‘Good healthy exercise?’
‘I do a lot of cycling anyway. Late at night, though – one can’t hope to keep absolutely regular hours – and there’s the curfew to think about. Also, any emergency calls come to him, naturally, and I don’t believe you have a telephone?’
‘That’s all true. I don’t – no. Wouldn’t have any use for one. But people do talk, you know. A young girl like yourself, alone in that big house with a man who – well, admittedly he’s getting on, but—’
‘Your brother’s a thoroughly decent man—’ she’d been ready for this – ‘and a most considerate employer. Beyond that, any suggestion from anyone—’
‘I know.’ She’d caught the point, and Rosie’s look, which had indicated that anyone included herself, Marthe Peucat. ‘You needn’t tell me. I knew as soon as I set eyes on you – and in any case, as you say, my brother’s an honourable man. Well – that goes without saying. The fact remains, men are men, and tongues do wag!’
‘So let them!’
‘It wouldn’t upset you?’
‘What matters is the truth, surely, not what malicious people choose to say to each other.’
‘Well.’ Surprise… ‘I suppose it’s – a point of view…’
‘They can talk their ugly heads off!’
‘You certainly know your own mind!’
Questions followed about her birthplace, childhood home and schooling, and her late father’s business. Rosie gave truthful answers to all of it, except for not admitting that her mother was English and lived in Buckinghamshire. She had a fictional alternative to that. But then another abrupt change of subject – ‘Tell me something else. If you wouldn’t mind… How do you feel about the Résistance? Don’t answer if you’d rather not—’
‘I admire them enormously. Wish I had such courage.’
A gleam of approval…
‘So. But are you always so forthright, Mam’selle?’
‘Suzanne – please. Well, I suppose—’
‘I should warn you – Suzanne – it could be dangerous, to be too outspoken. What if I’d been an informer – there are such creatures, you know?’
‘I’d have been very surprised.’
‘You would?’
‘The sister of Henri Peucat?’
That went down well. She was smiling: not an obvious smile but a real one, showing in and around the eyes… ‘I’m an inquisitive old woman, I’m afraid. So many questions – you’ll think I’m rude!’
‘Oh, no…’
‘Haven’t finished yet, either. Do you not have any – er – emotional attachments, Suzanne? No fiancé?’
‘I did have—’
‘Oh, but of course – I’m sorry, I remember now, Henri told me—’
She showed her the old cigarette-lighter with its engraved initials ‘DM’. ‘It doesn’t work. Just a memento.’ Fondling it, she’d allowed her eyes to become damp. All good practice… ‘Apart from one photo, it’s all I have that was his.’
The story of Marthe’s young fisherman who’d been drowned off Roscoff came out then. Also mention of some of her brother’s failings. Drink was one of them. But Henri was a good fellow at heart. Suzanne would find that as long as she made her own position and attitudes quite clear – as was so evidently her habit…
She told Peucat, on their way back into St Michel-du-Faou, ‘She’s not at all the dragon I expected. And she’s extremely fond of you, doctor.’
‘The fondness is mutual – broadly speaking. But she has a lively imagination and a bitter tongue. Believe me – I’ve had the rough end of it often enough! Didn’t she question your living in the house with me?’
‘It came up, yes. But – no worries now. Are we stopping at the gendarmerie?’
Even he was surprised that the papers were there, ready for collection. It was an indication of the doctor’s repute locally – with the local Boches, even, apparently – that they’d signed and stamped both documents and returned them without wanting to see her or check her other papers.
She teased him about it. ‘They must consider you one of the Vertrauenmänner, doctor.’
Trusted ones, that meant. Pro-Nazis.
‘If you’re calling me a skunk—’
‘I wouldn’t dream—’
A Wehrmacht motorcycle dispatch rider roared through Place de l’Eglise, past the Peucat residence and on up through Rue St Nicolas. They heard him shift gear as he rounded the next corner and shot up the short, steep hill to the Kommandantur. She commented as they reached the house and he unlocked its front door, ‘There doesn’t seem to be very many of them in or around this village.’
