‘I don’t care what it’s called.’
Barbara gritted her teeth. ‘Very well. I’ll think of a name. I know, we’ll call it Fifi.’
‘That’s a stupid name,’
‘It isn’t at all stupid. It’s very appropriate for a French cat.’ She kissed Esme goodnight – though the child seemed to hate her doing so – and went downstairs to the kitchen. They were taking longer than usual in the dining room. She could hear Mrs Lamprey’s voice raised even above her normal level in a bizarre mixture of English and French, and Monsieur Duval’s deep voice answering. The cat had jumped up onto one of the kitchen chairs and was sitting with its front paws tucked neatly under its chin. Poor thing, it really was nothing but skin and bone. She stretched out a hand and stroked the top of its head gently. It blinked yellow eyes at her in a sort of smile and, presently, it started to purr.
Four
Lieutenant Smythson who came to collect Louis Duval by car spoke French like a native. His mother was French-born, he told him; she had married an Englishman whom she had met as a student in London and he was the result. Although he had been born and brought up in England, she had talked to him in French from the very beginning and he had spent holidays with his grandparents in Lille.
‘I’m hoping my grandparents will be all right, sir. It’s a bit of a worry.’
‘I hardly think the Boche will be troubling elderly people.’ But he did not believe his own words. The Germans would trouble anybody if it suited them. Young or old. Rich or poor. Dangerous or harmless. Anybody who got in their way or was a handy example for encouraging the others to behave. One did not subdue a country and its people by being nice. He had no illusions, either, about the perils that might lie ahead for himself. But then, nor did he much care. His own life seemed to him to be of little importance. No wife, except in name. No child, no family. Only his work and such as he had already produced would still remain, whatever happened.
‘Did you hear that de Gaulle has arrived safely in London, sir?’
‘Yes, I have heard.’
‘And about two thousand other French servicemen managed to get out as well. They’re all rallying round him.’
‘That’s very good news.’
‘I thought so too, sir. One wouldn’t want people to think the Marshal speaks for all the French.’
‘No, indeed.’
It amused Duval to converse with him – looking so English in his Royal Navy uniform and yet speaking like a Frenchman.
The lieutenant turned the car into a narrow lane that wound steeply upwards above a creek. ‘We’ve moved your boat down there, sir. It’s a nice quiet spot, though it’s a bit muddy at low tide.’
‘I shall be permitted to take it out, then?’
‘Well, of course, there’s the problem of the petrol.’
‘Problem? There were still two full drums on board.’
‘Oh, we had to take those away, I’m afraid, and siphon out the rest. You see, we can’t leave anything lying around that the Germans might be able to use – just in case they turn up.’
He smiled to himself. The lieutenant might speak French like a Frenchman but he was perfidiously English to the core. The lane reached an open gateway and, from there on, a potholed drive led to the house – a whitewashed, slate-roofed mansion that looked sadly run-down. He followed the lieutenant into a bare hall that smelled of damp and mustiness. No carpet on the floor, no pictures on the walls. Makeshift blackout curtains tacked across the windows – the only daylight coming from an open door, together with a machine-gun clatter of typewriter keys. He followed Lieutenant Smythson to another door at the far end of the hallway. The room beyond contained a desk, a long trestle table, several chairs and Lieutenant Commander Powell who rose from behind the desk.
‘Thank you for coming at such short notice, Monsieur Duval.’
As he sat down on the chair indicated – the upright, hard sort that belonged to a school or institution – he wondered wryly if he had had much choice in the matter. For once, nobody had asked if he minded. A cigarette was offered across the desk, which he declined in favour of his Gauloise.
The lieutenant commander said, ‘We’ve been making some progress since we last met.’
‘Indeed?’
‘We have a suitable boat – a French sardine trawler from Douarnenez called Espérance. She has a crew of three who seem to fulfil most of our requirements.’
‘Which are?’
