Reasonably enough, she had wanted him to get a proper job too and not spend his days painting pictures that never sold. To please her, he had found work in an advertising agency, which he had hated. The First World War had begun and he had volunteered to serve in the army, largely to escape the advertising agency. Instead of dying in the trenches, along with the hundreds of thousands of others, he had been invalided out with a leg wound that still gave him trouble at times. By the end of the war Simone’s mother had died and they had moved into the rue de Monceau apartment. Simone had become pregnant but miscarried at five months and never conceived again. With her inheritance she had opened a small boutique and he had gone back to painting.
As time passed, he had begun to sell some of his work but, by then, he and Simone had grown apart – she occupied with her boutique, he with his painting. He had moved out of the apartment and lived for a while in Provence, painting whatever pleased him. Later he had spent some time in England in St Ives in Cornwall, doing the same thing. Then he had travelled some more – Italy, Greece, Turkey and across the Atlantic to the eastern seaboard of America – Maine and Massachusetts. Finally, he had returned to France and rented the studio in Pont-Aven on the south coast of Brittany. Simone had stayed put in the Paris apartment and she had opened a bigger and better boutique in the Avenue Victor Hugo. Since they were both Roman Catholics there had never been any question of a divorce; not that he had set foot inside a church for many years, but Simone went to Mass regularly. Neither had interfered in the other’s life and there had been no shortage of women in his or of men in hers. It was what might be called a very civilized arrangement.
In Pont-Aven he paid a visit to his bank. As a favour, the manager unearthed a few English pound notes for him.
‘You are proposing to go to England, monsieur?’
‘No, but one never knows what currency will come in useful these days.’
‘Very true. Though American dollars would be safer.’
He went to buy some more paints and canvases. The art shop was empty of customers, its owner deeply depressed. ‘Nobody has been in here for three days, monsieur. If things go on like this, I shall be ruined.’
Back at the apartment, he packed a suitcase. His paintings were stacked around the walls of the studio. He went through them, as a farewell gesture, and came across the portrait he had done years ago of Simone when he had been in love with her and which she had disliked, thinking it made her look fat. He held it up for a moment, admiring a good-looking young woman with dark brown eyes, a retroussé nose, soft hair and a rather hard mouth. But the magic that she had once held for him had gone.
He did a little more work on the painting of the quayside and then cleaned his brushes before going in search of Mademoiselle Citron in her rooms on the ground floor. She opened her door, unsmiling. The grudge of his rejection was always there.
‘I’m going away in the morning,’ he told her, ‘but I want to keep the studio on.’ He produced an envelope from his pocket. ‘Here is six months’ rent in advance.’
She lifted the flap of the envelope and took a lightning glance at its contents – it was all she needed to gauge the sum precisely. ‘Very well, monsieur. I will reserve it for you. Where will you be going?’
‘To friends, in the south.’
She nodded. ‘It may be safer there. You are wise. God knows what is going to happen to us all. But supposing you do not return, monsieur, what shall I do then? I can’t keep the rooms for nothing.’
‘I have arranged with the bank to pay you another instalment at the end of the six months – if I am not back.’ That satisfied her all right. He went on, ‘I shall leave the studio locked. Everything is to be left exactly as it is. Nothing is to be moved or disturbed in my absence.’
‘As you wish, monsieur.’
He knew that she had a key and would certainly poke and pry into everything once he had gone, but there was nothing he could do about it. Her excuse, whenever he had raised the subject, was that the place needed cleaning – which was certainly true enough since he never bothered to do much himself. He said pleasantly, ‘Perhaps you could give me a receipt for the six months’ rent, mademoiselle.’
‘Certainly, monsieur.’
