Not That Sort of Girl (22 page)

‘Ned told me when I met him in London that he loves you.’ Emily reverted to Ned. Was the Ned she knew the same man who was Rose’s husband, inheritor of all this? Emily looked around the large rather dark kitchen with its stone floor, draughts and inconvenient clutter. She felt no envy of Rose.

‘I believe he does.’ Rose rinsed her cup under the tap, not wishing to discuss Ned or dissect his love with Emily.

Emily watched Rose’s back, the baggy corduroy trousers, the plain shirt under the thick sweater; when would she find occasion to wear the camiknickers? Not while milking, feeding pigs or gardening. ‘Well,’ she said, gathering up her briefcase, snapping it shut, regaining her poise, ‘I must be on my way. Any chance,’ she asked as they walked towards the red M G, ‘of some extra butter now and again?’

Rose laughed. ‘Blackmailer. Butter is rationed, pheasants are not. No chance.’

‘Worth a try,’ Emily said amiably. She kissed Rose’s cheek and got into the car. ‘The moral support will do.’ She drove away.

Rose joined Farthing in the kitchen garden where he was trenching and manuring, preparing the ground for winter frosts. ‘Shall I help?’

‘You don’t want to do this. It’s too heavy. The cold frames need sorting out, you do that. They are full of weeds.’

‘What’s in them?’

‘Parma violets and lilies of the valley. Come spring, you can post them up to Covent Garden or a posh shop like Constance Spry and make a packet.’

‘What a lot you know.’ Rose fetched a fork and trowel and began work, squatting by the frames. Does sly old Farthing guess that Emily is pregnant? Does he guess I am? He’s heading me away from heavy jobs. Did it occur to Emily, or is she too absorbed in herself? Was Emily hinting, wondered Rose, her thoughts still on her friend, that Ned might be the father? Ignoble thought, she tried to push it aside but it turned this way and that in her mind. Emily would, but would Ned? Rose pulled up handfuls of chickweed, dug deep to extract a dandelion. Would Emily, if Ned? Would Ned, if Emily? Emily would, but would Ned? She pulled hard on the dandelion root which snapped, leaving a residue of root in the soil, buried deep to pop up later as persistent as Rose’s suspicion of Emily. Would I mind? she asked herself. Mind much or mind a little? Not at all? The question does not arise, she scolded herself. Then she thought with surprise that Emily had looked vulnerable and then, even more surprised, she thought, I liked her this morning. I’ve never liked her before. ‘What do you think of Emily Thornby?’ she asked Farthing as he wheeled his barrow past her.

Farthing stopped, smiled: ‘She’s got spunk. They both have.’

‘Ah.’

‘Mind you, between ourselves, I wouldn’t trust either of ’em round a razor blade.’ Farthing gave his barrow a heave and moved on. Rose laughed, sitting back on her heels. ‘Not a very flattering observation.’

‘She’d be a bit of all right in a tight corner,’ Farthing called over his shoulder, ‘and her brother would too.’

‘Their father is a trustworthy bishop, Farthing.’

‘And who’s he descended from? There’s funny blood somewhere.’

‘Are you suggesting pirates?’ asked Rose, extracting a grub from among the weeds and throwing it in the direction of an attendant robin. ‘Or gipsies?’

‘I ain’t suggesting nothing.’ Farthing tipped the load of manure onto the ground by his trench.

Rose, remembering Emily’s attack on herself, asked, ‘Would you describe me as bloody conventional, Farthing?’ rather cherishing Emily’s description of herself.

‘Wouldn’t say bloody,’ said Farthing, forking manure into the trench. ‘The word conventional varies according to what you’re doing in which social circle, I’ve heard.’

‘What a philosopher you are,’ said Rose. ‘I think you and Mrs Farthing would be pretty splendid in a tight corner.’

‘Might be at that,’ Farthing agreed.

M
YLO HOPED TO SMELL
land. He stood, legs apart, balancing with the bounce of the ship. It was pitch dark and extremely cold. His fellow passenger, his charge, huddled below to keep warm; probably he slept.

Mylo strained his eyes across dark water, inimical waves leaping to mix their salt with rain sheeting from the west in a relentless torrent. The last words his fellow passenger had uttered before going below had been:
‘Quel climat maudit.’
This in answer to the skipper’s shouted information that they were two-thirds across the Channel, two-thirds towards their destination. Useless to point out that the weather had been equally foul in France.

