There was nothing incriminating in the room now, anyway. Only on her person. The silver lipstick-case on the night-table beside the bed shouldn’t arouse suspicion: it had been her recently deceased mother’s, the only item of any value that she’d inherited. Whereas on her person – well, the suspect papers, and – checking by feel on her way downstairs – one cyanide capsule in the corner of a handkerchief and another in the hem of her blouse.
And, of course – if one were to be stripped and searched – whip-stripes on her back, and the puckered bullet scars. Like brand-marks.
Colette was back in the kitchen, chopping up a cabbage.
‘You off, then?’
‘If Jacques is ready. But when I get back, if there’s anything you’d like done – there must be—’
‘Windows in the bar could do with a rub up.’
‘Right. As long as I do get back.’
‘Hah…’
* * *
They went up a concrete path and in through the bungalow-gendarmerie’s front door, which was standing open. Inside, a wall had been knocked out so that the hallway and what had been the left-hand front room formed a general office with a counter dividing it from a small waiting area.
‘Hey, Jean, mon vieux!’
The sergeant swung round from a desk behind the counter, nodded to Jacques and looked at Rosie. He was grey-haired, thickset, fiftyish. Stern-looking, but his expression had softened somewhat: ‘A quick response. That’s good.’
‘Mam’selle Justine Quérier, Jean. She’s a cousin by marriage of Colette’s. Well – as you’ll have heard… I’ll see you when I get back, Justine.’
‘Thanks for the lift – and the introduction.’
He lifted a hand in farewell, on his way out. Rosie took out her papers: ‘You want to see these, of course.’
‘Regulations, more than want.’ He’d pushed himself up, came to face her across the counter. ‘But you’ll want – if you’re intending to remain here with us – a permit to reside here, and also if you’re taking up employment—’
‘At the manor, I hope. It’s agreed for a trial period anyway – I saw Monsieur Marchéval this morning.’
‘So I’ve been advised. Here, now. While I take a look at these.’
He put two different application forms on the counter, and tossed her papers over to his desk. When she’d filled in the forms, she guessed, he’d check her answers to the various questions against what he had there. For instance, place of birth Sarrebourg, date of birth November 13th 1917, father’s name Joseph Quérier, father’s occupation post-office clerk – mother’s name – et cetera.
‘Excuse me—’
‘Huh?’
‘It’s stupid of me, but – nothing to write with—’
He grunted, half rising and reaching to give her a pen – wooden, with a steel nib. Pointing at an inkwell at the wall end of the counter.
‘Thank you very much.’
Marilyn, she remembered, had checked through her papers the other night and said she wasn’t too happy with them – after a very cursory inspection and at that by candle-light. It had probably been then that Rosie herself had begun to feel they weren’t too safe. Then again chez Victor Dufay…
She’d answered all the questions in the residence application. Signing it: in the Quérier girl’s unformed hand – which of course she’d practised – then glancing up, seeing the sergeant holding her feuille semestrielle against the light from the window, peering at it closely with his eyes narrowed.
That date had been altered. She remembered watching the little man do it.
Heart thumping harder, faster… She pushed the completed form over to that side of the counter, started on the other. Similar questions, most in fact identical, but others demanding details of previous employment. The only job she’d had since being hospitalized after the air-raid in Rouen, of course, had been looking after her terminally ill mother. Before that, assistant in nursery schools in Rouen and before that Sarrebourg.
Heavy footsteps were approaching, clomping up the concrete path. She took no notice, concentrating on the form, but the sergeant glanced towards the door and then after a moment’s hesitation added the feuille semestrielle to the small pile of those he’d already checked. Pushing his chair back now, getting up.
‘Good morning, Herr Leutnant!’
Rosie looked round, saw the young German of whom she’d previously seen only the back view: long booted legs and bat-ears. Seeing now broad shoulders, impressive height and a round, boyish face. He was ignoring her: asking the sergeant in heavily accented French, ‘Is everything in order?’
