by Kurt Magenta
Maddox patted him on the shoulder. ‘So are you, my boy, so are you.’ He turned towards the shore, sniffed the air. ‘We’ll be arriving soon. I doubt we’ll see much of one another after that. But as your father might have said: bon courage.’
Chapter 5
The Refugee
This train journey was more comfortable than the last. For a start he had a seat, even if the odour of stale tobacco smoke was not dispelled by the draft fluttering through the cracked-open window. The locomotive had picked up speed now and as they rat-tatted over the rails the carriage swayed like a bandleader conducting a dance tune.
There was a family in the compartment with him: a diffident middle-aged man with a moustache and crumpled brown clothing, his somewhat more elegant wife – in an old-fashioned yet well-preserved black dress – and their daughter, perhaps eight or nine, now asleep on her mother’s shoulder. They all looked fragile and pale, somehow shrunken.
He recognised them from the ship; they too had paid the chief officer for passage. Given their appearance, it was doubtful that the captain had waved a gun in their faces. Yet the father wore a heavy signet ring whose family crest hinted that their humble appearance might be deceptive.
There were other refugees on the train: apparently a bus was waiting at the other end to take them to a reception centre. A pair of policemen stalked the corridor. ‘Bobbies’, Lucien had thought fondly, when he first saw them on the dock in their comical domed helmets. But lately their pacing had begun to grate on his nerves.
The voyage had ended in an orderly enough fashion. As soon as the ship had finished its complex negotiations with the dockside, the gangway was lowered with a rattle and slither of chains. The Polish soldiers appeared on deck, miraculously transformed from a rag-tag bunch of foul-mouthed misfits into an elite fighting unit. They marched smartly off the ship – the ringleader of the vodka sessions winked at Lucien as he passed – and onto the dock, where they stood to attention before the senior officer who had appeared to greet them. The officer snapped a salute and they responded as one. After that, they were marched away.
Lucien was still watching their retreating heels when a metallic voice on the Tannoy urged passengers to muster in the saloon.
The waifs and strays mustered on the sickly green carpet. It was the first time Lucien had seen them all together: about twenty people, ranging widely in age, although he was the youngest solo traveller. They stood like pupils in a school assembly, facing the captain – whose face still looked taut and fatigued – the chief officer, and two newcomers. One of them, Lucien noted with surprise, wore a French officer’s uniform. There was no sign of Maddox or Anna.
Lucien kept a low profile at the back of the group.
The captain spoke first, in clipped English.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, I must thank you for your patience during this long crossing. My apologies, also, for the necessary confusion concerning our destination. But we have arrived safely, and I wish you luck and courage in the difficult times ahead. I will now hand you over to Mister Duncan of the British government, who wishes to speak to each of you in turn. I have made a cabin available for that purpose. Lieutenant Vauthier would like to see all those of you who hold French papers. I would ask you to make yourself known to him.’
Duncan – a tall, lanky man with round spectacles and a neat fringe of sandy hair around his freckled pate – stepped forward. In the well-modulated tones that Lucien associated with the BBC he said, ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome. This is a mere formality, nothing to be alarmed about. I represent what we call the Home Office. A short conversation will enable me to establish your needs for the immediate future.’
The vetting procedure, thought Lucien. It’s started already.
‘Some of you may have family in England,’ Duncan continued. ‘For those of you who are not so fortunate, we have arranged temporary accommodation, however makeshift. I will now assign each of you a number, which will be announced over the Tannoy. Without further ado, let us get organised.’
Duncan plunged into the group to shepherd families together and distribute coarse-grained yellow tickets with numbers printed on them.
Lucien was given number 8. Then he joined the smaller group that had formed around Lieutenant Vauthier, who with his dark eyes and shadowed chin had an altogether more Latin look. Vauthier was fairly young – in his early thirties, at a guess – but his upright posture and haughty expression suggested that he wielded a certain amount of power. After a moment he raised his palms to show that he wished to make an announcement.
