The September Garden (15 page)

She held it to her ear and listened. A signal rang deep into her brain, resounding, unfaltering. The same sound, over and over again. It was reaching her, she guessed, across many hundreds of miles of sea and sky. From somewhere in England, all the way to Montfleur and the bedroom of Jean Ricard.

‘It sounds like Beethoven’s Fifth,’ she whispered. ‘Three short sounds, then a long one. It keeps repeating.’

‘That’s London,’ whispered Jean. ‘GCHQ.’

‘GC …?’ Adele began and faltered over her English pronunciation of the letters. ‘What is it saying?’

‘It’s Morse,’ said Simon. He dipped his head as he ran his finger down a cipher list. ‘It’s the same signal, isn’t it? They fill that frequency with it. All day and all night.’

Adele closed her eyes and listened again. The signal, metallic and mechanical, rang in her head like a chime. ‘But what is it, what does it stand for?’ 

‘It’s the signal for “V”,’ said Jean. ‘They are sending us “V” in code. Over and over again.’

V for Victory, Simon told her.

Adele turned and looked at Jean.

‘
Our
victory,’ he said. His face was grave and stubborn.

Adele removed the earpiece and gave it back to Simon, who hunched back over the table, squeezing his eyes shut, listening.

Jean whispered to her, ‘Monsieur Androvsky came to see us today. Did you know that he is also a chemist, as well as being a maths teacher? He taught chemistry at a boys’ school in Paris. He can make explosives. He wants to help us. Join the network. He certainly has an axe to grind. We trust him. He seems all right.’

Adele put her hand over his mouth. ‘Don’t tell me any more,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t need or want to know.’

She got up from Jean’s embrace and knelt beside him on the floor, resting her arms over his legs.

‘How is the gendarme?’ asked Jean, touching her hair. ‘
L’homme collabo
.’

‘Jean, don’t frighten me. I hate it when you say that. It’s so hard to know what to think. But I can’t think
that
.’

Jean ran his hand down her back. ‘I’m sorry,
ma petite
. I am being harsh. It is his job. He has always been the gendarme. Except nowadays, it takes on new significance.’

‘He despatched the rabbits today,’ she said, leaning into him, shuddering at the thought of how the children would take the news; the empty hutch, the limp carcasses hanging by their feet from the rafters in Ullis’s stable. She said, ‘God knows how Sylvie will take it. I will write again but how can I tell her? How can I tell her
this
?’ 

‘The letter won’t get through anyway,’ said Jean with confidence. ‘Believe me, Adele, none of your letters have reached England.’

Adele glanced at Simon. His pen was scratching over the sheet of paper in front of him. He wrote down letters in sets of three. He looked up, his eyes blazing with excitement.

‘It’s just come through. I can’t figure it out.’

Jean reached forward and grabbed the earpiece. ‘Let me listen.’

Adele said, ‘I must get home. The curfew …’

Jean waved his hand at her, he did not look up. He took the pen from Simon’s hand.

Adele left the room and made her way back down the stairs. In front of the mirror in the dark hallway, she set her hat on her head and listened. From the back parlour came the muffled, disembodied tones of an English voice. Jean’s mother had found the World Service.

Outside, the sky was deep navy, fragments of elderly stars hung over the sea. It would be dark in less than ten minutes. The tide was coming in, racing in over the narrow shingle beach, whispering over scattered pebbles. Beyond the waves lay the half-submerged barriers strung with wire, which glinted as cruel teeth in the dusk. They had no place here, she thought, no place at all.

Her footsteps rang on the cobbles of the harbour. A group of German soldiers were lighting cigarettes by the war memorial. The German flag, hoisted at the church, offensively, a few weeks before, hung limp in the still air. The soldiers were tall, broad-backed, imperious. Rifles were slung casually over their shoulders. She averted her eyes from the upright collars, the rounded helmets, the high 
boots – the sight of which made her stomach churn with loathing. One of them had taken off his helmet and his blond hair shone out in the darkness.

‘
Bonsoir,
mademoiselle
,’ he said, his accent surprisingly good. ‘
Voulez-vouz une cigarette?
’

‘
Non
,’ she snapped, and increased her pace, her heels noisy and rebellious in the silence.

She heard another of them command that the curfew was in place, that she must return home. His voice barked hard at her:
Schnell, schnell!
Their laughter followed her as she hurried along the harbour front.

I will make a fur collar, she thought, shivering, thrusting her hands in her pockets as the wind picked up and the night turned a corner from balmy summer’s evening to an autumnal chill. I will use the rabbit fur and make a collar for Estella. The winter is going to be very cold. 

