‘May not be for you, young miss—’
‘Come along, then! Don’t want to be at it all day, do we?’
A gendarme shouting, beckoning…
And one of the men from the Citroën had been watching from the corner – beyond which they’d no doubt be searching the freight-carrying vehicles. Until this moment, she hadn’t seen him. But he’d seen her. Probably from the moment she’d come into sight. Just as well she hadn’t tried to turn back. He was strolling over towards the gendarme who’d beckoned and called to her – and who as she wheeled her bike towards him spotted her suitcases and became noticeably more interested. His colleague was a few paces further up the road, returning an elderly woman’s papers to her. ‘Routine check, that’s all. It’s BOFs we’re after.’
BOF standing – in French – for beef, eggs, cheese: BOFs therefore meaning black-marketeers. The woman had clawed her papers back: ‘Sooner we all starved, wouldn’t you!’
The other one was focusing on the case on Rosie’s pillion. In a minute he’d be telling her to unrope it. She knew he would. At this moment, though, he only wanted her papers: his hand out in that familiar, demanding gesture.
‘Papers!’
‘All right. All right…’
Leaning the bike carefully against herself, to have hands free…
‘Shouldn’t bother with that one!’
A shout – from the Citroën man. She hadn’t been sure that he was a Boche until she heard the thick accent. Raincoat hanging open, held back by his hands in the pockets of a suit too tight for him. Tight over his belly, anyway. Felt hat on the back of his head: thin dark hair, and a face of no distinction whatsoever. Gestapo, she thought, more likely than SD. Much the same type as the one who’d tortured her in Rouen. He was telling the gendarme jocularly, ‘She’s a Tour de France contender, that one. It’s a fact – we paced her, she’s a flyer!’
‘Is that so…’
She had her papers out, told the policeman quietly as she handed them over, ‘Pushing it along a bit because there’s a job I’ve been offered, and if I’m late getting there—’
‘Have to ride all the way back again.’ The gendarme spat sideways, thrust the papers back at her after only a cursory inspection ‘We’ve our job to do too, Mam’selle.’
‘Of course.’
Leaving it at that?
But now the Boches. One was only a few metres ahead: she didn’t have to look again to know it. Pushing her papers back inside her coat: avoiding the gendarme’s eyes too now – fearful of showing anxiety, giving him an idea he mightn’t otherwise have had: except that being right under that pair’s pig-eyes—
He’d hawked again. Muttered, ‘Good luck with the job.’
Instead of ‘Open these cases, please…’ Rosie met his kindly glance. ‘Thanks—’
‘Your turn, Grannie!’
The nearer Boche called as she started forward, ‘Don’t break your pretty neck, now!’ The other one was joining him. Younger, but out of the same repulsive mould. Facetiously raising his hat – which seemed to amuse them both. But – as long as they were staying here… She wheeled her bike past them and across the intersection – as if she’d neither seen nor heard… Mounting carefully, then – very carefully: heart still racing, and a mind-boggling thought as she rode on – that she needn’t have been here at all. Could have been with him. Now – this minute – in London – even maybe in bed… She whispered in her mind, Ben, my darling, I must be raving mad…
Chapter 4
She’d have been with him here and now, Ben Quarry reflected. There on the dance-floor even: he might have managed it, with her help. The band was playing ‘Mood Indigo’ – one of her favourites, they couldn’t have sat listening and not danced. From this bar – it was circular, a sort of island; he was seeing most of the room over and between people the other side – he watched the slow-motion huddle of dancers amongst whom he and Rosie might have been clinging to each other at that moment. Would have been, if this was where she’d chosen to come after they’d got up and bathed, dressed, found a taxi. A few hours ago he’d have hurried to her flat after his interview in St James’, they’d have gone straight to bed – the bloody knee would have been no impediment there – and he’d have kept his news to himself until after they’d floated back to earth.
Whereas in fact…
I could lay me down and die.
