‘There. You see the white towers?’
Billy followed her pointing finger. On the far side of the valley, nestling in the trees, was a chateau. It was unmistakable. Two white towers and a glint of the dying sun in the upstairs windows.
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she expecting me?’
‘She’s expecting someone. Our people in Paris sent a message.’
‘How much does she know about me?’
‘She knows nothing. As I know nothing. As everyone knows nothing. The evenings are long these days. You’ve plenty of time.’
Billy hesitated a moment, still looking across the valley at the chateau. The light was fading fast now and he wondered exactly how much Alice, with her near-perfect English, really knew about his mission.
‘Are you staying there with me?’ He nodded across the valley.
‘Just tonight. Tomorrow I go to Nantes.’
‘Another Englishman?’
‘No. I have a friend there.’
‘A Frenchman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lucky man.’
He meant it. She blushed prettily and ducked her head. Then she told him they had to keep moving. Long shadows were creeping up the valley and the first stars pricked the darkening sky.
The trudge across the valley was longer than it looked. From the road, a track led up towards the chateau through an avenue of plane trees. The first dog started barking when they still had a way to go. Billy stopped. He hated dogs.
‘Don’t worry. It’s old. It won’t hurt you.’
He knew he had no choice but to believe her. Minutes later, he was limping slowly up a flight of steps towards the big front door. She knocked three times, paused a moment, then knocked again. A land of codes, Billy told himself. Perfect for the Wireless Op. Dot dot dot… dash.
At length there were footsteps, brisk, approaching the door. Then a harsh metallic rasp as the bolts were drawn back. Finally the door opened an inch or two.
‘Alice? C’est toi?’ A woman’s voice, older and deeper than he’d expected.
‘Oui.’
‘Avec…?’
‘Oui.’
‘Entre.’
Alice slipped in through the open door. Billy pushed it a little wider, thrust his good leg forward and extended a hand. He’d last seen this woman sitting at a café table in the middle of Paris with a man who’d put a smile on her face. Since then she seemed to have aged.
‘Your name, m’sieur?’ She ignored the proffered hand.
‘Billy. Billy Angell.’
‘Angel as in ange?’ She extended her arms and offered a little flutter with her hands. ‘Excellent. Parfait.’ She forced a smile. ‘An angel would be most welcome.’
25
The three of them ate in the kitchen. Billy, to his relief, had left his boots beside the front door. Alice wolfed the cold lamb, pausing between mouthfuls – Billy imagined – to catch up on the local gossip. The fact that these two women obviously knew each other was deeply comforting. It meant that in this new world of mirrors Hélène would appear to be the person he’d anticipated, a woman of some standing who seemed to have fashioned a space of her own deep in rural France, largely beyond reach of the Occupation. The strangeness of the language, on the other hand, put him equally beyond reach. Why weren’t they speaking English?
He asked the question over the empty plates. Hélène seemed amused.
‘We’re lazy, m’sieur. And we’re handicapped.’
‘By what?’
‘By our nationality. Some people think our language is all we’ve got left. Maybe they’re right. What happened to your leg?’
‘I fell out of an aeroplane. Made a bad landing.’
‘The plane was crashing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You were careless? You had some kind of quarrel? You didn’t want to go home?’
‘Not at all. We were told to bail out. Orders are orders. I did my skipper’s bidding.’
‘And the rest of your crew?’ Hélène nodded towards the hall and the front door. ‘Should I have prepared more food?’
The thought made Billy laugh. He liked this woman. Something told him that life had taken her places he could scarcely imagine. She was brisk, ironic. Billy guessed she took nothing at face value. Least of all him.
‘We were coming back from Saint-Nazaire, madame. You know about the U-boat pens?’
‘I know about the ice creams. Before the war, Saint-Nazaire was famous for ice creams.’ She turned to Billy’s guide. ‘Your favourite, Alice?’
‘I’ve never been to Saint-Nazaire.’
‘Dommage. Then let me choose on your behalf. Pistachio. Always pistachio. With a little curl of cream on top. No. Attends. Maybe two curls.’ She giggled and for the first time Billy wondered whether she’d been drinking. Her gaze left Alice and returned to Billy. She would welcome more information about the U-boat pens.
Billy did his best. He’d only bombed Saint-Nazaire once in his life and the impact photographs had tracked a harmless line of explosions in open water hundreds of yards from the target. That was with his new crew in V-Victor and marked the moment he began to suspect that Les Hammond might be a wobbler.
‘The pens are made of concrete, madame. They’re metres thick. Only a direct hit will do any damage and you need a very big bomb.’
‘And what happened? After you made a very big hole?’
‘I’m afraid we missed.’
‘Dommage,’ she said again, pulling a face. ‘All that way and not even an ice cream.’ She turned back to Alice. ‘You’re taking Monsieur Ange south tomorrow?’
Alice shook her head. She said they’d driven all the way from Laval to spare Billy’s leg. Her brother was taking the car back. Tomorrow she was off to Nantes.
‘To see Didier?’
‘Oui.’
‘And Billy will be with you?’
‘Alas, no.’ She nodded towards Billy. ‘A few day’s rest? Maybe a week?’
