‘Needn’t have gone anywhere near Plounévez. I’ll have to take you around a bit, acquaint you with the geography.’
‘Or sketch it out for me, to start with? I’d like to get straight to work – now I am here.’
‘Quite right. Anyway I’ve a map somewhere. But since I’ve been here forty years—’
‘Long as that?’
Small-talk, for God’s sake. She’d felt as if she could have lain down where she stood: like some animal in a field, sunk to her knees, then on down, rolled over and begun snoring… Peucat telling her – she wasn’t sure now at which stage this had been – ‘I’m sixty-one, and I came here when I’d just qualified. Then they had me doctoring in the Army – the first war, eh? Too old in ’thirty-nine, thank God. But apart from those war years I’ve been a lifelong fixture here.’
He wasn’t anything like drunk, she’d realized. Just drank a bit. Vague in his manner, and perhaps a bit shy. She thought his teeth didn’t fit too well – which from time to time gave an impression of slurred speech. He had a flat sort of face and a sallow complexion, a nose that might have been broken at some stage. His hair was still thick, with dark streaks in it but mostly grey.
He’d enquired rather diffidently when they came back in from the garage, in which he kept an old Ford gazo, whether she was expecting to live in the house with him. The question had surprised her: she’d asked him, ‘Is there an alternative?’
‘Yes. If you prefer it, you can room with my sister in Qinquis-Yven. That’s about five kilometres away. She thinks you should… She lives alone, there’s room enough.’
‘Isn’t there here?’
‘Heavens, yes! My late wife and I brought up our children in this house, and now I’m the sole occupant… Look, you’d better stay here tonight, anyway. Whatever Marthe may say about it. Here, give me that suitcase.’
She’d let him take the lighter one, and followed him up the stairs. Thinking that if she’d had to move on elsewhere tonight she might have just lain down, given up the ghost… Hearing him mutter, ‘Put you on the top floor. Well, not the top, that’s attic – but this floor’s where I sleep, you can be on your own, one up. Otherwise – tongues wag, don’t they?’
‘Won’t they anyway?’
‘Would if you moved in permanently, I dare say.’
‘Is that your sister’s reasoning?’
‘It’s the way she reasons, yes. Even though you are younger than my own daughters. And allow me to reassure you—’
‘Could you put up with the wagging tongues?’
‘Oh, certainly. Although there are times when my sister’s doesn’t so much wag, as lash… No, my reputation, such as it is—’
‘It would be more convenient to live here. In view of the nature of my work – my real work, which obviously you know about.’
‘It’s a point I’d wondered about myself. Although you’d find ways to handle it – living at some distance from what’s supposed to be your job, I mean—’
‘Not easily. So – if it’s all right with you?’
‘It’s settled. Consider yourself at home.’
It was a relief. She did want to get down to work at once, not waste time trundling from place to place. But – shades of Lise and Noally, she reflected. Separate floors. Actually, no similarity whatsoever… ‘Attics up there, you said?’
A short flight of very narrow stairs poking up into the narrowing roof-space: not much more than a fixed step-ladder. The doctor had grunted an affirmative, carrying that case into a bedroom, Rosie following with the other. It looked fine. Victorian, but – fine. Iron-framed bed, vast oak wardrobe, antique wash-stand. Peucat was saying, ‘Have to fetch your own hot water from the kitchen. In that jug there. Not too much for you?’
‘Certainly not. But – doctor, as I said – since we both know what I’m really here for—’
‘Wouldn’t we be idiots if we didn’t?’
‘Well – your name’s all I know of you – apart from the fact that Count Jules brought you into this.’
‘I’ll tell you one other thing, then.’ The spaniel’s eyes blinking at her… ‘Amongst my patients are a number who reside in the forests. L’Armée des Ombres, we call them – as you’d know, I suppose. But you might say that’s a lot of what I’m here for, nowadays. In other words, we’re on the same side – and what else do we need to know?’
She’d nodded. ‘Do the Maquis come to you, or do you go to them?’
