They stopped for lunch at an auberge. Marfield ordered an omelette and bread in monosyllables and said yes, no and thank you when required, but ventured no further information. Over their meal, Lydia read aloud from a rushed-out edition of a French evening newspaper: Germany had invaded Poland. What would France and Britain do? The headline posed the question: C’est la Guerre? Outside, a radio was blaring and people crowded around it.
They kept moving. In mid-afternoon, when they had made another stop – for fuel and another newspaper – Marfield spoke again.
‘You must know that I am a marked man, Professor. They will come for me and kill me.’ The words came out without emotion.
Wilde and Lydia looked at each other with dismay.
‘Who will do this, Marcus?’ Lydia said very quietly.
‘Enemies. In Spain I gathered many enemies . . .’
‘That’s all in the past now.’ Wilde tried to cheer him up. ‘You’ll be safely back in England soon.’
‘They shot me once – do you not think they will try again?’
*
Wilde drove on without stopping at the doctor near Orléans. His plan was to push hard, get to the ferry and get home. They wouldn’t make it tonight, but maybe Amiens or even St Omer would be a fair target.
By the time they were cutting through the centre of Paris, Lydia had had enough.
‘Let’s find a hotel for the night,’ she suggested.
Although reluctant to call a halt, there was a nagging anxiety at the back of Wilde’s mind about Marfield’s lack of a passport. He headed for the Place de la Concorde, parked the car in a side street and asked Lydia to stay with Marfield.
‘The Bristol can’t be far from here,’ she said. ‘Shall I see if they have a couple of rooms?’
Wilde raised a doubtful eyebrow: this holiday had not been cheap. He looked away, out of the driver’s window. On the wall was a poster showing a gipsy woman smoking a Gitanes; next to it a defaced poster with the skull and crossed swords of the banned Croix-de-Feu, France’s very own fascist outfit.
Far more prevalent, though, were the large signs they had seen in every town and village along the route from Toulouse to Paris: Mobilisation Générale. The call to arms.
‘I’ll pay,’ she said.
He turned back and shook his head. ‘No, it’ll be wasted. We’ll come and do the Bristol another time when there’s no pressure. Somewhere cheap and cheerful a little further north will be fine tonight.’ He indicated a cafe across the road. ‘Have a coffee in there and I’ll be back in half an hour or so.’
‘You like to be mysterious, don’t you, Professor Wilde?’
‘Do I, Miss Morris?’
She laughed. ‘We’ll see you soon.’
*
The US Embassy stood close to the north-west corner of the Place de la Concorde. It was crowded with Americans seeking passage home before the onset of war, but Wilde managed to get the attention of a middle-aged clerk on the main desk
‘I need to place a call to James Vanderberg, second secretary at the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square, London,’ he said, giving her his best smile.
Within five minutes he had been shown into a small ground-floor office and was through to London.
‘What’s going on, Tom? When am I going to see you?’
‘Tomorrow, all being well. But I need a little help, Jim.’ Wilde explained about Marfield’s lack of a passport.
‘Don’t know what I can do to help, buddy. Everyone and his mother wants a US passport now, and I doubt your man qualifies.’
‘No, no, that’s not what I’m asking for. What I need is a good contact in the British Embassy here in Paris. This boy has to be out of France by Sunday, and from what the papers say it looks like a war’s going to be under way by then. We can’t hang around. Any old friends who might pull a rabbit out of a hat for me, Jim?’
Wilde could hear an uncertain sigh at the other end of the line.
‘The trouble is hell’s breaking loose here and all leave is cancelled. Several thousand of our countrymen want a boat home. It’ll be the same at the British embassy in Paris with Brits trying to get back. No one’s going to spend time finding a visa for some commie ex-student of yours. But for you, Tom? Wait there. I’ll talk to someone and get back to you soonest.’
‘OK. Thanks, Jim. I appreciate it. Look forward to seeing you and Juliet and the kids.’
