Those in Peril

by Margaret Mayhew

  In the car, she apologized. ‘I’m sorry you had to be a captive audience.’

  ‘I deserved it for being early,’ he said. ‘It’s one of my bad habits. I can never seem to arrive at the correct time.’

  She had imagined that he would take her to somewhere over in Dartmouth but instead he drove up the hill out of Kingswear.

  ‘I’ve been told there’s a fairly good place to eat in Torquay. I hope you don’t mind a bit of a drive.’

  She sat in silence, wondering whether she had been wise to accept his invitation, and then told herself that she had nothing to fear from someone like him. Unlike the other men who had wanted to take her out after Noel’s death, he would never become a pest. She was surprised that he wasn’t married. Or perhaps he had been? A widower, then, in the same state as herself? Divorced, perhaps? An unhappy marriage that had ended in disaster?

  The place that he had been recommended was the restaurant of a hotel. Its other patrons were elderly ladies who watched them with avid interest. The waiter was equally elderly but paid them nothing like the same attention. The soup was tinned and tepid, the beef almost too tough to chew. The apple pudding, when it finally arrived after a long delay, was so sour it set her teeth on edge.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I had no idea it would be like this.’

  ‘Perhaps the chef was called up.’

  ‘Perhaps he was. Would you like some cheese? They can’t go too far wrong with that.’

  But they could and they had. A small dry piece that would have disgraced a mousetrap, and some stale biscuits. He apologized again and, in spite of her disappointment, she started to laugh. ‘There’s a war on,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘So there is. I’d almost forgotten. Shall we risk coffee in the lounge?’

  The lounge had dusty palms in pots, well-worn sofas and armchairs, a small dais with a grand piano – its lid firmly closed – and a large dance floor. Once upon a time, before the war, the hotel must have been rather a fine place. Elegantly dressed guests, good food and wine, faultless service, a three-piece orchestra playing for thé dansants and after dinner in the evenings. It was a smaller version of the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne where she had worked.

  The old ladies were reassembling around them, each settling into her accustomed chair, getting out their knitting, adjusting their deaf aids, waiting for the entertainment to resume. Normal conversation was awkward since she knew they would be hanging on every word. She found that she was talking about the weather – what a good summer it had been, how warm for the time of year, though of course the garden really needed the rain.

  ‘My sister would agree with you,’ he said. ‘She’s a keen gardener like yourself.’

  She had a vision of immaculately tended lawns, glorious herbaceous borders, topiary, marble statues. ‘Her garden must be beautiful.’

  He shook his head. ‘Actually, it’s chaotic – just like her house. But she enjoys pottering about.’

  She said, grasping at suitable topics for their audience, ‘Did you always have an ambition to go into the Navy?’

  ‘Well, it’s been rather a family tradition. My father was in the Navy and my grandfather, too. I was brought up to follow them. I suppose I might have resented it, but the fact is I love the sea.’

  She could sense the inclining of ears towards them, like corn ears bending on their stalks with the wind; the knitting needles had clicked to a halt.

  He went on, ‘I loved Dartmouth. Thoroughly enjoyed it – cold baths and all.’

  ‘So did Rear Admiral Foster. He says they were the happiest days of his life.’

  ‘Mine, too, I think. Or, at least, so far.’

  She wondered again what else lay in his past, but with the old biddies listening, it was impossible to broach the subject. What to talk about? Whatever he did now in the Navy was forbidden ground. Careless Talk Costs Lives. But what exactly did he do? Whatever it was, Monsieur Duval was involved in some way.

  She said, ‘Mrs Lamprey wants to know when Monsieur Duval will be back. She’s run out of her favourite French perfume and she’s convinced he’ll know where to get some more.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mrs Lamprey might have to resign herself to doing without. I doubt if he’ll be able to help.’

  Against all the odds, the coffee, when it finally arrived, was good. They talked of inconsequential, everyday things – the weather, the shortages, the delays, a new film. Stilted, barren conversation. The disappointment of their audience was palpable. And then he spoke of her brother – just a comment, in passing, about him serving in the Navy, but she was curious.

