Those in Peril (5 page)

‘Early this morning. He came over from France by boat.'

‘Fleeing the Germans, I suppose. Does he realize they'll probably come here too?'

‘I don't know. He's upstairs sleeping at the moment.'

‘Is he in their navy?'

‘No, he's a civilian. He came on his own.'

‘Really? That was very brave. What does he look like?'

How to describe him – the swarthy, unshaven, unwashed stranger who had appeared on her doorstep with long matted hair, bruised forehead and bloodshot eyes? ‘Rather like a pirate.'

‘I can't
wait
to meet him. A French pirate! How romantic! Will he be at luncheon?'

‘I doubt it. I should think he'll sleep for a long time. He seemed utterly exhausted.'

‘Poor man. Does he speak English?'

‘Rather well.'

‘I must brush up my French. I was quite good at it once. Such an elegant language. And the French are so cultured. I wonder if he knows the London theatre at all.'

When Mrs Lamprey had exited, Barbara shifted the fourth table a little further away from Mrs Lamprey's, out of consideration for Monsieur Duval. She could, and would if given the chance, talk at great length about her days in the theatre. Her stage name had been Vera Vane and she had, apparently, worked with the very best. Henry Irving was often mentioned, Gerald du Maurier, Herbert Beerbohm Tree, Ellen Terry, Sarah Bernhardt, Mrs Patrick Campbell . . . she had known them all. The actual roles she had taken were not all that clear, but she could quote lines at random from a number of plays. She had, apparently, been on the very point of making her name when she had met Mr Lamprey and sacrificed a glittering career by finally accepting his (fifth) proposal of marriage. He had been dead for more than twenty years now and Mrs Lamprey was probably the wrong side of seventy, but her sacrifice obviously still rankled. The rear admiral's marriage, by contrast, must have been a contented one because there was a very beautiful silver-framed photograph of his late wife close beside his bed, whereas Mr Lamprey's image was conspicuous by its absence.

Barbara finished laying the tables and went back into the kitchen to begin preparing lunch. Macaroni cheese, followed by baked apples and custard. If she did an extra apple, it might just stretch to feed Monsieur Duval though it would be a big help if he went on sleeping until dinnertime. The prospect of cooking for the Frenchman worried her. He might look like some fearsome pirate but he had not behaved or spoken like one. She had a feeling that he would be accustomed to much better fare than she could produce. The French were said to be the world's best cooks – adept at making wonderful dishes out of even the most unpromising ingredients. Her own repertoire was strictly limited by the wartime rationing: scragend stews, rissoles, fish cakes, toad-in-the-hole, mock this and pretend that, followed by rather dull puddings. Mrs Lamprey, who had a large appetite, rarely complained, neither did Miss Tindall who pecked as sparingly as a bird, nor Rear Admiral Foster who simply ate whatever was put before him. Monsieur Duval might not be quite so easy to please.

As she was putting the macaroni cheese into the oven, she heard the rear admiral return from his morning walk, wipe his feet briskly on the front door mat and go into the sitting room where he would immerse himself in
The Times
, holding it up in front of him like a shield to discourage Mrs Lamprey from conversation should she happen to go into the room. His partial deafness provided another buffer. Miss Tindall, a retired schoolteacher, had no such defence and therefore spent a good deal of time upstairs in her room, reading and writing letters to other retired teachers and former pupils. The former pupils, she said, kept her in touch with the modern world, and she took pride in hearing of their achievements.

At one o'clock Barbara rang the brass handbell in the hall. Mrs Lamprey came down the stairs, trailing her scarf,
L'Heure Bleue
and a little whiff of Stone's Original Green Ginger Wine which she occasionally took, as she explained, for a tonic and which the grocer obligingly delivered for her at regular intervals. Rear Admiral Foster – a spare and courtly figure – emerged from the sitting room and Miss Tindall, in her uniform of blouse, skirt, cardigan and single row of pearls, came down the stairs. They sat at their separate tables facing the view – Mrs Lamprey calling across every so often to one or the other, or both. The rear admiral would respond politely, Miss Tindall guardedly.

