by Valpy, Fiona
‘That’s quite alright. I need to come upstairs to speak to you all, in any case. There is a plan for your surprise guest’s onward journey, but I need to discuss it with you. Here’ – he took the bag of shopping from her – ‘allow me to carry this for you. Vivi will follow in a minute once she’s tidied up here.’
He was certainly a very attractive man, she thought, but Claire noticed that he used the less formal version of Vivienne’s name, and that an undercurrent of understanding seemed to run between the two of them. Maybe Vivi was one of his mistresses, she thought. It would certainly explain how she’d been recruited to work at Delavigne Couture. And then, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle fitting into place, an image came into her mind of the reflection in the mirror that she’d glimpsed at Brasserie Lipp all those months before. The man sitting at the table with Vivi and the Nazi woman had been Monsieur Leroux. That was why his face had looked familiar when they were subsequently introduced in the Tuileries gardens. Given his closeness to Vivi, he must have known all along that Claire was consorting with a German officer. She felt her cheeks burn at the thought, and was thankful that she was preceding him up the stairs so that he couldn’t see her shame. If she was completely honest with herself, during that evening at the Brasserie Lipp, she had felt a little flicker of triumphant scorn for the party she’d glimpsed at the table across the room; now that she realised who he really was, her shame was redoubled. No wonder he’d been so reticent about taking her on in the network. Had it not been for Mireille’s persuasiveness, she would surely have been ostracised completely.
On the fifth floor, there was no sign of Mireille, and the door of Fréd’s room was closed. In the little kitchen, Claire busied herself preparing the supper, heating the duck legs and peeling the potatoes. She’d refused Monsieur Leroux’s offer of help as there was such little space to move for just one person, let alone two. He leant in the doorway and watched as she began to fry the potatoes with a little of the fat from the confit jar, adding slivers from a clove of garlic, whose tantalising smell wafted through the apartment as the pan began to splutter and sizzle.
When she glanced up from the stove, he smiled at her. With a flourish, he pulled a bottle of red wine from a deep pocket in his coat which he set on the worktop beside her. Then, from another pocket, he produced three bars of Côte d’Or chocolate which he handed to Claire. ‘I’d better give you these, because I know you will share them out fairly,’ he said, making her blush.
Summoned by the sounds and smells of her cooking, Vivi, Mireille and Fréd soon appeared and set out plates and cutlery in the sitting room.
Monsieur Leroux joined them round the table, but refused a plate of food, saying he would be eating later. He sipped his glass of wine, though, watching them devour the food which was the best meal they’d had in some time. Fréd raised his glass, declaring the duck legs far tastier than anything he’d eaten in England, and they all toasted the chef. Did Claire imagine it, or were Monsieur Leroux’s eyes on her each time she glanced shyly in his direction?
He let them finish their supper before he got down to the real business of his visit to the Rue Cardinale.
‘We have a plan to get you out, Fréd. Not by the south-west, as we usually do, but via another network which works out of Brittany. I have to warn you, it’s a more dangerous route, but a faster one to get you back to England.’
Fréd shrugged. ‘Suits me,’ he said. ‘The sooner I get back and can resume the fight against the Boche again the better.’ Claire noticed the look of regret in his eyes though when he turned to Mireille, who sat beside him, and took her hand in his, adding, ‘Although I will be very sorry to leave my new friends behind, in Paris.’
‘We can’t risk using the trains,’ Monsieur Leroux continued. ‘There are too many checks at the stations, especially on the route to Brittany. The Germans have been trying harder than ever to protect their Atlantic defences ever since the Allies blew up the locks at Saint-Nazaire. So it will be a cross-country route. And they don’t have many passeurs to spare to show you the way, which means navigating for yourself in some places.’
‘I’ll be okay,’ Fréd said stoutly. ‘I’ve never been to Brittany before, but I’m sure I can find my way around.’
