Those in Peril (3 page)

On his way back, he checked on his Citroën, kept in a shed near the quay. He was fond of the old machine – they had done many miles together – but there she would have to stay. He removed the rotor arm and took the keys with him. The idea of the Germans making use of her was abhorrent.

Back in the apartment, he turned on the wireless, poured a glass of cognac, lit a Gauloise and stood at the window, looking out over the harbour. In the room behind him a newsreader's grave voice began the latest bulletin. The Germans had already taken Amiens and were now advancing on Le Havre. And after Le Havre, he thought, it would be Cherbourg, St Malo, Brest . . . and so on until they had secured every Atlantic port in France worth having, which would include Lorient and St Nazaire. There was no chance, as Simone had naively put it, of them not bothering much with Brittany. He finished off the cognac and went to bed.

It was a while before he slept, and he lay thinking things over. He had spoken nothing less than the truth to Simone when he had said that he wanted to do something useful. Being too old to serve in the Second World War had not bothered him much at first, but the crushing advance of the German army across the Low Countries and France and the prospect of another humiliating surrender had appalled him. He had little to offer except for the fact that he was a Frenchman who spoke reasonably good English and had a certain knowledge of France. Some use might perhaps be made of him over in England. He did not share Simone's dislike of that country – the time spent there had been very agreeable – but it was not for love of England that he was proposing this crazy journey. It was for love of France.

He was up early, before six, and let himself out of the house quietly, carrying a suitcase, his box of paints, some spare canvases and an easel. Since it was his custom to take the boat off on painting trips, he would arouse no comment, and, in any case, many shutters were still closed. High water had been an hour earlier and the fishing boats had already left harbour. The quayside where the
Gannet
was moored was deserted except for a few gulls strutting about and a small black cat with four white paws who was sitting at the edge, scratching itself. It watched him lowering himself and his baggage on board and, as he was making ready to leave, jumped down onto the deck. He picked it up and put it firmly back on the quayside. The engine started up first go and he set off downstream.

The steep and rocky riverbanks, crowned with pine trees, were golden with summer gorse. He had passed Kerdruc before he realized that the cat must have jumped back on board again. It came into the wheelhouse, wandered around and rubbed itself against his legs. Too late to take it back, he decided. And anyway the animal looked like a homeless stray – nothing but skin and bone with dull, mangy fur and a tail as thin as a rat's. When he had picked it up it had weighed almost nothing. He shrugged. It might as well take its chances in England as in France. If it didn't fall overboard en route.

As soon as he left the safe shelter of the estuary, the wind and the North Atlantic waves grabbed hold of the
Gannet
, tossing her about. He held her on a north-westerly course, ploughing along the south Brittany coastline, the boat pitching and rolling. The cat had retreated to a corner of the wheelhouse and was clinging to the deck with its claws. From time to time Duval chewed on some bread and cheese or sausage or ham, drank some of the wine, or smoked a cigarette. Seasickness had never bothered him. Nor did it seem to trouble the cat, who, crouched in its corner, devoured the scraps he threw to it.

It took him more than six hours to reach the Pointe de Penmarch and begin the long haul across the Baie d'Audierne, and another seven to gain the other side. Navigating a course round the treacherous granite fortress of the Pointe du Raz with its vicious tidal streams took all his concentration. He had timed it well and the tide was still with him, but the wind force increased and the surge and swirl of the sea and the pull of the current swept the
Gannet
perilously close to the rocks. A huge wave swamped the boat and he lost his grip on the wheel and was hurled into the corner. He lay stunned for a moment until he could scramble back and yank the boat clear of the rocks. The cat had lost its grip as well and was swirling around in seawater, scrabbling wildly with its paws. He seized it by the scruff of the neck and threw it into the locker before it could be swept overboard.