Barbara served up the macaroni cheese which, with so little cheese, looked dull and unappetizing. To her great relief there was no sign of the Frenchman.

When he finally awoke it was dark. Pitch black, in fact. He lay still, wondering where on earth he was. The room was unfamiliar to him, he could tell that much, and there was no sound he could identify – nothing to give him some clue. Just silence. Then, after a moment, as his sleep-fogged brain cleared, he remembered. He was in England
chez
madame Hillyard and he must have slept for hours. There was a very urgent need to find the bathroom which could not be ignored, and he groped for the lamp that had been on the bedside table and knocked it over onto the floor. After more groping, he discovered a switch but when he pressed it nothing happened. Almost certainly he had broken the bulb and very probably the lamp too. He swore softly to himself. His torch was still on board
Gannet
so he must find some other light switch in the room – beside the door, surely, if he could remember where the door was.

He got out of bed and began feeling his way along the wall, bumping into a large piece of furniture – the armoire, by the size of it – before he had the luck to find the door and, on the wall beside it, a light switch. He surveyed the room. The curtains were still open at the window, his suitcase on the floor where he had dumped it, his clothes thrown onto a chair. The table lamp, mercifully, was undamaged – only the bulb had been broken. His watch showed that it was two o'clock in the morning. He opened the suitcase and rummaged for his old dressing gown. He had no desire to alarm Madame Hillyard more than he had already done, by encountering her in his underclothes. What exactly had she told him about the bathroom? Somewhere down the corridor? Fortunately there was a light burning and he found it easily enough because there was a notice on the door, and returned to his room. One discomfort had been dealt with but he could do nothing about his hunger. Like the torch, the remains of his food rations were all still on the boat. Also the wine and brandy – if they had not been stolen.

He lit a cigarette and smoked it standing at the open window, looking towards the sea and his country. No moon. No stars. Silence. He wondered if he had done the right thing? If he might not have been more use if he had stayed in France? The naval lieutenant had been polite but clearly unimpressed and who could blame him? A middle-aged French civilian, arriving out of the blue with vague offers of help. And they were not only unimpressed, they were suspicious. Who could blame them for that either? If France fell – no, he corrected himself,
when
france fell the English would be on their own without allies. They were wise to trust nobody. He finished the cigarette and went back to bed. Before he fell asleep again, he remembered that, as well as his identity card, they still had his passport.

When he awoke again, it was day. His watch had stopped because in his stupor he had forgotten to wind it up; from the sun's position and the light he judged it to be around six o'clock. Too early to expect breakfast but he found himself too hungry and restless to lie in bed any longer. Perhaps if he took a walk he might find some café or bar open, or even retrace his steps to the
Gannet
and his stores there. He went in search of the bathroom once again. In the mirror over the handbasin he looked an alarming sight with the three-day-old beard and a black pigeon's egg on his forehead. He shaved, took a bath in tepid water and dressed in clean clothes. He was padding quietly towards the head of the stairs when a door on the landing opened and Madame Hillyard came out. She was wearing a dark blue dressing gown of some thick material – the kind more usually worn by a man. Perhaps it belonged to her husband who was still asleep in bed? Her thick hair, tousled from the pillow, looked most alluring.

He bowed. ‘My sincere apologies, madame, if I disturbed you. I could not sleep any longer. I thought I would take a walk.'

She was clutching tightly at the collar of the robe, highly embarrassed. ‘A walk? But you must be hungry.'

‘A little,' he admitted. ‘But it's nothing.'

‘If you would like to wait in the dining room, I'll be down in a few moments to cook you some breakfast.'

‘Please do not trouble yourself.'

‘It's no trouble. What would you like? We do have some eggs and bacon.'

Normally, he would have eaten hunks torn off a baguette, still warm from the
boulangerie
, with good Breton salted butter and some local ham or cheese or sausage, maybe a little pâté, or perhaps, on occasion, jam. And a bowl of very strong coffee – with a small cognac to finish, if he felt the need. But just now he would have eaten anything. ‘That would be very nice, thank you.'

