Cold Harbour (11 page)

“Right on target,” Grant called over his shoulder, dropped in over the line of pine trees and landed, taxiing towards the hangar. The Ju88 had already come to a halt where the mechanics waited with Martin Hare. Joe Edge got out of the cockpit to join them.

“My God, the uniform,” Genevieve said and clutched at Craig’s sleeve.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “We haven’t landed on the wrong side of the Channel. Let me explain.”

IN THE LOUNGE
bar of the Hanged Man, still a little bewildered by it all, she sat at one of the trestle tables in the window with the Brigadier, Craig and Martin Hare, eating bacon and eggs cooked by Julie Legrande in the back kitchen and served by Schmidt. The crew of the
Lili Marlene
lounged around the fire, talking in subdued voices, some of them playing cards.

Munro said, “They’re extraordinarily well behaved this morning.”

“Ah, well, sir, that would be the company.” Schmidt put fresh toast on the table. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Trevaunce here’s like a breath of spring, sir.”

“Bloody cheeky rascal,” Munro said. “Go on, get out of it!”

Schmidt retired and Martin Hare poured Genevieve another cup of tea. “All this must seem very weird to you.”

“You can say that again.” She had liked him at once on their first meeting up at the airfield, just as she had thoroughly disliked Edge. “You must feel pretty strange yourself sometimes when you look in the mirror and see that uniform.”

“She’s right, Martin,” Munro said. “Do you ever wonder which side you’re really on?”

“As a matter of fact I do sometimes.” Hare lit a cigarette. “But only when I have to deal with Joe Edge. A disgrace to the uniform.”

“To any uniform,” Craig said. “He’s totally unbalanced in my opinion. Grant told me a pretty unsavoury story that just about sums him up. During the Battle of Britain a Ju88 lost one engine and surrendered to two Spitfire pilots who took up position on either side and started to shepherd it down to land at the nearest airfield. It would have been quite a coup.”

“What happened?” Genevieve asked.

“Apparently Edge came up on his rear, laughing like a maniac over the radio and blew him out of the sky.”

“That’s terrible,” she said. “Surely his commanding officer should have had him court-martialled?”

“He tried, but he was overruled. Edge was a Battle of Britain ace with two DFCs. It wouldn’t have looked good
in the papers.” Craig turned to Hare. “Like I said, the war hero as psychopath.”

“I heard that story too,” Hare told him. “The one bit you left out was that Edge’s commanding officer was an American. Ex Eagle Squadron, so I understand. Edge never forgave him and he’s hated Americans ever since.”

“Yes, well he’s still the best damn pilot I ever saw,” Munro told them.

“If that’s so, why isn’t he doing the drop on Thursday instead of Grant?” Genevieve asked.

“Because he doesn’t fly a Lysander, he pilots a German Fieseler Storch for that sort of flight and only on very special occasions,” Munro told her. “The Thursday flight is comparatively routine.”

The door opened and Edge came in, the usual unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Everybody happy?” There was a sudden silence as he came across to the table. “Grant got away okay, sir,” he told Munro. “Back Thursday at noon.”

“Good show,” Munro said.

Edge leaned so close to Genevieve that she could feel his breath on her ear. “Settling in all right, are we, sweetie? If you need any advice, Uncle Joe’s always available.”

She pulled away, angry, and stood up. “I’ll see if Madame Legrande needs any help in the kitchen.”

Edge laughed as she walked away. Hare glanced at Craig with lifted brows. “Not fit to be out, is he?”

Julie was washing dishes, elbow-deep in the sink when Genevieve entered. “Madame Legrande, the breakfast was excellent.” She picked up a dishcloth, “Here, let me help.”

“Julie,
chérie,
” the other woman said with a warm smile.

Genevieve suddenly remembered that Hortense had always called her that. Never Anne-Marie, only her. She
liked Julie Legrande at once. She picked up a plate and smiled. “Genevieve.”

“Everything all right?”

“I suppose so. I like Martin Hare. A remarkable man.”

“And Craig?”

Genevieve shrugged, “Oh, he’s all right, I suppose.”

“Which means you like him a lot?” Julie sighed. “An easy thing to do,
chérie,
but he carries the pitcher to the well too often, that one, I think.”