The new sunlight brought them out as if from nowhere: stems of lanky buddleia, pushing blindly through jagged rubble and hanging off gaping broken walls. Their dusty leaves were a soft contrast to the innards of the terraces, houses and offices, the streets that were mapped out so innocently under the sharp sight of the bombers. But
Maman
always said that butterflies love buddleia, Sylvie thought. In the summer, here in the broken streets and squares of the West End, the droopy buddleia flower heads will be dancing with them.

She realised how used she was getting to the smell of grime and ashes; occasional whiffs of gas from an unstoppered tap in a wrecked, exposed kitchen. The filth of destruction latched on to her as she stepped quickly past the remains of the blasted buildings. But every now and then she’d turn a corner, and there was the tranquil beauty of Berkeley Square with its towering plane trees, or the
white-stucco sweep of Pall Mall, resplendent and defiant.

Blossom painted the trees and, in recent weeks, the sirens eased off, the raids receding. The nights could be spent sleeping, if not dancing. But Sylvie knew deep sleep could never return. The sky remained ominous, day or night. Auntie Mollie still worried, asked her during every telephone call to come home. But this was Sylvie’s time to be defiant. Every day she worked hard, every word on every chit of paper she translated with speed and accuracy helped someone, somewhere.

As she waited to cross Marylebone High Street, two forces girls came out of a newsagent’s and chatted together beside her. Sylvie squared her shoulders against envy. In her civilian suit and hat, faced with the dignity and esteem that the Wrens’ uniform invoked, she felt isolated, far from home.

‘Sylvie,
ma chère
, there you are. Bless you. You ran off sharply.’ Henri bounded up to her, catching her by surprise, and went in for the double-cheek kiss. ‘Thought I’d ask you. We’re all going to the Lamb and Flag. Come along, please. Will make my rotten old day.’

Henri’s accent and his handsome bony face drew surreptitious glances from the Wrens. Their eyes then fell on the fine collar of Sylvie’s silk blouse, the cut of her suit, and they went opaque with admiration. Sylvie cheerfully linked her arm through Henri’s.

‘All right, then. I’m rather tired today, so just the one.’

The pub was noisy, shoulder to shoulder. Framed mirrors were stacked decoratively and precariously up the walls, gleaming darkly under the 40-watt bulbs. The walls, papered and painted many coats of emerald green, had soaked up years of tobacco and body heat. It was about 
fifty-fifty here, Sylvie guessed, of forces and civilians. Her colleagues from the Ministry had taken over a red velvet booth, so there was no room for her and Henri. They stood instead near the bar and chinked their half pints of ale together. She spotted the two Wrens come in, ravenous, she suspected, for the company of War Office chaps.

‘
A la vôtre
, Sylvie,’ said Henri. ‘
Vive la France
.’

‘Here’s one in your eye. I heard that for the first time the other day.’

Henri laughed with her, drawing closer. She’d seen that look on his face before.

‘I had been meaning to ask you,’ he said, ‘would you like to go to the picture house tonight? It’s Laurel and Hardy.’

Sylvie patted his hand. ‘I’ve already told you, I’m tired.’

‘Tomorrow, then?’

Sylvie shrugged and scanned the room, taking in the bright laughter and the brighter lipstick. The fact of the matter was that she was
very
tired. She was weary of the gaiety which she, and every one else it seemed, wore like a shield around themselves. Two soldiers moved from their corner, making a beeline for the Wrens, and revealed in their wake an empty expanse of upholstered bench.

‘Quick, Henri,’ she said, ‘let’s sit down.’

A man was sitting at one end of it, nursing a pint. She glanced at him, and a fraction of memory hit her, made her pause. He was alone, his own shell around him, she thought, just like the rest of us.

She mentioned to Henri that she was sure she recognised him, as they made their way over. But then it couldn’t be. He was a civvy, wearing a pinstriped suit. It wasn’t him, surely.

She hotched along the bench and told the man
excuse
me
. But the inkling was still there: the turn of his head, his profile.

‘Ça alors!
It
is
you!’ she cried.

Alex Hammond set his pint glass down and looked up at her.

‘I’m terribly sorry … What?’

‘Oh, it’s you, it’s just that your hair is a bit longer and you’re not in uniform.’

She stared at him full in the face, expecting him to gape with amazement at her. He was nonplussed and took another draught of his bitter.

