On her way back, she went into a shop and bought five packs of Gauloises and some more matches. She packed all this into the picnic basket, with some cups and plates and cutlery and put it on the front seat.
Now for the most difficult task of all.
‘Luc? Henri Monnet. How are you?’
‘Oh – very well, thank you. A little worried.’
Monnet was another friend, a distinguished author, specialising in biography; in happier times, Luc had imagined introducing him to Celia, for a pooling of ideas. It had not quite worked out like that.
‘I too. I phoned to thank you for sending me the cover proofs. Very nice. I particularly like the one showing the hall of mirrors at Versailles. Beautiful.’
‘Good. That was my favourite also.’
‘And also to tell you I’ve heard a rather disturbing rumour.’
‘What was that?’
‘Well, André Maurois, you know.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Maurois was a captain in the army and a writer, recently ordered to fly to America for a propaganda lecture tour.
‘Well apparently he was phoned by a government minister this morning, who advised him to send his wife south.’
‘Christ.’
‘Yes. Worrying. Of course it may not be true, just one more story, but I heard it on the journalistic pipeline. I thought you might have heard something, with your contacts.’
‘Well – yes, I have. After today, no Paris newspapers.’
‘Yes, I had heard that. I think it’s probably true, apparently the entire Parisian office of the Daily Mail are moving to Tours, to try and get the paper out from there.’
‘Yes, well there could be a reason for Tours. The press were told, off the record, that the entire French cabinet are moving there tonight.’
‘Good God.’
‘Quite. Have you heard any radio bulletins today?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. The usual soothing claptrap. I don’t know, Luc, I half wish I’d got out myself. But – what for and where to?’
‘Well – exactly. Keep in touch. I’ll let you know if I hear any more.’
‘Are you staying there? In the office?’
‘Oh – yes, I think so. More likely to get information. But I’ll probably go home early. Adele may be worried.’
He put the phone down; he felt rather sick. Perhaps he should go home. He would: as soon as he could. But he’d agreed to have lunch with Constantine first. He’d clear it with him, then go. He’d understand. And anyway, half Paris seemed to be finally closing down.
‘Do you need help, Mam’selle?’
She turned round, pushed the hair off her damp forehead. She could feel the sweat under her arms. She must look really attractive.
‘Well – yes. If you wouldn’t mind.’
He worked at the garage down the street, she knew him by sight: a good-looking man, with black eyes and black curly hair. He usually wore blue overalls, but in the heat he was stripped to the waist. He was middle-aged, too old, she supposed, to be in the army, but very fit, brown and muscly.
He grinned at her. ‘It would be a pleasure.’ He had the pram on the roof straight away; she had been struggling to lift it for what seemed like hours. ‘Pass me the ropes. Now take this end – that’s right. Yes. There—’
In five minutes it was done: Lady Beckenham’s Silver Cross pram was mounted most securely on to the roof of the car. It looked, oddly, even larger.
‘Thank you so much. Here—’ She reached into the car, pulled out one of the packs of Gauloises, and gave it to him.
‘There’s no need. But thank you. Be careful, Mam’selle. It’s not so safe on those roads.’
‘The roads are empty,’ she said, surprised.
‘Not once you leave the centre.’
She smiled at him; he obviously guessed where she was going. Well, it was hardly difficult.
‘Thank you again. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Mam’selle. And good luck.’
Luc and Guy Constantine settled down at a pavement café; on the way they had passed a street vendor selling one of the favourite souvenirs of the moment, a porcelain dog with one leg cocked over a copy of Mein Kampf.
‘They’ll all be confiscated soon,’ said Constantine gloomily.
‘You really think they’re coming?’
‘I fear so. Finally today, for the first time.’ He looked at Luc, hesitated, then said, ‘I am sorry, my friend, I have some bad news for you.’
‘Bad news?’
‘Yes. I am closing these offices down. As of today.’
‘Closing them down. But why, what—’
‘My dear fellow, we are a publishing company. The Nazis do not like such organisations. They see danger in them. Quite rightly, for propaganda and so on. Do you really think they will let us continue to operate unchecked? And besides, we have strong Jewish affiliations, the company is registered as Constantine Friedman, you may remember, and you are not the only Jewish director. No, if they arrive, as surely they will, I think our time will be very short.’
‘But what will you do?’ said Luc. He felt sick and very cold. This was even worse than he had thought. He was about to lose his job.
‘I have decided to move the company to Switzerland.’
‘Switzerland!’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, this must be rather a shock for you.’
Bastard, thought Luc, watching him closely, he’s been planning this for weeks and not telling me. Bastard. Bastard!
Guy smiled at him, the smooth, charming smile that had beguiled a hundred authors. ‘Please think about it. I would so like to have you with me. If I go, that is.’
‘You mean when you go.’
Guy looked at him briefly, then into his glass. ‘Well – yes. It is more when than if, I must admit. I had not expected to have to make a decision quite so soon. But the news is getting worse and – well, my wife and I, we feel we must get out quickly. What will you do about Adele? She has no French papers, no proper status. She should have gone home, Luc.’
