Staying Alive

by Alexander Fullerton

  Not bad. It was still ten or twelve minutes before the agreed time of rendezvous. And the rain had stopped – for the moment, anyway.

  ‘Bonjour.’

  ‘Mam’selle…’

  She told him, nodding down at the bike, ‘Front wheel seems to have a wobble, and I’ve a long, long way to go. If you could possibly—’

  ‘Wouldn’t be popular if I did. I’m a customer, like yourself.’ Jerk of the head on the short, thick neck. ‘Here’s the man you want.’ Turning to a spindly, grey-headed garagist who was approaching with a mug in his hand too. ‘Wheel-wobble on the front, Georges. Fix that easy enough, won’t you?’

  ‘Not if there’s much wrong, I won’t. Not today, with this lot, and—’ a nod towards the barn, none the less taking the bike from her and up-ending it, giving that wheel a spin. Glancing at her with his eyebrows raised, then doing the same again. ‘No wobble I can see.’

  ‘Let’s have a squint?’

  Georges holding the bike with that wheel off the ground while Déclan examined it. Telling Rosie then, ‘He’s right. Sound as a bell, Miss.’

  ‘Well, I’d have sworn—’

  ‘Saying you’d some way to go? Where, exactly?’

  She grimaced. ‘Believe it or not, Tarbes.’

  ‘Zut, alors… Hundred and fifty kilometres, thereabouts.’ Looking at Georges. ‘Give anyone a bloody wobble.’

  Georges sucked at his enamel mug. ‘Whyn’t you take her, then?’

  ‘To bloody Tarbes?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She was embarrassed. ‘No question of—’

  ‘I could take you as far as – what’s the place called – oh, Boulogne-sur-Geste, know where that is?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Be halfway for you, near enough. It’s where I turn off from what’d be your route.’ A glance at Georges, who advised her, ‘Grab it, if I was you.’ A gesture towards Déclan. ‘He’s all right, don’t worry. Grab it, mam’selle.’

  ‘I can hardly believe this. D’you really mean it?’

  ‘Glad to have the company. Name’s Déclan, Alain Déclan – from Léguevin up the road there. See, room enough for your bike in there – and that box in the cab with you, d’you think?’

  * * *

  She asked him when they were back up in the square and turning west, ‘Is there such a place as Boulogne-sur-Geste?’

  ‘Sure, there is – on the way to Tarbes, what’s more. Consequently we won’t be going anywhere near it. I’ll be turning south at St-Foy-de-Peyrolières. Not long after St-Lys. Before that we pass through Fonsorbes, where my wife works in the hospital. Suzie, if we ran into a checkpoint or what have you, what’s your story?’

  ‘Visiting or say seeking out an old aunt of my late husband’s. Maybe in Foix?’

  ‘You said before, a village in the Cevennes.’

  ‘So I did. Good memory, Alain. Fact is, old Tante Ursule’s – well, whichever way I’m going, that’s where she might be, or I think was when I last heard. I keep thinking this or that place-name rings a bell, but—’

  ‘I’d be intending to drop you off somewhere en route to Foix, then.’

  She nodded. ‘Up to you where, since I don’t know the area.’

  ‘When you find this aunt, you might move in with her, I dare say.’

  ‘Well, if she liked the idea. She might. Must be a fair age by now.’

  ‘Which is why you’re not in a hurry to find other work, meanwhile.’

  ‘Believable, would you say?’

  ‘I’d believe it. This is Fonsorbes coming up now.’

  ‘Should I duck down in case your wife spots me?’

  ‘Won’t be passing the hospital, don’t worry.’

  ‘Give you a hard time, would she?’

  ‘I’d just lie my head off. Not for the first time either.’

  ‘D’you mean you make a habit of picking up girls?’

  ‘I’m not that daft, Suzie. I’m talking about – well, must’ve told you, what I live on is installing and fixing up borehole pumps and suchlike, I don’t have any other interests and it’s important Monique never gets to think I might have.’

  ‘Yes, I understood that.’

  ‘Like what I’ve been doing the last couple of days for instance.’

  ‘D’you think there will be a drop tonight?’

  ‘The weather, you mean.’

  Looking out and up at it. ‘Although it’s better than it was first thing. Do Lancaster drops often get called off?’

