Nine
The man was wearing a naval petty officer’s badge – crossed anchors below the crown on his upper left sleeve. He looked tired and pale and was in need of a shave. ‘Mrs Hillyard?’
‘Yes?’ Not another of Lieutenant Reeves’s homeless? ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Esme’s father. I’ve come to see her. She’s still here, isn’t she?’
She stared at him; it seemed miraculous. ‘Yes, she’s still here, but she’s at school at the moment.’ Barbara opened the door further. ‘Would you like to come inside?’
‘Thank you.’ He took off his cap and stepped into the hall. ‘Very nice place. Esme’s lucky.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That’d be very welcome. Excuse the way I look.’ He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. ‘I’ve been travelling all night.’
She sat him down at the kitchen table and put the kettle on to boil. ‘She got your last letter. She’ll be so pleased that you’ve come to see her.’
‘How is she?’
Barbara hesitated. ‘She’s well, but she misses her home. I’m afraid she’s not very happy here. She’d like her mother to come and fetch her but, so far, that hasn’t happened.’
‘And it won’t,’ he said flatly. ‘Not ever. I got a letter from Connie. She’s gone off with some man – a Canadian soldier. Wants a divorce. As soon as I got back on leave, I went to the house. She’s cleared out and taken most of the stuff with her. No idea where she’s gone, nor had the neighbours. I’ve been trying to find out. Get things sorted. She won’t care about Esme or what happens to her. She never liked her. Always thought she was an ugly little thing and told her so.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes, poor kid.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not been much fun for her. And, of course, I haven’t been there – being in the Navy and with the war on.’
She made the tea and poured him a cup. ‘Will you tell her about her mother?’
His brow furrowed. ‘I don’t know, to tell the truth. Not too sure what’s for the best. What do you think?’
‘I don’t think I’d say anything – not just yet. There’s always hope your wife might come back.’
‘Not much chance of that, I’d say. I know Connie. Maybe I could tell Esme that her mum’s gone off on holiday for a while. A white lie. Just for the moment. No sense in upsetting her right now.’ He drank some of the tea and shook his head again. ‘Poor kid.’
She sat down at the table with him and put a hand on his sleeve. ‘She still has you.’
‘Not much use to her at the moment, am I? As soon as the war’s over – if I’m still in the land of the living – I’ll come and fetch her. We’ll manage together.’ He looked at her hopefully. ‘I’ve got a sister she could go to, but she lives in London too and with the Jerries bombing the place now Esme’d be a lot safer down here. Could you keep her for the time being?’
‘Of course I will.’
He gave her a weary smile. ‘Thanks very much, Mrs Hillyard. She’s not an easy child, I know, but it’s not her fault.’
What must it have been like for him to come back from the war at sea – and whatever sort of hell that had been – to an empty house? ‘Would you like to stay here tonight? We could make up the sofa in the sitting room for you.’ Blow Mrs Lamprey, she thought. She’ll have to sit somewhere else.
‘No, thanks all the same. As soon as I’ve seen Esme, I ought to start back. It’s only a short leave and I’ve got to get all the way back up to Liverpool.’
‘When you’ve finished your tea, I’ll take you down to the school, if you like. I’m sure they’ll let Esme out, so you can spend some time with her.’
She walked down the hill with him. The children were out in the playground, running around and shouting; Esme, as usual, was by herself in a corner, back turned, head bent, scuffing the toe of her sandal this way and that against the asphalt. Barbara waited and watched as the petty officer went nearer and called through the wire fence. She saw the teacher in charge go over to him and Esme turn her head. The gate was opened and he went inside. The other children had stopped playing and were watching too, waiting curiously to see what happened next. Esme stood where she was, rooted to the spot, her face blank. Then her father held out his arms wide and the child ran full tilt across the playground and into them.
‘How is that nice Lieutenant Commander Powell, Mrs Hillyard?’
‘He’s very well, so far as I know, Mrs Lamprey.’
‘I haven’t seen him here lately.’
‘No, that’s right.’
‘Of course he must be very busy. I expect he’s engaged on important things. Hush-hush, do you think? I somehow get that impression.’
‘I’ve really no idea.’
‘Is there any news from Monsieur Duval?’
‘Not yet, Mrs Lamprey.’
‘Oh, well. It can’t be long now before he’s back.’
