Those in Peril

by Margaret Mayhew

  On Sunday he went to Matins – from long habit as much as from anything else. The Kingswear church was packed with civilians and service men and women, instinctively gathered together in the face of danger. The preacher rose to the occasion with a strong sermon on the need to be of good courage, to hold fast to what was right, to fight the fight against evil and tyranny to the bitter end, and to trust in God. Afterwards they stood to sing the sailors’ hymn and he had no need to look at the book: the words were engraved on his heart.

  Eternal Father, strong to save,

  Whose arm doth bind the restless wave,

  Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep

  Its own appointed limits keep:

  O hear us when we cry to thee

  For those in peril on the sea.

  We’re all of us in peril, he thought. Not just our sailors on rough seas, but every man, woman and child in this country.

  As the service ended and the congregation streamed out of the church he caught sight of Barbara Hillyard a little further ahead in the crowd, with a small girl beside her. He managed to squeeze past enough people to catch up with her by the lychgate.

  ‘Mrs Hillyard . . . good morning to you.’

  She smiled up at him. ‘Good morning, Lieutenant Commander. It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ She was wearing a white leghorn straw hat with a blue and white spotted ribbon round the brim. He thought it suited her beautifully. ‘A very good sermon. Just what was needed.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve met Esme.’

  The child glowered up at him from under her boater. He smiled at her, nonetheless, wondering who on earth she was. A daughter? There had been no mention of any children in the file. ‘Hallo, Esme.’ She kicked at the ground with the toe of her shoe.

  ‘Esme is from London. She’s staying with me until it’s safe to go back to her home.’

  Light dawned. An evacuee. He said encouragingly, ‘I’m sure it soon will be.’

  They were in the way where they were standing – people bumping into them, trying to get past. He searched for something else to say, to detain her. Oh, Alan, you’re hopeless. Get on with it before someone else does. But before he could think of anything, a middle-aged woman dressed in WVS uniform came bearing down on them. She was built like a Matilda tank and equally impervious to any obstacles in her path.

  ‘Mrs Hillyard! The very person I wanted to see. Are you coming to that meeting I told you about? I do hope you are. I’m going to need twenty helpers to run the new canteen . . . meals for the troops, tea and refreshments. We’re going to have our hands full.’

  Barbara Hillyard sent him an apologetic look but there was nothing to be done but retreat, defeated. He touched his cap and walked away.

  Seven

  In the first week in August, another letter arrived at last for Esme. The postman, Stan Fairweather, came to find Barbara in the garden where she was weeding the rosebed. When she saw him plodding solemnly across the grass towards her, her first terrified thought was that he had come to deliver a telegram with bad news about Freddie. But it wasn’t a telegram, it was a letter for Esme. He must have known by her expression what she feared because he held it out plainly so that she could see it.

  ‘This’ll please the little girl, Mrs Hillyard. Give her something to smile about.’

  She thanked him and took the letter straight indoors. Esme was lying on her bed, reading a comic.

  ‘The postman brought a letter for you.’

  Esme kept her eyes fixed on the comic.

  ‘It’s from your father. Don’t you want to see it?’

  ‘Not specially.’

  ‘Would you like me to open it and read it to you?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  She put it down on the bedside table. ‘Well, I’ll leave it here for you to open when you feel like it.’

  Esme went on looking at the comic.

  As Barbara went downstairs, Mrs Lamprey came out of the sitting room. ‘I saw the postman through the window, Mrs Hillyard. Was there anything for me?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Lamprey.’

  There seldom was. Mrs Lamprey had a nephew in London who wrote very occasionally but to no effect. ‘Not an artistic bone in his body, you know. Nothing like me at all. He only writes because he hopes I’m going to leave him some money in my will. Well, he’s in for a big disappointment.’ The highlight was always the arrival of the latest copy of The Stage which she devoured from cover to cover, with comments to whoever was unlucky enough to be in earshot. The most recent one had been delivered the previous day and Mrs Lamprey had not yet wrung it dry. ‘I see that John Gielgud has been touring in The Importance of Being Earnest with Edith Evans as Lady Bracknell. Of course, the role would suit her perfectly. I remember them so well together in Romeo and Juliet in 1935.He was Mercutio and she was the nurse. The bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon . . . Laurence Olivier was Romeo, you know, but I’ve never thought him a patch on dear Johnnie.’

