Tug of War (2 page)

And now the
vendange
had come again. The second of the war. The grapes were safely in and how ironic if this year of misery and destruction were to yield a good vintage. Smaller but of a
better quality perhaps than the legendary one of 1900? A daydream! Everyone said a war always began with a poor crop and ended with a good one. Nature’s way of showing her disapproval of
Man’s activities, Aline thought, though the villagers said – God’s way. Clovis would be concerned that his estate should be running as well as could be without him. He
didn’t trust her to manage it. At the last moment before leaving for the war, as he’d turned to mount his horse and ride off at the head of his small squadron of cuirassiers, he’d
swung on his heel, breastplate glittering, hand negligently on sword-hilt, and called her over to him. The soldier’s farewell. She knew what was required of her. Suppressing the tears and
tumbling endearments which would have come more naturally to her, she went to him calmly and presented her cheek for a last kiss. He had taken her by the shoulders and murmured: ‘Copper
sulphate, my dear. Absolutely vital that you keep up supplies. Should you encounter difficulties you will have to apply to our cousin Charles.’

If Clovis knew that she’d taken four days off and wasted Felix’s time driving up on a fruitless expedition to gape at the battlefield where perhaps he might be fighting, he would
have called her into his study and wearily delivered a ticking off. Her Parisian ways had lost much of their charm after six years of marriage, she knew that, but she could change. She was
determined to change. This war would leave no one as they had been before. And, perhaps, when finally he was allowed to come home on his much overdue leave, he would notice what she’d
achieved. He’d notice, approve and love her for it. Perhaps.

On leave. She’d seen him only once since this war broke out and he’d told her firmly not to expect him again until she heard that it was all over. Leave was hardly ever accorded to
officers in his position. The thought of seeing him again was as alarming as it was attractive. She feared that the war would have demolished the barriers they had so carefully built between them
over the years, leaving them without cover to see each other as they truly were – or had become. Would the lubricants of convention and good manners ease them through the demands of a
four-day pass? She was unsure but at their next encounter she was determined she would hold up her head and speak with pride of what she had done.

Every available person, male or female, young or old, living within ten miles of the château had been lured by her – Parisian charm had its advantages on occasion – into coming
to work on the estate. The oldest recruit, Jean-Paul, rheumatic and toothless at seventy-five, had come out of retirement and found the energy to shuffle every morning along the rows in the
vineyard, pruning, training and singing to the vines. The youngest recruit was her own son, five-year-old Georges, who scampered about screaming defiance and throwing stones at the invading
birds.

She’d raised a squad of thirty willing but sporadically available workers. The vineyard had even had the good luck to avoid attack by the phylloxera pestilence which had ravaged production
on the great estates to the north. Aline paid her workers with the little cash she could lay hands on, with eggs and milk from the home farm and with promises of a share of the wine production.
Well – why not? It was better shared out. If they had to leave it in the cellar before fleeing away again there was every chance it would be drunk by a regiment of swaggering Boches bombing
and gassing their way south. And she had devised a scheme to outflank the enemy. If they could just be held at bay until the first cold snap of the winter came, stilling the fermentation, she could
arrange to have some of the barrels shipped south to a cousin’s estate to await maturity in a Provençal haven. A mad notion. She could imagine his wry comment: ‘Not, perhaps, one
of your more considered ideas, Aline.’ But it was the product of her resolve to preserve a vestige at least of Clovis’s world. And evidence of her own achievement. She would have felt
defeated if the one gap in the run of vintages for hundreds of years had occurred during her stewardship.

More practical was her plan to find out from Jean-Paul, while he still had the memory, how to take shoots, samples, cuttings – whatever they were – of the strongest and best of their
undiseased crop and to make off with them to safety. Aline hadn’t discussed these plans with Clovis. She hadn’t mentioned them in her letters, fearing she might irritate and distract
him from the business of war; anxious also to appear confident and capable. It would be all too easy to make a foolish remark, betraying her ignorance. He had never expected the war to go on for so
long or to loom so close. Would he be pleased at her foresight or would he shake his head, pitying her innocence and wild optimism?

