‘Marco. Hey, Marco. We’re old pals, Marco – remember?’
Seemed he didn’t.
Glimmer of light, though: at an upstairs window. Just a flicker, then it had gone: but the window was being opened… ‘Marco!’ Girl’s voice. Solange… ‘Quiet, Marco!’ Then – as the dog obeyed, more or less – ‘Who’s there?’
‘I’m Ben Quarry, Solange. Ben. Royal Navy – the Australian?’
‘L’Australien?’
‘Right! I went with Vidor, remember?’ Ben started walking towards the house. ‘He’s away somewhere, he left me with the Durands – the garagiste at Lannilis. I just heard you’ve had trouble – Boches here, and your father—’
‘Wait. I’ll come down.’
Seconds later, he saw the glow of an oil lamp in the open door: a yellowish pool of light on this shaded side of the house, her figure bulky-looking, hunched, as she unhooked the dog’s chain and moved it to another tethering-post. He’d been moving closer meanwhile, towards the door: seeing at shorter range that the shapelessness was due to an old coat she’d thrown on over her nightgown. Hair wild, her face under the light white as paper, eyes like dark holes in it.
She could have been old, in that moment…
‘Solange!’
‘Are you hurt?’
Holding the lamp high, to throw light on his face. He told her no, only scratches, brambles and so forth. ‘But you, Solange—’
‘Your face is all blood!’
‘Never mind that. I’m so sorry – your father—’
‘Oh. You heard.’ A breath like a gasp… ‘But Alain also—’
‘They killed Alain?’
‘Yes. Come inside – Monsieur Ben… Is that right – Ben?’
He followed her in, and she put her lamp down on the table. This was the kitchen. Pushing the door shut… ‘Solange – what about my two seamen?’
‘Gone. Luc took them.’ She was up close, examining his face, then getting him to show her his hands – which if anything were worse. Shaking her head as she turned away. ‘I’ll draw some water.’ Luc, he was thinking – Vidor’s man. Thank God for him… Relief was huge – even if it was only partial. He asked Solange as she worked the pump, ‘When did Luc come for them?’
‘Oh – the day before… There’s hot water on the stove, don’t worry, I’m going to mix it.’
‘That’s about the last thing I’d—’
‘They shot Alain in his head. He rushed to attack one who – oh, he was – you know, twisting my arms, and – to make my father tell them things – and another had brought in Alain, he went for this one who was hurting me, and the man shot him. There. And my father died in that chair – that one. He had his eyes on me and his mouth open – trying to speak but as if he’d swallowed his tongue – and he just fell forward’ – pointing with her head again, twisting round from the iron stove – ‘there.’
‘I’ll do that.’ The enamel bowl – lifting it, transferring it to the table. In this poor light you’d barely have known that her hair was red. And she looked as if she hadn’t slept for a week. Tattered old tweed coat hiding the figure which he remembered had had Tommo Farr’s eyes out on stalks… ‘Let me do this myself, Solange. Only scratches. Fuss about nothing. Really.’
‘Sit down, eh?’
Where her father had sat. He obeyed her, for some reason, and she started work on him, using a sponge and frowning with concentration while she dabbed and wiped and the water turned pink then red. ‘Your French has improved, Monsieur Ben.’
‘Glad you think so. Been getting a lot of practice… Not Monsieur Ben, please, just Ben. You know, I think you’re marvellous?’
‘For what?’ A shrug. ‘Life must go on.’ Her expression tightened. ‘For some of us.’
‘Running the farm all on your own.’
She shrugged again. ‘Not everything gets done that should.’
‘I’ll help, anyway, now I’m here. Just tell me what and when, and—’
‘I think you should stay inside. They could come again. They’re searching, still. I think they were satisfied we have no weapons here, but – one can’t be sure, there seems to be no system one can comprehend.’
‘What makes them think there might be weapons cached around here?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe someone said something. Mostly what they ask about is explosive. But – it’s what’s happening, that’s all… Will your boat come in again?’
‘God knows. Up to Vidor to fix it with London, one way or the other. I’d guess not, though.’
‘He’d move you to some other place along the coast.’
