British Bulldog

by Sara Sheridan

  Mirabelle had always thought her relationship with Jack was insulated from the war. That it was apart from everything else that had been going on. Now it seemed that somehow he had been prompted to propose by this sordid situation in a field hospital. That meant these people she didn’t know – Bradley, Caine and even Caroline Bland – had touched her life. They had changed things. Mirabelle pushed the papers away and looked around the office. Maisie was munching a biscuit as Claude came out of the back.

  ‘Dejeuner,’ he mumbled, pointing at the clock. Lunch.

  Maisie waved him off. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Mirabelle got to her feet. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, reaching for her coat. ‘I found just what I wanted.’

  Chapter 13

  The only thing new in the world is the history you do not know.

  The air was clear as Mirabelle stumbled back onto the street. She walked quickly and it wasn’t long before she was back in sight of the river. The cold black water of the Seine flowed wider than she remembered. But then there were so many things that weren’t quite as she recalled. The last few days had brought Jack to life – not as the saint of her memory but as a living, breathing man endowed with both good and bad qualities. She decided that if she found Philip Caine she would be interested in hearing his opinion of Jack’s character and she’d definitely like to know why he’d attacked Jack when it was Bradley who had betrayed his trust. It was difficult to piece together a clear picture of what had happened. It was as if the three men trailed myriad shifting shadows in their wake.

  As she reached the Tuileries, Mirabelle felt tired and flagged down a taxi to take her to Saint-Eustache. A famous church not far from its still more famous cousin, Notre Dame, the building was considered a masterpiece, its high Gothic ceiling a perfect echo chamber for medieval music. As Mirabelle paid the driver and stepped onto the street, a placard propped against the base of a stone pillar announced a madrigal concert that evening. The taxi drove away and Mirabelle sidestepped the house of God and moved in the direction of the network of streets clustered around it. The rue du Jour had come up twice now and Mirabelle wondered what she might find there.

  She wasn’t far from the huge market at Les Halles, and the air was scented with cooking from several bistros. Between these, grocery shops spilled their wares onto the street with displays of citrus fruits and jars of honey. Three men clustered around a tobacconist’s booth, smoking. Next to them the door of a fromagerie was wedged open and a whiff of strong blue cheese hung around the entrance. Mirabelle decided she would eat later. At the moment, she had too much on her mind.

  The rue du Jour was only slightly wider than a lane. It ran downhill from the main road, with a small fire station halfway along on the left. Number seventeen was a haberdashery, with feathered hat trimmings and brass buttons strung on white threads in the window. Mirabelle paused to collect her thoughts before she stepped inside. Passing a rack of edging ribbons that stretched up to the ceiling, she had to squint to make out a young woman at the dark wooden counter to the rear. She was surrounded by skeins of wool and embroidery silks and appeared to be drinking a glass of red wine as she sewed together the pieces of a child’s pink cardigan. She looked up. Mirabelle smiled. The girl’s hair was held in place by means of two knitting needles and a crochet hook.

  ‘Vous cherchez quelque chose, madame?’ Are you looking for something?

  ‘Une femme,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Christine Moreau.’

  The girl removed a knitting needle from her hair and used it to scratch her scalp. ‘Non.’

  ‘Et un homme,’ Mirabelle pushed on. ‘Philippe Caine?’

  The girl replaced the knitting needle with a Gallic shrug and a shake of her head.

  ‘C’est jolie,’ Mirabelle pointed to the cardigan.

  The girl picked up the tiny garment and held it against her face.

  ‘La couleur est belle,’ she admitted. It’s a beautiful colour.

  Mirabelle glanced around. The shop looked as if it had been fully fitted fifty years ago and nothing had changed since.

  ‘Vous avez travaillé ici depuis longtemps?’

  The girl worked out that she’d worked in the shop for three years – it took a moment. Mirabelle nodded. It was no surprise then that the child wasn’t able to help.

  ‘What’s upstairs?’

  ‘I live there,’ the girl shrugged.

  Mirabelle thanked her and turned to leave.