  ‘How did you know about Freddie?’

  He frowned. ‘Didn’t you mention him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Only to Monsieur Duval. Perhaps he said something to you?’

  ‘Actually, no.’

  She was still puzzled. ‘I can’t remember talking about him.’ She wanted to ask him where Freddie’s ship might be now. When he might get some leave. What his chances of survival were. But, of course, even if he knew the answers to all those things, he couldn’t tell her.

  They left the old ladies to their knitting and he drove her back. With double summertime, there was still no need for headlights. As they came down the steep hill into Kingswear, he said, ‘I’m so sorry about this evening. I’m afraid it wasn’t very enjoyable.’

  She could tell that he was quite upset about it. ‘It was nice of you to take me out.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to risk repeating the experience sometime? I promise to find somewhere better.’

  Instead of answering him, she said, ‘Alan, how did you know about my brother?’

  The Parc Monceau was dry and dusty – leaves curling, grass bleached to the colour of straw. Nobody in sight except for two German feldwebels, one of them photographing the other who was grinning happily into the camera, as though on holiday. That, Duval thought bitterly, was how easy it had been for them: a joyride through France, a stroll into her capital city, redecorating her according to their taste. Huge red, white and black swastika banners flying from every flagpole, signposts in Gothic-lettered German, German banners and posters nailed to buildings. Paris had been taken and branded all over with Nazi insignia like a meek cow.

  He turned into the rue de Monceau, carrying his valise, and entered the apartment building. The inner courtyard was deserted but no sooner had he set foot on the stairway than Madame Bertrand was out of her lair.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Monsieur Duval.’

  ‘Indeed it is, Madame Bertrand. Good evening.’

  ‘We understood that you had gone away.’

  ‘I have returned, as you see. How is your husband? The liver?’

  ‘No better. How could it be with all that has happened? It’s enough to make anyone ill to have these German pigs in Paris.’

  ‘As you say. Madame Duval is well, though, I hope?’

  ‘Oh yes, she always looks after herself.’ A knowing nod.

  ‘Somebody is visiting?’

  ‘Not at present, monsieur.’

  He went on up the stairs. Simone opened the door to him and he could tell that she was quite shocked to see him – not precisely in the manner of Mademoiselle Citron, but somewhere in that region. His unexpected reappearance was perhaps not so welcome.

  ‘Louis! But I thought you had gone to England.’

  He said smoothly, ‘I changed my mind, Simone. I decided to follow your advice. It seemed a pity to let the Boche drive me out of my own country.’

  ‘I told you it would be a big mistake. Look what’s happening in England now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? The Germans have been bombing London. The English are expected to sue for peace any day.’

  ‘I rather doubt that will happen.’

  ‘They may not have much alternative.’ She noticed the valise. ‘You’re staying in Paris?’

  ‘For a few da
ys. Don’t worry, not here. Gerard will give me a bed. I have some business with him.’

  She had collected herself now and smiled at him. She was as chic as ever: hair, clothes, make-up all in place. It had amused him to see other Parisian women also still so defiantly elegant and well groomed. ‘Since you are here, Louis, you had better come in.’

  ‘You don’t have company?’

  ‘Company? No.’

  He stepped inside the apartment. ‘No Germans hiding under the bed?’

  She stopped smiling. ‘Don’t be absurd, Louis.’

  ‘I was only joking. I’ve been walking about the streets and from the look of the Germans that I have seen in Paris, they seem to be having a very happy time.’

  She shrugged. ‘Naturally. They think Paris is wonderful. They are delighted to be sent here. Some of them are behaving like tourists. They are taken round in busloads and stand and gawp at the sights and take each other’s photos.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed.’

  ‘In general, they are very correct in their behaviour. Very polite. Not all, of course, but most.’

  In the metro he had watched a Wehrmacht officer politely giving up his seat to a woman. ‘No doubt they have been told to be. I have also noticed all their flags.’

