The Scarlet Nightingale

by Alan Titchmarsh

  ‘Goodness!’ said Rosamund. ‘This is what comes of living on a farm – even if most of it does have to be rationed and distributed.’

  Thierry gestured to a chair on the side of the table as Madeleine put the fresh pot of coffee on the table, along with crusty bread and a saucer of bright sunshine-yellow butter. Rosamund looked up at her appreciatively, as Madeleine said ‘Eat!’

  She did not need asking twice. ‘I’m ravenous,’ she murmured.

  ‘Has Eric surfaced yet?’ asked Thierry.

  Rosamund shook her head, her mouth filled with warm bread and the most succulent sausage she could ever remember eating.

  ‘Lazy bugger.’

  Rosamund washed down the sausage and bread with a mouthful of coffee, then leaned back. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever tasted a breakfast as good as this one.’

  Madeleine frowned and said, ‘It is not every day we eat so well,’ before turning back to the sink and washing the crockery that had been used by those who had risen a good deal earlier.

  ‘Are Gaston and Paulette up already?’ Rosamund asked the farmer’s wife.

  ‘Of course. They have work to do. They must earn their keep. Gaston is in charge of the cows and the pigs. Paulette looks after the horse and the chickens and … whatever else we have on our hands.’ There was a mild note of severity in her voice, but she looked, thought Rosamund, like a kind woman who would be fair if firm with her offspring.

  ‘Henri has a share of a tractor. He is out moving straw and hay for a while. He will be back soon.’ Then she carried on with her chores and Rosamund with her breakfast.

  It was another half hour before Eric emerged, looking as though he had not slept at all, though the snoring had indicated otherwise. ‘Mmm. Breakfast.’ He piled up his plate with sausages, egg and bacon, and began the serious business of putting them away.

  Thierry shook his head as he watched. ‘When you’ve finished we’ll have a briefing.’

  Eric said, ‘Certainly, boss,’ but did not look up from the serious business in hand.

  Half an hour later, the three of them sat around the kitchen table poring over a detailed map of the area, as Thierry finally made clear the nature of their mission.

  ‘We are here,’ he said, pointing at a tiny dot on the map adjacent to the snaking outline of the River Loue. ‘And we are moving tonight to this village – Fesches-le-Châtel. It is around four kilometres from Montbéliard … here … and right next to Montbéliard is our target … here at Sochaux.’

  Rosamund looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Once we’ve sorted a few things out – met our contacts here, got the measure of them and satisfied ourselves that everything is lined up – we have a simple task to coordinate.’

  ‘Which is?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘Sochaux is where the Peugeot factory is.’

  ‘Cars?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘In peacetime, yes. But it has been commandeered by the Germans to make parts for tanks. It plays a vital part in the build-up of German armaments. Its output is considerable. Our task is to destroy it, or at the very least interrupt the manufacturing process and delay its restoration.’

  Eric pricked up his ears. ‘Explosives?’

  ‘Yes. And incendiaries. Henri, along with some of his compatriots, has been acquiring the necessary supplies and equipment to make it possible, but there are several things we have to take into account.’

  ‘And they are?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘First, we don’t want to risk lives – ours and those of members of the Resistance – if Bomber Command change their minds and decide on an air raid. Not only will they take out the factory, they will take us out, too.’

  ‘Why can’t they do that then?’ asked Eric. ‘Why do we have to do the job at all?’

  Rosamund cut in. ‘Because a bombing raid is too risky, presumably. The Germans will be guarding the factory with anti-aircraft guns and will bring down any planes that attack.’

  ‘Exactly,’ confirmed Thierry. ‘Their record of hits around here is exceptional. We’ve already tried and failed, with heavy losses. It will be easier to mount a local operation. The Resistance are already involved in sabotage to some degree – building faults into the parts – but that only makes the Germans more determined to punish those on the production line who are involved. By using an outside agency …’

  ‘Us?’ muttered Eric perfunctorily.

