‘I know pretty well what you mean.’
‘I’m sure you do. You got that feeling across more than once in the other books. For me you did.’
‘Remarkable how clearly it’s stuck in your memory, for all that. You had quite a few much nastier experiences in the next few years, didn’t you. The Gestapo in Rouen, for instance – and in Paris, Rue des Saussaies? And what about the marketplace in – oh, St-Valéry-sur-Vanne?’
She’d nodded. ‘Happened to be the first time I’d seen coldblooded murder, I suppose. And – out for a stroll, out of the blue that savagery, and just minutes later there we still were – strolling on.’
After a bit of a pause, I switched the subject – as we’d agreed I might without offending her. ‘Rosie – while I think of it – is there anything special to record about your sortie in Marc’s van that Monday? You’d have had a quiet Sunday, Jake would have visited you on the Monday morning, and at noon or thereabouts you’d have met Marc in Rue Sabatier?’
‘As arranged. Yes. Must have. Rue Sabatier…Why, yes – when he told me about Gabrielle Vérisoin. In fact I’d have asked him about her.’
* * *
‘Has the girl you lost turned up yet, Marc?’
A glance at her, and no immediate answer. She shrugged: ‘Don’t want to seem nosy, if it’s – you know, private and personal. But you mentioned it to Jake—’
‘Who told you, evidently.’
‘I’d asked how you were, he said you were in the dumps, and losing the girl as a reason for it. Good enough reason too, if—’
‘Yes.’ Blinking through thick lenses at the road ahead. ‘I think it’s likely she’s been arrested. In which case—’
‘By whom, arrested?’
A shrug. ‘Gestapo. Abwehr. Not all that much difference, is there. What for, I don’t know either. But why else would she simply vanish, without a prior word to anyone, not even to her children’s nursemaid? None of the servants have any idea – why, even her husband doesn’t!’
‘D’you mean – you’ve been in touch with him?’
‘As it happens, I’ve arranged to meet him.’ Shifting gear, turning on to the 622, the stretch of it leading to Revel. ‘Never set eyes on him before, and he’d apparently never heard of me, although he agreed to see me – which in a way surprised me. What do you know about either of them?’
‘Only what you must have told Jake. She helped you somehow with customers of your escape-line, and she’s a raving beauty – and Jake – Jean – referred to her as your girlfriend. Whether or not that means—’
‘Hang on.’ Manoeuvring around a cartload of logs. ‘I’ll tell you—’
‘– also she’s Gaullist, but her husband’s Pétainist and Chef des Compagnons de France?’
‘A bigwig, yes. Offices all over the place, knows all the other high-ups and Vichy swine.’
‘Despite which she helped you with escapers?’
‘People change, is her answer to that. And war changes everything. On the face of it in any case she’s a happily or say successfully married woman – who still has her own you might say private life. How she explained it to me, that is, or in so many words. His concern as she explained it is first and foremost to hold on to what he’s got. In his view Germany’s bound to win the war, how would it help for him to throw everything away?’
‘What’s happening with the children, d’you know?’
‘They have a nanny, and attend nursery school. The time I told Jean about, Gabi was in fact in Lézignan-Corbières to pick them up from school that afternoon, lunching by herself in a restaurant avec chambres of which I myself had made use occasionally. In fact it’s – was, effectively – a safe-house, although not much used I thought by anyone but me. Anyway, at that time there was a couple my sister had sent down – Jewish, a surgeon and his wife, arriving that morning on the bus from – oh, Montpellier, most likely – they’d have arrived before noon if the bus had been on time, and I’d have collected them that evening, moved them on to Perpignan. Whereas all that had arrived was an individual who must have been DST, accompanied by gendarmes who remained in their van outside while this one ordered lunch for himself and said he’d like to look around the place. If the food was as good as he’d heard he might bring his wife for a weekend, some time. Bullshit like that – which they had to pretend to believe, and the patronne’s daughter showed him round – bedrooms, even the attic rooms and cellar, he insisted. Gabi meanwhile had had her lunch – knowing her, probably no more than a salad – and while the man was still upstairs the patronne, who’d become a friend of mine in recent months but must have known her for years, whispered to her could she possibly do her the huge favour of going by the bus stop in the square, with an eye out for a pair of strangers, the man actually a surgeon, Jewish, they’d probably have some baggage but not more than they could carry – well, Gabi checked the flow – yes, of course she would. Behind her the DST person had entered, patronne turning to give him a smile and indicate a table, murmuring “Un petit moment, monsieur” and to Gabi then: “Enchanting to have seen you again, madame. I trust Monsieur le Chef des Compagnons is in good health?” Gabi replying affirmatively, adding in not much more than a breath, “I’ll do what I can.”’
