Survivor

by Lesley Pearse

  The woman was as sour-faced as she had been at their first meeting; Mariette wondered if she drank vinegar to keep herself that way. In a dark brown wool dress, without even a lace collar or a brooch to lessen the severity, it was clear she cared little for appearances and was probably wincing at the brightness of Mariette’s apple-green jacket and strawberry-blonde hair.

  ‘We have a mission planned for Wednesday. You must be at Lyme Regis harbour at five p.m. Wear suitable, warm dark clothes for the boat. But you must also have smart street clothes and a cocktail dress with you.’

  Mariette looked askance at the older woman. Surely she wasn’t expected to be socializing?

  ‘Come, come,’ Miss Salmon tutted. ‘You will have more than one part to play on this mission. Now, let me tell you the cover story.’

  Sybil lunged forward as Mariette went to leave through the pub’s side door on Wednesday, just after one o’clock. She caught hold of Mariette and hugged her tightly.

  ‘You come back safe,’ she said, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘Ted and I have come to think of you as family, and we’ll be on tenterhooks until you return.’

  Mariette disengaged herself from Sybil’s arms, touched by her affection. ‘That’s a sweet thing to say, but try not to worry about me, I’ll be fine. Now, if Edwin should telephone, just say I’m out. Don’t tell him I’m with the kids – which is what I’ve said to everyone else – as he knows the Hardings are on the phone, and he might ring there. But I must go now, or I’ll miss the train.’

  ‘Were you hoping to disguise yourself as a man?’ Sybil asked teasingly, referring to Mariette’s wool trousers and the fact that she was wearing a naval pea jacket which had been left behind in the bar last winter. ‘Because if you were, you failed. Even with your hair tied back, you still look totally feminine.’

  Mariette grinned. ‘I doubt I will with this on,’ she said, pulling a black knitted hat from her pocket. ‘But I’m not walking through Sidmouth wearing it. I’m saving it for when it’s dark.’

  She wondered what Sybil would say if she knew just what kind of place Mariette was heading for in France. She had lowered the neckline of the black dress she wore so often behind the bar, and had sewn dozens of sequins on the bodice. Sybil would have guessed the part she was expected to play right away, if she’d seen her in the altered dress.

  And she’d have been even more worried.

  As the train chugged along the coast, Mariette thought about Sybil’s emotional reaction to her leaving. She had grown very fond of her employers too, and it seemed so odd now that her younger self, back in New Zealand, had never formed any attachment to anyone other than family members. And she hadn’t even been very caring towards them!

  Would age have made her kinder and more caring, even if she’d stayed in New Zealand? Or was the change in her character only down to getting a wider view of life in England and experiencing tragedy?

  Her stomach was full of butterflies. When she’d slipped the razor-sharp flick knife that PJ had given her into the bag with her clothes for the trip, she’d felt physically sick, convinced she could never use it. But PJ had assured her that the training she’d had would automatically kick in if she was in danger. She hoped he was right. She wondered too how her parents would react, if they knew what she was about to embark upon. They’d be scared for her, of course, but somehow she felt they’d be really proud that she was brave enough to risk her life for someone else.

  But she didn’t feel brave; for two pins she’d jump off the train at the next station and run back to the safety of the pub. Yet whoever it was she was going to collect in France, she guessed that at this very moment he was probably every bit as scared as she was, cowering in some hiding place, terrified he’d be caught and shot. She couldn’t let him go through further torment by not turning up as planned – to do so might be the same as signing his death warrant, along with others in the chain.

  Mariette arrived in Lyme Regis too early to go straight down to the harbour, so she went into a busy tea shop to wait. From her tiny table in a corner she could observe everyone, and despite her nervousness it was very entertaining.

  At the pub most of the customers were men, and the women who did come in were very ordinary – mostly wives or girlfriends of regulars, or young women in the forces or doing war work in or around Sidmouth. She rarely came up against what Sybil called ‘lah-de-dahs’, middle-class ladies with fox furs around their necks and loud, braying voices. That kind of woman was more likely to be found in the cocktail bar of one of the grander hotels, sipping gin and tonic.