‘With your southern accent you’ll be conspicuous, though, if you’re travelling alone. And that is why we’ve come up with an additional strand to the plan.’ Monsieur Leroux turned to face Claire. ‘Just suppose you were travelling home to see your family, to introduce them to a young man who wished to ask your father for your hand in marriage . . . You know the Bretons, who can be a tricky bunch at the best of times, and you know your way around. If you can get Frédéric to Port Meilhon, the network can get him out. He’ll be back in England in a couple of days, and we have some critical intelligence that we need to get back to the allied command as quickly as possible so you’ll be doing us an additional favour, now that the south-west route has been shut down for the time being.’
Claire’s blood chilled in her veins at the thought of such a dangerous journey. She had managed to conquer her nerves so far and carry out her assignments in the city, but this mission was in a different league entirely. Then she met his frank gaze and swallowed her fear. ‘I can do it. I’m sure Mademoiselle Vannier would give me some leave since I haven’t taken any for ages. Besides, ever since my “accident” I still get dizzy sometimes and she’s been urging me to try to get a travel pass and go and see my father for a bit of sea air. But I’ll need to see if the Germans will give me a permit to travel. And what about Fréd, he’ll need one too? I don’t know how long it will take to apply for them . . .’
‘It’s already sorted,’ said Monsieur Leroux. ‘I have the papers here for you both.’ He set down the official-looking documents from the Préfecture de Police, headed ‘Ausweis’ and stamped with the two-headed eagle and swastika of the German administration. ‘You can leave tomorrow afternoon. Get yourselves to the Pont de Neuilly by four o’clock, where there will be transport to take you as far as Chartres. You’ll each have a room there for the night and then they’ll take you on to Nantes. It’s not exactly the most direct route, but it’s the only one we’ve been able to organise at short notice. From Nantes you’re on your own, though. You’ll need to use public transport, if you can find any, or ask for a lift. You have to make it to Port Meilhon by Friday night. It’s crucial that the boat makes it out on the tide when it’s too low for the larger German vessels to patrol close in.’
Claire glanced around the table at the faces that were watching her intently. Mireille’s dark eyes were filled with fear; Vivi’s clear hazel gaze was as calm as usual, but a flicker of concern betrayed her anxiety. Fréd smiled at her, encouragingly. And then she turned to Monsieur Leroux. His eyes were kind, but an added warmth shone from them that she hadn’t noticed before. It was a warmth that made her heart beat faster and brought a flush of colour to her cheeks.
‘Okay,’ she said, pushing back her chair to cover her confusion. ‘I’d better go and pack my bag then.’
As she was folding a couple of things she’d need on the journey, Monsieur Leroux appeared in the door of her bedroom. ‘I have one more item for you to take, Claire.’ He held out a small, flat package which was wrapped in oilskin, the edges of which had been sewn together tightly. ‘It is vital that this goes with Fréd when he leaves, but it will be safer if he doesn’t know about it until the last minute. Carry it with you at all times. They’ll be less likely to search you than him if you are stopped. Do everything you can to keep it safe, but make sure you give it to Fréd as he leaves the French shore. Do not trust anyone else with it. Do you understand?’
She nodded, and as she took the package from him, he folded his other hand over hers and held it tightly for a moment before letting go. Claire met his gaze and thought she read a question in his eyes, but it was one that she couldn’t answer now.
She looked at the package he’d handed her, taking in the neatness of the stitches th
at sealed it shut. Suddenly some things made sense. She couldn’t help asking, ‘Is this what Vivi was working on earlier?’
He put a finger to his lips and then laid his hand over hers again, squeezing her fingers, and she took comfort from the touch. He always seemed to have this air of quiet assurance, she told herself, trying to ignore the other things she’d begun to notice about him, like the way he looked at her and the way his chiselled features made her want to spend more time with him than she had. It was just his calmness and confidence that she found so attractive, she thought, as if – whatever came along – he knew he could take it in his stride.
She only wished she felt that same confidence herself.
