Winter Roses (12 page)

‘Or it might mean they needed a rest?’ she said, inspired.

‘It might,’ Luke returned sweetly. ‘So that’s where you come in, Miss Lilley. The three C’s we call them: co-ordination, corroboration – and concentration. Fortunately for us, John Charteris, Field Marshal Haig’s intelligence chief, deals with what it all means, so you won’t have to decide on where the next offensive will be.’

‘Here,’ she declared, dangling her sock, ‘I’ll start on it now.’

The fog of war, it seemed to her, was nothing compared with the fog of government agencies, which from her brief experience all seemed intent on doing what someone else was doing, only better. In addition to the Secret Service, there was another organisation, working from London, which also reported to GHQ Montreuil, and which operated in much the same areas as the Folkestone section, causing much interservice friction. She couldn’t help feeling Mrs Dibble could have sorted this confusion out in a moment.

Her head soon began to whirl with references to regiments and places she had never heard of, and she often had to ask for access to Luke’s copy of the Brown Book, which was a carefully compiled guide to the German Army. She also needed to study the Belgian rail systems.
And
brush up on her French. A dictionary could take her only so far.

‘Ask Yves to take you to the Belgian clubs,’ Luke suggested. ‘Your ear will soon get tuned.’

‘I think he’s seen quite enough of me. He didn’t exactly leap at the idea of escorting me down to Folkestone.’

‘No?’ Luke shrugged. ‘I’ll have a word with him.’

‘Please don’t.’ She was horrified at the idea.

‘Don’t you like our gallant captain?’

She considered this. ‘Yes, I do, but I always feel I’m imposing on him and he has far more valuable things to do with his time.’

‘Ah.’ Luke looked pensive. ‘You could be wrong.’

‘I’m never wrong,’ Caroline informed him cheerfully.

‘Except about me and Felicia,’ Luke replied, equally cheerfully. ‘You don’t think she’ll marry me. I know she will. And speak to Yves. That’s an order.’

‘I don’t know where to find him.’

‘He’ll turn up sometime.’

‘Like the Cheshire Cat,’ she muttered crossly.

On Sunday the cat did turn up. In the early afternoon as she was reeling from her landlady’s best efforts to toughen up a joint of beef for the war effort, Yves Rosier called at the house. As she came down the stairs, summoned by the landlady Mrs Clark, reluctance seemed to be written all over his face. He stood awkwardly in the narrow hallway, twisting his cap round and round in his hands. It was a pity the splendid pre-war Belgian army uniforms with shako and red piping on the navy blue had now been replaced with British khaki cloth – it was not nearly so impressive, in her opinion.

‘If you are unengaged this afternoon, Miss Lilley, we
might walk on the cliffs, or perhaps listen to the band on the Leas. I do not wish to leave you alone in Folkestone on your first weekend.’

Really, this was carrying his duty too far. No wonder he looked so reluctant. She thanked him politely, but could not resist adding: ‘You sound just like my Grandmother Buckford.’ However, she would be glad of anyone’s company today, so she asked him to wait while she found hat, coat and, she supposed, gloves. The rules of dress had relaxed greatly in two years of war, but mindful of Ashden convention and that this was Sunday, she donned the kid gloves that she had worn to attend church this morning at St Peter’s. Everyone else seemed to be in groups, and she had missed the warm familiarity of St Nicholas in Ashden.

As she returned, fully gloved and hatted, she realised she had been churlish; she was glad he had come, and told him so, as they descended the steps and began to walk towards the Leas.

‘I told Major-General Hunney I would look after you,’ was his reply.

‘Thank you, Captain Rosier, but I do not need looking after.’ Caroline’s hackles were roused once again; irrationally she was feeling distinctly overpowered as she walked at his side. It was almost a trot, for he strode out as though they were heading for Dover, not the Leas. She was reasonably tall for a woman, but though the captain was about the same height as Reggie, he was more sturdily built than … no, she would not think about Reggie.

‘You would rather be alone?’ He stopped abruptly.

‘There is no need for you to give up your afternoon to entertain me.’

‘In that case, Miss Lilley, I must not impose on your time. Please accept my apologies for troubling you.’ He removed his hat, bowed stiffly, and strode away.