  Barbara tried to return to the weeding but Mrs Lamprey hadn’t quite finished. ‘I wonder where Monsieur Duval has got to? I haven’t seen him all day.’

  ‘He said he wouldn’t be in for lunch.’

  ‘Well, I do hope he’ll be here for dinner. There’s something I most particularly wanted to ask him.’

  Monsieur Duval, she had noticed, had become quite adept at avoiding Mrs Lamprey. She went back to the garden and worked until it was time to cook and serve lunch. Miss Tindall had gone to visit a friend for the day and Rear Admiral Foster had to cope alone with Mrs Lamprey.

  ‘Do tell me, Rear Admiral, what was the biggest ship you have ever served on?’

  ‘In, Mrs Lamprey. One serves in a ship, not on it.’ It was the first time Barbara had ever heard him correct her, though he did it in the mildest tone. Perhaps even his patience was finally wearing thin.

  Esme came down late for her lunch in the kitchen.

  ‘Did you read your letter, Esme?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did your father have any news – about coming back on leave?’

  ‘No.’ Esme frowned at her plate. ‘I knew he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Well, when he does he’s bound to come and visit you.’

  ‘No, he won’t. It’s too far.’

  Barbara tried again. ‘Shall we go for a walk this afternoon? Would you like that? It’s a lovely day and it would do you good to get some fresh air. It’s a shame to spend the holidays cooped up in your room.’

  Esme poked at a piece of liver. ‘I’d sooner read.’

  She gave up. There was no point in forcing the child to go for a walk – she’d only sulk all the way there and all the way back. ‘Well, I think I’ll go – just for a while.’

  A flight of steep steps led from the lawn down the hillside to a gate and a path that followed the curve of the estuary towards the town. A rocky inlet below had been a favourite spot of hers and Freddie’s, and she stopped to look at the little beach where they had paddled and swum. There were no children playing there now. The beach was deserted and barricaded with coils of barbed wire.

  Round the next corner, she came, unexpectedly, upon Monsieur Duval. He was sitting on the low stone wall that bordered the river side of the path, a sketch pad propped against his knee, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth. He lifted his head, saw her and waved. ‘I am making some sketches, madame.’

  She hoped he hadn’t thought she was spying on him, following him about the place. ‘I was taking a walk.’

  ‘The English are better at walking than the French. We are very lazy. Please come and sit down – just for a moment. It’s very pleasant here in the sun and there is a wonderful view of the estuary, don’t you agree?’

  She perched on the wall, but at a distance from him. ‘Yes, it’s lovely. When I was a child, my brother and I always used to play on a beach just near here.’

  He had flipped over a page and begun sketching again. ‘A
nd where is your brother now?’

  ‘At sea. With the Royal Navy. I don’t know exactly where.’

  ‘Do you worry about him?’

  ‘I try not to.’ But not very successfully. She worried about Freddie night and day – especially at night when it was harder to stop her imagination painting graphic pictures of U-boats stalking convoys, torpedoes striking, ships sinking in flames, men leaping into icy black water. And during the day, every time the doorbell rang her heart would begin to pound away, convinced it was the postman with a yellow telegram for her. Deeply regret to inform you . . . ‘Freddie’s my only living relative.’

  ‘Your parents?’

  ‘Both dead.’

  He clicked his tongue. ‘How sad for you, when you are so young. No wonder that your brother means so much to you.’ His pencil moved swiftly across the paper. ‘I have one sister, but I’m not sure that she would worry very much about me.’

  She realized that she knew almost nothing about him. Nothing of his private life or of what he had left behind in France. ‘Do you have children, Monsieur Duval?’

