Those in Peril (4 page)

He gestured with both hands, palms upturned. ‘To tell you the truth, I have no idea. As you can see, I am too old for military service, but it had occurred to me that there may be other ways. That it may be possible to make some contribution from this side of the Channel. I simply wish to place myself at your disposal.'

‘I see. That's awfully decent of you, of course.' A pause. ‘Do you happen to have a French identity card on you?'

He felt in his pocket and handed it over without comment. Photograph, full names, nationality, domicile, place and date of birth, height, colour of hair and eyes, shape of face, profession, print of right thumb . . . all officially stamped twice over in a frenzy of French bureaucracy. That should satisfy them, he thought grimly.

The Englishman studied it for a moment. ‘This states that you're an artist.'

‘That is correct.'

‘What kind of artist exactly?'

‘I paint on canvas – usually in oils. In general, I paint landscapes. Or nudes. Sometimes still life. Whatever interests me.'

‘And you live and work in Brittany?'

‘Yes, I have a studio in Pont-Aven.'

‘But you were born in Rennes?'

‘Yes. I have lived also in Paris, and in Provence and in other countries, including the United States. For a short time, I lived in England.'

‘Which is how you learned such good English, of course.'

‘I'm afraid it's not so good these days.'

A dry smile. ‘It's rather better than my French. Are you married, Monsieur Duval?'

‘Yes, but I have been separated fom my wife for many years. She lives in Paris.'

‘No children?'

‘No, none.' He rubbed a hand over his sore eyes. Tiredness was making it difficult to remember the correct English words. ‘Listen, Lieutenant, I have been at sea for many hours. My clothes are wet and I need a bath. Most of all I should like to be able to sleep. Perhaps that could be arranged and we could continue this conversation later?'

‘Yes, of course.' His identity card disappeared into a pocket. ‘I'll fix you up with somewhere to stay. We'll have to ask you to remain in Kingswear for the time being, if you don't mind.'

If you don't mind. Whether he minded, or not, it was an order. He wondered how many more times he was going to hear that polite but empty phrase. There was really no such equivalent in French. One used a variety of phrases to express a similar meaning. ‘Kingswear? Is that where I am?' He had never heard of it. He must have been carried much further east than he realized.

‘Well, it's called Kingswear on this side of the river and Dartmouth on the other. You came up the river Dart.' The lieutenant got to his feet. ‘There's not a lot in the way of accommodation over here, but I'll do my best. I take it you've brought some funds with you?'

‘Funds?'

‘Money.'

‘Oh yes, I have money – unfortunately nearly all in French francs.'

‘There's a bank in Dartmouth and they may be able to change some of it for you. You can take the ferry across later. The naval college is over there – the big building up on the hill. Our school for sailors. Perhaps you've heard of it?'

‘I regret not.'

‘Not to worry. By the way, if you've been at sea for a couple of days I don't suppose you're aware that the Italians have just declared war on us?'

‘No, I did not know.' He shrugged. ‘But I think we need not worry about them so much as the Germans.'

The lieutenant smiled. ‘Organ-grinders and ice-cream sellers? Well, we'll soon see.'

After another period of waiting, he was taken back to the
Gannet
by a young naval rating to collect his suitcase. He realized then that he had forgotten all about the cat, but there was no sign of it on board so, presumably, it had jumped ashore. He wished it good fortune in its new life in England; he had a feeling that his own might not be quite so simple. According to the lieutenant, he had been found a room in some kind of lodging house run by a Madame Hillyard. He sincerely hoped that she was not anything like Mademoiselle Citron.

By now the day was warm, the sun climbing in the sky. He trudged up a steep road, following the rating who was good enough to carry his case. The sailor took the incline like a mountain goat and he had a hard job keeping up with him. The road went by a church, between houses built on the hillside above and below, following the curve of the riverbank. Eventually, they reached a white-painted house with a grey slate roof and – unusually for England – shutters at the windows. It stood close to the road, behind a high stone wall, and an iron gate bore a plaque with its name, Bellevue. The rating stopped and put down his case. ‘Here we are, sir. You'll be all right now.'

