Just before three o’clock, when Charlotte was lying many fathoms below thought, Peter Gregory was woken by a hoarsely whispering voice.
‘Monsieur. Time to go. Come on.’
The couple stood in the doorway of his room. Béatrice held out a shopping bag in which she and Jacques had put a change of clothes, a dried sausage and a loaf of bread. The old man struggled with matches until eventually a flickering glow came up around him.
Gregory hated being woken in the night. It reminded him of days in Africa when the boy would rouse him before dawn because there was work to be done before it grew hot. The taste of aborted sleep also recalled days on the station when they would be scrambled to their planes just as the sun was rising.
He lowered his legs gently to the floor. He was fully dressed in clothes that Jacques had given him, the trousers ludicrously too short but lengthened by the addition of vaguely matching material at the bottom. He took his jacket from the chair and followed his hosts downstairs.
Outside, in the farmyard, a horse and cart were waiting. Jacques handed Gregory a walking stick and carried his bag to the cart. The moonlight was splashed over the mud and dung at their feet.
‘Goodbye, Béatrice.’ Gregory embraced the old woman and felt her hard little body sobbing in his arms.
The old man kissed him on both cheeks, his wiry bristles scorching through Gregory’s shaved skin.
‘I will come back,’ said Gregory, also close to tears. ‘I will come back.’
He climbed on to the cart, with Jacques pushing and helping him from behind. He settled his leg out straight on some old sacks while the driver shook the reins over the horse and moved off.
Gregory looked back at the grey buildings of the farm, three sides of a square in the darkness. He lifted his hand and waved to the old couple, minute figures, holding on to one another in the mud.
PART THREE
AUTUMN – WINTER 1942/3
1
ROBIN MORRIS WAS late leaving his office for lunch. He was due to meet Dick Cannerley in the bar at a quarter to one, and it was already five past by the time he managed to find a taxi.
All morning he had been in an emergency meeting. The Minister and his civil servant arrived in a state of near-panic at half past eight, having received an intercept of a German communication presuming France was on the point of declaring war on Britain.
Taxis swooped towards the building like black ticking birds; the marbled floors rang to the sound of respectably hurrying footsteps; the oak doors of the committee room ground back and forth on their iron hinges. Morris and his senior officer, Sir Oliver Cresswell, presented the details of their own scrambled reinvestigations with an air of ordered calm. Sir Oliver soothed the panting Minister and read each hastily ordered update brought into the meeting with no more than the detached interest he might give to an unfamiliar wine list.
‘Our position,’ he said, ‘is that whatever Monsieur Laval may or may not wish to do, it is still Marshal Pétain who is the head of state, and if he compromises his neutrality, then his government is no longer credible.’
‘Bloody nonsense!’ said the Minister. ‘It hasn’t been credible since the start, and it’s not Pétain who’s in charge. It’s Laval. The tail’s wagging the dog, in case you didn’t know. Don’t forget that French forces have already fought with the Germans in Africa.’
‘Not side by side, Minister,’ said Sir Oliver. ‘Against a common enemy, I concede, but not literally side by side.’
‘Comes to the same thing.’
‘It is admittedly a . . . political distinction.’
The Minister, rather admirably in Morris’s view, did not rise to this provocation, but became more specific in what he required from Sir Oliver and his colleagues.
‘I can assure you,’ said Sir Oliver, ‘that our chaps in the field have so far not missed a trick. Of course I do accept that the principal motive among the French people and their government is the avoidance of civil disorder, and I’m sure also that your own political analysis of Monsieur Laval’s ambitions is a fair one. After all, if he believes that a German Europe – with France in the position, shall we say, of consort or dauphin – offers the only chance of a non-Bolshevist future, then it would make sense for him to offer armed assistance to his ally. The Germans are not, in our assessment, likely to accept his terms, however. Our understanding is that in return for French armed co-operation he has asked for a reinstatement of the 1914 frontiers with Germany.’
‘I can make the judgements,’ said the Minister. ‘It’s the information we’re short of at the moment, particularly on the French side.’
