Béatrice woke up as they were driving along the tree-lined approach to the chateau. ‘Where is this?’ she asked, looking out of the window.
‘It’s where we are going to stay,’ smiled Catherine. ‘Look.’ They turned the last bend and the chateau came into view.
‘Oh,’ Béatrice gasped. ‘Not truly?’
‘Yes, truly.’
Guy was already there, his car parked by the front door, and was standing with Madame Farcy waiting to greet them. He had obviously explained Béatrice’s situation, so that when Catherine helped her grandmother off the bus and went to introduce her, Madame Farcy fell upon the old lady and went into an excited greeting with many remarks about the horrors of the occupation and effusive praise for all those who’d worked for the Resistance.
‘Now, Madame Albert’ – she’d taken Béatrice’s arm – ‘I can show you to a room on your own on the ground floor. I think it will be easier for you,’ and she and Béatrice had gone off together, chatting happily.
The girls flopped onto their beds in the big room on the first floor. ‘Isn’t this heavenly?’ said Frances, pushing off her shoes. ‘It’s like coming home.’
‘It might be for you,’ Della mumbled. She had stripped off her uniform jacket and was pulling on a green ribbed jumper. ‘You’ve seen my house. You could fit the whole of it into the kitchen here. Still, I do love this place.’
They were at the chateau for five days, enjoying being in the house and even the grounds, although the weather was freezing. Tommy and Colin got over their colds, but Tommy, although he said he was alright, seemed to have been left a little more breathless, and there was a pinched look about his cheeks.
‘I’m fine,’ he insisted when Catherine expressed her concern. ‘Don’t fuss.’
The card game had resumed, and in the evenings the girls found themselves joining in too.
‘I’m hopeless at this,’ said Catherine, and turning to the other girls, said, ‘We shouldn’t play. They’re taking all our money.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Della answered. ‘I’m getting the hang of it now. I’ll bankrupt the lot of you.’
‘You’ll have to give up poker if you marry Dr Tim,’ Frances warned.
‘No I won’t,’ Della shouted, slamming down her hand with a cry of joy. ‘The Irish love playing cards.’
Guy came and went, but never wanted to talk about the shooting at the farm.
‘Will the police catch up with us?’ asked Frances one morning, when she encountered him on the corridor outside the big bedroom. He was sleeping in his old room, next door to theirs.
‘No,’ he said. ‘They won’t. They have no need.’
‘But,’ she protested, ‘surely they have every need. A man was shot, and you were shot at.’
He twitched his shoulders. She could see that he didn’t want this conversation. ‘They have understood the circumstances,’ he muttered.
‘You mean,’ Frances said, ‘that Robert or someone like him has leant on them.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Doesn’t it mean anything to you?’ As she said it, Frances noticed a tic at the side of his mouth where a muscle was involuntarily twitching, and knew that her question was foolish. This was a man who’d seen too many shootings, too much death.
‘It means something,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps it means that I never want to do it again. That I just want to be a farmer, with an orchard and, perhaps, a wife and children.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I can see that.’
Robert turned up one morning, with a bundle of post. There was a letter for Béatrice from her daughter, which she read with much joy and many tears. Catherine had written to her mother on the day that they’d rescued her and already here was the reply. Honorine was so excited about seeing Grandmère after all these years. I have told Lili that her great-grandmother is coming to live with us. Maybe she doesn’t understand exactly, but it makes it more real for me.
Catherine was sitting with Robert in the large salon when Béatrice came in with her letter. ‘Today, I am happy,’ she said. ‘I thought that feeling had gone forever, that never again would there be something to look forward to. But now,’ she smiled, ‘perhaps my life will take a new turn.’
‘I’m glad for you, Grandmère,’ said Catherine, and the old lady leant down and stroked her cheek.
‘It will happen for you too, chérie. Just wait. Now, you will excuse me. Madame Farcy and I have to make the lunch. Her soup is good, but’ – she bustled to the door – ‘I can improve it.’
Robert laughed. ‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall when those two old biddies argue about recipes.’
‘I wonder who wins,’ said Catherine.
‘Oh, your grandmother, I think. Every time.’ He took her hand. ‘Can you get away for a night?’ he asked. ‘I want to take you to my house again.’
Catherine lifted her face to stare at him. ‘Why?’ she said.