‘They wouldn’t come here. Except in very grave emergency, perhaps. We have Boche soldiery right here in the village, heaven’s sake. The way you came in, from Plounévez, a building on high ground as you came down to the corner? It looks bigger than it is, perched up there. That’s now the offices of the local commandant. It was the Mairie, but his Worship now works – as much as he does, which is very little – from his house next-door here.’
‘Right… Another question, though. I’m sorry, it’s just – basic essentials, to set off on the right foot, so to speak – did you realize I’m a pianist?’
‘You play a radio, you mean.’ He nodded. ‘One had assumed…’
‘But don’t worry, I’ve no intention of transmitting from this house.’
‘You could – as far as I’m concerned—’
‘They’re too quick at detecting radio transmissions nowadays. Detection from long range, then they send the vans in. And men on foot then sometimes – detector sets on their backs. So – I won’t. But I will keep watch to receive signals – and may I use the attic for that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I’d definitely like to live here.’
‘And I’ll enjoy having your company.’ He smiled. ‘Descending from the esoteric to the mundane – could you knock up our breakfasts, d’you think?’
‘If you’d show me where things are.’
‘I have a housekeeper – Melisse Loussouarn. A widow – Jacques Loussouarn was killed in ’forty, he was a gunner sergeant. She comes in every morning, cleans up a bit, goes off to cook luncheon at the priest’s house – up the road here – and returns to make supper at six o’clock. Leaves it in the oven, usually, for when I want it. There’s some for you now, incidentally – I had mine, earlier.’
She’d swallowed: at the thought of a hot meal…
‘I am quite hungry.’
‘You’re also tired. Better come along down. Eat, then off to bed. Now you’re here we don’t want you cracking up.’ He led the way again. ‘Melisse Loussouarn’s a good-hearted woman, you’ll have no problems with her. My sister on the other hand – means well, but—’
‘Will either of them know what I’m really here for?’
‘No. I don’t think they need to, either. You’ll hide your radio?’
‘Of course.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me. Nobody around here has any love for the Boches. Nobody. Least of all, either of those two.’
‘Do they know you doctor the Maquis?’
‘My sister perhaps suspects it. But from nothing that I’ve told her.’
Downstairs, before starting her meal she’d produced the letter he’d sent her, as proof of identity. Not that it was proof – she could have been an infiltrator, the real Suzanne Tanguy might have been behind bars with ‘Hector’ – but he’d accepted it as such. She thought perhaps he might not be as alert as he should be to the principle that no stranger should be taken at face value, ever: there were questions he could and should have asked, and hadn’t. Asking her now, anyway, ‘Were you in reality a student nurse?’
‘Oh.’ Mouth full… ‘Well – in a way…’
‘Where and when?’
Swallowing delicious rabbit, and mashed turnip… ‘The truth, or the fiction?’
‘Both, I’d better hear.’
She recited the fiction – Paris and Toulouse, and her breakdown after the fiancé’s death – he’d heard that bit before, from Count Jules. Then, shrugging – ‘The truth is I worked for five days in a hospital ward, ju
st recently. In England, but it was staffed by French doctors and nurses, a ward reserved for de Gaulle’s people.’
‘So your nursing skills are – rudimentary?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘As long as we can pass it off. You should be seen doing some work for the practice – just simple tasks. Visiting patients who can’t get here but only need their temperatures taken – or to have prescribed medicines brought to them, and so forth. I’ll show you in the morning – my consulting room at the back there, they use the side door – certain days, certain hours. You can help with them sometimes, I dare say. The dispensary perhaps not…’
‘I do agree!’
‘It’s the village as much as the Boches we need to convince, after all. An aspect one should be aware of, incidentally – word gets round, the Boches have ears to the ground and pick up that word—’
‘Yes. Of course…’She was scarcely awake, by this time, but felt she had to drag a few other thoughts together. Lighting a cigarette…
‘Another thing is – I need to be able to get about. Visiting patients – that’s perfect. But any reason to be out and about, including night-times – curfew hours, would they give me an Ausweis to cover that?’
‘I can’t see that they’d refuse. As my assistant – well, they must… I could see them tomorrow. Come along with me – let ’em see butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth – eh?’
