‘The news is bad, bad.’ He shook his head again.
Jean Cornou was short and square, with wide shoulders and muscular arms. He farmed the land around the house the only way he knew, and that was the old way, with little machinery and a lot of hard work and the help of a single farmhand. His face was uneven, open and kind. In his best clothes, which he wore now, his rough hands and face and muscular body looked oddly out of keeping with the dark three-piece suit and white shirt. The waistcoat was anyway too tight for him and his stomach bulged against the buttons.
He leant forward to take off his jacket, then unbuttoned his waistcoat and sighed deeply.
‘The Germans look as though they are going to attack Poland. If they do there’ll be a war. A war!’ He snorted with disgust.
Julie frowned. ‘But who … Which countries will fight?’
‘Oh, Britain and France will fight Germany. Now that those filthy Russians have done the dirty and signed up with Germany, there’ll be no stopping Hitler. Communists! They’re not to be trusted. They’ve sold us down the river, just as I said they always would. Nothing but trouble, trouble. The great hope of France, they were meant to be. Yes, indeed. And what happens? They sell out at the first opportunity!’
Tante Marie shook her head and tutted quietly.
Peter had dropped a book on the floor and Julie automatically went to pick it up. Peter said, ‘Mummy, read me a story!’
‘Later, darling, I’m talking. Here, look at the pictures in this one. When you’re finished I’ll tell you a story. Promise.’
He nodded and started to turn the pages of the book. Julie stroked his head and returned to her chair.
She looked at Jean. ‘So what’ll happen? Will it last long? I mean, surely it’ll be settled quickly?’
Her uncle shrugged. ‘Who knows? With every country in Europe jostling for position, anything can happen. Who knows who will get involved and how far the fighting will spread? All I know is that, thanks to those spineless communists ganging up with Hitler, the cause of socialism has been set back fifty years. Everyone’s anti-communist now – and anti-socialist. They put the two together, communist-socialist, socialist-communist! Everything that the working man has won in the last five years will be lost for ever, mark my words! We think of Hitler as a fascist – well, this Daladier government of ours is not far behind, not far at all! And speaking of communists, Michel was down at the café.’
Tante Marie glanced up from her knitting and they both looked at Julie. She blushed, mainly because they were expecting her to. Michel Le Goff was Tante Marie’s nephew. He came to the house quite often. Julie enjoyed his visits; he was clever, well informed and politically argumentative. He was probably quite attractive too, if you cared to think about him that way. But she did not, not at the moment anyway. She hadn’t closed her mind to the possibility of liking him, but she wasn’t ready to encourage him yet. Perhaps she never would be. But until her mind was made up, she did wish people wouldn’t pair them off.
Peter was fidgeting at the table. ‘Mummy, I’ve finished. Read me a story now. Please. You promised!’
‘Yes, of course, darling. And it’s almost bedtime, too.’
She picked him up and carried him through the back door of the kitchen into the extension. There were two rooms, one on the ground floor and, at the top of some steep, narrow stairs, a small attic bedroom. Julie used the main room as a bed-sitting room, though she nearly always sat in the kitchen during the evenings. The room was simply furnished with a bed, a chest of drawers, and a chair. Soon after her arrival she had whitewashed the walls and hung a couple of colourful pictures to brighten the room up. Though she didn’t like needlework, she had even made some gay curtains for the window.
On the chest of drawers there were several framed photographs of Peter, and one of her mother. When Julie thought of her mother, she sighed. She wrote to her mother regularly, every month or so, but she rarely got a reply. The few letters she did get were bitter and full of reproach, begging her to come back to England and live in Plymouth again. Her mother never missed an opportunity to make it clear that she felt abandoned and betrayed. ‘Disloyal’ and ‘ungrateful’ were her favourite expressions.
It was clear to Julie that her mother could not have read any of her replies, otherwise she would have understood. Julie had explained that she was happy here, that she enjoyed her work and she loved the people. But now, after so much time, Julie suspected that Mother did not want to understand. Mother hated the idea of Julie liking Father’s people and living the kind of life Father had lived and which Mother had tried so hard to drag him away from. The suspicion made her sad but all the more determined not to go back. Life at the little house in Plymouth would suffocate her. Here at least she was free.
She undressed Peter and gave him a quick wash. As she dried him he wriggled away from her and dashed off round the room attempting as usual to evade capture, pyjamas and bed. Julie chased after him, roaring like a lion. At last she caught a flying arm and threw him giggling on to the bed.
Peter cried, ‘Again!’
Julie put her head on one side and listened; there was the sound of a new voice from the kitchen. It was Michel’s. She said firmly to Peter, ‘No.’
Peter began to whine. ‘If you don’t, I’ll cry.’
‘And if you don’t let me put these pyjamas on, there’ll be big trouble.’ She gave him a mock glare.
Peter’s lower lip wobbled and he began to cry, though rather half-heartedly. He often cried when he was tired. She kissed him and felt the soft, cool arms encircle her neck. She put her arms round his small irate body and, taking him on her knee, began to rock him gently back and forth as she had when he was a baby.
After a while she felt a kiss on her ear and a small voice said, ‘Story now?’