He felt anything but all right. His heart was pounding, he was out of breath, and he was dripping with sweat. But the rating was off down the hill at once, leaving him alone. The gate, he discovered, opened into a small courtyard with a door. He pressed a brass bell beside it and, when the door eventually opened, it was not some forbidding
logeuse
who stood before him but a child – a small girl of about eight or nine, pale, skinny and painfully plain. He bowed to her gravely.

‘My name is Louis Duval. I believe that I am expected.' She stared at him open-mouthed and he realized that he must present a frightening aspect – unkempt, unshaven, red-eyed, bruised, breathing heavily – probably fumes of brandy – and with a foreign accent. He smiled as reassuringly as possible. ‘Is Madame Hillyard at home?'

The child vanished without a word and he wiped his face with a handkerchief and leaned wearily against the doorpost. After several more minutes a woman appeared. No, she was not in the least like Mademoiselle Citron, he saw with relief. Considerably younger and infinitely better-looking and nothing sour about her at all. He heaved himself away from the doorpost and, again, bowed.

‘I am Louis Duval, madame. I understand that you have a room for me.' He could tell that she, too, was appalled by his appearance, though she tried to conceal it.

‘Yes. They telephoned me. Please come in.'

He picked up his suitcase and stepped onto stone flags in a blessedly cool hallway. There was a long-case clock ticking quietly in a corner and a vase of pink and yellow roses on a table. He could smell their sweet scent.

‘Please come this way, Monsieur Duval.' He followed the Englishwoman up a staircase to the floor above and then along a corridor. At the far end she opened a door. ‘I am afraid the room is a bit smaller than the others but it's the only one I have vacant.' She flattened herself against the door to let him pass inside. He knew that he must smell, as well as look, disgusting.

It was simply but charmingly furnished: a brass bed with white cotton covers, an old armoire, a chest of drawers, a table and a comfortable chair, a looking glass, a framed print or two, another vase of roses . . . He set down the suitcase and went over to the open window. The house was well-named. There was, indeed, a most beautiful view of the estuary and the open sea beyond. The wooded slopes that he had observed from the river lay below, tall pines rising above the rest to frame the scene. A flight of steps led from a terrace at the back of the house to a narrow lawn bordered by thick shrubs and lush ferns, with a very un-English palm tree and a very English bed of beautiful roses like the ones in the vases. A bench with scrolled ironwork ends and a slatted wooden seat was perfectly placed to enjoy the view.

He turned. ‘Thank you, madame. Everything is delightful.'

Even in his exhausted state, he appraised her automatically. Lovely skin – like many Englishwomen. Thick and naturally curly brown hair, nice features – especially the large grey eyes. Not such a good nose – it was too broad – but the mouth more than made up for it. The generously curved body was tragically hidden away beneath dowdy clothes, but he could see through them easily enough. He wondered if her husband appreciated his good fortune. Most Englishmen, in his experience, did not.

‘The bathroom is just two doors down. I do hope you don't mind sharing with the rear admiral.'

Again the word
mind
. He was in no position to mind anything, and who was the rear admiral? ‘But of course.'

She looked worried. ‘You
do
mind?'

‘No, no,' he said hastily. ‘I meant that I do not.'

Her brow cleared. ‘I charge twenty-five shillings a week – that includes all meals and laundry. Will that be all right?'

‘Certainly.' He groped in his jacket pocket. ‘I have some money here.'

She shook her head. ‘No, no, that won't be necessary.'

‘But I should like to pay in advance.' He held out two English pound notes. ‘I'm sorry that I do not have the exact amount.'

She took it, but unwillingly and blushingly. Mademoiselle Citron would have shown no reluctance at all, let alone embarrassment. ‘I'll give you your change later. Would you like a cup of tea?'