Dismayed, Caroline watched him go. You are a stupid woman, she told herself. Had he wanted to go, or had she driven him away by hurting his feelings? How difficult it was to know with someone, in a strange land, who, however good his English, could not be expected to understand all the nuances of every situation. The fault was hers. Conscience-stricken, she rushed after him. He had already reached the clifftop of the Leas which was crowded with afternoon walkers from fresh-faced youngsters in khaki to ancient dowagers and toddlers reminding the wartime world that life went on.

‘Captain Rosier!’

He turned round at her call.

Face-to-face with him once more, she found herself unusually bereft of words, and had to force them out. ‘I would indeed be grateful for your company, if you can spare the time.’ This comedy of manners made her feel as if she were in a Jane Austen novel.

He hesitated, then said, ‘Do not think you have offended me, Miss Lilley. I understand—’

Her tongue mercifully came back to her. ‘It was I who didn’t understand. You took one look at me and decided I’d want to eat jellied eels and whelks for tea down by the harbour.’

Doubt replaced silence.

‘That was a joke,’ she pointed out hastily.

What had been lines of bitterness transformed themselves into a smile. He was almost good-looking in a strange kind of way, she thought, as he replied, ‘I might like jellied eels.’

‘But I prefer tea, so perhaps we should have both.’

In the end they had neither. They listened to the band until the October sun grew chilly, and then strolled down to the seafront. It was only as the sun began to sink from sight that she realised they had been talking most of the afternoon – and she still knew little about him. Or had they been talking? How strange. She couldn’t remember. Perhaps silence had replaced words without her noticing and without its mattering. All the same, it was a good time to ask a few questions.

‘Do you live in Folkestone too, Captain Rosier, working for the Belgian section? Or can’t you tell me that?’

He smiled. ‘As an officially approved member of Captain Cameron’s staff you are bound under the Official Secrets Act not to reveal such important information to our enemy as that Captain Rosier does not live in Folkestone, so I will tell you that he does not. Nor does he work for the Belgian section.’

‘So you escorted me to Folkestone because Sir John asked you to?’

‘Again at the risk of offending, Miss Lilley, no. I have many friends here in the Belgian community, and I constantly visit not only yours but the Belgian and French sections too, because of my job.’

‘Why are you in Belgian khaki uniform, if you work for the War Office?’

Dress was varied in her office. She herself hadn’t known what to wear and compromised with her old blue costume suit. The men in the office wore uniforms, but the women did not, though Luke had told her this might change if women were formally incorporated into the services. If only Asquith would go, and Lloyd George take over the premiership, this would almost certainly happen.

‘Because I don’t work for it. I am a serving officer in the Belgian army,’ he replied. ‘My role as yours is in intelligence; I am a liaison officer reporting directly to King Albert in La Panne on the situation in occupied Belgium, from my own digest of the digests from British GHQ of your digests from Folkestone, as digested with those of the French and Belgian sections, the Wallinger Intelligence Service in London, and from French GHQ, and from the British Secret Service. I then regurgitate these for His Majesty.’ He delivered all this without a glimmer of a smile.

Caroline did not dare assume he saw the funny side of this, though she suspected he did, so with equally grave face, she commented: ‘I know I’ve only been working here a few days, but I keep wondering, if there’s so much intelligence around, why haven’t we won the war?’

‘If you sent twenty people to watch a rainbow, Miss Lilley, you would have twenty different reports, and some would contradict the others.’

‘And some would only see the fairies’ pot of gold said to be buried at its foot.’

‘Dreams, Miss Lilley. Those reports too have their place, provided one knows that until the gold is found, they are only dreams.’

‘You’re thinking of Belgium, aren’t you?’

‘I always think of Belgium.’

‘Captain Rosier,’ she began impulsively, wanting to break just a little of the barrier.

‘Miss Lilley?’

‘I have enjoyed this afternoon. Thank you.’

‘
Moi aussi,
Miss Lilley.
Je vous remercie.
’ He gave one of his quaint little bows.

‘I see you’ve been ordered by Captain Dequessy to improve my French.’

‘No, but would you wish me to do that, Miss Lilley?’

She was taken aback at her light comment being taken seriously, but then considered the suggestion. Why not? Her French certainly needed it, and the slight differences between French and Belgian would be all to the good since the majority of her work came from Belgium.

