We'll Meet Again (16 page)

‘Like a log. And you?’

‘OK, but it’s funny to think we are in France at last. It’s almost like an anticlimax after all that training. I can’t believe it’s real.’

‘You will know it’s real enough when you come across the Boche,’ Jean said, offering Gilbert an egg. ‘And the
Brigade
Speciales
. They may be French but they are every bit as bad as the Gestapo. There was a big round-up of
resistants
last year, all taken to prison, many of them were tortured and shot, others simply disappeared. You will need to keep your wits about you.’

They had been briefed about the situation before leaving England. Almost as soon as the Armistice had been signed and the
Germans arrived in the occupied zone, people began trying to cross to the
Zone Libre,
survivors of Dunkirk, refugees, Jews, foreigners, escaped prisoners of war, downed airmen, and they were helped on their way by
passeurs
who risked their lives doing it, hiding them, feeding them, supplying them with forged documents, guiding them from safe house to safe house, through the Free Zone which was anything but free, until they reached Spain and safety.

There was no doubt that the Gestapo and the Vichy police knew about them and the round-up of suspects had led to others and, one by one, men, women and young girls alike were mopped up. Some confessed under torture or threats to harm their families, others were defiant to the end. ‘Be extra vigilant,’ he had been told. ‘Vary your route and your clothes when moving about and make absolutely certain of someone before confiding anything. You cannot be sure passwords are not known. And if someone fails to turn up for a
rendez vous
, do not go looking for them. Change your address frequently. If you stay in one place for any length of time, make sure you receive mail. A man who has no correspondence must be in hiding. Write to yourself if you have to.’

‘And you too,’ Gilbert told Jean.

Jean laughed. ‘Me, I am a simple farmer, minding my own business, trying to earn a living and keep out of trouble. Today, I go into Ville Sainte Jeanne to sell my milk, most of which the Boche will take for themselves, and
Maman
comes too, to go to market, so when you are ready, we will go.’

Gilbert said goodbye to Esme, telling her to write to him, so that he could be seen to receive post, then he followed Jean and Madame Duport out to the van. He climbed into the back beside two churns of milk, the door was shut and they were on their way. He hadn’t liked leaving Esme, but she seemed happy about it. She was a very confident person. When the war was over and they were
back at home, he would enjoy getting to know more about her.

They were stopped by a German guard and a French policeman on the bridge across the river where Jean and Madame’s passes were examined. Gilbert, trying to make himself as small as possible behind the milk churns, held his breath. He could hear Jean laughing and joking with the policeman and was relieved when they were on their way again.

A few minutes later the van drew up in a side street just short of a large dairy. Jean came round to let Gilbert out. ‘The bicycle shop is just round the corner,’ he said, handing Gilbert a torn train ticket. ‘Paul has the other half of this, so show it to him when you tell him you have come from his cousin in Lyon. Maman will come to the shop this afternoon to ask Paul if you have any messages for Arlene before she returns to the farm.’

Gilbert nodded and walked off without looking back.

The bicycle repair business was situated in a converted stable beside an old inn called Le Coq Rouge. Gilbert made his way past bicycles in every state of repair to where a man was busy working on one propped upside down. It was old and rusty and had only one wheel which he was replacing with one cannibalised from another, less-roadworthy, machine. ‘Monsieur Paul Duport?’ he asked.

‘Who wants to know?’ The man straightened up. He was taller than his cousins, broader too, and he had a weather-beaten countenance.

‘I am Gerard Lebonier from Lyon. I sell insurance. I have been told by your cousin you need insurance, Monsieur. For your business.’

‘Perhaps,’ the man said guardedly. ‘From my cousin in Lyon, you say?’

‘Yes, from Lyon. Perhaps this will convince you.’ He proffered the half ticket.

Paul took it and matched it with a half he took from his own waistcoat pocket and then returned it. ‘Keep it, Monsieur, you might have need of it. At the moment I am busy with this bicycle. The German who requisitioned it is coming back soon to collect it, so I cannot leave. Go into the inn, order an aperitif and wait for me.’

Gilbert did as he was told. He sat in a corner, sipping his wine and watching the people come and go. Most of them were German who spoke in loud voices, laughing among themselves and issuing orders for drinks without the courtesy of a please or thank you. It seemed strange to be sitting so close to the enemy and really brought home to him how precarious his safety was. He felt more like bolting than sitting patiently waiting for a stranger, but he knew that would be fatal. Instead he opened his briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers and pretended to study them, his eyes and ears alert. He knew the first few hours, the first couple of days, on the ground could be the most risky. He needed to look confident, but not too confident, to blend in with whatever was happening around him and on no account to stand out. After a few minutes, without any sense of urgency, he stacked the papers and put them back in his briefcase.

