Those in Peril (6 page)

After the eggs and bacon she brought more little bread triangles, toasted this time and slotted stiffly into a silver rack. There was a small pat of butter and a pot of some dark conserve that tasted very good. ‘It's blackberry,' she told him, in answer to his question when she came back into the room. It was not an English word that he knew, so he was none the wiser. ‘You made it yourself, perhaps, madame?'

‘Yes. We can get extra sugar for that, you see.'

He declined another cup of the coffee essence. ‘I regret to have disturbed you so early. Your other guests will certainly not descend until much later.'

‘Not until eight o'clock,' she said. ‘That's usually when I serve breakfast.'

‘I shall remember tomorrow. I hope I did not also disturb your husband.'

She said awkwardly, ‘There isn't a husband. I'm a widow.'

‘I'm so sorry. I hope I have not given you any distress.'

‘No, not at all.'

‘It was the war? He was a soldier, perhaps?'

She shook her head. ‘He died several years ago – long before the war.'

‘How sad for you. You were living here?'

‘No, we lived in Eastbourne then – on the south coast.'

‘I do not know Eastbourne.'

‘It's very nice.' She looked at his now empty plate. ‘Can I get you some more toast?'

‘No, thank you, madame.' He stood up. ‘I think that I will walk down to find my boat again. There are still some things on board that I must fetch.' He bowed to her once more. ‘Thank you for the breakfast.'

In the hallway he met the child who had first answered the door to him. In spite of his improved appearance and placatory smile, she scuttled past as though he were an ogre.

‘That French man's still here.'

She turned from washing up at the sink. ‘I told you, Esme, he's going to stay for a while.' Shaved and dressed in clean clothes, with his hair combed, Monsieur Duval had looked rather different. Not nearly such a frightening prospect as yesterday.

‘How long?'

‘I really couldn't say. Do you want some breakfast now?'

‘I suppose so.'

Barbara reached for the shredded wheat packet.

‘I hate that stuff. It's horrible.'

‘Well, how about some wheat flakes instead?'

‘I hate those too.'

She put both packets back in the cupboard. Mealtimes with Esme were one long battle. ‘Then you'll have to go without cereal because there's nothing else. You can have a boiled egg and toast.'

‘I don't want it.'

‘That's a pity because it's what you're going to be given. And you're to eat it all up. Eggs are too precious to be wasted.'

The Frenchman had probably hated his breakfast, too. In her anxiety to do it well, she had undercooked the egg, overcooked the bacon and burnt one side of the fried bread. Maybe he had only finished it because he was so hungry.

She stood over Esme while the child ate the egg, pulling silly faces at every mouthful. The rear admiral's bedroom was immediately above the kitchen and presently she heard him moving about quietly. He would come downstairs soon and take his early morning pre-breakfast walk along the coast path and back. It was unlikely that he would encounter Monsieur Duval who would have gone the other way, down to the harbour.

Gannet
was where he had left her, close to the steps and barely afloat on a falling tide. He went into the wheelhouse and found the provisions all still safely stowed in the locker. The bread was no longer eatable but he sliced off some cheese and poured a stiff shot of brandy to erase the memory of the coffee essence. He was lighting a cigarette when he felt something touch his ankle and looked down to see the black cat rubbing itself against him – thinner and mangier than ever. He gave it some sausage and watched it eat ravenously, gulping down the pieces. ‘Poor little one. What are we to do with you? We should certainly both have stayed in France. We are not welcome here.' He poured some water into a tin lid and put it down for the animal.

‘Good morning, Monsieur Duval.' Lieutenant Reeves was standing on the quay above, very spruce in his uniform.

‘Will you join me in a glass of cognac, Lieutenant?'

‘Bit early for me. Another time, though. I say, is that your cat?'

‘No. It came on board in France without my permission.' He searched in vain for the English word he needed. ‘A clandestine passenger.'

‘A stowaway.'

‘Yes. And now it wants to stay.'

‘Has it got a passport?'

He smiled politely at the joke. ‘I'm afraid not. Must it be sent back?'

