‘I think I recognised him from the club,’ Felix said. ‘Am I right?’
Sylvie nodded. ‘We met by chance. He was the man who intervened down the alley when you accosted me. He wanted to check I had recovered from that ordeal and asked me to go for a walk.’
‘That ordeal?’ Felix rolled his eyes.
‘His words, not mine,’ Sylvie spat. ‘I’m more than capable of taking care of myself as you saw.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Felix said. ‘One advantage to using female agents is that the average German cannot contemplate a woman being so daring or unfeminine.’
‘What would you have done if I had handed the package over?’ Sylvie asked, ignoring the implied insult at her femininity.
Felix stepped back towards the bed and relit his cigarette, not taking his eyes off Sylvie. ‘I would have shot you where you stood.’
She shivered. There was no menace in his voice. No emotion at all. His words were entirely factual. He would have killed her rather than let her betray him, and he would be right to do it. She wondered if she had the iron in her blood to be able to do the same.
‘Why did you go with him?’ Felix asked.
Sylvie turned to face him. ‘Because he invited me. I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to refuse. I could hardly tell him I had to hurry back and hand over a mysterious packet, could I?’
Felix looked sceptical. Sylvie’s temper flared.
‘Did you even stop to think how terrified I must have been carrying what I thought could have been explosives or arms while I wandered round with a German, having to appear normal!’
He dropped his head, and she was glad he could not see the emotion she was sure must be visible on her face. She took a deep breath, clenching and releasing her fists until she felt calm enough to speak without her voice shaking.
‘Not so terrified that you couldn’t shout in a German’s face over some apples.’
‘You saw that too?’
He nodded.
Sylvie glared. ‘And you didn’t think to help the old man when he was kicked?’
‘Sometimes you have to ignore the small wrongs to right the bigger ones.’
They were glaring at each other. Felix’s eyelid flickered, but Sylvie was the first to look away.
‘It’s hard to stand by and watch.’
‘You’ll have to learn to if you want to survive.’ Felix took another drag on his cigarette. He smoked it angrily, as if resenting its very existence and trying to suck the very life from it. ‘It gets easier.’
‘So now do you trust me?’ Sylvie said.
‘I think so.’
Sylvie shouldered her bag. ‘Then I think we are done here. Unless there is any more shopping you wish me to do?’
She meant it to be an insult, but Felix gave a wide grin, the humour appearing from nowhere. ‘If you could find me a bottle of good brandy, I wouldn’t say no to that.’
‘Fetch it yourself.’ Sylvie walked to the door.
‘Mademoiselle, there is something else.’
She paused in the doorway. Felix sauntered across the room towards her and leaned down confidentially.
‘Marcel has returned.’
Chapter Thirteen
Three frustrating days passed before Felix whispered to Sylvie that the rendezvous spot was the Jardin du Plantes, coincidentally the same place that the German had mentioned. Sylvie wore her dress of dusky pink rayon with a scooped neckline and small white collar. The repairs beneath the armpits where the fabric had worn thin from use by the previous owner didn’t show too much and it almost fitted her perfectly. It went with her gold cross necklace very well. She curled the front of her hair and pinned it beneath the brim of her teal hat, while the back fell in a looser chignon.
Her appearance drew a whistle of appreciation from Felix when they met in front of the Cathédrale de Saint Pierre and Saint Paul. It sounded completely spontaneous and unforced, so she accepted it with a smile and toss of the head. Felix was dressed in a sober brown overcoat and hat that made him look very respectable. She told him so as she took his offered arm, and they set off walking in good humour. Although she would not have chosen to spend her time in Felix’s company, Sylvie had to admit they made a handsome couple.
They retraced some of the route Sylvie had taken with the German, but the experience could not have been more different. Where Baumann had seen the prospect of unity, Felix saw only the destruction that had been wrought on the town of his birth. Sylvie’s comment on how the fountain statues had escaped melting down resulted in a bitter retort that many had not.