‘You know why,’ he answered. ‘We need to be alone together. We have to know if it means something.’ He waited for her to speak, and when she didn’t, he groaned and grasped her hand tighter. ‘Don’t be naïve, Catherine,’ he said. ‘You know how I feel about you.’
She could feel her cheeks going pink and looked to the door in case one of her friends burst in. ‘What excuse could I give?’ she whispered. ‘To Grandmère and to the girls.’
‘I’ve thought of that,’ he answered. ‘I could say that the military authorities want to quiz you more about your husband and you’ll need to stay the night in Bayeux. Madame Albert will accept that, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Catherine slowly. ‘The girls will guess it’s a lie, though.’
‘Do you mind that?’
She looked down at his hand clasped in hers and thought about what Grandmère had said about being learning to be happy again. ‘No, Robert. I don’t mind at all.’
They left before lunch, driving away from the chateau in Robert’s Jeep. It was raining and he’d put the canvas roof up so that sitting beside him, cut off from the outside, Catherine felt that she and Robert could be the only two people in the world. She was excited and nervous at the same time, and glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, she knew that he felt the same. He was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in a familiar movement, and when they were held up at a road barrier outside Caen, he barked at the corporal manning it for not carrying his rifle and being sloppily dressed.
It wasn’t like him, and once back on the road again, she said, ‘We could go back to the chateau if you’re regretting this idea.’
He suddenly screeched the Jeep to a halt at the side of the road and she had to reach for the door handle to stop herself falling forward. Before she could draw breath, he shouted, ‘I’m scared, you stupid girl. Don’t you realise?’
She was bewildered and then she peered through the windscreen and her heart skipped a beat. ‘Are we in danger here? Have the Germans broken through?’
‘No,’ he groaned.
‘Then what? What are you scared of?’
‘Of you, Catherine. Of you.’ And he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her hard on the mouth.
‘Of me?’ she said, when they had broken away and stared at each other. ‘How could you be?’
‘Because you’re beautiful and talented, and I’m neither,’ he muttered. ‘I see you on stage, lifting an audience to the heights of emotion, and I am so in awe of you that I can barely breathe.’
‘But that’s my job, Robert. It’s only a job.’
‘No, I can’t believe that.’
She smiled. ‘Well, maybe not, but it shouldn’t make you scared.’
He shrugged, moving tense shoulders awkwardly. ‘Then, perhaps,’ he said, ‘it’s because of Christopher.’
Her smile disappeared and the suppressed anxiety of guilt started up again. ‘What about him?’ she asked.
‘You loved him. Still do, I think. I suppose I’m jealous.’ He had his face turned away, looking out of the windscreen at the raindrops trickling down the glass, and Catherine followed his eyes, watching the rain too.
‘I did love him,’ she said, ‘and if he returned today, tomorrow, next month, next year, I would feel the same.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But you know, Robert, the truth is, I’m beginning to forget what he looks like, how he sounds when he laughs, and’ – she swallowed the nervous lump in her throat – ‘the feel of his hands on me.’
As she was saying it, the realisation of its meaning was washing over her. Was this admission, spoken out loud for the first time, the reason I’ve been feeling guilty? she wondered. Am I ready, like Grandmère, for life to take a new turn?
She turned to face him and found that he was looking at her with an expression that could only be called hope. ‘I think that you’ve been telling me the truth all along, Robert,’ she said. ‘My husband is dead. I must move on.’
‘Oh, my sweet girl,’ he said, taking her in his arms again, and they remained locked together for many more minutes until their embrace was disturbed by a short convoy of heavy trucks passing by, tooting their horns and making the Jeep rock in their wake.
‘Oh God,’ laughed Robert. ‘Let’s get away from here. Besides,’ he added, starting up the engine, ‘I’m starving. We need something to keep our strength up for … well …’ He grinned at her. ‘Well, I’ll leave that. You’re already blushing.’
An Atlantic storm had blown in, but the house on the headland was standing strong, bravely looking out to sea, while the wind and rain blasted sand from the beach below onto the veranda and sifted it through the closed shutters.
‘Will Agathe be there?’ asked Catherine, as they approached along the stony lane. ‘The shutters are closed.’
‘But smoke is coming from the chimney,’ Robert pointed out. ‘She will be in the kitchen or in her studio at the back. Those are her favourite places.’