  ‘They put them everywhere – like children at a party – even a gigantic one on the top of the Eiffel Tower. They had to climb the stairs all the way up because the lifts had been sabotaged, then the wind tore the flag to pieces so they had to climb up again with a smaller one. It’s quite amusing, really.’

  ‘Madame Bertrand doesn’t seem to find it at all funny.’

  ‘Well, you know her . . . she’s a sour old bitch. Something to drink, Louis?’

  ‘Certainly. Whatever you have.’

  ‘There’s no Pernod left but I have some Dubonnet, or some wine.’

  ‘Wine, if you can spare it.’

  She still had a store of American cigarettes, dwindling fast. ‘The Americans are not quite so generous these days. Things are very hard to get, even for them.’

  He had noticed a box of chocolates on a side table – an expensive French kind. ‘Do you have enough to eat?’

  ‘I manage. Friends help where they can. As you know, the rations are pathetic. I’m sure you do better in Brittany.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But not much, I think. And the boutique? How is that going?’

  ‘The Germans are good customers. I told you that they would be. They have money to burn and they come in to buy nice presents for their wives and lovers. If I could only find more stock, I could make a fortune.’

  ‘My bank pays you regularly, as usual?’

  ‘So far, yes. Of course, one has no idea how things will go on.’

  ‘Write to me at Pont-Aven if there’s a problem.’

  ‘You’re returning there when you’ve seen Gerard? No more ridiculous ideas of going off to England?’

  ‘Rather too late for that now.’

  ‘It was wise to stay, Louis. The English are just as much in the shit as we are.’

  He walked from the rue de Monceau in the direction of Montmartre. There was almost no traffic except for the odd German staff car, the French pedalling their bicycles, and an old-fashioned horse-drawn cab bowling along the Boulevard Haussman. The curfew, according to Simone, did not begin until eleven o’clock and there was time to eat, if somewhere could be found. Several of his favourite haunts had closed down but Le Petit Coin, hidden away in a back street behind the Sacré Coeur, had once served respectable food and was, he discovered, still open for business. He was welcomed by the patron, as the old friend that he was. The place seemed exactly the same and, better still, there were no Germans.

  ‘They don’t come here,’ Michel told him with satisfaction. ‘They don’t like going down dark alleys. But you’ll find them in all the tourist places – sitting round with French tarts on their knees.’

  He dined on an excellent mutton ragout, accompanied by some passable red wine and followed by a glass or two of cognac. Much heartened, he walked on to the street where Gerard Klein lived. He had telephoned ahead and so, this time, his arrival on the doorstep was no surprise. Gerard’s wife and children were already in bed.

  ‘We can talk in peace, Louis. It’s too long since we met. And too much has happened. Where to start?’ They sat down to cognac and cigarettes.

  ‘How has it been here in Paris?’

  ‘We live by German rules. Everything is verboten. We must not show hostility to the occupying soldiers, we must not hide weapons, we must not listen to foreign radio stations, open windows during the curfew, take photos out of doors, gather in crowds, parade in the streets, fly our flags . . . And, naturally, the shortages are getting worse and worse and the prices are rising daily. Your paintings have been selling like hot cakes, by the way. I have only three left.’

  ‘Who’s been buying them?’

  ‘The Germans, of course. They’re the ones with the money now. Everyone else has left – le tout Paris has decamped: the rich Americans, the Aga Khan, the Windsors . . . all the international darlings have fled.’

  ‘I’d sooner you didn’t sell my work to the Boche.’