  ‘Alas, no. I have a wife, but no children. And my wife and I have not lived together for a long time.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He smiled at her. ‘There is no need for you to be, I assure you. We don’t miss each other. Not at all. Do you miss your late husband?’

  She hesitated. ‘Not really. Not any longer. I suppose that sounds rather awful.’

  ‘No, it sounds truthful. Most people would lie.’

  ‘But we were very happy.’

  ‘I am sure that you were.’

  ‘We were married for such a short time and it’s almost ten years since he died.’

  ‘One cannot grieve for ever. Was he a good man?’

  ‘Yes, very.’ Good, kind, dependable. Safe. And, she thought guiltily, actually a bit dull.

  ‘What work did he do?’

  ‘He was a dentist.’

  ‘I am always a little bit sorry for dentists. Nobody is ever pleased to see them.’

  She smiled. ‘Noel used to say that. In fact, it made him quite depressed sometimes.’

  ‘And how did you meet him?’

  ‘He was the brother of a girl who was at a domestic science college with me in Eastbourne. I was invited to lunch at her home one Sunday.’

  ‘The English roast beef with the Yorkshire pudding?’

  She laughed, shaking her head. ‘No. I think it was Welsh lamb, if I remember rightly. With mint sauce.’

  ‘Mint sauce? What is this?’

  ‘Mint chopped up with vinegar and sugar. It goes very well with lamb – at least we think so in England. But I’m sure you’d hate it, Monsieur Duval.’

  ‘I’m afraid that I might. I have never heard of eating such a thing with lamb. And so, you went to this home for this Welsh lamb with English mint sauce and there he was?’

  ‘Yes, there he was.’ She’d walked into the sitting room and Noel had been standing over by the fireplace. Nothing special to look at, but she’d liked him instantly. He’d been easy to talk to. Uncomplicated. So nice. She had felt at ease with him despite the twelve-year gap in their ages.

  ‘But you have never married again, madame. That’s strange. There must have been men who have asked you.’

  It had started quite soon after Noel had died. Widows, she had soon discovered, were considered to be lonely and in need of consolation – particularly those with some money in the bank. Noel’s life insurance policy had meant that she had had no need to worry financially, and his partner had bought his share of the practice. The house in Eastbourne was hers, too. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t want to marry any of them.’

  She had found the unwanted suitors a great nuisance and it was one of the chief reasons why she had decided to leave and go somewhere where she was not known. The college had taught her about cooking and all things domestic. It had seemed a logical step to open, first, a lodging house, and then later, if it went well, a small hotel. There was no need for her to work, but there was every need to do something with her life.

  She slid off the wall. She’d stayed too long, talked too much and too frankly to him. Probably bored him. ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’

  ‘But you did not. You inspired me.’ He turned the sketch pad towards her. ‘See.’

  He had drawn her sitting on the stone wall with her hands resting on each side. Her head was tilted back, her face in profile, her figure all too clearly defined. She flushed. ‘It’s very flattering.’

  ‘I never flatter in my work. This is how I see you. How you are. A beautiful woman.’

  Paying compliments, of course, was second nature to him. Even Miss Tindall had received them, much to her maidenly confusion. How charming you look today, mademoiselle. And Mrs Lamprey lapped them up as nothing less than her due. It was meaningless and harmless and she smiled at him to show that she understood that. ‘I don’t think I am, but thank you.’

  At dinner, Mrs Lamprey launched straight into the attack, wagging her finger in Monsieur Duval’s direction. ‘Vous êtes très méchant, monsieur.’

  ‘Mais pourquoi, madame? Why am I so naughty?’

  ‘You never finished telling us about your visit to London. Avez-vous rencontré votre Général de Gaulle?’

  ‘Malheureusement pas. I have never met the general.’

  ‘But I thought you were working with the Free French – avec les Français Libres?’

  ‘Oui, madame. Mais le général est très occupé. A very busy man.’

  ‘What a pity. He sounds so interesting – très intéressant, n’est-ce pas? Perhaps next time? La prochaine fois?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Will you be going there again? Vous retournez à Londres?’