Billy gazed at her, impressed by the fluency of the lie. Maybe Alice knew everything. Maybe she was best pals with Tam and the indomitable Ursula.
Hélène was studying Billy with a new interest.
‘You need a doctor, Monsieur Ange? For that leg of yours?’
‘No. I don’t think it’s too serious. Just a day or two in bed.’ He risked a smile. ‘If that might be possible.’
‘Anything’s possible, monsieur. That’s the beauty of these days. You never know what might happen next. It’s like being in love without the compensations. I hope for your sake that bomber of yours crashed. Because otherwise you might have made a very costly decision.’
‘Jumping out?’
‘Coming here.’ She offered him an icy smile and enquired about cheese. In the countryside, she said, a civilised life was still a serious proposition. She could offer a brie past its best or a slice or two of Sainte-Maure. La France profonde, the butt of endless peacetime gibes, was quite the place to be just now. Even certain Germans preferred it to the bigger cities.
Billy told her food was scarce in England. Thanks to the U-boats, people lived in a world of ration cards. One fresh egg a week. Four ounces of margarine. Even bread had become a luxury.
‘Here, too, monsieur. The Germans allow us twelve hundred calories a day. Scarcely enough for a baby.’
‘What do they expect you to do?’
‘They expect us to cheat. And they’re seldom disappointed. Occupation is the mother of bad faith. We get by as best we can, a modest lie here, a bigger one there. I recommend the Saint-Maure, monsieur. We have our local goats to thank. It’s inexpensive, as well as delicious.’
The cheeses were in the pantry. She stepped out of the kitchen to fetch the Sainte-Maure and returned, in addition, with a bottle of red wine. She poured three glasses, and then hesitated in front of Billy.
‘You prefer a digestif, Monsieur Ange? A little cognac perhaps?’
; The mention of spirits reminded Billy of the Grand Marnier. He settled for red wine even though the stuff was barely drinkable.
‘You live alone, madame?’ Billy dabbed at his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘No.’
‘Children? Kids?’
‘One. Her name is Agnès. I expect you’ll meet her.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Twenty-four some mornings. Eight, others. Sometimes even younger.’
Alice obviously knew about Agnès. She said something in French that drew a mirthless laugh from Hélène. Then Alice turned back to Billy with an explanation.
‘Agnès is like me. A résistante.’
‘And she lives here?’
‘She’s in hiding, much like you, monsieur.’ This from Hélène. ‘In her case I’m not sure her parachute opened properly. In fact I’m not sure it opened at all. Maybe you two should compare notes.’
‘She’s a flier?’ Billy was lost.
‘Only in her imagination, monsieur. I offer the thought as a figure of speech. Life becomes more interesting by the day. Are you good with horses?’
‘I know nothing about horses.’
‘Excellent. A fine place to begin. I have a very precious horse. Precious financially. And precious here.’ One large hand settled briefly on her chest. ‘The horse has gone. Stolen. In the right hands it will be worth millions of francs. Billions of francs. In the wrong hands it will end up in a casserole. This is rural France, monsieur. Which outcome do you favour?’
‘The casserole.’
‘Exactement. Tomorrow we will address the problem of my horse. I will value your opinion.’
There was a long silence. Hélène took another sip of wine. Billy’s foot was throbbing. When Hélène invited Alice to show him to the room he’d be occupying, he hauled himself upright. He began to thank Hélène for the meal, and for taking him in, but she appeared to have lost interest. Her hand returned to the bottle and Billy suspected there’d be more to come.
He limped out of the kitchen and followed Alice upstairs. On the first landing he became aware of a door an inch or two open and a pair of eyes in the darkness beyond. Up another flight of stairs, he paused on the landing.
‘Agnès?’ he nodded at the door below, now shut.
‘No.’
‘Someone else?’
‘Yes.’
‘There are more people here?’
‘Of course. The place is a zoo, Billy.’ She paused beside the adjacent door and pushed it open. ‘This will be your room. After midnight, the power goes off. Dormez bien.’
*
Billy had flying dreams, everything in Polish, towers of cloud in the bright moonlight, everything on fire below. He fought the heavy blankets, determined to save the Rear Gunner, failed completely. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow. Then came a trickle of blood seeping from beneath a lavatory door, and he felt the sway of the train beneath his aching feet, and saw the guard pushing through a crowded Mess with a leer on his face. The guard marched him out into the rain for execution. He tripped over rubble in the wet darkness. Hauled upright, he was shoved backwards. Half collapsed against a wall scabbed with rough plaster, he tilted his face to the rain, praying for it all to be over. The sound of the firing squad drawing back the bolts on their rifles jerked him awake. He was lying in total darkness. Heavy blackout curtains hung at the window. His mouth was parched. His bladder was bursting. He badly needed the bathroom.
Slowly, with infinite care, he manoeuvred himself out of bed. Everything hurt. He had a mental picture of the room from the moment before he’d turned off the light. He remembered about the power. Until the mains supply resumed there was no point switching anything on.
