Those in Peril

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘How good it is to see you, Louis. And in these dreadful days . . .’

  He embraced her fondly. In the past, before she had married, she had sat for him many times and was still his favourite model. She had always understood entirely what was required – how to pose with a natural grace and fluidity and how to sustain it. Some of his best nudes had been of her. He was drawn into the living room, cheaply furnished but with style: flea-market shawls camouflaging the shortcomings of the couch and chairs, lengths of antique velvet draping the windows, a cloth of soft chenille the faded pink of an old rose, covering an ugly table.

  ‘A glass of wine? It’s not good, but it’s not so bad either.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She fetched the wine and curled up on the couch, legs tucked under, feet bare. Her feet were perfect, like the feet of angels. ‘And you will stay to eat, I hope. Nothing special, but I have some eggs to make an omelette. I have been saving them.’

  ‘For me?’

  She laughed. ‘If I had known you were coming, then yes. Otherwise for Daniel.’

  ‘You have some news of your husband?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Nothing. He’s still held as a prisoner of war – that’s all I know. But I hope every day that he will be released. After all, the war is over for France. Some are already being sent home. Surely the Germans will release them all soon.’

  He thought it most unlikely but he said comfortingly, ‘I’m sure he will be home before long.’

  She accepted a cigarette and he lit it for her. She looked up at him with her secretive smile. ‘What brings you to see me, Louis? You know that I can’t work for you any more. Daniel will not allow it.’

  ‘I realize that, my dear Violette, and it’s a great loss for me. But, of course, I respect your husband’s wishes.’ Indeed, he did. The dour Daniel with the large fists and quick temper was not the sort of husband one risked offending.

  ‘So, why are you here?’

  ‘I wondered how you were in these dreadful days, as you so rightly call them. And I was a little curious.’

  ‘Curious? About what?’

  ‘About what the Boche are up to in Lorient. When I tried to drive along the coast road from Pont-Aven they stopped me. It’s now strictly forbidden to go that way. I asked myself what they were so anxious to hide.’

  ‘I know what that is.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. Daniel’s brother, Ernest, told me. He’s a technician and working for the Germans. He was conscripted and had no choice in the matter. He was very upset about it.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘That they are building shelters for German U-boats at Keroman – you know, the fishing village about two kilometres south of here. He has to help them.’

  ‘Is that so? I should be interested to hear more.’

  ‘That’s all he would tell me.’

  ‘Even so, I am curious. One should learn as much as possible about the enemy.’

  Violette tilted her head with its charming top-knot of hair. ‘It’s not like you, Louis, to care at all about such things.’

  ‘But still I should like to talk to your brother-in-law. Does he live in Lorient?’

  ‘Yes. I can give you the address, if you like. But I doubt if he’ll want to tell you anything more. In Lorient, we all hate the Germans but we are afraid of them, too.’

  She cooked the omelettes just how he liked them, with the centres runny and filled with chopped herbs. A little salad, a hunk of bread, some more of the wine and it was almost possible to forget about the war. Afterwards, naturally, they went to bed. The marriage to Daniel had put a stop to their working relationship, but not to the rest of it – whenever the opportunity occurred. He lay beside her while she slept, smoking a Gauloise and planning his next step.

  It was not possible to see Violette’s brother-in-law until the next evening, after his work. Duval spent the day wandering around the town. The Germans were everywhere, erecting barriers, demanding papers, giving orders. Twice he was stopped and his papers scrutinized. Even the knowledge that they were perfectly in order didn’t make the experience any less unpleasant. To be challenged by a foreigner over his right to walk freely about his own country was the worst thing of all.

  Ernest Boitard had not yet returned from work when he presented himself at the address given by Violette. Madame Boitard, regarding him fiercely from the doorway, proved as inquisitorial as any German.

  ‘What is your business?’

  ‘A private matter, madame.’

  ‘Private? How so? You say that you have never met my husband. Certainly, he has never spoken of you.’

  But for the scowl, she would have been quite good-looking. ‘We have a mutual interest – his brother.’

  ‘Daniel? He’s a prisoner of war in Germany.’

  ‘I am aware of that.’ He tried smiling at her, but, for once, without any noticeable effect. ‘Perhaps it would be possible for me to wait for your husband’s return?’

  In the end, she gave way and allowed him in. More than half an hour passed before Ernest Boitard came back – a slightly built man with no physical resemblance to his large and pugnacious brother, and seeming a good deal more intelligent. He was apologetic on behalf of his wife.

  ‘She is suspicious of everybody. Always on the defensive.’

  ‘Because you have to work for the Germans?’

  He looked uneasy. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Your brother’s wife, Violette, told me.’

  ‘She had no right to tell you. I was conscripted. Forced to. I am by no means the only one – some French have even volunteered. But, even so, it is a matter of deep shame for us. We have a son whom we try to shield from any kind of trouble. You can imagine . . .’

  Duval nodded. ‘I can understand how it must be. I’m afraid, then, that you won’t wish to hear what I have come to propose.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘First, I must ask, does your loyalty lie with Marshal Pétain? Do you believe that following him is the only way to save France?’