Then, once round the headland, he passed suddenly and miraculously into calmer waters. The wind had dropped and the temperature risen, the waves flattened to a mere swell. He set his course due north for the port of Brest, counting on another three hours of daylight. The cat, when he let it out of the locker, went back to its corner and started trying to groom its sodden fur. He doubted that he looked much better – soaked to the skin and with a lump on his forehead where he had hit it that felt the size of a pigeon's egg.

Around two o'clock in the morning he reckoned that Brest must be ahead on his starboard bow. The temptation to steer for its harbour was very strong but he resisted it. The Germans could well have taken the town already and the risk was too great. He pressed on, checking his course regularly and fortifying himself with more snacks and more wine and some nips of brandy, feeding more scraps to the cat who was invisible now except for the glint of its eyes in the torchlight. He followed a course that kept him well away from the reefs and islets and jagged rocks that infested the Brittany coast, and by dawn he had sighted the Ile Vierge lighthouse. There he turned his back on France and headed north towards Falmouth in England. Some dolphins came and played alongside the boat for a while and an RAF plane circled overhead a few times before it, too, left him alone. In the distance, he caught sight of a large convoy of merchant ships steaming north-east before they were lost to view.

In the early evening of the second day, the engine faltered and died. It took time to discover the cause of the trouble – a blocked carburettor – and to deal with it and, by then, he knew that the south-westerly wind and the tide must have carried him several miles to the east. No matter. So long as he continued due north he would make landfall somewhere along the south coast of England. He kept himself awake during that night by talking to the invisible cat – keeping up an absurd, one-sided conversation through the hours of darkness until dawn finally came.
We are both completely mad, little one. We are very lucky, you know, not to find ourselves at the bottom of the sea. If we had any sense between us we would both have stayed in France – Germans or no Germans. On the other hand, perhaps you, at least, made the right choice. You will certainly be welcomed in England. They like animals there – even a French cat – whereas they are not so likely to welcome me, a Frenchman.

Within two more hours he had sighted land ahead – a long dark smudge low on the horizon. He could see a lighthouse blinking and then, as he gradually drew nearer, a gap in the cliffs where a river flowed out to meet the sea. Not Falmouth, though. Fowey perhaps? Or even Plymouth? His tired brain declined to make any sense of the chart. What did it matter, anyway? It was somewhere in England.

As he steered the boat towards the tall cliffs and the mouth of the estuary, the sun came out and lit the scene for him. He could see two ancient-looking forts guarding the river entrance – one on each side. Most probably English defences against the marauding French in years gone by. In a moment of triumph, or maybe defiance, he rummaged for the
tricolore
kept in the locker and attached the flag to the
Gannet
's stern. He went between the two headlands, flying his country's flag, and entered sheltered waters. The riverbanks were steep and thickly wooded, the trees growing down to the water's edge. Further on, as the estuary narrowed, the woods gave way to houses – whitewashed cottages built of stone and clinging to the hillsides in much the same way as those built on the river valley slopes of Pont-Aven. He passed some naval launches moored at buoys in midstream; further upstream, he could see larger vessels. He cut his speed and steered the
Gannet
gently towards a quay on the east side of the river, aiming for a flight of stone steps. As he reached them, a man in fisherman's clothes, smoking a pipe, leaned over.

‘Morning.'

‘Good morning.'

‘Nice day.'

‘Yes, indeed.'

‘Reckon it might rain tomorrow, though.'

I have come all this way, risking my life, he thought wearily, to find myself discussing the weather. ‘
Vraiment?
'

The man came down some of the steps – a big man with a chest shaped like a barrel of English beer. ‘Want a hand?'

‘Thank you.' He threw the painter and it was made fast to an iron ring. But when he climbed ashore, staggering on the unaccustomed dry land, he found his way up barred and he realized that the reception was not so amicable, after all. The
tricolore
had been noted.

‘French, are you?'

‘Yes, indeed. I have come from Brittany.'

‘That so?'

‘From Pont-Aven on the south coast. Perhaps you know of it?'