Mylo fixed his eyes on a cloud, denser than the rest, trying to get his bearings. Afraid of showing his anxiety and fear, he refrained from joining the skipper in the wheelhouse. There had been an invitation, but Mylo judged it half-hearted. The skipper’s job was to deliver them safe, not to entertain; if he was not happy on deck, he could go below. Staring into the mesmeric dark, ears buffeted by the wind, eyes watering from the cold, Mylo allowed himself to think tentatively of Rose as he had last seen her, curled in her bed, one hand pushed up under the pillow where his head had lately rested, the other flung wide across the bed. He had bent to kiss her, breathing the scent of her skin and hair; forcing himself to leave he had crept to the door, put out a hand to stop the dog, Comrade, from following, signalling her to ‘stay’, opened the door with stealth, gone swiftly downstairs and away.

For three months he had rationed his thoughts of Rose, lest day-dreaming he might drop his guard, speak a word of English, turn careless, risk capture, death, betrayal.

Had she been angry or sad? Had she understood? Could he or should he have warned her? Whichever way he left, it would have been painful; he had taken the mode least painful for himself. With his eyes fixed on the bank of cloud Mylo thought now of Rose, wished he could hear her voice, feel her body, taste the salt on her eyelids. In his heart he expected to find her exactly as he had left her. He would climb back into her bed; she would wake in his arms.

His mind jeered at the sentimental vision; months had passed since the parting.

‘That’s Start Point.’ The voice startled him, banished Rose.

‘I thought it was a bank of cloud.’

‘We’ll be in Dartmouth before daylight. Like some cocoa? Join us in the wheelhouse.’ The voice was cheerful pitched against the wind, jolly even, gone the clipped accents used when he had taken them on board; it had been a nervous rendezvous. The tide had been too strong, tempers had frayed, almost there had been failure. Failure would have led to arrest, arrest to …

Mylo followed to the wheelhouse, accepted cocoa, answered smile with smile. ‘Relax now, we’ll be ashore in time for bacon and bangers. The crossing was a piece of cake.’ The young officer was immensely relieved, tremendously pleased; so he, too, had been frightened. He hid it well, thought Mylo, drinking his cocoa. ‘Your Frog’s asleep; I looked in on him. Would he like some cocoa?’

‘He’s pretty tired, let him sleep.’

‘They’ll be meeting you, I take it?’

‘Someone will be meeting us, yes.’

‘Got a lot of nerve, you chaps.’

‘I’m just a
commis voyageur,’
said Mylo, half offended by his own modesty, inwardly ridiculing it.

‘What’s that?’

‘Commercial traveller,’ both men laughed, ‘and I am half Frog.’

‘I say, sorry, I didn’t mean …’

‘We Frogs call you rosbifs.’

More laughter, the young officer laughing alone this time.

As the land reached out to block the wind, Mylo, back on deck, sniffed, hoping to catch the smell of home soil, a field under plough perhaps where seagulls swooped and foraged fresh-turned clods. Presently they anchored offshore; he woke his fellow traveller and they were taken off by a launch which whirled them away from the ship to land them at a jetty far up the harbour. They stumbled up slippery steps into the arms of waiting officialdom.

Mylo’s companion showed no inclination to kneel and kiss British soil in the manner which years later would become de rigueur for His Holiness Pope John Paul. He gave a hoarse imprecation as his foot slipped on a scrap of seaweed which might have been construed as relief at reaching dry land if he had not before starting on the journey already made his dislike of things British clear, a dislike superseded only by his loathing of things German. They were led across a cobbled quay into a building which smelled of soap, damp uniforms and cups of tea, sifting through a cloud of cigarette smoke. Dazzled by the glare of unshaded lights, Mylo thought it would be at least forty-eight hours before he could attend properly to thoughts of Rose; his charge spoke no English, was still his responsibility.

They were offered tea by an attractive Wren. Mylo’s charge accepted, sniffed in disbelief at the contents of his mug and put it aside.

Their escort disappeared through a side door while an Army officer wearing Intelligence Corps insignia came from an inner office carrying a sheaf of papers to shake Mylo by the hand and greet his charge.

‘Does your friend understand English?’

‘No.’ Mylo followed the officer into an inner office.

‘Bit short of interpreters at the moment, actually; our one and only is down with flu. No matter. We shall be sending you to London to be debriefed and when your passenger leaves Patriotic School he will be the Free French’s responsibility. They insist on running their own intelligence.’

‘Who will he be dealing with?’ Mylo asked innocently.