‘I would, very much. Thank you.’

He actually looked pleased; and, slightly surprised at herself for agreeing so quickly to more of the still formidable captain’s company, she arranged a meeting in the coming week.

As they walked back along the Leas they saw crowds of Tommies, many with a girl on their arms, coming towards them, and she was aware they were being overtaken by similar crowds coming from the opposite direction. Yet more crowds were gathered down below on the seafront road.

‘Where are they all going?’ she asked idly.

‘To the Leas Shelter. It is built into the cliffside. If you look down you can see the “decks” as they are called, outside each level of the theatre. It is a pleasant sight, just
the glow of torches as the crowds congregate in the dark. Every Sunday evening at six-thirty there is a free concert there for soldiers. Also at the town hall, but this one is the more popular. Perhaps because it is small and crowded,’ he added matter-of-factly. ‘And it has a little magic.’

‘Shall we go?’ she asked impulsively, watching the soldiers entering, each with their torch for light, and the orchestra already in place.

‘This evening, I regret that I cannot, and it can be rough. No place for—’

‘A rector’s daughter?’ she finished for him. ‘In war that hardly matters, Captain Rosier. If bombs hit everyone, then music can help everyone.’

‘That is true. I think I said to you in London that war is everywhere, we must carry it in our hearts and minds; it has to be fought in the West, in the East, in Africa, and one day in America too, as they will realise. It is fought in the trenches, it is fought in villages as peaceful as Ashden.’ He paused, then asked: ‘Why did you come to me to ask for this job, Miss Lilley? I was sorry to hear from Sir John of your fiancé’s death. Is that the reason?’

‘No.’ Caroline was quite sure of that. ‘I did not come to escape from grief, if that is what you are thinking, Captain Rosier. I came because Reggie’s death made me realise that what you had said when we met at the Rectory was correct. There
is
no escape, not even on June afternoons.’

As they walked up towards Sandgate Road, they heard the first sounds of the orchestra. He was right about that too, she thought. It did have a little magic.

She was glad she had so readily accepted the chance to improve her French. Even though many of the reports were already translated, she was immersed in the language every day, and was relieved she didn’t have to cope with digesting the Flemish reports too. There was a young soldier, a 2nd lieutenant, at work on that, who had a Flemish mother and English father, and did the translation too. As a Flemish speaker, James Swan had been removed from the front line much to his indignation coupled, he confessed, with a little shamefaced relief.

‘What we’re doing here is just as valuable,’ she pointed out.

‘Maybe. But it’s not what I want to do, and don’t preach at me that that’s not important. I know it isn’t, and it doesn’t help at all. If a chance comes up of replacing me, even with a woman—’ He broke off in some confusion as Caroline jumped up and dropped a mock curtsy.

‘Thank you kindly, sir.’

‘I didn’t mean you. You’re jolly efficient. Oh, Jiminy,’ he stopped, as he realised what he’d said now.

As the days passed, Caroline still didn’t feel efficient; she felt like a pole stuck in the garden supporting a line of washing which was constantly being changed without any help from her. There was a constant movement of people through the offices. Sometimes they wore British uniforms, sometimes they wore civilian clothes, some had several days’ stubble on their chins and spoke in guttural Flemish or rapid French far beyond her level, and sometimes they wore French or Belgian army uniforms like Captain Rosier. She had gathered from Luke that the couriers collected the reports from a letter-box system in the occupied territory,
and smuggled them across the frontier by one of their
tuyaux,
secret passages through. They had even been hidden under priests’ robes, and in schoolboys’ satchels, but it was dangerous and even these methods had been discovered by the Germans. This was the reason some agents preferred to pass their information on by less damning evidence, such as the socks.

Caroline used a typewriter, first to type the reports, then to precis them. She was reasonably efficient on the machine having taught herself during her time at the WSPU suffragette headquarters, but there were typewriters and typewriters. This one, apparently all the British government could afford, was a venerable machine with a strong dislike of the letter ‘e’. It refused to type it, even though everyone in the office had had a go at bending the spoke back and forth, cleaning the machine, brushing it, and alternately cursing and wooing it. All that resulted was that the spoke condescended to place a slight smudge on the page which might or might not be an ‘e’. As ‘e’ was the most frequently used letter in the English language, this gave her digests an interesting appearance.