‘It is, sir. In good order.’
Staring at her now… The sergeant told him, ‘Applicant for residence and work permits, Lieutenant. A cousin of the proprietress of L’Auberge la Couronne. I have her papers here…’
His tone implied, If you’d like to cast an eye over them?
Might then add, ‘But this one at least looks like a forgery…’
‘Very well.’ The Boche was taking another look at her. She felt slightly sick. Turning back, stooping over the form she was completing: hands none too steady, body damp with sweat, heart banging… Taking long breaths to calm it, telling herself It’s OK, he’s going… Hearing, indeed, the German’s boots thumping away across bare boards, then a door pulled open and banging shut. The other front room, the one to the right as one entered. The sergeant had sat down and was looking at – she thought, from as much as she could see – her feuille semestrielle again.
‘This first one’s finished. Still wet, the ink, I’ve no—’
A grunt as he leant sideways, just getting his short fingers to it. Rosie carefully not looking at his desk, trying not to look anything like she was feeling. He was holding the newly completed form though, running his eye over her entries while the ink dried. Now – the feuille again: and she was watching him. Identity card, now – which was also—
Don’t even think it.
He’d reached into a drawer, brought out a rubber stamp and a pad: inking it, then applying it to the lower part of the form she’d completed.
Rosie’s eyes down: re-checking this form, then signing it and pushing it over into his reach. Waiting again, then: also hoping… Half turning away with one elbow on the counter, to gaze across the office area and out of the window at the end – the window in the side of the house – at a view slantwise across the road, encompassing the top end of the cul-de-sac of workers’ houses and then the road-frontage and main entrance of Marchéval’s. Alternatively from the other window, the front one, one looked directly across to where the curé’s solid-looking house stood back amongst its trees and shrubs.
‘Mam’selle.’ He was trying to reach this second form: she leant over quickly, gave it to him. Grunt of thanks. Rosie turning her attention back to the view from the end window then, while he went through the same procedure – checking, finally rubber-stamping. She didn’t want to seem to be watching his every movement: was though – intermittently, out of the corner of her eye. On this side of the road out there, just about opposite the factory gates, was the small copse of trees around the start of the track up to the timber-yard: and above and beyond those trees’ tops the slate roof of the Hôtel Poste reflecting the blaze of early sun.
Where she’d be after dark tonight. Up that track somewhere. She thought, Bloody well better be good and dark. Just spitting distance. Well – stone-throwing distance anyway.
‘Here we are, then.’ Hannant was at the counter again, to give her back her papers. ‘Subject to the lieutenant approving the applications – naturally—’
‘Naturally.’
‘– take a day or two, in any case.’ He was dealing her various cards and documents on to the counter between them, one by one. Last item, the feuille semestrielle. His thick fingers still on it: frowning down at it, something about it still bothering him. Glancing up then just as she did – but looking past her, towards the door of the Leutnant’s offic
e. Thinking of referring the doubt to him? Pausing for the space of two – three – slow blinks: then meeting Rosie’s eyes again. Trying to read her thoughts – read her? The smallest of shrugs then: giving the papers a push in her direction.
‘Call in again before the weekend?’
‘I’m obliged to you, M’sieur.’
He’d turned away. Knowing it couldn’t be long now, that he could risk letting her get away with it? Or as a friend of Jacques, reluctant to involve them?
Bit of both, maybe.
Outside, there was no staff car waiting for the Leutnant. Whose name was, she remembered, Klebermann. Maybe it had brought him and would return for him. Military patrols from Sens called in at this gendarmerie sometimes, Colette had mentioned. At night, she wondered?
* * *
She spent an hour cleaning the windows in the bar and the dining room, chatted politely with Madame Brissac, and easily persuaded Colette to accept a thousand francs – to cover what she already owed and leave herself in credit. A lot of it was going on cigarettes.