  But the Copper Kettle in Lyme Regis was clearly another gathering place for such women, and while some of them might be here on holiday, looking for fossils – which Mariette had discovered was one of the attractions of Lyme – she thought, from the snatches of overheard conversation, that most of these women lived close by.

  ‘She asked to see my identity card!’ one woman, with a Roman nose and a long speckled feather sticking out of her hat, exclaimed loudly. ‘As if she didn’t know who I was! Such impudence. That girl was in service to my sister before the war, but now she’s been taken on as a receptionist at the Bellevue she thinks she’s royalty.’

  One by one the friends of the feathered-hat woman chipped in with little anecdotes of ungrateful servants, and Mariette smiled to herself. The tide had turned for such women. They couldn’t get servants any more because no one wanted to be in domestic servitude when they could earn far more in factories, and have no restrictions placed on their private life. Without their maids and housekeepers, these women were in exactly the same boat as the ordinary working classes, as likely to be bombed out as anyone else, and existing on exactly the same rations. Many of the women, who lived in big old houses, were struggling to hold their homes together as all the tradespeople who once handled routine maintenance work had been called up.

  Mariette didn’t have much sympathy for them. She felt their female servants would probably have stayed with them, if they’d been treated well and valued. She also despised the way such women lorded it over those they considered beneath them. She hoped the war would bring an end to class snobbery, but somehow she doubted it would.

  Just after five, Mariette made her way down to the harbour. It was pitch dark now, and chilly, but luckily there was very little wind. She trained her torch on to the ground, slipping and sliding on the cobbles. Her instructions were to stand by the lifeboat holding a white handkerchief in her hand. The skipper of the boat would approach her.

  She put her woolly hat on, pulling it right down over her ears. It wasn’t just about warmth; with her hair covered, she would be taken for a man and would not raise any suspicions.

  ‘Elise?’

  The gruff voice coming from behind her startled her, and for a split second she forgot she was to be called Elise Baudin.

  She spun round to see a short, squat man with a bushy dark beard, but it was too dark to make out further details about him.

  ‘Bonsoir, je suis Elise. Armand?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s OK, you can speak English. Now follow me.’

  Leading the way across the stony beach, he didn’t speak again until they came to a rowing boat which had been pulled halfway out of the water. He took her bag from her, threw it in, and told her to hop in too. He pushed the boat out into the water, then jumped in and took the oars.

  He rowed fast and so smoothly there was scarcely a sound, reminding Mariette of the way her father rowed; the man was entirely at one with the oars, as if they were extensions of his own arms. Just that similarity was enough to calm some of her fears.

  Armand reached a moored fishing boat, caught hold of a ladder on the side to keep the rowing boat steady, then told Mariette she was to go first. As she climbed up the ladder, another man appeared on deck and held out his hand to help her.

  Within a few minutes, the fishing boat was chugging out of the harbour. Mariette had been ordered to put on waterproofs by the second man, who said
his name was Henri. By the light of a tilley lamp below decks, Mariette saw that both men were at least fifty, possibly even older. They were both English and, like her, they had been given French names for this mission. They didn’t seem inclined to talk, but Henri told her the fishing boat was fast, and it needed to be, as they had to meet up with a French fishing boat off the Brittany coast before dawn.

  Henri must have realized she was puzzled, and he explained. ‘We can’t go right in as the Germans would blast us out of the water, so we meet up with a French boat and pass you on. As it’s such a dark night tonight, we hope we won’t be spotted by anyone.’

  The boat was a little larger than her father’s boat back in New Zealand, and the engine was a lot more powerful. It sped through the waves and, to Mariette, it was wonderful to be back on the sea at last.

  It was soon clear to her that neither man wanted her in the wheelhouse – perhaps they were worried about it being unlucky to take a woman aboard a fishing boat – so Mariette went into the tiny cabin and sat down. It was just like every other fishing boat she’d been in; it smelled bad, not just of fish, but of stale cooking, cigarettes and sweaty feet. There was a narrow bunk fitted in towards the bow, while seating was on the boxes either side, where equipment was stored, with a narrow table bolted to the floor between them. The tiny galley fitted in between the bunk and the seating.