‘It’s Sylvie Orlande,’ she insisted. ‘I’d know you anywhere. We met once or twice, briefly, but I’d never forget.’

His eyes flicked past her to Henri, who told him, ‘Don’t worry, old man, she’s only had one stoop of ale.’

‘I’m Nell’s cousin,’ said Sylvie, crestfallen. ‘Remember?’

Alex Hammond pressed his fingers either side of his lips, deep in thought. The skin on his face flushed. Sylvie saw a sweat break out on his forehead. He rummaged in his top pocket for a handkerchief.

‘Surely you remember. The newspaper report? The dog?’

‘Of course I remember,’ he spluttered, trying for a laugh, which came out in a choking sound. ‘Of course I do.’

‘It’s nice to see a friendly face,’ observed Sylvie, indicating the room. ‘It all gets rather busy, doesn’t it? Do you live in London now?’

‘I certainly do. Look, it’s been a pleasure.’ He made to get up, but Sylvie, by occupying the bench, had trapped him in his corner. 

‘Oh, do stay.’ She faced him and gave him the full blaze of her smile. ‘I remember how you put out Auntie Mollie’s bonfire.’ She lowered her voice and turned her body closer to his. She noticed the fine quality of his suit stuff and wondered again why he was dressed in civvies. ‘You were rather the hero that night.’

His attention was drifting past her shoulder to where Henri was suddenly besieged by the two Wrens, who’d shaken off the soldiers. Henri was entertaining them gamely. A sting of annoyance rattled Sylvie’s demeanour. She felt the need to take out her lipstick and apply some more. Both men, apparently, were ignoring her. She took a breath and said, ‘She talks about you often, you know.’

With that, Alex Hammond swung his focus back to her.

‘Would you like another drink?’ he asked. ‘I’m going up to the bar.’

As Sylvie waited she checked her face in her compact. Henri peered over one of the girls’ shoulders at her.

‘It’s so transparent,’ he said, on the edge of laughter. ‘I’m almost ashamed of you.’

‘Take the girls to see the film, Henri,’ she told him. ‘Mr Hammond is an old friend.’

She watched Alex push his way back with the drinks, wondering what on earth Nell had been thinking to give him the brush off last summer – or ‘shoot him down’ as the boys at the Ministry would say.

‘How is Nell?’ he asked, with a dip in his voice. He licked a bubble of ale off his finger.

‘Ah, well I haven’t seen or heard from her in a good few months,’ said Sylvie, enchanted suddenly by his fingertips.

‘But you just said she has mentioned me …’ 

Sylvie hotched a bit closer to him and exclaimed brightly, ‘You know I could never work out what happened between you two. Tell me to mind my own business but …’

Sylvie looked at his face and knew he was thinking exactly that. She pressed on.

‘To be honest with you, Nell simply shut herself away. Would never talk about it. Auntie Mollie and myself thought it such a shame. Kit the dog has been a godsend to Auntie Mollie. To us all at Lednor. We never really got to thank you.’

Alex’s polite smile revealed the strain. His placid expression twitched over his face, and finally broke away, leaving an impression of sharp pain around his eyes.

She tried harder for a reaction. ‘All she did for months was walk that damn dog.’

‘Of course,’ he said, with a drift of longing. ‘The damn dog.’

He rubbed his hand over his face, his eyes searching the far corner of the room for something. He picked up his pint and very nearly sank all of it.

Sylvie suddenly had a breathtaking idea. ‘Alex, come and have supper with me. It’s only veg soup but I made a vat of it yesterday and will be eating it all week.’

He looked bothered, ready to flee.

‘Oh come on, Alex.’ She wondered if she had lost her touch. ‘Better that than your landlady’s offerings. Am I right? Tell me I’m right.’

Her little mews house was only five streets away, she assured him.

They walked along dark blacked-out streets, along high, looming, faceless terraces. She kept her eyes on the 
luminous white marks along the kerbs, letting them guide her along in the darkness, wondering why Alex did not offer her his arm, or hold her hand. A warden doffed his cap to them and said good evening. Alex did not respond. His face, Sylvie saw, was closed and blank. He was not with her.

As she let them both in, she was pleased to see that her char had been, for the sitting room was tidy and the kitchen wiped down. She lit the coal fire, sensing Alex’s discomfiture. The room was cold but would soon warm up. He sat on the edge of the armchair, drumming his fingertips.

‘Nice place you have here,’ he observed, looking everywhere but at her.