‘Depends. Some days they’re like ticks on a sow’s belly. In you go…’ He shut the door, re-locked it from inside. ‘It’s good that you got on well with Marthe.’
‘I meant to tell you – she asked me how did I feel about the Resistance. Funny thing to ask a stranger?’
‘How did you answer?’
‘That I was all for it. It seemed to please her.’
‘Oh, it would…’
‘But you don’t talk to her about what you do.’
‘Why should I? Why would she want to know?’
‘She wanted my views.’
‘Well – she knows my views, all right!’ He flipped his hat onto the coat-stand: by the quick glance round at her you could tell it was a skill that gave him pride. ‘Now I’ll show you where to unearth my patients’ records. Keep you busy all afternoon – if not all week!’
‘May I ask a tricky question?’
He stopped with his hand on the door that led to the back of the house, by-passing the kitchen. ‘You may ask, of course.’
‘If I slipped up – really slipped up, got arrested—’
‘Suzanne, please—’
‘If I did, it would almost certainly lead them here. They’d know you’d been housing me, you’d obviously be involved: so what would you do?’
‘I don’t know you’re anything but what you appear to be – as Count Jules represented you to be. Which of course he only knew from the lady in Paris. She enquired on your behalf, he passed it on to me – that’s all. I’d tell them you had no outside contacts that I know of… Whatever they were saying of you, I’d find hard to believe.’
‘They’d find my radio. That alone – in your house – you know as well as I do – well, if I show you where I’m hiding it, would you get rid of it?’
‘It won’t happen, Suzanne. If it did – yes, I’d do that, and I’d take off.’ A wave of the hand towards the mountains: ‘I have friends out there, you know. Think about yourself – enough to keep you busy, eh?’ His arm settled round her shoulders – guiding her through to his consulting room and office. ‘I’ll show you the drudgery that’s in store for you. Then we’d better have a sandwich, and I’ll be off.’
* * *
She worked all afternoon on his files and notes. At least the more recent ones weren’t faded as well as scribbled in Chinese. He got back from Quimper soon after six, and by that time she had the supper things ready. He’d enjoyed his visit to the Berthomets, he said; and as he’d expected, the old boy had jumped at the chance of making himself useful.
‘At a certain age one can find oneself on the sidelines, willy-nilly. And for a man of his stamp – with things in the state they are today…’ A shake of the greyish head. ‘He’ll be checking his door-mat every five minutes day and night!’
‘And the address is twenty-one B Place Saint-Matthieu.’
‘You have a good memory, Suzanne. With nothing written down.’
‘Is the front door clearly distinguishable? No possibility someone in a rush might pick on number twenty-two A?’
‘Quite distinct. Green paint on it. Those on both sides are white. The number’s in white paint on the green.’
‘Not too bad yourself, doctor.’
‘Have to be on my toes, now you’re here… What’s the beautiful aroma?’
‘Braised hare. Part of the
hare Count Jules’ gamekeeper gave you.’
‘My mouth’s already watering. A tiny aperitif first, perhaps…’
* * *
She waited until after supper before making her call to le Guen. It might be the only one she’d need to make, she hoped: at least, until he had the Trevarez news for her. They’d have to meet then, obviously. Her intention now was to arrange to see him tomorrow or the day after, to give him his money and the letter-drop address.
The telephone was in the hall. She joggled for the operator, asked for le Guen’s number in Quimper, and waited.
‘That number is ringing…’
‘Already?’
Peucat had told her it might take an hour… She heard the operator’s loud sniff. ‘Lines are less busy tonight. But your friend doesn’t answer, I’ll try again.’
Crank her handle again, she’d meant. Rosie heard her doing it. Wondering whether le Guen himself or his daughter might answer. He could be taking a bath, or—
‘Yes?’
His voice, sharp and high.
