Night Sky

by Clare Francis

‘Well – he gave the impression that no-one else knew. But I couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘Did he mention destroying duplicate plans or anything like that?’

  She shook her head, ‘I don’t remember. The Major – and the other people I talked to before – they asked me all these questions. And I’m afraid I still don’t remember.’

  The SIS man nodded. ‘It was just that you’d had a big bump on the head then, and we thought that now you were fully recovered a few things might have come back to you.’

  ‘No. Sorry. Is it really vital?’

  ‘Yes. Very.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I suppose you want to know if the Germans have got hold of the idea?’

  ‘Yes, that’s just what we’d like to know!’

  ‘David’s idea was a good one then?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Oh I’m so glad! I’m so glad!’ She smiled a little, the first time Smithe-Webb had ever seen her smile. It transformed her face. She asked, ‘It’ll be really useful then – to Britain? To the war effort?’

  The SIS man licked his lips nervously and looked at Smithe-Webb, as if for assistance. ‘Well … er. In a way, yes. In a way.’ He looked down awkwardly.

  Smithe-Webb thought: My God, he’s made a hash of it, bloody fool.

  The girl was staring at the SIS man, confusion on her face. ‘What do you mean – in a way?’ She looked question-ingly at Smithe-Webb, then back to the SIS man. ‘Can’t you use it after all? I thought you said—?’

  ‘No, please forgive me,’ the SIS man said unhappily, ‘Of course we can use it—’

  ‘You’re not telling me the truth!’

  Smithe-Webb breathed in deeply and said, ‘What he hasn’t actually mentioned, Mrs Lescaux, is that – we already have this type of radar.’ He hurried on, ‘Now that doesn’t mean that what you did was any the less important. You stopped the Germans getting hold of Freymann and the secret, and that was really vital.’

  She stared at Smithe-Webb, a look of blank incomprehension on her face.

  He added quickly, ‘You see, it was vital that Freymann be brought out of France. Otherwise the Germans could have tortured the information out of him. They could have held his family prisoner and made him work for them. So you see—’

  She murmured something. Smithe-Webb missed it and hesitated. She said again, ‘So it was all for nothing. All for nothing.’

  ‘No, Mrs Lescaux. Really—’ Rather exasperated, he turned to the scientist. ‘You tell her, old chap.’

  ‘Well …’ The SIS man blinked nervously through his glasses. ‘What Major Smithe-Webb says is absolutely right. The Germans don’t have the radar and that gives us a tremendous edge … It means we can bomb their cities really accurately and … our planes can locate their submarines on the surface … But they don’t have the same advantage. Do you see—?’

  ‘But there were other ways, weren’t there?’ she cried bitterly. ‘Like destroying his plans so they’d never be found, like hiding him and stopping him from being caught. Instead … he died, trying so hard—!’ She put a hand over her face.

  The SIS man was on his feet looking perplexed and mildly alarmed. Smithe-Webb said, ‘Better go, old chap.’

  The man nodded and left. Smithe-Webb pulled up a chair and patted the girl’s arm. ‘Now look, we wouldn’t make this thing up, you know. What Freymann did really was important, you do believe that, don’t you?’

  She took a large breath and raised her head. Eventually she said wearily, ‘Yes, I believe you. Yes … It was just that … I was so hoping that David’s invention would be useful. In a positive way. I wanted it for him – I—’ She sighed. ‘I wanted him to have the glory.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that. Yes, I do see. But what he did was very brave, you know. And very positive. I mean, he whisked the information away from under the German’s noses, didn’t he? They’ll kick themselves when they find out.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Forbes brought in some fresh coffee and she sat drinking quietly, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Smithe-Webb could see that she was thinking hard.

  Suddenly she put down her cup and looked hard at Smithe-Webb. ‘Send me back. I want to go back.’

  Here it was, Smithe-Webb thought. She was bound to ask. He sighed deeply. ‘Mrs Lescaux, it would be most unwise. Think about it. You’ll be on the Gestapo’s list of most wanted people. They’ll have your photograph, your description. You couldn’t go anywhere near North Brittany. They’d have you in a second!’

