Not That Sort of Girl (23 page)

‘If you escape the Deuxième Bureau.’

‘They do not bother me. And you, shall you be my escort next time? Shall we make a habit of this? Make rendezvous at your aunt in Paris and cross together to Dartmouth?’

‘Possibly.’ Mylo did not want to talk any more; he wanted to think about Spalding’s fake asininity, he wanted to think of Rose. With an effort he dismissed both from his thoughts and concentrated on the report he must make on arrival in London. Try to make sense while protecting his back. My back is in France, he thought. All those friends and acquaintances continually at risk. How dare somebody as safe as Spalding be so frivolous? Shall I try telephoning Slepe from London? What happens if Ned answers, if Ned’s on leave, what then? Well, here I am not concentrating on my report. I shall mention as few names as possible. Was Spalding planted there to look silly and drop a hint, when in London they play it straight? Not easy to switch quickly from the Gallic and Teutonic mind to the Anglo-Saxon.

‘She says, that girl Margaret, that the food is not too terrible in London and that the rationing is fair.’

‘Yes?’

‘With us it is not so fair. I promised to bring my wife soap when I return; she has given me a list of things she wants.’

‘I have two Camemberts I bought in Normandy as we journeyed.’

‘There is no shortage there, the farmers do not suffer. Look at this country. Nothing is happening to your people, you do not suffer at all.’ Picot waved his hand towards the pasture and plough they were passing.

‘The towns have been bombed.’

‘My friend, you have been listening to the German radio; your country is untouched; it is we who suffer, the workers.’

Let him wait till he sees London, thought Mylo; sometimes, listening to the Picots of this world, I think fuck the workers. Mylo pulled up his coat collar, leaned back and tried to sleep.

M
YLO WOKE FROM AN
uncomfortable doze and recognising the contours of the hills realised that they were passing within a few miles of Slepe. He was furiously tempted to ask the driver to stop so that he could telephone, hear on the line Rose’s hesitant, cautious, ‘Hullo? Who is it?’ When he said, ‘Mylo,’ her voice would swoop, bubbling up. But, he thought, looking at the driver’s back, I shall do it later. The driver may have orders to report anything I do. I must wait until I am free, the job finished, then I can telephone or, better still, arrive quietly as I did before, find her asleep, let her wake in my arms and we shall be back where we left off.

It was getting dark when they reached the outskirts of London. The driver switched on dimmed lights and drove slowly. ‘Raid’s started, sir.’ He sounded pleased.

‘How d’you know?’

‘Glow in the sky, sir. Very punctual, the Jerries come up the river same time every evening, can set your watch by ’em.’

‘What does he say?’ asked Picot.

‘There is an air raid.’

‘Can one see it? Is it dangerous?’

‘No doubt we shall find out.’

Picot grunted, leaning forward in his seat to watch the glow in the east, the occasional flash, the lingering searchlights.

They were flagged down near Chiswick. ‘Going far?’ asked a policeman.

‘Neighbourhood of Knightsbridge,’ admitted the driver.

‘There’s a landmine in the Cromwell Road, an unexploded bomb in Queen’s Gate, the Old Brompton Road’s blocked. You will have to re-route via King’s Road and Sloane Street.’

Mylo translated.

‘Tiens,’
said Picot, ‘so it’s true you do have trouble, what a mercy it is not Paris.’

‘When you are free from your reception committee I will take you on a tour, show you the mess,’ said Mylo.

‘Good, we can invite the girl Margaret who has incidentally already offered and my little cousin Chantal who works with the French Navy. The girl Margaret knows her and I have messages for her from Maman.’

‘Not written, I trust.’

‘Of course they are written …’

‘Idiot,’ exclaimed Mylo. ‘If we had been caught the letter would have led the Gestapo to the mother and then …’ (I should have searched the bastard, what a fool I am.)

‘But we were not caught.’ Picot was amused.

‘Your Colonel Passy will not be pleased to hear this.’

‘Shall you tell him?’ Picot was amused by this too.

‘I don’t expect to meet him, but in future no written messages. There is no need to take idiotic risks.’ Mylo was angry.

‘They did not search us at Dartmouth.’

‘That will happen in London.’

‘The Germans would search us before we left, half-way there, and on arrival,’ said Picot, hating yet admiring the enemy.

‘Why were you so careless? I cannot understand …’

‘My cousin Chantal wrote to say the English are amateur.’

