Those in Peril (18 page)

‘Someone?'

‘You know what I mean. A girl. A woman. You know how I hate the idea of your being on your own. It's not so bad now, but when you're older it'll be terribly lonely for you. And you'll need someone to take care of you.'

He smiled. ‘It's nice of you to worry on my account, Hattie, but there's no need. I'm perfectly happy as I am. Much happier than I'd be married to the wrong woman.'

‘Well, I wish you'd hurry up and find the right one. It can't be that difficult, surely? What about all those Wrens you mix with? There must be some nice ones. You're quite a catch, Alan. A good-looking lieutenant commander with a private income . . .' She went on looking at him in her earnest, troubled way. ‘You've always been pretty special.'

He knew that she would never understand. So far as he was concerned, the man she was talking about had died when the enemy shell had blown apart his career. He had lived on with a ghost at his elbow – the ghost of what he might have been – and he didn't think much of what he had become. But because he knew that his sister's concern was deep and genuine and because of his own fondness for her, he said consolingly – and rashly, ‘As a matter of fact, I did come across someone recently.'

She brightened up at once. ‘You did? Who? Where?'

‘Oh, in Dartmouth. Just someone.'

‘Is she a Wren?'

He was already regretting he'd said anything. The interrogation was only just beginning. ‘No.'

‘What does she do?'

‘She runs a lodging house – I suppose you'd call it that.'

‘A
landlady
! Heavens, Alan . . .'

He smiled. ‘It's not like you might imagine. She doesn't wear carpet slippers and curlers and it's a lovely place.'

‘How did you meet her?'

‘I just happened to.'

‘How old is she?'

He knew exactly, to the very day. ‘In her thirties. She's a widow.'

‘Children?'

‘No.'

‘She sounds perfect, Alan. Not some giddy thing – you wouldn't want that – but still young enough to have
your
children. Are you in love with her?'

He protested, half-laughing. ‘For heaven's sake, Hattie, I hardly know her. I've only met her a couple of times.'

‘Once is enough. One look, even. I knew I wanted to marry William the second I laid eyes on him. Have you taken her out?'

‘There aren't exactly many places to take people to in Dartmouth in wartime. Besides, I told you, I've only just met her.'

His sister groaned. ‘Oh, Alan, you're hopeless. Get on with it before someone else does. If she's lovely, and I'm sure she is or you'd never have noticed her, then you won't be the only admirer.'

He was saved by his surgeon brother-in-law coming into the room. He was glad to see him, not only because he liked him, but because he had mercifully cut short the cosy chat.

He travelled back to Dartmouth early the next morning, driving the Riley down rather than taking the train this time. In the early afternoon there was a meeting with the two Free French lent by General de Gaulle, who were due to make the next trip to Brittany. They were both level-headed and intelligent young men, but they were inexperienced. Neither had ever done any espionage work before and their training, he soon realized, had been rudimentary, to say the least. British Intelligence was still lagging behind in a John Buchan world of teaching special agents to look after carrier pigeons and make invisible ink.

He spent the rest of the day going over every detail of the proposed operation with them, and taking them step by step through the questionnaire that had been compiled for them to work from, briefing them exactly on what to look for and how to recognize it. Each man was to cover approximately twenty square miles in the five days allotted before the tunny boat returned for them. The boat itself was ready, so was its crew, the two men were now as ready as he could contrive, their papers would be ready soon. The rest was in the lap of the gods.

On Sunday he went to Matins – from long habit as much as from anything else. The Kingswear church was packed with civilians and service men and women, instinctively gathered together in the face of danger. The preacher rose to the occasion with a strong sermon on the need to be of good courage, to hold fast to what was right, to fight the fight against evil and tyranny to the bitter end, and to trust in God. Afterwards they stood to sing the sailors' hymn and he had no need to look at the book: the words were engraved on his heart.

We're all of us in peril, he thought. Not just our sailors on rough seas, but every man, woman and child in this country.

As the service ended and the congregation streamed out of the church he caught sight of Barbara Hillyard a little further ahead in the crowd, with a small girl beside her. He managed to squeeze past enough people to catch up with her by the lychgate.

‘Mrs Hillyard . . . good morning to you.'

She smiled up at him. ‘Good morning, Lieutenant Commander. It was a lovely service, wasn't it?'

‘Yes, indeed.' She was wearing a white leghorn straw hat with a blue and white spotted ribbon round the brim. He thought it suited her beautifully. ‘A very good sermon. Just what was needed.'

‘I don't think you've met Esme.'

The child glowered up at him from under her boater. He smiled at her, nonetheless, wondering who on earth she was. A daughter? There had been no mention of any children in the file. ‘Hallo, Esme.' She kicked at the ground with the toe of her shoe.

‘Esme is from London. She's staying with me until it's safe to go back to her home.'

Light dawned. An evacuee. He said encouragingly, ‘I'm sure it soon will be.'

They were in the way where they were standing – people bumping into them, trying to get past. He searched for something else to say, to detain her.
Oh, Alan, you're hopeless. Get on with it before someone else does
. But before he could think of anything, a middle-aged woman dressed in WVS uniform came bearing down on them. She was built like a Matilda tank and equally impervious to any obstacles in her path.

‘Mrs Hillyard! The very person I wanted to see. Are you coming to that meeting I told you about? I do hope you are. I'm going to need twenty helpers to run the new canteen . . . meals for the troops, tea and refreshments. We're going to have our hands full.'

Barbara Hillyard sent him an apologetic look but there was nothing to be done but retreat, defeated. He touched his cap and walked away.

