Aubrey stopped. ‘Nonsense?’ he repeated, but since his mind was still echoing with ‘Aubrey dear’ he thought that even managing that single word was quite a good effort.
‘Nonsense. All that military business about who’s in charge and the like. It’s much too rigid for my liking. And, I suspect, yours.’
‘What?’ Aubrey paused. He took a deep breath. Then another. ‘In any military situation you must have a chain of command to ensure discipline, morale and–’ He was sure there was something else. Was it uniforms?
Aubrey dear?
He stumbled on. ‘And other important things. I’m a firm believer in it.’
‘Are you? So you’d be happy to do whatever I said if I were in command? Without question?’
Aubrey flailed a little, making quite unintelligible noises. George grinned. ‘She’s got you there, old man.’
‘Of course I have,’ Caroline said. ‘Now, Sophie, while Aubrey is collecting himself, we can’t leave Divodorum. At least, not until the others get here.’
‘Others?’
‘Others from our service.’
‘But will they still be coming? When they hear of what has happened?’
‘That’s a very good question,’ George said. ‘This might upset things somewhat.’
‘Tonight,’ Aubrey said, making a grab at seizing the initiative again. ‘Caroline. Me. We’ll get in touch with headquarters and see what’s going on.’
Aubrey dear?
The artillery barrage kept up all day. George prepared a lunch that was careful with its use of provisions, but still delicious – quiche, a light salad and fresh bread he’d baked. Sophie talked about the assignments her newspaper had sent her on, mostly designed to pump up morale in the Gallian public. She’d been told to concentrate on happy bands of brothers joining up, factories increasing output of weapons and munitions, young children scavenging scrap metal for the war effort. It all sounded familiar, but with a Gallian twist. She’d noticed, too, that care was being taken to bar some key occupations from enlisting, for example – vignerons and cheesemakers. In Albion, it had been gamekeepers and brewers.
As the day wore on, the thumping of the artillery changed. In counterpoint to the heavy beat of the Holmland guns came a sharper, more staccato hammering that Aubrey hoped came from Gallian emplacements. They gathered on the roof to see if they could confirm this and were uniformly dismayed to see smoke from a dozen or more fires in the north-west.
‘St Ophir, I think,’ Sophie said, pointing past the more northerly of the ridges. ‘The villages of Plaisance, Mellies, Brabaque,’ she said, moving south one by one. ‘I’m sorry, I do not know the rest.’
She shivered and George, without taking his eyes from the horizon, put an arm around her shoulders.
Aubrey marvelled at the effortlessness with which he did it. George didn’t hesitate, or ponder, or make a false start. He simply saw Sophie’s need and responded in the simplest, most honest way possible.
I wish I could do that, he thought, then corrected himself because he didn’t want to put his arm around Sophie, lovely though she was. If the circumstances called for it, if he was the only person around, of course he would do what he could and it would be a pleasure and, he hoped, helpful.
He shook his head. I’m getting worse. I’m babbling to myself, now.
Caroline nudged him. ‘You’re awfully quiet. Are you all right?’
‘No,’ he said and she took his arm in hers.
‘A thoughtful answer.’
A war was approaching them as they stood there, rolling toward them full of blood and metal, but Aubrey found time to feel heartened.
Eighteen
George went to Sophie’s hotel to fetch her belongings, and reported that Sophie’s motorcar had disappeared, along with the driver. He’d joined the exodus from the city, according to the concierge. Many people were streaming out on any road that led east or south. The train station was bedlam, as well, and rumours spread quickly in such an environment. The Holmlanders were on the edge of the city. The Gallian government had given up on defending Divodorum. Special submersibles were coming down the river.
Sophie bought copies of any newspapers she could find. The tenor of the headlines varied wildly, from overwhelmingly optimistic pronouncements about the readiness of Gallian forces to dire warnings about Holmland advances. Aubrey searched for any mention of Albion but scant column inches were devoted to the Gallian ally apart from a small mention that the King was again unwell. Aubrey hoped Bertie was bearing up in trying times.
In the middle of such uncertainty, Aubrey concluded that it was best to keep busy while they waited for radio contact, so they engaged with more hammering and sawing. The aim was to organise somewhere for Sophie to sleep. In a pinch, she could have taken one of the cubicles meant for the remote sensers – when they arrived – but they had the timber and they had the time...
Well after midnight, a tired-eyed Caroline turned away from her listening post. ‘Finally.’ She handed Aubrey a sheet of paper then she stood and stretched, much to Aubrey’s delight, for Caroline’s stretches were uninhibited and languorous. He was convinced that such a display would be a success on any stage, anytime. ‘It’s short, whatever it says.’
Aubrey only took a few minutes on the coding machines before he had it. Yawning, he came out to find Caroline, George and Sophie at the oval table, talking in low voices over hot chocolate. ‘We can expect our remote sensers tomorrow,’ he announced. ‘1400 hours.’
‘Just after lunch?’ George said. ‘What happened to night-time drop-offs?’
‘These operatives are coming by train.’ Aubrey frowned at the message. ‘Delicate types, some of these remote sensers. They may be afraid of flying.’
‘Hmm. They should get remote sensers who are a bit more robust.’
‘I don’t think there are any two-fisted, steely-eyed remote sensers.’
Sophie wrinkled her brow. ‘Remote sensers?’
Aubrey paused, aware they were talking about their secret mission. Having Sophie there was already so comfortable and natural that he’d actually forgotten that she wasn’t part of the unit.
‘I think it might be time to explain,’ he said, ‘as long as you understand that you can’t write about this.’
Sophie shook a finger at him. ‘You do not have to worry, Aubrey. George has told me to put away my pen.’ She smiled across the table at George, who smiled back. Aubrey thought he looked like someone who was in the middle of a happy dream. ‘Most times,’ Sophie continued, ‘when someone tells me not to write a story, it makes me think that story needs to be written. But this time, I understand, and I trust you.’
And we’re about to trust you, Aubrey thought. He told the story of their mission.
‘The remote sensers,’ he concluded, ‘are a speciality – a valuable speciality – that means the Department is willing to put up with quirks that they wouldn’t otherwise.’
‘So they’re coming by train.’ Caroline stifled a yawn with a hand. ‘Sorry. I hope they can get tickets.’
‘I’m sure the Directorate will have a way.’
A volley of shells landed in the distance, one after the other, a deadly drumbeat. Sophie looked up. ‘They are so close.’
‘But getting no closer,’ George said.
‘Ah,’ said Sophie. ‘A few hills, through the woods and they are here.’
They fell silent, listening to the artillery trading blows in the night, and Aubrey found he couldn’t tell if Sophie were nervous, afraid, or intrigued by the Holmland advance.