‘They are patriotic Frenchmen who wish to do what they can to help your country against the Germans. As far as we can ascertain, they are experienced sailors who know the coast of Brittany very well. In addition, they are all single men. Like yourself, they have no families to – er – to complicate matters.’ He had hesitated a little over the last bit. Unlike Lieutenant Smythson, his accent was unmistakably English, though nowhere near as excruciating as Madame Lamprey’s. ‘I take it, Monsieur Duval, that you are still willing to take part in this exercise – in spite of the great risks?’
‘Certainly.’
‘You have given it careful thought? You are quite sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well.’ There was a pause, a clearing of the throat. ‘This is how things stand. We understand that the German occupying forces have divided France into two zones – the northern one will be occupied and controlled by them, the southern – roughly south of Tours – is to be an unoccupied area administered by Marshal Pétain’s government from Vichy.’
‘I don’t know which part I feel the more sorry for.’
‘Quite. I have to warn you, though, that we have very little information at our disposal as to the present situation in Brittany. It’s logical to suppose that the Germans will be keeping a close watch on the northern coast since it’s the nearest to England, but we hope that the southern coast of the peninsula may be less patrolled – as yet. We know from the French fishing crews that have just arrived here that the Germans are imposing a ban on them sailing beyond four miles from the coast, deep-sea trawlers excepted, that all fishing boats must fly a white flag over their national colours and that they must return to port before sunset, or anchor outside. But that’s all we know. It seems almost certain that there will be a curfew but we have no idea from when to when, or how strictly it’s enforced. We know virtually nothing about what other identity papers are required for French civilians, what rules and regulations the Germans are busy making, the price of things, new rationing – in short, what any agent landed there would need to be completely familiar with in order not to attract suspicion. And that’s what we want you to find out for us – as quickly as possible. I’m asking you to return to Pont-Aven in the Espérance to gather as much detail as you can and bring it back for us. Find out as much as you can. Bring back samples of permits, documents, proof of demobilization or military exemption, ID cards, ration cards, newspapers . . . anything you come across that you consider will be vital to know, or be useful.’
He nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘In addition, anything you can learn yourself about German troop movements, about their methods of controlling the population, and about the morale and mood of the French people in that area would be very valuable to us.’
Again, he nodded. They were asking for the moon, but so what? All he could do was his best.
‘We know something about their secret police, the Gestapo, and their SS. Not people you’d want to get to know.’
‘I hadn’t planned to introduce myself.’
The lieutenant commander gave a brief smile. ‘Lieutenant Smythson will accompany you and be in charge of the crew. For the crossing, while on board the Espérance, you will wear Breton fishermen’s clothing and assume a Breton name which will be entered on the crew list. Before disembarking, you change into your normal clothes – just as you’re wearing now. From that point on, you are to be yourself – Louis Duval, the artist, who has just returned from the south.’
‘Why have I returned? And from where?’
‘You returned because you wanted to check on your studio apartment – you were afraid that it might be taken over by either the Germans or refugees, and that the paintings left there would be stolen or destroyed. Paintings of considerable value on the market. Once you have been reassured that all is well – and we have to hope that it is – then you can depart again to resume work you have left unfinished in the south. Or elsewhere, if you prefer. So long as your story is believable and accords with how you would normally behave. As to exactly where you have been staying, that’s for you to choose. Somewhere that you know well and can be convincing about.’
He thought for a moment. ‘I have been in Toulouse.’
‘Where have you been staying?’
‘In a rented apartment – in the rue St Georges. I did so once. The landlady there would certainly lie for me, if I ask her.’
‘Are you sure? The Germans are very thorough. They check facts.’
‘She can be trusted,’ he said blandly. ‘I knew her well.’
The lieutenant commander cleared his throat again. ‘Very good. Let’s take a look at the chart.’
