Ormerod's Landing (16 page)

Dubois smiled uncertainly. 'It is good to joke in bad times,' he said eventually. His head gave a small jerk. 'Ah, now.' He had one earphone to his ear and now he slipped the other on. He looked like a face in a frame. He began to tap a call sign on the morse key. 'Already today I have contacted them,' he said. 'It was someone with the name of Percy. Every day I speak to them but so far, until today, I have not had anything important to say. Now I can tell them you have arrived at Granville.'

An answering series of bleeps came from the set and Dubois began tapping eagerly. 'Dove and Dodo, that is correct is it not?' he queried.

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man nodded and let them in. 'I speak English,' he said to Ormerod enthusiastically. 'My name is Pierre Dubois.'

The room was crowded with unwieldy pieces of furniture and I smelled of leather and sawdust. A door at the back was
half open and as he moved Ormerod saw it was an upholsterer's
workshop. Dubois went immediately into the workshop and fumbled in the guts of a large sofa which looked as if it had
exploded on the floor. He pulled out a wooden case and brought
it with some pride into the room. 'My secret,' he said to Ormerod. 'I took it from beneath the pigs of the Boche. I mean the
snouts
of the Boche.'

Ormerod nodded with what he hoped looked like apprecia
tion. The man set the box on the floor, then, with a quick thought, went to the door and pedantically locked it. 'Nobody can see through the window,' he said. 'We are too deep here.'

Dubois began to turn the knobs and the dials, a pair of earphones held ready to pull over his head. 'Also I listen to
the BBC,' he said proudly. 'I know all the news from my other
radio set. I like Workers' Playtime too. Have you heard that? And all the national songs of the Allies - the anthems. They
play those on Sundays. They last a long time, you know monsieur, it takes twenty minutes to play them all. It is very en
couraging to know so many countries are on our side.'

'Very,' said Ormerod caustically. 'Especially as most of them
are occupied. It's a long time to stand to attention though, isn't it, twenty minutes? If we didn't have so many allies it would be easier on the feet.'

Dubois smiled uncertainly. 'It is good to joke in bad times,' he said eventually. His head gave a small jerk. 'Ah, now.' He had one earphone to his ear and now he slipped the other on. He looked like a face in a frame. He began to tap a call sign on the morse key. 'Already today I have contacted them,' he said. 'It was someone with the name of Percy. Every day I speak to them but so far, until today, I have not had anything important to say. Now I can tell them you have arrived at Granville.'

An answering series of bleeps came from the set and Dubois
began tapping eagerly. 'Dove and Dodo, that is correct is it not?' he queried.

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'It is correct,' nodded Marie-Thérèse.

Monsieur Dubois looked concerned. He tapped a little harder as if that might make some difference. 'They do not seem to know who you are,' he muttered. 'They are making inquiries.' His cheek had gone white.

'That's great,' said Ormerod in a disgusted tone. 'Just bloody great that is. Forgotten us already. Typical...'

'Hush,' said Marie-Thérèse. It was obvious by her expression that she was disconcerted. Then the morse began to return more surely and Dubois's visage cleared. 'Ah, it is all right. They have found you in the files.' His blue nose turned towards them. 'It is good for me also. I thought for a moment, maybe you were the Nazis.'

I could see we'd put the wind up you,' mentioned Ormerod.

Marie-Thérèse handed the man a piece of paper on which she had written a message. She saw Ormerod straining his neck to look. 'It is just to say that we have arrived here and I am establishing my contacts,' she said. 'There is not much more to report at the moment. Later it will be different. Ah, yes ...' She took the page back from the operator's hand. 'There is something. We have cut the size of the German army by two. I must tell them that.'

Ormerod shrugged. 'Hardly the turning point of the war,' he said. 'But if it makes you feel better, tell them.'

She scowled. 'It does make me feel better. I am sorry it does not do the same thing for you. Here.' She returned the message to the listening Dubois. He began to tap it out. When he had finished he waited and within two minutes the morse began to bleep from the other side. When it had finished he took the earphones from his head and turned his bruised nose. He handed the transcript back to Marie-Thérèse. She read it. 'It says "Carry On",' she said flatly.

