Cold Harbour. Jack Higgins

see Anne-Marie?’

      ‘Easter of 1940. My father and I visited Voincourt together. That was before Dunkirk. He tried to persuade her to return with us to England. She thought he was quite mad. Charmed him right out of the idea.’

      ‘Yes, that I can imagine,’ Craig wound down the window and flicked his cigarette out. ‘So, you’re the new heir?’

      Genevieve Trevaunce turned to him, her face suddenly drained of colour. ‘God help me, but I hadn’t thought of that – not for a moment.’

      He put an arm around her. ‘Hey, come on, soldier, it’s okay. I understand.’

      She suddenly looked very tired. ‘When do we get to London?’

      ‘Early evening, with any luck.’

      ‘And then you’ll tell me the truth? The whole truth?’

      He didn’t even glance at her, but kept his attention on the road. ‘Yes,’ he said briefly. ‘I think I can promise you that.’

      ‘Good.’

      It started to rain. She closed her eyes as he turned on the wipers and after a while she slept, turning on the seat, arms folded under her breasts, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

      The perfume was different. Anne-Marie, yet not Anne-Marie. Craig Osbourne had never felt so bewildered in his life and drove onwards to London glumly.

      As they approached London it was dark, and there were the first hints of fire on the horizon, the crunch of bombs as the Ju88S pathfinders operating out of Chartres and Rennes in France laid the flares that would lead in the heavy bombers following.

      As they drove into the city, there were signs of bomb damage everywhere from the previous night’s raid. On several occasions, Craig had to divert where streets were blocked off. When Genevieve wound down the window she could smell smoke on the damp air and people were crowding into the tube stations, whole families carrying blankets, suitcases and personal belongings ready for another night underground. Nineteen-forty all over again.

      ‘I thought we’d finished with all this,’ she said bitterly. ‘I thought the RAF was supposed to have dealt with it.’

      ‘Somebody must have forgotten to tell the Luftwaffe,’ Craig said. ‘The Little Blitz, that’s what they’re calling it. Nothing like as bad as the first time around.’

      ‘Unless you happen to be underneath the next bomb they drop,’ she said.

      There were flames over to the right of them and a stick of bombs fell close enough for Craig to swerve from one side of the street to the other. He pulled in at the kerb and a policeman in a tin hat emerged from the gloom.

      ‘You’ll have to park here and take shelter in the tube. Entrance at the other end of the street.’

      ‘I’m on military business,’ Craig protested.

      ‘You could be Churchill himself, old son, you still go down the bleeding tube,’ the policeman said.

      ‘Okay, I surrender,’ Craig told him.

      They got out and he locked the car, and they followed a motley crowd streaming along the street to the entrance to the tube station. They joined the queue and went down two escalators, finally walking along a tunnel until they emerged into the tunnel itself beside the track.

      The platforms were crowded, people sitting everywhere, wrapped in blankets, their belongings around them. WVS ladies were dispensing refreshments from a trolley. Craig queued and managed to secure two cups of tea and a corned beef sandwich which he and Genevieve shared.

      ‘People are marvellous,’ she said. ‘Look at them. If Hitler could see this right now, he’d call off the war.’

      ‘Very probably,’ Craig agreed.

      At that moment, a warden in a boiler suit and tin hat, his face covered in dust, appeared in the entrance. ‘I need half-a-dozen volunteers. We got someone trapped in a cellar up on the street.’

      There was a certain hesitation, then a couple of middle-aged men sitting near by got up. ‘We’ll go.’

      Craig hesitated, touching his wounded arm. ‘Count me in.’

      Genevieve followed him and the air raid warden said, ‘Not you, love.’

      ‘I’m a nurse,’ she said crisply. ‘You might need me more than the others.’

      He shrugged wearily, turned and led the way out, and they all followed, back up the escalators and into the street. The bombs were falling further away now, but fires blazed over to the left and there was the stench of acrid smoke on the air.

      About fifty yards from the entrance to the tube, a row of shops had been blasted into rubble. The warden said, ‘We should wait for the heavy rescue boys, but I heard someone crying out over here. Used to be a café called Sam’s. I think there’s someone in the cellar.’

      They crowded forward, listening. The warden called out and almost immediately there was a faint answering cry.

      ‘Right, let’s get this lot cleared,’ the warden said.

      They attacked the pile of bricks with their hands, burrowing deep, until after fifteen or twenty minutes, the top of the area steps appeared. There was barely room for a man to enter headfirst. While they crouched to inspect it, someone cried out in alarm and they scattered as a wall crumpled into the street.

      The dust cleared and they stood up. ‘Madness to go down there,’ one of the men said.

      There was a pause then Craig put his cap in his trenchcoat pocket, took the coat off and handed it to Genevieve. ‘Jesus, I only got his damn uniform two days ago,’ he said, dropped on his belly and slithered into the slot above the steps.

      Everyone waited. After a while they could hear a child crying. His hands appeared holding a baby. Genevieve ran forward to take it from him and retreated into the centre of the street. A little later, a boy of about five years of age crawled out, covered in filth. He stood there, bewildered, and Craig emerged behind him. He took the boy’s hand and crossed to join Genevieve and the warden in the middle of the street. Someone cried a warning and another wall cascaded down in a shower of bricks, completely covering the entrance.

      ‘Blimey, guvnor, your luck is good,’ the warden said and he dropped on one knee to comfort the crying child. ‘Anyone else down there?’

      ‘A woman. Dead, I’m afraid.’ Craig managed to find a cigarette. He lit it and gave Genevieve a tired grin. ‘There’s nothing like a really great war, that’s what I always say, Miss Trevaunce. What do you always say?’

      She held the baby close. ‘The uniform,’ she said. ‘It’s not so bad. It should clean up very well.’

      ‘Did anyone ever tell you you’re a great comfort?’ he enquired.

      Later, driving on, she felt tired again. The bombing was well into the distance now, but even this area had seen action, glass crunching under the tyres. She saw a street sign – Haston Place – and Craig stopped outside number ten, a pleasant Georgian terrace house.

      ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

      ‘About ten minutes’ walk from SOE Headquarters in Baker Street. My boss has the top floor flat here. He thought it would be more private.’

      ‘And who might this boss be?’

      ‘Brigadier Dougal Munro.’

      ‘Now that doesn’t sound very American,’ she observed.

      He opened the door for her. ‘We’ll take anything that comes to hand, Miss Trevaunce. Now, if you’d follow me please.’

      He led the way up the steps and pressed one of the buzzers at the front door.

      5

      Jack