‘I know it,’ said Luc gloomily.
The waiter was chatty, full of gloomy cheer.
‘The Boches will be here within a week,’ he said, setting down glasses, cutlery, bread.
‘Oh rubbish,’ said a man at the next table, ‘don’t spread ugly rumours. I just heard the radio, the news is good.’
Luc felt better briefly; but common sense told him he had no right to feel so.
‘I think I’ll go home,’ he said to Guy, ‘I’ve got rather a lot to think about. And I fear Adele will be anxious.’
‘Of course. Beer? Or wine? And an omelette. Let us fiddle just for half an hour longer, my dear Luc, while Rome burns.’
Luc looked at him, then stood up and left without a word.
It was three o’clock now: dreadfully hot. She locked up their apartment after putting a letter for Luc on the table. A brief, but carefully worded letter: explaining what she was doing and why. She owed him that; he needed to know.
The children were playing in Mme André’s dark, stuffy sitting room.
‘I gave them lunch, Mam’selle.’
‘Oh, you’re so kind. I’m sorry I’ve been so long.’
‘It has been a pleasure.’
‘Here—’ She held out some notes. Mme André shook her head.
‘Mam’selle, no. I could not take it. Not today.’ Her eyes were filled with tears suddenly; her mouth quivered.
She knows, Adele thought, knows I’m going. ‘Well – thank you. I’ll – I’ll go now. Thank you so much for – for everything.’
Now the moment had arrived, she felt suddenly terribly frightened; tempted almost, even now, to stay in the dubious safety of Paris. But – what then? Safety from the Germans, from the war, perhaps, for a little longer; but with Luc, Luc who no longer loved her, Luc who had gone back to his wife.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Noni, looking up at her, her dark eyes anxious.
‘For a – a jour
ney.’
‘A journey! Where?’
‘In the car.’
‘And without Papa?’
‘Without Papa.’
‘I don’t want to go without Papa.’
‘I know. But he will – well, he will be with us later.’
‘Are you sure?’
Adele smiled at her.
‘As sure as I can be. Now come along. And you, Lucas.’
‘He’s got a dirty nappy,’ said Noni. ‘I can smell it.’
‘Oh no! Oh, Lucas, what timing.’
She would have to change it; there would be others undoubtedly, but this one at least could be dealt with. She sighed. ‘Noni, you stay here, I’ll go and change him.’
Luc sat on the metro: only three more stops. It was crowded. He didn’t know what he was going to say to Adele, what plans he could make for her. He was more worried about her, he realised, than about Suzette. Well, Suzette was a French citizen: she was not the enemy. And nor was she Jewish; he and Adele, they were both in great peril. Perhaps, after all, they should leave the city; take the car and go.
He looked at his watch: nearly four. They could pack the car up tonight and leave. But – where? Where, for God’s sake, could they go?
The train pulled in at Cité; he could hear shouting, a great commotion. What was it? Surely they hadn’t arrived already?
He decided to get home as fast as he could. In five minutes, maybe ten, he would be there. Together they could decide what to do.
‘There now. All clean.’ Adele walked into Mme André’s sitting room again, smiling. ‘Come along, Noni, time to go.’
‘Mme André is reading me a story. Can’t we wait till it’s finished?’
Another five minutes: what difference would it make? ‘Yes, all right.’ She sat down; Lucas began playing with some china animals which Mme André had on a table.
‘Coffee, Mam’selle? Before you leave?’
‘Oh – why not? Yes, thank you.’
Probably her last contact with a friendly adult for days; possibly weeks. She was very tired; she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes briefly. Too tired to drive really; the coffee was a good idea, it would wake her up.
Mme André bustled about, measuring out coffee and water, then set the pot on the stove.
‘I shall miss you, Mam’selle.’
‘I shall miss you too, dear Mme André.’
They had still not discussed what she was going to do. There was no need.
Luc tried to push his way through the crowd on the steps leading up from the metro; it was very thick, very resistant to him. At the top, in the Place St-Sulpice, there was more shouting, panic, people pointing at something. Lots of things. What?
People were holding papers, reading them, showing them to one another; evening papers. There were none left at the stand; Luc found a small crowd gathered round a girl, all reading in a stunned silence. Reading a proclamation by General Pierre Hering, commander of the city’s forces, announcing that ‘The capital will be defended to the last.’
It was true. The Germans were almost here.
Adele sighed, put down her coffee cup. She really must go. Lucas was half asleep in a chair, sucking his thumb, clutching a model cow; Noni was looking at a picture book.
The radio had been playing music; it stopped abruptly.
‘Oh, the news,’ said Mme André, turning it off, ‘so tedious.’
She looked at Adele for a long moment, then opened her plump arms. Adele went into them; found herself surrounded with the smell of sweat and garlic. It seemed wonderful, she felt oddly comforted, safe just for a little longer. She was taller than Mme André; she looked down, smiled at her.
‘You’ve been so kind.’
‘It has been a pleasure, Mam’selle. Take care. Take great care.’