Seven

In the first week in August, another letter arrived at last for Esme. The postman, Stan Fairweather, came to find Barbara in the garden where she was weeding the rosebed. When she saw him plodding solemnly across the grass towards her, her first terrified thought was that he had come to deliver a telegram with bad news about Freddie. But it wasn't a telegram, it was a letter for Esme. He must have known by her expression what she feared because he held it out plainly so that she could see it.

‘This'll please the little girl, Mrs Hillyard. Give her something to smile about.'

She thanked him and took the letter straight indoors. Esme was lying on her bed, reading a comic.

‘The postman brought a letter for you.'

Esme kept her eyes fixed on the comic.

‘It's from your father. Don't you want to see it?'

‘Not specially.'

‘Would you like me to open it and read it to you?'

‘No, thanks.'

She put it down on the bedside table. ‘Well, I'll leave it here for you to open when you feel like it.'

Esme went on looking at the comic.

As Barbara went downstairs, Mrs Lamprey came out of the sitting room. ‘I saw the postman through the window, Mrs Hillyard. Was there anything for me?'

‘I'm afraid not, Mrs Lamprey.'

There seldom was. Mrs Lamprey had a nephew in London who wrote very occasionally but to no effect. ‘Not an artistic bone in his body, you know.
Nothing
like me at all. He only writes because he hopes I'm going to leave him some money in my will. Well, he's in for a
big
disappointment.' The highlight was always the arrival of the latest copy of
The Stage
which she devoured from cover to cover, with comments to whoever was unlucky enough to be in earshot. The most recent one had been delivered the previous day and Mrs Lamprey had not yet wrung it dry. ‘I see that John Gielgud has been touring in
The Importance of Being Earnest
with Edith Evans as Lady Bracknell. Of course, the role would suit her perfectly. I remember them so well together in
Romeo and Juliet
in 1935.He was Mercutio and she was the nurse.
The bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon
 . . . Laurence Olivier was Romeo, you know, but I've never thought him a patch on dear Johnnie.'

Barbara tried to return to the weeding but Mrs Lamprey hadn't quite finished. ‘I wonder where Monsieur Duval has got to? I haven't seen him all day.'

‘He said he wouldn't be in for lunch.'

‘Well, I do hope he'll be here for dinner. There's something I most particularly wanted to ask him.'

Monsieur Duval, she had noticed, had become quite adept at avoiding Mrs Lamprey. She went back to the garden and worked until it was time to cook and serve lunch. Miss Tindall had gone to visit a friend for the day and Rear Admiral Foster had to cope alone with Mrs Lamprey.

‘Do tell me, Rear Admiral, what was the biggest ship you have ever served on?'

‘
In
, Mrs Lamprey. One serves
in
a ship, not on it.' It was the first time Barbara had ever heard him correct her, though he did it in the mildest tone. Perhaps even
his
patience was finally wearing thin.

Esme came down late for her lunch in the kitchen.

‘Did you read your letter, Esme?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did your father have any news – about coming back on leave?'

‘No.' Esme frowned at her plate. ‘I knew he wouldn't.'

‘Well, when he does he's bound to come and visit you.'

‘No, he won't. It's too far.'

Barbara tried again. ‘Shall we go for a walk this afternoon? Would you like that? It's a lovely day and it would do you good to get some fresh air. It's a shame to spend the holidays cooped up in your room.'

Esme poked at a piece of liver. ‘I'd sooner read.'

She gave up. There was no point in forcing the child to go for a walk – she'd only sulk all the way there and all the way back. ‘Well, I think I'll go – just for a while.'

A flight of steep steps led from the lawn down the hillside to a gate and a path that followed the curve of the estuary towards the town. A rocky inlet below had been a favourite spot of hers and Freddie's, and she stopped to look at the little beach where they had paddled and swum. There were no children playing there now. The beach was deserted and barricaded with coils of barbed wire.

Round the next corner, she came, unexpectedly, upon Monsieur Duval. He was sitting on the low stone wall that bordered the river side of the path, a sketch pad propped against his knee, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth. He lifted his head, saw her and waved. ‘I am making some sketches, madame.'

She hoped he hadn't thought she was spying on him, following him about the place. ‘I was taking a walk.'

‘The English are better at walking than the French. We are very lazy. Please come and sit down – just for a moment. It's very pleasant here in the sun and there is a wonderful view of the estuary, don't you agree?'

She perched on the wall, but at a distance from him. ‘Yes, it's lovely. When I was a child, my brother and I always used to play on a beach just near here.'

He had flipped over a page and begun sketching again. ‘And where is your brother now?'

‘At sea. With the Royal Navy. I don't know exactly where.'

‘Do you worry about him?'

‘I try not to.' But not very successfully. She worried about Freddie night and day – especially at night when it was harder to stop her imagination painting graphic pictures of U-boats stalking convoys, torpedoes striking, ships sinking in flames, men leaping into icy black water. And during the day, every time the doorbell rang her heart would begin to pound away, convinced it was the postman with a yellow telegram for her.
Deeply regret to inform you
 . . . ‘Freddie's my only living relative.'

‘Your parents?'

‘Both dead.'

He clicked his tongue. ‘How sad for you, when you are so young. No wonder that your brother means so much to you.' His pencil moved swiftly across the paper. ‘I have one sister, but I'm not sure that she would worry very much about me.'

She realized that she knew almost nothing about him. Nothing of his private life or of what he had left behind in France. ‘Do you have children, Monsieur Duval?'

‘Alas, no. I have a wife, but no children. And my wife and I have not lived together for a long time.'

‘I'm sorry.'

He smiled at her. ‘There is no need for you to be, I assure you. We don't miss each other. Not at all. Do you miss your late husband?'

She hesitated. ‘Not really. Not any longer. I suppose that sounds rather awful.'