Staying Alive

by Alexander Fullerton

  ‘How about the maquisards, bicycles etc?’

  ‘There’d have been injuries all right – things like bruises and twisted knees, and some damage to the bikes no doubt. Not to mine, maybe because it had been put in there by Alain and better secured, or one or two of the others weighting it down maybe. Any case Alain would’ve fixed it. Ditto the others’, if they couldn’t themselves – at the farm where we stopped to offload the containers and where Alain and I spent the rest of the night seeing out the curfew hours.’

  ‘So you got to Lézat-sur-Lèze all right.’

  ‘Oh, sure, but not on the 919. Alain found us a wiggly, narrow lane to the east of it, northward out of St-Ybars, wove its way right up to Lézat. I thought he might’ve known of it, wondered why he hadn’t opted for it in the first place. Set on using the faster road, I suppose. Well, no one’s perfect, and by and large he’d been bloody marvellous, no doubt of that. We groped our way through St-Ybars – without fights, knowing we could’ve run into trouble any moment – if those others had given up and been coming back, for instance. So – yes, St-Lézat, then via back ways to the farm, and – so much for that, huh?’

  10

  The doorbell penetrated her dream like a dentist’s drill, in the moment of waking could almost have been one. She’d gone to sleep on the couch in Berthe’s salon and had been dreaming, she realised, about the man she’d thought of at that time as ‘the Australian’, never expected to see again and who had no business in her sleeping or waking mind. Although the dream hadn’t been in the least unpleasant. In point of fact—

  No. Forget it. Wide awake now, crossing the room barefooted to the bay window to see who this was, checking the time en route – it was getting towards half-three – and hoping it might be Jake.

  Which it was. On the lower step, having turned his back on the house, looking back along the pavement and around Place Marengo generally; by the time she’d got to the front door and opened it he was on the upper step again and facing her, half-smiling.

  ‘Suzie.’ Leather jacket, cream shirt, narrow tie. ‘Woke you, did I?’

  ‘I had dropped off.’ Giving him room to edge in past her, then shutting the door and relocking it. ‘Berthe’s going to be late, she left a note that after school she’s having to preside over some meeting. Last night’s drop didn’t have my spare sets in it, Jake. Jean, I mean. And what’s more—’

  ‘The St-Girons band were ambushed. I know. I’ve been talking with Déclan.’ Turning to look at her again: an up-and-down look, and the smile returning. ‘My word, Suzie, without shoes on, you’re – five foot, even?’

  ‘Five-four.’ Back in the sitting-room, recovering her shoes, which with their articulated wooden soles – French wartime manufacture, all leather being requisitioned by the Boche – gave her an extra inch. Of course there’d been plenty of time for Jake and Alain to have got together; she hadn’t foreseen it, but Alain had dropped her at Plaisance-du-Touch at about eleven, would have made contact with Jake by whatever means he had of doing that by say noon, and got into town probably by bus. While she’d had an early snack at the café she’d used similarly on Monday, before coming on here. Three-thirty now. She told him, ‘I’ve drafted a report on last night. If you’d check over it I’ll encypher it and get it off tonight. It’s my night to receive, but—’

  ‘Transmitting from where?’

  ‘Yes, that’s rather the question. I’ll go by bike, of course. I thought maybe head for Revel, since I know that road. When I was meeting Marc on Sunday it took me about three hours – in daylight, admittedly – but I don’t think I need go that far. There were farm buildings and suchlike set back from the road here and there, and some of it looked suitably derelict, so I might allow three hours to include selecting some reasonably good spot?’

  ‘Curfew at eleven, you know.’

  ‘Yes, well—’

  ‘Smoke?’

  It was an almost full pack of Disques Bleus he was proffering. She nodded. ‘I’d love one. Getting a bit low, myself. Alain and I—’

  ‘You had an anxious time, I gather.’

  She’d taken a cigarette. ‘Had its moments. One in particular. I must say, he was marvellous.’ Inclining to the match: ‘Thanks, Jake.’ Straightening: ‘Really was. Steady as a rock. As you’d know, of course.’ Inhaling, then letting it all go: ‘Ah, heaven…’

  ‘I gather he enjoyed your company too. He’s going down to St-Girons first thing tomorrow, by the way – which should mean another transmission maybe Sunday night.’

  ‘Is whatever happened there likely to affect Hardball?’

  Shake of the greying head. ‘I’d say the only thing might do that would be if Von Whatshisname was shipped off to Germany before they got here. No – might have to bring others into it, or borrow weaponry.’

  ‘Would we have news of it, if the man was shipped away?’

  ‘Yes. At least, I’d expect to. But Suzie, this transmission tonight – well, for one thing, if you were on the way to Revel and allowing three hours, and you’ll want to be listening-out by eleven – I’d think it’s likely they will have stuff for us – you’d hardly be through before say eleven-thirty, and with curfew starting at eleven—’

  ‘I get there before dark if possible, find a place and hole-up, do my stuff and stay there until first light.’ She checked the time again: three thirty-five. ‘I’d start as soon as possible, in fact. Do the encyphering now – if you’d OK the script – take in some bread and cheese or something – I’ve brought Berthe eggs and parsnips from the farm we were at last night, incidentally. But I’ll wrap up warmly – and find some place that’s sheltered—’

  ‘Timing’s not the only snag with your planning, Suzie. Sorry, but – that whole stretch is flat and relatively low-lying, isn’t it? Not a single hill – that I recall – no man-made eminences either. I’d say it’s about the most unpromising terrain you could have picked on.’

