Thirteen
Harry telephoned from London.
‘I’d like to come down and meet this chap Duval. Go over everything. Can you set up a meeting, Alan?’
‘When do you want it?’
‘Friday. And let’s have some time for you and I to have a bit of a chat privately together beforehand. We need to catch up.’
‘I’ll arrange it.’
‘By the way, General de Gaulle wants to meet him too. I’m in two minds whether to let that happen. What do you think? We don’t want the French pinching him from us.’
‘We don’t really have any right to keep him.’
‘No, but we don’t need to tell him about it, do we?’
Harry arrived by train two days later and Powell met him at Kingswear station. As they shook hands on the platform, the vivid image came into his mind of them both standing together on that same platform as raw young cadets years ago. Harry had clearly been thinking along similar lines. As they walked towards the car, he said, ‘Haven’t been down here for years, Alan. It takes me right back to the old days – makes me feel almost young again. Like we were. They were good times, weren’t they?’
The men that were boys when I was a boy. ‘Very good times.’
A Wren brought cups of coffee into his office and went out again. Harry stirred his sugar vigorously round and round with the spoon.
‘I’ve got some rather splendid news, Alan. We’ll be getting those radio transmitters quite soon.’
‘About bloody time.’
‘As you so rightly say, about bloody time. Which means that our agents will be able to stay over there for a decent period instead of popping back every so often. That’s partly why I wanted to meet Duval. If we’re going to go on using him, he’ll need to be properly trained how to operate the damn things, as well as all the rest of it. I’d like to see for myself what he’s like – before we go that far. He’s something of an unknown quantity, after all. Bit of a wild card.’
‘He’s inexperienced at the job, but I’d say he was completely reliable.’
‘He’s certainly done a good job so far, I’ll grant you that. That last little trip of his produced some interesting titbits. And he’s recruiting a few quite useful people. Mostly small fry, of course, but they seem to have their wits about them. And it’s all grist to the mill.’
‘The information on the U-boat pens at Lorient was rather better than grist, I thought.’
‘Yes, I’d like to ask him a bit more about that.’
‘You read what his informant there had to say? He believes the pens should be attacked now, while they’re still being built. That we shouldn’t wait until they’re finished. I think he’s right. If the bunker concrete’s going to be as thick as he says, bombing them later on might be completely useless. Like bouncing peas off a drum.’
‘The fellow’s an electrician, isn’t he? With the best will in the world, he can’t know much about the strength of concrete bunkers. He’s not an expert and we need an expert opinion. The RAF can’t just send their chaps off into the blue without a lot more facts and figures.’ The coffee spoon went round and round again. ‘Besides, I happen to know, Alan, that the Foreign Office are saying that on the grounds of humanity we shouldn’t strike the land and people of a defeated France. We couldn’t hit the Germans without hitting some French too. They’re quite persuasive in their argument with the Chiefs of Staff.’
He said sharply, ‘I think that’s absolute nonsense. France has effectively become our enemy. Even Churchill says so. Look how their Vichy government is behaving.’
‘But the Vichy lot don’t represent the views of all the French, do they? By no means, and that’s the sticky problem. Anyway, I’ve got another piece of news that you’ll like. I’ve been pressing hard lately for something a bit faster than your fishing boats for you.’
‘And?’
‘Well, as we know, submarines are probably the best way of landing and picking up agents, but the difficulty is that they can seldom be spared unless they happen to be in the immediate area and, of course, it’s damned hard to arrange for them to meet up with another boat that’s under sail and dependent on the wind. High-speed motor torpedo boats have many advantages, I know you’ll agree, and I have reason to believe that one may come our way very shortly, on loan from the Admiralty. One big snag, though, is we’d be stuck with using the north coast. The boats still don’t have the speed or range to go further south. Not ideal, I know. Crawling with Germans and seas rough as hell, but there we go.’
They discussed the pros and cons of the high-speed boats for a while until Lieutenant Smythson arrived at the appointed hour with Louis Duval. The Frenchman came into the room and Powell introduced him and watched Harry greet him affably, pumping his hand and clapping him on the shoulder. He sensed, though, that Duval was well aware that he was under close scrutiny of some kind and was, therefore, on his guard. The Wren brought in more cups of coffee and he saw the way she blushed when Duval smiled at her and thanked her for his. He was lighting one of his Gauloises, leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, waiting quietly for whatever came next. For the first time in his life, Powell felt the miserable, gnawing pain of jealousy. Barbara was in love with this man. A Frenchman, with all the powerful attraction they apparently held for women – if Hattie was to be believed. So different. From what? Well . . . from Englishmen.
Harry was speaking. ‘These people you’ve recruited, Mr Duval . . . admirable, in their limited way, of course, but you’re aware, I’m sure, that we need harder facts.’