The man sitting at the next table had finished reading his newspaper and folded it on the table. Gilbert asked him if he might he borrow it. The man pushed it towards him. He thanked him and began to read.

‘Ah,
mon ami
, you are here before me. I am sorry I was delayed.’ Paul sat down beside him and called to the waiter to bring him a glass of wine.

He sipped it, apparently in no hurry to leave. Gilbert was fidgeting to be off but had to take his cue from his companion. ‘We will leave in a few minutes,’ Paul said in an undertone. ‘There
is a patrol car in the street checking everyone’s papers. It happens nearly every day. We will wait until they have gone.’

They heard screaming and protests and a car door slamming, and then there was silence. A few minutes later, the car drove past the window. ‘Someone is off to prison,’ Paul said. ‘Poor devil. Finish your drink. Now we can go.’

They went out into the street. Everything seemed normal, in so far as it was normal for French people to scurry past anyone in a German uniform. No one was standing about gossiping. All Gilbert’s senses were racing, heightened by an awareness of danger on every corner. He was going to have to get used to it, if he was to do the job he had come to do.

He was taken to Paul’s home in a leafy avenue in the outskirts of the town where Sylvie, Paul’s wife, made him welcome and showed him to a room in the cellar. It was sparsely furnished but there was a bed with sheets and blankets, a chair and a cupboard. Facing onto the street was a grille at head height. He could see little from it except the feet of passers-by. That might be enough to identify people by their footwear: the highly polished boots of the Germans or the down-a-heel shoes of the French. More importantly, there was a door at the back that led into a walled courtyard. He scrambled up to look over this and discovered it backed onto the garden of the house in the next street. This would be his escape route if he needed one.

In August, a letter from Pathé News arrived for Prue, forwarded from Longfordham Hall. It contained three photographs and a hope that one of them might be the one she wanted.

Sitting on Prue’s bed, Sheila studied them eagerly and one of them did show the boy she had thought was Charlie, but the picture was grainy and the focus was on the people in the forefront of the picture, so that those in the background were blurred. ‘It looks like Charlie,’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t swear to it.’

‘You don’t want to give up, do you?’ Prue asked. ‘At least someone might recognise the boy even if it isn’t Charlie. Better to know one way or another, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She really wasn’t sure. Knowing it wasn’t her brother meant she would be back to believing he was dead. ‘What are you planning to do?’

‘We’ll send the picture to the newspapers with a ring round the boy, asking them to publish it to see if anyone can identify him.’

‘You wrote the letter in the first place, so you do it, Prue. Please.’

Prue agreed because it helped her to get over Tim’s rejection
of her and, besides, she loved a mystery. The solving of this one would give her immense satisfaction.

The result was that Longfordham Hall became the destination of reporters hoping to interview Lady Prudence Le Strange; the aristocracy were always newsworthy and especially tied in with a girl from the East End and her sad story. They were not pleased to discover she was not there and her whereabouts could not be divulged. ‘You had better get in touch with them,’ the Countess wrote to her daughter. ‘Your papa and I dislike being the object of newspaper attention. If you can’t give them your real address, use the flat, but make sure you are not a nuisance to Mrs Gault.’

The flat was in Mayfair and Mrs Gault was the housekeeper. The Earl used it on his now-infrequent trips to London, mainly when he wanted to attend a debate in the House of Lords which necessitated an overnight stay. Before the war, the Countess had used it when she went to London on shopping expeditions, but she had stopped going when the Blitz started. Prue had sometimes slept there when she had a day off, but it wasn’t enough time to go home to Longfordham.

Arranging to meet the press there took some organising. She and Sheila had to have leave together, and a time and date booked, and it was October before anything could be arranged. Prue had decided to give the
Daily Express
an exclusive interview, on the grounds they would be more likely to act diligently, and it was also a popular paper, read by the masses. Prue was enjoying what she called their adventure, but Sheila was full of trepidation. Ma wouldn’t like her making a spectacle of herself for all the world to see and perhaps Charlie had his reasons for not wanting to be found. What those could be she could not even guess. And the apartment overawed her. It was on the top floor of the building with large, high-ceilinged rooms and long windows from which
they could glimpse Hyde Park. Its heavy curtains and thick carpets, into which her feet sank, highly polished furniture and sumptuous sofas made her realise that her preconceived ideas of what constituted ‘posh’ were way off the mark. This was the stuff of film sets.

