British Bulldog

by Sara Sheridan

Christine shifted in her chair. ‘I’d like an apology. An official one,’ she said.

  Eddie smiled. ‘Money is far easier.’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  He sighed. ‘The press won’t pick it up, you know. No one’s interested in the war any more. The only thing from 1945 that makes the news these days is unexploded bombs.’

  Christine nodded. ‘I know. It’s only for me, and I’d like it in writing, please.’

  ‘But you were a covert agent.’

  ‘And you abandoned me.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Now, Eddie.’ Mirabelle’s tone was that of a nanny chastising a naughty child. ‘The SOE won’t issue a letter. Nor should they. But I’m sure that there must be a government department somewhere willing to recognise a brave friend of the Allies.’

  Eddie finished his drink and motioned to the waiter for another. ‘All right, all right. Well, it’s going to be cheaper than I expected, at least.’ He leaned towards Christine. ‘Last time Mirabelle negotiated a costly education programme out of me.’

  ‘A music school,’ Mirabelle corrected him.

  ‘Yes, yes. But, Miss Moreau, if I get you this apology, this recognition …’

  ‘A proper sorry and a proper thank you,’ Mirabelle cut in.

  ‘Exactly. What will you do with it?’

  Christine smiled. The women had discussed this at some length as dawn lit the Parisian sky and they tucked into their breakfast steak. Now she took a breath. ‘I will live again,’ she said simply. ‘I will be able to live.’

  The waiter arrived with the fish. Mirabelle picked up a wedge of lemon wrapped in muslin and squeezed juice over her plate, before inspecting the sautéed spinach and potatoes that had been left for them to share.

  ‘So you won’t work for us again, Miss Moreau?’ Eddie enquired.

  Christine shook her head. ‘It is time for me to retire.’

  Eddie picked up his cutlery. ‘We’re damn short of women, you see, if you fancy Berlin. Things are hotting up in Berlin just now. I could place either of you very well in the Soviet sector.’

  Christine shook her head. Mirabelle smirked.

  ‘So that’s what you’re really working on, Eddie,’ she said. ‘Well, if it’s women you want, I would certainly suggest you approach Elizabeth Caine. She is …’

  ‘An addict,’ Christine finished the sentence.

  Eddie took a forkful of fish. ‘Oh my! The French, I swear, are culinary geniuses. You can’t get fish like this at home. Not even at the Café de Paris.’

  Mirabelle smiled. ‘Well, that’s that settled,’ she said. ‘Let’s enjoy our lunch, shall we?’

  That evening, when McGregor came to, Mirabelle was reading Le Monde beside his bed. He looked around. The pale walls were a giveaway.

  ‘Hospital,’ he rasped.

  Mirabelle took the glass of water from the side table and held it up for him to drink. He tried to take it from her but the pain made it impossible. She helped him gulp a little down.

  ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You were quite the hero, Superintendent.’ There was a swish of lavender soap as she sat back.

  ‘Not as good as a decent whisky,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘I think I might be going off whisky,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘I’m developing a taste for gin.’

  ‘Really? We made it then, Belle?’

  ‘You were tremendously brave.’

  ‘There was a police car …’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s all settled. The diplomats saw to it. You did marvellously, Alan.’

  He took this in. He wouldn’t like it much if there was a misdemeanor on his patch and some diplomat tried to hush it up. Yet here he was, safe and sound, with Mirabelle at his bedside.

  ‘I thought of you,’ he admitted.

  ‘When you got shot?’

  ‘When I had to keep going.’ He reached out and took her hand. The movement sent a pain shooting across his chest but it was worth it. Mirabelle didn’t pull away. The pain settled into a dull ache. ‘Some little holiday. When do they say we can go home?’

  ‘In a few days.’

  ‘Will you wait for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘All this has made me realise, Mirabelle, that it’s you I want.’

  She looked down.

  ‘I know you can’t get over him. The man who died …’

  ‘No,’ she cut in. ‘I think I am. Getting over him, I mean. It’s unexpected, I know, but he’s going. He’s been going since that night in Brighton. The truth is Jack belonged to a different time.’

