What Tomorrow Brings

by Mary Fitzgerald

  Fortunately the bar wasn’t very busy during the day, so I was able to learn about serving the drinks and the few meals we did, which were mostly baguettes, sandwiches and omelettes. I didn’t mind it and the next evening, Charlie turned up.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asked, looking amazed.

  ‘I’m a waitress, isn’t it obvious?’ I winked and looked over my shoulder at Monsieur Heulin, who was leaning on the bar talking to a friend. ‘And I’ve got a room upstairs. It was advertised in the window, so I took it.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘Coffee,’ he said out loud and later as I put the cup in front of him, he muttered, ‘Meet me round the back in fifteen minutes.’

  Monsieur Heulin called, ‘I’m going out. You all right for half an hour?’ I nodded. It couldn’t have been better, we didn’t need to go outside, and I ran upstairs for my notebook and came back to sit beside Charlie.

  ‘The recruitment centre is run by a Polish colonel,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen him yet but I have seen someone called Josip Broz, a Yugoslavian. He’s a communist and seems to have all the connections. He has control of the money and he’s arranging our journey south.’ Charlie leant back and rubbed a hand over his badly shaven chin, while I got up to give a couple of railway workers who were leaning on the bar, more drinks. When I came to sit down again, Charlie continued. ‘There are three of us at the moment. Recruits, I mean. An American and a Welsh miner and me. We’re going by train to Perpignan next week, and then across the border, somehow. The American says that the border is guarded by anarchists and they can be bloody difficult. We’ll see.’ He yawned and twitched his shoulders and I noticed that he looked grubby and tired. In two days he seemed to have lost weight.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ I asked.

  ‘In some little worker’s house not far from here. The French communists have taken over housing the volunteers, but the place they’ve given us is dirty and full of fleas and the food is terrible.’

  ‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘Are you hungry? Wait.’ I went into the kitchen behind the bar, grabbed a baton, sliced it and filled it with ham and cheese. ‘Here,’ I said, a couple of minutes later, putting the napkin-wrapped sandwich into his hand.

  ‘Thanks.’ He took a bite and then stopped and said, ‘I’ll share this with my two comrades.’

  ‘Eat it. I’ll make another for your pals.’

  ‘Mademoiselle!’ I looked up. Customers had come into the bar and I was busy for the next ten minutes, but I managed to make another two sandwiches and gave them to Charlie. I put my own money in the till so that Monsieur Heulin wouldn’t suspect.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Monsieur Heulin walked in as I was serving the customers.

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Quite busy.’

  He looked over to where Charlie was sitting by the window. ‘That Englishman is still here, I see. Friend of yours?’ His eyes narrowed, he gave me a calculating look.

  I countered. ‘How d’you know he’s English?’

  Monsieur Heulin shrugged. ‘His jacket, his haircut, what can I say? He’s English and a volunteer. They come in from time to time. The office is up the street.’

  I pretended to be ignorant. ‘A volunteer for what?’

  ‘The war, girl. In Spain.’ He stubbed out his thin cigarette and lighting another gave Charlie a sour look. ‘They’re all communists.’ The distaste in his voice was patent.

  ‘You don’t like communists?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I don’t. Why should I? If they took over I wouldn’t be able to run my bar, they’d make rules and take all my money.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said and then grinned at him. ‘But that doesn’t stop you serving them.’

  He grinned back. ‘That’s business. Anyway, they’re all going to be killed as soon as they get to Spain.’

  When I looked back to the window Charlie had gone.

  I didn’t see him again for a week. I occupied my time with working in the bar and getting to know some of the regular customers. They were mostly men who worked at the railway station, who came in for a brandy before, as well as after, work, and the working girls, who seemed to survive on cigarettes, coffee and as much pastis as they could afford. They were a quiet bunch, never apparently drunk, but always exhausted. I met my neighbours, Antoinette and Simone, both of whom were older than me; indeed I thought that Simone might not be far short of fifty. They would come into the bar every evening for an omelette and a few drinks, before heading out to work. I don’t know where they entertained their customers because I never saw any men on the premises and I was glad of that.

