Those in Peril (10 page)

Duval unloaded the remaining bottles of wine and the quarter-full brandy bottle from
Gannet
and put them in the empty suitcase. The ham was finished and the last of the Camembert and the sausage were both past keeping, so he threw them to the seagulls who swooped on them in a shrieking frenzy. The cat sat on the deck and watched him, scratching from time to time. ‘Well now, little one,' he said to it. ‘It seems you are in luck. Lodging has been offered – at least for the time being. But will you permit me to take you there, I wonder?'

He picked up the animal and held it under his free arm, carrying the suitcase in the other. Its four legs dangled limply and without protest. He set off from the quayside, up the steep road leading to Madame Hillyard's house, pausing from time to time to rest. The cat weighed next to nothing but the suitcase and the bottles were heavy and grew heavier as he went on. He let himself into the house, put down the suitcase and knocked on the door that led to the kitchen. She opened the door, wearing an apron over her dress and with a long white streak of flour down one cheek.

‘I have brought the cat, madame – as you were kind enough to permit.'

She stared at it hanging under his arm. ‘Poor thing – it looks awfully thin. Shall I give it some milk, do you think?'

‘I am sure it would be very grateful.'

He followed her into the kitchen – a most agreeable room, he noted, not having seen it before. Glass-fronted cupboards, an old-fashioned dresser, a white enamel-topped table in the centre with a mixing bowl and rolling pin on it – some pastry rolled out. The domain of a home-making woman. She took a bottle of milk from the larder, poured a little of it into a saucer and set it down on the floor. They both watched as the cat sniffed gingerly at the saucer and then began to lap up the milk. He regretted that the animal was so unappealing – so dull-coated and scrawny and with the patch of mange on its neck.

‘It seems to like it,' she said. ‘Does it have a name?'

‘I regret not. The truth is that I know nothing whatsoever about this animal, madame. Perhaps you could think of a name for it? Or your daughter?'

‘My daughter?'

‘The little girl.'

‘Oh, Esme, you mean. She's not my daughter. She's an evacuee.'

‘What is that?'

‘They sent a lot of children out of London at the beginning of the war – so they'd be safe. In case the Germans bombed the city. I had three others as well but they went home.'

‘Ah . . . I understand.'

‘I'm afraid she's not very happy here. She wants her mother to come and take her home.'

‘But the mother is not coming?'

‘She doesn't seem very interested in Esme.'

‘Poor little one.'

‘I know. It's awfully sad.'

‘Perhaps she will like the cat.'

‘Yes, it might help.'

‘I must warn you, though,' he said solemnly. ‘There is a difficulty. This cat does not understand any English. Not a word.'

She laughed and he thought, watching her, that in the same way that Mademoiselle Citron did not comprehend her unattractiveness, this woman did not remotely realize her appeal. Perhaps no man, not even her late husband, had ever complimented her or made her feel desirable. It was perfectly possible, especially in England. He said, ‘I also brought some wine from the boat, madame. And a little brandy. Perhaps you would like to share it with me?'

She shook her head. ‘No, thank you. But I think Mrs Lamprey might, and the rear admiral, too. I'm not sure about Miss Tindall.'

‘I shall ask them. At dinner.' He gestured at the table and the pastry. ‘You are cooking for this evening?'

‘Just a vegetable pie.' She seemed embarrassed again. ‘The meat ration doesn't go far. I'm afraid you must find our food very dull.'

‘Not at all,' he said politely, though he did. In general, very dull and with so little flavour. Except the fish and chips. Eaten very hot, out of newspaper, it was magnificent. ‘Excuse me, madame, but you have something on your face . . .
de la farine
. I don't know the word in English. No, on the other cheek.' He removed the streak with the tips of his fingers, brushing it away gently. ‘
Voilà
 . . . it has gone.' The cheek was red now instead of white, and she was looking shaken as though he had taken a great liberty. ‘I'm sorry, I should not have done that. My apologies.'

‘It's quite all right,' she said, avoiding his eye. ‘And the word's flour.'

