Staying Alive Read online

  So the commando team would have the information, she herself wouldn’t need to. Which would explain Jake’s not having burdened her with it.

  Pedalling east now, into the scattering of buildings that comprised Revel, she decided that at the crossroads she’d turn right, making for a village called Sorèze, from there north-east to one called Dourone, continuing in that direction for about twenty-five kilometres and bearing right to pass well south of Castres; and at some point thereafter stop and consult the map again, decide on an amended fictional destination, i.e. supposed place of residence of former ma-in-law.

  It was ten past four when she turned right at the crossroads. Riding with her eyes on the road, not looking at passing traffic any more than she had to, and never at car or lorry drivers’ faces. She was thinking again that despite her own earlier intentions and Jake’s ideas on the subject these long-distance trips weren’t worth the effort. And although Déclan would probably be more reliable than Marc, the snag with him, Jake had mentioned, was that his farm-machinery business tended to come first, making him less readily available at short notice.

  So go it alone. Accept the risk. At least making shorter trips you’d waste less time.

  Car horn behind her: a double toot. She edged over, closer to the verge. Cowpats all over both road and verge, around here. No cows or traffic or even a bicycle on the road ahead though, nothing to stop this bastard passing.

  Two more toots: and he seemed to be holding his distance behind her. One of those, she thought, as finally whatever it was did begin to close up and pass – but overhauling her very slowly, well out in the road.

  It was a van – dirty-white gazo with MV Poissonnier in blue lettering on its side, and came as a complete surprise, she’d effectively written Marc off by this time. But the man himself – dark-haired, long-faced individual in an overcoat with its collar turned up, no hat, spectacles that caught the light, was leaning across with a hand raised to her as he crawled by. She’d taken that much in before he speeded up and half a minute later pulled into a farm gateway forty or fifty metres ahead there.

  No doubt who he was, but how he could be so sure that this was her or that at the crossroads she’d have turned right? Well, the general intention had been to head east, of course. She’d stopped pedalling, was freewheeling up to where he was now standing watching her approach: shabby old French army greatcoat open and his hands on his hips.

  Cowpats everywhere around the gateway. Around him. Some of them looked recent. This morning’s, no doubt, after milking.

  ‘Madame Treniard?’

  She dismounted, being careful about where she put her feet, and he was opening the van’s rear doors. Tallish, broad-shouldered, eyes small-looking behind the wire-framed glasses when he looked round at her. A gesture: ‘I’ll put the bike in, all right?’

  Paris accent, and not from any of the smarter arrondissements.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I’m sorry – very very sorry—’

  ‘Three o’clock, heaven’s sake!’

  ‘I know. I’ll explain. Truly am desolated to have let you down, but – first let’s get on the move, please? D’you want these articles off the bike?’

  Hatbox, coat and attaché case: she shook her head. ‘Sooner leave it as it is.’ Then: ‘Oh, my coat, I’d better have.’ For the rest of it, when they stopped and she parted company with him she’d be taking the bike as well as her gear with her, wasn’t going to risk being left bloody stranded. Once bitten, twice shy. Even though in momentary close-up with him it did look like genuine contrition. Damn well should be too: although she guessed he might have had some kind of accident. He pushed the bike up into the van, climbed in after it, settling it carefully and moving stuff – boxes, an aroma indicating that they contained or had contained fish – to wedge it in, one under the upturned front wheel for instance. Testing to ensure it stayed put: now restowing other stuff, and backing out.

  He looked as if he might not have slept for a week. Close-cropped dark hair, dark complexion, and he hadn’t shaved this morning. He’d slammed the rear doors and was locking them. There was still nothing else on the road then, but by the time she’d put her coat on and reached the passenger door there was a lorry coming up from a few hundred metres behind. Marc getting in but then just sitting with his eyes on the rear mirror, waiting for it to pass. He hadn’t switched off the van’s engine; maybe with a gazo one didn’t, for short stops. Lorry passing now, Marc for some reason signalling with a thumbs-up gesture to its driver: then he had the van in gear and was edging out.

