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There was another twenty minutes of it. At the end they said they couldn't help him any further. He was on his own. He thanked them without enthusiasm. 'Get a good night's sleep,' advised Charles. 'No sloping off down the pub.' They laughed again heartily but when Ormerod did not join in they lapsed into hurt silence. 'The car will be along in a minute,' said Charles huffily. They shook hands stiffly with him and he went out.
He knocked on the door of the old man from the Public Records Office. 'I'd like to see the Magna Carta,' he said. 'If it's convenient.'
'If I'm going to die,' he thought, 'I might as well see what I'm dying for.'
It rained the next day, the variety of rain peculiar to dockyard towns like Portsmouth, a lean sea-hung drizzle across the grim wartime streets and the grey and crowded naval tenements in the port. Seagulls croaked in the wet. Ormerod was taken to a naval barracks and there, as if it were part of a well-oiled and minutely rehearsed operation, he was once again given lunch in a deserted room. He ate moodily, although he had been eating alone for weeks, reflecting that this was how he had felt when he was in quarantine with chicken pox as a boy. Every now and then someone came and stared through the window at him, patently knowing that he was something of a curiosity, and then went away. He found himself becoming bad-tempered at this, unusually so, but he put it down to the proximity of the dangerous mission. As he was eating his Royal Navy rhubarb and custard he poked his tongue out at two pale young officers who had come to look at him. They retreated abruptly.
A short, spongy sailor who had served the meal came in with a mug of tea and a smile. He was the naval counterpart of the grubby private at Ash Vale. 'Off to France then?' he said, conversationally. Ormerod choked over the last spoonful of rhubarb. 'How did you know?' he demanded. 'How the hell..?'
'Don't get shirty,' said the sailor. 'Every bugger knows. But we promise we won't tell the Germans. God's honour.'
I should bloody well hope not,' said Ormerod sourly, taking
54
the tea. 'I've got a short enough life expectancy as it is. Everybody knows do they? Anybody thought to ring the local Nazi spy and tell him?'
The sailor hunched his shoulders. 'It's the submarine, see,' he explained, leaning confidingly. 'She's sailing tonight and she'll be back tomorrow. That much we know, see, because there's a football match and the crew have been promised faithfully they'll be back for that. Well, where can you go in less than twenty-four hours? Not far. So the guess is right?'
'I'm not saying,' grunted Ormerod bitterly. I don't care. I'm only relieved they're getting back for their precious bloody football match, that's all. I wouldn't have liked them to be late for the kick-off.'
The sailor laughed jovially. 'Don't you worry your head about that, mate,' he promised. "They'll be back all right. Even if it means dumping you anywhere convenient and making a dash for it. Oh, they'll be back.' He regarded the miserable face of Ormerod below him. 'And you'll get back all right too,' he said in a poor attempt at reassurance. 'Don't you fret. How did you get into this anyway?'
Ignoring the question Ormerod said: 'Can you get seasick in a submarine?'
'Ever so,' nodded the sailor. 'Oh blimey, sick! They reckon it can be worse under the hoggin than on top of the hoggin. I wouldn't know because I've never been on it or under it. I'm having my war right here.'
'Convenient,' nodded Ormerod. 'Nice for you. I was hoping that the submarine, anyway, would be on the steady side.'
'They roll,' the sailor said, demonstrating by moving the empty tea mug from side to side. 'Like my mum's mangle, I'm told. Never mind. It can't be for long, can it?'
A naval lieutenant put his head around the door and whistled shrilly. I say old boy,' he called to Ormerod. 'You're the special chap, aren't you?'
'So I'm told,' said Ormerod.
'Right-ho. Just toddle across to the other side of the parade ground will you. Go through the door marked "No Admittance", down the corridor and into the last room on the left. Final briefing I think.'
55
'Christ, not another final briefing,' said Ormerod getting up heavily. 'Not another.'
'I know,' nodded the young officer sympathetically. 'They will keep having them, won't they? We usually find they give you eight final briefings then cancel the whole show anyway. Probably forget what it was all about in the first place. Anyway, pop over there will you?'