He was right. When they walked into the hall, she came out of a door at the far end with a shout of joy.
‘Monsieur Robert,’ she crooned. ‘At last. You haven’t been here for weeks. And’ – she grabbed Catherine’s hand – ‘with the beautiful Madame Fletcher. What could be better?’
Catherine shook hands and smiled. Agathe looked as wild as ever, her long black hair uncombed but with a pencil holding some of it in an uncertain twist on top of her head. Her bright red smock was decorated with splashes of paint, and there was even a dab of it on her cheek, and another streaked along her wiry forearm. She was quite the most unusual person Catherine had ever met, but she found her impossible not to like.
Agathe clung on to Robert’s arm. ‘Since your phone call,’ she said, ‘I have made up the beds, and there is a fire in the salon. There is fresh bread, wine and a rabbit stew in the oven, but if you don’t mind, I must go to the village. My mother is ill’ – she shrugged her thin shoulders – ‘and because of this she has consented to my helping in her care. She forgets that she would never speak to me again. It is good.’
‘Go, Agathe,’ said Robert. ‘Build a bridge while you can. We will be fine.’
‘Thank you, dear boy.’ She picked up a small canvas bag and swung a green waterproof cape from a hook by the door. ‘I will come in the morning with bread and milk.’
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ said Robert. ‘The weather’s too bad for your bike.’ And turning to Catherine, he said, ‘I’ll be five minutes. Go and warm yourself by the fire.’
By the time he’d returned, she’d stripped off her uniform jacket and was sitting on the thick, brightly coloured rug, toasting her stockinged feet in front of the log fire. She felt strangely at peace with herself, as though something that had worried her for months had simply faded away. Whatever happens now, she thought, is fine. Christopher has gone and I’m ready to love again.
Robert knelt down beside her. ‘Your cheeks are glowing,’ he said.
‘It must be the heat from the fire,’ she murmured, putting a hand up to feel them.
‘I’m not sure,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps it’s because you know what’s going to happen next.’
And when his mouth lowered onto hers, she put her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. Whatever happened next, she was ready for it.
They made love there, on the rug in front of the fire. Outside, the wind howled and rain beat sharply against the shutters and rattled the shingles on the roof, but they didn’t notice it. He paused once, as he was unbuttoning her blouse. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, his voice breathless, and she opened her eyes and looked him fully in the face.
‘Yes, Robert. I’m sure.’
Afterwards, they lay together, spent by lovemaking and each reliving the passion. She had been startled by his power, by the almost ruthless way he’d taken her, but she’d been equally excited and without shame explored his muscled, willing body.
‘I love you,’ he said, rolling over and looking at her. ‘I think I have for months, even though …’
‘Even though what?’
‘Even though you didn’t feel the same.’
Catherine reached over and pushed a lock of Robert’s hair off his face. ‘I didn’t feel the same,’ she said slowly. ‘I was attracted to you, but it wasn’t love.’
‘And now?’
‘Now? Now I think I do.’ She sat up and stared at the flames and listened to the logs splitting – bursting apart with little showers of golden sparks. ‘No,’ she said, and alarmed, he sat up too. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘Not think. I know. I love you, Robert.’
He held her then, each revelling in the intimacy until the feelings became too much and they made love again.
Catherine cried afterwards and Robert, worried, tried to comfort her.
‘What is it?’ he asked, his voice full of concern. ‘Did I hurt you? Are you sorry we did this?’
‘No,’ she laughed through her tears. ‘I’m just so happy, that’s all. I couldn’t hold back the emotion.’
‘Never hold back, my darling,’ Robert said. ‘I want to experience everything with you. Everything.’
They lay in each other’s arms barely noticing that it was getting darker and that the light from the fire was beginning to fade, until with a groan, Robert sat up and looked at the flickering embers in the grate. ‘It’s going out,’ he said, ‘or it will be if I don’t attend to it. D’you mind if I get up?’
‘No, you idiot. And I should go and look at the casserole that Agathe left. For some reason,’ she grinned, ‘I feel suddenly hungry.’
They ate rabbit stew and drank red wine that evening, barely talking, but gazing at each other, in a sort of wonder. ‘Did that really happen?’ asked Robert, looking at the curve of Catherine’s cheek and at the tiny ringlets that danced on her hairline above her ears.