Barbara took refuge in the kitchen. Alan Powell had phoned once since the Torquay evening to say that he still had no news about Monsieur Duval’s return. She had been polite but distant. What he’d told her in the car still rankled – unreasonably, perhaps, but she couldn’t help it.
‘We have a file on you,’ he’d said. ‘That’s how I knew.’
‘A file? On me? What sort of file?’
‘Just basic information.’
‘What information?’
‘Where you were born, went to school, and so on.’
‘And about my family? My parents and my brother?’
‘Yes. About them, too.’
She’d said coldly, ‘What else?’
‘Very little, really. Your marriage. When your husband died. When you came here. That’s all.’
‘That’s all! It seems quite a lot to me. What right have they got to do that?’
He’d stopped the car then, drawn into the side and turned to face her. ‘I’m sorry, Barbara. You’re angry and upset. Please don’t be.’
‘Well, I don’t see why the Navy need to know about me. I’m nothing whatever to do with them.’
‘You are, in a way. They’ve been billeting people on you and they like to be quite sure of everyone they deal with, especially now.’
‘You mean I might have been some sort of spy? A traitor? A fifth columnist?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then why the investigation?’
‘It’s just routine security.’
She had hated the thought that they’d been ferreting around in her private life. Snooping on her behind her back. Putting it all into a file for anybody to take out and go through. Including him. ‘So, you read this file on me, and decided that it was safe to take me out to dinner?’
‘It wasn’t like that at all,’ he’d told her quietly. ‘If you want the truth, I read your file because I wanted to know more about you. I didn’t know a thing then – not even your Christian name.’
‘You could have asked me what it was. Wouldn’t that have been much simpler?’
‘I’m sorry, Barbara. I can understand how you feel.’
‘Can you?’ She’d turned her head away, still furious. ‘I’m not sure that you can.’
The Free French agent had returned from Normandy. Powell saw him as soon as he had landed in order to write up an immediate report for London. The man had had a tough time and was almost too exhausted to speak, but he pressed him hard for detailed answers. The Germans, it transpired, had made it very difficult to move around in that area without risking arrest. There were troops everywhere, roadblocks, searches, constant demands for papers . . . it was almost impossible to pass unnoticed anywhere near the canals or harbours. However, he had done his best to cover most of the region from Arromanches to Le Havre, passing himself off as a peasant. He had seen convoys of converted apple barges assembled at ports and had managed to take some photographs, in spite of the risk. There was little doubt that an invasion fleet of sorts was being assembled. He had then journeyed west as far as St Malo where there had been more barges but not a large quantity – perhaps fifty or so – and some old river steamers.
The agent paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. ‘I formed the impression that the Germans are not at all well prepared to invade. Yes, they are still boasting about it and yes, there are the troops and craft to take them, but it seems that they are waiting. Not ready and on the brink of an all-out attack. Though surely it must come soon.’
At least by the end of the month, Powell thought. Before the weather deteriorates. Now, or never.
He settled down to write up a report and had almost finished when Lieutenant Smythson arrived.
‘We’re ready to leave in the Espérance tomorrow, sir. All fixed to be there at the appointed hour.’
Duval’s month was nearly up. It would be interesting to see how much he had managed to achieve in the short time allotted – assuming that he’d survived.
When he had finished the report and despatched it to London, he sat down at his desk again. His hand strayed towards the phone and then retreated. There seemed little point in ringing her. What more could he say? The damage had been done and he had lost whatever slim chance he might have had.
Duval returned by train from Paris to Pont-Aven. Mademoiselle Citron, who was becoming almost as vigilant as Madame Bertrand, called up the stairs after his back.
‘Oberleutnant Peltz wanted to leave some things for you, monsieur. I opened the door so that he could put them safely inside your apartment.’
‘Thank you, mademoiselle.’
‘You will be staying here for a while?’
‘Perhaps, perhaps not.’
He continued to the top floor and unlocked his door. On the table there was a case of wine, two bottles of Courvoisier and three hundred Gauloises. When he had allowed himself a brief moment of pleasure admiring the haul, he examined the black cotton threads that he had left carefully and invisibly in place round the room – on the drawers, the door to the armoire, a suitcase he kept under the bed, boxes of paints, tins holding this and that, the canvases stacked against the wall. As he had expected, they had all been disturbed. Someone had made a very thorough search of the room but whether it was nosy-parker Mademoiselle Citron or Oberleutnant Peltz checking up on him, or some other person altogether, he had no way of knowing. The only thing of which he could be certain was that there had been nothing suspicious for them to find.