  Everything was very dirty, but Mariette was well aware that most fishermen, especially ones who go out in their boats night after night, would not have the time to concern themselves with such things. She could remember her mother tutting over the state of the cabin in her father’s boat. She always said it was a waste of energy cleaning it up, it would be just as mucky again the next time she looked. But after a few moments of sitting there looking at unwashed crockery, Mariette put the kettle on to wash up.

  Despite the speed they were chugging along at, the boat remained surprisingly stable, and she was able to wash the crockery and make coffee for Armand and Henri without being thrown around.

  When she took the coffee to the wheelhouse, both men looked surprised and pleased.

  ‘We’re making good time,’ Armand said as he took his mug and waved away the tin of condensed milk she’d brought with it. ‘If I were you, I’d try to get some sleep now, we’ll have to call on you to keep watch for ships as we get closer to France.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she said, knowing full well she was far too pent up to sleep.

  ‘Tomorrow will be a long day for you,’ Henri said, and his smile was warm and even sympathetic. ‘With luck on our side, we’ll be meeting up with the French boat again, with you in it, around ten in the evening. Then we’ll be back to England at first light.’

  ‘Have you done many of these trips?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t ask, Elise. Better not to know.’

  Lying on the bunk a little later, trying to sleep, Mariette wondered what Henri had actually meant. Had the previous person doing her role been captured or shot? Or did he just mean that it was best not to ask questions about anything?

  Armand woke her at four in the morning and gave her some binoculars to scan the horizon for ships, while he had a sleep and Henri took the wheel. Mariette saw the occasional light on a ship a great distance away, but nothing worryingly close.

  The sky was just beginning to lighten when she spotted a fishing boat coming towards them. ‘Is it the one we’re supposed to be meeting?’ she asked Henri.

  He nodded. ‘Go and wake Armand and get your bag, we need to do the changeover fast.’

  The other boat came alongside, and Mariette jumped across to it. Her bag was thrown after her.

  ‘Good luck!’ Armand called out, and without a second’s delay sped away, back towards England.

  The two Frenchmen on the other boat had quite a haul of fish aboard. They were younger than Armand and Henri, tough-looking men with weathered skin and thick beards. They did not introduce themselves, just ordered her down into the cabin in rapid French. They told her to stay there, out of sight, until they called her.

  Mariette lay on the bunk, thinking with trepidation about what lay ahead. She knew that their destination was Portivy, a tiny fishing village on the Atlantic side of a long, narrow isthmus. The Atlantic side of this land was known as the Côte Sauvage, which, she guessed, would mean it had high winds and rough sea. The inner, protected side that formed the Bay of Quiberon would be far less hostile, but any attempt at making an unseen escape from there would mean sailing right round the isthmus. At the top of the isthmus, only about a mile from Portivy, stood Fort de Penthièvre, built back in the eighteenth century to protect France from the English. It was now a German garrison, and Miss Salmon had been unable to find out just how many soldiers were stationed there.

  When they arrived at Portivy, Mariette was to go to La Plume Rouge café on the harbour to see Celeste Gaillard, who ran it. Celeste ran a brothel alongside her café, and as new girls came and went frequently Mariette’s sudden appearance would not be thought odd. The cover story for anyone who might question her was that her mother, back in Marseille, was an old friend of Celeste’s. But then, if everything went to plan, she would be leaving the small fishing village that same evening, hopefully without arousing anyone’s interest in her.

  Miss Salmon had said Celeste was a member of a very active Resistance group in Brittany who were responsible for hiding many people until they could be got out of France. Some of these were other Resistance members, but they also included Allied airmen who had been shot down and some Jewish people escaping before they could be sent to German work camps.

  While Miss Salmon had been anxious to point out that there were dozens of people who played their part in rescues, all of whom risked their own lives, she had said Celeste was especially courageous as she faced spite and condemnation from many local French people who had no idea of the secret work she was doing and believed her to be collaborating with the Germans who frequented her café and brothel.