  ‘Has been known. Hospital’s up there to the right, by the way. Care for a smoke?’

  ‘Well, why not. Use mine, though, it’s easier.’

  ‘If you insist. I was going to ask, is your transceiver in that box?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She struck a match, lit two cigarettes and passed one to him. ‘No. But as you know, they’re dropping spare sets to me tonight, and I have my crystals with me, so—’

  ‘But no drop, no set.’

  ‘That’s one reason I’m hoping it won’t be cancelled.’

  ‘Yeah. I understand that. Same as old Wiggy – he had a spare or two. But if they do postpone, must be a threat to Hardball too, eh?’

  ‘D’you know all about Hardball?’

  ‘As much as I need to, here and now. I did some research Jean wanted, then set up a meeting old Michel Loubert was at. Know who he is?’

  ‘Leader of the St-Sulpice Maquis, formerly a légionnaire?’

  ‘Have done your homework, Suzie. Yeah, he’s important to us. Knows his onions, and – see, where that band’s located, between Montgazin and St-Sulpice, well, his band couldn’t be better placed. He was a sergeant-major in the Legion, saw a lot of service, got his head screwed on, hates Vichy as much as he does the Boche.’

  ‘You said old Michel Loubert.’

  ‘Well – maybe not much older than me. Been through it though, by all accounts.’

  ‘He’ll be at the drop tonight, will he?’

  ‘At Legrand’s farm tonight, sure. Him with two or three others. Emile Fernier’s lot – the St-Girons band – is a different kettle of fish, they won’t leave home until they hear the first message personnel. I’ve hired a truck for them and their five containers – half a dozen maquisards I’d guess, but they won’t start without word of Véronique.’

  ‘Loubert will, though?’

  ‘Has to. Coming on their bikes, so they need to start early. If there’s a broadcast at seven they won’t hear it, just come hoping. Oh, and we take ’em home – after the drop or non-drop, as the case may be.’

  ‘You and I do?’

  ‘Yup. In this contrivance, in the back under the tarpaulin. Three containers, three or four of them and their bikes.’

  ‘Four containers in all, then.’

  ‘Ah – yeah. But we might leave yours for Legrand to bury. Maquisards usually bury them – have ’em out of sight’s the main thing, and often as not use for storage of weaponry, so forth.’

  ‘We’ll have three anyway. Something like twenty kilometres, is it, Montbrun to Montgazin?’

  ‘Bit more than that. But nothing to worry about – I mean, small country lanes, dark night, miles from anywhere anyone ever heard of?’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  A glance at her, leaking smoke. ‘You can, Suzie. You can.’ Frowning at her lingering uncertainty. ‘You can believe me, damn it!’

  ‘We wouldn’t be doing it if you weren’t sure, would we?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be saying it if I wasn’t. Get along all right with Voreux, did you?’

  ‘Well enough. Yes, fine.’

  ‘Didn’t try to sweep you off your feet, then?’

  ‘Not that I noticed.’

  A chuckle. ‘He wouldn’t like to hear that.’

  ‘Seemed a perfectly nice young man to me.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad. Jean and I pull his leg a bit much, I dare say.’

  ‘Jean’s terrific, isn’t he?’

  ‘Knows what he’s about, for su
re. And he thinks well of you, so – yeah, he’s sound, all right… Listen, Suzie – I got bread and sausage we can have when we want it – might as well get past St-Foy first, eh? – then when we’re over the main road, the 64, I’ll be visiting a farm – alibi, reason to’ve been in the area, see, checking his pump’s OK. Might put you under the tarp while I’m there, best have ’em think I’m on my own – OK?’

  ‘Alibi’s essential, is it?’

  ‘Desirable, I’d call it. Fact is there’s half a dozen farms I could drop in on, any of ’em I’d have had good reason to. And nothing else I’m there for.’

  ‘Have you ever actually needed that kind of alibi?’

  ‘No, but always made sure I would have. And with this drop tonight, see—’

  ‘Although you say “no worries”?’

  ‘Well, it’s the truth. Even though I’ll admit now we got the Boches here—’

  ‘Could change.’

  ‘Could, yeah.’ Winding the window down to flick his cigarette stub away. ‘But hardly this quick, and they couldn’t ever watch all the little lanes, not even one in ten of ’em. Well – you’ll see… But listen, I got you a present in the back there – battery for your radio.’