‘I suppose… D’you know where Luc took those two?’
‘I think to Lannilis – the café where he works.’
‘Patronized by Boche soldiers?’
‘Yes. I don’t know. Better not to know, Ben… You look better now. If you want to finish for yourself, take off your clothes and – you know, the rest of you—’
‘Yeah. Please. You’re astonishing. To think about me and my silly little scratches, when—’
‘I feed the goats too, eh?’
A laugh. He laughed with her. ‘Well – OK—’
‘I’ll draw some clean water.’
‘No. I will.’ She’d been patting him with a scrap of towelling: he took it from her. ‘Forgive me asking, Solange, but what’s happened with your father’s body, and Alain’s? Only thinking that if there’s anything I could help with—’
‘They came for them. I ran to our neighbours, the Faubiers, and they came, and Jacques Faubier went to Landeda on his bicycle. So then the doctor, and Marcel Legrand – for the pompe funèbre - and the cure, also our own police, two of them, they’re not bad fellows… And I’ve sent word to my sister – I hope she’ll come—’
‘You have a sister.’
‘Yes – Lucinde. She’s married, lives near Plouermel. Oh, I do hope she’ll come!’
‘I’m sure she will. But now, look here.’ He was on his feet: she had her hands on the bowl, about to take it, to empty it. He put one of his on her forearm: ‘Leave this to me, now. I’ll stay down here tonight – if I may, if you’d give me a blanket or something – and move to the loft tomorrow – if that’s a good idea. But you get some sleep now. You’re a fantastic girl, Solange, you really are… And – look, must be a nightmare – but it won’t be for ever. You know? Maybe this sister of yours’ll—’
She was in his arms, suddenly. He’d seen the tears coming, the breakup – break down she must have been holding off. Her face was hidden against his shoulder now: arms locked round his neck: pressed against him, shivering inside the shabby old coat: sobs like gasps, like fighting for breath… He heard himself murmuring while he held her – patting her, like calming a frightened horse – ‘Solange… Solange, honey – nightmare now, but it’ll come all right, you’ll see. Listen – Solange, listen – if the gunboat does come, how about we take you to England with us?’
A child, in misery. Anything, to comfort her.
15
On the Tuesday, she put her cards on the table with Jacqui. She’d been intending a more subtle approach, but she saw that flood tide suddenly, and as it were took a header… Motivated partly through having had – and still suffering from – an edgy sense of now or never, anxiety to have the S.I.S. operation up and running irrespective of what might happen afterwards. Romeo’s partly concealed state of nerves was one factor, the alleged six-week life of pianists was another, and this morning, when she’d been leaving Ursule’s, she’d thought they had a tail on her. Wheeling her bike out across the pavement, she’d noticed a male cyclist in the entrance to an alleyway that was a short-cut to the Café Saint Sever: he’d been leaning against the corner with his bike propped beside him, and when he’d seen her she’d had a clear impression that he’d been startled – as if it were her he’d been waiting for and she’d caught him napping. Glancing away then – taking a long look down into the alley in which she knew for a fact there was nothing
except dustbins and sometimes a scrawny cat or two, and in which he hadn’t been showing any interest until she’d appeared. A youngish man, wearing a grey cap and a striped pullover, overall blue trousers with braces… Her intention had been to ride up to Pigot’s garage, in search of Romeo: instead she mounted, without another glance at the man in the alley, pedalled along to the church and up to Rue la Fayette, over the Corneille bridge, and dropped in on a chemist in the Rue des Bonnetiers, where a girl assistant had told her she’d like to stock the Cazalet perfumes but that it was entirely up to her father, who last week had been away in Dijon, where his sister lived.
Father still wasn’t back, she told Rosie this morning. Try again in a day or two. He was supposed to have retired, but he kept the reins firmly in his own hands. She’d shrugged: ‘Doesn’t make life any easier.’
Outside, there was no sign of the man in the striped jersey. Either she’d been wrong about him, or he was a pro. There was another shop she’d been thinking of having a go at, in Rue des Béguines: not a very hopeful prospect, and rather out of her way, but a good alternative to the risk of leading him – them – to Marc Pigot’s garage.