A third booming crash had her once again on her bicycle and pedalling fast for the château.

It lay sunning itself in sleepy elegance, ancient and lovely, its two wings extending, she always thought, with their perfect symmetry, to enfold anyone approaching in a welcoming embrace. But
it seemed she wasn’t the first person to be welcomed down the carriage-drive this morning. A battered old transporter lorry with army markings was sitting, cocking a rusty snook at the white
marble sweep of the staircase up to the double front doors which, unusually, were standing slightly open.

And something else was wrong. She looked for Clovis’s dog. When she left the château and cycled off to do her weekly stint in the military hospital the greyhound always went on
watch, positioning itself with bored resignation to cascade elegantly down the top three steps. But today the familiar form was absent from its post.

Aline’s heart began to race as the implications became clear. Of course, he’d been driven home on leave. She slapped away a quick tug of doubt as a more sinister reason for a
military presence raised itself: he’d been killed and someone had been sent to report his death. No. That couldn’t be. They always sent a telegram or a letter or even the mayor. To
announce the death of someone of Clovis’s standing the Prefect himself might be paraded. She propped her cycle against the wheel of the lorry and ran up the steps. She called out for the
housekeeper before remembering that it was Madame Legrand’s afternoon off. The hall was dim and deserted but in a distant back room a door banged and she caught a blast of hearty male
laughter. A maid, pink and giggling, hurried shyly towards her, fluttering with the responsibility of taking on the housekeeper’s duty.

‘Madame! Oh, there you are! We’ve been looking out for you for ages! They’ve arrived! A message came to say they were on their way an hour after you’d left. The Captain
said not to send after you . . . better to let you go ahead and do your duties. He could wait . . .’

Aline almost collapsed with relief. She was hardly listening as the maid chattered on. ‘We didn’t know quite what to do . . . the state they were in! But it’s all right . . .
we’ve managed! They’re all bedded in and we’ve got their mucky uniforms off their backs and into the tub.’

Aline spoke calmly to counter the girl’s gushing excitement. ‘Quite right, Pauline. And – lye? Have you used plenty of lye? You’ll find supplies on the bottom shelf of
the pantry. Pay special attention to the seams. I understand that is where the lice gather.’ This was the
maîtresse de maison
speaking. At last she allowed herself to ask:
‘Now, tell me – where is the Captain?’

‘He’s out the back. Gone to take a stroll round the estate with Master Georges. He said as I was to tell you where he’d be the minute you got home. I put the men in the summer
salon. Six of ’em. They’re in there playing cards. Seem glad enough to be under a roof. I hope that was all right, madame?’

‘Yes, of course. Offer them tea, Pauline. There’s a caddy full on the top shelf of the housekeeper’s dresser.’

She dismissed the girl with a nod, turned and managed six stately steps before breaking into a run. As she tore along, she pulled off her bloodstained apron and her auxiliary nurse’s cape
and threw them to the floor. Her starched cap followed and she shook her hair loose as she went, weaving her way down cool corridors heading towards the stable yard. She knew where she’d find
him. Clovis wouldn’t have wasted time waiting for her to return. He’d be at work already.

At an open door she heard the clank of a pail, a cheerful whistling and a child’s excited squeal. And then, there he was, the familiar tall shape at the end of the corridor, his fair hair
freshly washed and gleaming in the sunshine, his dog at his heels. With his uniform discarded and in the tub, he’d put on his old working clothes and yard boots. And, naturally, he’d
been out to inspect the cellars; he was returning, carrying a bottle of champagne in each hand.

All hesitations and doubts abandoned, shaking with excitement and caught out by an unexpected rush of affection, she called out his name. He was blinded by the sunlight and it was a moment
before he saw her standing in the shadows. She ran to him, hugging him, breathing in the familiar smell of his brown linen shirt, moving her arms up around his neck and teetering on her toes to
reach his lips.

The bottles crashed to the marble floor, frothing in scented eddies around their feet as he put both arms around her and lifted her up, swinging her round and laughing with delight.

