Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (67 page)

‘This is much better,’ she said, ‘are we nearly there?’

‘Nearly.’

Four painful hours later, they arrived on the outskirts of Tours.

They spent two hours trying to find somewhere to stay. It seemed impossible. Every hotel, however tiny, was full, barred; no pleading, no indicating of her exhausted children, Noni crying bitterly, Lucas white-faced, lolling against her, silent with misery, no waving of her wad of money, helped her. There was simply no room. Anywhere. Finally, as they trudged through the streets, they found a schoolroom, its doors still open; the
directeur
had been about to lock up, but as she stood there, staring, almost hopeless by now, he suddenly nodded to her, gestured to her to come in. There was a mattress she and the children could share.

It was the first comfortable night they had spent; it was only a small mattress, but it was soft and they could stretch out. She pulled the blanket she had brought from the car over them, kissed them goodnight; Noni smiled, grateful for the sudden luxury, said sleepily, ‘This is nice.’

It wasn’t nice; she found a filthy lavatory, a cold tap hardly trickling, the air was fetid, and it was appallingly hot. But she fell asleep at once: only to wake after an hour or two, hearing children crying, women sobbing, men swearing; and in the terror of the solitary small hours, she looked her chances in the face and found them pitiful. She was still only halfway to Bordeaux. How could she ever get there, like this? It would take weeks. It was impossible. What could she do? What on earth could she do?

The Germans had arrived; after three days of eerie silence, of shuttered shops and closed doors and people talking in whispers, of appalling rumours of children’s hands being cut off and women raped, of waiting and waiting in the deserted city, they were there.

It had been a desperate week, each day more nightmarish than the one before; no buses, an occasional train in the metro. Gas and electricity supplies were fitful; the great hotels, the Ritz and the Crillon, were shuttered and barred and on the Wednesday morning a hideous acrid smell hung over the city; the French had set fire to the vast oil supplies outside the city, rather than let the Germans have them. The huge crowds outside the stations had finally disbanded; shops were being ransacked for food.

Afterwards, Luc always wondered why he had not fled along with the rest of Paris; at the time, in his emotional confusion and misery, it had seemed quite simply unthinkable. Besides, there was Suzette; he could not abandon her now.

It was eight o’clock that Friday morning; Luc heard them first: the awful sound of motorcycles and trucks, and most agonising of all, summing up as nothing else could the conquest of the beautiful city, the sound of caterpillar tanks on cobbled streets.

There was a sudden beating on the door; Luc started. Was it possible they had come already to find him, the Gestapo, the Nazis, apprised of his Jewish blood? He took a deep breath and went to open it; but it was not the Gestapo that stood there, but Henri Monnet, grinning cheerfully.

‘Come and watch. It’s a tremendous spectacle.’

‘But – is it safe?’

He shrugged. ‘Probably not. But half Paris, or what is left of half Paris, is out there. Come along.’

They walked to the Champs-Élysées; they were not alone, groups of people stood all along the route, watching. And it was worth watching; he would not have missed it. It was a superb display, not only of military force but of theatrical know-how, Hitler’s greatest gift, passed on to his generals.

There were two formations; one heading towards the Eiffel Tower, the other the Arc de Triomphe, They goose-stepped their way in, this seemingly endless army, preceded and followed by a great motorised phalanx, in perfectly pressed uniforms, gleaming boots, shining helmets, dazzling in the brilliant sun.

Hour after hour it went on. Cars arrived, patrolling the small streets with loudspeakers, warning that ‘No demonstrations are permitted while our troops march in. Any hostile act will be punishable by death.’

The German flag went up over all the city, above Les Invalides, the Arc de Triomphe, the Hôtel de Ville, the place de la Concorde, even the Eiffel Tower; there had been a struggle there, the first had been too large, it had filled with wind like sails, and then begun to tear and the Germans had had to climb the tower again (the evacuating French troops had put the lift out of commission), with a smaller one.

The Hôtel Crillon bore one as well, and the Lutetia; the Ritz had already served breakfast to General Bock, Commander of the Army, the Crillon its finest vintage champagne to General von Studnitz, the General Officer Commanding.

But in the outer reaches of the city, nothing seemed as brutal; and when Luc finally reached Suzette’s apartment on foot towards the end of the day, he found her surprisingly calm and cheerful.

