Not That Sort of Girl

  ‘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.

  30

  MYLO 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.’

  ‘If you escape the Deuxième Bureau.’

  ‘They do not bother me. And you, shall you be my escort next time? Shall we make a habit of this? Make rendezvous at your aunt in Paris and cross together to Dartmouth?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Mylo did not want to talk any more; he wanted to think about Spalding’s fake asininity, he wanted to think of Rose. With an effort he dismissed both from his thoughts and concentrated on the report he must make on arrival in London. Try to make sense while protecting his back. My back is in France, he thought. All those friends and acquaintances continually at risk. How dare somebody as safe as Spalding be so frivolous? Shall I try telephoning Slepe from London? What happens if Ned answers, if Ned’s on leave, what then? Well, here I am not concentrating on my report. I shall mention as few names as possible. Was Spalding planted there to look silly and drop a hint, when in London they play it straight? Not easy to switch quickly from the Gallic and Teutonic mind to the Anglo-Saxon.

  ‘She says, that girl Margaret, that the food is not too terrible in London and that the rationing is fair.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘With us it is not so fair. I promised to bring my wife soap when I return; she has given me a list of things she wants.’

  ‘I have two Camemberts I bought in Normandy as we journeyed.’

  ‘There is no shortage there, the farmers do not suffer. Look at this country. Nothing is happening to your people, you do not suffer at all.’ Picot waved his hand towards the pasture and plough they were passing.

  ‘The towns have been bombed.’

  ‘My friend, you have been listening to the German radio; your country is untouched; it is we who suffer, the workers.’

  Let him wait till he sees London, thought Mylo; sometimes, listening to the Picots of this world, I think fuck the workers. Mylo pulled up his coat collar, leaned back and tried to sleep.

  31

  MYLO WOKE FROM AN uncomfortable doze and recognising the contours of the hills realised that they were passing within a few miles of Slepe. He was furiously tempted to ask the driver to stop so that he could telephone, hear on the line Rose’s hesitant, cautious, ‘Hullo? Who is it?’ When he said, ‘Mylo,’ her voice would swoop, bubbling up. But, he thought, looking at the driver’s back, I shall do it later. The driver may have orders to report anything I do. I must wait until I am free, the job finished, then I can telephone or, better still, arrive quietly as I did before, find her asleep, let her wake in my arms and we shall be back where we left off.

  It was getting dark when they reached the outskirts of London. The driver switched on dimmed lights and drove slowly. ‘Raid’s started, sir.’ He sounded pleased.

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Glow in the sky, sir. Very punctual, the Jerries come up the river same time every evening, can set your watch by ’em.’

  ‘What does he say?’ asked Picot.

  ‘There is an air raid.’

  ‘Can one see it? Is it dangerous?’

  ‘No doubt we shall find out.’

  Picot grunted, leaning forward in his seat to watch the glow in the east, the occasional flash, the lingering searchlights.

  They were flagged down near Chiswick. ‘Going far?’ asked a policeman.

  ‘Neighbourhood of Knightsbridge,’ admitted the driver.

  ‘There’s a landmine in the Cromwell Road, an unexploded bomb in Queen’s Gate, the Old Brompton Road’s blocked. You will have to re-route via King’s Road and Sloane Street.’

  Mylo translated.

  ‘Tiens,’ said Picot, ‘so it’s true you do have trouble, what a mercy it is not Paris.’

  ‘When you are free from your reception committee I will take you on a tour, show you the mess,’ said Mylo.

  ‘Good, we can invite the girl Margaret who has incidentally already offered and my little cousin Chantal who works with the French Navy. The girl Margaret knows her and I have messages for her from Maman.’

  ‘Not written, I trust.’

  ‘Of course they are written …’

  ‘Idiot,’ exclaimed Mylo. ‘If we had been caught the letter would have led the Gestapo to the mother and then …’ (I should have searched the bastard, what a fool I am.)

  ‘But we were not caught.’ Picot was amused.

  ‘Your Colonel Passy will not be pleased to hear this.’

  ‘Shall you tell him?’ Picot was amused by this too.

  ‘I don’t expect to meet him, but in future no written messages. There is no need to take idiotic risks.’ Mylo was angry.

  ‘They did not search us at Dartmouth.’

  ‘That will happen in London.’

  ‘The Germans would search us before we left, half-way there, and on arrival,’ said Picot, hating yet admiring the enemy.

  ‘Why were you so careless? I cannot understand …’

  ‘My cousin Chantal wrote to say the English are amateur.’

  ‘Wrote? You got a letter?’

  ‘We are not the only ones to cross the Channel, you must know that.’

  ‘Is your cousin a Party member?’

  ‘If she was, she would not have
been so readily accepted by the Gaullistes. Her father was a naval officer, she has the entrée.’

  It’s useful that he has this cousinship to protect him, thought Mylo, he will need it; the Establishment’s suspicion of communists is inbred, but so fortunately are family ties.

  Separated on arrival from Picot, Mylo spent the following days being interviewed, questioned, re-questioned, de-briefed by the people who had sent him to France and by others he did not know. He felt resentful of these men who paced their offices or sat relaxed behind desks able to step out from Broadway, walk across St James’s Park to lunch in their clubs, return to ask of their girl staff, ‘Any messages, Diana, Susan, Jenny, Victoria?’ (All the girls in all the offices bore the genetic stamp of colonels’ or captains’ (RN) daughters, safe fodder for Whitehall, the War Office and Broadway.) Not for these men and girls in bed at night the fear of the knock on the door. These are my people, yet must I protect my back, thought Mylo, they cannot know how it is for my friends in France; there are names and addresses they need not have.

  ‘Now we come to your friend Picot,’ said the man behind the desk. ‘How would you rate him?’

  ‘High.’

  ‘Possibly, possibly. Party members are supposed to be more disciplined than your Free French enthusiast.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Mylo thought of Picot’s cousin Chantal and her open letter borne by hand to Maman.

  ‘He has, it seems, a cousin called Chantal in their Navy. Works for Soustelle. Did he mention her?’

  So the bastard is at least well informed. ‘Yes. Says he is looking forward to seeing her.’

  ‘I dare say. Well, yes. We would like you, if you agree, to spend an evening with Picot and this cousin of his before we let the Free French have him. He also made friends with a Wren called, let me see, yes, Margaret, when you came ashore at Dartmouth.’

  ‘A plant?’

  ‘You could make a foursome. Show Picot London as it is, go out for a meal.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Report to us, unofficially of course, whether Picot is working for others besides us and the French.’