Within five minutes they were inside the camp commandant’s office. To Wilde, the CO looked like the caricature of a nineteenth-century French military man: extravagant moustache, proud chin, a belly that told of a great love of food.
He introduced himself as Major Cornet and grudgingly offered them seats.
Talbot did the talking. ‘We believe there is an Englishman here among the refugees from the Spanish war. He is an undergraduate at the Cambridge college of Professor Wilde, my companion here. We would very much like to see him and find out if there is anything that can be done to repatriate him.’
‘An Englishman? There are no Englishmen here.’
‘Well, we believe he is and we intend to find him.’
‘Monsieur, there are nine thousand men in the camp, I cannot know them all. What is this man’s name?’
‘Marcus Marfield. He is in Hut 32.’ Wilde spoke in halting French.
‘Hut 32? They are mostly German communists. International Brigaders. What makes you think he is here?’
‘We were told this.’
‘By whom?’
‘I cannot say, but that is not the issue.’
Cornet tutted. ‘One moment.’ He pulled back his shoulders and left the office, his boots clicking on the stone floor. Wilde and Talbot could hear him addressing a subordinate. A minute later he returned. He looked less sure of himself. ‘My adjutant tells me it is possible there is an Englishman in the camp. He doesn’t speak and won’t give his name, so we don’t know who he is – but others say he is English.’
‘May we see him, Major?’ Talbot asked.
‘These are dangerous men, messieurs. They are all communists and anarchists. Whatever your student was before, he will not be the same person now. I can promise you that.’
‘Still, we would like to see him.’
‘You told the sentry you know Monsieur Sarrault, the editor and proprietor of La Dépêche de Toulouse?’
‘Indeed.’
The major blinked, weighing the matter up. One should not cross people such as the Sarraults; they wielded great influence.
Talbot continued. ‘Maurice Sarrault is a close family friend. And I am sure you know, too, that he is the elder brother of Albert Sarrault, minister of the interior.’
The officer began to sweat. ‘Perhaps a glass of wine, gentlemen? I will have the Englishman brought in short order. But you know it will not be possible for him to leave Camp du Vernet? Not without the proper permissions.’
‘First things first, major,’ said Talbot. ‘Let us meet the fellow.’
‘It may take a little while to locate him.’ Major Cornet sounded uneasy. ‘I am told he has suffered an injury and is in the camp sanatorium.’
Talbot stiffened. ‘Injury? What kind of injury.’
‘He was shot, monsieur.’
*
Even shaven-headed, in rags, limping and bruised, his left arm in a filthy bloodstained sling, Marcus Marfield was immediately recognisable.
Slender, fair-haired with sea-blue eyes and golden skin, he lit up the room the same way he had at Cambridge. He had an aura that defied description but which none could ignore: in chapel, in lectures, in Hall and in supervision, but most of all singing, with a voice as pure as bells. To Wilde, he had always had a little of the look and ethereal romanticism of a young T. E. Lawrence. And yet, as with Lawrence, there was, too, a steely determination.
And yet now he was so weak, the guard was holding him upright. Wilde leapt out of his seat and took the boy’s uninjured arm, which, like the rest of his body, was shaking as though he had a fever. Marfield stumbled forward, and then his eyes met Wilde’s and flickered in recognition.
Marfield sat down and slumped forward, breathing heavily, his left hand flopping on his thigh, quivering. His face had retained its luminescence, but his hands were those of a farmhand, swollen, red and calloused.
Wilde turned to Talbot. ‘Jacques, this is appalling. Marfield needs medical attention. He has a fever.’
The major tried to explain the bullet wound. ‘Someone took a potshot through the wire. By chance this man was hit – but it could have been anyone.’
‘Who shot him?’ Wilde demanded.
‘Most certainly, a local man.’ The major shrugged. ‘The villagers are angry about this camp. They do not like all these fighters held so close to them and their women.’
‘I don’t believe him,’ Wilde said to Talbot in English.
The French professor turned to the major and spoke quickly and angrily. ‘One of your guards has done this.’
The commandant threw up his arms. ‘No, no, monsieur, that is not so! We cannot patrol every centimetre of our fence. Nor are we nursemaids. We have a pittance from the government to feed nine thousand exhausted fighting men. There are bound to be . . . incidents.’
‘I want to use your telephone,’ Talbot said. ‘Get me a line. Call La Dépêche. The operator will provide the number.’
*
The real reason Lydia had opted out of the journey was that she couldn’t face the drive. She didn’t feel at all well and wanted nothing more than to lie in the cool of her room – but not wishing to appear rude to her hostess, she compromised by stretching out on a reclining chair in the courtyard. She had offered, half-heartedly, to help with the chores, but Françoise had refused all offers of assistance. And so Lydia read poetry and dozed in the shade while her hostess busied herself around the house.
Of all the people they had met these past weeks, Françoise and Jacques were her favourites. Françoise was in her mid-thirties – a little older than Lydia and about ten years younger than her husband. She not only ran a busy home but also had a career – she was that rarity in French hospitals, a female doctor. While she worked, the children had a nanny. But now Françoise was on holiday, and so was the nanny, who had returned to her family in Nantes for a few days.
Lydia was asleep when she felt a touch on her shoulder. She woke with a start.
‘Would you care for a little lunch, Lydia? I have some fresh sardines and tomatoes from the market. Perhaps with some bread? And I thought you might like a lemon cordial to cool off?’ She spoke in her own tongue, because Lydia’s French was good. They only reverted to English when Wilde was about.
‘Yes to the drink, Françoise, but I’m not awfully hungry yet.’
Françoise smiled. ‘How long is it?’