  Walking away, she wondered what this area must have been like ten years or so before. The street wasn’t far from the Marais, which was as close as Paris had ever got to a ghetto for its Jewish community. It was also the hub of the Parisian Resistance, though the Germans didn’t know that – not for sure. They kept their enemies close. Nazi high command based themselves in the ornate splendour of the rue de Rivoli, which ran parallel to the river, or in the houses of French aristocrats around the Palais Royal. It was a different world. The rue du Jour looked quaint today – almost medieval – but a decade ago people must have been terrified on this narrow cobbled street with the occupying forces set on flushing them out one way or another. Mirabelle looked up. Above the shops here there were apartments. Like London, Paris was short of post-war housing and every corner was co-opted for living space.

  It started to rain. Drops bounced off the paving stones, and Mirabelle decided to shelter in a café on the other side of the street. It would be a good place to check for information in any case. She hurried inside, settled at a table and ordered café au lait and a croque monsieur. She fussed over her hat and coat, arranging them to dry a little before looking up and taking in her surroundings. When she did, she saw that the waiter was handsome, but like the girl in the haberdashery, he was far too young and unlikely to have any helpful memories. When he brought her coffee she asked if he knew the name Christine Moreau or Philip Caine, but was not surprised when he shook his head. A man at the next table peered over the top of his newspaper and looked away. As she took a bite of her sandwich she decided she needed to find someone older to ask.

  Outside the window a puddle formed below the kerb. Mirabelle regretted not bringing an umbrella. She finished her coffee and toyed with her food, keeping an eye on the street as people dodged about their business trying to keep out of the rain. A van drew up at a doorway opposite. The driver rolled down the window, flung his cigarette onto the pavement and got out to ring an apartment bell. He sheltered in the doorway until it opened, then ran to retrieve a bale of what looked like printed silk in a fetching shade of red. The roll was only partially wrapped in brown paper; he’d have to hurry to keep the material dry. In the doorway a middle-aged woman accepted the delivery. She was wearing a floral housecoat and had her hair tied up in a cotton scarf. Mirabelle noticed leather cuffs around her wrists and wondered if they were for keeping pins – it seemed there was dressmaking going on in the apartment. In her heyday Mirabelle had had clothes made not far from here, on the rue du Temple. At the next table the man drained his coffee cup and lit a cigarette. He watched idly as the van drove off.

  Mirabelle paid her bill. Then, deciding to brave the weather, she pulled her coat round her shoulders and crossed the street to ring the doorbell. There was a hammering sound of steps being taken at a lick before the door opened inwards onto a tiny hall dominated by a rickety staircase. The woman who had just accepted the bale of material stood in the doorway. Yes, Mirabelle thought, she’s in her forties. Perfect. Face to face there was something indefinable about the seamstress. Mirabelle’s eyes fell to the leather cuffs and she thought there might be more than one reason why the woman wore that kind of protection.

  ‘Christine Moreau?’

  The seamstress crossed her arms. ‘What do you want?’ she said in English.

  ‘I’d like to have something made,’ Mirabelle lied. ‘I need a dress. You are Christine Moreau? A friend recommended you.’

  The woman looked Mirabelle up and down. ‘A friend?’

  ‘Yes. In Londo
n.’

  The seamstress considered this a moment and then seemed to accept it. ‘Come in,’ she said abruptly, and led the way upstairs and into her workroom.

  Inside the studio, Mirabelle looked around. The place was shabby and smelled of dust but it was tidy and warm. A potbellied stove stood in one corner next to shelves that constituted a kitchen area, although it appeared entirely devoid of sustenance except for two bottles of Boodles Dry Gin, which stood side by side next to a bottle of cheap red wine. There was a window to the rear but it was caked in grime. A low single bed was covered in boxes of thread, dress patterns and a pile of tiny labels that said ‘Made in Paris’. Half a dozen bales of cloth were piled opposite. On the table the dressmaker’s tools were laid in a scatter around a silk scarf that she was apparently edging by hand in the grey light from the window.

  ‘It’s nice.’ Mirabelle motioned towards the scarf.

  The woman closed the door behind her, her eyes moving over Mirabelle’s outfit as if she was a general surveying enemy troops. She hovered by the coat stand.

  ‘Do you have the material?’ she asked. ‘For your dress?’

  ‘No. I hoped you might have some I could buy. Red silk, perhaps?’

  ‘A special occasion?’

  ‘A friend is getting married.’

  The woman raised her eyebrows as Mirabelle moved over to the corner of the room and touched the bale of material that had just been delivered. The dressmaker cocked her head to one side.

