Those in Peril (30 page)

‘Is Mrs Hillyard at home?'

Last time she had scowled at him, this time she smiled and nodded. ‘Would you like to see the kittens?'

He followed her obediently through the hall and up the stairs to a cupboard on the landing. Inside there was a lagged hot-water tank, slatted shelves with neat piles of clean and ironed clothes, linen and towels. In its way, he thought, it was as comforting a place as the kitchen.

The child pointed under the lowest shelf. ‘She's at the very back. You'll have to get right down to see them.' He got down on his hands and knees and crawled a little way underneath. In the far corner he saw the dark shape of the cat, the white of her paws, the shine of her eyes and a huddled heap of small furry bodies. ‘They're different sorts,' the child said. ‘Two like her, and two grey tabbies and a ginger. I like the ginger one best. It's a boy. Did you know that most ginger cats are boys?'

‘No, I'm afraid I didn't.'

‘The vet says so. It's going to be mine when it grows up. I'm calling it Tom.'

As he backed out from under the shelf, knocking his head in the process, Barbara said from the doorway, ‘I didn't know you were here, Alan.'

He got to his feet, brushing the dust off his knees. ‘I only just arrived. I was being shown the nursery.'

‘Esme takes everyone to see them. Luckily Fifi doesn't seem to mind. In fact, I think she rather enjoys all the attention and being told how clever she is. We should leave her alone now, though, Esme.'

The child went off somewhere and he followed Barbara downstairs, dreading his task. They reached the hallway. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Alan?'

‘Please don't bother. I wonder if we could talk somewhere in private for a moment?'

She saw his grave expression and her face changed. ‘Yes, of course. The kitchen's probably best.' Inside the cosy room which he had liked so much, she faced him. ‘Has something happened to Louis Duval?'

Naturally, it would have been her first thought; he should have guessed that. He shook his head. ‘No, it's nothing to do with him.'

She looked instantly and happily relieved. ‘What is it, then?'

He could hardly bring himself to tell her, but surely this way was better and kinder than a telegram. He said quietly, ‘I'm afraid I've got some rather bad news for you.'

She stared at him. ‘What bad news?'

He could tell that she still had no inkling. ‘It's about your brother.'

The colour drained from her face. ‘Freddie? What's happened to him?'

She had to know, sooner or later. ‘I'm so sorry, Barbara, but he's been reported missing at sea. His ship was sunk.'

‘Sunk?' She seemed stunned. ‘Where? What happened?'

‘I'm not actually allowed to give any details.'

‘He's not dead, though, is he? There would have been lifeboats, wouldn't there? He would have been picked up?'

Her brother, he knew, was her last living relative and he would have given anything to let her have hope when it seemed there was almost none. ‘There are no reports of any survivors, unfortunately. But that doesn't mean that there's no chance at all. It's perfectly possible that he did manage to get to a lifeboat or raft.'

‘And he could drift for days, couldn't he? Some other ship could have picked him up?'

He thought of the icy seas off Nova Scotia, of the November weather in the North Atlantic, of the rest of the convoy steaming on relentlessly because to slow or divert or to stop would almost certainly mean going to the bottom too. ‘Yes, of course that may have happened.'

She stared at him, the hope dying. ‘But you don't really think so, do you, Alan?'

He said heavily, ‘To be honest, it doesn't sound much like it. The area was thoroughly searched afterwards and no survivors were reported. None. It would be wrong of me to give you false hope, Barbara, but there
is
always a chance. Always. So, please don't give up yet.' He could see, with deep pity, how hard she was struggling for self-control. ‘You'll be sent an official communication from the Admiralty, of course, but I thought it might help if someone came in person.'

‘Thank you, Alan. It was very thoughtful of you. Very kind. You know, I always felt it would happen. I just
knew
it. Oh, Freddie . . . my poor, poor Freddie.' Tears were running down her cheeks now and she started to sob.

