Charlotte Gray (64 page)

"This way, Miss.."

She followed the butler to the door of Mr. Jackson's office, where he knocked disc reedy "Ah, Daniele. Thank you. Philips, you can leave us now." Jackson stood up and came round the desk, his froggy face split open by a huge smile. Charlotte held out her hand, but to her surprise he kissed her on the cheek.

"Welcome home, Daniele, welcome home. You poor thing, you've had a rough time, haven't you?"

"No, I ... I think it went quite well, really. I was able to do what I went there to do."

"Absolutely. Transmissions from Ussel have been with us loud and clear since August. You seem to have inspired the local operator."

Charlotte smiled as she thought of Antoinette with the wireless aerial draped round the furniture of her bedroom.

"I saw Yves a month or so ago on a return visit. He spoke very well of you. Said your French was absolutely tiptop."

"That's very kind of him, though I'm not quite sure he'd be the best judge of that."

"Quite, quite. Anyway, Violinist has been performing well. We managed to get a lot of stores in, thanks to you and your Frenchman."

"Are you still doing drops there?"

"Not there, no. It's too dangerous. Since Mirabel, alas, disappeared. But there's another drop zone not far away. What they're doing now is helping train the troops. They're getting a lot of volunteers, thanks to the Germans."

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't you heard of the Statutory Work Order? Ah, well. Monsieur Laval has been our best recruiting sergeant. He's decreed that all young men have to go and work in Germany for a time, a sort of national service.

He's achieved what General de Gaulle and even we have so far not quite managed, which is to drive large numbers of young men into the Resistance." Mr. Jackson paused and coughed.

"Of course, the fact that the Allies are now manifestly winning the war may have been a further incentive."

"That's good news."

"It's very good. Now, tell me, Daniele, what was going on in Paris? I'm glad you were able to make contact with Felix, he's an excellent chap. But, to be frank, we had rather expected to pick you up from somewhere near Limoges. A long time ago. Last summer, to be precise."

"It was important that I stay." Various fabricated and implausible stories suggested themselves to Charlotte, but in the end she thought she might as well tell the truth. All Jackson could do was dismiss her from the service, and, now that she had been to France, she had no desire to stay in it. Her encounter with Mirabel had not shaken her conviction about the morality of the war, but it had lessened her loyalty to G Section. It had also frightened her; and, for fear of incriminating herself or others, she thought it best to say nothing of it to Mr. Jackson. Meanwhile she did her best to explain to him about her feeling for the country and her conviction that it had been necessary for her to remain there. The wireless operator had, after all, been able to reassure them that she was safe and useful. Both Mirabel and Octave had said they needed more people. As for being in Paris, she told Jackson about the night they took Levade from the Domaine; she talked of her sense of responsibility to him and to the Duguay boys. And if Julien was a key part of the G Section network, whether he admitted it or not, then she was presumably entitled to pursue his interests.

Jackson gave a little laugh.

"I'm quite used to our people popping up in the most unexpected places, don't worry about that. They have carte blanche to travel where they like. But those are agents, and not, if I may say so, couriers. I had heard from Mirabel that you were still there and I was happy for you to stay on for a time, but you must understand that a woman is more at risk than a man. The other thing, which I'm sure you know, is that every time you travel and use people and addresses, the more you expose them to danger.

It's really a matter to borrow an expression of "Is your journey really necessary?"

"I do understand," said Charlotte.

"It seemed necessary to me, that's all I can say. And perhaps you haven't had first-hand accounts of these camps and trains before."

"No, indeed. That could be useful. It's not really my pigeon, but I certainly know who would be interested."

"Anyway," said Charlotte, 'if you'd like me to resign, I quite understand."

"Good God, no! My dear Daniele, you're a first-class asset. I wouldn't dream of letting you go. There are one or two people in this organisation who doubt your utter dependability. I think I recall hearing the phrase “loose cannon" used by one of them. We may find you a slightly more ... domestic role at first. But as far as I'm concerned you'll jolly well stay with G Section until the hostilities are satisfactorily concluded."

