Staying Alive Read online

  ‘They drop in, do they?’

  ‘That’s not clear at present. They were to have come in by sea, but for one reason and another we can’t be sure now. I’ll go into it with you – as much as is certain – later, when we’ve more time. Point being, Suzie, that as you’ll be handling the correspondence, so to speak, you’ve got to know it all – in fact be able to take over this end of it, if necessary. I mean if I should – er – ‘do a Wiggy’, eh?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Entirely. If that happened. Touch wood it won’t, but there has to be provision – right?’

  ‘Well, Christ…’

  ‘Hundred to one it won’t happen. But a rider to your being in a position to handle things is that at this stage neither Déclan nor Voreux need to know any more than they do already. Voreux anyway. Déclan’s a bit different, he has all the Maquis contacts, he’ll be more involved in it than you will.’

  ‘All right. I mean, good.’

  Because what you didn’t know you couldn’t divulge, no matter what they did to you.

  The hell. Telling herself then, What you wanted – joined and got yourself trained for…

  But having – as it felt at that moment – more than enough in her head already. For instance the identities of ‘Jake’, ‘Batsman’, ‘Raoul’ – Berthe Devrèque even, whose storage of a bicycle on behalf of an enemy of the State would probably be enough to qualify her for a bullet; and inevitably others like her, soon enough. Those who’d be involved in the parachutage, for instance – yet more lives whose prolongation might come to depend on one’s ability to keep one’s mouth shut. Whether one would be able to, in circumstances such as she and Jake had been envisaging without actually mentioning, i.e. interrogation by Gestapists equipped with such old-fashioned devices as pliers for fingernails and red-hot skewers for eyeballs.

  You didn’t know. One subject in the SOE curriculum near the end of the training course had been Experience of Interrogation; they’d made it as tough as they could, but in a Beaulieu House classroom you’d known they weren’t going to put your eyes out or take pincers to your nipples.

  * * *

  Rosie told me on our hard bench, which towards 5 p.m. was getting harder, ‘That really is how one felt. Then, and to be honest in later deployments too. I’d say it’s about the one thing you may have missed out on, now and then. I’m not saying it’s how we all felt, only how I did. Although most of us must have felt it like that some of the time. Scared half witless wouldn’t be putting it too strongly. You’d have to be fairly witless not to be terrified. Mostly of course not so much when you were on your feet and coping, as when – oh, in bed at night for instance.’

  Looking at me as if inviting comment. I was thinking I had written at least once about the agonies of ‘the three a.m. sweats’, but OK, maybe hadn’t done it justice. In fact obviously hadn’t, if that was her impression.

  Incidentally, when I call her old Rosie I’m only trying to make it clear where and with whom we are at that point in the narrative – old Rosie talking to me the (old) writer, as distinct from young Rosie in conversation with Jake, for example. The truth is, she was not old. May have had eyes that technically were older than they had been, but when you looked into them, you saw Rosie aged twenty-four looking back at you out of them. Simply her – as real now as she had been then.

  Anyway, time to move on. I asked her, ‘Didn’t Jake tell you any more about Hardball at that stage?’

  ‘May have. Memory’s not all that hot, you know, you’ll have to fill in the gaps here and there. But actually one couldn’t work on the encyphering and so on without at least some notion of what it was about – so I dare say he did. There was the paradrop to discuss too. Truly basic uncertainties such as whether the team would come in by sea or parachutage couldn’t have helped, and either way we needed a map in front of us to make much sense of it. I expect we’d have got down to the nitty-gritty when we were at Berthe’s house, later, when we were going over what I was going to send Baker Street. It was all tied up in that. Meanwhile there was stuff like the general background of the réseau, his administration of it – and his own background – which they’d most likely have filled me in on in Baker Street, come to think of it… I’m not sure; they may have. But you should know all that too – shouldn’t you?’