She sat on one of the sofas, with her hands in her lap, and allowed Prue to do all the talking, only speaking when she was addressed directly. But she flared up when she perceived a criticism of her family and the way they lived. ‘We never went short of food or clothes and we were all clean,’ she insisted when it was suggested her brother might have wanted to disappear to get away from the slum they lived in. ‘We were a happy family. Charlie would have no reason to hide from me.’

‘He may have believed his sister had died with the rest of the family,’ Prue put in. ‘He might not know she is alive and looking for him.’

‘And what is your interest in the affair, Lady Prudence?’ she was asked.

‘Miss Phipps is now my maid and I want to help her if I can.’ She dug Sheila with her elbow when she appeared to be going to contradict her.

After a few more questions about Charlie, where he had worked, what he liked doing in his spare time, they agreed it would make an uplifting story in the middle of all the bad news if brother and sister could be reunited. But they wouldn’t do it without a picture of Prue and Sheila together.

‘Prue, we can’t do that,’ Sheila whispered. ‘We’ll get the sack.’

‘Sheila is camera-shy,’ Prue told the photographer who had accompanied the reporter.

‘No picture, no story,’ the reporter said.

Sheila was beginning to wish she had never agreed to come,
though Prue seemed to be enjoying herself. And the man with the camera was already clicking away.

The two men left at last and Sheila relaxed a little. ‘Why did you say I was your maid?’ she demanded.

‘Because we couldn’t have them delving into our work at BP, could we? They would never have had the temerity to ask what I did for a living and would assume I was one of the idle rich. And it was best they didn’t know what you do either. Telling them it’s a secret would only have whetted their appetites.’

‘I see. What do we do now?’

‘We wait to see if anything turns up. But since we are in town, let’s go to a show and have supper somewhere. We’ve got the whole weekend, so we could stay here tonight and go back to Bletchley tomorrow.’

‘I’d like go and see June and Janet before I go back, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Of course it is. You go and see them in the morning. Hugh is in town and I’ll catch up with him.’ She wasn’t sure how she felt about Hugh. Anyone as unlike Tim would be hard to find. He was rather a serious man, but then it was serious and intricate work he did which needed maximum concentration and perhaps under different circumstances he might unbend. Meeting him in town might uncover a different Hugh. ‘We’ll meet at Euston station in the afternoon. There’s a train at five-thirty.’

‘If you are sure Mrs Gault won’t mind.’

‘She won’t mind. That’s what she’s paid for.’

Sheila was in a cheerful mood as she walked from the underground station to the Bennetts’ home. Something was being done about Charlie and she was feeling hopeful. The show they had seen at The Windmill had been very good and she had sat entranced by
the singing and dancing. It had given her ambition a boost to watch them, even if the girls were more scantily clad than she would want to be.

June was busy in her kitchen when she knocked on the back door and poked her head round it. ‘Sheila, what a lovely surprise!’

‘I’ve been in town being interviewed by the newspaper about Charlie being missing. They might be able to find him for us and as I had a day to spare I decided to come and see you.’

‘Come on in. I was just going to give Noel his dinner. We can have ours afterwards. Bob has gone on some training course for his work. It might mean promotion.’

‘Thank you. I’m meeting Prue at half past five and I want to see Janet as well.’

Noel was using a chair to try and pull himself up on his feet. Sheila picked him up and sat down to cuddle him. ‘There’s one who couldn’t care less about the war.’

‘But it’s the children we are fighting for, isn’t it? So they can have a future in peace.’

‘Any news about the little one’s family?’

‘No, and the adoption is taking simply ages. There’s so much red tape and so many forms to fill in. The adoption society we approached want to know every little thing about us and I suppose it’s right they should. The fact they are not sure he has no relatives makes it more complicated.’

‘He’s a little bit like me then. In a kind of limbo. Am I alone in the world, or aren’t I? I wish I knew.’

‘You’ve got your aunt.’

‘So I have.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘She’s not the cuddling sort!’

‘Then you’ll have to make do with us and your friend Prue. Look at that child, he’s worth a cuddle now, isn’t he?’

‘Of course he is.’ She kissed the top of his curly head.

‘I was just about to write to you, but now you’re here I can tell you. I don’t suppose anyone else has let you know.’

‘Let me know what?’

‘Chris’s ship was sunk in the Arctic on one of those Russian convoys about three weeks ago. He’s been reported killed in action. Apparently they can’t survive more than a few minutes in the water before the cold gets to them.’