He was naked but for a pair of pants. He groped his way towards the door, remembering the big oak wardrobe en route. Somewhere down the landing, he’d find a bathroom, a tap, cold water, relief. He opened the door. The wind had got up and the house ticked and sighed in the darkness. Left or right? He stepped left, his hand to the wall. He found the handle on the first door. It was locked. He crossed the landing, both hands outstretched. Another door. This time it opened. He waited on the threshold, trying to make sense of the noises inside. Someone breathing? He wasn’t sure. Then came a soft grunt, male, and the sound of bedsprings as he turned over.
Billy eased the door shut and moved on. By now he judged that he must be nearly at the end of the landing. His fingers found the frame of yet another door. The handle turned and the slightest pressure eased it open.
The drip-drip of a tap was the sweetest sound. A bathroom, he thought. Water. A lavatory. He stepped inside, moving very slowly, trying to map the room in his imagination. The leaking tap lay ahead, slightly to his right. He could feel tiles beneath his bare feet, another good sign. Then came an open doorway, the tap within touching distance, the silky smoothness of a basin beneath his fingertips. Beside it, lower, a lavatory bowl. He stood in the darkness, voiding his bladder, oblivious to the noisy splash of urine. When he’d finished, he stepped sideways to the sink. His fingers found a tap. Hot or cold? He didn’t care. Just as long as it was water.
The water was cold, almost icy. He cupped both hands beneath the tap and drank greedily. Then came the rasp of a match behind him and he half turned at the sink. The bigger space he’d just crossed was a bedroom. A woman was reaching out to light a candle on the table beside the bed. The wick flared, then settled down. In the soft yellow light Billy found himself looking at Hélène.
‘It’s me. Billy,’ he said at once. ‘I’m sorry, I thought this was a bathroom.’
She was rubbing her eyes. She sat up properly, peering towards him.
‘Monsieur Ange,’ her voice was low. ‘A visitation. How fitting. There’s a glass on the table beside you. Some water would be more than welcome.’
Billy found the glass. Filled it. Then hunted for a towel to wrap around himself. Hélène was following his movements in the half-darkness.
‘Come in here, Monsieur Ange. No need to be shy. There’s plenty to wear in the wardrobe. Help yourself.’
Billy delivered the water. It was a big bed, antique. The last time he’d seen a bed like this was in a production of a pre-Christmas farce.
‘Behind you, Monsieur Ange.’
‘Behind me what?’
‘The wardrobe.’
Billy interpreted the prompt as an invitation to stay. The wardrobe was huge. He pulled out a long garment that looked like a greatcoat.
‘Is this OK? Do you mind?’
‘Perfect, Monsieur Ange.’ She was smiling. ‘You might take a look in the mirror. A promotion at this time in the morning? Oberst Ange? Most unexpected.’
Billy was trying the greatcoat on. It was dark green, military in both weight and cut. It belonged to a much bigger man and it smelled lightly of cigars.
‘You may sit down, Monsieur Ange,’ Hélène patted the bed. ‘Take the pressure off that leg of yours. Thank goodness there was a car to bring you here.’
Billy perched himself on the edge of the bed. Her partner at the café table would have fitted a coat like this, he thought. How many other items in this room belonged to him? How often did he make it down from Paris? And when might she next expect a visit?
Hélène was rolling herself a cigarette. Aside from the need for water, she seemed untouched by the evening’s drinking.
‘Tell me more about the car, Monsieur Ange. What sort of car was it?’
The question carried an edge of menace. Billy blinked.
‘It was black,’ he said. ‘A black car. Not big.’
‘Make?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You didn’t look? All men look. Cars are toys. Men love toys. A Citroën, perhaps? Some other make?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Which route did you take? Were you on the big roads?’
‘I’ve no idea. I was asleep most of the time.’
She nodded, examined the cigarette, then l
it it from the candle. When she offered it to Billy, he shook his head. He was still disturbed by the drumbeat of questions.
‘Why do you want to know about the car?’ he asked.
She looked at him for a long moment and then sucked at the cigarette. A plume of blue smoke curled into the surrounding gloom.
‘Show me your right foot, Monsieur Ange.’
Billy hoisted his leg onto the bed. A single glance at his heel was all she needed.
‘You walked, Monsieur Ange. There was no car.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I had a look at your boots. Fresh stains. Blood.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘You mean the car?’ she asked. ‘Or the blood?’
‘Both.’
‘Of course it matters. Are you denying that the car was a fiction?’
‘No.’
‘Then why the lie?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you blaming young Alice?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then why invent the story?’
Billy gazed at her. He’d never expected an interrogation like this. So deft. So merciless. He remembered Tam at the airfield. His parting advice. Think on your feet, laddie. It may save your life.
‘You want the truth?’ he said at last. ‘About the car?’
She nodded. Said nothing.
‘I wanted to pretend I had a serious injury,’ Billy said.
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to stay here a while.’
‘But you already have an injury…’ she nodded at Billy’s blistered foot and the raw flesh where the boot had rubbed, ‘… wouldn’t that be sufficient?’
‘No. Blisters heal quickly. I could be gone in a day or two.’ He paused, biting his lip. Confession time, he told himself. Make it hard. Play to the audience.
Aurore Page 19
