He had said bitterly, ‘And how long am I to be permitted to stay this time?’
‘Another month.’
‘It’s not enough. Not nearly.’
‘We need you to return here before any intelligence is stale.’
He had taken a grip on himself. ‘I apologize. Of course you are right about that. But when are they going to get radio transmitters so that we are not obliged to go backwards and forwards in this crazy way?’
‘As soon as it can be done.’
He had lifted his shoulders silently and eloquently.
The weather was bad this time. The sea much rougher, the crossing longer, by consequence, and even more uncomfortable. The Espérance was undergoing an engine overhaul and Lieutenant Smythson was away on leave. The replacement boat, Marie-Éloise – an elderly crabber – wallowed her way along and, except for one Breton, her crew were all men seconded from the Royal Navy and complete strangers to him. As before, the plan was to arrive offshore during darkness but, on this occasion, to land on a beach at Rospico between Raguènes and Port-Manech, just south of Pont-Aven – a spot he knew reasonably well. Duval stayed on deck for the first part of the trip, smoking and watching the coast of England recede.
He thought about Barbara. He had not lied to her this time, about going to London. He’d said nothing and she’d asked no questions. All she’d said was, ‘Please be careful.’ There had been a long succession of women in his life, but not one of them had touched his heart as she had done. Not even Simone. In the beginning he had loved Simone with the blind passion of youth, but the rest who had followed had meant little to him. They had been mostly Frenchwomen and some other nationalities, too: Spanish, Italian, German, Dutch – and English. Some had been models who had sat for him, others brief encounters, or longer, more intense affairs. Some had moved in aristocratic circles or in café society; others had been shop girls, flower girls, dancers . . . They had all been much the same – beautiful, or not so beautiful; warm or cold; amusing or boring. He never exactly forgot them, but as their successor came along they faded into the shadows of the past, where he sometimes had difficulty in recalling their names or faces – though seldom their bodies. Whether he had drawn them, painted them, or simply made love to them, he remembered the bodies rather better than their owners.
Later, he went below and fell asleep on the bunk, to be awakened after a few hours by an ominous silence. The Marie-Éloise had stopped her wallowing and come to a halt, her engine broken down. The petrol pipes had to be dismantled and cleaned before she could be persuaded to budge again and more than an hour was lost. There were strong seas running off the Brittany coast and getting ashore proved a treacherous operation. The naval rating rowing the dinghy had a hard job making it to the beach, and Duval landed wet through from breaking waves and spray.
He spent the remainder of the night concealed in an equally wet ditch and soon after dawn walked to Pont-Aven, trying to think of a credible reason for looking as though he had taken a swim fully clothed in late October. His guardian angel, he decided, must have risen early in order to protect him. There was scarcely anybody about and no curious or suspicious German soldier stopped him and demanded an explanation, as well as the inevitable papers. Better still, it had started to rain – rain which soon became a huge downpour and accounted quite satisfactorily for his appearance.
The angel accompanied him as he splashed through the puddles into the apartment building, ensuring also that Mademoiselle Citron continued with her much-needed beauty sleep, and seeing him safely up to his door. Inside, he took off his wet clothing and found dry things. Then he poured himself a large brandy. In normal circumstances he would have expected it to do the trick, but he had spent the past two days at sea in a draughty old fishing boat in freezing weather and most of the night in a waterlogged ditch. He felt ill. Very ill. When he lay down on the bed, it seemed to be moving up and down like the bunk on board the Marie-Éloise. He closed his eyes, nauseated, and, presently, he slept.
The knocking dragged him back to consciousness. He struggled to his feet and made his way unsteadily to the door. Mademoiselle Citron stood before him, staring.
‘Madame Duval has been telephoning me while you have been absent, monsieur. She says she has been trying to reach you and wanted to know where you were. Since I am never informed of your plans, I was unable to assist her.’
He clung dizzily to the door jamb. ‘I’ve only just returned.’