He glared at her. ‘You sound like a collaborator. Your German friend looks on the world with the eyes of an idealist, and one who is on the side of the oppressors. Of course he will see what he wants to.’
The muscles in his forearm grew rigid, and Sylvie withdrew her hand. They walked stiffly side by side in silence until they reached the entrance to the garden. Sylvie folded her arms and barred his way.
‘What’s wrong?’ Felix asked.
‘Felix, if we’re going to appear inconspicuous, we need to be more relaxed. Do you think you can stop grimacing? Otherwise we look like a couple about to divorce.’
He pursed his lips and said nothing, but held out his arm again for Sylvie to scoop hers through. As they approached the open lawn along a sandy path, Sylvie accepted that it had been sensible to wait rather than rush the meeting. Sunday afternoon was a peaceful time. Morning church services had finished and people were able to forget about the privations of war for the time between lunch and evening Mass. There were plenty of families and groups enjoying the sunshine as they strolled around the shrub-lined paths of the ornate botanical gardens. Ageing men played boules, and elderly women sat on benches in the sunshine.
Life seemed normal, if one was able to ignore the swastika flags on poles where the Tricolore had once fluttered and the soldiers standing at checkpoints. Uniformed Germans of both sexes walked around the gardens, mingling with the French. They were always there: a presence in the corner of the eye and back of the mind.
Now that they were arm in arm again, Sylvie and Felix did not stand out in the slightest. It took all Sylvie’s resolve not to stare around too openly as she and Felix wandered through the gardens, wondering which of the men she passed was her contact. A slight pressure of Felix’s elbow nudging her ribs indicated they must be within sight.
‘Why, Monsieur Pauly! I have not seen you for weeks!’
Felix gave a cry of delight as he hailed a tall, bespectacled man who had been sitting on a bench in the shade with an easel and palette of paints. Monsieur Pauly stood and the two men embraced, rapidly kissing each cheek.
‘Felix Lambert, what a pleasant surprise. Please, will you introduce your friend,’ Monsieur Pauly asked. He was in his mid-thirties, tall and broad with short, sandy-blonde hair. He fitted the description of Sylvie’s contact.
Felix obeyed with a charming smile. ‘This is Sylvie Duchene. She dances at Mirabelle. Marcel is a painter.’
Marcel gestured to the half-completed watercolour on his easel. He’d been preparing to paint the rose garden and ornamental pond. The pencil sketch was well proportioned and Sylvie wondered if he had done it himself. He was currently dressed in slightly shabby, wide-legged trousers and a beret that fitted with the persona of an artist, but Sylvie could imagine him playing rugby at one of the public schools where so many of the officers seemed to have come from.
‘A struggling artist in my free time. I make my living painting doors and windows.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Your field name, if you please, mademoiselle.’
‘Sylvie Duchene.’ She took his outstretched hand and added in a whisper. ‘Field name Monique.’
‘Marcel Pauly. Field name Hubert,’ he replied. ‘Shall we all walk together? The camellias are still in flower.’
It was a good choice of destination because the winter-flowering plants were a less popular destination than the rose garden or the neat p
aths edged with blossoming shrubs. They were alone there, and if anyone had been hiding within earshot, they would have been spotted immediately amid the thinning foliage.
‘I’m so sorry I was not here to meet you on arrival,’ Marcel said in English. ‘Circumstances interceded.’
She had expected the cut-glass tones of the upper classes, so was surprised to hear the broad Yorkshire accent that came out of his mouth. He reminded her of her father, who had sounded similar, and she felt a sudden stab of longing for the clifftop house on the Esplanade in Scarborough. At some point, she would like to ask where Marcel was from, though doubted he would tell her. Marcel Pauly was not his real name and like her, if interrogated, he would stick to his cover story for as long as it was humanly possible, withstanding whatever methods were used to prise the truth from him.
‘Don’t worry,’ she replied, also in English. ‘It’s all worked out thanks to Felix here.’