  ‘I’ll explain in a minute, but the first thing is if we’re questioned what to say of ourselves. You were stopped at the roadside and I offered you a lift?’

  ‘Why not the puncture story? While you were fixing it you asked me where I was going and it happened to be on your own route?’

  ‘Which town or village would you have named? Might Mazamet do? That’s just beyond Aussilon.’ Shake of the head. ‘No – I’m being stupid, somewhere much further… For instance there’s a sizeable village, St-Pons-de-Thomières, which is near enough equidistant from Carcassonne, Narbonne and Béziers—’

  ‘St-Pons would do. My story is I’m hoping to find my former aunt-in-law, and that could be where I’m almost sure she’s living – or was when I last heard.’

  ‘That’s it, then. From here about the same distance – fifty kilometres, maybe a bit less. Still too near, maybe?’

  ‘High ground?’

  ‘Oh, high enough. And it’s a road junction, from there we could turn north, north-east, east, south-east… South-east might be the best, and it’s the road for Béziers, where incidentally I have customers.’

  ‘Make Béziers our destination, then.’ As with Montpellier, which she’d had in mind earlier, it was large enough for the old aunt to have inhabited at some earlier stage and left no abiding memories. She told him, ‘If on that road there’s some where that looks good for me to drop off, you could go on into Béziers and pick me up on your way back – at first light maybe.’

  ‘Find you on the roadside with your famous puncture?’

  ‘Why not – and in Béziers you might find us some food.’

  ‘Difficult. Times of stores opening and one’s need to be on the road as early as curfew permits. Besides, rationing’s no help.’ A shrug. ‘I’m glad to say I have our supper on board in any case. Courtesy of Jean Samblat, a chicken and some wine, bread that’ll be stale.’

  ‘Well…’ They were passing three boys on bicycles, who waved to them: she waved back, feeling better for knowing of Jake’s provisions. ‘Won’t starve, anyway. How kind of him. That did have me a little worried.’ She suggested almost humorously, ‘Let’s hear the excuses now?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’ Gesture of helplessness. ‘The cause, in a single word, was charcoal. A lack of it. The fuel a gazo runs on? Before, this van used petrol and it was much, much better. But – see, I make use of an old house in the village of Villerouge-Ségure – down towards Perpignan, a good locality for me. I keep there, always – naturally – a reserve of charcoal. But last night I’m back late and tired, have chores I must do so it’s even later when I get to bed, well aware I’ve some hours of driving to make our rendezvous mid-afternoon. About a hundred and fifty kilometres, in fact, so an early start with maybe a stop in Carcassonne or Castelnaudary… Anyway, I woke later than I’d expected to, and on waking, before shaving or even getting myself some coffee, I’ve remembered the motor needs to be refuelled. I’d been too tired, last night, also it’s easier in daylight. I went straight out to do it – why wash and then get dirty – and found the shed had been broken into, they’d smashed the padlock and helped themselves – all my charcoal gone, huh? Sunday morning, and no merchant nearer than Tuchan, which is all of twelve kilometres!’

  ‘No one in your village you could have borrowed some from?’

  ‘Not any at Tuchan either, the guy’s place was empty and locked up, and a neighbou
r tells me he’s taken his wife and children to – oh, God knows, but now I have a twelve-kilometre ride back, and then what? Well, there’s a farmer not so far from my village – other side of it, and this is another hour gone, mind you, that I’m back in Villerouge – well, happens this farmer owes me, a favour I did him, and if he’d let me borrow a sackful it would get me to a place called St-Martin-des-Puits where the gravedigger keeps it as a sideline. But the farmer is not there. His wife says sure he’d help me out, but that barn’s locked and he has the key with him… There’s more to this yet, does it bore you?’

  ‘No. Go on.’