Morris shifted on his unyielding mahogany chair and neatly shaded in his own name on the distribution list of the most recent report.
‘I can assure you, Minister,’ said Sir Oliver, ‘that our endeavours are focused even more keenly on Vichy than on the Occupier. As far as the interpretation of events is concerned, there are well-established procedures, and I’m sure you would accept that a degree of processing of the raw material by ourselves is inevitable if we’re not to swamp the ministry with detail.’ He coughed and braced his shoulders. ‘Now I wonder if we could look forward a little to how we might best co-operate in the coming months. Morris has prepared a short paper which he’d now like to read to you.’
Morris had received a telephone call from Sir Oliver at two o’clock that morning to tell him that he had better come up with something convincing. By six o’clock he had completed a paper he hoped was at least plausible. He had barely had time to bath and shave before putting on the new chalk-stripe suit he had had made by Cannerley’s tailor. Its heavy jacket gave him an air of confident formality as he began with an assessment of the quality of information received, and went on to speculate on the procedures that might be necessary as the war developed.
‘The German success in beating off the Canadian raid at Dieppe was greeted with enormous relief by the French populace. Our early reports last year on Marshal Pétain’s preparations for defence against Allied invasion from the Bay of Biscay and from the Mediterranean were, as you know, subsequently borne out by military observation. Naturally, as the tide of war begins to run the Allied way, the fear of invasion from the Mediterranean may appear more acute both to the Occupier and the Occupied. Our reports at the moment, however, indicate no cause for concern.’
‘Concern?’ The Minister looked unbelieving.
‘No concern that German unease might lead to any precipitate action inside France. Going into the Free Zone, for instance.’
The Minister grunted, ‘Consort, dauphin – bloody concubine more like,’ but said no more, which allowed Morris to give a detailed, practical analysis of future requirements in what, following departmental practice, he referred to as ‘the field’.
As he slumped back against the seat of the taxi and watched the November leaves wheeling about the damp streets, Morris had the feeling of having escaped intact. The Minister’s private secretary had fixed him with a nakedly sceptical look throughout the reading of his paper, which had twice caused him to lose his place and stammer. For the rest, he felt he had earned Sir Oliver’s sotto ‘Well done, Morris’, delivered in the lobby at the end of the meeting.
‘I’d just about given you up,’ said Cannerley, as Morris panted up the broad staircase, over the polished landing and into the bar. ‘What’ll it be? Sherry?’
‘Thank you.’ Morris found his hand was trembling a little as Cannerley gave him the fiddly little glass. ‘Bloody chaos back at the factory.’ He glanced round the bar whose walls were hung with oil portraits of distinguished, and some less distinguished, old members, before confiding in a lowered voice: ‘They’re convinced Laval’s about to declare war on the Allies.’
Cannerley laughed. ‘It would certainly be the logical outcome of his beliefs. Shall we go down? We’re in the supper room – I hope you don’t mind. It was either that or take pot luck at the long table, and the club bores are out in force. They
appear to be indestructible. We need another Blitz, but rather better aimed this time.’
‘How’s Celia?’ Morris asked as the waiter placed a carafe of the club claret between them on the table.
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘And the wedding plans?’
‘God, Robin, you’re worse than her mother. The wedding’s postponed. I’m not sure I’m quite ready for marriage yet.’
‘You mean you haven’t finished playing the field?’
‘That’s a rather vulgar way of putting it, if I may say so,’ said Cannerley. ‘I do find that the hostilities have engendered a certain . . . largesse among one’s female acquaintance. Don’t you?’
Morris had not. He shrugged. ‘The shadow of death, I presume. Timor mortis conturbat me.’
‘Potted shrimps,’ said Cannerley, to the waiter. ‘Hell of a price. I don’t know where they get them from. But do have them, Robin, if you’d like to.’ He pushed back a tumbling lick of fair hair from his forehead.
Morris’s menu had no prices on it, and he felt inhibited.