At dinner that evening he produced one of the bottles of wine. As predicted, Madame Lamprey was delighted to join him, raising her glass and shouting at him across the safe divide between their tables, ‘
À votre santé, Monsieur Duval
.' He responded gallantly in French. Miss Tindall declined but the rear admiral accepted with a dry smile. Before very long it was necessary to refill Madame Lamprey's glass.

Esme climbed into her bed. ‘I don't like that cat. It's got a disgusting bare patch. Does it have to stay here?'

‘It's got nowhere else to go. It came with Monsieur Duval on his boat from France and I said we'd look after it.'

‘It's a horrible French cat, then.'

‘Don't be silly. You haven't given it a chance yet. I thought perhaps you'd like to think of a name for it.'

‘I don't care what it's called.'

Barbara gritted her teeth. ‘Very well.
I'll
think of a name. I know, we'll call it Fifi.'

‘That's a stupid name,'

‘It isn't at all stupid. It's very appropriate for a French cat.' She kissed Esme goodnight – though the child seemed to hate her doing so – and went downstairs to the kitchen. They were taking longer than usual in the dining room. She could hear Mrs Lamprey's voice raised even above her normal level in a bizarre mixture of English and French, and Monsieur Duval's deep voice answering. The cat had jumped up onto one of the kitchen chairs and was sitting with its front paws tucked neatly under its chin. Poor thing, it really was nothing but skin and bone. She stretched out a hand and stroked the top of its head gently. It blinked yellow eyes at her in a sort of smile and, presently, it started to purr.

Four

Lieutenant Smythson who came to collect Louis Duval by car spoke French like a native. His mother was French-born, he told him; she had married an Englishman whom she had met as a student in London and he was the result. Although he had been born and brought up in England, she had talked to him in French from the very beginning and he had spent holidays with his grandparents in Lille.

‘I'm hoping my grandparents will be all right, sir. It's a bit of a worry.'

‘I hardly think the Boche will be troubling elderly people.' But he did not believe his own words. The Germans would trouble anybody if it suited them. Young or old. Rich or poor. Dangerous or harmless. Anybody who got in their way or was a handy example for encouraging the others to behave. One did not subdue a country and its people by being nice. He had no illusions, either, about the perils that might lie ahead for himself. But then, nor did he much care. His own life seemed to him to be of little importance. No wife, except in name. No child, no family. Only his work and such as he had already produced would still remain, whatever happened.

‘Did you hear that de Gaulle has arrived safely in London, sir?'

‘Yes, I have heard.'

‘And about two thousand other French servicemen managed to get out as well. They're all rallying round him.'

‘That's very good news.'

‘I thought so too, sir. One wouldn't want people to think the Marshal speaks for all the French.'

‘No, indeed.'

It amused Duval to converse with him – looking so English in his Royal Navy uniform and yet speaking like a Frenchman.

The lieutenant turned the car into a narrow lane that wound steeply upwards above a creek. ‘We've moved your boat down there, sir. It's a nice quiet spot, though it's a bit muddy at low tide.'

‘I shall be permitted to take it out, then?'

‘Well, of course, there's the problem of the petrol.'

‘Problem? There were still two full drums on board.'

‘Oh, we had to take those away, I'm afraid, and siphon out the rest. You see, we can't leave anything lying around that the Germans might be able to use – just in case they turn up.'

He smiled to himself. The lieutenant might speak French like a Frenchman but he was perfidiously English to the core. The lane reached an open gateway and, from there on, a potholed drive led to the house – a whitewashed, slate-roofed mansion that looked sadly run-down. He followed the lieutenant into a bare hall that smelled of damp and mustiness. No carpet on the floor, no pictures on the walls. Makeshift blackout curtains tacked across the windows – the only daylight coming from an open door, together with a machine-gun clatter of typewriter keys. He followed Lieutenant Smythson to another door at the far end of the hallway. The room beyond contained a desk, a long trestle table, several chairs and Lieutenant Commander Powell who rose from behind the desk.