‘Strictly speaking, yes – according to our quarantine laws. But you can tell it that we'll grant it asylum – so long as it behaves itself. Have you settled in all right with Mrs Hillyard?'

‘Thank you – yes. A charming lady.'

‘She is, isn't she? Perhaps she'd take a French cat in too.'

‘I should not like to ask such a thing.'

‘Worth a try. It looks like it's in need of a good home. By the way, one of our Royal Navy chaps is going to have a word with you sometime soon.'

‘A word?'

‘Just an informal chat. Nothing to worry about.'

‘You still have my passport and identity card, Lieutenant. I am worried about that.'

‘So we do. We'll hang onto them for the time being, if you don't mind.'

‘Supposing that I do mind?'

The lieutenant smiled. ‘There's not actually an awful lot you can do about it, is there? You'll get them both back in the end. Have you heard the latest news this morning?'

‘What news?'

‘The Germans are in Paris.'

‘Ah . . .' It felt like a physical blow to his heart; the breath seemed to have been knocked from his body. He stood, head bowed, in choked silence, unable to speak.

‘Yes, I'm sorry. It's a jolly bad show.' The lieutenant touched his cap, moving away. ‘We'll be in touch, Monsieur Duval. The ferry operates from the slipway just along there if you want to go across to Dartmouth and find a bank.'

He finished off his cognac and then poured more. Clear images passed through his mind of Nazi troops marching down the Champs-Elysées and all the civilization and history and culture and beauty of his beloved country being crushed beneath the brutal stamp of jackboots. He sat for a long while in the boat, drinking and smoking and thinking, the cat beside him.

With an effort, he roused himself. It was still too early for a bank to be open in the town but he might as well go over and take a look around. He left the cat chewing at a last piece of sausage and walked to the head of the ferry slipway. The few people he passed seemed untroubled, even cheerful, without a care in the world. Most of them, he supposed, would have no idea of how grave the situation was, how terrible the might of Hitler's forces. A few miles of sea had lulled them into thinking themselves safely out of reach. They had not yet, of course, been truly tested. That was still to come.

He could see the river ferry on the opposite bank and leaned against the wall in the sunshine, smoking a Gauloise while he waited for it to come back, and watching the seagulls scavenging at the water's edge. His thoughts returned to Paris. To Germans strutting round the streets, gorging themselves in the restaurants, drinking at the bars, strolling in the parks, leering at the women, swarming like vermin over the city while Parisians stood meekly by. He was very glad that he was not there to witness the humiliation. And what of Simone? How would she fare?
Who is going to be buying handbags and scarves? The Germans. For their wives and girlfriends. One must be practical
.

The ferry came back and he walked up the gangway, proffering one of Madame Hillyard's coins for the fare and receiving several more different ones in return. The journey across took only five minutes or so and he stood in the bows, looking upstream towards the green hills and fields and woods of Devon where the river curved gently away out of sight. The shops in the town were still closed, also the two cafés he passed, and the several pubs, and the bank, too. In France, he thought regretfully, the cafés, at least, would have been open. Alphonse would have been setting out chairs and wiping tables and there would have been strong coffee and freshly baked bread.

One shop
was
open – selling newspapers and cigarettes and violently coloured English sweets. He bought a
Daily Express
with one of the coins he had acquired from the ferryboat man and took it to read on a bench by the harbour. The Germans' entry into Paris was not yet reported but there was other equally depressing news. Their army was racing across France and meeting little or no resistance. There were unedifying accounts of French soldiers throwing away their arms and fleeing south. The Government had decamped first to Tours and now to Bordeaux. Prime Minister Reynaud was expected to resign shortly and the armistice-seeking Marshal Pétain and his supporters were in the ascendant. None of it surprised him in the least; all of it dismayed him. There was an article by an English journalist warning that the French Navy should not be allowed to fall into German hands – he read it with particularly close attention.