Through Revel, the crossroads where ten days earlier on her bike she’d taken pot-luck on which way to go, the van picking up speed now on that same route, for Sorèze and eventually St-Pons-de-Thomières. Marc continuing, ‘By luck, she was in the square only minutes after the bus had pulled in and disgorged some passengers, including a couple recognisable as my colis. Those who’d got out had already more or less dispersed, while these two strangers had made a show of knowing exactly where they were going, and actually started, she told me afterwards, in precisely the wrong direction. Anyway she took them home with her and installed them in the chauffeur’s cottage, which happened to be empty – still is, they have no chauffeur – and which with her permission I’ve made use of a couple of times since then. But I called at the manor that evening – back door of course, offering lobsters, and she’d been on the lookout for me, came to the door herself – dressed for the evening as she would be, in such a house, that style of living – but obviously expecting me or someone of my sort, anticipating a servant answering the bell and scaring me off, or worse still her husband taking an interest —’
He’d checked himself: adding, ‘No, actually he wouldn’t…’
‘She must have had some connection with the Resistance?’
‘I don’t know. Only that she was there answering my ring at the back door, which by the look of her – she looked absolutely stunning – she might never have done in her life before – and the cook, huge woman, close behind her, probably scandalised by such conduct. Anyway she – Madame as she was to me then – bought the lobsters I had with me, directed me to the cottage, said “Come by again”, then smiled and added “With lobsters, any time”, then in a murmur, “Best not at weekends.”’
‘Ho-hum.’
‘Well – quite.’ Thumb on the van’s horn as he swerved to avoid some children. Resuming then: ‘I took her up on it, naturally. Not daring to believe in – well, that aspect of it, but anyway what it came down to was I could use the cottage if I ever needed to, but if I ran into her husband I’d be on my own, she’d only recognise me as the poissonnier, would never have given me any such invitation.’
‘Would she have had much to tell the Gestapo about you?’
‘About me? Why would she? Even if—’
‘Your escape-line, she knew about. And to have reacted so swiftly and positively must have – I mean, can’t have been exactly new to that kind of thing – d’you think? What about your involvement since then with us?’
Glance of surprise, sharp tone: ‘What d’you think I am – a halfwit?’
‘Well – she might surely have suspected—’
‘For all she knows, the escape-line’s still in operation.’
‘But even knowing that much about
you, Marc – under Gestapo pressure—’
‘If she’s in their hands, it’s on account of her own activities. Poor darling. What good would it do her to bring me into it – involving herself in that as well?’
Made sense, she realised. In her shoes, one would hardly be inclined to admit complicity in anything they didn’t already know about. Marc, reckless or slapdash as he might be, did more or less have his head screwed on. Except – in her own view – in this intention of contacting Gabrielle’s husband. Not, admittedly, that one knew anything much about the man. Nothing, really, beyond an impression that each of them minded his/her business. Marc would presumably have a much greater insight into the couple’s relationship – as well as his own with Gabi – and it might well justify that intention. Of which he was sure enough to make no secret: which otherwise he might have. One tended to think of him as a boy, she recognised, even as something of a tearaway – the Don Juan element referred to earlier by Jake, for instance, making it not improbable that he’d at least have had aspirations of that kind in regard to Gabi – one had also to bear in mind that his had never been a trivial occupation.