Harriet
Just when I was starting to feel a bit more admiration for Claire, being brave enough to agree to become a passeuse and take the Free French airman on the dangerous journey to escape through Brittany, she seems to be falling in love with another womaniser. I can only hope Monsieur Leroux isn’t going to break her heart all over again. He sounds almost as unsuitable as Ernst, this good-looking Lothario. He sounds as if he used women, even if it was for the sake of the underground network that he ran.
I have a horrible feeling that history is going to repeat itself and Claire is never going to learn any lessons from her mistakes.
But then, do any of us, ever?
Some of the rooms in the Palais Galliera are closed today, as they are changing the exhibitions. Jeanne Lanvin’s creations – and that Lanvin-blue dress with the silver beads – are being returned to the archives in the basement of the museum where they will be carefully preserved until the next time they are brought out. I sit outside, on one of the benches that circle the building, among the statues that are dotted through the palace grounds, writing down the latest instalment of Claire’s story.
My phone buzzes and I smile when I see Thierry’s name on the screen. And then I smile even more broadly when he asks if I’d like to meet up for dinner tonight, at a little bistro he knows of that serves the best moules-frites in Paris.
1942
They’d been travelling for almost two days now and Claire hadn’t been able to relax her guard for a moment, despite everything having gone smoothly so far. They’d got out of Paris safely and spent the night in the hotel in Chartres exactly as planned, travelling on to Nantes the following day. Now on the final leg of the journey, Claire was shocked to see the devastation the war had inflicted on Saint-Nazaire. She remembered the city from her youth as a place filled with hope and promise, the gateway to a new life away from Port Meilhon. But now it resembled a town that had forgotten what hope looked like. Buildings were pitted and pock-marked with machine-gun fire, and the once-proud shipyards were sealed off and deserted. The dry dock, which had been capable of accommodating the German navy’s biggest warships, had been blown up in a recent raid by British commandoes.
She glimpsed these fragmented scenes as she and Fréd rattled along the pot-holed roads in the back of a van which had been taking a delivery of fish to a food depot on the outskirts of the city. Although empty, the van still smelt strongly of its previous cargo. Again and again, she swallowed the acid bile that rose in her throat as a result of the overpowering smell, combined with the stomach-churning jouncing of the van along the pocked and broken roads. The sight of the bombed-out buildings along the way brought back vivid memories of the night in Billancourt when she’d so narrowly escaped death. An image of Christiane’s face seemed to float against the backdrop of the ruined landscape, and the scent of dust and smoke mingled with the odour of fish oil in her nostrils. She hoped the persistent twitch at the corner of one of her eyes didn’t give away how panicked she was beginning to feel.
As if physically holding herself together, she kept her arms folded, letting her fingertips surreptitiously trace the reassuring outline of the package Monsieur Leroux had given her, which she’d sewn into the lining of her coat for safekeeping.
Fréd was a largely silent travelling companion, lost in his own thoughts, although his solid presence was a reassuring one. He’d let her do the talking when they’d come upon the fish van that morning. When Claire had mentioned her father’s name, the driver’s weather-beaten face had creased into a grin of recognition and he’d readily agreed to give them a lift all the way to Port Meilhon, even though it would take him a little way past his own home in Concarneau.
At last he dropped them off, with another grin and a wave, at the top of the narrow, cobbled lane that led down to the tiny harbour. Claire stood for a moment, thankful to be still again after the hours of lurching in the back of the van. She took deep breaths of the sea air, relieved that the horrible feeling of nausea was passing. It was reassuring to be in familiar surroundings. The fishing village smelt as it always had done, of salt and seaweed and the damp lengths of rope which tethered the little fleet of boats to their moorings along the quayside. Seabirds shrieked at one another overhead, keeping a beady eye out for easy pickings whenever a boat came in.
Claire had never thought she’d be so glad to be home, but now she felt an overwhelming longing to see her father and her brother Marc, and to be enveloped in their strong arms again.
Fréd smiled at her. ‘Nearly there now,’ he said as he picked up her bag and his own. ‘Lead the way.’