  I agreed. Notebook at the ready, therefore…

  ‘Real name, James Kinnear. Contracting that of course you did more or less get “Jake”. His mother had been French, father had some business or other in Lille, and James after schooling in England took a degree in civil engineering at Lille University, did postgraduate work someplace else and returned there as a lecturer – pre-war, this was – in the course of it making a close friend of a younger man – student, French – by name Jacques Jorisse. I’ll come back to him in a moment. Nineteen thirty-nine though, Jake being a Territorial and also bilingual served in the BEF in some regiment or brigade, whatever, as their French Liaison Officer, was taken prisoner some time before the German breakthrough, escaped and was back with his unit in time for the Dunkirk evacuation; and back home, was roped in by SOE.’

  ‘Similar background to Alain Déclan’s.’

  ‘Not really. Only in that they were both Army and both came out at Dunkirk. Déclan wasn’t taken prisoner and wasn’t commissioned – not until SOE got hold of him. Anyway Jake, after training, was sent as Jean Samblat first to Paris where he helped in setting up réseaux both there and in Lyon – which was when he and “Germaine” saw a lot of each other – then transferred himself here to Toulouse, walked in on his Lille University chum Jacques Jorisse at the offices of Mahossier, Jorisse et Fils, Ingenieurs Civils, and said more or less, “Here I am, what can we do about it?” Jacques being the fils of Michel Jorisse, who as luck would have it – or Jake might have known this, known at least it was on the cards – was due for retirement and ready to hand over to his son. That’s to say, as I understand it or understood it at the time, hand over the official appointment as Toulouse’s Ingenieur des Ponts et Chaussées, Jacques taking on Jean Samblat as an Associate, who’d handle most if not all of the private work that he’d been looking after and didn’t want to lose. Mahossier was already out of it, well into retirement.’

  ‘Jake must have been very certain of his man.’

  ‘Must have, mustn’t he. Especially as he’d sold the idea to Buck in SOE as a long-term project within days of being taken on for training, in that post-Dunkirk period.’

  ‘What was he supposed to have been doing since ’39?’

  ‘Well – at Lille University, except for time in hospital. He was lame, you see, no question of being called up or on any reserve. Happened when he was still a student, bad fall from a horse. No – not a fall, he was following another rider and that one’s horse lashed out and broke his shin-bone, drove it up through the kneecap. Hence the limp – and scarring as evidence, if required. Did actually happen just like that, only in England in the hunting field, although he had documentary proof that it was in some riding academy near Lille.’

  ‘Impressive cover stories all round. Déclan’s living, talking wife, for instance. What about Voreux?’

  ‘He was half blind, wore thick glasses. Had had a job as a commercial traveller; and more recently of course the fish business, which he was struggling to make a go of and had somewhat exaggerated plans for, if and when he could only acquire the necessary finance, etcetera.’

  ‘And your cover, Rosie – apart from the naval widow bit?’

  ‘Apart from that, not so impressive. I was allegedly looking for a job, but not trying all that hard. The last thing I’d have wanted was to be tied down to regular working hours – shop or secretarial, whatever. I could go looking for my late husband’s old aunt who was supposed to be living in some village – in the Cevennes, maybe, but anywhere else I needed her, you see, wherever I happened to be or it suited me to claim I was making for. As a cover story it was quite feeble, but somehow believable because
of that – seemed so to me, anyway. I could be as vague as I liked – she didn’t have to be in those mountains, I could have been mistaken… See what I mean, the vagueness gave it a kind of realism, how it might be for someone in my situation – lost, lonely, somewhat naive?’

  She’d checked; glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Knocking-off time?’

  ‘So it is.’ I moved, gave her a hand up: Rosie with her hands to the small of her back then, wincing: then a shrug and a mutter of ‘Rotten design. That and/or overuse. Bloody frustrating, either way. Although the old memory seems to be working, in fits and starts. I’ve just remembered those Poles’ names, the felucca skippers. Buchowski and Trajewski. That is extraordinary, seeing as I never met either of them. Wild men, they were said to be. By Voreux, I suppose, or Jake… Do you find walking’s often easier than just sitting?’