  ‘You are English?’ Simone had asked on the first evening.

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded.

  ‘I’ve met some Englishmen,’ she said, putting her empty glass on my tray and pointing for another drink. ‘They are polite. Better than some others.’

  Antoinette nodded. ‘Polite, yes. But shy.’ They smiled at each other and I smiled with them. Amyas wouldn’t have been shy, but perhaps Charlie would. That brought a new thought. What sort of love life did Charlie have? I’d been so wrapped up with Amyas that I’d never considered Charlie, but I remembered him making a pass at me, that first time at Gennaro’s, before I’d even encountered Amyas. He hadn’t tried again. Perhaps he didn’t fancy me. I glanced at the two women and at the other girls sitting with their drinks. Did Charlie go with them?

  On the Wednesday lunchtime of the following week he came in. I brought him a coffee and an omelette. ‘We’re getting the eight forty train to Perpignan this evening. It leaves from the Gare de Lyon. You’ll have to get on it too.’ He gave me a smile. ‘Still up for it, Blake?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  He lifted an eyebrow and gave a pretend sigh of relief. ‘Good. I wondered if you might have become enamoured of the waitressing life and not want to carry on with this reporting lark.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ I laughed.

  I went up to my room at six o’clock and packed my small case. ‘I’m off,’ I told Monsieur Heulin. ‘I’ve got all I need for my article and now I’m moving on. Thanks for the job, I enjoyed it.’

  He didn’t look shocked, or even surprised. ‘The train goes from the Gare de Lyon,’ he said. ‘Though I expect you know that already. I knew what you were up to all along . . . going as a nurse to join the Communists. Well, good luck. But you’ll probably be killed.’

  And with those words ringing in my ears I left and found my way to the station. I saw Charlie in the distance, standing on his own. Looking around the passengers waiting to board the train I noticed two other men who looked as lonely and as nervous as Charlie. I waited until he’d seen me and had got on the train before finding my carriage and settling down to the overnight journey. That night I dreamed I was back in Cornwall, being held by Amyas, as the surf rolled in.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cerbère, France, 1938

  ONCE I ARRIVED in Perpignan I made my way to Cerbère. It was the town Charlie and I had decided would be a good place for me to wait for him or, if possible, a good place from where I could cross into Spain. It was a small town right on the border, about twenty miles south of Perpignan and the railway terminus for the French trains. Before the war, Spanish trains would also come into this terminus and goods and passengers would be transferred for their onward journey, north or south. But now the border was closed and the only trains were the ones from the north. Shortly beyond the station the tracks disappeared into a long railway tunnel, which had been blasted through the mountains into Spain. I’d been told that people escaping the war walked through this tunnel, arriving in Cerbère dusty, desperate and bewildered. Those were precisely the people I needed to interview but, so far, I hadn’t seen any of them.

  When I first got there the nights were cold. It was the end of March and although in the daytime I could walk about in short sleeves, loving the feel of the sun on my bare arms, the temperature plummeted as night fell. But as March turned into April and April, May, the evenings be
came delightfully warm and I would have my supper in one of the cafés overlooking the sea.

  My new home was the Hotel Belvedere. It was only ten years old then, a strange, white concrete building, long and narrow with a curved prow making it look for all the world like an ocean liner picked up by some wild wind and deposited in the town, on a promontory above the sea. The bedrooms were on the second floor, oddly arranged around an internal courtyard, which had a glass ceiling through which you could see the sky. If you were given a room on the west side, you would look out on to the railway lines beneath but also to the last dark crags of the Pyrenees, which rose up against the clear southern sky. On the east side, the view was of the coastline and the blue, shimmering waters of the Mediterranean. I took a room with the sea view and settled myself in for a wait, but I hadn’t imagined how long it would be. Six weeks had passed which I’d spent gathering copy for articles and taking photographs of the coastline and the pretty villages. I sent some pieces home to our editor and I heard that they went into the travel section. I was thrilled at that, but the travel section really wasn’t where I wanted my articles to be.