  ‘So would you consider me, Mirabelle? Please consider me.’

  He strained forward and kissed her. Her lips parted and she moved closer. His hand touched her thigh and he stroked the skin, latching his finger on the top of her stockings. She tasted sweet and his heart jumped as she gave a little sigh.

  ‘Alors!’ a voice exclaimed behind them before babbling in a rush of incomprehensible French. Mirabelle pulled back. A nurse in a starched wimple clapped her hands as if she was scaring a flock of birds. Whatever she was saying, she certainly didn’t approve of the scene she’d just witnessed. Blushing, Mirabelle apologised, or at least, McGregor thought, it sounded like an apology. The nurse picked up the medical notes hooked on the end of the bed and left the room briskly. McGregor grinned.

  ‘You look like the cat who got the cream.’ Mirabelle sounded like a schoolmistress.

  ‘Well, I don’t care about this any more,’ he indicated his bandages, ‘not if I get to do that again.’ His eyes lingered. He could look at her for a long time. She seemed so Parisian in her green suit.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t rush.’

  ‘I’ll wait. I don’t mind waiting.’

  Mirabelle slipped her hand across the bedsheet. Her fingers stroked his palm and McGregor considered it settled.

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone thought that the hero might like some grapes?’

  Mirabelle grinned, and reached into a shopping basket at her feet. ‘I bought some at Les Halles. I hoped you might rally.’

  ‘Nothing like a spot of shopping to pass the time. What else have you been up to?’

  ‘Oh, just some sightseeing,’ she said casually. ‘And I had lunch at the Louvre.’

  Epilogue

  We make life by what we give.

  The snow was still lying in Durham as Mirabelle and Vesta got off the train. They took a taxi from the station to their destination. It crawled carefully up the hill at no more than ten miles an hour.

  ‘We should have walked,’ Vesta complained. ‘It would have been quicker.’

  Mirabelle paid off the cab. The pavements had mostly been cleared but there were still some patches of ice. From where they stood they could see the cathedral towering over them, fringed in white. It was where Bulldog Bradley had married Caroline Bland and where he was probably buried. Below them the river was frozen over and a group of children were skating on it, only distinguishable one from the other by the colour of their hats and scarves.

  ‘I think York might have been better,’ Vesta pronounced.

  ‘Well, we can hop off the train there on the way home. Why don’t you have a look around while I deal with things here?’ Now Vesta had set her wedding date there were endless chores to see to. Today’s was to find shoes to match her dress.

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Vesta hooked her handbag over her arm as if she was going into battle and disappeared into a promising-looking boutique, leaving Mirabelle to compose herself before she entered the offices of Lovatt and Stone. In the reception area a young secretary sat at a desk, typing furiously. She looked up.

  ‘May I help you?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Mr Lovatt.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ The girl cast her eyes over the diary that was propped to one side.

  ‘No. But he’ll see me,’ Mirabelle said
steadily. ‘My name is Mirabelle Bevan.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Lovatt is with someone at present.’ The secretary crossed her arms.

  ‘Please tell him I’m here.’

  ‘He’s in a meeting, Miss Bevan. I can’t disturb him.’

  ‘I think you should.’

  The girl was torn. She got up though, smoothed her skirt, and left the room. A few seconds later she returned. ‘He’ll see you now,’ she said coldly. No one liked being overruled.

  In the hallway a man tipped his hat to Mirabelle as he passed her on his way to the door.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I disturbed your meeting.’

  ‘You can’t help an emergency, love,’ he replied pleasantly. ‘I’ll pop back later.’

  Lovatt’s office was panelled in oak. It smelled of respectability – a mixture of thick paper, ink and just a whiff of spirits. A row of embossers teetered on the edge of a set of bookshelves, and every available surface was covered in leather-bound law books and sheafs of paper.

  ‘Miss Bevan.’ Lovatt sprang eagerly to his feet with his hand held out. Mirabelle shook it and took him in. She remembered the scent of his aftershave. He was as well presented as he had been in Brighton but she’d never trust him now. Never again. He had seemed so above board. It just showed you.