  ‘My God, no! He is selling france, not saving her. Look how things are going. The Germans do with us exactly as they please; they make every possible use of us, even against each other. The busybody official who rings the doorbell or stamps our papers wears a French uniform, not German. Who can we trust? What honour is there left? What hope for the future? None.’

  ‘You are resigned to the situation?’

  ‘Resigned? No, but what can I do? What can anybody do?’

  ‘You could do something.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You’re being obliged to work for the Germans – to help them with safe shelters for their U-boats at Keroman. Violette told me. Instead of having to go north hundreds of miles all the way round Scotland, the U-boats will now have an open door into the North Atlantic to go out and sink British supply ships. Then they will return to their base, rearm, refuel, resupply and go out again to sink more. And again. And again. Isn’t that so?’

  Boitard shook his head. ‘I can’t speak of this. I should never have said a word to Violette. I must have been mad.’

  Duval went on relentlessly. ‘If the English are defeated then there’s no hope left for any of us. If, for example, the U-boats can sink all the ships that keep them supplied, then they’re finished. They need to know about the submarine shelters at Keroman. How many, how they are constructed, everything of importance. Can you help?’

  ‘You’re suggesting that I spy on the Germans? That’s crazy. I couldn’t risk it – I have a wife and son.’

  ‘I understand. But I wonder what sort of life your son will have, growing up under the Nazis? Forced, like his father, to do whatever they command. A slave. Is that what you want for him?’

  ‘Of course not. But why should I do anything to help the English? We all know they can’t be trusted either. They deserted us. Destroyed our navy.’

  ‘They are our only hope left.
’

  A shrug. ‘They may survive for a while longer perhaps, but, in the end, they will be defeated, just as we were. The Americans won’t save them again, like the last time.’

  Duval drew on his cigarette. ‘There is a saying – perhaps you know it. For evil to survive, it is only necessary for good men to do nothing.’

  Boitard turned away and there was a long silence. He hunched his shoulders. ‘I’m an electrician, monsieur. That’s all.’

  ‘So much the better. Your skills will be needed everywhere at Keroman. There will be every chance to observe and note. I am only asking that you go about your business, just as you are ordered to do, but that while you do so, you use your eyes. You notice certain things: the thickness of the shelters, for example. What exactly they are made of. The precise placing of the U-boat pens, the layout of the dry docks, fuel stores, workshops, the position of any anti-aircraft guns. You write nothing down on paper, of course. All you do is take an exact note in your head.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘You pass on the information. To me. Or to someone appointed by me. Not here in this house. In another place. A park, a church, a café – wherever is safe. A casual encounter of two strangers happening to sit next to each other on a bench, or in a pew, or at the same table.’

  ‘Who is it precisely that you are acting for, monsieur? I should like to know that. For the British themselves?’

  ‘For France, my friend,’ Duval said. ‘For France.’

  He returned to Pont-Aven the next day and left immediately by train for Rennes. It was more than eight years since he had visited the town. After both his parents had died there had been no particular reason to return. His birthplace, historic though it was, had no special claim on him. As soon as he had grown up, he had left it for Paris. Now, it drew him back for the good reason that it was not only the capital of Brittany, but a major road and rail link to St Malo and Brest, to Normandy and Paris and Nantes.

  Rennes station was crowded with demobilized French army conscripts, waiting for trains to take them onward to their homes. They were celebrating with large quantities of red wine. He approached one who seemed less drunk than the rest, and learned that they had been demobbed either because they were older men or because they had large numbers of children. The man, a happy and foolish grin on his face, was very certain that the whole war would be over soon in any case. He neither knew, nor cared, what sort of a peace would follow.

  Duval’s widowed aunt lived in the Rue St Michel in the old northern quarter, where half-timbered buildings had survived the great fire of two centuries ago. She had survived, like the buildings, so far as he knew. He walked there from the railway station, observing the German soldiers on the streets in their feldgrau uniforms – their presence as strong, if not stronger, as in Lorient. I’m getting used to seeing them around, he thought wryly. If this goes on, soon I won’t even notice they are there.

  Aunt Pauline, he discovered, was very much alive. Always of an acerbic disposition, she had grown increasingly so with advanced age. He was shown into her shaded salon by her faithful servant, Jeanne, almost as ancient and withered as his aunt. It was exactly as he had always remembered: window shutters closed against the offending daylight, wooden floors gleaming with linseed polish, the steady, sonorous ticking of the huge ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. The furniture and furnishings frozen in time, like his aunt, at the turn of the century.

  ‘So it’s you, Louis. You’ve put on weight since I last saw you.’

  He bent to kiss her cheek. She smelled, as she had always done, of the camphor that Jeanne employed so liberally to protect her old-fashioned garments from moths. He wondered if it had also somehow kept death at bay – mothballing not only her clothing but her carcass. She must, he reckoned, be very close to ninety. Perhaps even beyond it.

  ‘What are you after?’

  ‘Nothing whatever, dear aunt, except the pleasure of seeing you.’

  ‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’

  ‘It’s partly true.’ They had always got on well. If it was not exactly love, it was mutual respect. She had admired his painting and encouraged him to study in Paris against his parents’ wishes. But she had not cared for Simone.