  ‘This colour? It is new – fashionable. Red is unusual for a wedding. Will it be in summer?’

  ‘In spring. The bride is wearing purple. I thought it would be nice to wear a bright shade as well. Something like this would be perfect.’

  ‘Purple?’ The woman looked as if she could not possibly have heard correctly. ‘A bride?’

  ‘She is very unconventional.’

  ‘These days the world is upside down. Perhaps it is not unconventional – only modern. Had you considered wearing white to the wedding yourself, madame? Would that not really turn the world on its head?’

  Mirabelle smiled. ‘I like the colour of this fabric. I thought a pleated skirt?’

  The seamstress smacked her lips in disapproval. At first Mirabelle was unsure whether her censure was for the colour or for the notion of pleating. In the end it was for neither. The seamstress took the bale, laid it on the table and rolled it out a few inches.

  ‘This one isn’t silk. It is rayon. The colour is bright, but for you, for a dress? No,’ she said decisively. ‘It will not be good enough. It is to make scarves, you see. It is cheap.’

  ‘Well …’ Mirabelle said, ‘we shall have to find real silk, I suppose, and hope for the same colour. Are you Madame Moreau? I don’t know what to call you.’

  ‘You can call me by my name,’ the woman said flatly. ‘Christine.’

  ‘Ah, so it is you?’

  Christine folded away the fabric. Her eyes were hard. ‘What do you want? You haven’t come here for a dress.’

  Mirabelle turned her palms upwards, and stood slightly to the side. People responded to body language without even thinking. It was important to get it absolutely right. She did not want to appear threatening. Jack always said body language made it easy to pretend. You should never trust anyone else’s, but always make sure your own sent the appropriate message.

  ‘I want to ask some questions,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘I wonder if there’s someone you might remember?’

  Christine’s eyes darted. ‘Who?’

  ‘Jack Duggan.’

  ‘Did he send you here?’ The woman sounded almost panicked.

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘Jack’s dead. But you knew him during the war, didn’t you? He came to Paris. He met you here. At Longchamp. At the hospital.’

  ‘I met him long before that. Many times. It was all his fault.’ Christine sounded furious. ‘Jack Duggan was a bad man.’

  Mirabelle noticed her fists were clenched. It took some effort to uncurl them. ‘What do you mean?’ The shock must have showed in her tone, but Christine ignored it.

  ‘I’m glad to hear he’s dead,’ she spat. ‘Glad of it. The arrangement was that he would not return. Well, now he can’t. A man like that …’

  Mirabelle felt fury rising in her chest. ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘Ah. You are his wife?’ Christine guessed and then, seeing Mirabelle flinch, she changed the assertion. ‘No, you were his lover.’

  In England no one would say such a thing in company. Mirabelle drew herself up.

  ‘Yes, I was,’ she admitted. Saying it felt good. ‘I loved Jack very much.’

  ‘And you think he loved you?’

  ‘I know he did.’

  ‘Jack Duggan was not capable of love. Such a grand cause. Did he promise you the world? Did he deliver it? No!’ The woman read Mirabelle’s eyes. ‘Well,’ she continued triumphantly, ‘that was Jack Duggan. You were betrayed in love, but then he betrayed us all, and we suffered for it.’

  Mirabelle’s breath became shallow. ‘Jack died of a heart attack. Years ago,’ she managed to get out. ‘But I met him during the war. I worked for him. He would never have done anything …’ She steadied herself against the table as her voice tailed off. She had lost control of the conversation. She was far too involved now to get the woman to open up. She was betraying herself the more she spoke, but her blood was up and she didn’t care. Jack had made difficult decisions during wartime. That was his job. He ran spies behind the lines and that meant he had to question everything. He had the kind of mind that could play several games of chess simultaneously and still see the bigger picture. But whatever he did, she told herself he’d have done it in a good cause.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she spluttered.

  ‘Why did you come here, then?’

  ‘A man called Matthew Bradley asked me to.’

  This infuriated Christine even further. She picked up a pair of scissors and brandished them.

  ‘Traitor!’ she screamed. ‘How dare you? Get out! Get out of here.’

  Mirabelle clutched her handbag to her chest as she backed away. ‘Bradley wanted to find out what happened to his friend. A pilot. A man who didn’t go home after the war. He stayed here, I think, and it’s as if he simply disappeared. I’m beginning to worry about him. So many brave men …’

  Christine let out a shriek. She thrust the scissors towards Mirabelle, narrowly missing her face.