Any more than hers was. From the moment she’d landed in France, as an agent of SOE she’d effectively been under sentence of death. As had the surgeon and his wife: Jews caught on the move, even out of the Zone Occupée into what had been the non-occupée, knew it before they started. And the patronne of that restaurant – as well as her daughter and anyone else in her employ.
And anyone who’d helped them along the way. For every single escaper, an awful lot of heads on the block.
‘What happened to the owner of the restaurant avec chambres, Marc?’
‘Nothing, as far as I know. It’s no longer usable as a safe-house, of course: even though they’ve no proof it ever was. DST must have had a tip-off, that’s all. Thanks to Gabi, as long as the woman keeps her nose clean from now on, she may be OK. Imagine, though – those two would simply have walked into the bastards’ waiting arms: and the patronne and her family would be either dead or in Ravensbrück.’ He changed the subject: ‘Sending London my report on the beaches tonight, eh?’
‘Amongst other stuff. Not such a lot from you, was there?’
‘Not so much yet. But – early days, huh?’
He’d reported that certain lookout posts had been taken over by Boches, and that an armed launch or patrol boat had based itself in Port Vendres. It had two heavy machine-guns on it, and small depth-charges on its stern. The rest of his information was of general rather than specifically coast-defence interest: Perpignan full of Boche troops, Gestapo setting themselves up in a luxurious villa just outside the town, governor and army commander establishing themselves in the castle. The governor – named – was reputedly a drunken sadist.
Marc said, pushing a pack of Gitanes in her direction, ‘So the feluccas are still operating.’
‘Are they?’
A smile, of sorts, lift of the eyebrows. ‘Why else am I required to do all this research?’
‘Surely because the future of felucca operations is uncertain and they don’t want them running into trouble as they might be, with our occupants on this coast now. That’s what I’m given to understand.’
‘You don’t think it might be something to do with Hardball?’
‘Don’t think so.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s a lot I don’t get told, though. Some of what I do know is only because I have to code it or decode it. I’ve discussed this several times with Jake. Jean, I mean. He’s inclined to be secretive, as we all know, but that happens to suit me and he knows it. Those beaches, though, all north of Perpignan – I’d have thought somewhere nearer the Spanish border’d be easier from the feluccas’ point of view?’
‘Uh-huh. Not from ours either. There are landing places further south – including some smugglers are said to use. But that’s something else. For the felucca operations – well, for one thing we have a low coastline up this way – whereas down there you’re into the foothills and it’s mountainous, cliffs precipitous. See, a felucca sending a boat in needs to come fairly close in itself, but it can’t show itself offshore in daylight, so it starts inshore after dusk – and where you have that high coastline – I’m talking about visibility range from shore – they’d need to start from a long way out. Uh? Then again, these are fine, long beaches. Shingle ridges that hide the actual shoreline from coast roads – and a wide landing area for the boat to steer for – which in foul weather—’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Also from our point of view, access. Whereas nearer the border you have the Zone Interdite – entry banned, patrols who shoot at anything that moves. Even before the Boches moved in—’
‘OK.’ Expelling smoke. ‘I get the picture.’
‘Ask me a question, see, you get an answer.’
‘That’s a little unfair, Marc.’
‘Is it?’ Drawing on his cigarette, and looking at her.
‘A test of it – were you and Gabi lovers?’
Hard look, then. Expulsion of breath and Gitane fumes, shake of the head as he turned away. Meaning, she wondered, mind your own business, or no, we weren’t? And another question – which she would not put to him – might be whether apart from any physical relationship, he might actually be in love with her, really deeply so, therefore not thinking straight?
Telling him, crushing out the stub of her cigarette, ‘It’s nothing to me, Marc. Entirely your own affair. Only I do wonder whether it mightn’t be wiser to steer clear of the husband. If Gestapo is involved, Christ’s sake, best to keep your distance?’
12
Rosie told me, touching her ruby brooch, ‘Never was sure about Voreux’s relationship with Gabrielle. He neither confirmed nor denied it, just wouldn’t discuss it. I’ve been racking my brains to sort it out, but if I ever did have it making sense I’m darned if I do now.’