  ‘I don’t know exactly what you’ve been playing at, Mr Lovatt, but I can’t imagine the Law Society will approve.’

  Lovatt blanched. ‘Did you find out what happened to him?’

  Mirabelle nodded.

  ‘Is he … ?’

  ‘Flight Lieutenant Philip Caine is alive, Mr Lovatt. But I can’t imagine what he means to you that you’d be prepared to risk your whole career to find that out.’

  ‘Mr Bradley …’

  ‘Now, now. Mr Bradley didn’t enjoin me to search for Caine. You did. And I think you owe me an explanation.’

  Lovatt sank into his seat. ‘The bequest …’ he said weakly.

  ‘There was no bequest. Please don’t treat me like a fool.’

  ‘Where is Caine?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to be found, Mr Lovatt. He doesn’t want to come back.’

  ‘But he’s alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re going to turn me in?’

  ‘You altered a client’s will, Mr Lovatt. You tried to misappropriate a client’s money.’ Mirabelle was furious. She despised dishonesty. When he replied, it surprised her to realise that Lovatt’s anger matched her own.

  ‘Bradley had enough money,’ he spat. ‘And none of it made any difference to him. He was still a bastard.’

  Mirabelle stopped in her tracks. To her mind Bradley was a hero, but anyone she met who knew him seemed to disagree. ‘What on earth did he do?’ she asked.

  ‘Bradley? He did everything. With his bluff manner and his titled wife. We knew each other as children. We all knew each other – Duggan, Bradley, Caine and I. Let me tell you, it’s no surprise that Bradley ended up being called Bulldog. He was a vicious bloody bastard and once he had his teeth in you he never let go.’

  ‘A bully, you mean?’

  Lovatt’s skin was pink in his fury. He looked as if he might attack any moment. ‘A bully. Yes. And after the war … I mean, I was here. I didn’t see any service. Bradley became this ridiculous hero and Philip just disappeared. Matthew said he’d signed the Official Secrets Act and couldn’t tell me anything. Jack Duggan neither. Bradley held it over me, though. He kept hinting at one thing and another. I thought he’d killed Philip, Miss Bevan. I thought he’d murdered Philip and married his girl. It wouldn’t have surprised me. He hadn’t changed from when we were all at school. That’s exactly what he was like till the day he died. And in the end it was an irony – all his money couldn’t save him. When he knew he was dying I visited him and begged him just to tell me what had happened. Philip was a friend, you see. But Matthew just laughed. “I left him in France in 1942,” he said. “And you’re not cleared to know any more than that. I’m taking it to the grave,” he said. And I could never understand, if Caine was alive, why he didn’t come back.’

  ‘So you altered Bradley’s will?’

  Lovatt nodded. ‘God help me, yes. I added the clause and I wrote that letter.’

  ‘And you thought ten thousand guineas would …’

  ‘Hold your interest. Duggan mentioned you once or twice, what a marvel you were. And then I saw you in The Times. I’d tried to look into it myself but so many people had died that I got nowhere. I thought if I just tried to commission you, you’d turn me down.’

  ‘I would have.’

  ‘I’ve been desperate, you see, all these years. And I still don’t understand. Why didn’t Caine come back, Miss Bevan?’

  Mirabelle regarded her shoes for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose he’d been bullied too in a way, and he turned his back on it all. After his mother’s death he blamed Matthew Bradley and Jack Duggan as well as himself. He didn’t want to come home. He was ashamed of what he had to do. He changed his name.’

  ‘But he’s all right?’

  ‘Yes, he’s all right. And he has no idea that you have been thinking of him all this time.’

  ‘After Bradley died I thought that he might want Caroline. I thought if you found him he’d know she was free and maybe …’

  ‘He’s married, Mr Lovatt. He married someone else. He has children. Two, I think.’

  ‘And if I were to write to him?’

  ‘I could pass on a letter if you like. One letter.’

  Lovatt nodded. ‘Thank you. And I’ll see to it that Bradley’s bequest is paid to you. Please don’t concern yourself.’

