Sleep now. She’d turned out the oil-lamp that was on the dresser, could reach the other long-armed from the chair. Checking the time, first, on Marilyn’s watch: should get damn near an hour.
* * *
Had had fifty minutes – according to the watch. Unbelievable – it felt like five – if that… Grey light of dawn, and this colossal din, Ursule raking ashes and clinker out of the stove. She hadn’t said a word – as far as Rosie knew – was evidently relying on the racket she was making to wake not only Rosie but Guillaume too in the next room. Guillaume, who’d have been luxuriating in about three hours’ sleep, having the gall to yawn as he shambled in and stood blinking, first at Rosie then at Ursule’s enormous black-draped rear where she was stooped with the ash-can and a shovel. She must have opened the curtains before she’d started: greyish light, no sunlight in it at all although that was an east-facing window. Guillaume eyeing Rosie’s closed suitcase: ‘If that’s ready, I’ll take it out to the gazo with me now… Look – Rosie – there’s a pump in the yard. Ursule will be needing the sink, and we don’t want to hold things up, do we. I mean breakfast. You know where the privy is?’
The outside WC. Of course she knew. And caught on to what he was proposing: he’d take the case and some other things to the gazo, in the meantime if she made use of the privy and cold water from the pump she’d have it to herself and might have finished by the time he returned. He’d be refuelling the gazo’s charcoal burner and flashing it up while he was out there, he added, so they could start as soon as they’d had breakfast.
‘All right?’
‘Of course.’
On her feet, stretching and yawning, blinking at him. Guillaume as it were re-focusing on her suddenly: ‘Hey, Rosie! You look like a new woman!’
She felt like something recently dug up. Managing a smile: ‘OK, is it?’
‘Transformation, absolutely!’
Ursule growled without looking round from the stove, ‘She’s a real beauty now, you’re right. I had a close look before she woke… Giving you porridge, that do?’
‘Couldn’t think of anything better, Ursule.’
She hadn’t got the pads in her cheeks yet: wouldn’t have until she’d rinsed her mouth out. No toothbrush, of course: make do as she had for a long time now with a forefinger. She went out – pulling Thérèse’s jacket on – into a drizzly, overcast morning. Total change of scenery in just these few hours. They’d been lucky, anyway, that the weather hadn’t broken any sooner.
Privy first: then the pump, sparingly. Then breakfast – porridge, bread baked by Ursule, home-produced honey. While eating, studying radio scheds. Déchambaud had been outside seeing to the animals, in a dark serge suit and white collar; he and Ursule were to attend Mass in Commercy, would be leaving in the trap shortly after Guillaume and Rosie were on the road. He’d remarked to Guillaume, ‘Mam’selle is looking even more charming than before’, and Rosie had murmured, ‘You’re very kind, M’sieur.’ Shake of the grey head, telling her seriously, ‘I only tell the truth as I see it. Is that not so, Ursule?’ His wife had sniffed, towards him, but then smiled at Rosie: ‘It’s the truth this time, anyway.’ Still over breakfast there was talk between the two men about a meeting of résistants in two days’ time at some neighbouring farm where there was to be a further distribution of weapons and ammunition. Then Guillaume showed her on a creased map with a lot of pencil jottings, the route they’d be taking today: first south for about fifteen kilometres to a place called Toul, then on minor roads with occasional route blanche diversions until just forty kilometres short of Troyes, a place called Brienne-le-Château: those last forty kilometres would be on the main route between Troyes and Metz – or Nancy.
‘Not that there’ll necessarily be checkpoints on it. And only forty kilometres out of – oh, getting on for two hundred.’
‘Far as that?’
A shrug. ‘Hundred and ninety, maybe.’
They were out at the gazo by about six fifteen, Fernand going out too to see them off and also to harness some horse or donkey into the trap. The charcoal in the gazo’s burner was glowing red, ready to go. Rosie had brought out her new A Mark III transceiver, in its own small suitcase, Guillaume having picked up her ‘S’ phone, still in its protective wrapping.
