The Best of Our Spies (41 page)

He left after lunch on the Sunday. Before he did so he found his father standing by the mantelpiece in the lounge, looking at Owen’s wedding photographs.

‘Not sure whether you want us to take these down?’

Owen realised that he did not have his wedding photographs any more. When Roger and his friends had so thoughtfully cleared out the flat in Alderney Street and helpfully moved his possessions into the new flat, the wedding photographs were not there, along with all of his other photographs. He had repeatedly asked for their return and was assured that was imminent, but he doubted it. He had no photographs of Nathalie, apart from an increasingly creased one that he kept in his wallet.

‘Don’t worry. May be best if I take them.’

ooo000ooo

Towards the end of September he recognised that he quite possibly might be heading towards depression. He had seen people behave oddly at Calcotte Grange, especially when they thought no one else was watching and he was concerned that when he wasn’t with other people and having to act normally, his behaviour was not natural. When he returned home from work it was the whisky that helped him through the evening and into the night. If he thought about it, he realised that he was drinking too much, but he didn’t bother to think about it often. Too often he would wake up in the early hours of the morning slumped in his armchair, still dressed, the lights blazing and the cameo brooch lying on the floor from where it had slipped from his grasp. Most times he would haul himself up, have a wash and brush his teeth and climb into bed, but there were nights when he would curl himself into a ball and wait for a restless sleep to return.

He was functioning well enough during the day. A couple of strong cups of tea, a bath and a shave and brisk walk to the Admiralty helped with that and his work was not too demanding either.

At the end of September he realised he needed to sort himself out. The emotions that had surfaced at his parents were still there and if he was to find Nathalie then he needed to get back in control. Most of the Pas de Calais was now in Allied hands: the Canadians liberated Boulogne on the twenty-second and Calais on the twenty-fifth. Quinn realised that if he was to be of any use when he did manage to get over there, he needed to pull himself together.

He could not remember the last time he had visited the doctor. They had registered at a surgery in Pimlico when they moved into the area and he been there a couple of times for prescriptions for painkillers when his back or leg had been playing up. Nathalie had been there more often, but in his case it must have been a good year since he had visited.

They would sort him out. Something to help him sleep, nothing like the heavy duty stuff they had tried to get him addicted to in Dover. Then he would just be able to get away with one drink after his evening meal and have a decent night’s sleep.

He left work early one afternoon and walked all the way to the surgery. It was a pleasant day and he was feeling buoyant. Not quite optimistic, but he had a feeling that he could soon be in France and until he did that, he would not be able to move on.

The surgery was crowded. An elderly receptionist with tiny glasses perched improbably at the end of a very long nose asked him twice whether he had made an appointment.
No, I didn’t realise I was going to be unwell
. She tilted her head so as to be able to shoot him a disapproving glance through her glasses.
Very well, you’ll have to wait your turn
. It had not occurred to him that he would have to do anything other than that.

He waited the best part of an hour, leafing his way through
Punch
and
Country Life
and being forced into conversation with a ten-year-old boy who wanted to know what ships he had sailed on and what battles he had taken part in.

‘Quinn. Owen Quinn?’

He followed the GP into his surgery. He recalled having seen him before when he needed some painkillers. Dr Peacock had spent much of the time then explaining how his retirement golfing plans had been disrupted by this ‘wretched war’. They also serve, thought Quinn. Delaying the doctor’s retirement would have to be listed as another Nazi war crime.

His surgery was a fug of cigarette smoke. The small window was locked and the ashtray was full of spent cigarettes, some of the ash spilling onto the desk. A lit cigarette was stuck in the side of Dr Peacock’s mouth and every so often he paused to move it to the centre of his mouth, inhale deeply and then return it to its resting place. Dr Peacock was a tall man, with bright red braces, a matching tie and frayed cuffs. Owen noticed damp patches spreading under his shirt armpits.

‘Now then, Quinn. How are you? Having a decent war?’

‘Based in London now, Dr Peacock. Haven’t been back to sea. Promoted though.’