‘Well, I think I felt someone interfering with me,’ Catherine teased. ‘Was that you?’
‘Let’s go to bed.’ He put down his glass and grabbed her hand.
Later, they slept, both exhausted by overwhelming emotion. She woke once in the night and for a moment she was back in her little house with Christopher lying beside her. But only for a moment. Robert turned and, muttering in his sleep, put his arms around her and she drifted back.
When she woke, it was morning and pale grey light was streaming through the shutters. Robert wasn’t beside her and she looked at the dip in the mattress that his body had made and smiled to herself. What a night, she thought, and then got up to find the bathroom.
‘Agathe’s here,’ he said, walking into the room with two cups of coffee. She was standing by the windows looking out on a restless sea. Gulls swooped and dived over the headland, their presence forecasting the approach of another storm.
Catherine bit her lip. ‘What will she think?’ she asked, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Will she think I’m a terrible slut?’
‘God, no,’ Robert laughed. ‘That’s not Agathe. Besides, wasn’t she a terrible slut herself? Here, get back into bed and drink your coffee. Make room for me.’
When they finally went downstairs, they found that Agathe had made a breakfast for them with fresh warm rolls and apricot jam. She’d put slices of ham and cheese on the table and hard-boiled eggs.
‘I won’t ask where you got the ham,’ said Robert, ‘because it’s probably black market.’
Agathe wagged her finger at him. ‘Still the cheeky boy,’ she said.
‘How is your mother?’ asked Catherine.
‘She is no better and no worse. Not as bad as she thinks she is, but prepared to let me in her house as long as I wash her linen and make a few meals. The neighbours were surprised to see me,’ she laughed. ‘The priest’s mouth fell so wide open when he saw me that if it had been summer, he would have swallowed a quantity of flies!’
They left soon after, with hugs for Robert and a kiss on both cheeks for Catherine. ‘Come back, very soon,’ Agathe told them. ‘I can see that it has done you good. Oh’ – she looked beyond the veranda to the sea, smiling – ‘I remember so many wonderful nights in this house. The days were good, but the nights, magnificent.’
Catherine laughed all the way to Bayeux. ‘I do like Agathe,’ she said.
‘I’m glad,’ Robert nodded. ‘My wife hated her. She thought she was a trollop.’
It was the first time he’d talked about his wife since all those weeks ago, when she’d asked him whether he was married. Now the mention of her was like a little stone dropping into her stomach and her laugh faded away. He’d said that they’d been drifting apart before she’d gone to Berlin and she guessed that he would divorce her, if she was still alive. But there is a child, Catherine thought. And I have a child too. Darling Lili who needs a father.
‘What was she called?’ Catherine hoped the question sounded casual.
‘Ulrike,’ he said. ‘She was the daughter of the professor who taught me languages in Berlin. We were happy at first, but she loathed England. Couldn’t settle at all, and in the end she went home. She said it was for a holiday, but I think I knew she wasn’t coming back.’
‘Did you miss her?’
‘Not really. No, not at all. We’d argued constantly in those last two years. But’ – his face dropped into sadness – ‘I miss my son. I wonder about him all the time. He would be about eight now, if he’s still alive.’
Catherine put her hand on his shoulder. ‘There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be,’ she said softly.
‘We’ve bombed the hell out of Berlin. Thousands have been killed.’
‘And thousands haven’t,’ she argued. ‘They’ve got shelters like we have.’
He drove on for a while and then took his hand off the steering wheel and put it on hers. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Robert, can I ask you something else?’
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘Why won’t you get rid of Eric Baxter?’
There was silence and Catherine thought that for some reason she’d overstepped a mark, that she’d strayed into territory that was somehow denied to her. But then how could it be? she thought angrily. The Bennett Players were all as important as each other, and if one of them was upsetting the others and hadn’t been sacked, then she needed to know why.
She was just about to say all this when he said, ‘I can’t. Baxter has to stay. I can only tell you this, Catherine. He is useful to us.’
‘Who’s us?’ she replied crossly. ‘Certainly not anyone in the company. And, Robert, admit it. He’s blackmailing Beau; we all know that. We’ve seen what he’s doing, and God knows he’d probably blackmail the lot of us if he could.’ She stopped speaking then, realising what she’d just said. He could have easily blackmailed Della over her mother’s moonshine business, and what if he’d got wind of Frances’s little boy? And then there were the others, Tommy and Colin and Godfrey. Why hadn’t he had a go at them? Or had he?