She spotted them down by the boat, her father’s tall figure lifting empty creels from the stack on the quayside and passing them down to Marc on the deck. She was about to run to them when Fréd put out a hand to stop her. ‘Wait,’ he said quietly.
Out towards the end of the harbour wall, a crude concrete blockhouse had been built and a German sentry stood on top of its flat roof. Fortunately, his back was to them as he scanned the iron-grey sea for ships through a pair of binoculars. From the dark slits that were the eyes of the blockhouse, protruded the barrels of two machine guns. One pointed seawards, but the other was trained on the little harbour and on the men who worked on their boats there. Beyond the blockhouse, just before the little lighthouse at the end of the seawall that marked the entrance to the harbour for the fishing fleet as they returned home on dark nights, an anti-aircraft gun pointed to the sky, taunted by the jeering seabirds that wheeled above it.
The sight of her father and brother working beneath the threatening presence of the machine gun, which was trained upon them from the blockhouse, shocked Claire to the core. A gasp escaped her as Fréd pulled her back around the corner into the shelter of the lane. He put a finger to his lips, cautioning her to keep quiet.
‘We can’t go to them now, Claire, not with that German sentry on duty. We’d only draw attention to ourselves and that’s the last thing we want to do. Even with your excuse of coming home to see your family, they’ll be on the lookout for any new arrivals, for anything out of the ordinary. We’ll have to hide until darkness falls.’
Claire nodded, realising that he was right, even though the urge to run to her father and put herself between him and the sights of that gun turret was strong. She glanced around, then seized his hand. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We can get into the alleyway behind the house. The back door is never locked. We’ll be able to wait for them inside.’ She led him to a tiny gap in the wall on one side of the lane which opened on to a narrow, sandy path running between the back-to-back gardens of the fishermen’s cottages, each with its own outhouse. She pushed open the gate in a peeling picket fence and picked her way past the little patch of vegetables – neat rows of plaited leek leaves and feathery carrot tops – that had been cultivated in the sandy soil of the garden. She turned the handle of the back door and, with a smile of triumph at Fréd, pushed her way inside.
Her heart thumped at the sight of her family home. The rooms seemed smaller, somehow, and yet they were filled with artefacts that reminded her of her mother – the yellowing lace cloth on the sideboard where a few pieces of china were displayed, painted with a bright Breton design of leaves and flowers – and of her father, too. His chair by the fireplace sagged with the weig
ht of his tired body, returned from the sea. She picked up an unravelling ball of twine which sat on the shelf alongside the chair and absent-mindedly rewound it, tucking the end in neatly and replacing it next to his seat.
In the kitchen, the stove had been damped down for the day while the men were out on the boat. Taking comfort from the feeling of being home again after so long, and from the familiarity of actions which had been a part of her daily life from as far back as she could recall, she riddled the embers and coaxed the fire back into life, then set a pan of water on the top to heat. ‘We could probably both do with a wash after that journey.’ She smiled. ‘And then we’ll see what there is for supper. Papa and Marc will be hungry when they get in. I doubt they’ll be long.’
Even though dusk was falling now, Claire didn’t light a lamp, nor did she draw the blackout curtains across the low, salt-scoured windows. The wind from the sea made the boats in the harbour jostle and nudge one another with the promise of a fresh breeze at dawn, when they would head out beyond the harbour walls once again to plough their way through the waves.
At last she heard them coming up the path and then stamping their boots on the rough seagrass matting at the front door to remove the sand. She waited for the door to open and then close behind them, making sure they were safely inside and hidden from view before going to meet them. In the darkening cottage, it took a few moments for her father to register that the figure standing before him in the hallway was Claire. Without a word, she held out her arms to him. And then he stepped up to her and buried his face in her hair as he wept.
She hugged him tightly, pressing her face into his chest, overwhelmed by the simultaneous strength and the fragility of this man – her father – who had lost his wife and one of his sons and had seen the remainder of his family torn apart by the war. Beneath the rough wool of his fisherman’s sweater, she felt his body heave with silent sobs, and her tears mingled with his as she kissed his cheek.