She’d nodded, breathing smoke. ‘Think it’ll work, do you? Passing myself off as a nurse, I mean?’
‘There are nurses and nurses – believe me. And we needn’t disguise the truth – Count Jules proposed I should take you on, after your mother’s old friend wrote on your behalf – that’s believable enough, for sure… You see, I have a big, busy practice here – and being no spring chicken…’
‘Mightn’t it be asked why you hadn’t taken on a young doctor – who’d be really useful to you?’
‘It would cost me a lot more, for one thing. I’m getting you dirt cheap – and I’m tight with money. Ask anyone around here, they all know it.’
‘So it does – add up… I’ll pay my way, incidentally. Domestically, food and—’
‘Jules de Seyssons did have a word with me about it.’
‘That’s another thing – I must go and see him. Right away, if possible. Tomorrow, d’you think?’
‘Day after. I’ll take you, introduce you. Well, I’ll telephone, but he’s away at the moment – Paris – I think due back tomorrow. But you’ve reminded me – we discussed your imminent arrival, and he suggested you might start with a visit to Guy Lannuzel at Châteauneuf-du-Faou. There’s urgent business to discuss, apparently. Might you do that tomorrow?’
She agreed – yes, she would. ‘Urgent business’ would mean a request for a paradrop, she guessed. Baker Street were standing by for such requests, had promised they’d be given maximum priority. But she also needed to see Lannuzel about ‘Mincemeat’, the Trevarez operation.
Another thought surfaced…
‘Isn’t Châteauneuf more or less on the way from here to Quimper?’
‘To Quimper… Well – more or less, yes, you could go that way. The direct route is via Pleyben, you’d be taking a longer way round, that’s all.’ Peering at her: really, very much like an old dog’s eyes… ‘My dear, you’re very tired. I think you should go on up… You’ve business in Quimper, have you?’
Nodding, as she inhaled. ‘Yes.’ It was business that didn’t have to concern him, she thought. She had other things in mind too – including sleep, as he’d rightly observed. And wondering about a bath: whether in any case she’d pass that up, have one in the morning. Thoughts tumbling over each other… For instance – maybe the doctor knew about the plans for ‘Mincemeat’, and maybe he didn’t; there was clearly no need to discuss it with him now, anyway. Guy Lannuzel would be the key man in that, she supposed. Count Jules had put the idea forward, but Trevarez was in Lannuzel’s area, and he was the man in touch with the Maquis in the Montagnes Noires. Peucat would definitely not know anything about the informer in Quimper. Even Count Jules might not. Didn’t need to, either: it was SIS business, and Rosie’s own, no one else’s, she could handle that without bringing anyone else into it. Her head was spinning… She confirmed to Peucat – his question about having business in Quimper – ‘It’s just a contact I have to make.’
A nod, and a gesture, open-handed: ‘Which obviously I needn’t concern myself about.’
‘The point is, as I do need to go on there – well, even if you were thinking of taking me to meet Guy Lannuzel—’
‘I would, with pleasure, but my Saturday surgery’s always the busiest of the week, as it happens.’
‘Saturday. Of course…’ She hadn’t thought of that. Hoped Quimper would be OK. Well, touch wood… But she wanted to be on her own when she saw Lannuzel, anyway; she told Peucat, stubbing out her cigarette, ‘I was going to say, I’d just as soon go by bike.’
Chapter 5
She’d slept heavily, as far as she knew dreamlessly, and woke thinking of Ben. She might have been having some dream with him in it, she supposed; but the recollection as she woke was of telling him a few weeks ago: ‘My last excursion, anyway. I promise you.’
‘Can you promise? I mean, you can now – and mean it – but if your Baker Street chums turn the pressure on again—’
‘I’m giving you that undertaking now, Ben. I won’t go back on it, I swear.’
She would stick to it, too. One way or the other. What Lise called ‘Fate’ might even guarantee it absolutely.
Might be unwise, she thought, to think too much about ‘Fate’ – in that sense, anyway. Especially with factors such as ‘Hector’ in the background. There were no guarantees against betrayal: no more than Ben had had against his ship being hit and blowing up.