'Just that? Not a lot to cheer about in that,' said Ormerod. 'But at least they remember now who we are. That's comforting.' The girl's face had fallen to disappointment like a failed pupil who had expected to do well. 'They will remember us in
future?
she said sullenly. 'Many people will.'

When it became dark that evening Marie-Thérèse went out

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from the Bar
Belle Helene,
leaving Ormerod and
Formidable
in the room. The Englishman lay on the large bed and stared at the crazed ceiling. He began to wish he had brought a book with him. He wondered, without conviction, if the Germans permitted the sale of French-English dictionaries in Granville.

After an hour or so he heard the conversation in the bar below thicken and he realized the Germans were coming in for the evening. He sat up on the bed, anxiety nailed to his face. The talk grew in volume. It was like sitting above an engine room. Another hour went by before the laughter became raucous and the singing began. There were German and French songs and the solitary, recumbent Ormerod, to pass the time, began to sing too where he could pick up the words of the repeated choruses. Then
Formidable,
who had begun dozing beneath the bed, got up and loped across to the door where he began whining against the crack. Ormerod could hear someone outside. He had half risen from the bed, intending to get hold of the dog, when the door was opened. Paul Le Fevre had said that locked doors created suspicion.

A German soldier who had just been to the toilet stood on the landing in the half light. Ormerod's breath stopped. The German looked at him and he looked at the German.
'Bonsoir,'
said Ormerod thinly.

'Ach so, gute Nacht,'
replied the soldier, amiably enough.
'Bonsoir, gute Nacht.' Formidable
had gone onto the landing and now proceeded to descend the stairs. Ormerod, making anxious noises, followed him. The German laughed at him chasing the mongrel and came down behind.

Ormerod got into the room. It was crowded with German soldiers and a few French civilians. Paul's wife was working behind the bar. Their little girl was sitting in the corner watching the revelry. There was hanging smoke and the sharp odour of Normandy cider everywhere. Cecile Le Févre quickly handed Ormerod a large tankard across the counter. That was as good a concealment as any. The German soldier who had discovered him had returned to a group of his comrades in one corner and was joining in their bellows of laughter at some joke. Ormerod was hugely relieved at this and picked up
Formidable,
went to a corner and sat next to an old and stoic French

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couple who were watching the scene with heavily passive eyes. He put the dog on his lap.

He drank the cider and enjoyed it. Suddenly the German who had come upstairs appeared and handed him another tankard.
'Merci, danke schon,'
said Ormerod anxiously. The German grinned and drank his large tankard clean in one long swallow. He nodded at Ormerod inviting him to attempt the same. There was nothing for it but to try. Several of the soldier's comrades gathered to watch. Ormerod took a deep breath and with a skill born of considerable practice on British ale drank bis way through the glass also. He began to feel he was entering into the spirit of the thing. The Germans cheered and clapped and another two tankards appeared. The soldier took one and handed the second to Ormerod. The Englishman caught the troubled eye of Cecile from the other side of the bar. He winked at her confidentially. This time the German and he had a race. They drained their tankards and Ormerod felt the cider bubbling inside him. He had not had such a feeling of well-being for a long time. Another one?
A h, oui. Danke schon!
Two more tankards appeared.

The company was getting rowdy now, with a song started in one corner progressing across the room and finally engulfing everyone. To Ormerod's own amazement he found himself trying to sing along with his enemies. They did not seem to be a bad bunch of enemies at all. Then
Formidable,
sitting on his lap, began to howl dismally with the tune, delighting friend and foe. Soon, and without realizing, Ormerod was on his feet and co-joined with half a dozen field-grey soldiers, singing 'We March Against England' at the utmost of his voice. Arms about each other, they swayed drunkenly across the bar room, while those on the fringe, including the silent old French couple with whom Ormerod had sat, clapped and joined in. Their faces remained set but they mouthed the words, making the best of a bad job.

At the height of the song and dance, with Ormerod's arms encompassing a tall, blond private and a fat, sweating corporal, Marie-Thérèse came through the back of the bar.