That would appeal to Dr Peacock, who had now perched his glasses on his forehead and was studying Owen’s file.

‘Splendid. Very good, well done. And how’s the back? Is that why you’re here?’

‘Back’s not too bad, thank you. I have come about something else.’

‘As long as it is not ingrowing toenails. That is all I seem to have this week. Why people can’t go straight to a chiropodist, I don’t know.’

Owen explained he was having trouble sleeping, nothing serious you understand, but you know, Doctor... probably to do with the back...

Dr Peacock understood. No problem. Quick listen to the heart and look at the blood pressure, no problems there. Hard for everyone to sleep these days. The German rockets didn’t help. Had to send Mrs Peacock up to her sister’s. Here’s a prescription. Should help. Good long walk in the evening helps too. Go easy on the booze, not that I’m much of a one to be telling you that. Come back and see me in a month.

And that was that. Owen slipped his jacket back on and Dr Peacock stubbed out his cigarette, but not before removing a new one from the pack.

‘And how is Mrs Quinn getting on these days?’

Owen was momentarily taken aback. Nathalie.

‘Oh... she’s, you know... the war and that...’ He had not really expected Dr Peacock to ask about his wife, but his response was the standard anodyne one he had ready for whenever he was asked about her. He relied on people’s reluctance to pry.

‘As long as she is keeping well.’ Dr Peacock was glancing down at his file. ‘Beginning of April I last saw her. Told her I only need to see her if there’s a problem, so I’m assuming no news is good news, eh? She must be what... seven months pregnant now? Anyway, not long to go. Make the most of the peace and quiet while you can!’

ooo000ooo

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Lille
August 1944

The bus ride from St Omer to Lille in the middle of July had been more hazardous than she had anticipated. The elderly man sitting next to her on the bus held her arm as he spoke and looked at her carefully through moist eyes. ‘Lille and the countryside around it have been moved into Belgium by the Germans,’ he told her. He looked around, making sure no one could overhear them and moved closer to her, his whisper even louder than his hushed voice

‘This all comes under Brussels now,’ he said, gesturing outside the window. ‘All of it.’

He shook his head and coughed violently. ‘To think...’

He remained lost in his thoughts but still clutching her arm until they reached a checkpoint on the outskirts of Lille. Her confusion gave her an air of genuine innocence which seemed to help with the exhausted looking German sentry, who appeared to be having problems with his feet and was probably the wrong side of fifty.

Hélène Blanc, the identity she was now travelling under, had a blank against
profession
on the identity card and she was able to persuade the sentry that she was a nurse. ‘For some reason it has been omitted from the identity card,’ she told him. She was going to visit an elderly aunt in Lille and maybe find work there as a nurse.

‘You look like you could do with a rest,’ she told him, managing her sweetest smile and allowing her forefinger to brush very slightly against his hand as she reached for her identity card. She had switched to German now and he returned the smile.

Behind him an officer was laughing inside the guardroom, a phone pressed to his ear. He was leaning back in his chair with his jack-booted legs on the table.

‘You can say that again,’ said the elderly sentry. ‘We’re on double shifts now, you know. Shouldn’t be telling you that. Half our lot have been sent to either Normandy or the east. I just sleep and then stand here. That’s my life. If you don’t like it, they tell us, then you can go out east.’

He continued to scrutinise her identity card. She could tell from his eyes that he was not inclined to believe her, but he seemed too tired to probe.

‘I’ll tell you what. Because you’re a pretty nurse I’ll believe you. You really should have had the papers sorted before you set out, but the curfew starts soon and I just want to go to bed. How long were you planning to stay in Lille for?’

A day, a week... a year? She had no idea.

‘I’m not sure. A few weeks, certainly.’

‘The longest I can do myself is one month.’ He had pulled a sheet of paper out of a folder and was organising some rubber stamps. ‘More than that and he’ll have to get involved and we don’t want that, do we?’

She shook her head. Behind her the bus driver hooted. All the other passengers had been cleared and he was waiting to continue the journey.

