Barbara Cleverly - Tug of War

A not unusual reaction. He’d learned to use this French affection for all things Scottish to his advantage. For them, the English would always, though fighting and falling shoulder to shoulder with them, represent le perfide Albion but the Scots were a different matter. He’d first become aware of this perception of his fellow countrymen at a very low moment. Shot though the shoulder fighting a rearguard action at Mariette Bridge near Mons, he’d insisted on getting back into the thick of things as soon as he could struggle out of the hospital cart and, separated from his unit, had been sent along with the front ranks of the fast-retreating British Expeditionary Force south to. . who knew where? He’d been instructed to act in the capacity of Staff Officer with knowledge of the language — never enough of these to be found — in order to facilitate the liaison of the French and British commanders — when they could be herded together. As these gentlemen appeared only too happy to avoid each other, Joe felt he’d been handed an uncomfortable duty. On the one occasion he’d met the Anglophobic General Lanrezac he’d been bursting to give the supercilious commander in whose unreliable hands lay the fate of an exhausted British Expeditionary Force a piece of his mind. His fingers had itched to turn the map upside down and tell him to get on with it. Lanrezac could, with his eternal back-pedalling, have given Quintus Fabius Maximus Cunctator a lesson in time-wasting. But Joe’s duty was to stand unremarked in the background, listening and quietly seething as he murmured into the ear of his own commanding officer translations of Lanrezac’s dismissive remarks and disconnected policy.

For the rest of the time in those desperate days when the British had force marched their way, fighting every inch down the undulating white road towards the Marne, he’d made himself useful in the confusion, organizing supply dumps at crossroads, clearing the roadways, directing lost soldiers to their companies. He’d even caught a runaway horse and joined a cavalry patrol riding out to ambush and exterminate a German cavalry force threatening their right flank.

After eleven days with little sleep and food the men had slogged their way all night through the deep Forest of Crécy. They had emerged into the centre of a fairy-tale village with its small château, all untouched by the war and, in this idyllic place, someone had finally called a halt. The men had collapsed where they stood. Some who’d fallen on the road were dragged out of the path of wheels and hooves by their mates. They made it in their hundreds into the shelter of the apple and pear trees of an orchard and lay down more dead than alive.

This was it. This far and no farther. Here they would regroup, turn their faces to the north again and fight their way back. The retreat from Mons was over.

Joe had been in the village square conferring with the local mayor, supervising the available food supplies and sleeping arrangements, when his attention was demanded by a Valkyrie voice. A female voice. The mayor, at the sound, stopped speaking in mid-sentence, muttered his apologies and took flight. An elderly Frenchwoman, of some standing apparently, had arrived on a bicycle with her old groom in attendance, similarly mounted.

‘You there!’

Joe automatically saluted the imposing figure clad, improbably, in riding coat and brimmed veiled hat.

‘I wish to see your billeting officer.’

He had accompanied her to the schoolroom being used as billeting HQ. The officer in charge Joe remembered with affection. His name was Bates. A man with an amazing memory for names and a facility for making possible the seemingly impossible. Bates had leapt to his feet and saluted, as had Joe. The lady announced herself to be the owner of the nearby château and she suspected (correctly) that her property was on their billeting list.

‘You will send me Scotsmen,’ she announced. ‘I will accept nothing but Scotsmen. I’m quite certain you have some.’

Sensing their surprise, she thought to add an explanation: ‘My family, including six small grandchildren, have fled their home in the Ardennes and taken refuge with me. I am told that the Scottish soldiers are excellent child-minders and may be trusted not to break one’s possessions.’

Waiting until she had left and avoiding Joe’s eye, Bates thumbed though his list, licked his pencil and made a few adjustments. ‘If that’s how her ladyship wants it, we can oblige. What about that mob of hairy kilted blokes who staggered in last night? A dozen assorted Highlanders! I’ll wake ’em up and send ’em along to the château. Right now!’

‘Those kilted blokes are the handful of Gordons who managed to get away after le Cateau. The rest of their unit was shot to bits holding up von Bülow’s lot for a day. We wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t watched our backs,’ said Joe quietly. ‘Let them sleep. But, yes, send them along to Madame la Baronne when they wake up,’ he added. ‘Why not? They’ve earned a bit of luxury.’

The past, deliberately repressed for years, was floating in bubbles to the surface of his mind again, released by familiar sights and now, apparently, by no more than a sound — the simple sound of a Frenchwoman’s voice pronouncing the word 'Écossais’.

‘Monsieur is from Edinburgh?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he agreed easily, ‘from Edinburgh.’

‘At all events — this is your first visit to the Rêve. You are on your way to the south?’

‘Indeed.’ Joe nodded. I hope I do not arrive at an inconvenient hour?’

‘For us, monsieur, no hour is inconvenient. We have our late-night owls but we have our early-morning cockerels too.’

Joe was almost disappointed that the description was undeserved. The image pleased him.

‘And you will be unaware of the particularities of the house? Let me show you. .’

She rose to her feet and took a folder from a gilded table. Returning to her seat she selected what seemed to be a brochure from the folder and handed it to him. In some surprise he leafed through it.

‘Ah — the Turkish Harem. Yes, there it is, illustrated. Carpets, divans and the rest of it. . The Japanese Room. . looks the teeniest bit uncomfortable. . but perhaps that’s the point? The Rajah’s Palace complete with tiger skins. The Sheik’s Tent. Lacking only the smouldering presence of Rudolph Valentino. . The Queen of Sheba’s Bathroom. . Good Lord! Can that possibly be authentic?’

Increasingly uneasy with his tone, she reached out and snatched the book from him.

‘You are to be complimented on your ingenuity, madame. Unfortunately, I am here not to inspect or sample what you have to offer but to beg your assistance.’

‘My assistance?’ The lady was puzzled and becoming more wary by the second.

Joe produced the letter of authority from Inspector Bonnefoye. To his surprise she laughed as she handed it back to him.

‘Ah. My first thought was that perhaps you were a policeman.’

‘The feet?’ he asked in some amusement. ‘Do the feet give me away?’

‘Not at all. It is the arrogance. Not even the Senator would have the bad manners to rearrange my furniture and dismiss my presentation as a. . a. . menu! But — very well. If Jean-Philippe vouches for you, then you have my attention, Commandant. Tell me how I may help you.’

‘I want you to tell me whatever you can concerning the background of one of your employees. The Inspector tells me she works for you and has worked for you since before the war. A Mademoiselle Desforges. Mireille Desforges.’

Her puzzled frown was sincere and he questioned further. ‘She is employed by you, I take it? I have not been misinformed?’

‘Mireille does indeed do work for me and if it’s her taxation standing you are interested in, I can assure you that all our paperwork is in good order. Though the records preceding 1918 are unavailable. We did not entirely escape the damage, you understand. You are welcome to inspect what we have, though how it could possibly be the concern of a Scottish policeman I cannot conceive.’