‘Thank you for coming at such short notice, Monsieur Duval.'

As he sat down on the chair indicated – the upright, hard sort that belonged to a school or institution – he wondered wryly if he had had much choice in the matter. For once, nobody had asked if he minded. A cigarette was offered across the desk, which he declined in favour of his Gauloise.

The lieutenant commander said, ‘We've been making some progress since we last met.'

‘Indeed?'

‘We have a suitable boat – a French sardine trawler from Douarnenez called
Espérance
. She has a crew of three who seem to fulfil most of our requirements.'

‘Which are?'

‘They are patriotic Frenchmen who wish to do what they can to help your country against the Germans. As far as we can ascertain, they are experienced sailors who know the coast of Brittany very well. In addition, they are all single men. Like yourself, they have no families to – er – to complicate matters.' He had hesitated a little over the last bit. Unlike Lieutenant Smythson, his accent was unmistakably English, though nowhere near as excruciating as Madame Lamprey's. ‘I take it, Monsieur Duval, that you are still willing to take part in this exercise – in spite of the great risks?'

‘Certainly.'

‘You have given it careful thought? You are quite sure?'

‘Yes.'

‘Very well.' There was a pause, a clearing of the throat. ‘This is how things stand. We understand that the German occupying forces have divided France into two zones – the northern one will be occupied and controlled by them, the southern – roughly south of Tours – is to be an unoccupied area administered by Marshal Pétain's government from Vichy.'

‘I don't know which part I feel the more sorry for.'

‘Quite. I have to warn you, though, that we have very little information at our disposal as to the present situation in Brittany. It's logical to suppose that the Germans will be keeping a close watch on the northern coast since it's the nearest to England, but we hope that the southern coast of the peninsula may be less patrolled – as yet. We know from the French fishing crews that have just arrived here that the Germans are imposing a ban on them sailing beyond four miles from the coast, deep-sea trawlers excepted, that all fishing boats must fly a white flag over their national colours and that they must return to port before sunset, or anchor outside. But that's
all
we know. It seems almost certain that there will be a curfew but we have no idea from when to when, or how strictly it's enforced. We know virtually nothing about what other identity papers are required for French civilians, what rules and regulations the Germans are busy making, the price of things, new rationing – in short, what any agent landed there would need to be completely familiar with in order not to attract suspicion. And that's what we want
you
to find out for us – as quickly as possible. I'm asking you to return to Pont-Aven in the
Espérance
to gather as much detail as you can and bring it back for us. Find out as much as you can. Bring back samples of permits, documents, proof of demobilization or military exemption, ID cards, ration cards, newspapers . . . anything you come across that you consider will be vital to know, or be useful.'

He nodded. ‘I understand.'

‘In addition, anything you can learn yourself about German troop movements, about their methods of controlling the population, and about the morale and mood of the French people in that area would be very valuable to us.'

Again, he nodded. They were asking for the moon, but so what? All he could do was his best.

‘We know something about their secret police, the Gestapo, and their SS. Not people you'd want to get to know.'

‘I hadn't planned to introduce myself.'

The lieutenant commander gave a brief smile. ‘Lieutenant Smythson will accompany you and be in charge of the crew. For the crossing, while on board the
Espérance
, you will wear Breton fishermen's clothing and assume a Breton name which will be entered on the crew list. Before disembarking, you change into your normal clothes – just as you're wearing now. From that point on, you are to be yourself – Louis Duval, the artist, who has just returned from the south.'

‘Why have I returned? And from where?'

‘You returned because you wanted to check on your studio apartment – you were afraid that it might be taken over by either the Germans or refugees, and that the paintings left there would be stolen or destroyed. Paintings of considerable value on the market. Once you have been reassured that all is well – and we have to hope that it is – then you can depart again to resume work you have left unfinished in the south. Or elsewhere, if you prefer. So long as your story is believable and accords with how you would normally behave. As to exactly where you have been staying, that's for you to choose. Somewhere that you know well and can be convincing about.'