  Mariette hoped that some of Celeste’s courage and dogged determination to thwart the Germans would rub off on her. But she was all too aware that she was entering France illegally, with false papers that she couldn’t be sure would stand up to scrutiny, going to a brothel of all places. She just had to hope that those who had recruited her knew what they were doing.

  Soon after Mariette had caught her first glimpse of Fort Penthièvre, which was a huge and forbidding grey stone building with the German flag fluttering above it, one of the two sailors came into the cabin and introduced himself as Luc. He was a big man, possibly thirty-five or so, with wild dirty straw-coloured hair and a moustache to match.

  ‘You must stay in here,’ he said, lifting the lid of a storage box which was used as a seat. ‘It has air holes, and I will release you as soon as it’s safe. But it may be some time. Often, German soldiers come straight to the boat to buy fish, and we have to pretend to be glad of their business. When they are gone, we can get you to Celeste.’

  Mariette climbed in with some trepidation as she could see it wasn’t long enough to lie out straight, and it smelled awful. Luc put her bag in the storage box for a pillow, and she smiled weakly up at him.

  ‘There are worse things,’ he said and he smiled back, suddenly looking far less fierce.

  She heard the sounds of people in the harbour even before she felt the slight bump as the boat touched the quayside. The boat lurched as one of the men jumped off to secure her, and then there was thumping and bumping as they carried the boxes of fish off the boat.

  She could hear the two fishermen talking to other people, but not clearly enough to follow what they were talking about. She thought some of it was haggling over the price of the fish, but every now and then there were bursts of loud laughter. Trapped, cold, hungry and very uncomfortable, Mariette found herself imagining they were telling German soldiers where to find her. She expected the lid of the box to open and to be hauled out at any moment.

  The sound of voices moved
away from the boat, until all she could hear was the calling of the seagulls. It was very tempting to raise the lid of the box just enough to see what was happening. But she didn’t dare do it, for fear a German soldier had remained on the deck or was standing close enough on the quayside to see into the boat.

  After what seemed like hours, Luc came back. ‘Quickly,’ he said. ‘Change your clothes, leave what you are wearing now in the box, and then we must get you off the boat.’

  He left her, and Mariette quickly stripped off her trousers, thick jumper and heavy shoes, then put on a brown wool dress, stockings, high heels and a camel coat with a red fox collar that Sybil had given her. Mog had made and sent her the dress, and Edwin had always said she looked sexy in it as it was pencil slim with a crossover neckline that enhanced her breasts. With her bright red lipstick, and her hair brushed and worn loose under an emerald-green beret, she was ready. She slipped the flick knife into her coat pocket and picked up her bag containing her black cocktail dress and washing things.

  Luc smiled in surprise at the transformation. ‘A friend will be along in his van to collect some fish, very soon,’ he said. ‘He will pull up very tight to the gangplank. I will go to the back of his van with the fish. You must peep out of the porthole, and when I put my pipe in my mouth that means it is safe for you to come out. Run to get in the front of the van, then lie down on the floor and cover yourself with a blanket. In a few moments, my friend will drive off and take you to the back door of La Plume Rouge. Celeste will give you the instructions for later tonight.’

  Mariette couldn’t speak as her mouth was too dry with fear, so she just nodded.

  ‘Most of the soldiers who were out here earlier have gone now, but we don’t want anyone to see you come off the boat. There are some in Portivy who would sell their own soul to the Germans.’

  Miss Salmon hadn’t told her any of this. Mariette had imagined Celeste’s place was so close to the quayside that she would just run there from the fishing boat. All Miss Salmon had said was the next part: Mariette was not to divulge anything to any of Celeste’s girls and must stick to the pre-arranged story that she’d had a fight with her mother, back in Marseille, and had taken the train to Paris. When that didn’t work out too well, she’d come here. Mariette needed to act as if a brothel was normal to her, perhaps even give the impression she’d worked in one in Marseille.