  ‘For the transceiver – a spare?’

  ‘Was Wiggy’s. Always got me to charge ’em for him, I had this one when—’

  ‘Alain, that really is a present and a half! Will you recharge others when they need it?’

  ‘Sure. No problem…’

  * * *

  They ate the bread and sausage and drank a flask-full of pseudo coffee after the turn-off at St-Foy-de-Peyrolières, half an hour south of which at a village called Rieumes he pointed at a left fork and told her, ‘That way’d take us to Noé.’

  Noé where the Hardball target was situated.

  He’d added, ‘Which I’m steering clear of since I wouldn’t want it thought I might’ve been sussing the place out.’

  ‘If it took us to Noé, it’d also pass somewhere near Montgazin or Sulpice, where your friend Loubert hangs out?’

  He glanced at her and nodded. ‘Bravo, mam’selle. But you’re thinking why not pick ’em up and take ’em along, save ’em the bike ride later?’

  ‘Obviously you’ve reason not to, but—’

  ‘They’ll get ’emselves down there each on his own, not a whole bunch together. I wouldn’t want a truckload of ’em in broad daylight, what’s more, wouldn’t care to be seen picking ’em up in that region neither.’ Passing her his crumpled pack of Gauloises. ‘We’ll cross over the 64 about thirty kilometres south of Noé. Another hour south from here, near enough.’ He waited, then took the lighted Gaulois from her. ‘Thanks. But you got the geography pretty well in mind – eh?’

  ‘Bits of it – sort of.’

  ‘There’s a bit of an old map under this seat, if you want.’

  * * *

  Twenty kilometres south from there, they were crossing the River Touch, last seen when starting out from Plaisance, and soon after passing through a hamlet unmarked on the map but identified by Déclan as Labastide-Clermont. After which he bore right – with the same object in mind, he explained: to cross the main Toulouse-Tarbes road at a good distance from Noé.

  Villages followed at varying intervals: after Marignac-Casclaus, another that was unmarked and which he didn’t name but knew well enough to tell her that they had only a dozen kilometres to cover before crossing the 64.

  ‘Then how far?’ Eyes on the map. ‘Forty?’

  A shrug. ‘Forty, forty-five.’

  ‘So with this other call to make, it’ll be dark before we’re there.’

  ‘Won’t stop at Cazalet’s any longer than I have to. Like you to see Legrand’s place in daylight.’

  ‘Like a sight of the dropping field, certainly.’

  The Pyrenees loomed distantly ahead, a broad spread and depth of foothills as a foreground to that massive, jagged barrier under a mix of clear sky and grey-black cloud. A lot more cloud than clear sky admittedly, but she thought the cloud was higher than it had been this morning, and since the turn south at St-Foy there’d been no rain. Please God the Lanc would come.

  Crossed fingers. What sort of weather they might have further north was something else entirely.

  ‘Coming up ahead now, Suzie –’ Rosie jerking out of some dream, and Déclan’s thick forefinger stabbing at the smeared windscreen – ‘that’s Lafitte-Vigordane, and the main road’s just beyond.’

  He’d been letting her sleep for some while, she realised – catching up on sleep missed through having listened-out last night – and updating herself on the map now, noting that not long after leaving the main road behind them they’d be crossing the Garonne – near a village called – couldn’t make out its name… This was a small-scale as well as much used map, with smudges and even blank areas near what had been folds… Anyway, back to this village, Lafitte-Whatsit, Déclan whistling softly between his teeth as he drove slowly through into the centre and on round, then ignoring a left fork which she’d have thought would have been their way out, but evidently wasn’t. Narrower here now, and after a hundred or two hundred metres the start of a long bend. Following that round into the straight – which she guessed would lead finally to a crossing of the main road.