He moved forward to put his arms gently around her and she buried her face against his chest.

Twelve

To save the precious gasoline as well as to be less conspicuous, Louis Duval took the train down to Lorient. It would have been pleasant to stay
chez
Violette but he resisted the temptation, not out of deference to the absent Daniel languishing in his POW camp, but out of regard for Violette. It was safer, for her sake, to avoid going near her apartment, just as it was safer for Ernest Boitard's family if he kept away from their home. He booked into a cheap hotel near the port, run-down and flea-ridden enough to discourage any Germans.

He had contacted Boitard by telephone from Pont-Aven the previous evening, using their pre-arranged message, and made his way to the café where they were to meet at six o'clock. It was a café like a thousand others in France – which was why Duval had chosen it. The gilt lettering on the glass windows read:
Joseph. Vins. Tabacs.
The
c
in the last word had worn away. Inside, there were the usual marble-topped tables, red leather benches with brass rails, mirrored walls, zinc bar, coffee machine bubbling away, and the smell of rough wine mingling with a thick haze of even rougher tobacco. The obese
patron
, Joseph, presided at the bar, dispensing
apéritifs
to the town's tradesmen with his bear-like hands.

There was no cognac and having no faith in the drinkability of the
ordinaire
, Duval ordered a Cinzano, sat down at one of the tables in the corner and lit a cigarette. One or two glances came his way, but for the most part he seemed to be ignored. At the next table two elderly men, smoking blackened pipes, were absorbed in a game of dominoes. He opened the newspaper he had bought earlier and began to read.

It was half past six before Ernest Boitard came into the café and went up to the bar. Even at a distance, Duval could tell how ragged his nerves were and see how difficult he was finding it to appear natural. The man drew attention with his edgy manner. Perhaps it had not been so wise to press him into service? The electrician came over carrying a glass of calvados and sat at the same table, but obliquely across from Duval. ‘Do you have a light, monsieur?'

‘Certainly.' Duval leaned forward and lit the cigarette, observing that the hand holding it was shaking. He turned a page of his newspaper. ‘What news is there?'

‘It's been very hard . . . I'm watched all the time.'

‘Nonetheless, what have you seen?'

Boitard leaned closer, fiddling with the ashtray. He spoke rapidly and so low that Duval could scarcely hear him. ‘There will be fifteen pens at least – perhaps more. There are many German engineers, technicians and gangs of labourers from their Todt Organization, as well as French conscripts, like myself. Also some French volunteers, I regret to say. The concrete roofs will be flat and very thick – as much as five metres or maybe even more – the pens in a long row, like stables, and connecting by channels to the harbour. I believe there are also to be workshops and fuels stores, a dry dock, a slipway for beaching U-boats . . . all the necessary facilities and all under the same massive concrete bunker. That is my understanding.'

‘What defences?'

‘I don't know.' Boitard gulped at his drink. ‘As I say, it's difficult. It would be very dangerous to stray far from my work.'

Duval turned another page of the newspaper. ‘As time goes on, it may become easier.'

‘I can tell you that there is one thing that will
not
become easier – destroying the bunkers. Once they are built it may prove impossible. The time to act is
now
.' He was resentful, as well as fearful. ‘You should pass on that information to your friends in England. It's the best I can provide. Don't ask me to do more.'

He drained the rest of his drink and left. Duval stayed, reading his newspaper. After a while, someone else came to sit at his table – a small, dark man with a moustache not at all unlike the Führer's, a near-empty glass in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other.

‘You have a light, please, monsieur?'

‘Of course.'

‘Thank you.' Smoke curled upwards between them. ‘I have been watching you with interest.'

‘Really?'

‘That man who was here – I recognized him.'

‘Which man?'

‘The one who came to sit at your table and speak with you.'

‘He came to ask for a light – as you have just done.'