  ‘Well, the wife says he’ll be back in an hour, might there not be enough left over in my van’s burner to bring it just this far, have it here when her husband returns. See, when you stop a gazo the stuff’s still burning, you cut down the draught and so forth but after a while there’s less than when you stopped. So – seemed to me perhaps worth trying, if it came off I might just about get to you by three.’

  ‘It didn’t come off.’

  ‘You’re right. Got halfway, and – on foot then back to the farm…’

  ‘Quite a morning, you had.’

  ‘I am truly, truly sorry…’

  Slowing, for an old crone and a dog herding a dozen ewes. Rosie telling him, ‘I’ll forgive you, Marc.’

  ‘Mean it?’ Face lighting up, as he passed the huddle of sheep and put his foot down. ‘Truly?’

  ‘For the rotten day you’ve had.’ Checking the time; and to her own surprise quite liking him. ‘All we’ve lost is an hour and a half. What will you do about your charcoal store?’

  ‘Put a new lock on it, obviously. I’ll see what else. Also talk to our sergeant de ville – that’s the best solution, catch the swine.’ Looking at her, his eyes examining her features. ‘You’re kind as well as very pretty. Call you Suzette, may I?’

  ‘That’s supposed to be my name. Although Jake calls me Suzie. He’s a nice man, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s OK. Yeah. Good Organiser as well. You’ve been here just two days, am I right?’

  A shrug. ‘Feels longer, somehow.’

  ‘Well, you’ve had a hard day too – long ride from Toulouse, then left in the lurch. Jake found you some place to live, I suppose?’

  ‘As you say, he’s a good Organiser.’

  ‘A planque in Toulouse?’

  She glanced at him. ‘If you needed to get in touch, you’d do it through him, huh?’

  ‘By the sound of it, I suppose I’d have to.’ He smiled slightly, studying her as if she puzzled him. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you where I live.’

  ‘I gather you have several addresses.’

  ‘In a way, that’s true. At any rate, places I can use. But one other personal question, Suzie?’

  Shaved and spruced up a bit and without the pebble-glasses, she thought, he might be quite good-looking. A bit ‘flash’ maybe. Jake’s ‘bit of a Don Juan’, she remembered. But hardly that: although he might see himself that way. She’d cocked an eyebrow: ‘Well?’

  ‘Are you by origin French, or English?’

  ‘My father was French. In France I feel French. But technically I’m English.’

  ‘Mother English, father deceased? You said was French.’

  ‘Yes, exactly.’

  ‘I would have guessed you were French entirely. There’s no trace of any English accent.’

  ‘Suzette Treniard is plain French, that’s all that matters. What’s this village now?’

  ‘It’s called Pont-Crozet.’ Taking a sharp left turn into what became a short main street with a few closed shops and a donkey drooping sadly in the shafts of a milk-cart, but no human beings in sight. Main road swinging right now. Marc added, ‘Next comes Sorèze, then St-Amancat. Do you expect to be making many trips of this kind?’

  ‘Can’t really tell, can one. See how it goes.’

  ‘Depending on how frequently you have to talk to London, you mean.’ She didn’t answer, and he went on, ‘There’s a parachutage to finalise, of course – or two parachutages, I think Jake said at one point?’

  ‘No idea. This trip I have a jumble of code to fire off, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you an experienced pianist?’

  ‘Been at it a while. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘I had the impression – something Jake said, it must have been – that this might be your first deployment.’

  ‘Never mind – I’m a very experienced pianist.’

  ‘Well, good. Tonight, as well as sending whatever Jake’s given you, I imagine you’ll have London’s material to receive.’

  ‘If they have any for me – of course.’

  ‘A date and coordinates for the parachutage, for one thing, and the so-called message personnel that’s to be listened for – that at least, but I’d guess that after so long there’d be some backlog.’

  She looked at him with an eyebrow raised. ‘You could be right, Marc.’

  ‘Oh. You think I’m over-curious?’