Chris dead? She sat nuzzling her face in Noel’s curly head, so shocked she couldn’t take it in. Chris gone, gone like everyone else. He had been so full of life and he had loved her. She supposed it was her own fault Mrs Jarrett hadn’t let her know. She hadn’t been very kind to him. Guilt overwhelmed her.

‘Chris was Mrs Jarrett’s eldest and her favourite, especially since his dad died,’ June went on. ‘She can’t seem to get over it. The house is more of a shambles than ever. She blames the government, and Mr Churchill in particular, for not protecting the convoys better, and doesn’t keep her opinion to herself. Bob had to speak to her for spreading alarm and despondency.’

Sheila had known Chris’s job was dangerous, more so than most, but she had never dwelt on the possibility that he might die. Now he was gone, she felt a kind of longing for him, a wish that he might still be with her, walking down the road beside her, talking a load of nonsense, making her laugh. He had spent hours with her searching for Charlie and he had come all the way to Bletchley to propose to her before going to war. Ought she have pretended to love him, to have said yes, simply to make him happy? Would it have been pretence? Was the truth that she did love him, had loved him all along and it was only the rawness of her grief over her family that made her turn him down? Given time, would they have made a proper loving couple? She would never know now.

‘I must go and see Mrs Jarrett.’

‘She might not welcome you.’

‘There’s nothing new in that, but I still have to go, it’s only right. I’ll go this afternoon.’

June was right, Mrs Jarrett’s welcome was less than cordial. She looked grubby and unwashed and her hair was a tangle. ‘What do you want? Come to gloat, have you?’

‘No, Mrs Jarrett, nothing of the sort. I have come to offer my condolences and tell you how very sorry I am. I’ve only just heard or I would have written to you.’ She felt more like weeping but would not give the woman the satisfaction of seeing it.

‘What’s the point of being sorry? It’s too late for that. My boy is at the bottom of the ocean. I don’t even have a body to bury. At least you’ve got graves, you know where your folks are.’

‘All except Charlie.’

Mrs Jarrett ignored that. ‘I knew he weren’t comin’ back, the last time he were ’ome. I felt it in me bones and I reckon he knew it too.’

Sheila didn’t know what to say. She didn’t have the right words. There had been so many instances of young men, in the prime of life, having premonitions of their own deaths which had turned out to be right, she felt she could not contradict the woman.

‘Anyways,’ Mrs Jarrett went on, while Sheila debated whether to go or stay. ‘He left something for you, made me promise to give it to you, or I wouldn’t bother. Wait here.’ She left Sheila standing on the step while she went indoors. She came back a few moments later and thrust a small package into Sheila’s hand. ‘There! I done what he asked, so now you can clear off. I don’ want none o’ yer condolences. They won’t bring ’im back.’ She went inside and slammed the door.

Sheila turned and left. She had no idea what was in her hand, but whatever it was made her feel worse than ever. She went to the
park and found a convenient bench to sit and undo the packet. It contained a letter and, in a little box, the engagement ring she had spurned. It was small and probably not expensive as rings went, a slim gold band with a single small stone, but it must have cost him several weeks’ wages and it had been chosen with love. Tears filled her eyes as she unfolded the letter and began to read:

The tears were pouring down her face by the time she finished reading and she could hardly make out the words. She took the ring from its box and sat with it in the palm of her hand for a long time as thoughts and memories crowded in, some happy, some sad. Chris, with holes in his shorts, chasing her in the playground of their infant school in a game of tag, Chris defending her from the class bully in secondary school. His first hesitant kiss, his laughter, his serious side when he talked of joining the navy to help win the war, ‘Because it has to be won,’ he had said, and his insistence on seeing her at Bletchley and that awkward proposal in front of Mr
Welchman. He had been part of her life and now he was gone, gone knowing she had rejected him. Not since her family perished had she felt so miserable.

Around her people were going on their way, some purposefully, some loitering; mothers playing with toddlers, throwing balls or pushing them back and forth on the swings. Those with young babies wheeled their prams. They were largely safe from bombs now, but the war still went on, soldiers, sailors and airmen were still dying in order that others might live. That was the propaganda of the day, fed to them by the BBC and the cinema newsreels. It didn’t make her feel any better. She scrubbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, slipped the ring on the third finger of her right hand, put the letter and empty box in her handbag and left the park.

She bought a bunch of flowers from a barrow boy and took them to the cemetery where she knelt on the grass beside her mother’s grave and poured out her heart to her. It was peaceful there among the gravestones, with the sun warm on her back, and gradually she felt calmer. She could almost hear her mother saying, ‘You can’t do anything about it now, love. You have to get on with your life. Sing your heart out for me and your dad, and for Chris too. You have to live.’