  ‘Yes. That way it is safer for the locals.’

  ‘But will we have their cooperation?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘Some of them, yes; but obviously there are those who don’t want to rock the boat. Those who consider that the war is lost already and who are prepared to tow the German line for their own safety and that of their families.’

  ‘What about the factory owners? Where do they stand?’

  ‘They are on the side of the Allies. They will help us but only if we can convince them that we can be effective, without implicating them, and that we have no ulterior motive.’

  ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. It will take some kind of negotiation. These are early days.’

  ‘But we can’t take too long?’

  ‘No. The sooner we can stop the production of tanks, the better for all concerned – except the Germans.’

  Eric scratched his head. ‘Do you have an idea?’

  ‘Yes. I want – somehow – to contact the head of Peugeot and convince him.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit dicey?’ asked Rosamund. ‘What if he gives us away?’

  ‘Our intelligence shows him to be on our side. He doesn’t want to keep helping the Germans and is complicit in the factory workers’ sabotage operations. He knows we could send in bombers – in spite of our lack of success so far – and that a successful strike could wipe out his factory and most of his workforce. It’s better for him – and the factory – if we can halt production with very little loss of life. We just need to convince him that such a thing is possible.’

  ‘So you’ll have to find a way of meeting him?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘Yes, but first we have to meet the group of people we will be working with and see if we can trust them.’

  ‘You mean, some of them might be working for both sides?’

  ‘It’s more than likely. When the enemy occupies your homeland, some people will do anything to get rid of them; others will appear to be doing so but when things get difficult …’

  ‘When push comes to shove, as we say across the channel …’ added Rosamund.

  ‘Quite. There may be one or two who will blow with the wind, whose loyalty to the Allies – and to the French Resistance – is not as absolute as we would like. I hope that is not the case here and that Henri has done his homework properly, but you never know.’

  ‘So this whole operation is risky?’

  ‘Very,’ confirmed Thierry. ‘And then, when we’ve done the deed, we need to get out of here, and there will be no shortage of our friends in the grey uniforms who will try to stop us.’

  Almost to herself, Rosamund murmured, ‘I haven’t seen one of them yet – a German, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, you will, Rosamund, you will. And you’ll have to get used to them. You’re a pretty girl. Be careful.’

  Chapter 17

  FESCHES-LE-CHTEL

  OCTOBER 1941

  ‘A country like this … where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything open.’

  Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey, 1817

  Later that day the farm truck was pressed into service once more, and Thierry, Rosamund and Eric were transported the few kilometres to the house at Fesches-le-Châtel.

  Again, Henri, Paulette and Gaston sat in the front of the truck, while the three visitors bounced along the uneven roads and tracks in the back, surrounded by the detritus of farm life – a few bales of hay and straw, an assortment of shovels and pitchforks, and lengths of rough sisal twine which hung in
tangled garlands from the metal hoops that supported the ancient canvas cover.

  In between scanning the countryside for landmarks that might prove useful in the weeks ahead, Rosamund would glance at the backs of their heads through the small and filthy window at the rear of the cab. Partly due to the noise of the engine and partly due to the lack of clear visibility, it was impossible to hear the conversation of the three family members, not that it was either frequent or prolonged. But she would have been keen to know their thoughts on the three newcomers who had been billeted on them.

  After half an hour the old truck pulled up sharply, but the rumbling engine that sounded like some bronchial old man continued to throb to its customary irregular rhythm. The forward motion had ceased so abruptly that it caused Rosamund’s heart to pound. She told herself to get a grip. If she were to be alarmed at every sudden change of movement and circumstance over the next few weeks her heart would most probably give out before the operation was complete. She smiled ruefully at the very thought.

  The tatty canvas flap was thrown up once more, and Paulette and Gaston motioned the three of them to get down from the truck. Rosamund looked around her. They were parked on a small apron of weed-covered gravel behind a low, barn-like extension to a tired, two-storey, lime-washed house. The small area of gravel was bordered by an overgrown quickthorn hedge on the other side of which a field of turnips lay listless in its autumnal livery.