They stood looking down at the chart spread out on the table – at the intricate Brittany coastline with its endless promontories and bays and islands and coves and inlets. The Englishman said, ‘What I am proposing is this. We’ve run some trials and established that the Espérance has a cruising speed of six knots. Her departure will be timed to make maximum use of the hours of darkness. The hold will carry fish in case you are challenged and boarded. I estimate that you should be approaching Le-Guilvinec the following evening, where you will anchor in the bay for the night. At daybreak you leave. Your time of arrival off Pont-Aven must be before sundown so that you can enter harbour in company with the other fishing boats returning. You, Monsieur Duval, go ashore before any curfew is in force. Exactly how long you stay will be for you to decide – one day, perhaps two, or even more. The Espérance will wait as long as Lieutenant Smythson considers it’s safe to do so. If suspicions are aroused, she may have to leave without you. Do you have any questions?’
‘If the boat does leave without me, what do you suggest I do next?’
‘That’s rather up to you, as well. The Espérance will try to return at some later time, but it might be out of the question. In either case, there’s unlikely to be an opportunity for Lieutenant Smythson to get any message to you. You wait to see if the boat does return reasonably soon.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘You make your way south and cross the Pyrenees into Spain. You then approach the British Embassy in Madrid and give them the information you have gathered.’
‘And I would then be returned to England?’
‘If possible you would be flown back from Gibraltar.’ The lieutenant commander coughed. ‘Of course, if you have been compromised in any way – if, say, you are under suspicion or surveillance, then you would be of no further use to us.’
He smiled at the baldness of it. The cool, matter-of-fact observation. He said, ‘Lieutenant Smythson’s French is completely fluent, of course, but his appearance and mannerisms are English. I wonder how well he’ll pass for a Breton fisherman?’
‘Don’t worry. He’ll look and act the part.’
‘I’ve been taking lessons,’ the lieutenant informed him cheerily. ‘First hand.’
‘So . . .’ he stubbed out his cigarette. ‘When do we leave?’
‘The day after tomorrow. There’s no moon – an important requisite. We don’t want you spotted outside the four-mile limit after sunset. Lieutenant Smythson will collect you first thing in the morning for a final briefing here.’ The Englishman paused. ‘You are quite sure you want to do this? The thing is, you see, if they arrest you you won’t be able to claim any kind of prisoner-of-war status. The Germans could pretty much do what they liked with you. You understand that?’
‘Of course.’ He was rather proud of himself for sounding so insouciant. So British. Perhaps it was catching. ‘And what shall I tell Madame Hillyard? How to explain my absence satisfactorily?’
‘You’ve been asked to go to London . . . to do some interpreting and translation for the Free French there. General de Gaulle’s organization. Liaison work. You’re uncertain when you’ll return.’
‘Yes,’ he observed drily. ‘I can see that.’
The lieutenant commander opened a drawer of his desk. ‘By the way, this is from your boat. I thought you might like to have it, to keep safe.’
He took the tricolore and held it in his hands – the blue, white and red banded flag so dear to his heart. He found it impossible to speak.
When he knocked on the kitchen door she answered it – this time without the flour on her cheek but with a knife in her hand. She had been peeling potatoes instead of making pastry.
‘Excuse me, madame, but I wish to inform you that I shall be absent for a while in London. I am to do some liaison work there. I regret that I am unable to say for how long this will be. Perhaps only a few days, perhaps longer. Naturally, I will pay for the time that I am away.’ He took some notes from his pocket. ‘I should like to give you a payment in advance.’
She shook her head. ‘Please don’t. That won’t be necessary at all, Monsieur Duval. I’ll keep the room for you.’
How unlike Mademoiselle Citron – in every way. ‘You are very kind.’ He looked round the kitchen. ‘How is the cat?’
She pointed to a shopping basket on the floor in a corner. ‘Fast asleep in there.’
‘I can see it has made itself at home. I hope it is not a nuisance to you?’
‘Not at all. It’s very well behaved. I took it to the vet yesterday. He gave me something for the mange and to get rid of the fleas.’
‘Fleas?’
‘Little insects in the fur.’
‘Ah . . . des puces. It had many?’
‘I’m afraid so. A lot. It’s a she, by the way. About a year old, the vet thinks. I thought I’d call her Fifi, as she came from France.’
He chuckled. ‘That’s a very good name. I knew a Fifi once – many years ago. I hope the cat is better-behaved.’
‘Well, she’s learning English very quickly.’ She smiled at him – a warm, natural smile that was altogether charming to him.