‘Wrote? You got a letter?’

‘We are not the only ones to cross the Channel, you must know that.’

‘Is your cousin a Party member?’

‘If she was, she would not have been so readily accepted by the Gaullistes. Her father was a naval officer, she has the
entrée.’

It’s useful that he has this cousinship to protect him, thought Mylo, he will need it; the Establishment’s suspicion of communists is inbred, but so fortunately are family ties.

Separated on arrival from Picot, Mylo spent the following days being interviewed, questioned, re-questioned, de-briefed by the people who had sent him to France and by others he did not know. He felt resentful of these men who paced their offices or sat relaxed behind desks able to step out from Broadway, walk across St James’s Park to lunch in their clubs, return to ask of their girl staff, ‘Any messages, Diana, Susan, Jenny, Victoria?’ (All the girls in all the offices bore the genetic stamp of colonels’ or captains’ (RN) daughters, safe fodder for Whitehall, the War Office and Broadway.) Not for these men and girls in bed at night the fear of the knock on the door. These are my people, yet must I protect my back, thought Mylo, they cannot know how it is for my friends in France; there are names and addresses they need not have.

‘Now we come to your friend Picot,’ said the man behind the desk. ‘How would you rate him?’

‘High.’

‘Possibly, possibly. Party members are supposed to be more disciplined than your Free French enthusiast.’

‘Certainly.’ Mylo thought of Picot’s cousin Chantal and her open letter borne by hand to Maman.

‘He has, it seems, a cousin called Chantal in their Navy. Works for Soustelle. Did he mention her?’

So the bastard is at least well informed. ‘Yes. Says he is looking forward to seeing her.’

‘I dare say. Well, yes. We would like you, if you agree, to spend an evening with Picot and this cousin of his before we let the Free French have him. He also made friends with a Wren called, let me see, yes, Margaret, when you came ashore at Dartmouth.’

‘A plant?’

‘You could make a foursome. Show Picot London as it is, go out for a meal.’

‘And?’

‘Report to us, unofficially of course, whether Picot is working for others besides us and the French.’

‘The Party?’ Mylo put innocence in his tone.

‘That’s the sort of thing, yes.’

Mylo laughed. ‘He told me his cousin is the daughter of an officer; she would be the same sort of girl as the girls you have here.’

‘They are not as silly as your tone suggests.’ There was a snip of huffiness.

‘What exactly do you want to know?’ (I hate this man, I hate his kind.)

‘Anything that doesn’t quite fit, you know the sort of thing.’ (Non-committal, yet insistent.)

‘Is this an order?’

‘I should call it a request.’ (Smiling now, bland.)

Mylo stood up. His questioner rose, too, walked with him to the door. ‘Wasn’t your father a communist at one time?’

Mylo grinned. ‘My father thought all party politics ludicrous. He was not a joiner.’

‘Wasn’t there something he did in South Africa? I seem to have heard …’ (The voice trailed.)

‘He was asked to leave. He went to one or two Party meetings, he liked the songs.’

‘Songs?’ (Puzzled.)

‘They were better than the Whites’, the Black and Coloured songs.’

‘Oh, dear. Here we get into colour.’ (Pained.)

‘Uncomfortable thing, colour.’

‘Uncomforting too. Well! Have a good time, show him around. Let me know how you get on with the girls and so on.’ (Hearty now.)

‘I am not in the business of betrayal.’

‘My dear fellow! What an idea.’ He was pained.

‘And expenses?’ suggested Mylo.

‘What? Oh, expenses. Oh, yes, well now. Victoria is the girl you need.’ (Expenses are beneath me.) ‘Victoria, sweetie?’ They had reached an outer office. ‘Yes, sir?’ Victoria (a brigadier’s daughter, perhaps) showed no pleasure at being addressed as sweetie.

‘Fix Mr Cooper up with the proper forms and so on, he needs expenses.’

‘Very good, sir,’ snapped Victoria.

‘Goodbye, Mr Cooper.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Mylo. They shook hands, watched by Victoria.

‘This way,’ said Victoria, ‘follow me.’ She led.

‘Do you know whether the Hamman Baths are still open?’ Mylo asked Victoria’s back.

‘People do come out of that office feeling they need cleansing,’ said Victoria over her shoulder. ‘Unfortunately the Turkish baths are closed, a stick of bombs fell across Jermyn Street a fortnight ago and demolished the baths and everybody in them.’

‘Ah me!’