Ormerod sighed and walked out of the building. The September rain was flying enthusiastically across Portsmouth harbour driven by a growling wind. In the dock beyond the bleak barracks and the parade ground a submarine wallowed in the oily water. Ormerod closed his eyes and began to walk.
He had gone twenty paces across the square towards a formation of marching marines when the sergeant drilling them turned and spotted him. The man shuddered, swung as if he were on some mechanically operated spring, and stumped towards Ormerod. 'You!' he bawled. 'You!'
Ormerod stopped and looked up through the rain to his front. The marine sergeant was bristling, twenty-five yards away. 'You!' he bellowed again.
Ormerod had now had enough. 'Me?' he bawled back. 'Me?'
The marine NCO looked astounded. Disbelief burst on his face. He drew himself up on his toes like an ignited rocket just before taking off. 'You,' he howled hysterically.
'Me?' Ormerod shouted back. 'Me?'
'Yes - you! Come here! And quick!'
Ormerod stood his ground. The rain was licking his forehead. His very soul felt damp. 'No,' he challenged. 'You come here.'
The marine sergeant could not credit it. He had gone purple in the dark afternoon. Then an internal brake seemed to be suddenly released and he strutted at Ormerod like a puff-chested bird. As the two men seemed about to collide the drill sergeant came to a stamping stop two feet away. He was the same height as Ormerod and he glared vividly into the policeman's tired eyes.
'You are walking across our parade ground!' snarled the NCO. 'You realize that? On the parade ground!'
'Fuck off,' suggested Ormerod quietly. He thought: God I hope they do put me in a cell, then I won't have to go. 'Go on,
56
fuck off,' he repeated walking past the NCO. He continued his
slow amble across the square until he came to the door marked
'No Admittance' and he went in.
He could hear the expected commotion on the barrack square
behind him but nothing worried him now. He felt as if his body had entered a tight capsule, that his existence, and the things he did, had no bearing on the real and normal world,
even if there were any longer such a thing. He entered into the
last room along the corridor, knocked and went in without
waiting for an answer. He did not feel in the mood for waiting
for answers.
There was a girl in an ATS tunic sitting at a desk writing on
various sheets of paper. She looked up briefly. Ormerod said :
'My name's Ormerod. I've been told to come here.'
'Yes,' she said succinctly. 'Will you please wait. In a few
moments you will be attended to.'
Attended to! Christ, it sounded like a dog being brought
into a vet's for doctoring! They were
attending
to him all right.
All of them. Here he was going off to risk his life - no, more than that, probably
give
his life - on some dreamlike mission
and they gave him rhubarb and fucking custard and a mouthful
of abuse. There was a knock at the door. The girl did not look up from the desk so Ormerod defiantly said: 'Come in.' He had a feeling it was for him. He was right.
The parade ground sergeant was there stiff and puce in the face like a piece of frozen fruit, and with him was the young
officer, now obviously embarrassed, who had called him after
lunch.
'Been telling tales?' Ormerod mocked the drill sergeant. He mimicked. 'Sir, that naughty man walked right across our nice
clean parade ground.' He glared at the sergeant as a rebellious
boy might regard the school sneak. Both the officer and the NCO opened their mouths but Ormerod got in first again. 'Listen chaps,' he said with deep disdain. 'Since I'm just about
to be pushed off to trespass on enemy-occupied-bloody-Europe,
I'm not all that worried about trespassing on your manky parade ground.'
With that he closed the door in their rigid and astonished faces. To his surprise the uniformed girl at the desk suddenly
57
jumped up, called him a fool and opened the door again. She went outside with the two complainants and Ormerod sat down, deflated and sick. Who was she to call him a fool?
Within two minutes she was back, giving the impression that she had given the military pair short shrift. She was small and neat with dark tidy hair and notable eyes. 'How in God's name could you do that?' she demanded.
'What? Walk across their parade ground?'
'No. You shouted about going to Europe. Are you mad or something?'
'Everybody else knows,' he shrugged. 'The submarine crew know for a start. I wouldn't be surprised if Hitler himself didn't know by now. And, if you don't mind, don't call me a fool. I may be one - in fact I think I am one - but I don't like being called one. Who am I waiting for anyway? Nobody tells me anything.'