‘What I have to say is very simple, so I will say it to all of you,’ he began. ‘I am a representative of General de Gaulle, the former under-secretary of state for war. As you may know, the General was compelled to leave the French government – and indeed France itself – when Monsieur Paul Reynaud was succeeded by Marshal Pétain.’
He scrutinised them as if to underline the gravity of his words.
‘General de Gaulle has pledged to continue the fight for France alongside our allies. From now on you may think of him as leader of the Free French. I have been charged by him to welcome any new arrivals and to ascertain which of you wish to join us.’
As mutters broke out around him, Lucien felt a shiver of confusion. De Gaulle here, in England? And he’d appointed himself leader of the Free French, of all things! The presumption of the man was astounding.
Vauthier continued: ‘If I may permit myself to paraphrase the General himself, from his BBC radio broadcast only a few nights ago, France may have lost a battle – but she has not lost the war. I have here some copies of his speech, which was reprinted in The Times.’
He began distributing newspaper clippings. Lucien took one, but his eyes slid down the text. Vauthier’s words sounded too much like the propaganda he’d been hearing for months. The French had shown what they were made of when it came to a fight. Lucien had come here to join the English, and that was exactly what he intended to do.
He folded de Gaulle’s speech, shoved it into his pocket, and stood aside to wait for his interview with Duncan.
It was mercifully short, thanks to Jasper Maddox.
‘Major Maddox speaks very highly of you,’ Duncan told him. ‘Says he’ll vouch for you entirely. Tell me, what are your plans?’
‘I’d like to volunteer for the army, if possible.’
‘Just like that, eh? Do you have any military experience?’
‘No…not really. But I’m sure I could be trained. I mean, I’m willing…’ he trailed off.
‘I see. Well, you can certainly pass for an Englishman without any trouble. Major Maddox tells me you were a reporter in civilian life. A mighty young one, I must say.’
‘I joined the paper a couple of years ago. So you really think there’s a chance?’
‘Perhaps, perhaps. They’re putting a system in place for foreign volunteers. Do you have anywhere to stay in England?’
Lucien thought of his aunt and uncle and their suffocating home in Winchester. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Very well. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay at a reception centre for a few days. May I see your papers?’
And so it went. Lucien had the feeling that he had been politely but firmly sidelined; pushed into a rising tide of refugees from which he might never surface. He resolved to contact Maddox as soon as possible.
But first he had a mission to accomplish. ‘Just keep an eye out,’ Maddox had said.
Well, he would prove himself more than equal to that task.
Now the suburbs of London were emerging from the gentle green countryside as the Southern Railway train clattered towards its destination. Lucien admired the tidy rows of red brick houses. The buildings reminded him of Toulouse, ‘la ville rose’, its red brickwork glowing in the sunshine. As he watched, the web of streets grew more dense, grey
began to leech into the red and soon they were huffing through the city. Silver barrage balloons floated like tethered whales above the rooftops. Lucien kept a lookout for landmarks and was rewarded with a glimpse of the Houses of Parliament.
Then with a whistle, a shriek of brakes and a billow of steam, the locomotive slid beneath the canopy of Waterloo station. Doors opened and banged shut with shuddering echoes.
As they disembarked under the watchful eyes of the policemen, Lucien glanced at the Belgian family’s meagre collection of luggage with something approaching envy. He still had his small brown suitcase. Along with it, his sole possessions were a change of clothes, a toothbrush, a razor, a tin of brilliantine, a notebook and pencil, the Simenon novel (La Marie du Port) and a jazz disc by the Hot Club de France – miraculously intact. His wallet contained the last of his savings, in probably worthless French francs.
The case bumped against his thigh as the straggling group of refugees made their way out of the station, shepherded by Duncan and corralled front and rear by policemen. The concourse was full of travellers going briskly about their business, khaki uniforms and the sheen of gunmetal threaded among the civilian clothing. The perfect crowd to melt into. It would be easy to make a break, to run for it – but where would he run to?