He ate at the bistro, Chez Alphonse, in the rue du port, where he was a regular – a modest place with steamy windows and a smell of garlic, herbs, coffee, caporal tobacco, its walls proudly decorated with prints of paintings by once-local artists: Paul Gauguin’s Breton Girls Dancing, Christmas Night, The Young Christian Girl, Christ Jaune with his three Marys resembling farmers’ wives, Paul Sérusier’s cutout-like Breton women wearing their peasant shawls, Emile Bernard’s panoramic vista of the town bridge from the Bois d’Amour. The original colours were all dulled by grease, nicotine and time. As Louis was finishing an excellent onion soup, Alphonse came to his table. He was a small, thin man and his clothes – a white apron tied over black – were as much a part of him as another skin. He sat down to join him in a glass of wine, shoulders slumped, moustaches drooping – the picture of dejection. ‘People are leaving. People are arriving. Nobody knows what to do or where to go. Me, I have to stay where I am. This is my living. All I have. I’m too old to start all over again somewhere else. What of you, monsieur?’
‘I’m thinking of getting out.’
‘Well, there is nothing to keep you here, I suppose. You can paint anywhere, isn’t that so? You’re lucky. Who knows what the Germans will do when they get here? We could all be put against a wall and shot. It wouldn’t surprise me. They are capable of anything. Yes, I think you would be wise to leave. What about your studio?’
‘I’m keeping it on, in case I want to come back.’
‘Will you take your car?’
‘No. The tank is only half full. And who knows if I could get more petrol.’
‘What about your boat?’
The less he said to anybody, the better. ‘I’ll probably sell it.’
Alphonse nodded gloomily. ‘If you don’t, the Boche will take it.’
From the bistro he went to the boat which he kept moored at a quiet part of the quay. The Gannet had certainly seen better days and, in places, her blue paint had peeled down to the wood. But she was seaworthy, with an engine that usually worked and a small wheelhouse that sheltered him from the worst of the weather. He checked the preparations he had already made: the compass, the full reservoir of petrol, the spare drums, the hand-torch and batteries, the drinking water, the tin of biscuits, the smoked sausage and ham, the round of Camembert, the cigarettes, the bottles of wine and one of brandy – not forgetting a corkscrew.
He unrolled the chart, smoothing it down with the flat of his hand while he studied it once again. Down the river to Port-Manech at the mouth of the estuary. Hug the coastline as far as the Pointe de Trévignon and then cut straight across to the Pointe de Penmarch, where he would alter course to go north-west across the Baie d’Audierne towards the Pointe du Raz – the most perilous part of the voyage. He would have to time it very carefully so as not to be caught there with the wind over tide when the seas would boil up into a seething white cauldron. On across the Douarnenez Bay towards the port of Brest and then, from there on, due north for England where the wind would be behind him. If he could make a steady five to six knots, he could reach Falmouth within roughly forty-eight hours. But it was a far cry from the kind of gentle pottering around up and down the coast that he usually did. He wondered if he, and the boat, were up to it.
On his way back, he checked on his Citroën, kept in a shed near the quay. He was fond of the old machine – they had done many miles together – but there she would have to stay. He removed the rotor arm and took the keys with him. The idea of the Germans making use of her was abhorrent.
Back in the apartment, he turned on the wireless, poured a glass of cognac, lit a Gauloise and stood at the window, looking out over the harbour. In the room behind him a newsreader’s grave voice began the latest bulletin. The Germans ha
d already taken Amiens and were now advancing on Le Havre. And after Le Havre, he thought, it would be Cherbourg, St Malo, Brest . . . and so on until they had secured every Atlantic port in France worth having, which would include Lorient and St Nazaire. There was no chance, as Simone had naively put it, of them not bothering much with Brittany. He finished off the cognac and went to bed.
It was a while before he slept, and he lay thinking things over. He had spoken nothing less than the truth to Simone when he had said that he wanted to do something useful. Being too old to serve in the Second World War had not bothered him much at first, but the crushing advance of the German army across the Low Countries and France and the prospect of another humiliating surrender had appalled him. He had little to offer except for the fact that he was a Frenchman who spoke reasonably good English and had a certain knowledge of France. Some use might perhaps be made of him over in England. He did not share Simone’s dislike of that country – the time spent there had been very agreeable – but it was not for love of England that he was proposing this crazy journey. It was for love of France.
