A Possible Life (3 page)

After breakfast, a search party was assembled to leave by lorry and retrace their steps, but was told to stand down when a telephone call reached battalion headquarters. An early-morning golfer, searching for his ball in the rough beside the par-five seventh, had come across the drowned body of a soldier, evidently beached some hours earlier by the retreating tide. Geoffrey was despatched with the medical officer to fetch him back as discreetly as possible; the course prided itself on rapid play (four-balls were banned) and the secretary was anxious not to disrupt the progress of the monthly medal.

‘I suppose there’ll be a dreadful stink about this,’ said Geoffrey.

‘I rather think there will,’ said the MO, a man inured to disaster. ‘You can say goodbye to any hopes of getting a company. You and Trembath will probably be put on a charge.’

‘Oh God. Someone’ll have to write to his wife.’

‘They certainly will. He was probably the last Hill in Norfolk.’

Owing to their inexperience and to a plea in mitigation entered to brigade staff by their commanding officer, the guilty pair escaped court martial, though it was made clear to them that their lapse had put them into the slowest of slow lanes as far as advancement in the Musketeers was concerned. If there were distant lands to be invaded or glamorous staff colleges to attend, others would be chosen; if there was a gasworks to be guarded, theirs would be the first names put forward.

In the meantime, the battalion, like all the infantry who had not been out to the Low Countries and back through Dunkirk,
bided
their time. They trained and trained; they became good at what they did, but still they waited; in Lincolnshire, Norfolk, the Scottish Highlands, they sat frustrated, like athletes ready for a race that was endlessly postponed. They watched with envy when a small group of commandos was despatched to create havoc in Vichy French possessions in West Africa; but the mass of soldiery twiddled its well-trained thumbs, drilled, exercised and fed; and for Geoffrey the wait was made worse by the fact that he knew that when the ‘balloon went up’ he would be given only a secondary job. Europe was entirely under Nazi occupation; France had not put up the resistance that Geoffrey, raised on stories of heroic resistance on the Marne, had expected. The glorious nation of Pétain’s Verdun – even with old Pétain himself back in charge – had fallen in a few days. Britain was under a ‘total blockade’ by German shipping and its main cities were being bombed every night.

So when in September he heard of a new irregular force being formed in London with a view to harassing the German occupier in Europe, he used a forty-eight-hour pass to offer his services in a flat in Marylebone to a toothy man who went by the name of Mr Green. This was the first time Geoffrey had been in London since the bombing had started and he was surprised by the damage already inflicted by the Luftwaffe. Much of the West End looked closed for business – boarded up, clenched, shocked. A different kind of person seemed to be at large on the streets of Piccadilly and St James’s: self-important types of a certain age in ARP and Auxiliary Fire Service uniforms; young women in smart suits and nylons bustling to offices in Whitehall; men in soft shirts and chalk-stripe suits with time on their hands.

‘What’s the rest of your unit doing?’ asked Mr Green, showing Geoffrey a chair. Despite calling himself ‘Mr’, he wore the uniform of an infantry major.

‘Awaiting the order to move, sir.’

‘Like the rest of the army.’ Mr Green smiled. ‘Restless, I expect, are you?’

‘Yes. Rather.’

‘Tell me about yourself.’

Geoffrey had been interviewed often; it was part of being young; but there was something about Mr Green that he liked – a liveliness, an indifference to convention shown by his loosely knotted tie and scuffed shoes. He told him about the Musketeers and poor ‘Puffer’ Hill.

Mr Green nodded encouragingly when he heard the story. ‘Are you good with secrets?’ he said.

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘Good. I had a girl in here the other day who was constitutionally incapable of lying.’

‘A girl?’

‘Yes, it’s not all cutting throats, you know. It’s undercover work. Communications. Liaison. We’ve recruited half a dozen women already. But don’t worry, your athletic prowess won’t be wasted. Plenty of strong-arm stuff as well. Can you lie?’

‘I don’t think of myself as—’

‘But in the interests of national security?’

‘Of course I could.’

‘Good. I see you’re a linguist. What languages do you speak?’

‘French fluently. Some German.’

‘All right. I’ll get our French bods to run the rule over you. Then you’ll see a headshrinker.’

‘Why?’