‘Thanks to my parents. They had the foresight to send money for me to Switzerland when war broke out. Most of it, it seems,’ she shrugged, ‘because I must say, I am rather comfortable.’

Alex admitted that he was going to say as much, what with the rent on a place like this, so close to the West End.

‘But then I think, what the hell,’ Sylvie called from the kitchen where she set the pan of soup over the gas ring. ‘A bomb could drop on my head tomorrow and I’d never know anything about it. Doesn’t it make you think, Alex? The way we are now. Each day is a gift, isn’t it?’

He did not answer her, so she stirred the soup and brought him a bowl on a tray with some sliced bread and butter. He accepted the tray, his attention once again drifting.

‘Stop thinking about her,’ she said, leaning against the door to the kitchen.

He glanced up, spoon held in mid-air, briefly alarmed. 
Sylvie felt her heart jerk at the sight of his face: defeated and vulnerable and so peculiarly attractive.

She laughed lightly. ‘You know, I have been lying to you. She has never breathed a word. Not to me. I have no idea, really.’

He dabbed his spoon at the far edge of the bowl.

‘Except, of course, she’s walking out with another chap now, someone from the paper.’ The real lie was so easy, it slipped across her tongue.

Without delay, Alex reasoned, ‘It’s the war. She is young. She doesn’t want to get involved with the likes of me. I told her, last summer, my life expectancy is not good.’

‘And yet, here you still are,’ mused Sylvie.

He continued to eat. ‘I wonder if the whole thing was a misunderstanding. A wrong footing from the start maybe? This is very good, by the way.’

Sylvie smiled in confusion, expecting dismay from Alex. A heart broken. If he felt any pain, she thought, he was very good at hiding it. Exactly the same as Nell. She crossed the room towards him.

‘I remembered this recipe from our maid Adele back home. Her cooking was rather legendary. Far better than my mother’s. She was awfully good at rustling things up. I hope she’s—’ Sylvie stopped and sat down abruptly. A surge of cold fear gripped her shoulders and surprised her with such violence that her bones seemed to fall away. ‘Oh goodness.
Sacré bleu
,’ she muttered, feeling in her pocket for a handkerchief, not finding one and then trying to catch her tears with her fingertips. ‘That wasn’t meant to happen. Not now. Not like this. Oh, sod it!’

Alex put the tray on the table with a crash and knelt by her chair. 

‘Oh dear. You seem so composed just to look at you,’ he said, his own shield falling away, it seemed to Sylvie, as hers had done so cruelly. ‘But really? You’re as much as a wreck as any of us. Here, do you need a dry one?’

She took his pristinely folded handkerchief, embroidered with A.H. in the corner. As she pressed it to her eyes she tried to laugh. She smelt a delicious scent of cologne, like the grass in the meadows around Montfleur.

She breathed on it, as a smile stretched her lips. ‘Oh heaven.’

Alex kissed her, suddenly, his hand gently cupping the base of her skull. The kiss was like velvet.

‘Really,’ breathed Sylvie, letting her fingers rest on his hair. ‘I don’t think you ought …’

He pulled away. ‘Sorry, so sorry.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘That should not have happened. What am I thinking?’

‘Of Nell?’ Sylvie felt sadness fold around her.

‘I ought not to, should I? I really have tried to forget.’ He strode to the other side of the room, as if to remove himself from the situation, to shake Sylvie off. ‘I have a duty. I have my job to do.’

‘I can help you forget.’

Alex sat back in his armchair, agitated. He did not answer her. Would not look at her.

Presently, she said, ‘Your soup is going cold.’

He asked her if she was having any.

‘I’m simply not hungry much at all these days. I think worry clean wipes out my appetite.’

‘Perhaps you should move back to Lednor, where it’s safer.’ He was trying to make polite conversation. The crucial moment had passed by. 

‘Oh no, it’s nothing to do with the bombs,’ Sylvie told him. ‘I was here all through the Blitz. Sounds a dreadful thing to say, but I felt thrilled some nights. Fear brought me close to some sort of wild hysteria. No, not that. It’s the continuous worry about my parents, and what might be happening to them. And that won’t go away if I return to Lednor. In fact, I might feel worse. Auntie Moll is hard to live with, wrapped up in her own troubles. My mother’s her sister, you see.’

‘I remember your auntie.’ Alex became uneasy again.

‘Anyway, I am leaving London soon. I’ve been posted to somewhere in Berkshire. Intelligence, you know. Can’t say much more.’ She smiled, her tears drying, drifting away. ‘Couldn’t tell you even if I knew any more about it.’