‘Yes, we’ll have two stories tonight.’
She read him three stories because he’d been a good boy and because she always read him one more than she said she would. Then she carried him up the narrow stairs to the attic bedroom. It was a small room, with one bed and a tiny window, but it was snug and Peter loved it because when he woke up in the night he could call down to her and, in the morning when he crawled into her bed, it wasn’t far for him to come.
She gave him a last kiss and went down the stairs to the chest of drawers. She opened the top drawer and, taking out a small mirror, examined herself critically. She didn’t like her face much. Its shape was all right – oval – and her skin was as clear as a bell, but the face seemed to her incredibly ordinary. Her best feature, she supposed, was her eyes, which were large and dark and fairly pretty – but she’d never dared pluck her eyebrows as the fashionable women did and so her eyes probably made little impression. Nose – all right but definitely nothing special. She sighed: really there was nothing very special about any of her.
Except her hair. That was something she was proud of. It was dark – dark auburn, they called it – and naturally curly where it met her shoulders. She never did much to it, usually parting it in the middle and holding it back with a comb at either side. She’d tried a fancy rolled style once or twice, but the hairdo seemed to detract from the hair itself and she’d let it down again.
She brushed it now until it shone, added a touch of lipstick, and stood back.
No, nothing special about her tonight. Anyway, it was only Michel.
But at least he was a man, and unmarried at that. And she didn’t meet very many of those. She was beginning to think it would be a good idea for her to have a husband. She took a last look in the mirror and thought: I’m nearly twenty-four, I mustn’t leave it too late. She smiled ruefully; some people would say she was already on the shelf.
She straightened her dress and walked into the kitchen.
Michel’s voice was saying, ‘But you have to understand, it’s only political expediency – political survival – that’s all!’ Julie’s heart sank a little as it always did when Michel and Jean started on politics.
> Michel spotted her and, getting quickly to his feet, stared into her face. His gaze was hard and penetrating. Julie decided, not for the first time, that there was something altogether too earnest about Michel. After a moment he smiled quickly and stooped to kiss her on both cheeks.
He said apologetically, ‘I’m defending myself again. Jean thinks my politics stink.’ He shrugged slightly, and half smiled. But Julie knew that, behind the casual manner, he was deadly serious about his opinions. Michel nodded slightly and sat down to face Jean again, saying, ‘Look, it’s not something the Soviet Union wanted to do, but they had no choice, don’t you see? We and the British, we offered them nothing, no guarantees, no treaties, just hot air …’
Julie listened quietly, trying to follow the arguments. There was something about the intensity of Michel’s opinions which was rather unnerving. He spoke with an earnest fury that tolerated no opposition. It was a pity, she decided, because in most other ways he had a lot to recommend him.
He was dark, like many of the French: his hair was almost black and his eyes deep brown. He was pleasant looking, though he had a way of frowning which made him look severe. He dressed well, and Julie guessed his clothes cost a lot. She smiled to herself: only in France could you find a communist who dressed like a capitalist. But then half the population were communist when it suited them. The rest of the time they were socialists, or Republicans, depending on their mood.
Michel worked in Morlaix, in an insurance office. She sometimes bumped into him when she was out shopping in her lunch hour and occasionally he would buy her a coffee. Then – when he was off the subject of politics – she enjoyed his company much more. He had a dry wit and an interesting way of describing everyday things. But she’d avoided seeing him in the evenings; that would imply there was more to their relationship than family friendship, and she didn’t want that.
She concentrated again on the conversation. Michel was speaking forcefully, his fists clenched.
‘The Soviet Union does not want war. So what’s wrong with her manoeuvring to avoid it? If we had any sense that’s what we’d be doing too instead of pledging support to Poland, which is undefendable anyway!’
Jean Cornou leaned forward in his chair and, picking up a poker, flipped open the door of the stove. He stabbed thoughtfully at the fire. ‘But someone has to protect countries that need protecting. Your precious Russia, she doesn’t care about anyone else at all. She may be avoiding war for herself, but not for everyone else!’
‘Nonsense, war should be avoided at all costs. Who wants to fight? You? Me? Of course not! The end justifies the means!’
Julie said suddenly, ‘There’s nothing wrong with avoiding war – so long as it achieves real peace. If it just gives the bullies time to move into a stronger position, then it’s no good, is it? That’s what it’s all about, it seems to me – bullying.’ She added almost to herself, ‘They should let the women run things, then we might have a bit of sensible government and people would be left to live in peace.’
Everyone was looking at her in surprise. She’d never spoken during a political argument before. There was a long silence and Julie dropped her eyes. She’d gone too far.
She added nervously, ‘Anyway, why don’t we talk about something else for a change. This subject is very depressing.’
Tante Marie put down her knitting. ‘A good idea. I’ll put some supper on the table. Michel, will you stay for a bit?’
There was no reply and Julie looked up. Michel was staring at her.
‘A fine speech!’
There was a mocking note in his voice and she wasn’t sure if he was laughing at her or not. She got up and helped Tante Marie to lay the table. As she passed Michel’s chair he said, ‘Really, it was a fine speech.’