‘Rome, as they say, was not built in a day, Commander Chilcot.’
‘No, indeed.’ Harry cleared his throat. ‘Regarding the Lorient submarine bunker construction – you have another new contact working there now, I understand . . . a plumber by the assumed name of Léon?’
‘That is correct.’
‘What do you think he might achieve?’
A shrug that would annoy Harry. ‘Who can say? He’ll try his hardest, that’s all.’
‘Quite. You’re of the opinion – it says so very specifically in your last report – that the U-boat bunkers at Lorient, and presumably elsewhere, should be attacked now, before they can be completed.’
‘Later may be too late. It may prove quite impossible to destroy them.’
‘But your theory is based on the view of an ordinary electrician. Hardly an expert opinion. And you’ve never actually seen the bunkers yourself.’
‘What do you expect from me, Commander? That I should go and ask one of the Todt Organization engineers? Do you think the RAF should bomb you now, or later?’
Harry smiled thinly. ‘I appreciate the difficulties, Monsieur Duval. I’m sure you appreciate ours. We need a lot more technical information.’
‘I’ll do my best to get it for you.’
‘So, you would be quite willing to return to France to continue your activities?’
‘Certainly.’
‘And, before you go, to undergo some rather special training here?’
‘What sort of training?’
‘On the assembly and operation of radio transmitters. How to send messages. How to receive them. Morse, coded messages. As well as various other things.’
‘You have these radio transmitters at last?’
‘We do. Or rather we will very soon.’
‘And the proposal is for me to take one to France next time?’
‘Assuming you complete the training course satisfactorily. It would mean a much bigger risk for you, of course. Rather tricky to explain away a transmitter to the Germans, if they happen to catch you with one. But, as you have pointed out yourself, considerably more effective than going backwards and forwards across the Channel.’ Harry paused. He said casually, ‘We’d rather like you to go on working for us, rather than for the Free French.’
‘So far they haven’t invited me.’
‘They may. To speak frankly, before we invest considerable time and trouble in you, Mr Duval, we need to be able to count on your continued loyalty to our organization. You understand?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘So?’
‘You can count on it, Commander. I imagine that I’ll serve my country equally well, working for the British.’
‘Possibly even better.’ Harry stirred his coffee once again. ‘By the way, General de Gaulle has asked to meet you. Lieutenant Commander Powell will arrange it for you, if you like.’
To his disappointment Mrs Lamprey opened the front door to him. ‘Mrs Hillyard is out, Lieutenant Commander.’ She opened the door wider, with a coy smile. ‘But you can come in and wait, if you like. I don’t expect she’ll be long.’
He said briskly, ‘Just for a few minutes.’
She took him into the sitting room and, to his irritation, showed every sign of staying. The cloying scent she wore smelled even stronger than usual and he thought from her behaviour that she was slightly tipsy.
‘Monsieur Duval’s not here either. He’s gone to London to meet General de Gaulle.’
‘Really? How interesting.’ It was no surprise since he had set up the meeting himself. The general, it seemed, was quite keen to meet Duval.
‘Yes, isn’t it? He’s promised to tell us all about it when he gets back. We’re very fond of him. All of us – especially mrs Hillyard. They’re having an affair, did you know?’
He said coldly, ‘I hardly think that concerns either of us, Mrs Lamprey.’
‘I’ve seen him going to her room at night . . . am I shocking you, Lieutenant Commander?’
‘No.’
‘It doesn’t shock me. Not a bit. Those of us in the theatrical profession are quite used to that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you are.’
She wagged a finger under his nose. ‘You’re in love with her yourself, aren’t you?’
He stepped back one pace. ‘I’d prefer not to discuss Mrs Hillyard at all, if you don’t mind.’
‘Ah, but I know you are. I can tell. She doesn’t realize, though. Hasn’t a clue. All she can see is him. Frenchmen know exactly how to treat women, that’s the thing.’
‘I expect they do.’ It was the last thing he wanted to hear.
The finger wagged again. ‘Mind you, Englishmen have their good points as well. Only they’re not so obvious. I think the most attractive man I ever met was Gerald du Maurier. Did you ever see him on the stage?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘You should have seen him as Raffles. He was simply wonderful. And, of course, he played Bulldog Drummond to perfection . . .’
For the next fifteen minutes he endured more theatrical reminiscences until, at last, he heard the front door opening. He went out into the hall, deserting Mrs Lamprey. Barbara had come in, carrying a full shopping basket.
She looked at him hopefully. ‘Is there any news – about Freddie?’
He shook his head, wishing so much that there were. ‘I’m afraid not. I just came by to see how you were.’ Mrs Lamprey, he knew, would be listening avidly to every word.
‘How kind of you, Alan. I’m quite all right, thank you. How are you?’