She wondered how he was getting along. Whether he’d reconciled himself to it yet.
Bath, now. Even though it meant trespassing on the doctor’s floor, and even if the water was lukewarm, as he’d warned it might be. Last night she hadn’t had the strength.
Over breakfast – ersatz coffee, toast and some unidentifiable kind of jam – Peucat told her he’d tackle the local permit office on his own, and leave it to her to follow up next week. He was going to be busy in his consulting room most of the morning, but he’d fit it in; the Lannuzel call was urgent, he thought, and if she was going on from there to Quimper the sooner she got on her way the better.
‘As a reason for visiting him – if I needed one – I could be getting some eggs, couldn’t I?’
‘That would be black market. What about an interest in hens, you’re thinking of keeping a few here for our own use?’
‘Subject to that being legal?’
‘Of course. Just don’t commit yourself. Last thing we need here is hens to look after. Guy’s a charming fellow, but he’s also a shrewd business man.’
In Quimper, she’d be visiting a dentist. Even if he didn’t work on Saturdays, the surgery was in his house.
She’d finished her ‘coffee’… ‘Doctor – as well as the Ausweis to let me be out after curfew, d’you think I could get a permit to drive your gazo? And would you allow it?’
‘I suppose – it might be useful. A patient to be removed to hospital and no ambulance available – if I were tied up elsewhere – one might present it that way…’
‘And I could drive you sometimes – on your rounds?’
‘What a kind thought!’
‘And stop sometimes when there’s a signal to be got out. Different places – and using the gazo’s battery, so I wouldn’t have to tote mine round. Wouldn’t be all that often, anyway.’
She’d done it that way during her last deployment, in the Rouen area. Gazo belonging to poor old ‘Romeo’. Remembering when she’d got the news from Baker Street that he was to be brought home by Lysander: his huge relief, a surge of delight which she’d found infectious, so that the trip for all its dangers had felt almost like
a holiday, although as it turned out it had been a prelude to his death.
* * *
Ben woke in an unknown bed. Darkish room but daylight showing through a gap in the curtains. Traffic-noise from out there. Opening his mouth, shutting it again: a taste like floor-polish.
Joan Stack?
He pushed an arm out to his left. Empty bed. He was on this other edge, more or less. Pain in his head – on the side of the ear that worked.
Oh, Christ. Rosie. Rosie gone…
Pushing himself up. A flat in Ebury Mews, he remembered. A feat of memory, incidentally, that was enough to prove he had not been drunk. Definitely had not. Could remember other things as well: arguing with her: or rather, her arguing with him…
This wasn’t any floor he’d slept on. There’d been talk at some stage of sleeping on some floor.
At least, seemed to be alone in this bed. Checking that point again. And aware he should have been with Rosie.
Oh, Rosie. Rosie, darling…
It seemed impossible she’d actually – gone beyond recall… Chilling phrase, at that, God only knew where it had come from. Reaching with his right hand for a bedside light: he found it, switched it on.
Fair-sized room. Single bed with only himself in it, and the bedding noticeably – meaningfully – undisturbed. His watch had stopped. Looking around now, up on his elbows, seeing his uniform draped over the back of a chair and his halfboots standing tidily upright in the middle of the patterned carpet. Beyond them, at that end, a door was half open. No light beyond it. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, with a hand to the ache in his head. Feeling stupid, more than anything else: for not quite grasping yet where, what, how…
‘Hello?’
Voice like a croak: his own, though, and it went unanswered. Looking at another door, a closed one. Brass fittings, and some sort of notice on it in a frame.
Hotel room?
He manoeuvred his gammy leg out of the bedclothes, slid himself out with all his weight on the good one. He was wearing underpants, he noticed, and one sock. His shirt and black tie were over the back of a chair beside a writing-table. It was a hotel room. Memory beginning to trickle back: even before he got close enough to the door to read the notice – which was headed Grosvenor Hotel and gave instructions regarding blackout regulations and air-raid precautions, the locations of hydrants and stirrup-pumps, routes to shelter in the basement, et cetera.
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