‘Hey!’ The officer had sprung out of the guardroom and was shouting at the bus driver. ‘
You
don’t hoot
us
. Do you understand? Otherwise you’ll find yourself driving buses in some very unpleasant places.’ He turned to the sentry. ‘Get a move on, Schmidt.’

The sentry was busy stamping a permit.

‘If he finds out, I’m off to the east, but he won’t find out, will he?’

She shook her head.
He wouldn’t find out. She was very grateful
. She turned to climb back on the bus.

‘And you take care, won’t you? How long now?’

She was confused, until she noticed he was glancing at her stomach. She looked down and realised how much she was showing now. It was the first time that anyone had noticed, or at least commented upon it. She was surprised that no one had said anything at the village, though in the past few weeks she had made an effort to wear looser fitting clothes.

ooo000ooo

From that very first night, Lille was close to a disaster. All of her ingenuity and luck, her ability to anticipate trouble seemed to desert her in this strange city which seemed to be French one minute and Flemish the next. Possibly, it was because it was like her. Not sure of what it really was. First one thing and then the other.

She had found a small guest house a few roads from the enormous Grand Place. The sign in the dirty window said there were rooms vacant, but she had to keep knocking until the door was opened by an enormous landlady whose body seemed to fill the hall.

Yes we have a room. You wait here while I finish my dinner.

She had to sit in the narrow front hall while the landlady and her husband, who seemed to be half her size and twice her age, finished their meal.

She could see them through the open door into their small kitchen, peering out at her.

‘How long are you here for?’ The landlady was speaking with her mouth full.

‘Perhaps a month.’

‘You have papers?’

She nodded, taking the permit out of her handbag.

‘Because I don’t do anything I shouldn’t do, you understand? The authorities keep an eye on these places and I don’t intend getting into trouble for anyone.’

She nodded. She understood.

‘Got money?’

She nodded.

‘Let me see it then.’ A long piece of dark green cabbage was dangling from the landlady’s mouth.

She opened her purse and waved a wad of notes towards the open door. Behind the landlady she could see her husband helping himself to another potato while his wife was distracted.

When the landlady had finally finished her meal, she followed her up the narrow stairs to the top floor. The landlady was so wide that once or twice it looked as if she might get wedged between the walls. The room was tiny, with a bed against one wall and precious little else. A grey net curtain hung in front of the small window and there was a smell of dust and mice. The floor was just bare floorboards with an old rug next to the bed.

‘What do you think?’ The landlady was leaning against the door, struggling to catch her breath.

She couldn’t begin to say what she thought.

‘It will do me fine. Thank you.’

‘I want a week’s rent in advance.’

‘But what if I only stay for a few days?’

The landlady remained impassive, shrugging her broad shoulders. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. ‘A week’s rent.’

She handed the money over. The landlady noisily licked her thumb before carefully counting it.

‘No visitors, you understand?’

‘Of course.’

‘Your husband?’ She had removed her coat and the landlady was staring at her stomach.

‘Taken away ...a couple of months ago.’

The landlady nodded. She would have liked to know more about her new tenant, but there was plenty of time.

That night, she lay on the bed fully clothed, unwilling to crawl between the greasy sheets which had evidently not been changed since the last occupant. She removed her shoes and covered the pillow with the one jumper she had in her bag. The bed itself was not uncomfortable, though it felt as if it would not be able to withstand too much movement. Despite the narrowness of the window and the state of the curtains, the moonlight filled the room. She could hear scratching under the floorboards. In a room somewhere below a couple were having noisy sex that lasted an improbably long time. She tried hard to avoid imagining that it was the landlady and her husband.

For the first time since leaving the village she was able to stop and think. She lay on her back, her hands crossed over her stomach and she could clearly feel the kicking inside her. She thought of the couple below her and of the trail behind her. And to her surprise, she thought of Owen. Part of him was moving inside her and perhaps for that reason she realised that her thoughts about him were now so different from before.