‘No, I’ll have the . . .’ He scanned the menu for something modest. ‘Sardine salad to start with. Do you remember that girl we met on the train from Edinburgh?’
‘Och aye,’ said Cannerley, ‘the Scots lass. Thereby hangs a tale. Do you know what happened?’ He leaned forward. ‘You know we managed to recruit a G Section man over there? Fowler? He was supposed to get the girl to run a little errand, pass on a bit of misleading information. In return he was going to offer some sort of gen about the whereabouts of her boyfriend.’
Morris nodded.
‘It’s all gone rather haywire. Fowler had to get the hell out of the area. It was all getting a bit hot, apparently. He’s only just managed to renew contact.’
‘I thought she was only going to be there for a short time.’
‘Apparently the bloody girl refuses to come home.’
‘Why?’ said Morris.
‘God knows. It’s all a typical G Section cock-up.’
‘Does it matter, her still being there?’
‘Not to us. In fact it’s rather to our advantage because it gives Fowler a second bite of the cherry. But I imagine G Section are hopping about a bit.’
Morris laughed. ‘Anyway, I’m seeing something of a friend of hers at the moment,’ he said. ‘A girl called Sally. They used to share a flat.’
‘What’s she like?’ said Cannerley as the food arrived.
‘She’s rather nice. Delightful, in fact. Trouble is, she’s all moony about some naval commander.’
‘God,’ said Cannerley, ‘I haven’t had potted shrimps since before the war. They used to do them at Goodwood.’
Since the hand of the clock had passed two by the time they finished eating, they were permitted to take a match from the box in the silver stand and light a cigar to go with the thin, sour coffee. Their conversation returned on a slow loop to where it had begun.
‘I think it’s very unlikely that Laval could pull off a declaration of war,’ said Cannerley, ‘although I’m quite certain he’d like to.’
‘Why are you sure he couldn’t do it?’
‘Because he would try to link it with some sort of deal, and the Germans have never been interested in any sort of collaboration with Vichy.’
‘They let them police the Occupied Zone.’
‘It saves them the trouble. They allow Vichy to have the semblance of autonomy because it helps keep public order, but the Germans haven’t seriously collaborated on a single issue. And even if they won the war they’d completely disregard all the sycophancy of Laval.’
‘No place at the top table?’
Cannerley laughed. ‘They’d be a hundred yards below the salt. Not even in the same trading zone.’
In a brief pause that followed, Morris said, ‘I’m sorry about your father. I saw the obituary.’
Cannerley’s face clouded. ‘Yes, yes. Thank you. I sometimes feel . . . I don’t know, it’s more than just a death.’
‘Are you all right? You look terrible.’
‘Yes.’ Cannerley laughed. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Are you playing at the weekend?’
‘Yes. Worplesdon. Foursomes. I’m rather looking forward to it.’
Later, they stood on the broad stone steps of the old, grey building and wrapped their coats about them as they peered this way and that in the dim afternoon, looking for the yellow lamp of a taxi.
Morris was thinking what London would be like under German occupation: sentries on guard outside the National Gallery, the Foreign Office requisitioned as the headquarters of some insane Nazi project, people scurrying through the streets to their shameful accommodations, a farcical shadow government, headed by Lord Halifax, sequestered in some genteel town – in Cheltenham, perhaps, or Leamington Spa. What providence of leadership, of geography, of political will, what desperate days of hungover young men staggering to their flimsy planes on all-grass airfields had so narrowly turned away the catastrophe? He shuddered as the November wind came gusting down the narrow street from St Martin’s Lane.
In France Charlotte rose gently from the deepest levels of her sleep to find the reflected branches of the almost leafless chestnut tree undulating in watery shadow on the bare wall of her bedroom. Outside, the wind of autumn was hissing in the last dry leaves; the sound was not, despite anything the poet might have said, like sobbing violins, but like the muffled percussion of riveted cymbals.