  Staring at him: knowing he was right.

  ‘Should have thought a bit longer, shouldn’t I!’

  ‘Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t.’

  She held his gaze: nodded, surprised at herself. ‘Specially as I’ve been rethinking the whole thing, as it happens. Since not getting the spare sets – but before that, occurred to me on Sunday when I was with Marc – fact is I’d sooner do it on my own. Ride out in daylight, hole-up, and come back in daylight – is what it’d amount to. Right now of course – short notice, and what you just said… Look, shall I send from here, just this once?’

  ‘No, Suzie. On no account. Not from this house, ever. Absolutely no question of it.’

  ‘All right. I only thought – if it absolutely had to go out tonight… But if it doesn’t – if we could leave it twenty-four hours say, and tomorrow I’d settle on a good location that’s suitable and reachable? A daylight reconnaissance first, in whichever direction you’d propose?’

  ‘There’s one possibility – now I come to think of it. Taking a hell of a chance, mind you…’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Talking about tonight still, not tomorrow. Since it is actually rather urgent. It’d be what you call reachable, all right – half an hour or three-quarters maybe, on your bike… Do we have a map of the town centre here?’

  ‘Town centre…’

  ‘Almost. Other side of the river, at least, but still—’

  ‘Berthe has one, I’ll get it. Meanwhile, since we may be a bit pushed, here’s the draft for you to approve.’

  A nod. ‘OK.’ His hand on it on the table, though, not looking at it, looking hard at her. ‘I’m by no means sure of this, Suzie.’

  ‘I’ll get the map anyway.’

  When she came back with it, he’d skimmed over the draft of her report to Baker Street; she’d written it in pencil on an unused page in a school exercise book which also contained some history student’s notes on General Pétain’s brilliant defence of Verdun in ’16.

  ‘Nice idea, this. A snooper’d read no furthe
r, would he? Re, the missing transceivers though, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a message on the way explaining some balls-up or other. But not a chance they’d lay on a special drop.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Unless the St-Girons weaponry’s to be replaced, of course. And that’s not likely, one reason being there isn’t time. Well – barely…Anyway – show you this now.’ She’d opened the map on the table and he leant over it. ‘Pont St-Michel – you’d find your way there, all right. So – over it, on to the rond-point and off to the right here – Allée. What d’you call it – about a kilometre to this intersection, then left here and right here, and – bob’s your uncle.’ Tapping it with a middle finger. ‘Old gaol, site of; originally a fortress, so it has a tower. Won’t have for long, they’re in the process of knocking the whole lot down, site’s earmarked for some new hospital. It did have railings all around it but they’ve already torn those out, and most of this end’s gone – including most of an ancient perimeter wall – this side, facing you as you approach from either of these streets.’

  ‘And is the tower accessible?’

  He’d nodded. ‘And externally more or less intact. Stone staircase inside and a way in about here. Crumbly, probably dangerous – must have been part of the old fort. Whereas the cell-block built inside the old keep – this end – may have been put up only about a hundred years ago. I don’t know, offhand, anyway that’s already flattened. As a firm we’re only concerned with the approach roads, not the building itself.’

  ‘That’s how you know about it?’

  ‘It’s there in plain view, open to all eyes. Jacques Jorisse as it happens was talking about it the other day – not that he’s working on it yet, won’t be until contractors have cleared the site, and they only started a week ago. He’d paid the place a visit thinking he’d like to see the view from the top while it’s still there, but at close quarters decided not to risk it. Which makes me slightly hesitant, I must say – apparently they’ve plastered it with affiches warning people to keep out. I doubt they’d have a nightwatchman on it – knowing them.’

  ‘Looks good for our purposes, Jake.’ Checking the time again, thinking, since there’s no alternative in any case. ‘I’d get there in daylight, have a snoop round and—’

  ‘Yes. Close look before the light goes, and – the way I’d play it if it was me sticking my neck out – as I wish it could be – well, move in when the light’s gone or half gone.’ Looking at her again: ‘If you wanted to do this – bearing in mind you’d be running all the pianist’s normal risks plus unsafe structure, and right in town, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘Do we know whether the RHSA have detector vans here yet?’

  ‘Don’t know, but I’d guess they would have. One’s heard there are Funkabwehr around, and they’re the boys who specialise in it, aren’t they? I’d guess they’d have been here about as long as you have, Suzie.’

  ‘Just have to pray they’re not too quick off the mark.’

  He’d shrugged. ‘Pray if you like – I’d say just be bloody careful.’ He paused, looking at her: then shook his head, slapped his palm down on the map. ‘Suzie, let’s rethink, give it twenty-four hours. Tomorrow night, as you suggested – reconnaissance by day, etc. We could – and it might obviate the need for a second transmission when Déclan’s reported.’