‘How clever of her. But I am sorry about all the fleas.’
‘It doesn’t matter in the least.’
It would have mattered a great deal to Mademoiselle Citron, but then she would never have taken in a mangy stray in the first place. Nor would Simone. Or any other woman of his acquaintance, he realized. Not one of them. He stared at Madame Hillyard. ‘You are so good, madame. So very kind.’ Her smile faded and her cheeks reddened as they had done before when he had touched her to wipe the flour away. She turned back to the sink and began peeling potatoes again.
‘When will you be leaving, Monsieur Duval?’ Her voice was distant now and formal.
‘Tomorrow morning. Would it be possible to have an early breakfast?’
‘Of course. What time would suit you?’
‘Seven o’clock. If it’s not too early.’
‘No, that’s quite all right.’
The child, Esme, came into the kitchen from the outside entrance, wearing her sullen expression and dragging her sandalled feet. She glowered at him as he left.
The Espérance left harbour in the early afternoon, her hold full of fresh fish, gutted and packed in ice in wooden boxes, her lockers stocked with tins of French beef, biscuits and a barrel of Algerian red wine. A square of white material had been stitched over her French flag to comply with the known German regulations. It was the unknown ones that were going to be the worry, Duval thought. Germans were sticklers for rules and regulations. They loved notices and permits and rubber stamps that permitted this and forbade that and, by now, they would have had time to think up a nice long list. Failure to comply could land them instantly in trouble. His fears about Lieutenant Smythson’s appearance giving them away, h
owever, had been groundless. With his hair dyed dark brown and wearing Breton fisherman’s clothes, including the heavy sabots, he was almost unrecognizable. As for himself, he should pass any casual German inspection easily enough. The people who could never be fooled by either of them would be the real Breton fishermen, and how far other Frenchmen in France could be trusted remained to be seen. Occupation by the Nazis would bring out the best in some and the worst in others. Terror was a powerful weapon and the Germans would be fools not to use it.
As well as being much larger than the Gannet the trawler was a good deal faster, making a steady six knots, and on this trip he could take a back seat. Lieutenant Smythson and the three Breton fishermen did nearly all the work; his turn would come later.
At first light on the following day they were several miles west of the island of Ushant and by eight o’clock they were approaching the Raz de Sein in a relatively calm sea, but well outside the four-mile fishing limit. It was then that an aircraft appeared out of nowhere and flew over them almost at masthead height. A German Dornier. They looked busy on the aft deck, pretending to be handling nets, and, out of the corners of their eyes, watched the Dornier turn to come back and make another low pass. Duval fully expected a hail of bullets to spatter the deck but instead the pilot fired a red, yellow and green rocket, presumably in warning. The Espérance reduced speed and headed obediently towards the nearest land. They watched the German plane fly off, apparently satisfied.
It had begun to rain and they continued south at a top speed of eight knots, vanishing into a lucky curtain of grey drizzle. As night fell, they anchored off Le-Guilvinec, opened more tins and unstoppered the barrel. The Algerian wine was rough but he had drunk a lot worse in his time. He stayed up talking to the lieutenant when the other three had taken unsteadily to their bunks, and they went over their plan of action again.
Later, lying in his bunk with the sour taste of the wine in his mouth, smoking a cigarette and contemplating what might lie ahead, he began to have second thoughts; to wonder if he had been totally mad to commit himself so readily to such a venture. He could have lived out the war in France, minding his own business and keeping out of trouble, as Simone had shrewdly recommended. The Boche would probably have left him alone. The English would have left him alone, too, if he hadn’t volunteered his services. Tolerance towards refugees was one of their noblest traditions. They might not understand foreigners, or like them, but they gave them shelter. Heroics would neither have been expected of him, nor required – especially as a Frenchman. He understood well enough the cynical view that most English held of the French. There had been no need to offer himself up like some sacrificial lamb. And there was, after all, still some point to life. Work still to be done. Things to be enjoyed. Yes, he must have been totally mad.
Those in Peril Page 8