  ‘What is the other part? And no, you may not smoke, Louis. Not in here, you know that very well. I deplore the modern habit of men smoking wherever they please.’

  He put away the cigarette and played the same card that he had played with Violette. ‘I’m curious to see how the Germans are treating my home town. How the family is surviving.’

  She said caustically, ‘A very sudden interest and concern on your part, Louis. You haven’t cared a jot about the family in years. The Germans are here again – what more can one say? It’s quite like old times and one must get accustomed to it once more. As for your family, as you can see, I’m perfectly well. Your cousins are well, too, so far as I am aware. André visits occasionally and he gives me news of the rest. None of them live in Rennes now – he is the only one remaining here.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a teacher, at your old school. Nothing special, but at least it spared him conscription. He has become quite the Bolshevik, you know. Full of talk about how Stalin will crush Hitler in the end. Fortunately, he’s not actually a Party member or he would certainly have been arrested by now.’

  ‘What is his view of Marshal Pétain?’

  ‘Naturally, he has nothing good to say of him. And nor have I. Marshal Pétain has betrayed France. Betrayed us all. But why this unaccustomed interest, Louis? Why do you care what André thinks, or doesn’t think? What are you about?’

  ‘It’s safer that you don’t know.’

  She snorted. ‘The Germans aren’t going to bother me, if that’s what you mean. I never leave these rooms. Jeanne runs all the errands.’

  ‘Safer for others, too.’

  She drew herself up in her chair, black bombazine inflating indignantly. ‘You are not, I hope, suggesting that I would betray a confidence, Louis? I have yet to do so in my extremely long life. And I shall not do so now.’

  He knew that he could trust her and he had always respected her opinion. He gave her the bare bones of it; she listened without comment until he had finished.

  ‘Ask your consin André, by all means. He knows many people here in Rennes – how they think and feel. But he won’t care at all about the English. You will have to persuade him that anything that helps defeat Hitler will also help Stalin.’

  ‘I had also thought of Dr Duchez.’

  ‘Then don’t any longer. He’s retired long since. The new one is a Pétainist. Whenever he visits, we argue. He tells me that the war will end with a victorious invasion of England before the summer is out. That the Germans will instil the order and discipline needed here in France. Last time he came, I told Jeanne to show him the door.’

  ‘So, who else do you think I should approach?’

  The black bombazine reinflated itself. ‘Myself, of course. I’m greatly offended that you didn’t ask me in the first place.’

  He looked at the old woman with affection and amusement. ‘My dear aunt, you said yourself that you never leave these rooms.’

  She regarded him coldly. ‘Don’t mock, Louis. I may not, but Jeanne does.’

  Mrs Lamprey’s supply of L’Heure Bleue had finally dried up. She had tried writing to Harrods, Fortnum & Mason, Liberty’s and Debenham & Freebody – all to no avail.

  ‘Monsieur Duval will know where I can find some. I shall ask him as soon as he comes back from London, Mrs Hillyard. He’s a Frenchman. He’ll know where to find it. It’s in their blood. Perfume, wine, good food, savoir-vivre. All French people know instinctively about such things.’

  ‘I’m sure they do.’

  ‘What is for dinner tonight, Mrs Hillyard?’

  ‘It’s cold, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Cold?’

  ‘I’m going to be out this evening. I’ll leave it all on th
e sideboard so you can help yourselves, if you don’t mind.’

  It was clear that Mrs Lamprey did mind but she accepted it with good grace. ‘It must be something important, Mrs Hillyard. You never usually go out in the evenings.’

  She couldn’t, in fact, remember the last time. And Esme was just as put out as Mrs Lamprey.

  ‘What about my supper?’

  ‘I’ll give it to you before I go. And you can read until later in bed, if you like. Miss Tindall has said she’ll make sure you’re all right. If there’s anything the matter, then you can knock on her door.’ Esme made a face. ‘I shan’t be late, anyway, and I’ll come and see you as soon as I’m back.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out to dinner.’

  ‘What for? You could have it here.’

  ‘I’ve been invited.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Lieutenant Commander Powell.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘You remember . . . he’s been here to see Monsieur Duval. The tall man in naval uniform.’

  ‘Oh, him. But he’s old.’

  When he’d telephoned she could have declined politely, and he was not at all the sort of man to go on insisting. But the thought of going out had seemed appealing. Dressing up a little – putting on a frock that she hadn’t worn for years. Not having, for once, to cook the food she ate. Escape for one evening from her role as cook, waitress, kitchen maid.

  Alan Powell arrived early when she was still changing. By the time she went downstairs, Mrs Lamprey had him in her clutches in the sitting room and was entertaining him with her version of a scene from Pygmalion. He caught sight of her in the doorway and as Mrs Lamprey paused to draw breath, he interrupted quickly, ‘I wish I’d seen the performance myself. It must have been excellent.’

  ‘Oh it was, Lieutenant Commander. You have no idea. Of course Mrs Patrick Campbell made a perfect Eliza. One of our greatest actresses. Why, Mrs Hillyard, there you are at last! I have discovered your little secret, as you see. No wonder you are deserting us this evening.’