‘Psychological fitness. It gets lonely in the field. Very lonely. Does that worry you?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’ Geoffrey had never been lonely; he could barely imagine what it might feel like.

‘We’re taking on mostly civilians,’ said Mr Green, ‘but I can swing it with your brigade staff. I can fix a transfer. It’s the PM’s pigeon, the whole thing, so we can take short cuts through the army red tape. Are you keen?’

‘I’m very keen indeed, sir.’

‘Good man.’

‘What happened to the girl who couldn’t tell a lie?’

‘I took her on. I had to. She was bilingual. She’s in Portsmouth now, learning how to be deceitful.’

‘I suppose there’s not much else to do in Portsmouth,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Apart from dodge the bombs, of course.’

Geoffrey stayed the night with an aunt in a service flat near Marble Arch. He had dinner in a club in Pall Mall and walked back through the darkened streets of Mayfair. The large hotels were like ghost ships steaming quietly in the night, though occasionally from below ground he could hear the sound of tinkling gaiety. One of the most famous had moved its ballroom into the basement boiler area, laid a parquet floor among the lagged plumbing and set up a bar in front of the laundry. Guests in black tie and jewels danced to the sound of a jazz band as the German bombers droned overhead on their way towards the docks; while there was gin, the manager was convinced, they would continue to dance. The top-floor bedrooms were let out at a quarter of the normal price to those prepared to take a chance on a pilot jettisoning spare bombs on his way back to the Fatherland.

In the morning, Geoffrey went back to the flat near Wimpole Street to meet the ‘French bods’. They consisted of a woman from Brittany who taught in a school in Brook Green and her husband, an engineer who had heard General de Gaulle’s call to arms broadcast by the BBC on 18 June. On putting himself in touch with the general, as invited, he had decided he could see action sooner by joining the new British force.

The married couple sat side by side and asked Geoffrey about his life. He was not quite sure if, when he came to an English word, he should pronounce it with a French accent or say it with a stubbornly English one to show how Gallic the rest of the sentence had been. ‘
Je suis né près d’Andover
,’ he said, but it made it sound as though his birthplace was called ‘Dandover’. It was best not to mention ‘Puffer’ Hill. What was the French for ‘Puffer’, anyway? ‘
Souffleur
’? He had a vague idea the word also meant something indecent. He would avoid Hill (‘
Colline
’) completely, he thought, though he did venture a small joke about his regiment, ending ‘
qui s’appellent les “Mousquetaires”, bien que nous soyons – heureusement – plus que trois!
’

Neither of the French couple smiled. He wondered if his use of the subjunctive had given him away as a foreigner. Would a village Frenchman really bother? The conversation moved into calmer waters: his mother, Limoges, the pottery industry, the Fall of France, the greatness of its people … Geoffrey had never considered his ability to speak French as much of a gift – any more, say, than the ability to ride a bicycle or play a square cut; he had just absorbed it at home. None of his tutors had ever questioned his fluency even when lamenting the infrequency of his essays, yet the woman seemed unhappy with his performance. Was there something about his accent, he wondered? Had he inherited from his mother, without knowing it, the equivalent of a Cornish brogue?

Her husband, however, nodded vigorously as he listened and seemed to sense – and share – something of Geoffrey’s impatient desire for action. They shook hands firmly and Geoffrey was sent back down the passageway, where Mr Green showed him through to a small office that opened off his own. In it was a man in civilian clothes with a bald head and a pipe; he remained sitting and pointed at the chair.

‘Dr Samuels,’ said Mr Green. ‘This is Talbot.’

Samuels looked at a list on his desk and nodded. Mr Green left them to it.

‘What makes you think you’re suited to this kind of work?’ said Samuels. His manner was abrupt.

‘I haven’t been told a great deal about what it entails yet. But I speak French. I’m fit. I’m keen to help.’

‘Think you could kill someone?’

‘What?’

‘Unprovoked? With your bare hands?’

‘Well … If I was trained for it. If it was necessary.’

‘What would constitute a necessity?’

‘Self-defence. The defence of another.’

‘The national interest?’

‘I … suppose so.’

Samuels, who had been looking out of the window, swivelled his chair to look Geoffrey in the eye.

‘We’re going to do some word association now. I say a word and I want you to say the first thing that comes into your mind. No hesitation. The very first thing.’