  ‘But he’s not likely to be back before Sunday, Baker Street does need to know we only got three out of eight containers – and that there should’ve been nine – and with Hardball Stage One as little as a week from now, if there did have to be another drop – not all that much time, is there? Jake, I’ll manage this all right. Leave here at five, I’m into the place by what, six-thirty? Do my stuff and be back here seven-thirty, say –beating curfew hollow and listening-out by eleven. OK, a once-only, wouldn’t try it a second time – well, obviously not, but—’

  He’d sighed, lifting his hands. ‘All right.’

  ‘Good. Good.’

  ‘But go very, very cautiously.’

  ‘You bet I will.’

  ‘And out like a scalded cat soon as you’re done.’

  ‘Like two scalded cats.’ She nodded. ‘Promise. Absolutely.’

  ‘I’ll be here biting my nails until you’re back.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll fairly scoot back, Jake!’

  He wouldn’t be there when she started her listening-out though, would need to be back in his own flat before curfew. So they’d get together tomorrow, Saturday. Café des Beaux Arts about one o’clock. Berthe had agreed to meet him there at that time, so come with her?

  She’d smiled: wondering Jake and Berthe? and he’d seen the question in her eyes, frowned slightly, told her, ‘I’ll need to visit here quite often, to see you, and to justify that I want her to be seen with me in public now and then. The odd meal or promenade, so forth.’

  ‘Then mightn’t I be somewhat de trop at lunch with you?’

  ‘Not at all. If the question were ever to be asked how come you’re living in this house, an answer might be that you’re more or less her protégée, she’s hoping to get you fixed up with a job in some nursery school. She knows which, I don’t – no reason I should, is there? But that’s how I know you, Suzie – through her. It’s not the sort of cover one would invent or offer readily to an enquirer – more like background that might emerge if a questioner persisted – and it wouldn’t conflict with the rest of your act – your late husband’s aunt, all that.’

  ‘I like it. Has a natural feel to it.’

  ‘I was going to talk to you about it, should have before this. But incidentally, best not say anything that might suggest I’ve ulterior motives in seeking Berthe’s company. She’s no fool, she’s probably as aware of it as I am, only I wouldn’t rub it in, you know? The stuff about nursery school is something she and I concocted rather vaguely before you arrived – best keep it vague, don’t you agree? Only a hope, on the other hand we wouldn’t contradict each other about it if the subject happened to come up.’

  ‘You’re thinking of interrogations and matching stories.’

  ‘In such circumstances – yes, might come in handy?’

  ‘You’re lucky to have found Berthe, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am. And to have had you dumped on me.’ Patting her hand. ‘You’re a gift from the gods, Suzie. Truly are. Which is why – well, please be more careful this evening than you’ve ever been? However sound our cover stories, it’s being caught in – you know, situations—’

  ‘Wiggy-type.’

  A grimace, small shake of the head. ‘Get this screed into cypher now, shall we?’

  * * *

  By five-fifteen she’d crossed the Canal du Midi and was pedalling up the Allée Jean Jaurès. Grey sky, cold north wind, light already fading a little. Jaurès, she recalled from her readings of history, had founded the French socialist party and edited L’Humanité, and had been assassinated for his pains. In – oh, 1914. Three-quarters of a kilometre, roughly, on this stretch, then left into Boulevard Lazare and another kilometre south into the Allée Verdier, where not much more than a week ago she’d walked in those gardens with total stranger James Kinnear alias Jean Samblat. It seemed much more than a week: and although she hadn’t spent more than a few hours of it in his company, she thought of him now not only as her Chef de Réseau but also as a close friend.

  Really very close, as she saw it. Couldn’t have said exactly why or when she’d become aware of it, he’d simply grown on one.

  He’d been down to Carcassonne on Tuesday, he’d told her, to confer with Marc on the subject of the beaches at St-Pierre, Canet-Plage and Barcarès, and felucca operations, whether their continuance might or might not be possible, and he’d found to his surprise that Rosie hadn’t been far wrong when she’d described Marc as being in a state of nerves – or on edge, however she’d described it – and after some gentle probing had elicited from him that he’d lost his girlfriend.

  ‘Didn’t know he had one.’ Her
own voice in retrospect, thinking back on their exchanges in Berthe’s kitchen, where she’d been slicing cheese to melt over beans on toast; she’d considered poaching an egg to put on top but had resisted the temptation. She’d brought half a dozen from last night’s farm but they were fairly precious objects and like everything else strictly rationed. She’d surrendered her own forged ration cards to Berthe, of course, but when eating on her own still felt as if she was guzzling someone else’s food.

  Jake had limited himself to a cup of so-called coffee – he’d eat when he got back to his own place later – but at her urging had accepted one of the farm eggs, wrapping it carefully and putting it in his briefcase, which otherwise held nothing other than Mahossier, Jorisse paperwork. Anything more vital went inside his shirt or undervest, he’d told her.

  Left into the boulevard. Traffic not very heavy at this stage, but likely soon to be thickening with homebound workers.

  On the subject of Marc Voreux having lost his girlfriend, she’d added, ‘Didn’t know he had any special one, I mean.’