He could have been hearing her hum it: with her face against his jaw on the side with the ear that worked. And the leg that didn’t: he’d have been leaning on her, a bit. And he’d have looked down, met that dreamy, happy look… Soft brown hair with coppery lights in it, wide-apart hazel eyes, and that ‘eat-you-alive’ mouth of hers. Not that conjuring up her image helped at all: it was more like masochism. Drowning the sorrow, meanwhile. He had two glasses of whisky in front of him and replacements kept coming, but it didn’t seem to be having the effect it should have. Murmuring half aloud, ‘Oh, Rosie…’ Leaning with his forearms on the bar’s glass-topped surface and his stick hooked on its edge, the dancers a slowly shifting kaleidoscopic mélange over there and the entwined gold stripes on the sleeves of his reefer jacket a brighter gold than the whisky. He wondered where Rosie might be now, what she’d be doing.
Time-difference of an hour and a half, of course.
‘Hey, Aussie!’
Another Scotch. Courtesy of a US Air Force character name of O’Dwyer. There was another Yank in the group – or had been, they seemed to come and go, sometimes vanish and then reappear after long absences – also some Poles and a Scotsman, a lieutenant who claimed to be a commando. Ben had dropped in at Shepherd’s, with the intention of having a quiet drink on his own while getting his thinking into shape – to stop glooming over Rosie, and instead concentrate on the marvellous thought that when she finally got back he’d be right here in London to meet her – and marry her, this time no bloody argument – and some RAF who were among the missing now had for some reason included him in a round or two of drinks. That was where it had started. They’d decided to move on, he hadn’t known where and it hadn’t mattered all that much, they’d piled into taxis and ended up here, in one of his and Rosie’s places.
He wondered where she was now – now, this very moment. If she’d gone over last night – no, Wednesday night, it would have been – probably by Lysander, which she’d told him would be her preference this time, but alternatively in a Hudson, or a Halifax or some such if they’d been parachuting her in – by now she could be anywhere at all. France was a big country and she could be in any part of it.
He nodded to O’Dwyer. ‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure. You still crying in it?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘You sure look miserable.’
‘How I always look.’
It wasn’t true. He was a happy-looking man, most of the time. Rather large, with brown curly hair and blue eyes: ‘wild-eyed’ was an adjective Rosie tended to use. O’Dwyer was staring up at him – the Yank was about jockey-sized – as if questioning what he’d just said, about the look of misery being permanent. And the band had switched to ‘You Always Hurt the One You Love’. Ben nodded towards the dancing. ‘Hear that?’
‘Inkspots.’
‘Of course it’s the bloody—’
‘Hey, Aussie!’ A hand on his shoulder: one of the Poles. ‘Whatsa good get leave you don’t enjoy it?’
‘Good question.’
‘Damn good question, Polski!’
‘Aussie, whyn’t you drink up?’
So it went on. He picked up a glass, took a sip, put it down again. Go down to Pompey tomorrow, he told himself. Pack gear, see them in the Haslar hospital on Monday, then back here. He’d had the offer of a bed or sofa in another man’s digs in Fulham until he found a place of his own. The whole thing being that he’d got his old job back, would henceforth be working for an outfit in St James’ called DDOD(I).
He’d had the call from her flat-mate yesterday at lunchti
me, in the Coastal Force base at Portsmouth. Gosport, actually, across the water from Portsmouth-proper. And – all right, as he’d kept telling himself ever since, he’d known it would be coming some time: but for some reason hadn’t doubted they’d have this weekend together. Rosie’s flat-mate had been off to visit her mother in Somerset – so they’d have the flat – and Rosie had arranged to have leave from midday Friday to midday Monday. Then wham, this telephone call. There and then he’d hardly had time to take it in – except the way you’d take in being hit with a sledge-hammer. And he’d still had to come up to London, for the interview about the job up here: the beauty of which had been that since he couldn’t be at sea, on account of the knee not being right yet, he’d at least be close to Rosie. Would have been. His move up here had been on the cards for a week or so, had needed only today’s interview with his old boss to confirm it: and a lot of the pleasure as he’d foreseen it would have been imparting the glad tidings to Rosie this afternoon in bed.