‘It’s not so bad,’ she said, pointing to one of the posters of a handsome smiling German serving out biscuits to a group of children, holding the smallest in his arms, and holding out the biscuits.

‘You can’t believe that rubbish,’ said Luc, but ‘I can,’ she said, ‘in the shop this afternoon, a convoy stopped and we were all so frightened, but you know, they bought chocolates and the charming young soldiers shared them among the children. They are saying now that we have made peace, the war is over. And they will settle the English very quickly.’

Luc was silent. Thinking of his own English, praying she was not yet ‘settled’.

‘And this is where we keep emergency rations. Chocolate, biscuits and so on. In case the Germans come. So if you get sent any by your father, you have to hand over half. All right? That way, if there’s a siege, it won’t be too bad. OK?’

Izzie nodded earnestly. ‘OK. But I don’t suppose Father will send me any, sweets aren’t the sort of thing he thinks about.’

‘Well, if he does. Thing is I’ve heard Great-grandpa talking about what rations they’ve got for the siege and they don’t sound much fun. Powdered egg, condensed milk, it’ll be awful.’

‘Does he think there will be a siege?’

‘Oh, yes. Any day now, apparently. The Germans are going to arrive by parachute. Oh, and that’s another rule. If you see one dropping into the garden or something you have to ring that bell, over there, see, by the terrace. And then Great-grandpa will get his gun and shoot him.’

‘What – straight away?’

‘Well of course,’ said Henry, ‘they’ve got to know we mean business. No use asking him in for a cup of tea or something. After that, someone has to leg it down to the village to get the church bells ringing. To say there’s an invasion.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Izzie. She was beginning to feel a little nervous. No one had suggested the Germans would drop into the garden at Primrose Hill.

‘The other thing is, they might be in disguise. So you have to suspect everyone. Specially nuns, Great-grandpa says, it’s a very popular disguise. The thing in that case is to get them in conversation, see if they sound different. If they do, then ring the bell. But not till then.’

‘But surely an ordinary nun wouldn’t be dropping into the grounds by parachute?’ said Izzie. ‘You’d know that was a German, surely.’

Henry looked disconcerted; he clearly hadn’t thought of that. ‘Well – perhaps not. Anyway, use your common sense. They haven’t got much of that, being foreigners, Great-grandma says. It’s jolly good fun here, Izzie. The only thing is we still haven’t had an air raid. It’s so unfair. We keep thinking we’ve heard the siren, but it’s always a practice. It’s going to be so wizard, living down in the cellars. When they really start, we’ll have to sleep there. The other thing that’s fun is the dogfights. We’ve had a few of them over here, but not nearly enough.’

‘Dogfights? Are there a lot of dogs here?’

‘In the air, you dope. The planes, fighting, the Germans and our chaps. It’s really exciting. We keep hoping for one to be shot down in the grounds, but that hasn’t happened yet, either. If we were still in Kent, we’d be seeing them all the time, it’s so unfair. Still, fingers crossed. Don’t look so worried, Izzie, we’ll look after you.’

Izzie found this only slightly reassuring.

Celia appeared in the doorway of Venetia’s office.

‘Venetia, have you got those costings yet?’

‘What costings?’ said Venetia.

‘What costings! Sometimes I wonder if you’re with us at all at the moment. For the new crime series.’

‘No,’ said Venetia. She sounded sulky, the little girl she had once been caught out in some omission.

‘But why not? Venetia, this is important. We can’t afford to get behind, we’ll—’

‘I don’t care,’ said Venetia in a low voice.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I don’t care.’ The voice was less low now, with a throb of latent tears in it; Celia stared at her.

‘Venetia, I know you’re under a lot of strain. But you can’t just let things go. When the war is over – and it will be – what happens to Lyttons will matter again. It matters anyway, we have a duty to supply people with books, the troops are ordering large numbers. Besides, I have always – ’ she corrected herself ‘ – usually found that distracting myself with work is extremely helpful.’

‘Well I don’t,’ said Venetia. She stared at Celia, her face flushed, her eyes brilliant. ‘I don’t find it at all helpful. I can’t even think about work at the moment. I’m so worried. About Boy and Adele and Kit, of course, and Giles and Jay, I know they’re all right at the moment, but it won’t last, Giles could have been so easily killed already. And – and the children, down there without me, suppose something happened—’ She stopped, dashed her hand across her eyes.