Lydia frowned, not sure how to reply.
‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I am intruding but I think that you are suffering from le mal de matinée. It is much the same expression in English – morning sickness – is it not?’
‘How did you guess?’
Françoise laughed, enveloping Lydia in her comfortable bosom. ‘I am a mother and an obstetrician. How could I not know?’
‘Please, don’t tell Tom. I haven’t said anything yet. It is only a few weeks. Maybe ten or eleven.’
‘He will need to know quite soon. Especially if you are suffering with the sickness.’
‘He lost his first wife in childbirth. The baby, too.’
‘Ah, I see. You are worried because you do not know how he will take the news. But, Lydia, your husband is a good man. Nothing mends a heart better than the arrival of a child – especially when it is your own.’
Lydia knew all this, and yet there was more, wasn’t there? What about the coming war? Why would anyone bring a baby into such a world? So much for bloody Dutch caps and Volpar gels.
There was another reason she didn’t want to tell Tom yet: she still hadn’t ruled out abortion. There was that society abortionist in London who did the debs, the one whose number was in all the Girton girls’ address books. Was he still practising? Easy enough to find out.
‘Don’t worry, cherie,’ Françoise soothed. ‘I will say nothing. It is your place to break the good news.’ She patted Lydia’s hand. ‘Tell me,’ she said briskly. ‘Do you have this sickness every day? You must find these long car journeys a great trial.’
‘Oh, it hasn’t been so bad. I’m quite strong.’
‘Yes, I see that. But, Lydia, you can confide in me while you are here. Now, as your hostess I will fetch you that lemon cordial. And as a doctor, might I suggest a little less wine in the evening?’
‘Am I being lectured?’
‘Professional advice, nothing more.’ Francoise laughed. ‘I smoked and drank through my own pregnancies, so what can I say?’ She turned to go, but Lydia put out her hand.
‘Can I ask you something, Françoise?’ she said. ‘I’m interested in training to be a doctor, but I’m almost thirty, so am I too old? Would it be possible if I have a baby to care for? I am particularly interested in psychiatry.’
‘Cherie, if this war comes, there will be a great need of doctors of all kinds.’ Francoise smiled. ‘I don’t know the situation in England, but if any woman can make it happen, I’m sure you are the one.’
*
The wire arrived from the office of the Ministry of the Interior in the late afternoon:
Release authorised from Camp du Vernet of internee Marfield, Marcus, into the charge of Professor Talbot of University of Toulouse, conditional on the internee’s removal from France by September 3.
A. Sarrault, minister.
‘So, messieurs, he is yours,’ the major said.
In the hours of telephoning back and forth, first to Maurice Sarrault in Toulouse and then to the ministry in Paris, Wilde had requested some sort of mattress be brought for Marcus. When Cornet saw the way things were going, he ordered a straw palliasse. As an afterthought, he called out to the lieutenant: ‘Make sure it is clean!’
The stench was everywhere. Wilde did not want to imagine what conditions must be like inside the barrack blocks, nor the quality of the food. His former undergraduate, stretched out, shivering, was evidence enough.
Wilde helped Marfield to his feet and, with Talbot’s assistance, walked him slowly towards the front gate. All around them men wandered aimlessly, their work details finished. As they got closer to the fence, a man in his fifties approached them and said something in German, before switching to broken French. Talbot stopped and spoke to him, then turned to Wilde.
‘This is Wilfrid Zucker. I have heard of this man, Tom; he is a composer. His work has been performed in Paris and Salzburg.’
‘Why is he here?’
‘Because he is a refugee. These are not all Brigaders or fighting men.’
The composer was holding out his left hand and shadow-writing on it with his right. Talbot fished inside his jacket for a scrap of paper and a pencil. With a trembling hand the man wrote down his name, and another name – Gerhard Sankte – with a London address. Talbot took it. ‘He says this man Sankte in London will vouch for him and asks that we contact him.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Wilde nodded. He had enough German to understand what Zucker had said.
Other men were now clustering around, grabbing at their coats. Some tore pieces of cigarette packs and playing cards, fighting for the pencil to write down their names and the names of contacts. They spoke in myriad languages and stank of overflowing latrines. More than anything, thought Wilde, they stank of neglect and desperation. He took all their pieces of paper.
Major Cornet bustled up, shooing the inmates away, as he escorted the visitors and Marcus Marfield to the main gate. The men looked on like beaten dogs, a sad, defeated bunch.
With some difficulty, Wilde and Talbot helped Marfield into the Citroën and made him as comfortable as they could on the rear bench seat. Cornet ordered a guard to go to Hut 32 to see if there was any property to accompany the released man. Marfield himself had not yet spoken a word.
A woman walked past at a leisurely stroll. She was small and wore a long dark skirt and a billowing white cotton shirt, with a cotton neckerchief knotted about her throat. Her hair was long and dark, her skin bronzed by the Mediterranean sun. She stopped and looked at them through black eyes, then spat at Wilde’s feet and moved on.
‘Good God, Jacques, what was that about?’
Talbot shrugged. ‘As the major suggested, I don’t think the locals like having these camps on their doorstep.’
The guard returned five minutes later with a small, tattered book in a red leather cover. Wilde took it and flicked through the pages. It was a well-thumbed copy of the Book of Common Prayer, a school prize for poetry awarded to Marcus Marfield in 1931. So the communist revolutionary hadn’t quite given up on religion. Wilde smiled for the first time that day.
*
In the distance, in the lee of an overhang, the small dark woman squatted on her haunches, watching the scene unfold through binoculars. A rifle lay by her side.
She felt a grim satisfaction. She had a good idea where they would be going, and she would be there, waiting.