch of milk he sat back and sucked appreciatively at the cup. The conversation descended into talk of smaller things. Coates lamented that the war had ‘buggered’ cricket with the new emergency laws in Australia, which forbade the playing of the game for more than one consecutive day. ‘No more test matches, no more three-day matches and now there’s talk they’ll ban playing on weekdays. They say they need the men for war work. God knows where it will all end.’

  ‘So, how about my contact with London?’

  ‘It’ll be tricky.’

  ‘Tricky?’

  Coates nodded and assumed a more serious look. ‘Like I said, we operate on an uneasy platform. Vichy tolerates most of what we do and at times they even keep the Gestapo away from us, but it is done on this basis of trust. One of the unwritten rules is we don’t engage in espionage – they won’t tolerate spies. Anyone suspected gets rounded up and there’s nothing we can do about that.’

  Gr
ainger grimaced and thought for a moment. ‘I can’t leave London in the dark. Any suggestions?’

  ‘I’ve got a wounded pilot, Canadian. He’s going out through Gibraltar in about a week. You could send your brief back with him.’

  ‘I need something sooner – just a short message would do, in code.’

  ‘They monitor our transmissions. You run the risk the message could give away that you’re here.’

  ‘Can’t be helped.’

  ‘Okay. You write it down and I’ll get it out.’ He looked across to Evangeline who had all the time sat listening but saying nothing. ‘I suggest you let the little lady here come back tomorrow – alone; she’ll arouse less suspicion. Coded messages always cause a bit of a stir and they watch the building now and again to see who comes and goes. She can pick up any reply.’

  ‘Did you understand what we were talking about in there?’ Grainger asked when they had left the consul’s house.

  ‘Not much,’ she shrugged her shoulders. She looked perplexed, though he couldn’t help noticing there was the hint of a smile around her mouth. ‘He speaks with a funny accent and I don’t understand this game you call cricket. What is that?’

  ‘Difficult to explain – half the people in England don’t understand it.’

  *

  Monsieur Varailles arrived back from Montpellier early that evening. Dinner waited on his arrival but he said nothing as he sat down at the table. A large china terrine containing a pork pâté was passed around for everyone to help themselves. There was a salad, dried black olives and cornichons.

  ‘You eat well, monsieur,’ Evangeline commented as a starter of pike quenelles in lobster bisque was served. ‘Much better than we do in Alsace.’

  ‘Much better than they do in the north,’ Grainger added.

  Monsieur Varailles nodded in appreciation of their comments but said little in response, just that they were fortunate to live in the valley where the farming and the fishing produced much that was good. He said nothing of his visit to Montpellier; on that he remained silent. Next a gigot of lamb came to the table with a large dish of ratatouille. Finally there was a soft pungent cheese followed by an apple tart – but there was still no indication of the visit to Montpellier. It fell to Mathieu to break the silence.

  ‘Is there news, Papa?’ His voice was hushed, as if he did not want everyone in the room to hear the question.

  ‘There is but it is not good. Your Polish spy is in Narbonne. He has brought a trail of wolves and hyenas in his wake.’

  ‘Hyenas?’ Grainger was not sure he had understood the conversation and looked from one to the other.

  Monsieur Varailles sensed the difficulty in comprehension and repeated himself slowly, then added, ‘He is being hunted. He has attracted the attention of the Gestapo and we have news that there are some Carlingue operating in the area. They have come down from Paris and they too are seeking the whereabouts of your spy; and there is a rumour that the Abwehr has agents here too – all with the same purpose.’

  ‘That’s awkward,’ Grainger admitted, ‘it sounds like he’s really stirred up the swamp.’

  ‘You will have to stay in the house for a while. I will see what is being said at the Hôtel de Ville. They will know if any of them are here – making enquiries. With so much activity it will be dangerous to go out.’

  After dinner they once again sat in the salon. Monsieur Varailles brought in the bottle of Armagnac and a silver box containing cheroots. Grainger took out one of the small cigars and rolled it gently between his finger and thumb; the tobacco leaves were moist, they were in good condition. He lit one end of it then, after drawing on the smoke a couple of times, dipped the unlit end into the Armagnac in the glass sitting on the table. He let the cigar sit in the spirit for a few seconds so that it soaked into the cheroot then he returned it to his mouth and drew in more smoke. ‘Just like being in my London club,’ he said in quiet satisfaction. ‘If we’ve got to hang around I can’t think of a better place to do it.’ Varailles did not stay with them but made his excuse and left the three of them to consider the next move.

  ‘There is nothing to be done,’ Mathieu said cheerfully, and went over to an ornate bureau that sat against one wall. He opened a drawer and pulled out a pack of playing cards. ‘Let’s play piquet.’

  ‘That’s a game for two,’ Evangeline pointed out, ‘and there are three of us.’