  ‘I don’t want you to cross the border,’ Charlie had said when we were still in Paris. ‘It’s too dangerous. Several journalists have been killed . . . by both sides. Accused of spying, which is what, in effect, I’m doing.’

  ‘Should you be going?’ I’d asked. I began to feel seriously worried for him.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Charlie answered. ‘How else can I gather the information I need? Now, you take a room somewhere close to the border and let Geoff know where you are. I’ll try and get through to him and he’ll transfer the information to you. It’ll be a three-way contact, but I want you to get the feel of the place and to interview likely people for your articles. I think you’re very good at that. It’s one of your strengths, along with having a good style of prose. You seem to attract contacts, and you know what, Blake, we make a good team.’

  I was foolishly pleased to hear him say that. We had become real friends, as well as working colleagues. I trusted him with my life, and it seemed that he was prepared to trust me with his.

  He’d reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. ‘If anything happens, I want you to make sure that this gets to Diana.’

  ‘Diana?’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlie frowned. ‘My wife, Diana.’

  I must have sat and stared at him for at least thirty seconds. It felt like an hour.

  ‘What is it, Blake?’ he said, smiling. ‘Don’t you want the responsibility of telling her that I’m dead?’

  ‘I . . . I didn’t know you were married,’ I said finally. ‘You’ve never mentioned it.’ I could hardly believe it. Charlie Bradford with a wife? Did everyone know except me?

  ‘Haven’t I?’ He shrugged and, gulping down the coffee I’d brought him, pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘We have a house in Dorset. She lives there. Diana doesn’t do town.’

  I followed him out of the café. It was beginning to rain and he turned up the collar on his jacket. ‘You made a pass at me, when we first met,’ I said, stupidly annoyed.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ He laughed. ‘I’m a red-blooded man and you’re not a bad-looking woman. It would have been a crime not to have a go.’

  I shook my head, trying to decide if I was flattered, or furious. ‘Charlie,’ I called as he turned to walk away, ‘have you got any children?’

  He raised two fingers as he walked down the street.

  That letter was in my bag now, nestled close to my passport and wallet. I knew that, if necessary, I would take the letter to Diana, but I did wonder about their relationship and why I was so uncomfortable about it. Was I jealous? No, of course I wasn’t because I was in love with Amyas. My thoughts turned to him. What was he doing? Enjoying himself on the Riviera, in and out of the casinos, gambling with the proceeds of the stolen jewellery? Or had he run out of money and gone back to Mrs Cartwright? I could picture him, black hair curling at his neck, maybe wearing a new Savile Row suit, jauntily turning up at her over-furnished mansion, grinning like a fool and not showing any remorse. She would take him back of course, calling him for everything, no doubt, but glad to see him. I laughed to myself, sitting on my bed looking out at the sea and didn’t blame him. That was how he lived, how he survived. It was a job, like any other. Well, perhaps not like any other.

  The image of Amyas was strongly with me as I wandered down to the hotel bar for a drink before I decided on dinner. He’d like it here, I thought, because it was a little like Cornwall with its miles of rocky headlands dropping down into small coves of golden beaches. And the beautiful sea was warm, clear and sparkling. Amyas loved the sea.

  ‘Mademoiselle?’ It was Paul Durban, another journalist who was staying at the hotel. He was French and young; my age, probably, with a bony, rather clever face under a mop of dark wavy hair. He constantly had a cigarette hanging from his lips, the smoke from his Gauloise curling into the air around him. We had smiled at each other at breakfast and later, when I’d walked into the village, I’d bumped into him again and we’d introduced ourselves. ‘Mademoiselle.’ He grinned. ‘Will you join me for a drink?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. We took our drinks to the balcony and sat gazing at the view of the rugged coastline as it wound itself into Spain.

  ‘You are in Cerbère to look for refugees?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘I’m interested in gathering their stories but, so far,’ I took a sip of the red, rather fruity wine and sighed, ‘I haven’t been able to find them. Apparently the flow of people coming out of Spain has dried up. In the meantime, I’m waiting for my boss.’

