Return to the Field

by Alexander Fullerton

  ‘I get what you mean.’

  ‘You feel that too?’

  ‘Well… He and I don’t work together like you do. Obviously… But he’s scared for me – and I am for him, when I let myself think about it. So – maybe not all that different… Anyway, what’s to stop you hanging on to what you have – transfer intact to any different scene?’

  It could be like that with herself and Ben, she thought. Scene 2, the same characters only stronger for what they’ve been through in Scene 1. She’d wondered, at times, about herself and Ben in a post-war world. If they both got to see it, anyway. That was the point at which you stopped worrying about it, knowing you might well not.

  At which point Lise had cut in as instantly as if their thoughts had been overlapping.

  ‘Could be I can’t see us in another kind of life because we won’t be?’

  She’d startled her: by postulating what at some moments she’d feared herself. Shaking her head, though: ‘Could be you’re talking nonsense, Lise!’ Smiling, to soften it. ‘The Russian in you, I suppose.’

  ‘You don’t believe in Fate?’

  ‘If you mean things happening to us that we can’t control if you want to call that “Fate”—’

  ‘Don’t you think Fate brought us together on that island?’

  ‘Well – no. Not really. I’d say it was a dinghy.’ She shook her head again, wincing at her own facetiousness. ‘Something that happened, that’s all.’

  * * *

  It was daylight, just after eight-thirty, when she turned west on to the road she could have been on right from the start. Having subjected herself to an extra ten or twelve kilometres, probably quite unnecessarily. But there’d been very little traffic and no hold-ups, the way she’d come, and one couldn’t know that there wouldn’t have been a block on this main road somewhere on the edge of Rennes. Fate, Lise might have said, could have played its part. And the last half-hour of pedalling up to this village – Montfort – had been a delight: daylight spreading and strengthening through a dawn mist over what had to be some of the most beautiful countryside in France.

  The Rance, she thought that river might be, down in the valley. Summoning Noally’s map to mind, reciting to herself the list of villages or small towns that lay ahead now: St Méen, Merdrignac, Loudéac, Mur-de-Bretagne, Rostrenen. Then Carhaix-Plouguer… A full day of it, and plenty of time for thought – even if ‘thought’ couldn’t amount to much more than speculation, at this stage. Wondering now for instance as she left Montfort behind her what Baker Street would make of the news of ‘Hector’’s arrest, which they’d be getting some time this evening. At this moment all they’d know was that he hadn’t shown up at the landing-field; but tonight Lise would be tapping out a signal over her own signature as ‘Giselle’, starting with Rosie’s pre-coded ‘arrived safely and proceeding to designated area’ group and adding

  Receipt of cash acknowledged. Hector arrested yesterday morning in Le Mans. Zoe consequently avoiding railways and not repeat not attempting to collect parcel.

  Then she’d continue with whatever Noally would have given her to send. She’d have been transmitting tonight anyway, she’d said – not from their house, she had two transceivers in other so-called ‘safe’ locations.

  Noally had recently sculpted a bust of a Boche general, he’d mentioned over the hurried breakfast.

  ‘Well, why not? I’m a sculptor and I have to make a living. We’re not politicians, either of us, we’re artists.’ Nodding towards Lise: ‘She’ll paint any of them that asks. None have yet, but we’ve put little cards around.’ He laughed. ‘This fellow wanted a bust that’d make him look like a Caesar. I told him I’d make him look like he is, and nothing else. What else would anyone want, I asked him – and he was flattered to bits, would you believe it?’ A shrug. ‘Looks like an orang-utan. But I tell you, Suzanne, it’s good cover.’

  ‘Must be…’

  Lise had cut in: ‘I’d like to paint you, Suzanne.’

  ‘Yes.’ Noally, with his mouth full, pointing at her: ‘If you could get that mouth of hers—’

  ‘It’s the clue to the whole face, I agree.’ Lise nodded. ‘I’d give anything to have a mouth like that!’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Rosie was embarrassed. ‘The last thing you need.’