Chapter Two

The War Office
,
London
,
August 1926

Joe Sandilands stirred uncomfortably in his seat. He was unused to refusing to fall in at once with a requirement, order, wish or whim from a superior officer. And Brigadier Sir Douglas Redmayne
was a very superior officer. No one ever got into the habit of denying Sir Douglas anything. A second opportunity never presented itself. The Brigadier seemed equally surprised and discomfited by
the feeble rejection. He bristled at Joe across the breadth of mahogany desk, bushy eyebrows gathering in attack with moustache coming up in support.

His hand reached out and he pressed a buzzer.

Joe rose to his feet and turned to face the door. He braced himself for the entry of a matched pair of the heavy brigade he’d caught sight of standing on duty in the corridors of the War
Office on his way up to the fifth floor and prepared himself for the ceremony of ejection from the premises. It would be embarrassing, of course, but not entirely unwelcome. In fact he’d need
an escort to find his way out of this imposing baroque building with its two and a half miles of corridor. Everything around him from the shining white Portland stone cladding on the pillared
exterior to the heavy gold and ivory desk furniture was designed to overawe.

To Joe’s surprise the two expected thugs made no appearance; the door was opened by one small female secretary.

‘This would seem to be as good a moment as any, Miss Thwaite,’ said the Brigadier with a nod. ‘If you will oblige?’

Miss Thwaite favoured them both with an understanding smile and disappeared.

‘Resume your seat and hear me out, Commander.’ Redmayne smiled and selected another card from his strong hand: ‘Perhaps I should have mentioned that I am seeing you with the
knowledge and permission – encouragement even – of your Commissioner. From whom I continue to hear good things. Liaison between our departments, I’m sure you’ll agree, has .
. .’ Into the slight pause, Joe knew he was meant to slide the thought: ‘until this moment’. ‘. . . been cordial and effective.’

Joe sat down again, eyeing Redmayne with what he hoped was an expression at once undaunted but unchallenging. The officer was, he reckoned, ten years older than himself, probably in his early
forties, lean, active and professional. His title was as impressive as his appearance: ‘Imperial General Staff, i/c Directorate of Military Operations and Intelligence’. As baroque as
the building, Joe reckoned. He’d always known it as ‘Mil Intel’. A survivor of the war, Redmayne had worked his way to his present eminence, it was said, thanks to more than his
fair share of luck. But Joe would have added: intelligence and a speedily acquired understanding whilst under fire of the changing nature of warfare. And, if the stories were to be believed, a
strong streak of ruthlessness had stiffened the blend.

‘Now, be so kind as to hear me out, old chap!’ said Redmayne into the silence, trying for a tone of bonhomie. ‘I’m perfectly aware of your travel arrangements.’ He
poked at and then straightened a folder in front of him, a folder containing as the top sheet, Joe was sure, the outline of his holiday plans. ‘Nevil was kind enough to send over your file
before he left for Exmoor.’

Out of courtesy and custom Joe had sketched out his itinerary beginning with departure early tomorrow morning from his sister’s house in Surrey where he would pick up a package and make
for the Channel port, and going on at a speed dictated by the performance of his car and the state of the roads all the way down to the south of France. He’d even given estimated dates of
arrival at hotels along his route. But his plans further than Antibes he had not confided for the simple reason that he had none. He was looking forward to a blissful two weeks of wandering around
Provence before starting for home again.

‘I see you’ve elected to take the Dover crossing to Calais and then on down through the battlefields, fetching up at Reims.’ The Brigadier looked at him with speculation.
‘Many chaps would have gone Newhaven-Dieppe to Paris and avoided all that.’

‘Avoiding “all that” is not something I would ever want to do,’ said Joe quietly. ‘I have respects to pay. Memories to keep bright.’ In embarrassment he
added, ‘And you have to admire what the French and the Belgians are doing by way of transforming all those hellish bone-yards into memorials and cemeteries. There are some quite splendid
monuments designed by Lutyens I should like to take a look at . . .’