  She frowned. ‘But—’

  ‘What could you achieve there? Think about it. What would you do?’

  ‘What would I do!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’d find the others! And regroup the line! And I’d—’

  ‘Find the traitor—?’

  ‘I—’ She hesitated, almost spoke, then shut her mouth again. Finally she said firmly, ‘If I could. Yes.’

  Smithe-Webb sighed. ‘Well, with all due respect, I really don’t think it would be wise for you to go looking for him on your own. As for regrouping the line … Well, I’m afraid we wouldn’t want that. We wouldn’t want to inflict the risk on the same village again. In fact – well, I shouldn’t tell you this – but we’ve already got plans to operate from another part of the coast. So you see, there really wouldn’t have been a job for you to do. If there had been, well – you would have been the first person on our list …’

  ‘So you won’t send me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I could do special training. Wireless, guns—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I could work in another district. Away from Tregasnou. Away from North Brittany altogether!’

  Smithe-Webb shook his head firmly. ‘No, Mrs Lescaux. You don’t understand. Anyone who’s been compromised – agents, members of the Resistance, it doesn’t matter who – does not go back. It’s an absolute rule. It’s too dangerous for others …’

  She whispered tightly, ‘I see.’

  She stood up and walked over to the window and looked out for a long time.

  Eventually she turned and said rather crossly, ‘Don’t think I’ve given up. I’ll keep trying, you know. The Free French might send me.’

  ‘Well, I can only tell you that no-one goes to France without the approval of my superiors. And I’m afraid to say that they won’t give it.’

  Her shoulders sagged. Smithe-Webb felt rather sorry for her, but it was for the best. She had to accept the situation.

  ‘All right,’ she said quietly. ‘All right.’ She turned to face him. ‘But will you promise me one thing? Will you promise to get me back the moment it’s possible, the moment the Germans have gone?’

  He stood up and shook his head. ‘Well – it’s jolly difficult to promise something like that.’

  She came close to him. ‘Please! Promise me you’ll try. Please!’

  ‘Well … All I can say is that I’ll do my best. But I can guess how it’ll be after an invasion. They’ll be ferrying tons of equipment across the Channel, there won’t be any room for passengers …’

  ‘I’ll get across somehow. Just promise you’ll get me some papers – or whatever I need – permission. Please.’

  She was standing very close to him, looking up at him with those beautiful dark eyes. Suddenly she smiled a little. The effect was quite lovely and rather touching. Smithe-Webb softened. She had been very brave and MI9 did owe her a debt. He thought: What the hell. He nodded. ‘All right. I’ll do my best. But no promises!’

  She gripped his hands. ‘Thank you! Thank you!’

  ‘You may have to wait a long time, you know,’ he said gently.

  She stopped and nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I know that … A year? People are saying we’ll invade in a year.’

  ‘It may well be longer.’

  She sat down. ‘I’ll wait, then. For as long as I have to.’

  Chapter 35

  IT WAS SEPTEMBER. The next year.

  A whole year and four months later.r />
  The Eighth Corps of Patton’s Third Army had come and gone, sweeping the Germans before them, chasing them into the fortified west coast cities of Brest, St Nazaire, and Lorient where they rallied to fight again …

  Behind them the Breton countryside seemed untouched. There was an occasional overturned jeep, a few cratered roads … But the fields themselves were gold with late crops and the rippling corn was largely undamaged by so much as a tyre track.

  In the towns it was different; the towns didn’t look the same at all. The marks of war were all too evident, in the ruins of the occasional house flattened by a shell; on the facades of the buildings riddled with bullet holes; in the empty shops, almost devoid of goods; and in the general air of decay. The townspeople were different too: thinner, harder and solemn with the knowledge that their troubles were far from over. It would be a long time before they’d have money in their pockets again.

  And in the wake of the Germans’ departure came the reopening of old wounds – public mourning for those who had been deported, tortured, killed … for the hostages, the innocents, the children … for the loss of pride and the deep humiliation of four years of occupation.