‘It’s all in the mind,’ said Victoria cheerfully, ‘nothing an ordinary bath can’t cure. When I get that besmirched feeling, I buy myself a cake of expensive soap, that helps.’

Mylo laughed. ‘I’ll try that.’

‘Used I not to see you at the Malones’?’ asked Victoria. ‘Aren’t you a friend of George and Richard’s?’

‘It’s a small world. I tutored George.’

Does she know Rose, too, Mylo wondered, has she heard her voice lately? He walked back to where he was staying, stopping on the way to buy sandalwood soap. On reaching his lodgings he telephoned Picot to invite him and his cousin Chantal to spend the evening, do some sightseeing first. He was not surprised to hear that the Wren, Margaret, had turned up in London and would join the party. What do the buggers take me for, he thought, as he lay in his bath before keeping the rendezvous. No amount of soaping washed away the feeling of grubbiness engendered by the smooth-talking man who had toyed with him in his office in the building in Broadway.

They met early, while it was still light, having planned to make a lightning tour of bombed London for Picot’s benefit. Mylo hired a taxi (Victoria had been generous with her promises to reimburse). They drove through the city as office workers streamed away, anxious to get home before the air raids started. Picot leaned forward in his seat, staring at the faces of the crowd, trying to read their mood. ‘They show so little; is it already a habit?’ He chatted with his cousin, exchanging family news while Margaret sat silent on his other side. Why must we all spy on one another; it is unreal. Mylo longed for Rose, comparing her favourably with these self-assured girls.

As they drove round the docks Picot fell silent, stayed silent at the spectacle of the ruined Guildhall, smashed Wren churches, blocks of offices where firemen still hosed the smoking ruins of the previous night’s raid, their faces grey with fatigue. Through the open window they smelled the stink of fire. Chantal, wrinkling her nose, asked for it to be shut. Mylo watched her sitting back in the taxi, looking unmistakably French in her perfectly cut uniform, her white shirt speckless against her young throat, her face so carefully made up.

Beside her Margaret in her uniform looked scrubbed and British. Mylo sitting on the jump seat wondered which of the girls would be best in bed and laughed inwardly at even asking himself the question. Bed was one thing, he told himself, but Margaret would make the most intelligent report on the evening. I wonder what soap Chantal uses, he mused, or is she spared any sense of guilt?

They dined presently at the Écu de France (spared by the stick of bombs which had demolished the Hamman Baths). The restaurant was Margaret’s choice. Chantal sulked; she had wanted to go to the Café de Paris; it was safe, she said, it was underground, no need to fear in the raids which she confessed made her nervous. One could dance, she wanted to dance. ‘It is the food I am after.’ Margaret demolished the French girl’s protest. When later that year there was a direct hit on the Café de Paris, the bomb falling through its glass roof and slaughtering many people, Mylo remembered Chantal on that first and only meeting.

As it was they dined pretty well. Margaret enjoyed her food. Picot celebrated his reunion with his cousin and his first visit to England. Mylo drank steadily and too much to dull the impression of smashed London, to rid himself of the taste of betrayal and doublecross which he realised now to be endemic in the corridors of his masters. What the hell, he thought, as he grew bibulously cheerful, what the bloody hell. Coming out into the street he burst into song and seizing Chantal in his arms danced with her as he sang, ‘Hitler has only got one ball / Goering’s are very very small / Himmler’s are somewhat simmler / but Goebbels has no balls at all.’ As they whirled along the pavement, Chantal pleading in French for a translation, an air-raid warden called to them good-humouredly and Margaret climbed into a taxi with Picot and drove away, shouting that it would be wise to take cover.

When a bomb fell within earshot Chantal took fright and begged to be taken home. In the taxi Mylo put his arm around her and kissed her; arriving at her flat she invited him in until the raid was over; she feared to be alone, her flatmate was away. Mylo followed her indoors. He had by this time reached the stage of intoxication when it was habitual for him to bore whoever he might be with with a description of Rose’s charms and his love for her, and then since Chantal seemed an accommodating girl he would reward her for her charitable listening by making love to her; it would take her mind off the air raid.

When he woke, Chantal was already up and dressed in her uniform and offering restorative coffee.
‘Vous etiez soûl mais gentil.’

‘Yes, thanks,’ he took the cup. ‘Nothing a ritual bath won’t cure.’ He sat up. ‘Ow! My head! Ouch! Oh, Christ!’