‘He won’t touch you,’ Robert said. ‘I promise you that. He won’t blackmail you or any of the rest of the company.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘I know. Leave it, Catherine.’ His voice was hard and clipped. He was back in Major Lennox mode and she knew that it would be useless to argue. And that was a pity, because she wanted to know about Davey Jones and his mysterious death. The more she thought about it, the more strange it seemed. He turned up, out of the blue, did a couple of shows and then he was killed. She shot a sideways glance at Robert. Did she dare mention that?
‘You’re quiet,’ he said suddenly.
‘What d’you expect?’ she sighed. ‘I have a lot to think about.’
‘Good thoughts, I hope?’
‘About last night?’ she smiled. ‘Of course. It was wonderful. It’ll show all over my face and everyone will know and I don’t care.’ She laughed. ‘Such a slut.’
‘You are,’ he agreed cheerfully. ‘But you’re my slut.’ Then his smile faded and he turned his head to look at her. ‘You are mine, Catherine, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘I love you.’
When Robert dropped her back to the chateau with a swift kiss and a promise to see her soon, Della greeted her with joy. ‘Thank God you’re back,’ she grinned. ‘I’m bored to death.’
‘Where is everybody?’ asked Catherine, taking off her coat and going into the salon to warm herself by the fire.
‘The boys are off with old man Farcy,’ grumbled Della. ‘They’ve gone to some bloody local horse race. I ask you, a horse race in the middle of the war. They’ve only gone for the betting.’
‘Well, where’s Frances?’
‘Don’t talk to me about her.’ Della was really furious. ‘She and Guy are messing about in the fields.’
‘Messing about?’ Catherine was astonished. ‘Surely you can’t mean …’
‘No, I don’t.’ She shot an amused look at Catherine. ‘I think you’re the one who’s been messing about, and don’t deny it. It’s written all over you.’
‘Alright, I won’t deny it. But where’s Frances?’
‘Yesterday, she and Guy were pulling out old fruit trees with chains and the tractor. Frances was driving that tractor like she’d been born at the wheel. And early this morning, they went to buy some cattle. They’re in the field with them now.’
Catherine laughed. ‘We knew she was a farmer. She told us.’
‘That’s at home,’ Della growled. ‘She’s a performer here.’
‘Well, I’m back now, and when I’ve said hello to Grandmère, we can have a good chat.’ Catherine grinned as she left the room. ‘And no. I won’t tell you the details.’
They were a jolly group that evening. The boys had returned from the races flush with money and in high spirits.
‘It was a local thing,’ explained Tommy, ‘but we enjoyed it, didn’t we, lads?’
‘We liked the free drinks,’ Colin said, ‘especially Godfrey.’ It seemed that after the point-to-point finished, the participants had retired to a hotel, where Tommy played the piano in exchange for a few beers. Godfrey, who’d been dozing on his chair, woke up and said, ‘Did I hear someone offering a beer?’
Frances was happy too. She’d been doing something she loved and her face had an outdoors glow that suited her. ‘I wish my father had money like Guy,’ she confided to Catherine and Della. ‘I could really boost up the stock and make the place into a going concern. But he hasn’t, so we can’t.’
‘Oh, something will turn up,’ said Catherine. ‘It always does.’
‘Oh, isn’t she the happy one,’ Della whispered so that the boys wouldn’t hear. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of “how’s your father” to buck you up. Come on, Catherine, tell us. Was he any good?’
She didn’t answer. Her smile told them all they wanted to know.
Two days later, she had a visitor. They were in the salon, rehearsing, when Madame Farcy came to tell her that there was a man waiting for her in the hall. ‘I thought he had come for Monsieur le Compte,’ she said. ‘He looks like an official. But I told him that Monsieur is in Paris for a few days. He asked for you. Take him to the small salon. I’ll bring some coffee.’
‘Thank you,’ said Catherine, and walked into the hall. Her heart was doing somersaults. Had someone come with news of Christopher? Standing there in the gloom of another November day was Larry Best.
‘Good heavens,’ Catherine said, trying to calm her breathing. ‘You’re the last person I expected to see. Whatever are you doing in France?’