‘Yes. There were wet footprints across the hall floor and up the stairs – I thought it must be you.’
His guardian angel had slipped up there. Her German guests, no doubt, never failed to wipe their boots. ‘Did my wife leave any message for me?’
‘She asked if you would telephone her as soon as possible.’ She stared harder. ‘Are you ill, monsieur? You don’t look at all well.’
‘A slight chill, that’s all.’
‘Do you wish me to send for the doctor?’
‘No, thank you. It will not be necessary.’
He telephoned Simone in Paris. ‘It’s Louis. You were trying to reach me.’
‘For weeks. Where on earth have you been? I thought perhaps you’d really gone off to England this time.’ She sounded angry, accusing.
‘What’s the trouble?’
‘That bank of yours has missed two payments. Unless you stopped them.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t stop them. I’ll phone them and sort it out.’
‘Where have you been all this time?’
‘Around, looking for inspiration. New things to paint.’
‘You should try painting portraits of the Germans. They’d pay through the nose, especially if you make them look good.’ She was only half-joking, he knew.
‘How’s the business going?’
‘Not so well. I can’t get the stock.’
‘That’s unlucky for you.’ He was sweating now, instead of being cold. He wiped his forehead. ‘I’ll telephone the bank now.’
The manager was apologetic. The Occupation had caused chaos . . . nothing was as it should be . . . staff had gone . . . there were new regulations in force . . . it was all most regrettable . . . he would look into the matter at once and the payments into Madame Duval’s account would be made immediately.
Duval lay down on the bed again. He felt worse than ever and knew that to try and get up and go out would be hopeless. In his present state he would achieve nothing. There was no option but to stay where he was and hope that whatever had struck him down would pass quickly. In fact, it took three days. Three days during which he alternately burned or froze. He ate nothing, drank brandy – when he could stomach it – and slept for hours at a time, semi-delirious. On the third day, Major Winter knocked at the door.
‘Mademoiselle Citron told me of your return, monsieur. I understand you’ve not been well. I trust you’re better now?’
Fortunately, he was.
‘A fever perhaps? The influenza?’
‘Something of the kind.’
‘I was away on leave on the last occasion that you were here. I hope that in my absence Oberleutnant Peltz was helpful?’
‘Exceedingly. He found me some cognac and wine. And thank you for the gasoline coupons.’
‘Not many, I am afraid. It was the best that I could do.’ The major paused. ‘I should warn you perhaps that Mademoiselle Citron is no friend of yours.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘She would like to cause mischief for you.’
‘I’m sure she would. I declined to sleep with her and she has never forgiven me.’
The major nodded. ‘People use us to try to settle all kinds of old scores. They even write anonymous letters. It’s very distasteful.’
He wondered exactly what sort of mischief the sourpuss had been stirring up. What hints and insinuations? And since she could not know the truth, what lies?
At last he felt well enough to shave and bath and dress, and hungry enough to sally fort
h Chez Alphonse for some lunch. To his relief there were no German customers to contend with – only a few locals – and Alphonse himself, bravely continuing to bear the trials of Occupation.
‘A little vegetable soup, perhaps, monsieur? And some bread and cheese? It pains me but that is the best I can offer.’
In fact, it suited him very well. Anything more would have been beyond him. He was content to sit quietly at his table in the corner and re-habituate his stomach to the idea of receiving food. A carafe of wine on hand, and he began to feel quite normal. Alphonse found time to join him in a glass, dunking a piece of grey Occupation bread into the wine and chewing at it morosely – the only way, in his opinion, to get it down.
Duval said, ‘I’m told that Mademoiselle Citron has been trying to make trouble for me with the Germans. Do you know anything about that?’
‘No, I’ve heard nothing. But it doesn’t surprise me. She’s just the sort. People are denouncing old enemies to the Nazis for anything: papers not quite in order, a little black market dealing to keep body and soul together, a few indiscreet words . . . you can imagine for yourself. One is ashamed sometimes to be French. A little something now to aid the digestion, monsieur? I still have a bottle or two of good cognac hidden away.’