  It was eight o’clock in the evening and the sun was going down over the mountains that loomed dark against the lilac sky and spoke of the cruelty and barbarism which was going on beyond them. I yearned to go into Spain. I wanted to find out for myself what was happening and, with my press pass, I was sure I’d be let in. God knows, it was an easy walk from the village to the border and I’d done it a couple of times and looked at the soldiers leaning aimlessly against the barrier, but, faithful to Charlie’s instructions, I had never crossed over.

  ‘Your boss?’ Paul asked.

  I nodded. ‘Charlie Bradford.’

  ‘Ah,’ Paul grinned. ‘The famous Charlie Bradford. I know him. He is in Spain, yes?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said. That bit was true. I only thought Charlie had got across the border, because I hadn’t seen him since the station at Perpignan where I’d hung around and watched him and his two companions being collected by a couple of men and led out of the station. I’d followed them and was just in time to see them bundled into a vehicle and driven off. Charlie had looked back as he’d scrambled into the lorry and although he didn’t acknowledge it, I knew he’d seen me.

  ‘How did he get in?’ Paul looked at me, curiously. ‘He must be known to the authorities and it seems to be impossible for journalists at the moment. I have walked to the border every day but I am not allowed to cross.’

  ‘Charlie has his ways,’ I said, not willing to give details. However pleasant this young man was I didn’t intend to endanger Charlie’s life any further by opening my mouth.

  ‘He was in China,’ said Paul, ‘when I was there. We travelled together. I felt fear many times, but Charlie . . . He was amazing.’

  I nodded. I was discovering every day that I was apprenticed to someone who was a star in his field. It was up to me to do him justice.

  ‘Mademoiselle Seffy.’ Paul stood up. ‘Will you accompany me to a restaurant? I would like that.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that too,’ I said and we walked out of the hotel and down to the village. We found a small restaurant that overlooked the sea and sat on a pretty terrace under a pergola of vines and scented hibiscus. The sun had gone down, but the small glass lanterns which hung between the vines gently lit the terrace with a soft glow. After the white concrete severity of the Hotel Belvedere this little place was
heavenly.

  Paul brushed a hand through his curly hair and studied the short menu. ‘This tells us what they serve tonight. There is no choice.’ He looked concerned. ‘This is bad for you?’

  ‘No. Not at all,’ I smiled. ‘I’m sure it will be good.’

  We had chilled pepper soup with crayfish tails, mopping it up with chunks of crusty bread, then duck eggs with a warm broad bean salad and, finally, tiny lamb chops on a bed of sliced garlic potatoes, grilled to perfection and flavoured with aromatic sprigs of rosemary. It was exciting food, brightly coloured and with a touch of fire. It was utterly delicious.

  ‘Why are you in Cerbère?’ I asked Paul, when our plates had been taken away and a wooden board of purple grapes put in the centre of the table. Coffee had been brought to us, so black and strong that it burst through the wine and food languor which had followed the meal and urged me back into investigative mood.

  He shrugged. ‘The same as you. My paper thinks that the war is nearly over. I am to go into Spain if I can. There will be reprisals and I’m to try and cover that.’

  ‘You must have a press pass,’ I said. ‘Why can’t you get in?’

  Paul laughed. ‘As I said, the border guards have refused me. My name is known, like your Charlie. I was expelled last year. I think I was fortunate not to be put in prison. A second time and I might not be so lucky. A colleague was shot last year and I know of an American who disappeared while on assignment.’

  His words were chilling. How on earth would Charlie get away with it?

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘You have a plan?’

  We were almost the last of the diners. A man sat by himself at a table in a corner. He had a newspaper which he’d read assiduously throughout his meal. Paul jerked his head slightly in the man’s direction and lowered his voice before replying, ‘I’ll tell you when we get back to the hotel.’

  ‘Was that man following us?’ I asked, as we walked back through the town. Since Germany that was a question which came far more naturally to my mind. A train had just come in and bursts of steam filled the air, bringing an odour of burning coal. I could see people walking off the platform and into the village and a taxi picking up a mother with several children. For all its small size, Cerbère was an active place.