"I don't know. I think I've really done all I can do, and ' " Excuse me, Daniele. Will you please stop talking such utter rot? I presume this is just a way of teasing me into buying you lunch. Very well. If you'd like to go to the bedroom at the end of the corridor, I'll get Valerie to bring your old clothes back. You can smarten up a bit and we'll pop out in half an hour. How does that suit you?"

"It sounds fine. There's just one thing." From her handbag Charlotte took out an empty bottle of hair dye and placed it on Jackson's desk.

"I was fortunate enough to be given this."

"Fortunate?" said Jackson.

"It was only your decision to stay on that made it necessary. Surely Valerie had already organised everything here."

"Not quite everything."

"Why are you smiling, Daniele?"

"I don't think she foresaw the possibility of my taking a bath in a public bath house."

"I'm not with you."

"Certain ... inconsistencies of colouring."

"What do you oh my God, I see what you mean. Yes, yes, indeed." Jackson stammered for a moment, then regained his composure.

"Well, I think you've certainly caught us with our trousers down, if you'll forgive the expression."

"Gladly."

"I'll make a note about the dye for future use. Now. Lunch. Do you like fish?"

"Yes, I still like fish."

It seemed that what Jackson had in mind was a job training agents. Charlotte would help with their language and pass on various tips and information from her own experience. He mentioned one of the holding schools in Suffolk. There would have to be a full-scale debriefing in London first, and in the meantime he could offer a bed in one of the fany hostels.

Charlotte felt oddly ill at ease in her old clothes. The skirt was loose, and the stockings, after months of Dominique felt draughty when she walked. After lunch she sat on Jackson's desk, swinging her legs back and forth, and making telephone calls. It was a delight to speak English.

Her mother wanted her to come to Scotland at once, but Charlotte said there were things she had to attend to in London. Roderick, her mother told her, was in Tunisia and doing well when they had last heard. Then Charlotte telephoned Daisy at the Red Cross. Daisy let out a long theatrical scream of delight, and, when she had regained coherence, arranged to meet that evening.

Finally she telephoned Squadron Leader Allan Wetherby.

She did not really expect to be able to talk to him, but after various delays and protective enquiries she heard the man himself say, "Wetherby."

"You very kindly wrote to me a few months ago about a friend of mine, Peter Gregory. I'm sure this is most irregular, but I just wondered if you had had any news."

Charlotte found that the combination of trying not to sound too eager and of speaking English for the first time for six months made her sound, in her own ears, almost regal.

Wetherby appeared unimpressed.

"It's just that since you wrote to me, I thought you wouldn't mind having an unofficial word," said Charlotte.

Wetherby coughed.

"I tell you what, Miss. Gray. I have heard reports-and I must stress that these are very, very unofficial reports of one of our chaps making touch with various local people, who belong to ... to a different organisation. With whom we're cooperating."

"These unofficial reports, they're just rumours, are they?"

"No, they're better than that. The dates and the places just about tally. Except..."

"Except what?"

"Except I don't know how he ended up in Marseille."

Charlotte thought of Gregory's French.

"He could have ended up anywhere."

"I suppose so. At any rate, someone's trying hard to make his way back. Whether it's Gregory or not I can't say for sure."

"How can I find out more?"

"I don't know if you can. Unless you try your luck with ... the other organisation."

"All right. Thank you."

The trouble was, she did not trust herself to ask Jackson if he knew anything without giving away her interest. By the time he knocked before re-entering his own office, she had been through, and abandoned, various ruses concerning the brother of a friend, the fiance of a neighbour and so on. She would have to think of a better lie.

Meanwhile, Gregory was on his way. No, that was a foolish thing to think; she would not allow herself to believe it. But the more she struggled to suppress her springing hope, the more it animated her.

"My God, Charlotte, what happened to your hair?"

"Oh, I just felt like a change of colour."

Daisy let Charlotte out of her fierce, welcoming grip.

"Come in, come in. I've arranged a bit of a party later on. Let's have a look at you."

Charlotte went into the sitting room, where Daisy stood back and inspected her.

"I think you've lost weight. Apart from that, you look gorgeous. Why didn't you write, though? We were worried sick."

