Cold Harbour

‘Who fell in love with the doctor from Cornwall?’ Craig nodded. ‘I shouldn’t imagine the old girl would have liked that.’

‘She didn’t, so the lovers fled away by night. My father was established in London and all was silent from the French connection . . .’

‘Until la belle Hélène produced twins?’

‘Exactly.’ Genevieve nodded. ‘And blood, they say, is thicker than water.’

‘So you started to visit the old homestead?’

‘My mother, Anne-Marie and me. It worked very well. We fitted in. My mother raised us to speak only French in the house, you see.’

‘And your father?’

‘Oh, he was never made welcome. He did very well over the years. A Senior Surgeon at Guy’s Hospital, rooms in Harley Street.’

‘And then your mother died?’

‘That’s right. Pneumonia. 1935. We were thirteen at the time. The year of the thumb, I call it.’

‘And Anne-Marie chose France while you stayed with your father? What was all that about?’

‘Simple.’ Genevieve shrugged, looking suddenly all French. ‘Grandmère was dead and Hortense was the new Countess de Voincourt, a title held in her own right by the eldest in the female line in our family since the days of Charlemagne, and the one thing which had become clear to Hortense after several marriages was that she couldn’t have children.’

‘And Anne-Marie was next in line?’ Craig asked.

‘By eleven minutes. Oh, Hortense had no legal claim, but my father gave Anne-Marie free choice in the matter, in spite of the fact that she was only thirteen.’

‘He hoped she’d choose him – right?’

‘Poor Daddy.’ Genevieve nodded. ‘And Anne-Marie knew exactly what she wanted. For him, it was the final straw. He sold up in London, moved back to St Martin and bought the old rectory.’

‘It’s good enough for the movies,’ Craig said. ‘Bette Davis as Anne-Marie.’

‘And who for me?’ Genevieve demanded.

‘Why, Bette Davis, of course.’ He laughed. ‘Who else? When did you last 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.