‘Micky?’
A fractional pause… ‘I’m sorry, she’s not here. You must be Zoé – it’s only you who call my daughter “Micky” – am I right?’
Incomprehensible, in those first seconds. And his voice as strained as hell: as if someone had him by the throat. She was also conscious that the operator was quite likely to be listening. Almost certainly, seeing as the lines weren’t busy…
‘Zoé – yes.’ Forcing her brain into a higher gear… ‘But – you say she’s – out, or—’
‘Yes. Yes… But she told me you might call, and you’d arranged to meet her tomorrow at one o’clock – at the Café Providence? If you did telephone I was to say how sorry—’
‘Café Providence at one. Yes – that’s right.’
‘I thought so. But unfortunately—’
‘I’ll be there anyway. I have to be passing that way in any case. Oh, what a shame… She’s not ill, I hope, in hospital or—’
‘No. It’s – her work, you know—’
‘Some scholastic thing. Oh, well… You’re all right I hope, M’sieur – on your own, I mean?’
‘Yes. Oh yes – thank you—’
‘I’ll see her soon anyway, I hope… Goodnight, M’sieur.’
‘Goodnight – er – Zoé.’
She heard him hang up, and did the same. Standing there for a few seconds in the dark hall: certain that he was not all right. Whether or not Marie-Claude was, he wasn’t. Obviously scared of a telephone tap – which would be neither unusual nor surprising – but he also wanted badly enough to see her to have risked telling her where and when.
In a slightly obscure way, certainly. In the circumstances, probably the best he could have done. But it wouldn’t have been obscure enough, by half, if any professional had either been listening in or received a transcript of it from the operator.
Back in the dining-room she told Peucat, ‘I won’t be doing much paperwork tomorrow, doctor. Have to be in Quimper by midday.’
* * *
She went by bike, through Pleyben and Briec, starting out from St Michel at seven and cycling into Quimper just after twelve-thirty. It was a fine day with a breeze from the west and patches of high cloud. She had le Guen’s money in two envelopes, one in each pocket of her overcoat; if she’d been stopped and searched she’d have said it was her employer’s and that she was taking it to the pharmaceutical depot behind the hospital, that they’d warned him last week he’d have to pay off what he owed already before they’d let him have even another roll of sticking-plaster.
In fact she wasn’t stopped. There was a road-block outside Pleyben, on the road west to Châteaulin, but traffic turning off southward for Briec and Quimper wasn’t affected by it. By twelve-forty she was pedalling southwestward in a two-way stream of cyclists and gazos down Rue de Kerfeunteun towards the town centre – continuing too far, it turned out, turning right where she’d thought the road would bring her somewhere close to the Parc de la Providence and finding she had to make another right turn northward: then, that the café was on this road – Rue de la Providence, on its corner with Rue de Locronan, some distance south of the gardens.
She rode on past it. It had the run-down look that everything else had. In summer with tables and umbrellas outside it would look a lot better, but there was only a stretch of uneven paving, a yellow-brick frontage and blue-painted double doors, one of which stood open.
Ideally, you’d find another café across the road and in sight of the one at which you were making the rendezvous, sit there toying with a beer or coffee while observing the comings and goings, noting especially any well-fed individuals with close-cropped heads who might also be taking an interest in it. In SOE training that was the recommended procedure. In this case her main interest was to see le Guen arrive: whether he did so alone or in company, and if the latter, what company. Especially if it separated from him at some discreet distance from the café.
Ten minutes to the hour. She cycled around the café’s narrow northern end – a hairpin corner – and turned down Rue de Locronan. The café had one much smaller entrance on this side – at the top end, near the corner, a small door that was shut, probably not in use much.
Worth knowing that such an exit existed. If one should need it.