Two hours later, when only the stale smell downstairs remained

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_

of the evening's conviviality, Marie-Thérèse confronted him in the bedroom with all her pent up anger exploding.

'Fuck!' she shouted at him. She bent close to his contrite face. 'Fuck!' she shouted again.

Ormerod regarded her dizzily. He felt weary after so much cider. It seemed to have drained him. 'What do you mean by that?' he inquired with difficulty. His head was bad too. Her face seemed a long distance away. Then it zoomed close.

'You know what it means,' she almost snarled. 'It is a good English word.'

'Yes, yes,' argued Ormerod with the patience of a drunk. 'I know what it
means.
I was just inquiring why you said it.'

'Because it is the only word. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!'

'Don't go on so,' pleaded Ormerod. 'You'll have everyone awake. And my head's feeling horrible.'

He sat heavily on the bed. 'Are you coming to bed, dear,' he inquired domestically. She stood back and hit him across the head with her hand. Angrily, she did it again and again.

The amazement he felt at the blows was doubled when he looked up and saw she was crying. 'Here, hang on a minute,' he said, catching hold of her hands firmly. They felt like soft branches. 'What's all this caper about?'

She stumbled to her knees on the floor. Her crying was real and angry. 'You ... you
clown
!' she sobbed.
'You
dancing with the fucking Boche. How do you think it was for me to come in and see that? Dancing and singing German songs?'

'What did you expect? "The White Cliffs of Dover"?' he said. He patted her softly. 'Come on, Dove. I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. One of them blokes came up the stairs and found me. I had to go down. And they kept pouring that cider of yours down my throat. I couldn't refuse could I? They might have got difficult.'

'Dancing and singing German songs,' she repeated in a hurt whisper. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She had recovered from her brief emotion. 'One day, monsieur,' she said solemnly, 'you are going to have to kill men like that. Perhaps those same men you are so friendly with. I hope that when the time comes you can do it.'

*

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Twenty-four hours later she came into the darkened room and prodded him, making him jump startled from sleep. 'Oh, it's you/ he said, discontinuing his frantic feel for his gun under the pillow. 'Home late again.' Even in the dimness he could sense there was something eager about her.

'Dodo,' she said, 'we're ready to strike our first blow. Tonight. In one hour.'

Alarmed he sat up. 'What are you going to do?' he inquired suspiciously.

'We have six men,' she whispered. 'AH to be trusted. We have explosives. Dodo, we are going to blow up a train!'

An immediate heavy weight settled on his stomach. He stumbled from the bed. Impulsively, like an excited child, she held his large hand. He tried to pull his trousers on with the other. 'Now you're sure now, aren't you?' he said. 'You don't want the first thing you do to be buggered up.'

'It will not be, as you say, buggered up,' she assured him firmly. She released his hand as though disappointed that she had not communicated her enthusiasm to him. 'Everybody is ready.' She leaned, again eagerly, towards him. 'Do you know what the working man's shoe is called in France?'

Surprised, he shook his head.

'Le sabot,'
she replied. 'And that is where the word
sabotage
came from. It was invented by the French worker.'

'Let's hope they haven't forgotten then,' he said. Then cautiously: 'These men will know what they're up to, won't they? The Germans are not fools you know. Who's the explosives expert for a start?' He stood up and scratched himself violently in the dark.

'The man with the radio,' she said, trying to sound convincing. 'He knows. The man we went to see.'

'Monsieur Dubious?' sighed Ormerod.

'Monsieur Dubois,' she corrected. 'It is
Dubois'

I prefer it my way,' said Ormerod. 'That man knows about explosives?'

'He was an expert in the French army,' she said. 'And he is brave, monsieur. We need bravery as much as we need knowledge.'

He thought it might be a dig at him. He pulled his jersey over

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his face. 'Who else?' he asked when he emerged from die neck. 'Le Fevre?'

'Naturally Le Fevre. He wants to do something for France.'

'If he keeps pouring cider down the Jerries he gets in the bar downstairs, he'll kill them with that,' he said. 'All right. Who else?'