‘I’ve been here for a few days,’ he said, and gave her a lopsided grin. ‘I thought I’d come and see how you are.’
‘Have you come to tell me about my husband?’ Half of her wanted to know, but the memory of lying in Robert’s arms clouded out Christopher’s face and she could feel a flush rising up her neck and into her cheeks. Fortunately Madame Farcy arrived then with a tray of coffee and some little cakes, followed by Béatrice, who had come to see who her granddaughter’s visitor turned out to be.
Catherine introduced him as a colleague of Robert’s and left it at that, allowing the two old ladies to believe that he was some sort of entertainments officer.
When they’d gone, Catherine turned back to Larry. ‘Those two days in the country,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t really there for you to teach me, was I? You wanted to see what I knew about Chris. Have you found him?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Sadly, not a trace of him. I’m so very sorry. We did think that Father Gautier might be able to help us, but he died last night without regaining consciousness.’
She didn’t know what to say or even to think. The one person who might have told her was dead and she was still in limbo.
‘He told me he was sorry,’ she said bleakly. ‘In the car, when we were taking him to hospital. I called him a traitor and a murderer. He said, “Not a murderer.”’
‘I suppose it depends on how you define murder.’ Larry Best took a gulp of the coffee and nodded his appreciation of it. ‘He was certainly a traitor, but his motives for giving away our agents are blurred. We don’t know what happened, and we lost track of him for a while. But you found him.’ He grinned again. ‘I thought you would.’
‘It was you,’ she said, realisation dawning. ‘You sent that note.’
‘Mm,’ he nodded. ‘Lennox wasn’t keen, but I knew you’d go after him.’
‘I might have been killed,’ Catherine said.
‘You might have, indeed. But we are at war and it’s what agents do.’
‘Mon Dieu,’ Catherine said. ‘You are very ruthless, and I am not an agent.’
‘No, and that’s a pity. I wish we had found you sooner, because I’m sure there’s an element of ruthlessness about you too. You sing like an angel, but underneath you’re as hard as I am.’
‘I don’t think so,’ smiled Catherine, getting up. ‘I have a heart.’
The next morning, Robert turned up, with Beau limping along beside him.
‘Good news,’ said Beau, when everyone was gathered in the salon. ‘We’re off tomorrow to some camps at the front.’ He looked at a piece of paper. ‘Yes, a forward camp first and then to a field hospital. So, a bit of rehearsing today, I suggest, and packing. And don’t forget your tin hats.’
Della beamed. ‘Maybe the field hospital is where Tim is. Oh, I do hope so.’
Frances was the only one who didn’t look particularly pleased. ‘Guy wanted to get in some ploughing,’ she moaned. ‘He’s way behind this year. I hoped we would be staying here a bit longer.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ snorted Della. ‘You’re supposed to be an entertainer and an administrator, not a bloody farm labourer. He can get on with it by himself.’ She stretched her legs and did a couple of squats. ‘I do need exercise,’ she groaned. ‘Or I’ll never be able to do the splits again. That’s what the men like and I intend to give it to them.’ And using the back of the sofa as a barre, she bent and pliéd, while Frances discussed the tour with Beau and attached his piece of paper to her clipboard.
Catherine followed Robert back into the hall, where after a swift look round, he took her in his arms. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.
‘It’s only been a day,’ Catherine whispered.
‘And a night, my darling.’
They were still kissing when Frances and Della came to find them. ‘Oops,’ laughed Della, hands on hips and enjoying the scene. Frances pulled her back out of the hall, saying, ‘Sorry, we didn’t mean to disturb you. Er … carry on.’
When they’d gone, Catherine asked, ‘Are you coming with us tomorrow? To the front.’
He nodded. ‘I am, tomorrow and the day after, at the field hospital, but then I have to go back to England with Major Best. He didn’t get anything out of Gautier, so although we know who blew all our agents in the area, we don’t know why.’
‘He was a collaborator. Isn’t that enough?’
He twisted his uniform cap round in his hands, taking his time to answer. ‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘But I can’t tell you more. Now’ – he put on his cap and straightened his jacket – ‘I have to get back to Caen. I’ll see you tomorrow, darling girl.’ And with another kiss on her willing lips he walked out and into his Jeep.