  ‘That “one other personal question” has stretched a bit, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Apologies. But how much you’ll be sending and/or receiving must affect how long I should leave you to it, or expect to wait. Unless you really want to be on your own all night, as you proposed.’

  ‘I do think piano-playing’s best done solo. In this case on the Béziers road somewhere, and we can decide in advance on a pick-up point?’

  ‘As you like, of course.’

  Actually, she hardly knew why. Did have this inclination to work on her own, but that was about all she could say about it. Just as she’d always envisaged doing it, maybe, when in the field. Marc smiling: ‘Don’t you think you might wish you had a nice warm van to climb into, when you’re through?’

  ‘Might, but – I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Well, please make sure you are. You know your business and the dangers. I’d shoot myself if I lost you like Alain Déclan lost St Droix.’

  ‘Surely that was no more Déclan’s fault than it would be yours.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But he felt as if it had been. So would I. Circumstances really quite similar. And from an entirely practical angle, now we do have our own pianist again – especially with so much pending, this parachutage or maybe two of them, and then what they’re calling “Hardball”?’

  ‘Hardball?’

  ‘Jake not briefed you on that?’

  ‘I never heard of it.’

  ‘I’d thought he would have and you might let me in on it. It’s a special operation of some kind, that’s all I know. When we were without a pianist, see, Déclan and I took turns visiting Lyon, where an American agent was handling stuff Jake coded and decoded, he felt we didn’t have to know what it was about. He’s like that, you’ll find. But as it happened I and “Germaine”, the American woman, knew each other from before – she’d put me in touch with Jake, in fact – and she mentioned Operation Hardball to me on one of those visits. Then caught on that I’d never heard of it and clammed up tight. Hell, Suzie, when it’s something unusual and exciting we’ve got ahead of us, one is curious! Aren’t you now?’

  ‘I suppose – mildly so. If it’s still on. When was this – a couple of weeks ago, or more?’

  A shrug, wag of the head. ‘I suppose…’

  ‘Might have been abandoned, then.’

  ‘Might, might not.’ Glancing at her irritably. A hand off the wheel then, pointing ahead: ‘Here’s Sorèze now…’

  * * *

  In the restaurant in Rue Bayard – the Colombier – Rosie said she’d realised that young Marc Voreux, while twenty-two years of age to her own twenty-four and actually looking nearer thirty, was still boyish in his outlook.

  ‘The way he’d said that – “Something exciting coming…” Expecting me to feel the same and slightly miffed when I didn’t. Made me feel like a grown-up with a schoolboy – although we were reasonably well en rapport by that time. Isn’t this steak good!’

  ‘It’s ter
rific. How was your chicken that night?’

  She laughed. ‘Don’t remember. Must have been all right, we ate about half of it, kept the rest for breakfast. Ditto wine. I’d agreed by then that if we found a good place where he could get the van well out of sight I’d just climb a hill or something. He could catch up on his sleep and in the morning we’d set off homeward at first light. It was the simplest way to do it, and we were chummy enough by then. Well, as I said…’

  * * *

  ‘Need a side-road, don’t we…’

  Not far short of dusk, they’d come through St-Pons-de-Thomières, swung south and after a few kilometres east again. Woods climbed steeply on the right, valley floor more extensive on the other side – with wooded hillside behind that too – but no way off the road and no cover if one did get off it. Marc having to watch his driving fairly closely meanwhile, as the road was fairly narrow and never anything like straight for long; he was easing up a bit, telling her, ‘About twenty kilometres ahead there’s a terrific canyon runs down to just above St-Chinian – much lower terrain, all vineyards – start of the coastal plain, in fact.’

  ‘Last thing I want.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, I should have forked left instead of right after St-Pons; to aim for Béziers was senseless. Place called Olargues, for instance, on that other road, has much higher – well, mountainous terrain to the north of it. All of thirty kilometres from here though, so if we turned back – be pitch dark damn soon—’