‘One might imagine you were thinking of leaving us.’
‘Not by choice. But things can go wrong.’
‘I don’t know why you should involve yourself at all. It’s André’s and his colleagues’ enterprise. Even Jacques – apart from the business of the keys—’
‘You’d sooner he had an early night.’
‘I would, you’re right. But you, certainly…’
‘I need to see it through, that’s all.’ She explained, ‘It’s what I came here for, after all. In any case, if I can make myself useful—’
‘Speaking of that – would you like to do out the girls’ rooms? They’ll be back at the weekend, and once they spread their stuff around—’
‘Of course…’
Jacques came back in time for a lunchtime snack of bread and cheese; in return for the deliveries of charcoal he’d brought a shoulder of mutton, some cabbages and a sack of wheat. The ‘grey’ market, they called it. His hand on her shoulder: ‘Did Hannant fix up your papers?’
‘Should have them by the weekend, he said.’
‘Weekend, huh…’
How matters might stand by then, was the question. Ordinarily, there’d be hell to pay, reprisals involving shootings and the burning of property. But if the Boches were preparing to pull out anyway – and this place had no value to them other than its factory, which by then should to all intents and purposes be kaput…
She looked at him. ‘The fact it’s a Maquis action – no villagers involved…’
‘Except us – eh?’
‘Well – yes… Jacques – if I – fell by the wayside – the thing might be for Colette to say I’d convinced her I was the long-lost cousin – and had papers showing I was Justine Quérier – she had no reason to doubt it, and – took pity on me.’
‘As she would have. Although to the Boches, taking pity on the wrong people’s a criminal offence. But don’t worry, we’ll see to it you don’t—’
‘Thank you. Another thing though – I have my coding materials, and other stuff – cash, and a couple of pistols, one of which I’ll be leaving here—’
‘No shooting tonight, Justine. Quiet as mice!’
‘But this stuff – and of course the transceiver and that carton in your workshop—’
‘I don’t want to know. You’ve hidden this or that, if it’s found I’m as surprised as anyone, Colette even more so!’
‘It wouldn’t stop them shooting you for having it in the house. And the codes I beg you to destroy.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In the tin trunk in your box-room. Cash too – no point burning that.’
‘D’you think I’m some kind of loony?’ He’d laughed – on his way through to the bar, to take over from Colette.
* * *
Monsieur Henri came in just after seven thirty. Jacques had a few customers in the bar, and greeted him with ‘Ah, patron – you’ll have come to talk to my wife, about her cousin?’
‘Exactly.’ For the customers’ ears, this was. ‘If it’s not inconvenient?’
‘She’s expecting you. You’d want to discuss it in private – come on through… How about a fine, while you’re here?’
It was one of the days in the week when the sale of brandy was permitted. Jacques poured him one, while le patron exchanged a few words with the other men – all of them his own employees – then ushered him through to the kitchen, where Colette was making an omelet.
‘Patron – excuse me – one minute…’
No hands to spare… But Jacques came through then, behind him, and Monsieur Henri gave him the heavy bunch of keys. In an undertone: ‘You’re going to tell me how I’ll get them back?’
Jacques nodded. ‘It’s arranged. They’ll be delivered to you at the manor, half an hour after midnight – or thereabouts. Maybe a little earlier. But you don’t have to wait up, patron, only to leave your door unlocked – as you did for André, uh?’
‘And then what, who—’
‘Young Charles Saurrat.’
‘Saurrat…’
The boy who worked at Marchéval’s, had a brother-in-law in Guichard’s group and had given Monsieur Henri the message from André, that scrap of paper. Jacques explained, ‘He has a cool head and he’s quick on his feet – and as you’ll have noticed, so thin he’s barely visible. He’ll put these on the floor inside, and vanish. If you like you could be there to receive them, but I’d suggest you don’t speak or put lights on.’
‘At about twelve thirty.’