An hour later, he went out again, taking the bike, and called on the shoemender, Paul Leblond, who had much of interest to tell. The telephone-engineer cousin from Quimper had been conscripted by the Germans and sent to work at a large villa on the shores of Kernével, close to Lorient. From there, as he set up new telephone lines, he had been able to observe the construction of vast concrete shelters in progress directly across the bay on the foreshore at Keroman. It was rumoured that these were for U-boats and that the villa itself had been requisitioned as headquarters for the German Admiral Doenitz. The brother-in-law who worked in the port at Lorient had confirmed that this was so. The old friend who was a clerk in a shipping office at Brest reported that there was no sign of any invasion fleet assembling in the port.
He went on to Jacques Thomine, the green-grocer with his horse and cart, who had gathered up useful snippets of information on his travels about the movements of German troops.
He avoided calling again on Maurice Masseron. The less he and the mayor were seen in company together, the better and safer. He toiled up the hill, instead, to Jean-Claude’s cottage, where he found that Marthe had returned the day before. She was in the dark little kitchen, her strong hands plunged into an earthenware bowl of dough, kneading away with her knuckles, and he saw at once by the way her sloe eyes gleamed at him that it had gone well. Fifteen people had been recruited, she told him, spread across the peninsula, north to south and as far east as Rostrenen. She had chosen them carefully; been very sure of them before she went further. She’d given them all cover names, as instructed, and done the same for herself. What kind of people? All kinds. Men, women, young and old, rich and poor. Locals who had lived all their lives in their region, knew everyone, were known by everyone. They understood what to look for and they understood how to keep their mouths shut. And they had just one thing in common: they all hated the Boche and wanted France rid of them. That was why they would help. What more needed to be said? She pummelled away at the dough as though it were the face of the Führer himself.
Later, he went out to where Jean-Claude was sitting at work. ‘You have a marvel for a wife,’ he told him. ‘She’s an exceptional woman.’
‘I know that, monsieur.’
‘May I ask another favour of you?’
‘Certainly.’
‘I leave tonight for England. If I keep my bicycle at my apartment house it may be stolen. Also, it advertises my presence or my absence – if it’s elsewhere it will do neither. Will you keep it for me until I return?’
‘With pleasure, monsieur. I will even do more work on it – some is needed, I think.’
He walked back to the apartment. It would also be necessary to walk all the way to the rendezvous by the villa, but there was no alternative. What was also needed, he thought wearily, was to be twenty years younger. He packed a canvas holdall with six of the bottles of wine, one of the cognac and two hundred of the cigarettes so thoughtfully provided by Oberleutnant Peltz. The balance could stay behind for his next visit. It would be heavy to carry but it would be worth it. For good measure, he wrapped the goods in the French newspapers that he had bought, which the lieutenant commander would doubtless find of interest.
An hour before curfew, he set off. No fond farewells to Mademoiselle Citron and, as luck had it, she missed his silent departure. The holdall was heavier than he had anticipated and grew steadily more so. From time to time a German army vehicle swept by at high speed. One of them – a small truck – stopped, and the driver, an older man on his own, made friendly signs at him offering a lift. With considerable regret, he shook his head. He could hardly request to be set down at the villa, and the clinking contents of the holdall might require some explanation. As he plodded on, he amused himself by inventing the conversation that might have ensued.
‘If you would be so good as to drop me close by the villa, but not too close, so that I can rendezvous unobserved with the fishing boat that is coming from England tonight to collect me from the beach.’
‘With pleasure, monsieur. That holdall looks very heavy.’
‘Yes, indeed. It’s full of excellent wine, cognac and cigarettes which I am taking with me to England where they also have severe shortages.’
‘How wise of you. Will you be returning soon?’
‘I hope so. I have unfinished business in France.’
‘Then I trust I may be passing by to give you another lift.’
‘That would, indeed, be fortunate.’
‘Will this be a convenient place to drop you? The villa is fifty metres or so further on. If you take care, you will be able to reach the beach without being seen.’
‘Yes, this will suit me very well. Thank you.’
‘You’re very welcome. Bon voyage, monsieur.’