‘Where’s best to put what, d’you think?’ She’d caught them up at the gazo, having been delayed in farewells with Ursule. ‘Boot, or—’
‘Well, look here…’
A carton, from the boot, prominently marked BREUVAGE – which meant ‘drench’, in this case cattle-drench. He opened it on the ground inside the shed, removed the eight or ten bottles of pinkish fluid from it, substituted the ‘S’ phone and tied the lid down again. It could go on the rear seat, he suggested, along with her suitcase.
‘You can hang on to it if you like. I mean when we get there. Your transceiver’s best in the boot, I’d suggest.’
Also in the boot, as well as a sack of charcoal, was his own vet’s kit in a Gladstone bag. And the breuvage bottles, which he laid in straw in an open wooden box that had once contained Moselle – that went in the boot too.
‘See – at a glance, obviously all veterinary equipment.’
It was true. You hardly noticed the transceiver. If you did, you’d assume it contained the vet’s tools, or maybe his personal gear. Bottles of drench, a bag such as a doctor carries, in a litter of excess straw; and in full view on the back seat her own suitcase and the carton.
Rosie shook hands with Déchambaud; he and Guillaume embraced each other. ‘Tuesday, then.’
‘As you say.’ His whiskered face appeared at Rosie’s window, as Guillaume started and revved the motor. Guillaume hadn’t shaved this morning but old Fernand probably hadn’t for a week. ‘God bless you, Mam’selle.’
‘And you and your comrades, M’sieur.’
Backing out… Guillaume commented, ‘Couldn’t have gone better, could it?’
* * *
‘Rosie. Justine, I should say—’
She’d been dropping off, jerked awake now. ‘Huh?’
‘Woke you. Sorry. But look – we’ll be in Toul in a minute, should have our stories matching, in case of road-blocks. I’m me, on vet business – easy. You brought me that cat because your mother’d died and you didn’t know what to do with it. I’ve said I’ll find a home for it, but meanwhile had to make this trip, and you’d told me you wanted to get to Troyes, on the track of a relation and her husband who have a farm somewhere in that area. You’re hoping they’ll let you stay, work there perhaps. You don’t know where it is exactly, but there’s someone in Troyes you think you’ll be able to find, and he will know.’ A sideways glance and a shrug: ‘You hope.’
‘Sounds vague enough to be true.’
‘Why can’t you go on living in Sarrebourg?’
‘They let my mother stay on in the house because she was sick, but there was so much rent owing – which I certainly couldn’t pay—’
‘You don’t understand these things very well, do you? Why you couldn’t easily have got a job. You were hurt, concussed et cetera, in that air-raid on Rouen.’
‘Hardly remember any of it. I was working in a kindergarten, I remember that, but—’
‘This trip now – it so happened I was going almost as far as Troyes, and you being such a pathetic object I thought well, just an extra few kilometres—’
‘What’ll you do with me when we get there?’
‘Oh – release you. Like a stray cat. Shove you out with your gear and bugger off quick!’
‘Callous swine…’
‘I’m a working man, I’ve farms to visit!’
Indignant: as he would have been, justifying himself to some nosy gendarme or Boche. Rosie expanding on her own act then: ‘The relation I’m looking for – it’s never been a close relationship. Not at all. My brother married her sister. He’s — I’ve no idea where now, but he was in the French navy, may have been killed, we never heard from him – or from her e
ither. So Colette – that’s the name my mother mentioned when she was telling me I should go and – like I’m doing now – you see she didn’t know exactly where—’
‘Excellent. They’d have heard more than enough, by now.’
Rosie asked him, ‘Talking about stray cats, what’ll you do with it?’
‘Telephone de Plesse, tell him it’s OK now and ask him to come and fetch it. Poor bloody animal… This is Toul now. The Moselle skirts it to the east, but we won’t see it, the water you’ll see ahead of us in a minute is a canal. Have to cross that – twice. Then out of town on the road to Vaucouleurs. Rosie, if we were stopped and questioned, we started from Nancy, nowhere near where we have been.’
‘So how to explain being on the Verdun road now?’
‘Took a wrong turn. Realized I was heading north instead of southwest, turned back. There, see the water ahead? Quite a nice little town, this – the river, and a cathedral—’
‘Will we be mostly on routes blanches?’