When the bank had finally opened, he went to queue at the counter and, as his turn came, smiled winningly at the middle-aged woman behind the grille. She smiled back, patting her coil of greying hair into place, but his request to change French francs into English money caused consternation. Apparently she would have to talk to someone about it, and she hurried away to do so. Presently an elderly man wearing an old-fashioned suit and a starched wing collar emerged and introduced himself as the manager. Duval gave his name and found himself being ushered into his office and offered a seat in front of an immense mahogany desk. The manager cleared his throat.

‘I'm afraid there may be a slight problem about changing your French francs into sterling. I shall have to refer the matter to our Plymouth office. With the present situation so delicate, it may well be out of the question – much as we should like to help you. You do understand?'

The poor fellow was looking quite upset. He said reassuringly, ‘Oh, yes, I understand perfectly. France is falling, and, with her, the franc.'

‘Exactly how much currency had you in mind?'

He gave the substantial figure and the manager shook his head. ‘I very much doubt they would be prepared to consider anything like that amount. But I'll do my best for you.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Have you just come across from France?'

‘Indeed I have.'

‘How are things over there – if you don't mind my asking?'

He smiled inwardly at the
mind
. ‘Not at all. Things are very bad. Which is why I have chosen to come here. I'm afraid that my country will soon surrender completely to the Germans. Perhaps within a week.'

‘We're rather afraid of that too.'

‘Then you English will be on your own.'

‘Yes, we will.' The manager didn't seem at all alarmed by the idea – in fact, he looked rather pleased about it. ‘Do you have some sterling to keep you going?'

‘A little.'

‘Well, I'll do the best I can. If you could tell me where you are staying, I'll be in touch as soon as possible.'

I'm getting to be quite popular, he thought drily. The Royal Navy and now the bank manager are going to be in touch with me. He was shown to the door courteously and the manager shook his hand.

‘Good luck, Monsieur Duval.'

He smiled. ‘I think it's you English who are going to need the luck now.'

He walked back to the ferry, passing two girls in some kind of female naval uniform – rather chic, in fact. He particularly liked the black stockings.

Back on the other side of the river, he found that the falling tide had left his boat high and dry. The cat had jumped down onto the mud and was chewing away at a dead fish. He lit a cigarette and reviewed his situation. Four English pound notes in his wallet and a pocketful of coins; the remainder all in French francs that might prove worthless to him. No passport, so it was necessary to stay put until it was returned to him. No identity card either. There was no going back, in any case. The whole of France, not just Paris, was on the point of surrender – within a week, he had said to the bank manager, who had thought so too. Well, he might as well get out his paints and do some work. He might even be able to sell it.

Three

Lieutenant Commander Alan Powell left his desk at the Admiralty and walked the short distance to Pall Mall. He walked briskly, as he usually did, striding along at a good pace so that he arrived at the entrance to the club rather sooner than he had intended – ten minutes earlier than the time arranged, in fact. The porter took his service cap and respirator.

‘Commander Chilcot is already here, sir. I'll tell him that you've arrived.'

He waited in the hall and presently his host came down the staircase, hand outstretched. Rather more grey hairs now – like himself – but otherwise little changed. ‘Good to see you, Alan. Too long since we last met, don't you agree? Let's go and get a drink before we have lunch.'

The club room upstairs had deep, well-worn leather armchairs and sofas, oak panelling hung with impressive oil paintings and fine Georgian windows, somewhat marred by criss-crossed strips of anti-bomb blast paper. A waiter shuffled over, stooped with age.

‘Pink gin, Alan? Or do you drink something else these days?'

‘No, the same, thanks.'

He still stuck to the old wardroom drink, out of habit. Gin, angostura, no ice. They raised glasses to each other. How long was the too long, he wondered? Five or six years at least and probably more. During the peace between the two wars, they'd met occasionally at the odd function and they'd had lunches, like this one, a few times, but Harry had a wife and four children and had been posted for some considerable time to the Far East. The bond of friendship, though, had somehow held since their time at Osborne and later Dartmouth.
The men that were boys when I was a boy
. That shared experience made it virtually unbreakable.