‘Can't say I do.'

‘What is the name of this port, please? I have no idea where I am.'

The man took hold of his arm without answering the question. ‘You'd better come along with me.'

He went along – there being little alternative. Other people had gathered on the quayside – also fishermen, by the looks of them, and some women who stared at him with hard eyes. He was marched past them under an archway and round a corner to the entrance of a building guarded by a naval rating with a bayonet tied to the end of a broomstick. My God, he thought, is that really all they have left after Dunkirk? A shove in the shoulderblades propelled him forward for inspection.

‘This foreigner's just arrived by boat. Says he's come from France.'

The sentry looked him over uncertainly. ‘From France you say, sir? Do you mind showing me your passport?'

He handed it over, waiting while it was scrutinized carefully and doubtful comparison made between his photograph and himself after two days at sea.

‘I'll have to keep hold of this, sir – for the time being. And I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to step inside, if you don't mind.'

He was shown into a room with a table and two chairs and a small window. Not quite a cell, but almost. Somebody brought him a cup of tea the colour of old leather and, to him, undrinkable. He could see faces outside peering through the window and fists rubbing at the grimy glass to see him better. He realized that they thought he was a spy – though what sort of a spy would make no effort whatever to conceal his arrival in broad daylight? Or perhaps they were simply suspicious of all Frenchmen, in the same way that most French were suspicious of the English. He finished the cigarette and lit another, and was halfway through a third before the door opened and a naval officer entered the room – a short, stocky man, many years younger than himself and with a crushing handshake. He had the clear, keen eyes of an intrepid explorer – typically set on a distant horizon or raised to some snowy peak.

‘How do you do, Monsieur Duval. I'm Lieutenant Reeves, Royal Navy. So sorry to have kept you waiting. Just a few questions to ask you, if you don't mind. It won't take very long.' He sat down at the table and took out a silver case. ‘Cigarette? Ah, you already have one on the go, I see. More tea?'

The politeness of the English gentleman was legendary, Duval knew, but it was a fatal mistake to believe that it meant he was on your side. ‘No, thank you.'

The lieutenant leant forward to peer into the full cup. ‘Not too keen on tea, perhaps? I'd offer you something stronger, but the bar's not open yet.'

‘The bar?'

‘This was a hotel before us naval chaps took it over. We let them keep the public bar going in the basement. Rather handy.' He lit a cigarette. ‘Lovely weather we're having.'

‘Yes, indeed.' It was unbelievable how they always brought up the subject. ‘Very agreeable.'

‘You've just come across from France, I gather?'

‘That is correct.'

‘Alone?'

‘Yes, alone.'

‘Is that your boat – the
Gannet
?' He pronounced the seabird in the English way, sounding the t firmly at the end.

‘Yes. I am the owner.'

‘Jolly small for crossing the Channel.'

‘There are not many bigger boats leaving from France for England these days,' he said drily. ‘And those there are are completely full. Otherwise, I might have chosen a more comfortable means of arriving here.'

‘Quite. Where exactly did you leave from in France?'

‘Pont-Aven on the south coast of Brittany. It's not far from Lorient. Perhaps you know it? It's very charming.'

‘Not personally, I'm afraid. Pretty long haul, though.'

‘Haul?'

‘A long way. You must be a fairly experienced sailor.'

He shook his head. ‘Not at all. In general I keep close to land. It is the first time I have undertaken such a voyage.'

‘May I ask why you did?'

‘Why? Perhaps you do not know how things are in France . . .'

‘Actually, we have a pretty fair idea – our chaps have been over there quite a bit. But it doesn't really answer my question.'

Duval drew hard on his cigarette. ‘My country is on the point of surrendering to the Germans, as you will know, Lieutenant. In the first place, I have no desire to remain in a France occupied and controlled by Nazis, and, in the second, I thought I might perhaps be of some service here, in England.'

‘Oh? What kind of service exactly?'