  ‘I’m a painter, my dear, I have an eye—’

  ‘Two eyes, luckily.’ Noally added, ‘Beautiful eyes, at that. But your mouth, Suzanne – speaking as a man, don’t bother about any other viewpoint—’

  She smiled at Lise. ‘Couldn’t afford to be painted, anyway.’

  ‘I’d do it for free, God’s sake!’

  ‘Well – that’s different. Perhaps when this is all over—’

  ‘We’ll track you down through Baker Street.’

  ‘What I’d love is a painting of the two of you together.’

  ‘Might manage a snapshot. Come and visit us, bring your Kodak. Pont Aven is where we’d hope to be.’

  ‘Lise.’ Noally’s hand had covered hers. ‘Wasn’t it you told me counting chickens is bad luck?’

  * * *

  Telling herself, Mind on the job, now. And step on it, now it’s light…

  Just short of nine: and the distance to St Michel-du-Faou roughly a hundred and forty kilometres. No chance of making it before dark, but to get there as early as possible after dark – by about seven, say, giving it ten hours – would mean averaging about 13 kilometres an hour. So aim at 15 kph – 9 mph, a fifty per cent improvement on yesterday.

  She was working up to that already. Weather conditions were a lot better, and on occasion in the past she’d managed as much as 20 kph, so it should be easily achievable – especially with no stops, or only very short ones. Food needn’t be a problem; she’d had a good breakfast, and Lise had provided her with a very large sausage sandwich and a half-bottle of water – which was jammed into the pannier along with the smaller of her cases.

  Yesterday, of course, she’d started about two hours earlier, ignoring curfew. Jeannot hadn’t even mentioned it. His wife had, but only in a passing reference to his poaching activities. She supposed that the chances of being stopped between Jeannot’s house and Tiercé would have been minuscule, anyway. Whereas in an urban sprawl like Rennes, you’d be crazy to take any such risk – especially with a radio and a pistol in your luggage. On the subject of curfew, in fact, she supposed she’d taken a bit of a chance yesterday, even. Even taking her cue from Jeannot – who of course had been thinking only of that short distance to the station, where his friend the station-master would have put her under cover.

  Curfew at St Michel-du-Faou shouldn’t be anything to worry about. And if there was any really serious hold-up, she might find a night’s lodging in Carhaix and push on in the morning. The hours of curfew varied from place to place and could be changed with instant effect by order from the local Kommandantur. After a sabotage attack, for instance, or a spate of them, they’d often clamp down. Shoot hostages too: that was routine. Twelve Frenchmen and/or Frenchwomen for one slain German, was the standard rate. Hostages could be people who’d broken curfew or infringed black-market regulations: or even who’d done nothing at all, if the number of offenders in custody ran low.

  If she could keep this up she’d be OK. She was overtaking other cyclists: passing even a gazo that was puttering along in a cloud of its own smoke. A stink like old clothes smouldering on a bonfire. One woman cyclist had called to another, ‘Got the devil up her tail – that one there?’ Referring to Rosie, who’d left her standing. More shrill comments and mirth, fading behind her as she rode on.

  Needing to push along, but also to blend into the scene, not attract anyone’s attention.

  At St Méen – through which she rode sedately – it looked like market day. God only knew what they’d have to sell, or buy. There were some Boches in the streets too: grey-green uniforms, slung rifles, helmets. Bicycles everywhere – women and girls mostly, and one elderly man wobbling along. Children would be in s
chool, of course. Speeding up as she rode out into green countryside again: aware that at about this point she’d be crossing from the département of Illes et Vilaine to that of Côtes du Nord; with Merdrignac about twelve kilometres ahead and then a longer stretch to Loudéac.

  Thoughts running on, while she pedalled westward. About Noally and Lise for instance, their taking comfort from a belief that ‘Hector’ didn’t know them or know of them. Could be misplaced confidence, she thought. If he was a traitor, there’d be arrests soon – not immediately, he’d want Baker Street to believe he’d resisted interrogation for some length of time; but after a few days or a week or two, maybe, there’d be arrests probably all over France, and some of those arrested would know things ‘Hector’ didn’t know. One cat out of the bag leading to other cats, you might say.