She’d told me she wasn’t sure whether Marc ever did keep the appointment he’d made with Vérisoin. She thought he’d told Jake a day or two later that he’d decided not to go through with it: and Jake was told at some point by his business partner Jacques Jorisse that according to gossip circulating at his golf club Charles-Henri Vérisoin had been arrested and his offices were being searched. Jake himself being up to his eyes in Hardball detail by then, especially in Déclan’s end of it, really not having time to spend on side-issues of this kind.
‘In any case, nothing he could have done about it.’
‘Absolutely not, but—’
‘You see – some of my thinking at that stage was that if he was madly in love with his Gabi – which he might have been, wasn’t the sort of guy who’d bare his soul – to me or perhaps even less to Jake—’
‘I’m sure not. No. Could be part of the answer. But sticking to our narrative line, Rosie – if we may – you got your message out that night, I suppose? Jake’s summary of his and Déclan’s situation reports? Marc dropped you and drove on, you came back here on the Tuesday on your long-suffering bicyclette?’
We’d finished our breakfast some time ago. I had the contents of that last chapter in my head and a few notes to support it, despite there having been a highly frustrating hiatus in the form of the couple from Rennes, the man I’d called Guy Lannuzel in Return to the Field, and another pair with them. They’d all drifted off, at last, still talking nineteen to the dozen, and Rosie had dealt with the waitress – the redhead again – while musing on whether Voreux and his Gabi had or had not been lovers, which didn’t seem to me to be of great significance – at this stage, anyway. She did tend to get stuck from time to time on some such issue, worrying at it like a little old terrier until called off. Had left it now, in any case: telling me, ‘Wasn’t the damn bicyclette that suffered… But yes, must have. I remember spending one night in a damp bean-stack, it could have been that one. I’d have had food and a flask of coffee with me too – learnt my lesson that first time, saved only by Jake’s chicken and the wine. And I’d have waited for d
aylight before starting the long slog back. Seventy bloody miles or so – if you’ll excuse my French – but I must have been back at Berthe’s late afternoon or early evening, because Jake was there and Berthe wasn’t. I remember this because it was a relief to tell him about Marc’s intention of calling on Gabrielle’s husband, which had been worrying me.’
‘Worry him?’
‘Yes. Simple and obvious truth being that any situation in which one might find oneself brushing up against La Geste, as résistants called the Gestapo, was to be avoided. Our golden rule was not ever to stick our necks out. Very last thing. Which oddly enough was why Jake had decided against moving out of his apartment in that square although Gestapo had set themselves up in a hotel barely spitting-distance away from him; if he’d moved, might have drawn attention to himself. And if Gabrielle was in the bastards’ clutches, Marc should have stuck to minding his own business. Anyway, Jake was meeting him in Carcassonne next day or the one after, there was nothing he could do about it any sooner, he’d either find out then what had transpired or try to talk him out of it. The fear was that Vérisoin might be provoked into putting the Gestapo on to him: on the other hand Marc wasn’t actually an imbecile, would surely make his approach in some acceptable manner.’
‘And Vérisoin’d hardly be hobnobbing with Gestapists, in those circumstances.’
‘You’re right, of course. And as Marc would have reasoned, before making his appointment.’
‘Presenting himself would you guess as the fishmonger or as Gabrielle’s admirer?’
‘Perhaps to start with, fishmonger. With an eye to his business and apparent loss of a valued customer. Touch of admiration for Madame thrown in, maybe. Valued customer for whom he’d developed a respect. Respect rather than admiration – or respect tinged with admiration, say. Really a very French thing, isn’t it – they being so much more class-conscious than we are. En passant he’d acknowledge his own presumption in claiming any degree of friendship even, with one so very much his social superior. That’d be essential, wouldn’t it – perhaps doubly so with a man like Vérisoin.’ She’d flipped a hand, in her characteristic manner. ‘Roughly on those fines.’
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