Celia sat down suddenly, looked at her across the desk. ‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

‘ No.’

‘Venetia, I think there is.’

‘Mummy, there isn’t.’ She looked wary suddenly, and surprisingly calm, as if she had been frightened out of her panic. ‘Now please leave me alone. Look, I’ll do the costings today. I promise. Sorry about that little outburst. I know everyone’s just as worried. You must be desperate about Kit.’

‘I am,’ said Celia, ‘absolutely desperate. This is far worse than the last war, then I only had your father to worry about. Now there’s half a dozen of you. I’m finding it horribly hard to work myself. What’s the latest from Boy?’

‘Oh – training still in Scotland. He says it’s huge fun.’

‘It is hideous, isn’t it?’ said Celia. ‘The fear. It’s always always there, like toothache, or some dreadful insistent noise grinding in your head. You can’t get away from it. And it’s going to go on and on I’m afraid, it’s not like some mercifully brief illness. And I have to tell you, I feel appalling about Adele. If we hadn’t had that quarrel, she’d quite possibly be safely home. So I have guilt to add to my worry.’

‘Oh Mummy, that’s—’

‘No, don’t say it, you know it’s true. Look, why don’t you and I go out to lunch, and work on those costings between us? We could go somewhere nice, Simpsons, perhaps—’

‘I’m sorry, Mummy, I really don’t feel remotely hungry.’

Celia looked surprised. ‘Hungry? When did that ever have anything to do with lunch? Lunch is an occasion, Venetia, not a meal. Still—’

‘Oh – yes, all right. Thank you.’

‘It must be lonely in that great house without the children,’ said Celia suddenly. ‘Why don’t you move into Cheyne Walk?’

Venetia considered this for a moment; then, ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I think I’d rather like that.’

‘Good. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Now, are you quite sure there’s nothing else worrying you?’

‘Mummy, I’m absolutely sure.’

But there was.

Kit had been given ten days’ leave. Things had been a bit quiet since Dunkirk; there were still patrols of course, and the escort duties, but everyone seemed to be waiting for something. It was – odd. The calm before a storm. And there must be a storm soon. Especially with Paris being invaded.

That was a nightmare; he could only hope and pray that Adele was all right. If only she’d come home when it had been possible: if only. But there’d been that stupid row with their mother over her appalling Fascist friends, and – well, it hadn’t been the same since. She must be in danger, she was English, she was the enemy. And besides, Luc was Jewish. Kit didn’t give much for his chances. Not if Hitler was taking over Paris. As he was.

Anyway: however worried he was about everyone else, he was off to Scotland. To see Catriona. It was a glorious prospect.

‘Apparently he’s got some girlfriend up there,’ said Celia. Her voice was ice cold. ‘Extraordinary.’

‘I don’t see why,’ said Oliver mildly, ‘he’s twenty, he’s a very red-blooded young chap, I would think it extraordinary if he didn’t have a girlfriend.’

‘Oliver, he’s too young. Far too young. I can only trust it’s not serious. Or rather, that he doesn’t think it’s serious. I’m sure she’s quite dreadful.’

‘Now why should she be dreadful?’

‘She’s training to be a nurse. Not just for the war, but as a career. Not the sort of girl we’d want Kit to be mixed up with.’

‘Celia, really! Why ever not?’

‘Well – it’s such a worthy career. So dull. And so – second-rate. Why not fly higher, why not be a doctor?’

‘My dear, you really do talk the most appalling nonsense,’ said Oliver, ‘and I might remind you that you were only eighteen when we met. I hope you aren’t suggesting that was all a bit of youthful folly.’

The family was all gathered round the lunch table at Ashingham on Saturday 15 June when the news came. Venetia, pale and tired, had insisted on going down to see her children. Sebastian said he would go with her to see Izzie and offered to drive her down. He had always been an appallingly dangerous driver; with his deteriorating eyesight, he was lethal. Venetia, who was in the process of moving into Cheyne Walk and disbanding her household, said she would get her chauffeur to drive them. ‘He’s joining up on Monday, but we might as well get our pound of flesh out of him. Then you can sleep on the way home, Sebastian. You know you always have too much of Grandpapa’s port.’