  Through the billowing haze of blue-grey exhaust fumes from the truck, Rosamund noticed the flatness of the landscape and the keenness of the autumn wind, which blew across the field in fitful gusts. The house was on the edge of the town – itself a jumble of assorted dwellings, some stone, some rendered and washed with pale colours, most roofed with mellow terracotta tiles. A church spire protruded from them in the distance. The overall feeling was of a small and unremarkable community that had hunkered down in the face of the chilly wind and the oppressive atmosphere of wartime occupation.

  There was little sign of human life, but then it was early evening, and most of the inhabitants would be partaking of what modest rations they could assemble in the face of unwelcome privation.

  Once they had disembarked, the lorry’s engine cleared its throat and rumbled away with Henri at the wheel and Gaston beside him.

  ‘We must go in,’ said Paulette, with little expression in her voice.

  The interior of the ramshackle barn proved to be much like that of its counterpart at the farmhouse where they had first been taken: a jumbled store of mud-encrusted machinery – much of it rusting – unidentifiable metal containers, old sacks, ropes and general agricultural debris. The air was thick with the tang of damp, decay and sour sump oil. At first, Rosamund wondered if this was where they were expected to live, but Paulette led the way to a door at the back of the barn into which she inserted a large rusty key. With some pressure, and biting of the lower lip on Paulette’s part, the lock yielded and the creaking dust-laden door leading into the house itself was pushed open, revealing a pleasant whitewashed kitchen, warmed reluctantly by the dying rays of a lazy sun. A scrubbed pine table and four chairs occupied the centre of the room. On the table lay an assortment of provisions – a crusty loaf, a block of butter wrapped in waxed paper, various jars and unidentifiable parcels – which, no doubt, Madeleine had provided for their sustenance. Battered enamel pots and pans hung on one wall and a faded hunting print on another. A pile of logs stood alongside a blackened stove, and without a word, Paulette opened the front of the stove, took a box of matches from the pocket of her overalls and lit the ready-laid fire within its recesses.

  Thierry and Eric pushed open another door and disappeared through it as smoke began to billow out of the stove into the small kitchen. Rosamund raised her eyebrows, but Paulette assured her: ‘It always does this, until the chimney is warm.’

  It was the most that Rosamund had heard her say in the brief time that she had been in the girl’s company. Paulette was, she guessed, slightly younger than herself at around eighteen or nineteen, but without doubt she was a capable sort, brought up – like Rosamund – on a farm, and schooled from an early age in looking after herself. Within a few moments, just as Paulette had predicted, the fug subsided and the fire began to draw. The watery glow of the setting sun was replaced with the glow of a crackling fire, and Rosamund was grateful for the much-needed warmth – both physical and spiritual – that it generated.

  Thierry and Eric were upstairs now. She could hear their feet on the naked floorboards above her head. So this would be their home for as long as it took to complete their mission if, indeed, that mission was of a finite duration. Nothing had been mentioned in that respect, and Rosamund knew that she must harbour no hopes of returning home in the foreseeable future. It was a prospect she regularly tried to put out of her mind. An image of Aunt Venetia came into her head. Dear Aunt Venetia, who might as well be on the moon as back in London, which now seemed so very far away. She checked herself, and came back to earth. French earth.

  ‘This was your uncle’s house?’ asked Rosamund, by way of making conversation.

  ‘Yes,’ came the brief reply. Paulette busied herself pulling the short calico curtains across the small kitchen window. The daylight was dying now.

  ‘I was sorry to hear that he died …’

  ‘Yes.’ Then, realising that Rosamund was waiting for more, she added with reluctance, ‘It was hard – especially for my mother.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rosamund, again. She attempted to make reparation. ‘It seems that we have all lost somebody. I lost my best friend. We had grown up together. She was killed by a bomb in the summer. Not very far from an air raid shelter.’