Anyway – he’d got to Victoria soon after midday, dumped his gear in the Left Luggage and taken a taxi to the Nineties in Berkeley Street, where he’d lunched and then had only a few minutes’ peg-legging walk down to St James’ for the interview with this four-stripe naval captain known officially as Deputy Director Operations Division (Irregular) – and internally, in the department – as ‘O’. It was a department of naval intelligence closely linked to SIS – hence its being housed in that building – and Ben had worked in it for a time, after being crocked-up in an MTB action a couple of years ago and then rated unfit for sea duty. All ancient history now, but he’d eventually got himself back to sea as a navigator in the 15th MGB flotilla which, based at Dartmouth and administered by this same DDOD(I), was used only for clandestine operations, running agents and munitions over to Brittany and bringing out shot-down flyers and other escapees.
Now, full circle. Back to the desk in St James’ – at least until he was squarely on both feet again.
‘Barman’s looking to be paid, Aussie.’
‘Right on…’ Looking round at Rumpleburger – or whatever he called himself. O’Dwyer and the Poles were back, too, the Yank with his nose already in the as-yet unpaid-for whisky. Ben put a handful of notes and silver on the bar, and the barman, an Irishman with a squint, began fingering out what was owing. Ben’s father, who was in timber in Brisbane, sent him a cheque occasionally: hence his current affluence.
He told the barman, ‘Have one yourself.’
‘Thank ye, sir…’
‘Here’s to Poland!’
The Scotsman, holding up a glass. O’Dwyer asked him, ‘What’s wrong with America?’
‘Don’t know.’ Looking down amiably at the little guy. ‘Hard to put your finger on, exactly.’
‘Let me tell you, then—’
‘Ben – Ben darling!’
A woman’s voice, behind them… Heads turning, eyes widening, exchanges ending in mid-sentence. She was looking only at Ben. He’d staggered on the turn, come up hard with his back against the curve of bar. She saw it and laughed: ‘Whoops a-daisy!’ She hadn’t seen the stick, obviously thought he was stoned. She was tall, and exceptionally good looking. Dark glossy hair, creamy skin, wide dark eyes, fantastic body in a green dress he’d seen her in before. Actually she was in the MTC. Had been in the BVAC – British Volunteer Ambulance Corps – he remembered, but she’d transferred to the Mechanized Transport Corps because they got paid and ‘Beevacs’ didn’t. Telling him, ‘I nearly fell down too – when I saw you! From over there…’ A wave towards the tables beyond the dance-floor. ‘Can I believe my eyes?’
Huge dark ones: a man could drown in them. Ben had – experienced more or less total immersion – over a period of a few months, some while ago. Before he met Rosie, of course, and before this one – Joan – married Bob Stack – fellow Australian, until recently Ben’s CO but currently on his way out to the Mediterranean, to command gunboat flotillas in the Adriatic. Bob and Joan were divorcing, as it happened. None of Ben’s business, but she’d cheated on old Bob, really done the dirty on him, although she’d sworn blind in those earlier days that when she did marry she’d go straight.
Ben had thought the leopard might change her spots, too. At least he’d given her the benefit of the doubt. Wouldn’t have taken a chance on it himself – although that had been her idea – which was partly why she’d grabbed at old Bob when he’d come blundering along.
The band was playing ‘You Started Something’. She’d latched her hands over Ben’s shoulders, and they’d kissed – after a fashion. Still holding on to him, then… ‘On your own, Ben – as well as pie-eyed?’
‘Neither.’ Pointing left and right with his head. ‘This lot’s pissed as bloody owls, but—’
The commando touched her arm, and pointed at the stick: ‘Fellow’s lame. Duff knee, or something.’
‘Ben! Don’t tell me you’ve done it again?’
Referring to the previous occasion: it had been just at the time she’d given up on him and corralled old Bob. He’d shrugged: ‘Wasn’t my idea…’
‘Well, honestly… I’m sorry, I didn’t see—’
‘Doesn’t matter. Have a drink—’
‘No – you come and join us. Oh, please…’ Half turning, beckoning to a slightly rotund Welsh Guards captain. ‘Remember Billy?’
Billy Bartholomew – friend of Joan’s brother Gareth, who was an earl, which made Joan Lady Stack. Billy was bleating yes, do join us, like it very much, old chap…
Looking pretty sick about it, actually.
‘But why don’t you join us?’