‘Just me, Tom. I’ll explain all when you arrive.’ Vanderberg paused. ‘Are you certain about this guy, Marfield? Not everyone coming out of a war zone has clean hands, if you take my drift, and you have to vouch for him.’
Could he? In the circumstances, what option did he have?
‘I’ll vouch for him,’ Wilde said.
*
As Wilde waited, he looked out of the window at the bustle of humanity – Americans wanting to get out of Europe. He knew that the story was the same or worse elsewhere in Europe. God alone knew what Berlin and Warsaw must be like right now.
Half an hour later the phone still hadn’t rung. Wilde trusted Vanderberg implicitly. If Jim said he’d get back to him, he would. The only worry was the approaching end to the working day. Could anything get done in this city after 6 p.m.?
He picked up the phone on the first ring. It was five forty.
‘Tom, get your ass over to the British Embassy with your student. Ask for Burton Goff. He’ll write out and stamp a temporary passport there and then.’
‘I owe you one.’
‘You sure do, buddy. A bottle of France’s finest. Good luck, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
*
Wilde fetched Marfield and hurried to the British Embassy, a short walk from the US Embassy. Outside, dozens of Britons were queuing for gas masks or help with travel home. Mr Burton Goff, an assistant in the passport office, was overwhelmed by the welter of work, and looked in need of a drink and sleep. Although clearly frustrated that he had to waste time dealing with Wilde and Marfield, he organised the papers in twenty minutes flat. Only at the last moment did he manage a handshake for Wilde and – his eyes on the incapacitated left arm – a brisk nod of acknowledgement for Marfield.
‘You’re Cambridge men, I understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oxford myself. You know Chamberlain should be rising in the Commons about now? Word is, he’s going to give Hitler an ultimatum, although it won’t be called an ultimatum. And then war.’
*
It was after nine o’clock before they found a small hotel a little way north of Montparnasse. The restaurant was closed, but the concierge agreed to bring them some cheese and bread in the bar if they wished. ‘And a bottle of red,’ Wilde said.
‘A cup of tea for me,’ Lydia said.
Wilde pulled a face.
‘Don’t look at me like that as if I’m some sort of dipsomaniac. It’s what I want, Tom!’
After eating, mostly in silence, they went upstairs. Lydia changed Marfield’s dressing; there was no excess heat in the wound, no sign of sepsis.
‘When did it happen?’ she asked.
‘About ten days ago.’ Marfield seemed more inclined to talk. ‘Just minding my own business, eating the dishwater they called soup, then – splat. It had to be a sniper. There’s cover two or three hundred yards beyond the perimeter fence. Definitely aiming at me. Bloody fascists.’
They left Marfield sitting on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the wall, smoking a cigarette. As he closed the door, Wilde wondered whether he would still be there in the morning. Marfield’s disappearance over two years earlier had been sudden and unexpected; it was difficult to have confidence in the same person again.
While Lydia washed and brushed her teeth in the bathroom down the hall, Wilde took a look around their room: it was at least clean. He took a couple of swigs from the half-empty bottle of wine he had carried up from the bar and then set it aside. Better to keep a clear head.
*
In the night, perhaps three or
four o’clock, Wilde was woken by a prolonged scream from the next-door room, then silence. Lydia, at his side, had not woken. Silently, he slipped from the bed, padded down the hall and knocked gently on Marfield’s door. There was no response, so he turned the handle. A little moonlight from the uncurtained window showed that the bed was empty. Marfield was lying flat out on the hard, wooden floor, straight as a soldier, with a single blanket covering him.
The scream had sounded like someone in mortal terror. But as Wilde approached Marfield there was nothing but steady breathing, and the small movements of someone fast asleep. However, Marfield’s eyes were open and when Wilde whispered his name there was no response; the eyes were unseeing. Marfield looked at peace with the world, a beautiful child. Except that his face was coated in a film of sweat. Had Wilde imagined the scream? He turned away. There was much unsaid and more unknown.