  ‘I’ll grab a taxi when we see one. Around the Capitole maybe, if not before.’ We were crossing the springy turf of Place de la Daurade, northeastward, which had to be about right for the Capitole and the Boulevard de Strasbourg; were sure to find a taxi well before that, I thought. Meanwhile – moment ago – I’d been distracted by the sight of a crazy-looking mongrel racing past us with what looked like a beret in its mouth and two children screaming in pursuit; Rosie had said something about Jake, his briefing of her that afternoon sixty years ago in the allées around the Jardin des Plantes: she was telling me they’d started back at just about this time of day, caught a bus more or less where she’d got off hers earlier. ‘Heading north up whatever that boulevard’s called, runs up alongside the Canal du Midi – making for the station to collect my other suitcase, en route for Berthe Devrèque’s house.’

  ‘Pretty well exhausted by that time, I’d imagine. Having parachuted in the night before – no sleep, hardly any lunch?’

  ‘Oh, a galette can be quite substantial. Might have had two, even. Dare say I’d have had some chocolate earlier on, as well. Any case, young and fit, and – you know, all geared-up, here at last. But listen now.’ To my surprise, she took my arm. ‘Here’s a scene I do very well remember. When we got off the bus outside the station, Jake relieved me of the transceiver, suggested I might go on and get the other case, then meet him back on that corner. He needed cigarettes and there was a newsagent/tabac right there which often enough had Disques Bleus, he’d try his luck.’

  * * *

  The station full of Germans, and a train at that moment pulling in. Racket of gushing steam, shouts and yells, long platform crowded with people – not all Germans but, she thought, more than enough. Gendarmes too, but it was the Boches one was most aware of. Well, think of it, having been safe at home in England only twenty-four hours ago. And this was the Paris train, she guessed, would have come through Cahors and Montauban as hers had that morning, and before that Limoges, Tours, Orléans. A certain thrill in naming the stops, at being here in France no matter what – and snatches of the language in her ears. Her language, as she thought of it – for the reason it had been her father’s, whom she’d adored. He’d died when she’d been twelve; if he’d lived, she’d never have left France – her mother, with whom she didn’t get on all that well, wouldn’t have had a say in it.

  There was a crowd around the entrance to the consigne; by the look of it, Jake was going to be kept waiting, poor man. She had the fiche ready in her hand, other hand for security on the handbag slung from her shoulder. But was actually moving forward – after only about a minute could actually see the baggage custodians – two men, and a woman who looked as if she might confidently have taken on Joe Louis. It was a big depository with a considerable length and spread of racks, most of them double-decker. Stacks of kitbags on the floor as well, although there were no soldiers in this throng, no Germans recognisable as such. Train doors slamming out there like artillery. Those embarking would be passengers for Carcassonne, Narbonne, Béziers, Montpellier, Nimes, she supposed, envisaging the map she’d studied. Others no doubt changing at Narbonne for Perpignan and points south to the mountains and the Spanish frontier.

  ‘Next!’

  The female custodian’s yell – things having speeded up beyond one’s expectations. Rosie pushed her ticket into the woman’s hand, helped an overburdened old lady on her way, half a minute later had her own case shoved at her across the counter. Label on it reading S. TRENIARD and .below that TOULOUSE – S. Treniard checking it was still locked, shouting ‘Merci!’ into the din, no one taking notice of anyone else or of anything but recovering their own possessions. Could really have left the transceiver here as well. Except its size and shape might conceivably have attracted an experienced eye. Which for that matter it might just as easily do when carried. Backing off, shouldering out against the continuous incoming stream – out and to the left, into the channel leading out to the station’s forecourt.

  Here however the crowd was near-solid: intermittently, even static. Jake certainly was going to be kept waiting. Rosie immobilised now behind a large, white-headed man who with a view over most of the heads in front of him was telling a woman in a yellow hat, ‘Searching folk an’ their baggage and checking our damn papers.’

  The immediate, choking question being how might they react to a poacher’s pocket stuffed with half a million francs?