‘All right.’ Geoffrey licked his lips. It was like taking guard against Alf Gover.

‘Father.’

‘Confessor.’

‘Mother.’

‘Superior.’

‘Girl.’

‘Guide.’

‘Boy.’

‘Scout.’

‘Could you just pause a moment before—’

‘I thought you told me not to.’

‘I did, but you’re just completing set phrases. I want you to tell me what picture or feeling the word evokes for you.’

‘Right-ho.’

‘Jew.’

‘Israel. Bible.’

‘One word only. France.’

‘I see the shape of the map.’

‘Let’s try again. One word. France.’

‘Loire.’

‘Loss.’

‘Death.’

‘Victory.’

‘Cricket.’

‘Sex.’

‘Lust.’

‘I think that’s enough of that. Do you have a girlfriend?’

‘No. I’m in the army. We don’t really meet women.’

‘Before the war?’

‘There were no women at the school where I taught. Apart from the maids, but they were from a mental institution. At university I might ask a girl from home to go to a college ball.’

‘Did you sleep with any of them?’

‘No … No, they weren’t that sort of girl.’

‘Would you say you had a strong libido?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what average is. I do like girls.’

‘Have you ever had homosexual feelings? In the army for instance?’

Geoffrey suppressed a laugh at the thought of the sweating Musketeers. ‘They’re not that sort either.’

Dr Samuels leaned back in his chair. ‘If you go abroad you may see things you’ve never seen before. You may see things that none of us has ever seen. We don’t know. Would you describe yourself as robust?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘When did you last cry?’

Geoffrey thought for a long time and shook his head. ‘I can’t remember. Perhaps when I was nine or ten.’

‘Are you good at being on your own? Do you have resources? In your head?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Were you an only child?’

‘Yes.’

Samuels stood up. ‘This interview is over. I have no further questions.’

‘My God, Talbot, you’ve got to get me in on this French lark,’ said Trembath when Geoffrey reported back that evening.

‘I’ll see what I can do. Though I don’t recall your French being up to much.’

‘How the hell do you know? We weren’t even in the same year.’

‘We did a couple of conversation classes with old Madame Whatsit – when the man in your college was off sick. Don’t you remember?’

‘Vaguely,’ said Trembath. He stroked the moustache he had grown since receiving his commission. ‘I don’t suppose you could give me a few lessons, could you? Just to brush up? I’m desperate to see some action. If I sit round here cooped up much longer I’m going to lose my mind.’

They had time only for an evening of Charles Trenet records before Geoffrey’s transfer came through. ‘The best way to sound French is to imitate someone,’ said Geoffrey. ‘As though you’re acting. I always mimic my grandfather, who was a
garagiste
in Clermont. Marvellous old codger.’

‘That’s exactly it,’ said Trembath. ‘The way you swallowed the “r” in “
garagiste
” and “Clermont”. Your Adam’s apple disappeared below your top button. And don’t forget, Talbot, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting your grandfather.’

‘Well, imagine you’re Charles Trenet then.’

When the paperwork was done, Geoffrey returned to London. He felt wistful about saying goodbye to the Musketeers, though the fact was, he admitted to himself on the train, his sentimental affection for the regiment had not been reciprocated. They might one day sail to North Africa, he presumed, if they were lucky; and what sort of baptism of fire might that be – in the sands of Tunisia? Doubtless he would have been left in reserve with the baggage in some Algerian port.

At his final interview, Mr Green was joined by a man called Dawlish, whom Geoffrey liked a good deal less. Green might have been an enlightened manager in a family-run company; Dawlish had an air of deceit and cruelty about him. Geoffrey wondered if he had been transferred from another secret organisation of longer standing; he seemed to carry a history of calculation in his eyes, and Geoffrey could picture him disowning a stranded agent without a second thought: ‘Talbot? Never heard of him.’

‘You got a splendid report from the headshrinker,’ Green was saying. ‘Top rating. Your little trouble in Norfolk is of no consequence to us. I’d go so far as to say it was a recommendation. We’re not in the business of hiring straight-up-and-down foot soldiers. Many of our recruits are foreign nationals. Most are civilians. We’re after mavericks, people who may not fit in to normal life. Are you with me?’