He repressed a shudder. ‘No, thank you.' He had probably given offence. It would have been better to accept even if he had never drunk it. ‘All I want is to . . .' The English word for sleep eluded him and he was forced to do a childish pantomime of resting his head on clasped hands. She understood, though.

‘I'll see that you aren't disturbed.'

As soon as she had shut the door, he stripped off his outer clothes, pitched face down on the bed and fell instantly into a deep sleep.

Two

‘He's not going to stay here, is he?'

‘For the time being.'

‘He looks horrid. Like an old tramp.'

‘It's not his fault, Esme. He's been on a long journey across the sea.'

‘I couldn't understand anything he was saying.'

‘He's French, that's all.'

‘Well, I hope he's not going to be here long.'

She hoped so herself. If the Frenchman had simply turned up on the doorstep she would have taken one look at the frightening sight and turned him away with any excuse that she could think of, but Lieutenant Reeves had specifically requested her to take him – almost insisted on it, in the politest possible way.

‘We must welcome him, Esme. He's had to leave his own country because of the war.'

‘Why? Why couldn't he stay there?'

‘Because the Germans have invaded it. Just the same as you couldn't stay in London in case they bombed it.'

‘Well, they haven't, have they? Mum just wanted to get rid of me.'

‘She wanted you to be safe.'

‘No, she didn't. She doesn't care about me one bit. She'll be having more fun without me – specially with Dad away. He doesn't care about me neither.'

Barbara Hillyard said firmly, ‘That's quite enough, Esme. Go and finish that homework you're supposed to be doing this weekend.'

‘I've done it.'

‘No, you haven't. Don't argue. Off you go at once.'

The child did so with dragging feet and a mutinous expression. Originally, soon after the war had started, there had been four evacuees in the house – two sisters and a brother from one family who had been happy, easy children; and Esme. More than two hundred evacuees had arrived by train from London at Kingswear station. From there they had been taken by bus round to Dartmouth on the other side of the river, where they had been herded into the Guildhall like bewildered animals at market. Barbara had gone to take one and had come back with four. The billeting officer had wanted to keep siblings together where possible and the little trio had been clutching each other's hands tightly, the two older sisters trying to comfort their small brother who had had huge, heart-breaking tears rolling down his cheeks. She had been ready to leave with her charges when the officer had come up to her again. There was one child left who, it seemed, nobody wanted. When she had turned to see Esme standing there, so plain and unappealing, a furious scowl on her face while she kicked hard at the floor, she had not been surprised.

From the first, the girl had been difficult and disruptive and there had been many times since when she had regretted agreeing to take her. None of the expected bombs had fallen on London and the other three had eventually been collected by their mother to return home. She wished very much that Esme's mother would do the same but it seemed unlikely. In six months there had been only two letters to her daughter, and neither had mentioned wanting her back. The father who was apparently in the Navy on active service had never communicated.

She went into the dining room and started to lay the tables for lunch. Three separate tables were placed near the window so that her residents – Mrs Lamprey, Rear Admiral Foster and Miss Tindall, a newcomer since the three evacuees had left – could all enjoy the sea view. Unfortunately, there was no room there for a fourth so the Frenchman would have to sit further away, without the view. She dragged another small table into the centre of the room, found a clean cloth and began to set out cutlery.

Mrs Lamprey entered, stage left, in a little cloud of Guerlain's
L'Heure Bleue
. She never simply came into a room; it was always a theatrical entrance with a scarf trailing from one hand, the other held a little to one side with the palm upwards and always a slight pause for effect, as though allowing time for an audience's traditional applause for a star. She took in the extra table at a glance. ‘A new resident, Mrs Hillyard?'

‘Yes. A Frenchman, actually, Mrs Lamprey.'

‘A
Frenchman
. How interesting. I never liked that Czech who was here before. And those Poles were rather strange. Scarcely a word of English between them. When did he arrive?'