He was up early, before six, and let himself out of the house quietly, carrying a suitcase, his box of paints, some spare canvases and an easel. Since it was his custom to take the boat off on painting trips, he would arouse no comment, and, in any case, many shutters were still closed. High water had been an hour earlier and the fishing boats had already left harbour. The quayside where the Gannet was moored was deserted except for a few gulls strutting about and a small black cat with four white paws who was sitting at the edge, scratching itself. It watched him lowering himself and his baggage on board and, as he was making ready to leave, jumped down onto the deck. He picked it up and put it firmly back on the quayside. The engine started up first go and he set off downstream.
The steep and rocky riverbanks, crowned with pine trees, were golden with summer gorse. He had passed Kerdruc before he realized that the cat must have jumped back on board again. It came into the wheelhouse, wandered around and rubbed itself against his legs. Too late to take it back, he decided. And anyway the animal looked like a homeless stray – nothing but skin and bone with dull, mangy fur and a tail as thin as a rat’s. When he had picked it up it had weighed almost nothing. He shrugged. It might as well take its chances in England as in France. If it didn’t fall overboard en route.
As soon as he left the safe shelter of the estuary, the wind and the North Atlantic waves grabbed hold of the Gannet, tossing her about. He held her on a north-westerly course, ploughing along the south Brittany coastline, the boat pitching and rolling. The cat had retreated to a corner of the wheelhouse and was clinging to the deck with its claws. From time to time Duval chewed on some bread and cheese or sausage or ham, drank some of the wine, or smoked a cigarette. Seasickness had never bothered him. Nor did it seem to trouble the cat, who, crouched in its corner, devoured the scraps he threw to it.
It took him more than six hours to reach the Pointe de Penmarch and begin the long haul across the Baie d’Audierne, and another seven to gain the other side. Navigating a course round the treacherous granite fortress of the Pointe du Raz with its vicious tidal streams took all his concentration. He had timed it well and the tide was still with him, but the wind force increased and the surge and swirl of the sea and the pull of the current swept the Gannet perilously close to the rocks. A huge wave swamped the boat and he lost his grip on the wheel and was hurled into the corner. He lay stunned for a moment until he could scramble back and yank the boat clear of the rocks. The cat had lost its grip as well and was swirling around in seawater, scrabbling wildly with its paws. He seized it by the scruff of the neck and threw it into the locker before it could be swept overboard.
Then, once round the headland, he passed suddenly and miraculously into calmer waters. The wind had dropped and the temperature risen, the waves flattened to a mere swell. He set his course due north for the port of Brest, counting on another three hours of daylight. The cat, when he let it out of the locker, went back to its corner and started trying to groom its sodden fur. He doubted that he looked much better – soaked to the skin and with a lump on his forehead where he had hit it that felt the size of a pigeon’s egg.
Around two o’clock in the morning he reckoned that Brest must be ahead on his starboard bow. The temptation to steer for its harbour was very strong but he resisted it. The Germans could well have taken the town already and the risk was too great. He pressed on, checking his course regularly and fortifying himself with more snacks and more wine and some nips of brandy, feeding more scraps to the cat who was invisible now except for the glint of its eyes in the torchlight. He followed a course that kept him well away from the reefs and islets and jagged rocks that infested the Brittany coast, and by dawn he had sighted the Ile Vierge lighthouse. There he turned his back on France and headed north towards Falmouth in England. Some dolphins came and played alongside the boat for a while and an RAF plane circled overhead a few times before it, too, left him alone. In the distance, he caught sight of a large convoy of merchant ships steaming north-east before they were lost to view.
In the early evening of the second day, the engine faltered and died. It took time to discover the cause of the trouble – a blocked carburettor – and to deal with it and, by then, he knew that the south-westerly wind and the tide must have carried him several miles to the east. No matter. So long as he continued due north he would make landfall somewhere along the south coast of England. He kept himself awake during that night by talking to the invisible cat – keeping up an absurd, one-sided conversation through the hours of darkness until dawn finally came. We are both completely mad, little one. We are very lucky, you know, not to find ourselves at the bottom of the sea. If we had any sense between us we would both have stayed in France – Germans or no Germans. On the other hand, perhaps you, at least, made the right choice. You will certainly be welcomed in England. They like animals there – even a French cat – whereas they are not so likely to welcome me, a Frenchman.