"I couldn't really write. It was all ' " All very hush-hush, I know. You can't have your old room back, I'm afraid. We've got a new girl.

Alison."

"What's she like?"

"Delightful. You'll meet her later on. Little bit of a prude, but otherwise terrific fun. Which reminds me, have you heard anything?

About ... "

"Peter? Not exactly. But I spoke to the squadron leader this afternoon and he sounded quite hopeful. Apparently there's someone stumbling around there, trying to get back. They just don't know if it's him."

"It must be awful not knowing."

"I'd rather not know than know the " worst."

"Of course." Daisy looked a little doubtful.

"Sally's got a new boyfriend. They're engaged. She's absolutely dotty about him."

"What happened to Terence?"

"She found out he was being unfaithful to her."

"What, with his wife?"

"No, with another woman."

"Oh dear. Poor Sally. You wouldn't think, looking at Terence, that ' " She's well out of it if you ask me. This new chap's a bit of a stuffed shirt, but at least he's single. You can sleep on the sofa, by the way, if you haven't got anywhere else."

"It's all right, thanks. They've found me a room in a funny little block in Riding House Street."

"You can always come back. Charlotte. When Sally leaves. Listen. I think that's Michael."

Daisy went to the window and looked down into the narrow street where Michael Waterslow was hooting the horn of his car.

"Yes, come on, let's go down. Lazy so-and-so. He never comes up." Michael drove them to a pub in Maida Vale, a huge building with engraved Victorian glass and a gleaming mahogany bar. To Michael's disappointment there was a blackboard outside with a mournful drawing of a long-nosed character, new to Charlotte, and the words, "Wot, no beer."

"We'll just have to drink gin instead," said Michael.

As the evening progressed, they were joined first by Ralph, at whose flat in the Fulham Road Charlotte had met Gregory for the second time, then by his drunk friend. Miles.

Michael, with his neatly pressed suit and punctilious manner, was a generous host and kept a steady tide of drinks coming to the table. At one point he turned to Charlotte and said, "Don't worry about Greg. I know it's a long time, but he'll be back. He's got the luck of the devil. That's the whole point about Greg." Charlotte nodded and smiled. Gregory seemed more real to her since she had been with people who knew him even people as marginal as these now seemed to her. It was no longer her willpower alone that was keeping him alive. The party swelled in numbers as the evening went on. There were people Charlotte recognised from the Melrose literary party and others she had never seen before. Primed by Daisy and Michael, they all bought drinks and toasted her safe return. In the smoky racket of the pub. Charlotte became aware that she had drunk too much. She went outside for a moment into the night and walked up and down, breathing in the cold air. She thought for a moment of Julien, hiding out on some freezing hillside. She thought of Levade, and of the gaping suitcase. Then she went back into the noisy warmth and accepted the full glass that was pressed into her hand.

The next day, in a bare room in Whitehall, while she sat describing her French experiences to three men behind a table, she found that parts of the night before came back to her, bit by bit, unexpectedly.

There had been another pub, in St. John's Wood, and then a group visit to an ABC cafe. Then there was a club somewhere in the West End. She noticed how close Daisy and Michael were dancing. When Daisy returned to the candle-lit table. Charlotte asked her, "Are you and Michael..

" Yes, darling, I'm afraid so. He's awfully sweet, you know." Charlotte had begun to laugh in a feeble, defenceless way, that she later recognised was close to tears.

The three men in Whitehall dismissed her. They had been interested in what she told them and would pass it on, though it was not really their pigeon either. Next there was a full debriefing in the flat in Marylebone with Mr. Jackson and two senior colleagues. Charlotte had to keep asking for glasses of water. A week later, she sat on the train to Edinburgh. She placed a suitcase, her own at last, not Dominique's, in the luggage rack and sat down by the window. Until York she was alone in the compartment. She read a book for an hour, then gazed at the English fields. Nothing about their tracks and barns, the clumps of elm and ash, the mess of farming with its rusted tractors and dung-smeared animals was, on the surface, any different from what she had seen from the windows of numerous trains in France.