Might miss Romeo, she realized. But that would be the worst of it. She’d made no arrangements for the day, other than to see Jacqui this evening. César had gone by train to Amiens to see one of the Resistance men whom Rosie had met last week and who’d expressed interest in setting up certain sabotage operations. He’d had some ideas which César wanted to discuss with him; also, Baker Street had approved all the weapons for which Rosie had asked – they’d told her so, on Sunday night – and he’d be passing this good news on at the same time.
So – back on the bike and down to Rue Saint Lo, and past the Palais de Justice. Grey, grim, and in one’s imagination – one’s vision of the activities inside it – frightening. Swastikas were swift flashes of colour in the corners of her eyes as she glanced left and right at the crossing, the Place Foch – trying not to see them at all… Joan of Arc’s place of execution on her left, then: and passing the Brasserie Guillaume she saw that same man – striped jersey, grey peaked cap, workman’s trousers – on the pavement outside the café. Although he was standing with his back to the road, reading a menu or a price-list on the post against which he’d leant his bicycle, the sight of him gave her a jolt.
She got no more than a vague promise of future interest at the other shop. As much as she’d expected… Emerging, checking that the coast was clear while replacing her sample-case in the pannier, she decided to go back to that brasserie. Reminding herself that it was always better to look potential dangers in the face, than to run scared; this bogeyman might not have the slightest interest in her, and if she could convince herself of this she’d have a better day. If not – well, at least she’d know better than to go within a mile of Pigot’s place. As it turned out, he wasn’t there – neither inside nor outside. At least, not visibly. She treated herself to a so-called coffee, while from a nearby table two young Germans eyed her, smiling nervously and muttering to each other behind their hands, and she decided – more or less – that the fact she’d seen him twice had probably been coincidence. Rouen wasn’t such a huge town, after all, and this square was more or less its centrepiece.
She still played it safe, though – wandered around trying to do business here and there, spent some time on a bench down by the river, had a lunchtime snack at a café near the cathedral, and didn’t go to the garage until mid-afternoon. Pigot was there, but Romeo wasn’t: he’d been there during the forenoon but wasn’t likely to be back.
So that was that.
She was at Jacqui’s at seven, bringing a bottle of Hermitage which César had presented to her – ‘To compensate for my bad humour yesterday. I think we’ll make a very effective team, Angel, you and I. Don’t you agree?’ She’d told him yes, no question. There was no reason they shouldn’t either. She wasn’t exactly mad about him, but they were here to work together, therefore had to get on, in the interests of the job.
* * *
Jacqui raised her glass: containing wine of her own, not the Hermitage, which would be better for at least a few days’ rest. ‘Here’s to us, Jeanne-Marie.’
Rosie echoed, ‘Us… Hey, this isn’t bad!’
‘Shouldn’t be, either – seeing as it’s reserved for the precious Wehrmacht.’ They were eating veal with a sauce that had brandy in it, and turnip which she’d mashed and fried. She put her glass down, and Rosie told her, ‘You really don’t do at all badly, Jacqui, do you?’
‘The veal was a present too, I admit. But in general it’s my own earnings I live on, I assure you. At weekends, certainly, I’ve no bills to pay, and that’s a big help, but otherwise she pointed downstairs – ‘the business has to pay, or I’d starve. Hans lent me the capital to set it up, mind you…’ She sighed. ‘Why I tell you so many secrets, Jeanne-Marie, I can’t imagine!’
‘I suppose there might not be many people you can – well, let your hair down with.’ She shook her head. ‘God knows, I talk to myself, half the time… But – the subject of money, Jacqui – does get to be a headache, doesn’t it?’
‘For you, you mean?’
‘Well – so far, the way I’m trying to earn a living—’
‘I’ll do what I can to help you, there, but—’
‘I’d sooner talk about your problems. You say he set you up here. And helps, one way and another. And – well, you like him, obviously, but—’
‘I like him very much!’
‘—but you really need him, don’t you? While on the other hand – I keep thinking about it, Jacqui, what you were telling me, having to put up with the malicious telephone calls, and people staring at you when you’re out—’
‘I can put up with it. For the time being. I think I said – she who laughs last?’