  ‘I can’t accept that. It’s stolen money,’ Mirabelle exclaimed. ‘No. That will never do. I shall submit my invoice, Mr Lovatt, on a generous daily rate plus expenses.’ She paused, thinking of the money she’d paid the old main in the attic and her eventual, rather costly hotel bill. And also a sum for donation to the Red Cross. I shall expect you to pay it yourself.’

  She stared out of the window onto the street. People were picking their way along the pavement. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Lovatt exactly what Jack had said about her, but then she realised it didn’t matter any more. Jack had either loved her or he hadn’t. He’d either intended to leave his wife or he’d intended to stay. There was no point in dwelling on the past. She didn’t want to end up strangled by all the endless ifs. If Christine Moreau could move on, so could she.

  ‘I do hope you don’t make a habit of swindling your clients’ estates,’ she managed.

  ‘Are you going to make a complaint?’

  Mirabelle considered. If everything came out in court it would embarrass Mrs Bradley and her daughter, and it would expose Philip Caine. It might even expose her affair with Jack.

  ‘No,’ she said. She might as well be honest.

  Lovatt looked as if he might burst into tears. ‘Thank you,’ he breathed.

  ‘I’m not doing it for you,’ Mirabelle snapped. ‘I’m doing it for everybody else.’ She got to her feet trying not to think of Evangeline Durand’s funeral and the scars on Christine Moreau’s arms. ‘Good day,’ she said.

  *

  Back out in the street she followed Vesta into the boutique. Inside, Vesta was arguing with the shop assistant.

  ‘I want to try them on.’ She indicated a pair of satin heels.

  The shop girl’s jaw was set. ‘We can’t have nignogs trying things on in here.’ She sounded at the end of her tether. ‘You’ll get them dirty.’

  Mirabelle drew herself up. Her eyes were like Medusa’s as she swung in. ‘Are you aware of the solicitor’s office across the road, young woman? Lovatt and Stone?’ she asked.

  The girl nodded, abashed at this well put together woman cutting in on Vesta’s behalf. She seemed to have come out of nowhere.

  ‘Mr Lovatt is a personal friend of Miss Churchill’s,’ she said. ‘Now you don’t want to end up in court, do you? Over a pair of shoes? Miss
Churchill is a size five, I believe.’

  ‘But,’ the girl stuttered, ‘she’s a darkie.’

  Vesta bit her lip.

  ‘But you’d let me try on the shoes, wouldn’t you?’ Mirabelle spat.

  ‘Oh, if they’re for you, madam, that’s fine.’ The girl sounded relieved.

  Vesta sighed. ‘Blow it,’ she said. ‘I can’t be bothered with this.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’ Mirabelle put her hand on her friend’s arm. ‘It’s ridiculous. We fought a war …’ She struggled to contain her fury. ‘We fought a war against this kind of prejudice.’

  As they turned to go Mirabelle noticed a display of scarves. Red ones, with a familiar tag that said Made in Paris. Vesta followed her eyes.

  ‘That colour would suit you,’ she said.

  ‘I wouldn’t shop here.’ Mirabelle sounded shocked. ‘Places like this should be closed down.’

  Vesta gripped her hand tightly. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and catch the train.’

  Questions for readers’ groups

  1.

  Is McGregor good enough for Mirabelle? Is she treating him fairly?

  2.

  How much of any character is the sum of that character’s history? Can you ever transcend your past?

  3.

  In the 1950s did women keep more secrets than men? Do they still?

  4.

  Should information about military personnel be on a family-only basis? Does Mirabelle’s connection to Jack entitle her to the information she uncovers? When Mrs Bradley warns her off, should she respect her views?

  5.

  At what point should a war criminal become a civilian?

  6.

  Mieux Hitler que Stalin? Better Hitler than Stalin?

  7.

  Does Mirabelle have a death wish?

  8.

  Was World War II a greater conflict than World W ar I?

  9.

  After a bereavement or a betrayal do those affected have a duty to recover?

  10.

  If you were Catherine the seamstress, would you have returned to Paris?