‘I will. Of course. And if – when Monsieur Lieberman comes home, you don’t know where I’ve gone.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I wouldn’t be going if – well, if I didn’t have to.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
Somehow Adele felt she did. ‘Thank you. For everything.’
‘It has been lovely to know you, Mam’selle. You and the children. Here, let me come out to the car with you, help the children in.’
‘Thank you.’
Home, he must get home. See Adele, comfort her, calm her, decide what to do. He started running across the square when a radio went on; and then another and another, in every café, from every open window. Very loudly. He stopped, walked over to the nearest café, as if pulled there by some strong, strange force. People stood stock-still, listening in silence: many in tears.
‘Should the Germans reach Paris we shall defend every stone, every clod of earth, every lamp-post, every building, for we would rather have our city razed to the ground than fall into the hands of the Germans.’
Home: he must get home.
And then rippling through the crowd, passed from person to person, like giant snowflakes, being daubed on lamp-posts and walls and urinals, the leaflets came. ‘Citoyens! Aux armes.’
Luc stayed to read one carefully; so that he knew everything he could, before he reached Adele.
Noni and Lucas were in the car now, Lucas still clutching the toy cow.
‘Lucas! Give that back, give it to Mme André.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. He can keep it. Here, Noni, take the book. Maman can read it to you tonight.’
‘Will you, maman?’
‘Of course.’
As if such a thing would be possible; probably they would still be sitting in the car, sleeping in the car. Well, that wouldn’t stop her reading a story. She started the car, put it into gear, smiled out of the window at Mme André, blew her a kiss. She smiled back, tears now rolling down her cheeks.
‘Wait! Take these.’ She took two apples from the pocket of her pinafore, pushed them through the window. ‘For the children.’
Behind them, in the Place St-Sulpice, Luc passed on the handbill and began to push his way through the ever-denser crowds; it was suffocating, like a nightmare. But – there it was, in front of him now, his street, his home, his children, Adele.
‘Au revoir, chère Mam’selle Adele. You are going home to England, I suppose?’
It was the first time she had asked.
‘Yes,’ said Adele, firmly wishing she believed it. ‘I am going home to England.’
CHAPTER 28
The trenches were quite deep: about six feet, and then covered in barbed wire. Any unauthorised person found in them was under threat of a firing squad.
‘That’s a bloody good defence we’ve got,’ said Lord Beckenham, gazing from the one at the front of the house across the land towards Oxford. ‘We can see the enemy coming from every direction. Well, I just hope they do, that’s all. Give them a damn good hiding. Our men are ready for anything.’
Lady Beckenham was about to say that the opportunity for Lord Beckenham and his Home Guard troop to give the Germans a hiding could hardly compensate for an enemy landing and then thought better of it; the whole thing was keeping him wonderfully busy.
‘Excellent,’ she said, ‘now have you spoken to the headmaster about making the trenches out of bounds? Because they really are quite dangerous.’
‘Of course. I told you. First chap in will be made an example of—’
‘Beckenham, I don’t think the boys believe you’re really going to shoot any of them in the trenches.’
‘Why on earth not?’ His fine old face was puzzled. ‘I would have, when I was a boy.’
‘Yes, well things were different then. What does the headmaster suggest as a punishment?’
‘Oh, some damn fool nonsense about detention. I said at least a thrashing, but they don’t even go in for that much these days. Anyway, I’m continuing to tell them it’s the firing squad.’
‘I think I’d better speak to them at my assembly.’
Her assembly had become a weekly occu
rrence; she spoke to all the boys after supper, usually on Sundays, about matters of discipline and other, more agreeable things. The boys loved them, looked forward to them even, she was such a game old trout, as Henry Warwick’s best friend remarked graciously to him, she always had some jolly new idea for them, and she enjoyed them too, they had become a crucial part of running the school at Ashingham.
Originally, she had told the headmaster, an ineffectually pleasant man called John Dawkins, promoted when the young, forceful head had joined the army, that discipline was his area, as long as certain guidelines which they would draw up between them were observed. But she very swiftly came to regret this: and, indeed, her offer to take in the school. Fifty small boys, a teaching staff of five plus two domestics, combined with extra members of her own family and staff added up to a lot of people. Of course Ashingham was big enough, it had been built for a household of at least a hundred, but the noise and administrative problems were considerable.
The boys were as good as could be expected and fairly well-disciplined; just the same, the heady delights of finding themselves in the middle of the country with unlimited trees to climb, streams to dam, livestock to get to know, had proved almost too much for several of them. The naughtiest ones – led inevitably by Henry and Roo Warwick who knew their way around – had already been severely punished for lighting fires, organising a (mercifully discovered) rabbit shoot, swimming in the river unsupervised, climbing up to the very top of the Home Farm barn and sliding down on the hay and, one dreadful night, indulging in a moonlit bareback riding session. It was this last that had almost resulted in an exodus back to Kent, such had been Lady Beckenham’s rage, and John Dawkins had expressed immense horror together with a fear that the boys might have broken their necks.
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