  Studying their route again, whereabouts of the Garonne bridge two or three kilometres further on…

  ‘Oh hell, what’s—’

  Braking: Rosie focusing on it too: a motorbike parked broadside across the road a couple of hundred metres ahead. They’d come round the bend and there it was after a straightish couple of hundred metres – less than that now, he’d eased up on the brakes, muttering something about going through with this, other crossings’d be blocked as well, you could bet on it… Braking harder, and stopping ten metres short of them – a booted and helmeted Boche soldier straddling the bike and a tall uniformed gendarme near him in the middle of the road – hand up with its palm towards them. Déclan growling like a ventriloquist, lips hardly moving, ‘Take it easy now, nowt to do with us, is this .’ Winding his window down, staring out at the gendarme as he reached them. Tall man with a big nose: might make a good stand-in for de Gaulle, she thought.

  ‘Some problem, captain?’

  ‘You’re not from anywhere around here.’

  ‘That’s the truth, but I’d not call it a problem. I’m from Léguevin. What’s this about, then?’

  ‘Military convoy in transit is what. Léguevin, eh. Heading where?’

  She could see the big greenish army trucks passing, hear each of them as it hammered past the end of this approach-road – thump thump thump, travelling quite fast and almost nose to tail. Déclan had shouted back, ‘Farm near Carrière, fellow name of Cazalet—’

  ‘And what’s your business with Leon Cazalet?’

  ‘I put a new pump on his well for him, come to check on it as I’m bound to. Why, though—’

  ‘And you, Miss?’

  ‘Making for Foix to visit a relative, and this gentleman very kindly—’

  Whumph, whumph, whumph…

  ‘Whole Boche army on the move, is it?’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you. Takes twenty minutes to get by.’ Jerk of the head towards the trooper on the bike. ‘So he says. When it’s gone he overtakes, blocks another crossing up ahead – must be fifty more like him, eh?’

  ‘Up to twenty minutes’ wait then.’ Déclan shrugging, telling Rosie, ‘Might as well light up.’ His Gauloises again on offer, but she didn’t want one. A pony-trap had pulled up behind them, the gendarme straightening from the window and now sauntering back to talk to the women in it, friends of his, no doubt. Déclan said, ‘Might time this – number of trucks per minute, then multiply by twenty?’

  ‘Already doing that.’ She added, ‘If your chum comes back, ask him if he knows where they’re going.’

  Even fragments of intelligence could add up and have their uses. The motorbike for instance had a yellow plate on it with wha
t looked like XXI in white on a black triangle. Might enable some War Office boffin to identify the unit.

  * * *

  Thanks to that hold-up and then the stop at the farm near Carrière it was more than half-dark when they got to Legrand’s at Montbrun-Bocage, turning in around a low stone farmhouse that was right on the lane and continuing across a yard to park between barns where it was even darker.

  ‘Wait here a mo’, Suzie?’

  ‘All right, but—’

  ‘Shan’t be long.’

  ‘Please don’t be.’

  She needed a pee. Old Rosie had remembered this of all things, although detail of the rest of it was at best vague; but she must have had her pee, because she remembered meeting Madame Legrand, being with her in the house at that early stage, which otherwise she would not have been: and Déclan fretting because he wanted to show her the dropping-ground while there was still some light. There was a chance of a half-moon later, if by some miracle the cloud should thin or partially break up, but you’d have been mad to count on it or even really hope. At this stage it must have been about 6 p.m. she guessed. Or say five-thirty, when she was inside the house for those few minutes. She remembered Madame Legrand as large and her husband as rather small, grey-headed, she thought quite a bit older than his wife. There were children around, although they were kept out of her sight – or she was kept out of theirs – and she was in the house only as long as she needed to be. One of the barns was where the parachutage party would congregate and pass the waiting hours; this was primarily for the children’s sake, the principle being that they shouldn’t know what was going on, shouldn’t be endangered with such knowledge.

  For everyone’s sake, in fact. You could hardly blame children if they chattered.

  ‘They’ll be told it’s the vet who’s come. Something of that kind. Or me, maybe, seeing to the bloody borehole pump. You’d be the vet’s or engineer’s daughter, as like as not.’ Rosie and Déclan back in the pick-up, making slow progress uphill over a rocky track, making for the higher part of the farm where the drop was to be. She’d have been keen to see it perhaps especially because this would be her first parachutage ever – if it came off at all – and in any case she was to take a leading part in it, having agreed with Déclan that she’d flash the recognition signal to the incoming aircraft, using a white torch from the apex of the dropping-zone, southern end of it, flashing the initial letters of the two Maquis bands’ specially allocated code-names.