  Among some of the people there was resentment, too, at the new occupation. At the small groups of cocky well-fed American troops who replaced the Germans at sentry duty and on street corners and in cafés. So brash, so alien, so lacking in understanding, these young men, none of them realising that all the French people wanted was to be left alone.

  Left alone to their own lives and their own wars—

  There were recriminations, often bitter. Against those who had done nothing … Against those who had helped, supported, collaborated … And not only against those who were known to have collaborated, but against those who might or could have collaborated … It was a time of innuendo, suggestion, rumour … It was a time to settle old scores. Men pointed fingers at their enemies and rivals, innocent or guilty. A few were ostracised: girls who’d been with Germans had their hair cut off; dead men appeared in alleys, summarily executed by their peers.

  Of course, most rejoiced at the new freedom; most welcomed the new era with optimism. But for many the liberation brought fresh uncertainty, renewed bitterness, and in some, a hunger for revenge.

  Amazingly the old bus was still running, though due to the shortage of fuel, it went only twice a day now.

  As it progressed slowly through the country lanes, the shudderings and roarings were as bad as ever and, from the way the vehicle juddered and rabbit-hopped, it seemed that one of the gears had given up altogether.

  Julie was rather glad. She didn’t want anything to have changed, even the old bus. She sat by the window in a seat she’d occupied dozens of times before on the endless journeys to Morlaix and back. It made her feel at home.

  As the bus ground up the slight hill towards Tregasnou she looked at the familiar countryside and felt a sense of unreality. Perhaps because she’d been dreaming about this moment for so long.

  The bus stopped. Julie picked up her case and climbed out.

  The bus roared off and Julie looked around. The village seemed untouched, the small grey cottages snuggling together as cosily and firmly as they had always done.

  There was no-one about, not even nosy old Madame Gres who knew everyone’s comings and goings. Julie strolled over to the café and paused at the door. She’d never been inside before. She walked straight in. The interior was dark and at first she couldn’t see. Then, as she put down her case, she saw the patron standing behind the counter. He looked up and stared at her.

  There was a moment’s silence, then recognition spread over his face. ‘Madame! Madame!’ He said expansively. ‘Welcome! Welcome!’

  Julie nodded, smiled a little, and looked around. How extraordinary: this place wasn’t frightening at all. There were two men drinking coffee at a table in the corner, otherwise the place was empty. She walked up to the bar and placed her hands on the counter.

  ‘Madame – welcome, welcome!’ the patron was repeating. ‘Please! A little something – a glass of Pernod. Sadly we have no cognac …’

  Julie said quietly, ‘No, I won’t. Thank you all the same.’

  The patron nodded and waited expectantly.

  Julie began, ‘Monsieur, my aunt … Where is she, do you know?’

  His face clouded and he dropped his eyes. He said carefully, ‘Yes, madame. She’s at Madame Boulet’s …’ He trailed off and looked away.

  ‘How is she?’

  The patron looked unhappy and shook his head. ‘Not very well, madame. She – er … she’s—’ He dropped his voice and whispered confidentially. ‘She’s not of this world any more, if you understand me. But she’s being well looked after, I assure you. Madame Boulet has nursed her like a saint, like a saint!’

  It was just as the War Office had informed her. Over a year ago, in a letter. She asked, ‘But does she know people? Does she recognise them?’

  The patron pursed his lips. ‘I believe … I believe not usually, no. But I’m sure she’d recognise you, madame!’ He was only saying it to please her, Julie could tell.

  She said, ‘What about – the old group?’ She saw that he knew exactly what she meant and went on, ‘Is there anyone left? I want to … get in touch.’

  ‘Ah.’ He raised his eyebrows and said mournfully, ‘Few left, madame. Most were taken, oh, more than a year ago now—’

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ she interrupted. ‘But is there anyone left?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘There’s old Rannou … up the hill … He ran a safe house … Then there’s Doctor Le Page in Plougat … Lots of Americans stayed there … But—’ he shrugged, ‘– that’s about it really.’