*
In the morning, they ate a good breakfast of coffee and croissants, and then paid the bill. As an afterthought, Wilde asked for the best bottle of wine from the cellar. The concierge disappeared for five minutes and reappeared with a bottle from which he blew a cloud of dust. Wilde looked at the label – it was a 1930 Gevrey-Chambertin premier cru. Wilde had no idea whether or not that was a good year, but he certainly knew the domain name, and was reassured by the extortionate price. He bought it and packed it away amid his clothes.
As they left Paris, Wilde’s heart sank at the thought of what might happen to this beautiful city if France went to war with Germany. Notre-Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe and the Elysée Palace, all would be reduced to twisted metal, rubble and ashes.
It was a difficult drive because the Mobilisation Générale was in full swing, with troops massing eastwards in ever-increasing numbers. At railway crossings, soldiers waved from train windows, while on the roads, endless trucks and armoured vehicles trundled towards the border. When they needed fuel, they had to join a long queue and were limited to ten gallons. It would be enough to get them to the coast.
They reached Calais at three in the afternoon and handed the Citroën back to the hire company. It was a warm, still day and the sea looked calm, but it was certainly not empty; French and British warships were making their presence felt close to harbour and out on the horizon. These were their waters to patrol, but who could know what terrors lay submerged; had the Kriegsmarine already dispatched U-boats to this vital strait?
Whatever the risks, there was a long line of would-be travellers, and it was not until 10 p.m. that Wilde, Lydia and Marcus Marfield embarked on the ferry.
As he watched the lights along the coastline of France fade into the distance, one question still nagged at Wilde. How had the man who called himself Honoré found him in that remote village near Toulouse? Wilde had left a rough itinerary with the college, but he had not been specific about where they would be on which dates. So who had told Honoré their whereabouts – and why?
CHAPTER 8
In the early hours a storm broke, but at dawn the day was calm and hazy. By mid-morning they were on a crowded train back to London. They looked out over the peaceful glory of southern England in late summer – orchards heavy with apples, hop fields crowded with harvest workers; a working holiday full of sweat and laughter, cider and beer. Only the occasional roar of a squadron of planes in the skies above suggested anything might be amiss.
At Victoria Station the news was on everyone’s lips. Eleven o’clock – the time of Chamberlain’s deadline to the Germans to retreat from Poland – had passed without response. At 11.15 a.m. the Prime Minister had announced that Britain was at war with Germany. Foreboding hung in the air.
A car was waiting for them at the station, and they were whisked through the sandbagged streets to the Chelsea square where Jim and Juliet Vanderberg lived.
Mrs Harley, the housekeeper, let them in. ‘Mr Vanderberg is at the embassy, sir. He insisted I make you comfortable and make sure you have everything you need. Would you all like lunch?’
‘Thank you,’ Wilde said. ‘And where are Mrs Vanderberg and the boys?’
‘They’ve caught the ship home to America, sir. It was all very last minute. Mrs Vanderberg couldn’t bear William and Henry to be evacuated and she was worried about them remaining in London.’
Wilde understood. His own mother had feared for his safety in the Great War as he neared the age when he might be tempted to join up. She had taken him out of Harrow and back to America for the last of his schooling. When he read of former classmates killed or missing in action, he had found it hard to come to terms with what she had done on his behalf. How can you rejoice in your own safety when your friends are dying?
‘You’ll have missed the broadcast,’ Mrs Harley said as she showed them round the house. ‘Mr Chamberlain told us we were fighting evil, sir, and he said we would prevail.’ She looked a bit uncertain.
‘I’m sure he’s right,’ said Wilde. But at what cost, he thought – and how long would it take?
The Vanderbergs’ house had been equipped with all the necessities of life as enjoyed by American families – icebox, proper shower and bathing facilities, even a television set, which stood blank-eyed in the corner of the sitting room. The housekeeper also pointed out the Anderson shelter which had been constructed in the back garden in case of air raids. ‘Mr Vanderberg is not at all sure about it, sir. He thinks it looks rather Heath Robinson and has suggested we might be safer in the tube station.’