'Mr Ormerod, you are waiting for me,' she said briskly, returning to the desk and sitting down. 'I am Marie-Thérèse Velin. We are in this together.'
His jaw slackened. He half rose from the chair. 'You ...' he began. 'You're the girl? The agent?'
'I am,' she said almost primly. 'But please do not tell the world.'
He stood up the rest of the way. I suppose we better shake hands,' he ventured, holding his out. 'Since, as you say, we are in this together.'
'Of course,' she said, offering her hand but remaining stiffly behind the desk. 'How do you do? Are you looking forward to this?'
Ormerod sat down again. He couldn't believe they would send someone so small. She looked as if she should be behind a drapery counter. 'I can't say I am,' he answered eventually. 'Not one bit.'
'You are frightened?'
'About average frightened,' he nodded. 'But the whole thing seems such a mess, such a hotch-potch. It's all so bloody amateur, if you'll excuse my language. Does
anybody
know what they are really doing?'
'I doubt if they do,' she said, suddenly smiling. Her teeth
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were small and perfect. 'But once we are there in France, we
will be on our own.
We
will know what we are doing. We will
not have all this hotch-botch, as you say.'
'Hotch-potch,' he corrected. She repeated it. Her English
was touched only with the minutest of accents and the occasi
onal rearrangement of words. Her eyes were grey and her hands
now flickering through the papers on her desk were finely formed. They did not look substantial enough to hold a gun.
'In any case,' she said, 'I understand you are very excited
about going there because there is a criminal you wish to catch
in France.'
'Yes,' he said. I I was. Albert Smales. He's a murderer.'
'France is full of murderers right now,' she said grimly. 'If
we are successful, within a short time you and I, Mr Ormerod,
will be numbered among them.'
'I wish Smales had hopped it to Birmingham or somewhere a bit easier like that,' said Ormerod moodily.
She laughed briskly. 'We will make an epic, don't you worry.
We will make a trail across France. The Boche will know that
Dodo and Dove have passed that way.'
'Who?' he asked, half hoping that it might be someone else.
'Dodo and Dove? Who are they when they're at home?'
'You are Dodo and I am Dove,' she said in a pleased voice as if they had both been given citations.
He considered the implications. 'Somebody's got a sense of humour, anyway,' he grunted. 'Even if it is at my expense. It's the first time I've heard it. Still, there's a lot I haven't been told.'
She shrugged. 'There is little to tell,' she said. 'We will be the
first true agents to enter Occupied France, which is an honour
in itself. We are to see what the prospects are for the formation
of underground resistance groups in Normandy continuing down to Paris and, where it is possible, we are to help in the organization of these groups, Mr Ormerod. My countrymen are waiting to fight the Germans who have fouled France.'
'You think so?' said Ormerod. 'I'd have thought they were fed up with the whole business by now.'
Marie-Thérèse regarded him caustically. 'It was the British
who ran away, if I may remind you,' she said. 'Three months ago at Dunkirk.'
'And the French stayed and surrendered,' shrugged Ormerod. 'So?'
'Betrayed,' she said bitterly. 'Betrayed by the British, betrayed by their own leaders. But they will fight again. They will see the banner unfurled.'
'You sound like Joan of Arc,' smiled Ormerod quietly.
'She was too flamboyant,' she replied. 'I think my way will be better.'
Ormerod leaned forward. 'What do you know that I don't know?' he inquired. 'I didn't come here to argue. I'd like to know what the exact plan is.'
'AH right,' she smiled tightly. She riffled through the papers on the desk and selected an inked map. 'There
is
no exact plan.'
'You surprise me,' he groaned.
'From the moment we are off the submarine we are on our own,' she said. Her finger traced the outline of the map. 'Chausey Island,' she said. 'We cannot land in the place marked The Sund, right here, because the submarine cannot risk entering there. So we land over here.' Her finger ran across the forms of outlying islands and rocks. 'The submarine will come a little to the surface and we will take a canvas boat to get to the shore. Afterwards we must sink it without trace. No one will find it. We then make our path across these rocks and little isles which are out of the sea at low tide, until we reach the eastern side of The Sund. Then we must get across to the main island and wait there for the opportunity to get to the mainland.'