He looked as though he meant it and she thought that maybe she’d misjudged him. She put her hand on his arm and smiled.
They sat down at the table and talked about the harvest and the fishing industry, the weather and the fruit crop.
Eventually Michel said, ‘And what about your job, Julie? Are you happy there?’
‘Yes, happy enough. It’s quite interesting really. I’ve become something of an expert on vegetable prices.’ She didn’t add that she was often bored. But it was a job and it brought the money in. That was all that mattered.
‘I only wish—’ She paused. ‘I only wish I had more spare time.’
Michel leant forward. ‘You should ask for shorter hours!’ The subject of long hours was one of his favourite subjects. He considered anything over a forty-hour week to be slave labour. ‘The other way is to give up work altogether.’
Julie gave a short laugh. ‘And how would I live then?’
He shot her a glance. ‘You could find someone to support you.’
She felt herself blushing and looked furiously at the table. I walked straight into that one, she thought.
Michel was looking at her with a rather smug, self-satisfied expression. Suddenly she wanted to wipe the smirk right off his face.
She said crossly, ‘I’m not interested in marrying just to find someone to support me. Women who do that are fools and the men who marry them even more stupid. When I find a man I want to marry, then I’ll be happy to let him pay the bills!’
Michel looked at his hands and said quietly, ‘But marriage is a practical arrangement. If you think it’s made in heaven, well – then you are not as clever as I thought you were.’
He was warming up for an argument, Julie could see that. He would call it a discussion, but it would really be a sparring match. Michel always won those kinds of arguments. He had a way of twisting words and turning logic until his opponent’s opinions appeared ridiculous.
Suddenly Julie wanted to be on her own. She made an elaborate pantomime of looking at the clock over the mantelpiece. ‘Goodness! Is that the time? I really must get to bed.’
She stood up and made herself smile. ‘It was nice to see you Michel. Good night.’ They kissed each other on both cheeks, and she saw that he was looking pleased with himself again. Damn him, she thought, why does he have to be so satisfied with himself?
Later, when she lay in bed, she went over the conversation again in her mind. Until now she’d thought Michel kind and thoughtful under his façade of cleverness and indifference. But now she was having second thoughts. He wasn’t kind at all; he was conceited and intolerant. There was no question of letting their friendship develop; it would never work. She’d never be happy with a man who had to score off everyone as if the whole of life were a political debate. And she hated the way he was amused by almost everything she said, like a patronising father listening to a child.
No, whatever happened, she could never love Michel.
She thought of the alternatives – none – and wondered if she was being too fussy. A lot of women grabbed the first man who came their way and lived happily ever after. Or did they? One never knew.
All she wanted was someone kind, thoughtful and reasonable to look at. She smiled to herself. Not much! Just what everyone else was after too.
She turned over and tried to sleep. She remembered rather guiltily that she hadn’t given another thought to this war. It was a very worrying thing. And yet it was difficult to be worried about an event which everyone must be working so hard to prevent. If it did happen it would, of course, be dreadful. But she couldn’t help thinking how lucky it was that Peter and she lived so far from the German border, and that her uncle was too old to fight. The war, if it came, would hardly touch them at all. It was awful to think so selfishly, but one couldn’t help it.
No: whatever happened, her little family would be safe.
It was a comforting thought and almost immediately she fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 6
DAVID LOOKED AT the note on his desk. It read: Please report to the Director at your earliest convenience.
The message was innocent enough, but it gave David a twinge of uneasiness. In the past few days the
laboratories had been rife with rumour. It was said that several projects were to be cancelled and that many more of the clerical and administrative staff would be liable for conscription. Already some seventy of the non-scientific personnel had been called up.
David took off his white coat and pulled on his jacket. Absent-mindedly he pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked at the note again. Best to get it over with, whatever it was. Automatically he checked his desk to make sure there were no confidential files lying around. He always did that; you could never be too careful.
The Director’s office was on the third floor and David decided to walk up the stairs rather than use the lift: it would be good for him. He really wasn’t as fit as he should be. He only wished he could find more time for exercise.
He arrived in the outer office breathing heavily and, when the secretary asked him to wait, he was glad of the chance to sit down for a moment. They’d never asked him to wait before. The Director usually made a point of not keeping the senior scientists waiting, and on minor matters he liked to come down to the laboratories rather than call them away from their work. Still, one shouldn’t attach any undue importance to that. It probably meant nothing.
There had been other incidents, of course, and David was well aware that they did mean something. When a new steering committee had been set up within the Gema Company he and another scientist had been excluded from it. Both of them were Jewish. Shortly afterwards, for no apparent reason, he had been told that he would not be attending a demonstration of the new Wassermann early-warning radar system.
And then there were the small things: the way people avoided him, the way he seemed to be left off circulation lists of important documents. David knew that it all meant something and it left him apprehensive. But at the same time David trusted the Director. They had worked well together for a long time. The man had gone behind Schmidt’s back and provided David with facilities and a decent budget for the Valve Development Project. The man knew the importance of science. And, David thought without vanity, he knows the value of a top-rate scientist.
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