  Just as well one had not left the transceiver here. Although that amount of cash on its own would be enough at least to arouse interest – leading to further searching and probably arrest, followed by interrogation. Wouldn’t go all that well with her pathetic cover story either, that half-million. So – all right: she’d sold her flat in Paris, didn’t trust banks; and an apartment or small house here was going to cost something, wasn’t it? What’d they want, have her live in the street?

  Bluster. Be stupid. Stupidity as refuge, camouflage.

  At least one had no pistol. One small mercy…The woman in the yellow hat moaned, ‘Could be here hours this rate. What for, heaven’s sake, what can they want of us?’

  ‘Looking for some person, or some object. Find the object, you got the person – right?’

  Looking for anyone who might be a replacement pianist, for instance. Male, female, old, young: the object a leather suitcase sixty centimetres long, weighing thirty kilos. Heavy for its size. Could be inside a larger case, of course: carried by a rather scruffy-looking, obviously scared young woman with half a million francs in an inside coat pocket, as well as other items including the pads for coding.

  As well as Benzedrine tablets for keeping one awake at night, and one capsule of cyanide. A game of some sort, call the one-time pads. Children’s game, a present for some child. The aunt’s grandchild, say.

  ‘It’s gendarmes doing most of it. Boches supervising, like.’

  ‘Sacrés Boches…’

  ‘Regrettably they’re what we have now. Until they’re beaten we got ’em, eh?’

  ‘Do you believe, monsieur, they can be beaten?’

  ‘Not by us, for sure, but – English, Russians, and the Yanks now—’

  ‘Suzette!’

  ‘Oh, Jean!’

  Unbelievable, but thank God…

  He had the transceiver under one arm, was reaching for this other case as he came thrusting, fighting his way through – from behind, how he’d got there she couldn’t understand. Accept it as a miracle, was all: wonder-man laughing, obviously just as relieved at finding her, apologising to some people on whom he must have trampled or inconvenienced in some way, now back to her with ‘What a scrum! God’s sake let’s get out of it – don’t know about you, chérie, I need a drink!’

  ‘Well, why not? Oh, pardon, madame—’

  ‘Madame.’ Big man addressing the yellow hat: ‘Might be better than standing around here – if you’d permit me to offer you a drink?’

  She wasn’t having any: was late already, had a husband waiting for her. Jake talking into Rosie’s ear as he piloted her away: ‘Straight through and out – the way I came in – brasserie has doors to the forecourt. You all right?’
<
br />   ‘Man saying they’d be looking for some individual – that tall man was. Could be right, d’you think – someone like me?’

  ‘What would he know about it?’

  ‘Sounded like a retired policeman. I don’t know, maybe I’m talking rubbish, but they got Wiggy, and they know a pianist has to be replaced—’

  ‘Damn.’

  Nothing to do with what she’d been saying, only that a gendarme at the double doors leading to the street had just stopped a group of youths from leaving by it. Students, by the look of them – protesting noisily, gendarme insisting that way out, this exit temporarily prohibited – doors now locked – see? No, he couldn’t say why or for how long, best just be patient, lads.

  Jake suggested, ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Well – yes, I suppose…’

  He dumped the two cases at the end of the bar, against the shiny brown-painted wall where the bar joined it. There was a space there beyond the flap that would be kept clear for the passage of bar staff, and the cases would be out of everyone’s way, at least no one actually falling over them. Rosie couldn’t see that any other customers had luggage with them in here. No reason they shouldn’t have, she supposed, but the fact was they didn’t. And although there were some unoccupied tables, out there the cases would be more conspicuous.

  If anyone had any interest in them. She suggested, ‘A glass of something might be easier than coffee.’

  ‘It might, too. Beer? Or what’s that – Framboise?’

  She chose that – raspberry cordial – and he ordered a beer for himself. The barwoman told him, ‘It’s preferred that customers sit at the tables, monsieur.’

  ‘I can’t sit, in any comfort.’

  ‘Not sit?’