  ‘Go to hell! You’ve come to torture me, but I won’t have it.’

  She jabbed the scissors towards Mirabelle again as if she was holding off a dangerous animal. Mirabelle made for the door with the dressmaker in pursuit. A bundle of rayon scarves cascaded off the table as Christine brushed past.

  ‘You selfish bloody English! You’ve had enough of our good French blood! If you want someone to bleed, this time I swear it’ll be you. Why didn’t they send a man, eh? They haven’t changed. Not one bit.’

  The woman tightened her grasp on the scissors and kept jabbing at Mirabelle, who dodged left and right before turning and hammering down the stairs. Panting for breath, she burst onto the rue du Jour and raced up the street to get away. Across the road the waiter peered laconically out of the café window. Mirabelle turned and looked back. Christine was hovering in her doorway, still brandishing the scissors and swearing so fiercely that Mirabelle could hear her from the corner. At least she was not in pursuit. Mirabelle felt a sense of relief as she rounded the top of the road, half running, looking back over her shoulder. Her mind was buzzing. What on earth had Jack done to deserve this kind of behaviour at the mere mention of his name? And Matthew Bradley too. Was the poor woman mad? What had they done to her?

  As Mirabelle turned the corner Christine stopped shouting and Mirabelle heard the slam of the woman’s front door. She realised that her heart was hammering as she moved towards the church of Saint-Eustache, almost staggering with shock. She lingered for a moment beside the conce
rt notice before pushing herself up the stairs and into the gloomy interior, out of the rain. With shaking hands she slipped into a pew towards the back, holding on to the filial for support. It was early afternoon, and apart from three or four people praying and lighting candles near the altar, the place was all but deserted.

  It was a long time since Mirabelle had visited a church for anything but a funeral. It must be three years, she remembered, and then only to speak to a friend, Father Sandor. She wondered what Sandor would make of all this, but of course he was dead. They were all dead. Mirabelle tried to control her breathing. It’s what Jack would have told her to do, but the thought of Jack just made her feel more confused. She tried to remember what it had felt like to love Jack without wondering what he was keeping from her, but all of a sudden his image was blurred. There was Jack Duggan who was married to Mary. Jack Duggan, hero of the SOE, who had done something terrible to Christine Moreau. And Jack Duggan, the man who had promised her the world – something she had believed he would deliver. Had she been a fool? If he had lived would Jack only have strung her along? Mirabelle rubbed her face. She felt exhausted.

  The church door opened, casting a weak light from the street onto the flagstones and letting in a stream of fresh air. A man genuflected and slipped into the pew behind Mirabelle. She rose, and as she turned she caught the newcomer’s eye. It was the man who had been reading earlier in the café on the rue du Jour. He was wearing a Mackintosh now, and a brown homburg, and he appeared to have left his newspaper behind. He smiled and tipped his hat.

  ‘Madame,’ he said. His French was accented but Mirabelle couldn’t quite make out its origin. ‘You appear to be having a difficult afternoon. Are you all right?’

  Mirabelle nodded. He held her eye steadily. Suddenly she felt like crying, but she wouldn’t do it in company.

  ‘Would you like a drink? I know a bar on rue Rambuteau. It serves good brandy.’

  ‘Thank you, but I want to go home,’ Mirabelle replied firmly. Men in Paris were notoriously flirtatious. One mustn’t encourage them. Had he followed her inside hoping for an assignation? He clearly thought she was vulnerable and an easy target. Mirabelle drew herself up and moved towards the door without saying goodbye. She had too much on her mind. The urge to sob receded and the puzzle that Christine Moreau presented began to niggle instead. For a start, if Christine hated the English so much why was she still doing business with them? Mirabelle cast her mind back, reconstructing the dressmaker’s room in her mind’s eye. Yes. The gin. Boodles was a tiny distillery. You could hardly get their gin at home, never mind here. And it was expensive, which was to say overpriced. It wasn’t especially good. The bottles must have been a gift from someone. Had Eddie mentioned Christine Moreau because the department was still doing business with her? Mirabelle wondered who the woman was working for. It wasn’t Eddie Brandon. His department would know their gin. They would have sent Booth’s – High & Dry. At least there were some certainties in life upon which one could definitely rely.