  ‘Without doubt, madame.’

  Barbara finished serving the first course and went out to the kitchen. Esme had left her supper half-eaten and gone up to bed. Lectures on not wasting food in wartime had invariably fallen on deaf ears. She washed up the pots and pans while she waited to take in the pudding – a pie made with plums picked from the tree in the garden. When she went back into the dining room, Mrs Lamprey was still in full flood.

  ‘Aimez-vous aller au théâtre, Monsieur Duval?’

  ‘Mais oui, madame. i enjoy the theatre very much.’

  ‘Did you go often in France – souvent?’

  ‘Unfortunately, not so much as I would have wished. And I regret that I have never had the pleasure of seeing you on the stage, madame. It would have been an unforgettable experience.’

  Mrs Lamprey looked delighted, and Barbara smiled to herself.

  After they had finished dinner, she cleared the tables, washed up, dried up and put everything away before she laid the four tables for breakfast. When, finally, it was all done and the kitchen tidy, she went out into the garden. It was a warm evening, still not quite dark with the tall pines black against an opal sky, bats flitting about. She could smell the scent of the roses and then a whiff of another smell – French tobacco. Before she could retreat, Monsieur Duval spoke from the shadows.

  ‘You have finished your work at last, madame?’ He had been sitting on the bench and strolled towards her across the grass, cigarette in hand. The smoke drifted on the evening air. ‘I am sorry if I offended you this afternoon – drawing the sketch of you without your permission.’

  ‘I wasn’t offended.’

  ‘But you seemed very unsure.’

  She said lightly, ‘Well, I don’t think I look quite like that.’

  ‘I told you, I do not flatter.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do sometimes.’

  He smiled. ‘With words, perhaps. Occasionally, it is required to lie for politeness. For instance, to Madame Lamprey.’

  She smiled, too. ‘Perhaps you should draw her?’

  ‘I think not. If I did, it would not please her at all. My wife hated the portrait that I painted of her and yet it was exactly as she was.’

&nbs
p; ‘Is she still in France?’

  He drew on the cigarette. ‘Unfortunately, yes. In Paris. I tried to persuade her to leave but she refused. She believes that everything will be all right under the Germans.’

  ‘How could it be?’

  ‘Indeed . . . how could it ever be all right to have one’s country occupied and ruled by Nazis.’

  There was a rustling in the shrubbery close by and a dark shape bounded out onto the lawn. Fifi on her night-time hunt. ‘Fifi knew that very well,’ Monsieur Duval observed drily. ‘That’s why she stowed away and came to England.’

  The evacuee opened the door. Powell smiled at her and received a stony stare in return.

  ‘Is Mrs Hillyard at home?’ A don’t-know shrug in answer. He said firmly, ‘Well, perhaps you could go and see.’ The child disappeared and, after a few moments, Barbara Hillyard came to the door. She looked surprised to see him. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mrs Hillyard, but I wonder if I could give a message to Monsieur Duval?’

  It was a pretty lame excuse, of course. He could easily have telephoned, or sent Lieutenant Smythson, not taken the time and trouble to call himself.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’m afraid he’s out.’

  ‘Will he be back soon, do you think?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure. He said he was going across to Dartmouth. Would you like to come in and wait?’

  He debated what to do. Duval might be hours and he couldn’t afford to wait long; on the other hand, it was a golden chance to talk to her. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  She showed him into the sitting room. It was as pleasant as the kitchen: sunny, comfortable, welcoming. He admired the big vase of flowers on the table, the books, magazines, newspapers, cushions, pictures, ornaments. A similar feel to his sister’s home, but a lot tidier. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Lieutenant Commander?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but no thank you.’ He could see that she was about to abandon him and searched quickly for something else to say. This time, he found it. ‘How’s the French cat getting on?’

  ‘Fifi? Oh, you’d hardly recognize her. She’s put on weight and grown.’

  ‘She’s very lucky to have such a good home.’ He gestured round the room. ‘You’ve made this house charming, Mrs Hillyard. Do you enjoy living here?’