A low-slung dark green bus was waiting for them, the words Green Line picked out in gilded letters on its side. The panel above the driver’s cab read: ‘NOT IN SERVICE.’ Lucien had been hoping for what the French called an Imperial bus – a red and cream double decker. He wondered if so many things in London were red – the telephone and post boxes, the buses – because it made them easier to see in the city’s notorious fog; although today there was merely a haze like a sheet of muslin stretched across the cloudless summer sky.
The waifs and strays shuffled meekly aboard. The engine started with a shudder and a huff of diesel.
Peering out of the window, Lucien felt a rush of excitement. The bus shouldered through the dense traffic: burly Humbers and natty Austins; beetling black taxis; red trolleybuses hanging from wires like notes on sheet music. An extra frisson of drama was provided by the fact that all these vehicles were on the wrong side of the road, so he was constantly bracing himself for a collision.
The brickwork was not just red and orange, but umber and bronze. Other buildings were looming and Gothic, their granite façades darkened by pollution. Many were buttressed with sandbags and garnished with coils of barbed wire. Around gardens and parks there were ugly gaps in the black iron railings, the metal presumably needed to feed the war machine. Despite these ominous signs, the shaded streets were packed with people going about their business: men in smart suits and hats – the famous bowler; the more dashing homburg – women in bright summer dresses and heels, a sprinkling of brown and grey uniforms. Advertising hoardings urged Londoners to drink Fry’s Cocoa, buy war bonds and MacLean their teeth.
London appeared to be built on an altogether different scale to Paris. The French capital was human-sized, its broad boulevards flooded with light, its café terraces allowing its citizens to own the streets. But London seemed vast, sombre and unknowable.
Finally, they drew up outside a large building crowned with a curvilinear glass and steel roof that reminded him of the Grand Palais back at home.
This was Olympia Hall: built as an exhibition centre, now a refugee camp.
In other circumstances the hall might have looked grand; elegant, even. The barrel-vaulted glass and steel canopy arched high above them, a combination of museum and cathedral. But at ground level the scene was apocalyptic: hundreds of refugees, military and civilian, sitting or sprawled on rows of straw mattresses.
Some had used their blankets and luggage to erect makeshift tents. Others sat in groups playing cards. Many were simply lying on their bedding, comatose with boredom or exhaustion. Aid volunteers bustled through the maze like mice, occasionally pausing to ask a question or squeeze a shoulder. An incongruous syrup of light classical music trickled through loudspeakers, interrupted now and then by tinny announcements. More people peered down from the galleries that lined the vast space. There was a hubbub of conversation and – despite everything – the occasional volley of laughter.
A young woman wearing a volunteer force armband approached them. ‘Follow me, ladies and gents. The place looks packed but we’ve managed to squeeze some space for you.’
Half an hour later, Lucien found himself with his back literally against the wall. He was sitting on a straw-stuffed mattress, trying to update his notes and failing to express his feelings. Bearing in mind his new status as Jasper Maddox’s refugee spy, he wasn’t sure if he should be writing anything at all. But was he really a spy, after all? The idea seemed suddenly quite ridiculous. What on earth did he think he was playing at?
He tossed the notebook and the pencil aside and decided to test the limits of what was, after all, a kind of prison.
He had to admit the camp was well organised. There was a canteen near the main entrance serving basic but hearty food at all hours: soup and stew; slices of cloying apple pie. Washrooms next to the emergency exits. Nearby he found a stairway leading to gallery level. Up here, too, mattresses were the only furnishings available to the camp’s inhabitants – apart from the suitcases and trunks that now served as seats and tables.
To find a real chair you had to venture into one of the offices. Once occupied by the venue’s management, these were now home to a variety of organisations charged with aiding the refugees. In the one squatted by the British army, a downcast private added Lucien’s name to a list and told him, ‘You’ll hear an announcement if they need you.’