‘Would you like tea to drink?'

He hesitated. Politeness had its limits, after all. ‘Do you have coffee?'

It was her turn to hesitate. ‘Not exactly. It's not real coffee, I'm afraid – that's getting rather scarce. Just an essence, but it doesn't taste too bad.'

He smiled at her. ‘Thank you, madame.' He started down the stairs in obedience to her request and then stopped. ‘Excuse me, but where is the dining room?'

‘Oh, I'm so sorry – I should have said. It's the door facing you at the bottom.'

He wound up his watch and set it by the old long-case clock in the hall – twenty minutes to seven – before he went into the dining room. He saw, with amusement, the four separate tables set out at a discreet distance from each other, each laid for one person, a little vase of fresh flowers beside the salt and pepper and bottles of what appeared to be different sorts of terrible sauces. The English respect for privacy; the desire, at all costs, not to intrude upon another. The problem was, which table was his? As the new boy, he guessed that it would be the one away from the window and set at a further distance from the others. He went over to admire the view once again – the delightfully secluded and lush garden with the beautiful roses and the exotic palm tree, the woods on the hillside below and the green-blue sea beyond.

‘Here is your change, Monsieur Duval.' She had come into the room without him hearing – dressed now in another disastrous cotton frock printed busily all over with blue and white flowers. The alluringly disordered hair had been combed firmly into place and she had put on some lipstick – but the wrong colour. He admired many things about the English, but not the dress sense or style of their women. ‘My change?'

‘From the two pound notes you gave me. I owe you fifteen shillings.' She placed the money carefully into his hand – a paper note, and, on top of it, a little pile of coins, all different sizes. He had forgotten how complicated their money was. ‘I'm sorry but I didn't have two half-crowns.'

He put them all in his pocket. ‘Thank you, madame.'

‘Would you like something to start with? There's wheat flakes or shredded wheat.'

He had never eaten either of those things. When he had lived in England before he had always catered for himself, buying whatever he could find that was eatable. ‘Whichever is convenient. Where would you like me to sit?'

She indicated the table he had predicted. ‘If you don't mind.'

He sat down, not minding at all, and presently she came back carrying a laden tray. He rose to his feet. ‘Permit me to help you, madame.'

‘No, no, it's quite all right, thank you. I'm used to it.'

He sat down again reluctantly while she set the tray on the sideboard and brought things over to his table: a china bowl containing something that looked rather like a straw pincushion, a jug of milk, a smaller bowl containing a little white sugar, and, finally, a cup and saucer containing what he supposed must be the coffee essence. ‘Thank you, madame.' She went away again and he tested the drink cautiously. In France, he took his coffee black – very black. This was made with milk and had a curious taste and smell that had nothing whatever, so far as he could tell, to do with real coffee. However, it was infinitely better than the cell tea. The pincushion almost defeated him. He tried it first without milk and then with milk, which was slightly better, and chomped away doggedly. It not only looked like straw, it tasted like it. He was just forcing down the last mouthful when she came back with the tray to remove the bowl and set before him a fried egg, a single piece of bacon, and a triangle of something that he recognized as a piece of bread that had been fried too. She was looking embarrassed again.

‘I don't suppose it's quite what you're used to, Monsieur Duval. I'm afraid the rationing is getting to be a bit of a problem here. We have to make do with what we can get. Perhaps it's easier in France?'

It certainly seemed so to him – in Brittany, at least. In spite of the
cartes d'alimentation
and all the restrictions, if one knew where to go it had not been too difficult to eat perfectly well. Almost as normal. One could still, for instance, get plenty of local oysters, langoustines and crabs. Though doubtless that would all change soon. He said gallantly, ‘This looks delicious, madame. But I must be taking your rations.'

‘Oh, it's quite all right. Lieutenant Reeves is providing an emergency ration book for you, so we'll be able to manage.'