  She thought she’d be safe enough. Having the luck not to be joining any réseau, and the only people who knew of her existence having no idea where she was going.

  And for the time being not having to transmit, either.

  That could be a danger. ‘Hector’ knowing that a new agent – even female agent, if he’d had her code-name – would have been travelling as far as Rennes: then the Boche radio-direction finders picking up transmissions from some new pianist at work out there.

  Slight incline here – the wrong way, up-hill, and lasting seemingly for ever. Having to put more weight and muscle into it, to maintain progress, and beginning to feel it – and to know that by the end of the day she’d be feeling it a damn sight more… A gazo van shaved past her dangerously close, then crowded in ahead of her to avoid an oncoming lorry – which had a sign above its owner’s name on the cab reading Au Service de l’Allemagne.

  Some service, she thought, for a Frenchman. There’d been a lot of those in the Rouen area, she remembered, but this was the first she’d seen on this trip.

  Merdrignac… Wehrmacht transport parked in a field at the edge of the village. Or town, its inhabitants might call it. Troops were milling around in there, and Feldgendarmerie were keeping the traffic flowing past the rutted gateway. A convoy assembling, she supposed. She wondered if it occurred here routinely, whether it might be worth mentioning as a likely target for a daylight raid. She didn’t slow, or show more interest than Suzanne Tanguy would have done. Through and out of Merdrignac, then. She thought she might be doing better than the 15 kph average that she was aiming at. But might lose time later, so no easing up.

  At about this stage she promised herself that after Loudéac – another twenty-five kilometres, say – she’d allow herself a ten-minute stop, eat her sandwich, take a drink and have an alfresco pee. Then on to Carhaix with no further stop – touch wood. It would be about sixty-five kilometres from Loudéac to Carhaix – say seventy-five or eighty to St Michel-du-Faou.

  Thrusting on: about an hour and a half, to Loudéac and the planned halt, and with the thought of food and even a brief rest becoming more attractive every minute. Long minutes, though, long kilometres – a long, long day…

  Getting there, though. Head down, pedalling on. The only way she would get there… After a while – another hour, maybe – she gave herself a swig of water, while still on the move, and felt better for it. And finally, Loudéac was coming up: and she didn’t have to wait until after she’d been through it, she realized: deciding this when she reckoned she had only a kilometre or two to go, on a long straight stretch of road with forest all along the right-hand side. As good a place as any: and some urgency now. But then seeing – and within a minute or so coming up to, and passing – a black saloon car parked on the verge at a point where there was an entrance to the forest. If it hadn’t been there that surely would have been as good a stopping place as she’d find – the trees for cover, easy access, and the bike would have been safe, close at hand. Then as she was passing this car she saw the two men who’d been pausing in their own journey apparently taking a compulsive interest in her –throwing themselves into their vehicle, doors slamming, engine firing, the car rolling forward to bump into the road…

  Somewhere back there, behind her. She’d looked round to see it happening but had now passed, was pedalling on, not looking back – only maintaining her notional 15 kph, hoping to God they’d speed up and pass her. That they could not have been waiting for her. Nobody could have known she’d be on this road. Or recognized her, if they had known. They’d happened to be looking her way when they’d decided to resume their journey, that was all: and watching her prior to taking advantage of a lull in the traffic, a space of empty road behind her.

  Should have passed by now.

  For the moment, she’d forgotten her sandwich.

  Men in civilian clothes driving petrol-engined cars did have a certain connotation – come to think of it. Odd that she hadn’t registered this when she’d first seen them and their Citroën.

  Preoccupied with her need for a pee…

  They might have swung out and round to the left, back the other way?

  Quick look back?

  Instinct advised against it.

  But wouldn’t it be more natural? Suzanne Tanguy having nothing to hide, wondering in all innocence what was going on?

