Those in Peril (28 page)

‘Sit down, Alan.' Harry flicked at the report. ‘I've just been going through this again. Duval's done a good job – there's no denying it. Laid the groundwork, you might say, and collected some useful stuff for us in the process.'

‘He wants to know when he can go back. Recruit more people.'

‘Keen as mustard, isn't he? Well, I can't answer that at the moment. He'll have to be patient for a while. In general, I'm in favour of this idea of his and so are others, but it's still the view that the priority is to get our own properly trained agents in the field, as soon as we can. We're working on that. Within a few months we should be getting serious answers, not what some French farmer thought he saw on the way home from the local bistro.'

‘Actually, I think most of the information that Duval brought back was pretty reliable. It made sense. Especially about the U-boat pens. I don't think there's much doubt about those being built as fast as the Germans can do it – certainly at Lorient and Brest, and probably other Atlantic ports too.'

‘We need more than that, though, Alan. We need definite facts and figures. Engineering data on their construction – all that sort of thing, if we're going to be able to do anything about them.' Harry turned over pages. ‘This fellow, for example – the electrician in Lorient – he won't be able to get that for us. All he'll manage is a quick peek.'

‘I think he might do rather better than that. He'll be helping to install miles of wire. Covered bunkers will need a hell of a lot of artificial light. And power.'

‘Well, it's certainly worth carrying on. Let's try anything. I take my hat off to these people. God help them if the Germans nab them.'

‘Duval has set it up as securely as possible. In theory, if one's caught the others are safe.'

‘Yes, I see that. In practice, of course, who knows? Who knows
anything
where the French are concerned?'

‘He's put someone in charge of each cell; the rest report only to that person. It ought to work.'

‘Except that the French can't stand being organized. Hopeless at discipline. We know that only too well.'

The blank-faced woman brought in coffee and biscuits. Powell waited until she had gone out before he went on. ‘The weather's going to start deteriorating soon and it's going to make the fishing-boat trips across and the landings far more difficult. Is there any news on MTBs becoming available to us? They'd be far the safest bet in winter and they could do the whole trip there and back overnight, under cover of darkness.'

‘I'll do my best. This latest expedition of Duval's will certainly help oil the wheels. Want some sugar in your coffee?'

‘No, thanks.'

Harry dumped a spoonful in his cup and stirred it vigorously. ‘One good thing, it's pretty certain that the Führer's abandoning any idea of springing an invasion on us this year. Time's almost up so far as the weather's concerned. If you ask me, he's missed the boat completely.'

After the meeting, Powell went over to Dolphin Square. Several of the building's windows had beeen blown out by bomb blast but those in his flat were undamaged. The usual pile of mail awaited him and he sifted through it without interest. The flat had never seemed so depressing, the prospect of an evening alone more daunting. As he stood staring out at the river, the phone rang. It was his sister.

‘I've been hoping to get you, Alan . . . didn't think there was much of a chance, though.'

‘I just got here.'

‘How are you?'

‘Fine. And you all?'

‘We're fine, too. Listen, are you free for dinner tonight? I've got one or two people coming round and I need another man.'

Another man meant a spare woman. He said guardedly, ‘I'm not quite sure.'

‘Oh, please, Alan. It would be wonderful to see you.'

‘I have to get a train back first thing.'

‘Then stay the night here. William will drop you at Paddington on his way to the hospital or you can always get a taxi. There's bound to be an air raid tonight and it'll be much safer than being right by the river. They always go for it.'

How clearly and obligingly the Thames must show up for the German bombers, every twist and bend and curve mapping London precisely for them. ‘It's nice of you to ask me, Hattie. What sort of time?'

‘Six thirty for seven. We eat early these days before the raids start. See you then.'

He arrived well beforehand to find his sister in a state of chaos in the kitchen – used pots, pans and utensils dumped everywhere. ‘Cook left to do factory work last week,' she told him. ‘So I'm coping. It's a stew thing. One of the recipes they give on the wireless. I hope it's all right.'

‘Can I help?'

‘You could be a dear and lay the table. There'll be eight of us.'

He went off to unearth mats and knives and forks and spoons and put them round the dining-room table. Then he went back to the kitchen to find Henrietta sadly surveying some kind of collapsed pudding.

‘Another wireless recipe?'

She shook her head. ‘I found it in one of Cook's old books. She used to make it all the time and it always turned out perfectly. I don't know where I went wrong. Anyway, it'll just have to do.'

‘Who's coming this evening?'

‘William's best man and his wife – you remember them? David and Susannah?'

‘Vaguely.'

‘He's home on leave from the Far East, so it's in his honour, really. And we asked one of the young doctors at the hospital with his wife. The wife's sister was staying with them, so I invited her along too.'

‘Which is why I was needed?'

‘You don't mind, do you, Alan? And you never know.'

‘I never know what?'

‘Don't tease – you know very well what I mean. How's that other girl you met in Dartmouth, by the way? I hoped there might be some good news on that front by now.'

‘There's no news,' he said.

‘You should get a move on, Alan. She sounded ideal.'

The other guests arrived and William came home soon after, looking exhausted. Powell did his duty and made polite conversation to the young doctor's sister-in-law. She was somewhere in her early twenties, he guessed, and finding the war rather exciting, she told him. He felt like her uncle and was certainly old enough to be it.

‘What do you do?' he asked.

‘Sort of nursing. I'm a VAD. You know, Voluntary Aid Detachment.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I know.' He could remember the VADs in the naval hospital in the first war. Well-meaning, bright young things with little more than basic first-aid training. Henrietta had been one for a while and there was an impressive silver-framed studio portrait of her in her Red Cross uniform. ‘Do you enjoy it?'