‘It takes only a few words to do that; he said many more. I don't know his name but I have seen him before. He is an electrician who works for the Germans at Keroman. He was conscripted – like myself.'

Duval shrugged. ‘He may well be . . . it's nothing to me.'

‘He was very nervous when he came in here. Very anxious. I could tell that. Then I see him talk with you, very low, and I ask myself what he is saying and why he is so nervous, and who
you
are, monsieur? What are you doing here?'

‘As you can see, I am having an
apéritif
, smoking a cigarette and reading my newspaper, I hope, in peace.'

‘You are not a regular and I'm not the only one in this room who has been watching you. There are several of us who meet here and talk about how we could resist the Boche. What we could do against them for France. We plot and we plan and we think about little else. It helps to make things bearable.'

Duval put down his newspaper. ‘Another glass, monsieur?'

‘Willingly.'

He went to the bar and bought a calvados for the man and another Cinzano. He raised his glass. ‘
Santé
. You haven't told me your name.'

‘You don't need to know it, nor do I need to know yours. Let's just say that it's Léon.'

‘Very well, Léon. What do you do when you are made to work for the Germans?'

‘I'm a plumber. I have my own business. Two other men are employed by me. We are all working on the U-boat bunker at Keroman – the same as your friend.'

‘He's not my friend.'

‘No . . . I could tell that. And he's very afraid.' The man smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. ‘I, on the other hand, am not afraid at all.'

The next day he went on by train to Rennes. The encounter with Léon had been a piece of good fortune. Plumbers, it had been explained to him, were in an excellent position to move about and observe. Any excuse would do – mysterious blockages, the urgent need to check water flow and levels, locating leaks, fetching vital tools. A man in overalls, crawling about with a wrench in his hand and tapping pipes assiduously, went everywhere unremarked.

He watched the countryside through the train windows, thinking how much parts of Brittany resembled the south-west of England. Breakfast, he gauged, would be over at Bellevue. The rear admiral would have barricaded himself in the sitting room behind
The Times
newspaper. Mademoiselle Tindall would have gone to her room to write one of her many letters, while Mrs Lamprey would be looking for a victim to trap into witnessing her re-enact some little scene. Even the postman did not always manage to escape a soliloquy on the doorstep. He had been the victim, himself, a number of times. A snatch of Ibsen, or Chekhov, or Wilde and, once, most painful of all, the balcony scene from
Romeo and Juliet
with Mrs Lamprey perched precariously on a chair with her chiffon scarf draped round her head and speaking the lines of a fifteen-year-old girl, passionately in love – to him.

He had applauded enthusiastically, of course, and helped her down from the chair. Not even Mrs Lamprey could quite spoil the beauty of the feelings expressed by the English words. His feelings for Barbara Hillyard. So deep, so true, and, to him, so miraculous.

Aunt Pauline gave him her customarily tart welcome. ‘It takes another war for you to come and visit this often, Louis. I suppose I should be grateful to the Germans.'

He kissed her cheek, inhaling camphor. ‘My dear aunt, I should find it hard to thank them for a single thing.'

‘True enough. Would you like some tea? I always take some at this time. It's excellent for the nerves. The English have always understood that.'

‘A cognac cures mine far more effectively.'

‘Too much of
that
is bad for the liver, whereas tea is good for it.'

‘Nevertheless, I should prefer a cognac.'

‘Very well. Ring the bell for Jeanne. And put that cigarette away, Louis. You know perfectly well that I won't tolerate you smoking in here. By the way, Jeanne has some information to give you.'

The servant had, apparently, been paying regular visits to the railway station pretending to be waiting for trains, or for someone to arrive. Nobody, it seemed, took account of a little old woman clothed all in black, any more than they noticed a plumber with his tools. She had watched the German troops coming and going, seen what sort they were, how many, where they had come from and where they were going. She gave him all these details that she had kept safe in her head. And, because nobody had noticed her, she had been able to stand very close and listen to their chatter.