‘Fine . . . just fine.’ He stared at her, remembering exactly how it had felt to hold her close in his arms. How his uniform had been wet from her tears. How he had dried them for her with his handkerchief. ‘Well, I’d better be getting along, then.’
‘Thank you so much for coming.’
He went to the front door and opened it. ‘Just let me know if there’s anything I can ever do for you.’
It was ironical, Duval thought, that, for the first time, his story of going to London was perfectly true. The prospect of meeting the general intrigued him. He was rumoured to be aloof and arrogant; a cold man and humourless. Before the war he had had a reputation as a fine soldier and clever strategist, and when France had been attacked he had acquitted himself with courage and honour. Then he had fled to London and the Free French had made him their leader. To the Vichy government, to remain in France was proof of honour and patriotism, and de Gaulle was a traitor, sentenced to death in his absence.
He took a taxi from Paddington station to the address he had been given in Westminster. On the journey he saw the destruction everywhere by the German bombers, but he also saw a very different city from Paris. London made him think of an indomitable old lady who had been set upon by thugs but had picked herself up, dusted down her skirts and was carrying on regardless, bearing her scars and bruises with pride; Paris had been like a beautiful woman, outwardly still beautiful but mortally wounded in her heart.
St Stephen’s House was a rather dingy redbrick building – a disappointing place for the headquarters of Free France. A man in some kind of blue uniform took him up to the third floor in a shaky lift to join a queue of other French civilians and servicemen. Over an hour passed before a lieutenant conducted him into a room overlooking the Thames. The general, a very tall man, rose from behind a desk and shook his hand. Duval was invited to sit, offered a cigarette; the ashtray on the desk, he noticed, was overflowing with stubs. He listened to a short, clipped speech of congratulation on his efforts in France.
‘I understand that you are working with the English?’
‘I am working with the English, mon Général, but I am fighting for France.’
The general nodded. ‘We French in exile must never forget that. France has lost a battle, but she has not lost a war. We fight on. One accepts England as an ally and partner, but we must never be her servant. Nor should we ever be her bosom friend. The destinies of our two countries are not the same and never have been.’ A cigarette was put out, another lit. ‘I have requested the British that you report to me in person what you have seen and learned each time you return from France. Other than that, I have no objection to your continuing to work with them, if you so wish.’
He said, ‘I feel a certain sense of obligation to do so. Of honour, perhaps.’
Another curt nod. ‘Very well. But before you leave, I should like to present you with the emblem of the Free French – the Cross of Lorraine – to wear with pride.’
Duval rose while the general pinned a small metal brooch to his lapel. They shook hands once more and the lieutenant showed him to the door. As he went out he glanced back to see that de Gaulle had moved to the window and was standing looking out at the river. The tall, imperious figure, caught in beaky profile against the light, was unforgettable. He had the odd feeling that he was looking at France herself.
He took another taxi to the railway station, and as he gave the destination, Waterloo, to the driver, reflected wryly on the English habit of annoying the French at every opportunity. Naming the station after a French defeat was on a par with deliberately mispronouncing French words: beauchamp, belvoir, beaulieu – all anglicized beyond recognition. The train carried him out into the countryside and yet another taxi – an ancient vehicle more like a hearse – took him up a long gravel drive to one of those pleasant, ivy-covered English country houses built at the turn of the century, complete with dripping shrubbery, croquet lawn, tennis court, lake – all in the middle of nowhere.
There, in the company of others far younger than himself, he spent the next weeks learning about the workings of a radio transmitter, about sending and receiving, coding and decoding. As Commander Chilcot had promised, he also learned various other things – some of which struck him as childish games, like writing invisible messages and wearing disguises. Others, such as self-defence and how to kill a German quickly and silently with bare hands, seemed highly practical.
He also discovered how woefully unfit he was: overweight, flabby, short of breath, incapable of any prolonged or extreme physical exertion. The doctor who examined him advised him to give up smoking, which, naturally, he declined. He also politely turned down the suggestion of giving up drinking and going on a diet. All that was really required, he decided, was to carry on doing much as he had already been doing in France without it being noticed by the Germans. There was no necessity for him to be able to run five miles without collapsing. In the evenings he escaped from his prison and the terrible canteen food and walked to the nearest village, where the landlord of the Horse and Groom still had some bottles of French wine in his cellar, and the landlord’s wife took pity on his offended stomach and cooked him an excellent supper.
On the phone, Harry sounded satisfied. ‘He seems to have done reasonably well, Alan. Pretty hopeless on the PT front, I gather, but then he’s a lot older than the rest. One wouldn’t expect much there. Kept scampering off to the local pub.’
‘I can’t say I blame him.’