She wondered if Felix, walking on her other side, could understand what they were saying. He had clearly recognised his name and looked round suspiciously. Marcel repeated what Sylvie had said in flawless French.
‘I understand your words,’ Felix said in halting English. ‘It made me surprised to hear them because she has not thanked me for my help. I don’t know if I have been very helpful after all.’
Sylvie felt a little guilty. It was true; she had not thanked him for going to the effort of finding Marcel for her. The trouble was she found him so irritating a lot of the time, with his silly flirting and the exploit of the cigarettes.
‘You have been very helpful,’ she admitted. ‘Please allow me to buy you a drink when Mirabelle is open.’
‘You will drink with me?’ Felix grinned, switching back to French.
‘Just one,’ Sylvie cautioned. She wagged a finger at him. The sunshine was making her playful. ‘And no more foolish errands.’
Their eyes met and she saw humour dancing in Felix’s. The atmosphere seemed to grow friendlier and the future seemed brighter.
‘Errands?’ Marcel asked. ‘Sylvie, what has Felix had you doing?’
‘He sent me on a test run to see if I could hold my nerve.’
‘Which she carried out boldly,’ Felix added. ‘She has a cool head.’
‘He wanted to be sure I am who I say I am,’ Sylvie explained. ‘With you vanished and me appearing suddenly, he was suspicious and cautious.’
‘It rather exposed a weakness in our methods of contacting new agents,’ Marcel said. ‘Felix, I’m glad you intervened. Is this a sign you might be persuaded to take a more active role in operations again?’
‘Perhaps.’
Felix stuck his hands in his pockets and walked over to one of the planted borders; it was clear to see that Marcel had touched on a nerve. Marcel shook his head subtly and drew Sylvie away, leaving Felix to stare at the flowers.
‘There is accommodation, but, of course, you did not have the address. It will still be available if you want it. Have you been staying at the club?’
It had never occurred to Sylvie to consider staying at the club. There might be space. Monsieur Julien lived there, and, of course, Felix had his room in the attic. No. Sharing a house with Felix might lead to things she was doing her best not to imagine.
‘No, I found a room with one of the other girls. I’ve paid for a month so I’ll stay there as I am settled.’
‘As you wish,’ Marcel said. ‘You’ll receive pay for your accommodation. I’ll arrange things with my woman so she can let the room go.’
Felix wandered back over to join them. His face was carefully neutral, as if he was taking great pains to make it so.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked Marcel. ‘Can you tell us?’
Marcel lit a cigarette and took a few short puffs. ‘I’d taken a shipment of arms up the river towards the coast near St Nazaire. I planned to meet with some men from the Resistance from up that way to pass them on. We were ambushed.’
He glared at the cigarette in his hand and bunched it into his fist.
‘Somebody knew we were coming. Tipped off the SS. Fortunately, the circuit had good lookouts who got to us in time and as far as I know no one was captured. We had two tonnes of plastic explosives, fuses and detonators.’ Felix drew closer as Marcel continued. ‘As soon as we heard the first gun fire, my contact and I had to abandon them. I pray everybody else made it out alive. Three good men died though. One you knew, Felix: Marc with the moustache.’
Felix swore under his breath; a single expletive that exploded out of him violently. Marcel broke off and stared intently at the sprawling camellia plants with their fading blooms. Sylvie glanced at Felix. His face was white with anger. Their eyes met, and she was startled to see that his were slightly moist.
‘Was he a friend?’
He gave a violent shake of the head. ‘Our paths crossed once or twice, but we shared the same purpose and every man lost is one to mourn.’