‘Tell you the truth, hardly at all. I’d thought it’d be better than it is. But short of travelling in great zigzags—’
‘No point.’
Head back, eyes shut. Justine exhausted, wouldn’t have taken much interest in her surroundings anyway. Opening her eyes again then: ‘Know your way through the town and out, do you?’
A smile. ‘Go to sleep.’
‘I’m very grateful to you for all you’re doing, Guillaume. Really, you’ve been a rock.’
‘Well.’ Turning right. On the left, a Nazi banner drooped from a jutting flagpole. Guillaume easing the wheel back… ‘It’s been a pleasure. And – as I said before, I think – I’m not sorry to be seeing you on your way, (a) before some Boche recognized you in the street, (b) before we get really busy here. There’s a lot in preparation. So – glad you’re happy. But tell me – or don’t, as the case maybe – what’s your brief now?’
‘To check on the rocket-casing business.’
‘And “Hector”?’
‘Secondary. Rocket-casings first. That’s what’s vital and urgent.’
‘Must be long odds against the sod showing up, in any case. But if he does, are you cleared to – er—’
‘They’d prefer to have him “apprehended”, but appreciate that might be very difficult.’
‘Ah.’ A glance at her: eyes quickly back on the road. ‘Carte blanche, then. I was wrong.’
‘But as you say, long odds.’
‘Any other fascinating news from Baker Street?’
‘Not really.’
Could have told him about Bob Hallowell, but didn’t feel inclined to. Too much detail, explanation, but a degree of shock still lingering in the thought that for recent disasters Hallowell might bear almost as much responsibility as ‘Hector’ did. What she might have told Guillaume about was the George Cross business. She’d have liked to have been able to talk about it, get his reaction, but it would also have been embarrassing. Privately, in a way shaming – as well as so startlingly improbable that she felt she might only have dreamt it… She’d never given a thought to being given any medal. Why her? It would be for the train escape, obviously, for the sheer luck that had made that hairbrained stunt work, allowed Lise to get the truth about ‘Hector’ home to Baker Street. Perhaps they’d give Lise a medal too. Then it mightn’t be so bad. Should have asked. But not only Lise: what about Edna, Maureen, Daphne? Seeing them again on her memory’s screen – especially their eyes, during the long rocking silences against the background of the train’s drumming, remorseless rhythm, that shared or replicated, anyway virtually identical, locked-in desperation… Oh, give them medals! And never forget them. She wouldn’t, she knew it, wouldn’t ever not have them with her. She was trying to open Léonie’s handbag, to get a handkerchief; damp-eyed, her view of a flock of cyclists they were passing misted, out of focus. Awkward damn clasp – until one got the knack of it… Harsh intake of breath as unexpected as the tears: and Guillaume’s quick ‘Rosie—’
‘Hm.’ She’d got the bag open, found the handkerchief. Using it: managing, ‘It’s OK.’ Then a smile, of sorts: ‘Drive on, my man.’
* * *
She’d slept, woken again. They were on unpaved road through undulating farmland, the track potholed and stony; it could have been the vibration that had woken her. Guillaume was smoking, and lifted that hand: ‘Want one?’
‘Oh, please… But I owe you lots. Might get some in Troyes – if you don’t have to rush off?’
‘It’s Sunday.’
‘Oh, God, yes…’
‘Farm road, did you notice?’
Lighting the cigarette, nodding. ‘Where are we?’
‘I turned down at a place called Gondrecourt-le-Château. Here.’ The map. ‘Next comes Germay. Pretty country, eh? But the villages tend to be dull. You’ve slept through a couple. Straight lines of drab houses and that’s that. Not like Alsace, they don’t pretty them up at all. Got Germay?’
‘Yes…’
‘Next, Poissons. Then rather a major crossing at Joinville – back on hard road before that – see? And at Joinville we cross the main Reims to Chaumont highway. This is the only bit of route blanche we’ll get, I’m afraid… Sure you’re all right?’
‘I could drive, if you like, give you a rest.’
‘Thanks, but—’
‘One thing I thought of – when you see de Plesse, if I come into it at all would you let him think you put me on that Hudson?’
‘All right.’