He knew the announcement would never come, but by talking to the bored soldier he began to get a clearer picture of what was going on at Olympia. ‘The refugees started coming in after Dunkirk,’ the private told him. ‘You’ve got all sorts: soldiers, officers, civilians. Belgians and Poles, a few Dutch, loads of French. A lot of ’em are just kids. A few’ll get taken on as volunteers, but we ’aven’t a clue what to do with the rest.’ He looked Lucien up and down. ‘Most of ’em don’t look like army types. No offense.’
Lucien smiled. ‘Only a little taken.’
The private glanced at his watch. ‘Listen, you better be getting back downstairs. Lights out at nine – it’s the blackout.’
Lucien felt suddenly claustrophobic: how long would he be forced to stay in this malodorous rookery? Nodding farewell to the private, he decided to plan his next move over a last cup of the canteen’s watery tea, if it was still serving.
On the stairs, perhaps not so surprisingly, he bumped into someone he knew.
‘Mon Dieu – Cortel, n’est-ce pas? Lycée Rollin? What the devil are you doing here?’
Lycée Rollin – the fortress-like school on the avenue Trudaine. The name rushed back just in time: Chenard, Georges. An older pupil but a familiar, popular one. A settler of disputes, a breaker-up of fights; not to mention a take-no-prisoners card player. A round open face, sharp dark eyes, black wiry hair that would have been curlier if it hadn’t been chopped and brushed into submission. The owlish spectacles were a new touch. They suited the stocky frame that was, Lucien remembered, faster and tougher than it looked.
He answered, ‘The same as everyone else here, I imagine: running away from the Nazis.’
‘I don’t recall you as the running away type. I’m with de Gaulle’s lot. Working for a man named Vauthier.’
For some reason the news chilled him. ‘I’ve already met Lieutenant Vauthier. He’s very sure of himself, I’ll say that for him. But the Free French…To be honest I’d hoped to join a British unit.’
A flicker of comprehension crossed Chenard’s face. ‘Ah yes – I remember now. English mother, wasn’t it? Well, you can keep on hoping. The British think we’re all spies or fifth columnists, if we’re fit for anything. I doubt a few drops of English blood will make a diffe
rence. Besides, they’re looking for fighting men – trained soldiers. We need anybody we can get. Couriers, typists, translators – even press attachés, now I come to think of it. You became a reporter, didn’t you?’
‘More or less.’ He didn’t want to argue with Chenard – the man meant well and he was pleasant enough company in these dismal circumstances. ‘D’you know if the canteen’s still open? We can talk over a cup of their awful tea.’
‘Disgusting, isn’t it? Sign up with us and I’ll get you a decent glass of red.’
‘Why does everyone think I can be bribed with wine?’
‘Trust me, you’ll need it. My new motto: never sober, never afraid.’
The canteen seemed livelier than ever, so they sat at one of the long tables, sketching out their lives since school. Just as Lucien had remembered, Chenard was a born optimist with a measure of cunning. Back in Paris he’d worked for a travel agency, which had proved useful when he’d decided to leave the country, several weeks before the general mobilisation. (‘I knew which ship to get on,’ he winked.) He answered de Gaulle’s call the day after it had been broadcast: ‘Apparently I had the perfect physique for recruitment.’
Chenard reached into his pocket and tipped five cubes of ivory from the cup of his hand. Poker dice, the images scuffed and faded. ‘Remember these?’
‘Of course! We nearly got expelled over them.’
They were interrupted by the metallic voice on the loudspeakers reminding them that the lights would go out in ten minutes.
By the time the canteen closed, the great glass canopy was darkening and the refugees were shuffling towards their improvised beds. Lucien noticed a commotion in the middle of the space, an impression of urgency that cut through the general ambience of torpor. A prone figure on a mattress – somebody must have been taken ill.
He noticed four things at once: the familiar features of the slack grey face; an orderly lowering the man’s arm after taking his pulse; the heavy signet ring on the white hand.