  A gazo had just passed her. She eased her pedalling, glanced back over her left shoulder, saw the black car following about thirty metres behind. A couple of other vehicles had been forced into a queue behind it; that gazo had got by and another was coming now. Then a motorbike ridden by a Boche soldier sped past in a rush of noise like an angry scream. And yet another Wehrmacht convoy of heavy trucks coming this other way: she’d have seen it sooner if her eyes hadn’t been so to speak in the back of her head; but nothing would get by for some time now, with that lot filling the other lane.

  If they were what they seemed to be, you’d think they’d drive up abreast and hoot or signal at her to stop. Not just bloody follow. Why her, anyway? When there had to be about fifty thousand cyclists, most of them female, on the roads of France at this very moment?

  Just amusing themselves?

  They could, literally, get away with murder. If they were what she thought they were.

  She wondered how Lise would have handled it. Or what Noally would advise. Noally’s calm, wide-spaced eyes the colour of milk chocolate: he might have been telling her: Get it over with. They want to play cat and mouse, show them the mouse doesn’t scare that easy. Papers OK, everything OK, just don’t let ’em scare you, eh?

  Her own thinking, of course, nothing whatsoever to do with Noally. He and Lise had only slipped into her mind because – well, because… All right – if she’d been joining a réseau, they’d be the kind she’d want to work with. In fact she thought of this afterwards, not there and then, there wasn’t time. Also it happened that there was another forest entrance coming up – similar gateway, similar track leading into the trees… But on second or third thoughts she decided against it. She’d eased up a bit by then, and the car was so close behind that she could hear the sound of its engine in a high gear over other traffic noise including the regular whoomph, whoomph, whoomph of the heavy military trucks pounding by the other way. She’d changed her mind because she’d realized she’d be playing right into their hands if she’d stopped there.

  Get into Loudéac…

  Wherever there’d be people around. Not that any of them would lift a finger, whatever happened, but the presence of witnesses might deter the bastards.

  Having slowed, she didn’t speed up again. It could only be a very short distance into town now, and she didn’t want to seem to be dithering. Although it was a fact she had been. Down to about half-speed now: it felt like dawdling. But you would ease up, coming into a town. She heard the change of gear then, and acceleration; the Citroën swept up, slowed as it came level, hung there for the space of a few seconds, the passenger’s face a white smear in the wound-down window: startled by the sudden, noisy move she’d glanced that way – just once, quickly, and away again – at which moment there was another shift of gear and –
extraordinarily – the passenger stuck his arm out, arm in a light-brown raincoat sleeve waving goodbye as the car shot on ahead.

  Other vehicles were overtaking, then. The army convoy had all gone. This was already the outskirts of Loudéac. The forest had receded, there’d been a small lake – of which she’d been only vaguely aware before the Citroën had been alongside her – and now she was entering the built-up area: having in mind – still somewhat reeling mind – to do what she’d last thought of, stop in some populated place and eat her lunch, also get her thoughts together and look for a public toilette – rather than risk having those two resume their game on the other side of town, where again she wouldn’t be able to stop for any purpose of that kind.

  But with luck they’d be a long way ahead by the time she rode on. If they were continuing westward on the same road: and unless this was a cat-and-mouse game with herself as a serious target.

  Then she saw the blocked road ahead. A slow filtration of vehicles through a temporary one-way system, trucks and lorries being directed off to the right, at a junction there. French police and plain-clothes men checking papers – including those of cyclists.

  Damn…

  The black Citroën, waiting for her.

  It was parked on the left, close up behind a canvas-topped, camouflage-painted half-tonner, which with another military vehicle ahead of it was blocking that side of the road.

  Bicycles seemed to be getting through fairly easily. Two gendarmes were handling that part of it; it could have been that they knew most of the cyclists, the ones they were just waving through. One at this moment was having to show her papers, though.

  A stranger would, of course. Especially one with luggage.

  Plus the bloody Citroën…

  Turn back, find a way round by side-roads?

  Too late. You’d be seen, and then in worse trouble.

  ‘Go on, child!’

  Addressing her. Skinny old thing with whiskers on her face. Rosie shrugged, glancing round at her. ‘No rush, is there?’