The commando’s idea, this was. Supported enthusiastically by O’Dwyer and others. Joan told them, ‘Awfully kind, but we’re just about to eat.’ Back to Ben: ‘Lame or not, a few solids wouldn’t do you any harm, my darling…’
* * *
In his house in St Michel-du-Faou, Henri Peucat tilted his chair back, reached to the sideboard for the cognac bottle. Motionless then with his hand wrapped round it and his brown spaniel’s eyes on Rosie. Really very much like a spaniel’s – brown and droopy, sad-looking. She quite liked him by this time – in a vague sort of way. She’d smelt brandy in the moment of the front door swinging open to her. An hour or so ago – roughly. Hour and a half maybe. She’d got here, was the thing – after two hard days and a short night in between… Arrival she recalled as a glow of light – not in the hall but seeping from a room behind it – not all that bright but still dazzling from where she’d been, out in the street, while all she’d seen of Peucat had been the dark outline of a burly, slope-shouldered creature with that light from behind throwing a huge shadow across the pavement.
‘Dr Peucat?’
‘I can’t deny it. How can I help you?’
‘Suzanne Tanguy. You wrote offering me employment.’
‘Well.’ Peering out at her. ‘So I did. So I did…’
He’d pronounced the ‘s’ as ‘sh’. She’d thought, Marvellous. All this way and I’m stuck with a drunk… He’d muttered something about not having expected her to arrive in the middle of the night – getting towards curfew, heaven’s sake… Out on the pavement by then, with the door pushed almost shut behind him, looking up and down the dark street.
‘Sorry.’ Turning back to her. ‘You’ll be thinking I’m an old ditherer. And obviously you’ve come a long way, you must be exhausted… D’you have my letter with you, by any chance?’
‘Yes. And other papers – I can certainly identify myself.’
‘I’m sure. Needn’t have asked… I think I’d dropped off, in there. You’d better come in – please—’
‘What about the bike?’
‘Oh Lord, yes. Garage at the side here. Should have thought. Falling asleep like that, leaves one a bit stupid. Probably am anyway. Here – I’ll open up…’
It had been eight-thirty or so then, was getting on for ten now. She’d lost her way somehow in Carhaix-Plouguer, wasted time by starting out on the wrong ro
ad and having to go back and find the right one. She’d had about twenty kilometres to cover then, to Châteauneuf-du-Faou, where she’d asked for directions to St Michel and had been put on the road to a place called Plounévez-du-Faou where she was to turn left; and after a lot more hard pedalling she’d realized she was completely lost, in a maze of small, winding lanes, in pitch darkness and growing doubt as to whether St Michel-du-Faou even existed.
She’d simply found herself riding into it, eventually. Freewheeling downhill out of black, apparently abandoned countryside to some sort of road-junction with a tall building on high ground to the right and what had turned out to be a café-bar – there’d been light seeping under its doorway – on the corner in front of her where the road divided. She’d propped her bike against the wall and gone in, asked a man in dungarees who’d been reading a newspaper behind the bar whether this might be the village of St Michel-du-Faou and if so whether he could direct her to the house of a Dr Peucat.
He’d given her a long, hard stare. A well-fed man in his middle forties, unshaven and balding, with a stomach that bulged the dungarees. Nodding – presumably having decided that she was harmless.
‘Hundred metres, no more. There – Rue Saint Nicolas. At the bottom, church square’s in front of you. Don’t go into it, bear right – turning your back to the church, see that easy enough – and the doctor’s house is on that corner. Corner of Place de I’Eglise and Rue des Champs Verts. Got it?’
‘I think so. Thanks.’
‘Someone ill?’
‘Oh, no. I’m going to work for him.’
‘Work for Henri Peucat?’
‘I’m a nurse.’
‘Are you, now. Well, listen, give him a message for me, will you? Tell him I’ve no damn customers except the kind I don’t want, and now he’s got you he might find time to drop in for a game of cards. Tell him that, will you?’
She’d given Peucat the message, and an account of the difficulty she’d had finding this village. She could have taken a much more direct route, he’d told her: a road from Châteauneuf that would have brought her in at the south end of the church square.
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