‘Nor I. Those places are hell. No booze and school food. Not his sort of thing at all. He’s not bad with the unarmed combat and perfectly all right so far as the R/T procedure is concerned, which is the main thing. We’re not the SOE, asking him to rush around France blowing things up, thank God.’
‘So, how soon do you think he can go back?’
‘We’ll wait till we can send him over by the MTB. There’ll be two other agents with him, as well. Another week or two, I’d say. You’ll have to go for a moonless night, obviously. Leave in the dark and be back in the dark. As I said, it’ll have to be a landing somewhere on the northern coast, unfortunately.’
Powell said, ‘We’ll need a first-class navigator with pinpoint accuracy. That stretch can be treacherous – absolutely murderous in winter. I’d like to be on board for the trip, Harry. Make sure everything goes smoothly.’
‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Alan. Your place is on shore, doing your job at HQ.’
He said stubbornly, ‘I’d still like to go.’
‘Hmm.’ A long pause. ‘All right, then.’
Christmas had passed quietly. The butcher had miraculously conjured up a joint of beef and Barbara had made a pudding from saved-up dried fruit and carrots and stale breadcrumbs that had worked quite well. The rear admiral had presented a bottle of wine, which Mrs Lamprey had drunk most of, and Miss Tindall had scoured the hedgerows for holly and ivy. Mrs Lamprey had contributed a bunch of mistletoe from the greengrocer’s – largely, Barbara suspected, in the hope that Monsieur Duval would be back. Esme’s father had sent a long letter and a present for her: a beautiful foreign doll dressed in Chinese clothes.
On Christmas Day, she took Esme to church and Miss Tindall and the rear admiral accompanied them, leaving Mrs Lamprey treating a chill with her patent remedy of hot ginger wine. Alan Powell was in the next pew and afterwards she stopped to talk to him by the lychgate. She didn’t ask about Louis Duval or when he might be back. Nobody asked such questions in wartime. Instead, they talked about the church service and the cold weather and he enquired after the kittens. Then Mrs Shapleigh had come up and started to talk about the WVS canteen.
New Year’s Eve came and 1941 began. The kittens grew and grew. Fifi had brought them down from the airing cupboard, carrying each one in her mouth by the scruff of its neck, and they now lived in a cardboard box in a corner of the kitchen. Before long they had started to jump out and Esme spent hours playing with them.
Late one afternoon the doorbell rang. When she opened the door Louis was standing there.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot to take my key away with me.’
At dinner that evening, Mrs Lamprey wanted to hear all about General de Gaulle.
‘Est-il beau?’
‘One could not say that he was handsome, but he’s very remarkable. Once seen, one would not forget him.’
Her sharp eyes noticed the little brooch. ‘C’est une médaille, monsieur?’
‘Non, madame. It’s the badge of the Free French. The Cross of Lorraine.’
That night, lying beside him with his arm about her, she asked when he would have to go away again.
‘Not for a while, I think. But next time it may be for much longer.’
She watched the glow of his cigarette. ‘It’s dangerous, isn’t it? Very dangerous.’
‘What is dangerous?’
‘Whatever you do when you go away. I’m so afraid for you.’
‘There is no need to be.’
There was every need, she thought.
Out of the darkness Louis said, ‘When this war is over and France is free again, will you come and live with me there? In France?’
‘If you want me to.’
‘I want you to very much. Will you live with me, Barbara? For always?’
‘Of course.’
‘You understand that we could not be married? Simone, my wife, would never divorce me because of the Catholic religion.’
‘I understand. And I don’t care.’ She curled closer to him. ‘Where would we go?’
‘Wherever you like.’ The cigarette glowed again. ‘To the south, perhaps, where the weather is good. Somewhere in Provence, maybe – St Paul or Vallauris. We could find a nice old house. One that pleases you. Make it good for us. A good home. Fifi could come too. She’d like that, so long as the Germans had gone.’
He went away less than two weeks afterwards. She was in the kitchen, talking to a woman who had come to see the kittens. The woman couldn’t make up her mind whether to have a black one, or a tabby. She kept picking each one up and then putting it down again.
‘Oh, dear, they’re all so sweet. I just can’t decide.’
He spoke to her urgently from the doorway. ‘I have to leave now, madame.’ It was always madame in front of others. ‘They have sent a car for me.’
The woman was still undecided. ‘Which one do you think has the best temperament, Mrs Hillyard? They say in all the books that that’s the most important thing. Now, this little black one seems a bit nervous . . .’
‘Would you excuse me a moment?’ She went over to him. ‘Can you wait?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I must go at once.’ He took her hand, kissed it quickly and pressed something into her palm. ‘Keep this safe for me.’ She listened to the front door closing and the sound of the car driving away down the hill. He had given her the Cross of Lorraine brooch, the emblem of the Free French.
Behind her the woman said, ‘Of course, I really would prefer the ginger one, you know.’