“And Edge?” Genevieve said.

“From under a stone. Steer clear of him.”

Genevieve continued to dry plates. “And where do you fit in to all this?”

“I run the house and this place. I’ll take you up there later. Settle you in.”

The door opened and the Brigadier looked in. “Craig and I are going up to the house now. Lots to do.”

Julie said, “I’ll bring Genevieve up later.”

“Fine.” He took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Genevieve. “This is for you. I sent Carter round to Bart’s first thing this morning to explain to the Matron that your leave would have to be extended because of family bereavement. She’d not forwarded that letter because she’d expected you back any day.”

It was open, slit neatly along the flap. “You’ve read it?” Genevieve said.

“Of course.” He went out, closing the door behind him.

“Isn’t he sweet?” Julie said sarcastically.

Genevieve put the letter down and carried on drying the dishes. “Before. What were you doing before?”

“I was in France. My husband was Professor of Philosophy at the Sorbonne.”

“And now?”

“He is dead. They came for us one night, the Gestapo, and he held them off while I and the others made our escape.” She was lost for a moment, staring into space. “But Craig went back for him. Saved his life. Helped us get out of France.” She sighed. “He died of a heart attack last year, my husband.”

“And it was Craig Osbourne who saved him?”

“That’s right.”

“Tell me about him,” Genevieve said. “Everything you know.”

“Why not?” She shrugged. “His father was an American diplomat, his mother French. As a child he lived for years in Berlin and Paris which explains his fluency in the languages. He was working for
Life
magazine when the Germans took Paris in 1940.”

“Yes, that’s when he knew my sister. Did you ever meet her?”

“No. He became involved with an underground ring engaged in smuggling Jews out through Spain and only got out by the skin of his teeth himself when the Germans discovered what he was up to. That’s when he first came to England and joined their secret service. What they call SOE. Later, when the Americans joined in, they transferred him to OSS.” She shrugged. “Names only. Everyone does the same thing. Fights the same war.”

“He went back to France?”

“Twice they dropped him in by parachute. On the third occasion, a Lysander was used. He operated a Maquis sabotage unit in the Loire valley for several months before they were betrayed.”

“Where did he go?”

“To Paris, a café in Montmartre, a staging post on the underground route out to Spain . . .” She paused.

“And?”

“The Gestapo were waiting. They took him to their headquarters in Rue de Saussaies at the back of the Ministry of the Interior.”

“Go on!” Genevieve turned pale.

“He was photographed, fingerprinted—all the usual things, including an interrogation that lasted three days and involved considerable brutality. Notice his hands sometime. His fingernails are misshapen because they were torn out at the time I describe.”

Genevieve felt slightly sick. “But he escaped?”

“Yes, he was lucky. A car in which he was being transferred was involved in a collision with a truck. He got away in the confusion, hid in a church. The priest who found him got in touch with my husband who was leader of the underground movement in that part of Paris.”

“And who held the Gestapo off while you and Craig got away . . . ?”

“Let me explain,
chérie
,” she said patiently. “Craig could hardly walk because they’d done things to his feet also.” She held Genevieve’s right hand tightly for a moment. “This was not some film made in Hollywood starring Errol Flynn that you go to see at your local cinema on a Saturday night. This was real. This is how it is over there. And things like this—they could also happen to you. This you must face now. After Thursday night it will be too late.”

Genevieve sat there staring at her. Julie carried on. “We were taken to Amiens in a market truck. After three days they sent a Lysander.”

“What happened to Craig after that?”

“They made him a Commander of the Legion of Honour, his own people gave him the DSC and made him join
OSS. The irony now is that he is back in Dougal Munro’s clutches.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Genevieve asked.

“He is, I think, a man who looks for death,” Julie said. “Sometimes I think he would not know what to do with himself if he survived this war.”

“That’s nonsense,” Genevieve told her, but shivered all the same.

“Perhaps,” Julie shrugged. “But your letter—you haven’t opened it.”

She was right, of course, and Genevieve did so. When she was finished reading, she crumpled it into a ball.

“Bad news?” Julie asked.

“Invitation to a party this weekend, so I couldn’t have gone anyway. An RAF boy I met last year—a bomber pilot.”