Charlotte climbed out of bed, washed, dressed and went down the bare back stairs of the Domaine to the kitchen. The metal handles of the cupboard doors were cold to her touch; the large, flagged room held for the first time the prospect of winter. Charlotte was not displeased by it; after a Highland childhood she had never feared the rigours of the season, though she did wonder how a house the size of the Domaine was heated. She could light a fire in her bedroom in the evenings, and since Levade seldom emerged from his studio, a permanently stoked blaze in the large, marble-surrounded grate would do for him. The rest of the unused rooms would have to be shut up and left to freeze.
That was her view, at any rate, and she would not be afraid to express it. Since arriving at the Domaine, she had learned that the quality Levade most seemed to value was frankness. His honesty about himself had prompted in her a reciprocal candour, and nothing would be gained by saying less than she meant. The only trick with Levade was to pick the right moment, not to trouble him when he was distracted by work.
When she heard his slippered footstep on the sprung floor of the dining room she made some tea and took it into him. His face was white, and there were grey smudges round the sockets of his eyes; his skin, she thought, was oddly expressive and changeable for someone of his age. His head hung still over the blue bowl of tea she placed in front of him, and she could sense the awful weight of sleeplessness suggested by his heavy movements. He would be better in an hour or so, when he had drunk more tea, smoked cigarettes and walked in the grounds of the house.
He lifted his head. ‘I’ve been thinking, Madame Guilbert. I think perhaps we know each other well enough now, you and I, for you to come to my studio sometimes in the afternoon.’
Charlotte’s reply was made incoherent by her surprise and by her uncertainty about what he wanted: she did not know whether Dominique Guilbert would thank him for the privilege, ask for more money or indignantly refuse any such idea.
Levade smiled at her evident confusion. ‘I just need a little help with tidying my papers to begin with. I suppose the room could do with cleaning as well. It must be two years since I let the last girl in there.’
‘I see,’ said Charlotte. ‘That’ll be fine.’
As she recovered her balance, Levade said, ‘Of course there are other things you might help me with.’
Before Charlotte could discover what these might be, the telephone rang in the hall and Levade indicated by a nod of his head that she should answer it.
‘Dominique!’ It was Julien, in an excited
state. ‘They’ve done it. They’ve done it, they’ve broken through, they’ve overrun us, they’ve—’
‘Julien, what are you—’
‘Now it’s all-out war. No more Pétain, no more deals, this is it. They’re here in Lavaurette, they’re everywhere.’
‘Do you mean they’ve—’
‘Yes, they poured through the line last night, whole divisions, they’ve taken over the entire country. They’re heading down to the sea to protect the coast, but they’re leaving their soldiers everywhere. We’re going to have our own little German in charge. Come and see, Dominique. Come on.’
Charlotte ran back into the dining room to tell Levade, who shook his head and swore.
‘I want to go to the village,’ said Charlotte. ‘Do you mind if I—’
‘No, go on.’
In Lavaurette, everyone seemed to be on the street, murmuring in closed groups or looking in silent horror at the convoy of German motor vehicles that had pulled in along the side of the Avenue Gambetta. A small boy marched up and down in front of them with exaggerated goosesteps until rescued by his mother.
Charlotte found Julien surrounded by gesticulating people, who included two familiar to her from the Café du Centre – the quiet schoolmaster Claude Benech and Roudil, the veteran of Verdun who had placed his trust in the Marshal. For the first time since she had known him, Julien seemed to have lost control of himself; he was berating the other two men and pointing at the parked German lorries.
Charlotte knew with a panicky conviction that she must stop him at once. She ran into the knot of people and grabbed his elbow; Julien glanced sideways at her, then carried on his tirade. He was shouting at Roudil, some insulting words about Pétain.
Charlotte took his arm again. ‘Julien, you must come with me. You’re needed at the Domaine. You must come now.’ Julien looked at her once and pushed her hand away. Roudil’s lined and weathered face had set horribly still; then his lower lip began to tremble, and large shameful tears rolled out from his closed eyes.
‘As for you,’ said Julien, turning to Benech. ‘You—’