It was growing dark as he neared the villa, but not yet dark enough, nor close enough to the appointed time. He took refuge in a dilapidated farm building that smelled strongly of pigs but was, fortunately, empty of them. He leaned against the wall since there was nowhere to sit and lit a cigarette to counter the stench. If the farmer wondered why his pigs had been smoking Gauloises, then so be it. From time to time, he used his lighter to consult his watch, smoked another cigarette and then another. At thirty minutes before the time, he left the building and made his way towards the villa, slipping in through the open gates and round the perimeter of the grounds in the direction of the beach. There was no guard on duty, nobody wandering out onto the terrace for a smoke, nobody to be seen or heard at all, though at some of the windows he could see thin slivers of light behind the closed shutters. The shingle crunched noisily beneath his feet and he took off his shoes, wincing at the sharpness of the stones. Finding a large rock, he sat beside it and waited, listening to the gentle shushing of the waves.
The sea was calm, the half-moon casting a rippling silver pathway on the water, and he half-expected the boat to come sailing magically down it towards him. In the event, it came from nowhere, stealing out of the darkness. He heard it before he saw it – the muted sound of the engine throttled back as it approached the shore, and then, later, the soft splash of oars. He stood up and walked down to the water’s edge. There was a grating sound as the dinghy nosed onto the beach, the crunch of other feet, the voice of Lieutenant Smythson: ‘Are you there, sir?’
He moved forward. ‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘Can you hop in all right?’
He clambered, rather than hopped, into the bow of the dinghy – clumsily because he was tired and unable to see properly in the dark, and because his bad leg was very stiff. The lieutenant said something else in English but he failed to understand. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
‘I said, any more for the Skylark?’
‘What?’
‘It’s just a joke, sir. Seaside trips round the bay, that sort of thing.’
He shook his head, bemused. Here he was being snatched from enemy-occupied France in the middle of the night and Smythson was making English jokes. ‘You were right on time.’
‘Of course, sir. We aim to do our best. How did everything go?’
‘Very well.’ The holdall clinked and clanked as he settled it securely on the boards.
‘That sounds promising, sir.’
He smiled in the darkness. ‘Yes, certainly it does.’
The lieutenant pushed off from the beach and pulled away from the shore. Presently, Duval could make out the familiar shape of the Espérance, hove-to at a safe distance, engine ticking over, ready to go. Within minutes he was on board, a few more and he was lying on a bunk below, a few more still and he was fast asleep.
When he woke up it was daylight and they were in rough seas off the Pointe du Raz. The lieutenant kept a discreet course well clear of Brest but, even so, Duval had the unpleasant feeling that at any moment a U-boat might surface and challenge them. The feeling persisted until they had left the coast of France far behind. Soon after dawn on the following day, as they were nearing England, he went up on deck.
It was only by chance that he saw it – just a speck on the surface, a mustard-yellow blob on the grey sea, rising and falling with the swell. At first he thought it was some kind of seabird, or even a piece of flotsam, and then as he strained his eyes for a better view, he realized that it was neither of those things. The Espérance altered course towards the blob which turned into a pilot, kept afloat by his Mae West, leather-helmeted head lolling on his chest. He looked already dead, but as they drew alongside the head lifted and a hand was raised to give a feeble wave. The dinghy was lowered and they manoeuvred him first into it and then, with some difficulty, on board the fishing boat. He lay in a sodden heap at their feet on the deck. His face and hands had been badly burned. The flesh was blistered and raw on his face, peeling in shreds from his fingers, and his eyes were swollen into slits. Teeth chattering violently, he tried to smile. German or English?
‘Thanks awfully.’ The words were faint but unmistakable.
It might have been ‘Vielen Dank,’ Duval thought. Lieutenant Smythson fetched a clasp knife and he helped him to cut the helmet carefully away from the head and then the Mae West from the body, revealing the RAF wings beneath. The pilot whimpered and moaned as they worked. They peeled off the rest as gently as possible and wrapped him in blankets. He had fair hair – the unruly hair of a mere boy, with a childish crest. Perhaps nineteen years old? Duval took out his bottle of cognac and poured some into a mug. He raised the pilot’s head and held it to his mouth for him to drink.
‘Thanks.’
‘Cigarette?’
He lit one and put it between his lips. Smythson had got the boat under way again and he stayed beside the pilot. The smell of burned flesh was sickening. He sought for words of comfort and cheer and while he did so, the boy spoke, croaking through the charred lips, as though he felt a need for polite English conversation.
‘Been a lovely summer, hasn’t it?’