  ‘Come now, Louis, I have a living to make in these hard times, and so do you. They’re not all blockheads and bull-necks. Some of them – those that come into the gallery, at least – are almost human. When can you let me have some more?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’ He was surprised at how much he minded. After all, art should have no frontiers, no restrictions. But he did mind. Gerard was lighting yet another cigarette, the ash from the previous one sprinkling his shirtfront. As always, his clothes were rumpled, his hair a wild white mane. The mane had been black when Duval had first met him. At twenty-two years old he had brought a painting to the gallery, fully expecting it to be pounced upon with cries of excited admiration and discovery; instead, Gerard had turned it down flat. But he had been kind. Made suggestions. Imparted words of encouragement. The talent was there, he had said, but was not yet ready to be inflicted on a buying public. Seven years had passed before Duval had returned to the gallery, and, this time, Gerard had agreed to hang his work. Their association had begun and continued, unbroken, ever since.

  Gerard was puffing at his cigarette, watching him. ‘I’ve phoned you several times at the studio, Louis. You were never there. So I phoned Simone. She gave me a lunatic story about your having gone to England. Naturally, I didn’t believe a word of it. I thought perhaps you’d gone off down to Provence so you could paint in peace without some German looking over your shoulder.’

  He had trusted Aunt Pauline and Maurice Masseron, and he knew he could trust Gerard. To succeed there had to be trust at some point. He said, ‘She was right. I went to England.’

  ‘To England? What for? The weather is terrible and now they have German bombs dropping on them. Provence would be much better for you. Several artists have gone there. But you came back, after all? Was the weather so bad?’

  ‘No, rather good, in fact.’

  ‘Then why?’

  He told him why.

  Gerard heard him out in silence. At the end he said, ‘You are an artist, Louis. Forget this crazy idea. Leave it to others who are better fitted to deal with such things. It’s not for you. Besides, England is close to defeat. The Germans are bombing London to bits. It’s a lost cause. A waste of time.’

  ‘Not so, my dear friend, I can assure you. They are far from defeated. And I went there, not to run away and paint, but looking for something to do for France. I was given this chance.’

  ‘I can see that you’re very serious. And you want my help? I’m a coward, Louis, not a hero. Besides which, I am a Jew. It’s prudent to keep one’s head well below the parapet just now – to be as invisible as possible. Also, there is the small matter of Celeste and our five children. I could do nothing that might endanger them.’

  ‘Names, Gerard. That’s all I ask of you. Names. Nothing else. You know many p
eople in Paris – all the gossip. You know what sort they are, where their sympathies lie, whether they could be trusted. I need the names of those who would and could help. I know of a few myself, but they’re not enough.’

  There was another silence for a long moment and then a deep sigh. Gerard leaned forward to grasp the neck of the decanter. ‘Let’s have some more cognac. I’m going to need it.’

  Nine

  The man was wearing a naval petty officer’s badge – crossed anchors below the crown on his upper left sleeve. He looked tired and pale and was in need of a shave. ‘Mrs Hillyard?’

  ‘Yes?’ Not another of Lieutenant Reeves’s homeless? ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m Esme’s father. I’ve come to see her. She’s still here, isn’t she?’

  She stared at him; it seemed miraculous. ‘Yes, she’s still here, but she’s at school at the moment.’ Barbara opened the door further. ‘Would you like to come inside?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He took off his cap and stepped into the hall. ‘Very nice place. Esme’s lucky.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘That’d be very welcome. Excuse the way I look.’ He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. ‘I’ve been travelling all night.’

  She sat him down at the kitchen table and put the kettle on to boil. ‘She got your last letter. She’ll be so pleased that you’ve come to see her.’

  ‘How is she?’

  Barbara hesitated. ‘She’s well, but she misses her home. I’m afraid she’s not very happy here. She’d like her mother to come and fetch her but, so far, that hasn’t happened.’

  ‘And it won’t,’ he said flatly. ‘Not ever. I got a letter from Connie. She’s gone off with some man – a Canadian soldier. Wants a divorce. As soon as I got back on leave, I went to the house. She’s cleared out and taken most of the stuff with her. No idea where she’s gone, nor had the neighbours. I’ve been trying to find out. Get things sorted. She won’t care about Esme or what happens to her. She never liked her. Always thought she was an ugly little thing and told her so.’

  ‘Oh dear.’