This was only a short road. Wider than the other, but terminating about fifty metres south – in the Place de Locronan, through which there was quite a lot of traffic in both directions. Amongst it at this moment one Wehrmacht half-ton truck: she watched it in case it was going to turn left, into a side-street connecting with Rue de la Providence, but it carried on southward – and good riddance… She waited until she could cross over, then took that side-road herself: left again into Rue Providence, and she was passing the café again, as before. Some girls who’d just arrived were putting chains on their bicycles: one looking up, laughing, a bright, happy face under a mop of vividly red hair. The road was narrow at this point: she rode on up to where it widened and a few gazos were parked, and after another hundred metres or so she had the Parc de la Providence on her right – a wide expanse of grass and trees. Looking across it she could see a battery of anti-aircraft guns under camouflage near the far side, where the river ran. The river le Steir, she remembered from her studies in St James’. Smaller than the Odet – at this stage anyway. The camouflage over the guns was quite ineffective from this level; presumably would hide them from the air. Between here and there, people strolled; others relaxed on benches along a pathway parallel to the road.
Not a bad place for a rendezvous, perhaps.
Six minutes to twelve now. No military vehicles anywhere. Always a thing to look for – soldiers in trucks from which they could be whistled out to surround a building – such as a café…
None here, though. She rode to the top of the parc, dismounted, waited for a chance to wheel her bike across, then re-mounted and started back. Wondering if he’d show up at all. Once you knew something was wrong, anything could be: things that started going wrong tended to get worse. She’d thought last night of ringing Prigent in case he’d known anything about it; had decided not to partly for the obvious reason – the insecurity of telephones – but also because le Guen saw him as an enemy, needed to be assured that she was on his side.
Thirty metres from the café she stopped, crossed the road, took a spanner out of her saddle-bag and went through the motions of adjusting the height of the bike’s saddle. Noon now: or a minute past… Watching southward: increasingly sure that the purpose of this meeting must be to tell her he was pulling out. Alternatively, he wasn’t coming: might have been arrested, even. In which case, Prigent too – and anyone who’d been in contact with bloody Prigent… Shaking that out of her head, though: old Peucat’s maxim was the best one: It won’t happen… But an alternative she had considered – if le Guen backed out or fell out – might be to ask Lannuzel to have a watch kept on the château, for the arrival of troops and naval
staff. In fact it would be the simplest way – using one’s own people, no reliance on outsiders – but the snag was that it would almost certainly be too late and too slow, the word having to be passed to her, then by signal to London, and the RAF then asked to lay on the attack pretty well immediately. Their answer would most likely be a lemon, she guessed.
There. The man himself…
Hurrying in this direction, on this side of the road: coat flapping loose, porkpie hat down on his ears, gleam of white – shirt-front and a splodge of what was probably a black tie… Pausing – on the kerb, looking left and then right: dropping a cigarette-end and putting his toe on it. Her spanner was back in the saddle-bag and she was fastening the strap by feel. Seeing him start across the road: doing the same herself now, wheeling the bike. The achievement of this reconnaissance being that she knew he’d come alone – no one either following or surveying. Not visibly…
Could be someone waiting inside the café, of course.
She was halfway to the corner when le Guen ducked into the blue doorway. She chained her bike to the railings: glancing around then while straightening her coat, brushing herself off.
All clear. Seemingly…
‘Zoé!’
He’d been waiting just inside, looking nervously around: had noticeably jumped as he turned and saw her. She put her hand out to him: ‘Micky – how very nice!’
‘Oh—’ licking thin, dry lips, ‘– for me, too…’
Black tie, all right. Same brown jacket and maroon pullover, too. He’d put a hand on her arm, guiding her towards a vacant table close to the doorway to the kitchen. Rather smelly – compounded, she thought, mainly of cabbage and whatever oil or fat they used. But the table was fairly well on its own, more so than others.
‘Thank heavens you could come. I’m sorry for – the way I had to—’
‘I’d have been here to meet Marie-Claude, of course.’ A glance around, as if for a waiter or critically inspecting the decor… ‘If anyone should enquire. Now to my surprise I’ve run into you!’
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