After their tour, Lydia said she would like to lie down for an hour or two. Wilde eyed her a little askance; she normally had more energy than this. These past few days seemed to have knocked the stuffing out of her.
‘What?’ she demanded irritably. ‘I hardly slept in that crummy guest house last night. This hasn’t been the smoothest of ends to our vacation, you know – and I’m bloody exhausted.’
Wilde sighed and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. Yes, the Buckland guest house in Dover had been pretty damned poor, but just finding a couple of unbooked rooms that late at night had been a miracle. They had both lain awake, wondering at the smell of the place and how long it might have been since the sheets were laundered. When they finally dropped off, they had been woken by Marcus’s moans and occasional screams in the next room.
‘Have your nap,’ Wilde told Lydia. ‘We’ll wait for you for lunch.’
Just then, at precisely 11.27 a.m., the first air-raid siren of the war went off and Marcus Marfield’s legs gave way.
*
Marfield slithered to the floorboards and appeared to vomit, although little emerged from his mouth. He bunched his knees into his chest and curled his right arm tightly around them. He was shaking and dry-retching. His breathing was shallow and fast. Lydia rushed to kneel beside him, putting her arm around his shoulder. ‘What do we do, Tom?’ she mouthed over his head. ‘Shouldn’t we be getting to the shelter?’
Wilde crouched down next to her. ‘We can’t move him, not in this state.’
Outside, the siren continued to blast out its deafening warning. In the street a constable’s whistle shrieked. They could hear shouting as residents were marshaled into shelters.
Mrs Harley hurried in holding out gas masks. ‘We really should get to the shelter,’ she said. ‘Or at least into the space beneath the stairs. They say that’s the safest place inside the house.’ And then, just as she spoke, the air-raid siren was replaced with the soothing moan of the all-clear. She allowed herself a smile. ‘False alarm,’ she said.
‘Well, that’s something.’ Wilde handed back his gas mask, its rubbery stink hanging in the air.
The housekeeper nodded towards the spittle on the floor; all that had emerged from Marfield’s retching. ‘I’ll get a rag and some water.’
Lydia held Marfield until his breathing slowly subsided, and the shaking diminished. When he was calm, she and Wilde helped him to his feet.
‘It must have been terrible out there in Spain,’ she said gently.
Marfi
eld took a deep breath and shook his head. Wilde had a sudden vision of war machines and black-clad warriors with guns, decorated with the cross and swastika of the new Germany. Was this the future for Britain? To have its spirit destroyed by these nightmarish men and their iron devices?
The housekeeper broke the spell. ‘Would you all like some coffee?’ she inquired brightly.
Her cheery voice made Wilde smile. If the rest of Britain had something of this woman’s backbone, things might not be so bad after all.
*
Wilde sat in a window seat in the sitting room and read the English newspapers while Lydia slept upstairs. Occasionally, he looked out on the beautiful, late-eighteenth century Chelsea square, still in full summer leaf. High above, however, he spotted the evidence of what was to come – barrage balloons, shaped like fat cigars, had been launched at the sound of the siren as a deterrent to low-flying enemy aircraft. He pulled his handkerchief from his trouser pocket and several scraps of paper fluttered to the floor.
Of course – he had promised various internees of the Camp du Vernet that he would call their friends and families. Reaching for the telephone, he began to work his way through the numbers. This would take up the afternoon.
Across the room, Marfield sat at the grand piano, the fingers of his right hand poised like talons above the keys. Wilde watched him from the corner of his eye. Finally he nodded in his direction. ‘You know, I’m sure Jim wouldn’t mind if you want to play it.’
‘I don’t think I can.’
‘Well, why not try? If it doesn’t work, no harm done.’
The silence stretched between them.
‘No, I think not,’ Marfield said at last. He lowered his fingers, closed the lid and rose from the piano. ‘Excuse me.’ He wandered off into the depths of the house. Wilde let him go. This wasn’t going to be easy.
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