‘Jacqui, listen. You must know as well as I do that at the very least there’s a possibility the Boches will lose this war. A possibility – agree?’
‘I suppose. If one looked on the blackest side—’
‘Brightest, I’d say. And I’m certain – certain, Jacqui – that we are going to win.’
The dark head tilted… ‘We?’
‘The Allies, say.’
‘To you, that’s we?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s the plain truth, I’m sure of it, and consequently I’m very concerned for you. One thing about having only oneself to talk to all day is there’s time to think… And thinking about you, Jacqui, I’ve concluded that you’re an extremely kind person – you’ve been very kind to me, anyway – who’s being misled – misleading yourself, to some extent, to be quite frank – and – Jacqui, look, if the people around here who know this German’s your lover and hate you for it – that’s the way it is, uh? Well, my God – what’s going to happen to you when the Boches are driven out?’
‘If that were to happen—’
A bell rang. Doorbell. She had a forkful of turnip halfway to her mouth: she held it there, her head slightly on one side, listening…
‘I can guess who this is.’ Getting up. ‘He’s been away, and he was due back about now. In fact I heard, this last weekend… Listen, if it is him, he’s a German sergeant – Gerhardt Clausen, one of their – well, Security people. The one I mentioned I could introduce you to, as it happens – he’s actually very charming, and—’
‘I don’t believe this!’ It felt like having a very, very bad joke played on one… ‘Honestly, Jacqui—’
‘I tell you he’s nice!’
‘You’re going to ask him to come up?’
‘Well, I may have to – I can’t be rude…’
Romeo’s voice in her brain – telling her Highly clued-up S.D. man, name of Clausen… Only a sergeant, but he carries a lot of weight…
Jacqui repeated from the doorway, ‘May have to. Just calm down, Jeanne-Marie, he’s just a perfectly ordinary—’
‘Much rather not meet him. For the best of reasons, Jacqui. Please – if you
can possibly avoid it…’
The man who broke up the réseau here. Romeo again: Good-looking guy, and he’s up to all the tricks. Women like him – and he uses that.
Please, God… Because it could blow the whole damn thing. To be seen with Jacqui, and by this Clausen of all people: if she was going to work for S.O.E., the last thing one could afford – or that she could – was a known association. One skittle sending all the others flying: and if she saw that, she’d refuse the job. She wasn’t all that green, she’d worked for La Chatte, for God’s sake
Which would account for her knowing Clausen?
A door downstairs banged shut, then she was audibly on her way up – talking nineteen to the dozen… ‘—so it was a splendid weekend, Gerhardt, every minute of it. Well, as you know, I live for the weekends… Now, then, here she is. Jeanne-Marie, I’d like to introduce a good friend – Gerhardt Clausen. Gerhardt, this is Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre, who’s extremely sweet except she’s so determined I should stock and sell her damn perfumes—’
‘So—’
He’d spotted her wedding ring. She’d seen him registering it.
‘Madame Lefèvre. Enchanted.’
Wavy dark hair with an edging of grey at the temples, deepset eyes… He was in civilian clothes – smart ones, at that. A light barathea suit, cream shirt, blue tie. Looking up at him, she managed a small smile: ‘My pleasure, monsieur.’
‘Actually, sergeant. Not that it matters – my job permits me to go around disguised as some kind of human being.’ Easy smile, fluent French. ‘You’ve not been in Rouen long, I think?’
‘Cognac, Gerhardt?’
‘Oh, but you’re an angel!’
‘No. Not long.’ Answering his question, she looked at Jacqui – addressing her then, as the shy Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre might well do, seeking her friend’s support… ‘And if I can’t do a better selling job than I’ve done so far I won’t be here much longer!’
‘But things will pick up, I’m sure. With that one’s help, eh?’ He nodded towards Jacqui, who was pouring his drink. ‘She’s a great girl, I can tell you. As well as the most beautiful in France… He took the brandy, swirled the glass in his cupped palm. ‘Black market? Business must be good, Jacqui!’
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