She made a face. ‘Not really. We get given all the awful jobs by the proper nurses. Luckily, I'm only part-time. I don't think I could stand it otherwise. What I'd
really
like to do is drive an ambulance. I think that would be super.'

‘Can you drive?'

‘No, but it wouldn't take very long to learn, would it?'

She was very pretty and well made-up, with carefully arranged hair. He wondered when the reality of war would strike home. She smiled at him kindly, taking in his uniform.

‘You're in the Royal Navy, aren't you?'

He almost answered, ‘No, the Royal Air Force,' but suppressed the temptation. ‘Yes, that's right.' She would undoubtedly have preferred someone like Lieutenant Smythson and must have been sorely disappointed by his grey hairs.

‘I expect you do something frightfully interesting.'

‘No,' he said. ‘Nothing very interesting at all.'

He was glad that the evening finished early – in deference to the Luftwaffe. His brother-in-law was called back urgently to the hospital and he helped Henrietta to clear away and stack the dirty dishes in the kitchen.

‘The daily will do them in the morning. Thank heavens I've still got her. She's a real treasure. Let's go and sit down with a large brandy, Alan, and have a nice chat.'

He poured brandies for them both and lit their cigarettes.

‘Thank you for the evening, Hattie.'

‘Sorry about the food. It was a dismal failure.'

‘No, it wasn't. Not at all.' Teeth would have to be drawn before he admitted any such thing to her.

‘Anyway, I'll do better next time. What did you think of Joanna?'

‘Joanna?'

‘Honestly, Alan . . . You sat next to her all evening.'

‘Sorry. Very pretty and very young.'

‘Too young for you?'

‘The opposite way round. I'm too old for her. Much too old.'

‘Well, what about the other one – the one down in Dartmouth?'

‘I'm afraid that's not going to come to anything.'

‘Why ever not? You seemed so happy when you were last here. Quite different.'

‘I found out that she's in love with somebody else.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Pretty sure.'

‘Oh, Alan, what a shame.' She looked at him sadly. ‘Who's the other man? Someone else in the Navy?'

‘No, a Frenchman.'

‘Oh dear. They can be terribly attractive. So different.'

He said, with some asperity, ‘From what?'

‘Well . . . from Englishmen. I remember when I was at that awful finishing school in Paris, I fell madly in love with one. Took me ages to get over him. Actually, I still think of him sometimes – never told William that, of course. You won't give up on her, though, will you, Alan?'

‘You mean, faint heart never won fair maid?'

‘Something like that.'

The air-raid siren started its unearthly wailing a moment later. ‘Do you have a shelter here?'

‘Not really. William piled sandbags all round the downstairs cloakroom, but we never bother to go in it. He's usually at the hospital anyway most nights.'

‘What do you do?'

‘Go to bed. I'm blowed if I'll let the Germans ruin my night's sleep.'

‘You mean you sleep right through the raids?'

‘Usually, yes. I put my ear plugs in and take an aspirin and that seems to do the trick.'

He shook his head, smiling. ‘You really should get a proper shelter, Hattie. Get an Anderson put in the garden.'

‘Half the lawn's already dug up for growing vegetables and I'm not going to disturb the roses. Besides, the Germans'll give up when they find out that bombing us makes no difference. We'll never surrender to them.'

‘I'm afraid they'll go on dropping them for quite some time, that's the trouble. If you won't think of yourself, you ought to think of Julian. He wouldn't want anything to happen to you while he's away and when he's home from school, he ought to have somewhere safe during the raids.'

‘That's true.' She smiled fondly at him. ‘You're so sensible in so many ways, Alan. And so hopeless in others.'

After she'd gone to bed, he stayed up for a while, smoking, drinking brandy and listening to the drone of the German bombers circling somewhere over east London, the crump of their bombs falling and the furious reply of the ground ack-ack guns. When the All Clear had gone he went upstairs. Before he went to sleep, he switched out the bedside lamp and pulled aside the blackout curtain. In the distance, to the east, he could see the huge, crimson glow of fires lighting up the sky.

Eleven

October was almost over before Louis Duval returned to France. The long wait had frustrated and, at times, angered him. He saw no sense in delaying things and every sense in pursuing what he had begun, before people's courage and resolution could falter and crumble beneath the sheer weight of German oppression. When, finally, Lieutenant Commander Powell had summoned him, he had said all this and more. The naval officer had heard him out patiently and Duval, talking at machine-gun speed and gesticulating all the while, had realized that his protest was being put down to French excitability. When he had finished, the lieutenant commander had answered him with infuriating English calm.

‘As it happens, I agree with you, but unfortunately I take my orders from higher up. And they have only just come through.'

He had said bitterly, ‘And how long am I to be permitted to stay this time?'

‘Another month.'

‘It's not enough. Not nearly.'

‘We need you to return here before any intelligence is stale.'

He had taken a grip on himself. ‘I apologize. Of course you are right about that. But when are they going to get radio transmitters so that we are not obliged to go backwards and forwards in this crazy way?'

‘As soon as it can be done.'

He had lifted his shoulders silently and eloquently.

The weather was bad this time. The sea much rougher, the crossing longer, by consequence, and even more uncomfortable. The
Espérance
was undergoing an engine overhaul and Lieutenant Smythson was away on leave. The replacement boat,
Marie-Éloise
– an elderly crabber – wallowed her way along and, except for one Breton, her crew were all men seconded from the Royal Navy and complete strangers to him. As before, the plan was to arrive offshore during darkness but, on this occasion, to land on a beach at Rospico between Raguènes and Port-Manech, just south of Pont-Aven – a spot he knew reasonably well. Duval stayed on deck for the first part of the trip, smoking and watching the coast of England recede.