  Paulette shook her head. ‘Who would grow up in a war?’

  ‘We have no choice.’

  ‘No. Except to keep fighting.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Looking uncomfortable, Paulette briskly took down a saucepan from the wall, picked half a dozen large potatoes from a sack that stood on the floor by the sink, and set about putting together a meal. Rosamund took this as her cue to leave the room and explore the rest of the house. There was a small parlour with comfortable easy chairs, an old chest of drawers and a large mahogany mirror over the large inglenook where no fire burned as yet. The room felt cold and damp, the result, thought Rosamund, of being unoccupied for over a year.

  She made her way upstairs and was relieved to find that there were two bedrooms – in one an unmatching pair of single beds and in the other a large double with an ornate white-painted iron bedstead. Thierry and Eric were already unpacking their modest belongings and putting them away in the two chests of drawers that sat on either side of the single beds.

  ‘Is this one mine?’ she asked, rather unnecessarily, pointing to the double bed in the room across the landing from them.

  ‘Unless you want to share with me?’ offered Thierry with a grin.

  Rosamund felt herself colouring up. ‘I’ll resist the temptation,’ she countered, and turned to enter what would pass for her sanctuary during their stay. She pushed the door so that it was part closed, and walked across to the small dormer window that looked out across the fields. It was almost dark now, and no street lights lifted the gloom. She shivered, opened her backpack and took out the few spare clothes she had, preparing to put them in the small cupboard at one end of the room. She was surprised to find some garments already hanging there. At first she thought they might have belonged to Paulette’s uncle, but she soon discovered that they were women’s attire.

  There was a knock at the door and Paulette put her head round. ‘My mother and I did not know if you would need some clothes. We had to guess your size.’

  It was an olive branch of sorts, and Rosamund was grateful for it. She gestured towards the bed, motioning Paulette to sit, half expecting her to shake her head and retreat. But she did not. She came and sat on the edge of the bed while Rosamund arranged her few possessions in the cupboard and on the table.

 
‘You are very brave,’ said Paulette, quietly.

  ‘Me?’

  The girl nodded. ‘To come here, to a foreign country and help us.’

  Rosamund did not know how to reply. She shrugged and smiled. ‘I have to.’

  ‘No, you do not. You could have stayed at home. Safe.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not very safe at the moment. With the bombs falling. They do seem to have eased off a little, but I can’t believe that will last.’

  ‘No. But at least you were surrounded by your own people.’

  Rosamund perched on the small chair opposite the bed and asked, ‘What do you do? From day to day, I mean?’

  Now it was Paulette’s turn to shrug. ‘I feed the animals … and help Papa on the farm.’

  ‘But in terms of …?’

  ‘Resistance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I do what I am asked to do. And try not to be noticed.’

  ‘By Germans?’

  Paulette nodded, then added, ‘And others. This war does not just divide countries from each other; it divides communities. Families even.’ An aura of sadness surrounded her as she spoke. For the first time, Rosamund could properly take in the girl’s appearance. The figure that was masked by the baggy overalls, drawn in at the waist with a thick leather belt, was slender of proportion but shapely. The hair peeping out from beneath the headscarf that retained it was dark and glossy. Rosamund suspected, from the modest amount on view, that it was long and lustrous. The face, though totally devoid of make-up, was pretty and delicate, the eyes a soft shade of blue – a fact, she could not help thinking, which would not have escaped Thierry’s notice. For a fleeting moment she felt a pang of jealousy, then swiftly told herself not to be so silly.

  ‘I shall need help,’ said Rosamund. ‘Learning things – where to go, what not to do, how to … carry myself.’

  ‘Be busy,’ offered Paulette. ‘Look as though you are confident in what you are doing. Do not stand and stare. Avoid making eye contact. Just go about your business as though nothing has happened. Decide where you are going and what you are going to do when you get there. That way you will look purposeful and not attract attention.’