  Julie couldn’t remember meeting either of the people he mentioned. That was because Maurice’s security had been so good. ‘But what about the group here – in the village?’

  ‘No.’ He whispered. ‘No, madame … All gone. A sad day, that was … A sad day …’

  ‘Did you ever hear what happened to the British crew, from the gun boat?’

  ‘No … We never heard. No. We thought they must have been taken to Rennes with the others. No-one ever saw them again.’

  She nodded. Nothing new, then.

  Only Rennes. Everything seemed to have happened in Rennes. The Gestapo had killed Jean and Maurice and the others there. They might have taken Richard there. It would be the best place to start.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘I’d better go and see my aunt now. Oh—’ There was something else, ‘– the farm. My uncle’s farm. What’s happened to it?’

  ‘The neighbours – they’re looking after the animals and doing the harvesting. But the house … That’s empty, madame.’

  ‘Yes.’ She could imagine the house, damp, deserted and cold.

  She moved away from the bar. ‘Well, I’ll go and visit my aunt now.’

  The patron nodded, ‘Of course.’ He came out from behind the bar. ‘It must be a long time since you last saw her. A long time since you went away.’

  ‘Eighteen months.’

  ‘A long time.’

  Yes, Julie thought bitterly, far, far too long.

  She said, ‘Goodbye then. And thank you.’

  She walked towards the door and picked up her case. Footsteps sounded on the bare wooden floor and she was aware of the patron at her elbow. At first she thought he’d hurried over to help her with the case, but then he took hold of her arm and gripped it tightly.

  She looked up into his face with surprise.

  He was wildly excited, his eyes dancing.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  ‘I quite forgot to tell you! Good news! Good news!’

  She frowned. ‘Yes!’

  ‘The traitor! The traitor!’

  Her heart leapt. ‘Yes! Yes—!’

  ‘They’ve got him!’

  Her mouth dropped open. She stared, dumbfounded. ‘Got him …?’

  ‘Yes, they charged him in Re
nnes a week ago. He was in Paris, about to make a run for it. Huh! But they were on his trail all right. No trouble! They brought him back to Rennes and now he’ll pay the price!’ He made a guillotine motion with his hand. ‘Ha! He’ll pay all right!’

  Julie made the effort to speak. ‘Who? Who?’ ‘Ah!’ The patron was smiling and formed his lips to speak. Then quite suddenly his face froze and he put his hand to his mouth. ‘Madame, I quite forgot … Oh dear God, I’m so sorry. I quite forgot! Oh madame, prepare yourself for a shock!’

  She put her face up to his and shouted, ‘Who?’ ‘It’s … it’s Michel, madame. The communist. Michel Le Goff. Your cousin.’

  Neither of the massive doors would budge. The top hinge of the right-hand door had broken, so that the door had fallen and wedged itself firmly against the other one.

  The count gave a last ineffectual pull then stood back, panting hard and feeling his age, which was seventy-two. In the old days the coachmen and grooms would have sprung forward and opened the doors for him. In the old days a hinge would never have been allowed to fall into disrepair.

  It was hopeless. These doors hadn’t been opened since the beginning of the war: they obviously weren’t going to open now. The count decided to give up and get into the coach house by means of the side door.

  He made his way slowly round the wall of the coach house, which, with the stables and gardeners’ cottages, was screened from the château by a long hedge, once carefully trimmed but now grown wild.

  Through a gap in the hedge the count noticed that another section of drain pipe had broken loose from a wall of the main house. Too bad. Like everything else it would have to wait. Repairs took money, and money was the one thing he didn’t have.

  As he opened the side door to the coach house he wondered, not for the first time, where all the money had gone.

  He peered into the darkness and, fumbling in his pocket, lit a match. He would need an oil lamp. He went back to the château and searched the dusty, empty rooms until he found one. It took him another twenty minutes to get the lamp clean and the wick trimmed.

  Back at the coach house he lit the lamp, turned up the wick and peered into the darkness. The giant tarpaulin, once green but now grey with dust, sat humped over the massive object in the centre of the floor.