‘Just that I’d rather he didn’t know where I am. I don’t suppose he talks to Dufay all that often.’
‘He a chum of Dufay’s?’
‘He put Michel on to Dufay.’
‘Ah…’
* * *
They’d rejoined the hard road, crossed the Marne and were approaching Joinville where this one intersected the bigger, busier one that came south from Reims to St Dizier and Dijon. Dijon being one of the centres mentioned by Michel as being in his new territory, she recalled. But from Joinville there’d be about a hundred kilometres to go; so they’d come about halfway. Rosie as alert as Guillaume now, watching the road ahead as buildings – houses, and factories, a builder’s yard, motor repair works – began to crowd in along the road.
‘You’d think it was a big place.’
‘Not by the map, it isn’t. But I suppose communications aren’t bad – not a bad road we’re on, and this more important one we have to cross.’ Slowing; entering the village; there was what looked like a queue of traffic ahead. Several lorries, and a crowd of dismounted cyclists. ‘Bit of a hold-up…’
Time – by Marilyn’s watch – just on nine thirty. Three hours and about a hundred kilometres gone. Guillaume edging out a bit from the right-hand side to get a view past the lorries… ‘Damn.’ Pulling in again. ‘Wehrmacht convoy on the main road, looks like.’ Braking, stopping close up behind a lorry loaded with timber. ‘Solid line of heavy trucks moving left to right, and a motorbike parked, rider doubtless controlling traffic. Gendarmes on the corner too.’
‘So – may not be for long—’
‘Hah. Never said a truer word…’
Because the lorries ahead were already beginning to move forward. He pushed the gazo into gear. Cyclists on the move too, some of them walking, others mounting, wobbling at slow speed. The sky was lighter than it had been, clouds higher, the drizzle having passed on eastward, she guessed. Lorries picking up speed: Guillaume shifting into second.
‘Could’ve been a lot worse, couldn’t it?’
A whistle shrilled. The lorry ahead of them put its brake-lights on, then off, and began moving faster; it was being waved over rather frantically by a Boche trooper in field grey-green and helmet; machine-pistol slung from his shoulder. His bike was parked in the other lane of this road, near the corner. That lorry had been the last he was letting over, he was ordering Guillaume to stop – hand up, palm towards them. Guillaume jamming on his brakes and cursing… Short, stocky Boche
with the helmet jammed low over his forehead, a cartoon-like figure with booted legs apart: lowering that arm now, turning away. Beyond him, heavy military trucks already filled the road again, pounding northward nose to tail.
‘Looks like a big movement.’
‘Doesn’t it.’
‘Reinforcing or evacuating. I wonder?’
The Boche had called something to gendarmes on the left side of the road, the narrow pavement there; he’d gestured towards this gazo. Guillaume asked her, ‘When d’you think you’ll make your first transmission?’
‘Soon after I get to St Valéry. Possibly tomorrow night. Depends on Dufay, largely. Guillaume, gendarmes coming over.’
‘Don’t want to seem concerned about it though, do we… Look at the map – quickly, if you can – tell me a place nearer Troyes where I might be visiting a farm?’
She was very quick on it: and as it happened, spotting a possible short-cut by route blanche, too. ‘Brevonnes do?’
‘Brevonnes. Fine.’
‘On what looks like route blanche, a short-cut that’d miss out Brienne-le-Château.’
‘Oh, yes. Did notice that one earlier, I’d forgotten.’ Winding the window right down. ‘Bonjour, Messieurs. Are we likely to be stuck here for long?’
A shrug of thick, sloping shoulders. ‘Probably not. There are breaks between units or detachments of whatever they are, from time to time. Your papers, please?’ Glancing into the back, at her suitcase and that carton. Grey hair, florid complexion, grey moustache. The other one was younger, ratty-looking; he’d moved towards the gazo’s bonnet, maybe to get a more direct view of Rosie. She’d folded the map while they were still on the way over, had glanced at them without interest and was now watching the procession of heavy transport on the main road.
‘Vet, uh?’ Nodding towards the rear, focusing on the word BREUVAGE. Guillaume shrugged slightly.
‘As you’ll see, in those papers.’
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