Afterwards he walked up to the Vauclin cottage. With the colder weather Jean-Claude was working under cover in the stables. His bike had not only been looked after but had been made to look almost like new. Jean-Claude wheeled it out with pride from a dark corner, demonstrating brakes, turning handlebars, spinning pedals. The machine stood before him, oiled, polished and gleaming. And, much as he tried, no payment would be accepted. Marthe, he was told, was away with the horse and cart and her lace samples, gathering more information and people. She was expected back within a few days.
He rode away on the rejuvenated bike, wishing that he himself could undergo a similar process.
The shoemender, Leblond, had no more news from his cousin in Quimper, but his brother-in-law had counted twelve U-boat pens being constructed at Lorient. And the shipping-office friend at Brest was now in no doubt that others were being built there. He also reported rumours of similar constructions beginning in other ports further south – St Nazaire, for example, and La Rochelle. Furthermore, the shoemender had another useful cousin who happened to be a house painter and had been doing some work for the Germans at their headquarters. He would be more than happy to keep his eyes and ears open as he wielded his brush.
The greengrocer was out with his horse and cart, but Madame Thomine left her daughter in charge of the shop while she took Duval into a back room. Her brother, who was blind, but with very sharp hearing, spent his time sitting in cafés listening to the German soldiers talking – boasting when they’d had too much to drink. The talk was no longer of invading England but of the Germans starving the English out of existence by sinking all their merchant ships, and without the trouble of getting their feet wet.
Duval returned to his studio. He left the bike in the hallway – no doubt Mademoiselle Citron would drive herself crazy wondering where it had been and how it had undergone such a transformation. He poured himself more of the cognac, lit a Gauloise and sat down to listen to one of his favourite records – the Mendelssohn violin concerto that Major Winter had also appreciated. Tomorrow he would go by train to Brest. From Brest to Rennes. From there he would go on to Paris.
It was Esme who found Fifi’s litter of kittens. She came running into the kitchen, her eyes shining with excitement.
‘They’re in the airing cupboard upstairs. Under the shelves, right at the back.’
‘How many?’
‘Five, I think.’
In fact, there was a sixth, but it was already dead. Barbara removed it and arranged a suitably solemn funeral in the garden, with Esme carrying a shoebox coffin adorned with a chrysanthemum. They buried the kitten near the apple tree and marked the grave with a cross made out of two sticks tied together. The survivors were mixed colouring – two black with white paws exactly like Fifi’s, two grey tabby and one ginger. Esme wanted to keep them all.
‘Not all of them,’ Barbara said firmly. ‘Just one. Wait and see which you like best. We’ll find homes for the rest when they’re big enough.’
‘Could I take it with me when Dad fetches me?’
‘Of course you can. It will be your very own.’
‘Can I choose its name?’
‘Certainly.’
She fetched some milk for Fifi and put the dish close beside her. The cat was lying contentedly on her side, her Anglo-French kittens feeding in a row.
Esme crouched down to watch them. ‘Wait till Mr Duval sees them when he comes back. He’ll be ever so surprised.’
Later, Barbara went upstairs to his room. She looked out of the window towards the sea, in the direction of France. What sort of boat had he gone in? How did he get ashore without being seen? Where did he go? What did he do? What risks did he take? What did Germans do to spies if they caught them?
‘Lieutenant Reeves speaking, sir.’
Powell held the receiver to his ear but went on looking through the papers on his desk. ‘Yes, what is it?’
‘That file on Mrs Hillyard that you returned . . .’
He stopped looking at the papers. ‘What about it?’
‘Well, I happened to remember that she had a brother serving on one of our destroyers.’
‘Yes?’