Sylvie remembered Emily’s comment that he had always been angry and sullen. Each death of a man he knew must be a splinter in his heart. Feeling the anger and grief welling inside her at the fate of strangers, she understood how easily it would be to become bitter towards the world. No wonder Felix could think only of destruction as they had walked to the gardens. It was too long since she had been in Brittany, but if she was faced with such sights… If the clifftop house in England fell to the enemy…
Impulsively, she stepped closer to Felix and reached a hand to his arm, wanting to offer solace and perhaps to draw comfort herself. He tensed and his eyes grew wide. She’d overstepped the mark. Before she could draw back, Felix covered her hand with his and gave a gentle squeeze. His palm was warm over the back of her hand. She was acutely conscious of the way his fingertips brushed against the side of her wrist, leaving a tingling sensation on her bare skin that gave her chills. His eyes flickered to hers, dark lashes ringing the azure depths. There was no anger and no scorn in them; none of the habitual flirtation, only acknowledgement of their shared despair and sadness.
‘What happened after the ambush?’ he asked Marcel.
Marcel walked to the end of the pathway. Sylvie and Felix fell in behind him, walking arm in arm. Feeling the weight of Felix’s arm linked through hers was more reassuring than she expected it to be.
Marcel looked both ways, then sat on a low wall. ‘I spent two days hiding under debris in a bombed-out barn, waiting for the heat to die down before it was safe to leave. I had to abandon my bloody – pardon me, Sylvie – my blasted bicycle and get back here most of the way on foot.’
The picture Marcel was painting of night-time ambushes and gunfights was alarming. Carrying packages through the streets of Nantes was risky but was nothing in comparison. Sylvie hugged herself surreptitiously and felt the solidity of Felix leaning gently against her. She looked up and his mouth quirked to one side in a wry smile that said more than if he had spoken aloud.
‘Where are the explosives?’ she asked. ‘Did they fall into enemy hands or will they need retrieving?’
‘They’re safely collected by now, I hope. I haven’t heard from anyone. The cell will have gone to ground for now. I went straight to see my wireless operator when I came back to Nantes so he could check in with London and tell them what happened. I’m waiting to hear if there is any news from HQ when his next scheduled messages arrive. That should be tomorrow afternoon.’
Marcel tilted his hat back. ‘Sylvie, as soon as I have something for you to do, I’ll send word. The message will come from Tante Louise or Oncle Hubert.’
‘Thank you. I want to be of use as soon as possible. I don’t feel I have done anything worthwhile yet.’
‘You’re dancing at the club, aren’t you?’ Marcel said. ‘Did our mutual acquaintance back home mention that there might be opportunities to gather intelligence from the patrons in ways that are not open to male agents?’
He looked at her meaningfully.
‘They did. I’m happy to do that.’
<
br /> ‘She’s already started from what I have seen,’ Felix said. When Sylvie shot him a confused look, he folded his arms, a sardonic look on his face. ‘The officer from the bakery?’
Sylvie flushed. ‘A German named Baumann. He came to my assistance on the way home one night,’ she explained to Marcel, who had watched the exchange with a frown of confusion. She saw with satisfaction that the reference to assistance had struck home with Felix, who glowered.
‘I didn’t expect to see him again, but we met by accident. He works in the chateau in an administrative role overseeing transportation. I don’t have to see him again if it won’t fit with your plans for me. I probably won’t anyway.’
There was no point in mentioning Baumann had promised he would return to the club.
‘Now, I really must be going,’ Marcel said.
Sylvie took his outstretched hand and shook it once again. ‘When the wireless operator sends a message through with his next skeds, please can he explain what happened to me and why I didn’t make contact before?’
‘Of course. If I had been in contact with Felix before I sent my report and had heard you were here, I would have done it then. No doubt there will be people back home anxious to hear that you made it here in one piece.’
Sylvie made a noncommittal sound of agreement. Every agent wrote a series of letters before being sent on their missions, kept safe at SOE headquarters, to be posted to family regularly so questions weren’t asked about their absence. Sylvie had dutifully written to her stepmother in Scarborough, but the only tie to Maud had been Arthur. Now he was dead, the two women had little in common. Dennis would be highly unlikely to care. At least Uncle Max would be pleased to hear she was safe.
She thought back to the conversation she had had with the German. He had said there was no sweetheart for him to write home to. Perhaps that had been what had drawn them to each other; an inkling of the loneliness and affection each was lacking.
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