Within two more hours he had sighted land ahead – a long dark smudge low on the horizon. He could see a lighthouse blinking and then, as he gradually drew nearer, a gap in the cliffs where a river flowed out to meet the sea. Not Falmouth, though. Fowey perhaps? Or even Plymouth? His tired brain declined to make any sense of the chart. What did it matter, anyway? It was somewhere in England.
As he steered the boat towards the tall cliffs and the mouth of the estuary, the sun came out and lit the scene for him. He could see two ancient-looking forts guarding the river entrance – one on each side. Most probably English defences against the marauding French in years gone by. In a moment of triumph, or maybe defiance, he rummaged for the tricolore kept in the locker and attached the flag to the Gannet’s stern. He went between the two headlands, flying his country’s flag, and entered sheltered waters. The riverbanks were steep and thickly wooded, the trees growing down to the water’s edge. Further on, as the estuary narrowed, the woods gave way to houses – whitewashed cottages built of stone and clinging to the hillsides in much the same way as those built on the river valley slopes of Pont-Aven. He passed some naval launches moored at buoys in midstream; further upstream, he could see larger vessels. He cut his speed and steered the Gannet gently towards a quay on the east side of the river, aiming for a flight of stone steps. As he reached them, a man in fisherman’s clothes, smoking a pipe, leaned over.
‘Morning.’
‘Good morning.’
‘Nice day.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Reckon it might rain tomorrow, though.’
I have come all this way, risking my life, he thought wearily, to find myself discussing the weather. ‘Vraiment?’
The man came down some of the steps – a big man with a chest shaped like a barrel of English beer. ‘Want a hand?’
‘Thank you.’ He threw the painter and it was made fast to an iron ring. But when he climbed ashore, staggering on the unaccustomed dry land,
he found his way up barred and he realized that the reception was not so amicable, after all. The tricolore had been noted.
‘French, are you?’
‘Yes, indeed. I have come from Brittany.’
‘That so?’
‘From Pont-Aven on the south coast. Perhaps you know of it?’
‘Can’t say I do.’
‘What is the name of this port, please? I have no idea where I am.’
The man took hold of his arm without answering the question. ‘You’d better come along with me.’
He went along – there being little alternative. Other people had gathered on the quayside – also fishermen, by the looks of them, and some women who stared at him with hard eyes. He was marched past them under an archway and round a corner to the entrance of a building guarded by a naval rating with a bayonet tied to the end of a broomstick. My God, he thought, is that really all they have left after Dunkirk? A shove in the shoulderblades propelled him forward for inspection.
‘This foreigner’s just arrived by boat. Says he’s come from France.’
The sentry looked him over uncertainly. ‘From France you say, sir? Do you mind showing me your passport?’
He handed it over, waiting while it was scrutinized carefully and doubtful comparison made between his photograph and himself after two days at sea.
‘I’ll have to keep hold of this, sir – for the time being. And I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to step inside, if you don’t mind.’
He was shown into a room with a table and two chairs and a small window. Not quite a cell, but almost. Somebody brought him a cup of tea the colour of old leather and, to him, undrinkable. He could see faces outside peering through the window and fists rubbing at the grimy glass to see him better. He realized that they thought he was a spy – though what sort of a spy would make no effort whatever to conceal his arrival in broad daylight? Or perhaps they were simply suspicious of all Frenchmen, in the same way that most French were suspicious of the English. He finished the cigarette and lit another, and was halfway through a third before the door opened and a naval officer entered the room – a short, stocky man, many years younger than himself and with a crushing handshake. He had the clear, keen eyes of an intrepid explorer – typically set on a distant horizon or raised to some snowy peak.
Those in Peril Page 2