‘Chap who calls himself Passy, came over with de Gaulle. Haven’t met him myself, of course. Do sit down, that pew’s comfortable.’

‘I have,’ said Mylo. ‘Extreme right wing.’

‘Does that matter?’

Mylo shot a glance of wonder at the intelligence officer. Now I know I am in England, he thought, and burst out laughing.

‘Joke? Did I make one? Cigarette?’

‘No, no, it must be the relief at having got here.’ Mylo leant back in his chair.

‘Yes. I see. Dare say your job gets a bit hairy.’ He picked up a telephone. ‘Won’t be a minute. I’ll just rustle up your transport.’ He spoke into the telephone, listened. ‘Well, wake him up, Sergeant! Now, where were we? Your friend will be all right out there with Margaret, she’s a bright girl.’ He went back to the door which stood open. ‘Keep an eye on our guest, Margaret, there’s a good girl.’ Then, raising his voice, ‘You’ll be all right with Margaret, Monsieur—er—Monsieur—er—forgive me, what’s your name?’

‘Picot,’ said Mylo. ‘Sit down,’ he said to his charge, ‘I won’t be long; they are sending us to London by car.’

‘Tiens.’
Picot sat on a chair offered by the shapely Wren and looked about him. The intelligence officer closed the door. ‘Not exactly forthcoming, your Frog friend.’

‘Doesn’t like the English.’

‘Well, we don’t like them, do we? Give me Jerry any day, he’s not an hereditary enemy.’

‘Well …’

‘Yes, I know,’ said the intelligence officer catching Mylo’s eye. ‘My name’s Spalding, by the way. Not supposed to ask yours, am I? All this secrecy reminds me of my prep school days, games we used to play after lights out after reading too much John Buchan. Some of it makes a nonsense, though. I was dealing with a super secret chap last week, told to keep my trap shut by the powers that be. They didn’t know we were cousins, did they, and been to the same school? Both of us did what we were told and kept mum, couldn’t even make a date to meet for lunch on our next leave, wouldn’t have done to make my brigadier look a fool. The Navy aren’t half so stuffy. That’s why I’ve wangled myself a Wren, by the way. Now then, mustn’t run on; let’s get the bumph work done, shall we?’

‘Fine by me.’ Mylo waited while Spalding shuffled through his sheaf of papers.

‘Came to meet you carrying these, didn’t I? I’m supposed to keep them locked up. Here we are, this is what we want. These are for you and I keep this and this. I’m supposed to ask you a lot of damn fool questions which you will be asked all over again in London, in triplicate I shouldn’t wonder, and your friend Picot too, so I won’t bother you now. Such a waste of time, God help the lot of us. Thank him, thank him, thank him, I’m due for a spot of leave. You two go up by car, but I go by train; it wouldn’t be ethical to hitch a ride. Right? All done.’ The intelligence officer smiled at Mylo across his desk and stood up.

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘I hear that Passy chap is a bastard, by the way,’ said Spalding as he lit a cigarette.

‘I’ve heard it too.’

‘If your friend is a communist, tell him to keep it to himself.’

‘-—-—-’

‘The Passy chap, calls himself a colonel, isn’t so much extreme right as blazing fascist, if you ask me, but please don’t. I’m only here to do my modest job. You did say extreme right, didn’t you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Get the nuances right. Tip your friend.’

‘I will.’

‘There’s a game within a game and it is not cricket. Am I being indiscreet?’

‘Not at all. Of course not. What an idea.’

‘Well, then. Right we are. Your car should be here by now.’ Spalding shook Mylo’s hand. ‘I was never much good at hints.’ They walked back to the outer office.

The shapely Wren was exercising her schoolgirl French. Picot was laughing as he corrected her accent. The Wren who was laughing too straightened her face and saluted Spalding. Picot got to his feet.

Mylo and Picot said goodbye and followed a military policeman who had materialised, to a military car.

‘Wish we could give you a lift,’ shouted Mylo, but the intelligence officer wasn’t there any more. He got into the car with Picot, and they were driven off.

Picot watched the countryside of Devon, wet, brilliant green and ploughed, for half an hour, then turned to Mylo, ‘Well?’

‘You will, as I told you, be taken to Patriotic School and after that the French take you over. There’s a snake called Passy.’

‘Not a grass-snake?’

‘No.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Eats communists for breakfast.’

‘C’est un flic, c’est tout.’
Picot much less glum than on arrival laughed. ‘For an English girl that one was pretty. She moves soon to work in London; we are to lunch at a restaurant she likes, the Écu de France.’