‘His ship’s just been sunk, sir. A signal came through. I got the file out again, to make sure it was the same one he’s serving on and it was. She was torpedoed in the North Atlantic on escort duty, about thirty miles out of Halifax. The convoy lost twelve ships at a go. I suppose the U-boats were waiting for them.’
‘You’re quite certain of this?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any survivors?’
‘None reported, I’m afraid. The other ships couldn’t stop to pick anyone up, of course. Not in that situation. They did an air search of the area afterwards, but no luck. Of course, in that latitude and at this time of year, nobody’s going to survive for very long.’ Reeves cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Hillyard will be getting the official telegram, of course, but I wondered if the news might be better coming from you first, sir?’
‘I’ll go and see her. Thank you, Lieutenant.’
‘I’m sorry about it, sir.’
‘So am I.’
He put the phone down and then picked it up again to put a call through to the Admiralty. The news was confirmed for him. Lieutenant Frederick Sutcliffe’s ship had been sunk off Nova Scotia and there were no survivors.
The evacuee child answered the door to him and he realized that he had completely forgotten her name. An unusual one, that was all he could remember.
‘Is Mrs Hillyard at home?’
Last time she had scowled at him, this time she smiled and nodded. ‘Would you like to see the kittens?’
He followed her obediently through the hall and up the stairs to a cupboard on the landing. Inside there was a lagged hot-water tank, slatted shelves with neat piles of clean and ironed clothes, linen and towels. In its way, he thought, it was as comforting a place as the kitchen.
The child pointed under the lowest shelf. ‘She’s at the very back. You’ll have to get right down to see them.’ He got down on his hands and knees and crawled a little way underneath. In the far corner he saw the dark shape of the cat, the white of her paws, the shine of her eyes and a huddled heap of small furry bodies. ‘They’re different sorts,’ the child said. ‘Two like her, and two grey tabbies and a ginger. I like the ginger one best. It’s a boy. Did you know that most ginger cats are boys?’
‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t.’
‘The vet says so. It’s going to be mine when it grows up. I’m calling it Tom.’
As he backed out from under the shelf, knocking his head in the process, Barbara said from the doorway, ‘I didn’t know you were here, Alan.’
He got to his feet,
brushing the dust off his knees. ‘I only just arrived. I was being shown the nursery.’
‘Esme takes everyone to see them. Luckily Fifi doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, I think she rather enjoys all the attention and being told how clever she is. We should leave her alone now, though, Esme.’
The child went off somewhere and he followed Barbara downstairs, dreading his task. They reached the hallway. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Alan?’
‘Please don’t bother. I wonder if we could talk somewhere in private for a moment?’
She saw his grave expression and her face changed. ‘Yes, of course. The kitchen’s probably best.’ Inside the cosy room which he had liked so much, she faced him. ‘Has something happened to Louis Duval?’
Naturally, it would have been her first thought; he should have guessed that. He shook his head. ‘No, it’s nothing to do with him.’
She looked instantly and happily relieved. ‘What is it, then?’
He could hardly bring himself to tell her, but surely this way was better and kinder than a telegram. He said quietly, ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some rather bad news for you.’
She stared at him. ‘What bad news?’
He could tell that she still had no inkling. ‘It’s about your brother.’
The colour drained from her face. ‘Freddie? What’s happened to him?’
She had to know, sooner or later. ‘I’m so sorry, Barbara, but he’s been reported missing at sea. His ship was sunk.’
‘Sunk?’ She seemed stunned. ‘Where? What happened?’
‘I’m not actually allowed to give any details.’
‘He’s not dead, though, is he? There would have been lifeboats, wouldn’t there? He would have been picked up?’
Her brother, he knew, was her last living relative and he would have given anything to let her have hope when it seemed there was almost none. ‘There are no reports of any survivors, unfortunately. But that doesn’t mean that there’s no chance at all. It’s perfectly possible that he did manage to get to a lifeboat or raft.’
‘And he could drift for days, couldn’t he? Some other ship could have picked him up?’
Those in Peril Page 22