  ‘True, but I will play our friend Grainger here and you can take on the winner.’ Inwardly Grainger smiled to himself, pleased that Mathieu had referred to him as their friend, but he had a problem.

  ‘I have no idea how to play this game.’

  ‘In that case Evangeline can play first and you can watch and learn.’

  Evangeline shook her head and tutted. ‘No, Richard can play and I will help him. Here, come and sit next to me,’ and she patted the sofa on which she was sitting, moving up to make room. As she moved closer to him and looked at the shared hand of cards he could feel her thigh pressed against him; and then he felt the curls in her hair brush lightly against his face. It was the closest he had been to her since they met. For that matter, he thought, it was the closest he had been to any female in a long while – except for his mother and his sister and they didn’t count. Her closeness unsettled him and when she put a hand on his to turn the cards towards her he nearly dropped them. He went through the motions of playing each round, laying out the cards and taking the tricks under her instructions, but not really concentrating on what was happening, distracted because every time she moved he felt it. He realised she was wearing perfume, which he had not noticed before – but there again he had never been this close to her.

  ‘That’s it. I win,’ Mathieu announced, giggling. ‘Still, what can you expect when you play with a woman – they can’t play cards.’ He laughed and Evangeline leaned over and clipped him playfully across the top of his head. ‘Here,’ he said, scooping up the pack which he shuffled and then handed to Grainger. ‘You can play with her; I’m going to my bed. Don’t worry, you will easily win.’

  After Mathieu had gone they sat for a while in silence, not saying anything to each other. He was not sure he wanted to play cards but he could think of nothing to say to her and suddenly he felt self-conscious in her presence. Curiously she had gone from being what seemed like a naïve girl who was a bit of an encumbrance to have in tow on a difficult mission, to a grown-up self-confident woman who had tweaked at his subliminal sexuality. It had taken him by surprise and he found himself without an appropriate response.

  He looked at Evangeline who had been idly laying out the cards in suits on the table. ‘I think we should go to bed,’ he said. She looked at him with an expression of mild surprise, then laughed. ‘Oh Christ,’ Grainger blurted out as he realised that in his clumsy French he had probably just propositioned her.

  ‘I think you mean we should go to our rooms to sleep,’ she said, with the hint of a smile that dimpled her cheeks. She stood up and, kissing him on both sides of his face as one would an aunt or a brother, said, ‘Goodnight Richard. Sleep well and I shall see you at breakfast.’

  ‘Well,’ he thought as he put the cards back into the drawer of the bureau, ‘that’s told me not to wander around in the night.’

  Evangeline took off her dress, unbuttoned her suspender belt and carefully rolled down the silk stockings from her legs, being careful not to snag them on her toenails. She ran some water into the hand basin and dropped in the stockings, rubbing them with a small tablet of soap her hosts had thoughtfully supplied. After rinsing them she hung them on a cast iron radiator to dry overnight. She repeated the same routine with her knickers, after which she stood naked for a moment in front of the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. Her figure was still firm and her breasts not too heavy. She ran her hands over her thighs and round under the curve of her buttocks; it was her least liked feature. Every time she looked at herself like this she wished she had been cast in a slightly different mould. Her ski
n was smooth but slightly less rounded thighs would have been nice – and, of course, a few extra centimetres on her legs; just a touch taller as they were in the Paris fashion magazines.

  Next morning immediately after breakfast she announced she would go to see Coates and find out if he had news from London.

  ‘Maybe I should go with you,’ Mathieu suggested, ‘just in case. I could walk ten metres behind you then nobody would know we were together and if there were any problems at least that way we would know and Papa could do something about it. He has friends in the Prefecture and the Hôtel de Ville.’

  ‘I don’t think there will be any problems,’ she replied airily, but Grainger thought it was a sound idea so they left the house together then Mathieu allowed her to get ahead. The morning was bright and the air if not warm at least held the promise of the spring to come.

  The message from London was encouraging: rendezvous with Kasha in Narbonne has been arranged; he will be staying at the Hôtel La Résidence in Rue 1er Mai.

  The question now was could he persuade Monsieur Varailles and his Maquisard friends that Kasha was more valuable alive than dead. He had been saddened by what had happened to Paul, but these were matters of much greater consequence than personal revenge for a grieving family.

  After lunch he decided to go for a walk in the garden. It was not large, about thirty metres wide and probably twice as long. Glazed double doors let out onto a stone patio from where some steps led down to a courtyard paved in weathered sandstone, beyond which there was a small orchard. After a short while he was joined by Evangeline who came tripping down the steps to walk alongside him, her hands thrust into the pockets of her thick woollen coat. He was tempted to link his arm round hers but then thought better of it. She might think it presumptuous and push him away and then it would create an awkward atmosphere, which given they were likely to be travelling companions for a while longer yet would not be good. He noticed she was wearing perfume again. ‘I like your perfume,’ he said cautiously, ‘I don’t think you’ve worn it before.’