‘About then. Maybe you should stay up for it – in case the Briard woman bust in and picked them up?’
‘The danger will be the Briards.’
‘They won’t see or hear him. Just let him come and go, you won’t.’
‘Very well…’ Blinking fast… Jacques excused himself, leaving the rest to Colette. Rosie, coming down from her room, heard her ask him in a normal tone – in contrast to all the murmuring that had been going on – ‘So her pay per hour – let me think now…’
‘What?’
He wasn’t exactly sharp-witted, Rosie thought. Colette said patiently, transferring the omelet to a dish, ‘The matter of Justine’s remuneration, patron.’ She mentioned an hourly rate which to Rosie seemed fairly steep, for unskilled labour. Monsieur Henri glancing at her sharply, then shrugging. ‘If that’s acceptable to Mam’selle Quérier—’
‘Two hours a day Monday to Saturday, the precise hours to be agreed, and for any meals you want her to provide you’ll get a weekly bill from me.’ She dropped her voice again: ‘It’s only to have an agreement, patron. So we tell the same story, eh?’
* * *
Jacques and Rosie left the auberge at ten fifty, out of the side door into the alleyway and across the yard where he kept his gazo, over a fence and then on grass – an orchard – Jacques leading and Rosie staying close, at times in physical contact. She was wearing slacks, old plimsolls, a sweater over her blouse and Thérèse’s jacket over that. Llama in the right-hand pocket, spare clip in the other.
‘Careful here.’ Jacques reached back for her hand. A ditch, with wire on its other side. ‘I’ll go over first.’
‘Go on. I’m all right.’ She could see the wire, a soft glint by starlight: better in fact than she could see him, in his dark sweater and trousers, dark-stubbled face. Over – now… Over the wire too. Pausing, breathing the cool night air, scent of herbs and woodsmoke. They’d be somewhere behind the Hôtel Poste, she guessed. Jacques moving on again, with a hand on her arm – diverting about thirty degrees right.
‘Here’s the track. See, right ahead?’
The track that led from the road between the Poste and the churchyard. It was rutted by lorries or tractors and baked as hard as rock; she was on its high centre, Jacques down in a rut. On the right, beyond a sparser patch of trees, the church’s spire a black vertical against the stars. The track curving first left and then right – skirting the ch
urchyard. Rosie thinking about André again – that once this was over he’d have reason to feel pleased with himself, even to believe that with a solid reputation amongst résistants in the field he’d have a chance of getting away with past infamies.
Then he might agree to de-briefing in England?
‘Who’s there?’
Gruff challenge – from their left. Jacques stopped, holding her back too.
‘Jacques – and Justine. Who’re you?’
‘Tamerlan. Stay where you are, huh?’
A shape loomed close: closer. Could have been a gorilla, or a bear, going only by its shape. Creature with a weapon of some sort: a Sten, she thought. A Sten it would be… Jacques asked quietly, ‘Duclos, is it?’
A chuckle, and the metallic click of the Sten’s safety as he pushed it on. ‘Armand Duclos, the very same. Soir, Mam’selle.’
‘Bon soir. But Justine, please.’
‘OK. This way, Justine…’
* * *
Guichard was there, although he wouldn’t be taking part in the action. Shaking Rosie’s hand: she managed not to shake André’s, by avoiding others too. Guichard had murmured introductions, gesturing around: ‘Masson, Duclos, de Rommerille, Lescalles. André Marchéval you know, of course – and this is Charles Saurrat.’ All settling down again then: there were timber-stacks around them, square-topped against the stars, and some logs to sit on. Six men and the boy, she counted – as well as herself and Jacques. The Maquisards all had Stens fitted with silencers, and some haversacks piled together in the centre obviously contained explosives. The men had shifted around to make room for them, were now settling down again: hunched black shapes, the largest being Guichard. In close-up she’d seen woollen caps and the kind of jackets they called Canadiens. There was a certain odour.
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