“You fell in love?”

“Not really. I don’t think I ever have, not in a lasting sort of way. It makes one feel like a lifelong wanderer.”

She laughed. “At your age,
chérie
?”

“We went around together for a while. That’s all there was to it. Mutual loneliness, I think, more than anything else.”

“And then?”

“He asked me to marry him, just before he was posted to the Middle East.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

“He’s just back. On leave at his parents’ house in Surrey.”

“And still hoping?”

Genevieve nodded. “And I can’t explain. What a rotten way to leave it.”

“But you don’t really care, I think?”

“Yesterday morning, perhaps yes, but now,” Genevieve shrugged. “I find there are things in me I never knew existed. The possibilities are suddenly somehow limitless.”

“So, you are saved from what would have been a very bad mistake. You see, out of every unfortunate situation, something good always comes. And you will understand Craig a little better now, I think.”

The door opened before Genevieve could reply and Edge came in. “Women at the kitchen sink. A lovely sight and so proper.”

“Why don’t you go away and play with your toys, Joe. That’s all you’re good for,” Julie told him.

“Plenty to play with here, darling.” He moved in behind Genevieve and slipped his arms about her waist, holding her close. She could sense his excitement as he nuzzled her neck and ran his hands up to her breasts.

“Leave me alone!” she said.

“Look, she likes it,” he taunted.

“Like it? You make my flesh crawl,” Genevieve told him.

“Really? Oh, that’s good, sweetie. I’d like to make your flesh crawl.”

She continued to struggle and then Edge gave a cry of pain and Martin Hare was there, had him by the arm, which he continued to twist even after Edge had released Genevieve. “You really are a worm, Joe. Go on, get out of it.”

Schmidt appeared from nowhere, darted around him and got the back door open. Hare simply threw Edge through it and the pilot fell to one knee. He got to his feet and turned, his face contorted.

“I’ll pay you back for this, Hare and you, you bitch.”

He hurried away. Schmidt closed the door. “A real bad boy, if I may say so, sir.”

“Couldn’t agree more. Get out to the boat and find Miss Trevaunce a pair of sea boots.”

“Zu befehl, Herr Kapitän,”
Schmidt said cheerfully and went out.

Genevieve was still shaking with rage. “Sea boots?” she demanded. “What for?”

“We’ll go for a walk.” He smiled. “Salt air, the beach. Nothing like the beauties of nature to get things into perspective.”

AND HE WAS
right, of course. They followed the narrow beach beyond the end of the quay where the inlet widened into the sea in a maelstrom of white water, spray lifting high into the air.

Genevieve said, “God, this is wonderful. Every breath you take in London at the moment is tainted with smoke. The whole city stinks of war. Death and destruction everywhere.”

“The sea washes things clean. Ever since I was a boy vacationing at Cape Cod, I’ve sailed,” Hare told her. “No matter how bad things are, you leave everything behind on the shore at your point of departure.”

“Your wife?” Genevieve said. “Does she think the same way?”

“Used to,” Martin Hare said. “She died of leukaemia in 1938.”

“I’m so sorry.” She turned, hands thrust into the pockets of the Kriegsmarine pea jacket Schmidt had given her. “Have you any children?”

“Not possible. She was too frail. Struggled against that damned disease from the age of twenty-one.” He smiled. “Left me some of the best water-colours I’ve ever seen. She was a fine artist.”

Instinctively, she took his arm. They had rounded the point now and the beach was much wider, following the cliffs. “It’s been a long war for you, I think.”

He shook his head. “Not really. I take it day by day and
that’s all I expect—today.” He smiled, suddenly looking immensely charming. “Night-by-night, I should say. That’s when we operate most of the time.”

“And afterwards, when it’s all over?”

“No such time. I’ve told you. Only today.”

“And Craig? Does he think in the same way?”

“You like him, don’t you?” He squeezed her arm against him. “Don’t. There’s no percentage in it. There’s no future for people like me and Craig, so no future for you.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.” She turned to face him and he put his hands on her shoulders.

“Listen to me, Genevieve Trevaunce. War, played the way people like Craig and I play it, is like going to Monaco for a weekend’s gambling. What you have to remember is that the odds are always against you. The house wins—you lose.”