Charley’s eyes narrowed and he looked wise.
“She’s on our side, Charley,” I said.
Charley looked disbelieving and gave me a look of mild contempt.
“I have to explain something to you,” I said. “It is true that Mrs. Denver is a German.” I went on: “But they are not all bad, you know. Moreover, she and her family have been treated very badly by them. Hitler is as much her enemy as ours—perhaps more so.” I tried to explain briefly and vividly what had happened at the schloss on that never-to-be-forgotten night, and I think I must have done so effectively. His eyes narrowed. He was a shrewd boy. He understood something about violence, I could see.
I finished: “You see, Charley, it is of as great importance to her as to us that we win this war.”
He nodded gravely and I knew that I had brought home my point.
It must have been a month after the incident of the phosphorescent fish, and Dorabella and I were on one of our seats in the garden watching the sea. A dark night, with a thin crescent moon, a midnight blue sky, and a smooth, almost silent sea.
The first fears of invasion no longer enveloped us. It is amazing how quickly one can become accustomed to disaster. Our spirits had been considerably lifted by the Prime Minister’s frequent broadcasts to the nation, and each passing week meant that we were more prepared. We were told that the nine divisions brought back from Dunkirk were now reinforced and at full strength. Here, in our country, there were forces from the Colonies, also Poles, Norwegians, Dutch, and French—the latter being built up by General de Gaulle. All over Britain men were rallying to the Local Defence Volunteers, and even in the last few weeks our position had improved considerably.
We were by no means lulled into security, but we were optimistic and we were certain that, when it came to conflict, we would stand firm and win.
“Do you realize,” Dorabella said to me, “it is nearly a year since all this started? It seems it has been going on forever.”
She smiled wistfully. She knew I was thinking of Jowan, as I always must be. Where was he? Should I ever see him again?
Then suddenly I noticed it. It was a faint light, not on the horizon, as we had seen with the fish, but much nearer to land.
“Do you see … ?” I began.
Dorabella was staring out to sea.
“Fish?” she said.
“Yes, perhaps it is …”
The light disappeared and then there was darkness.
“They are still laughing at us because of that night,” said Dorabella. “Only the other day … oh, look, there it is again!”
It was there and then gone. There was darkness and no sound but the gentle swishing of the waves on the beach below.
Dorabella yawned.
“Well,” she said, “we learned our lesson. No more raising the alarm for a shoal of fish.”
“They all enjoyed it and the locals were glad to have a laugh at our expense.”
“There’s something in that. Anything that can make people laugh these days can’t be all bad.”
“Gretchen is happier now.”
“It must be wonderful for her. I wish …”
She stopped, and I said: “I know. I’ve just got to go on hoping.”
“There’ll be some news soon. I feel it in my bones. I’ve got some very reliable bones.”
She was trying to cheer me. I wondered if she really believed that Jowan would come back safely.
Then I was back again, thinking of those places where we had met, going over what had been said between us, how we had gradually become aware of our feelings for each other. I remembered how unhappy I had been when I thought Dorabella was dead, and how he had comforted me and how different I had been then. Experiences change people, force them into maturity. How young I must have been before that visit to Germany!
Dorabella gave a sudden start.
“Look! Down there! I saw it on the water, a dark object bobbing about on the tide.”
“It’s a boat,” I said, and I heard the drumming of an engine.
“Probably one of the fishermen coming in late,” replied Dorabella.
We waited for a few seconds. We could not see the boat coming into the beach.
“Should we give the alarm?” I asked.
“And make ourselves a laughingstock again?”
“It’s what we’re supposed to do.”
“Gordon said we did the right thing. How were we to know about those wretched fishes?”
“Let’s go down and see who it is,” I said. “I bet it’s old Jim Treglow or Harry Penlore, or one of them. They might be just doing it to catch us … to get another laugh at the expense of ‘they foreigners.’”
“Suppose it’s some secret agent?”
“Don’t make me laugh! That’s one of the old fishing boats. There are lots of them in the harbor.”
I hesitated. We must not call the alarm again unless it was really necessary. If we had waited a while on that other occasion, we might have realized what we had seen was a shoal of fish and not an invading army.
“Come on,” said Dorabella. “We’ll watch them come in and, if it is anyone we don’t know, we’ll run up and give the alarm. There’ll be time.”
We sped down the path to the beach and stood close together in the shelter of an overhanging rock. The engine had been shut off and there were no lights showing now. Nearer and nearer came the boat. It touched the sand and then I heard a man’s voice say something in French.
Dorabella caught her breath as the man looked up at the cliff face towards the house. He had not seen us.
Then he turned and another slight figure wrapped in a cloak had started to climb out of the boat. A woman, I thought.
We had to act. We had to slip away unseen. We had to give the alarm. No one must be allowed to come ashore without some interrogation.
The man was looking our way. He had seen us. He spoke almost in a whisper but his voice was clear on the night air.
Dorabella said: “Jacques …”
The man heard. He stepped towards us, the girl beside him.
Dorabella came out of the shelter of the rock. She walked towards the pair.
She said: “Jacques, what are you doing here?”
He turned and faced her.
“Dorabella, ma petite …” Then he held out his hands.
They stood facing each other, then he turned to his companion and said: “This is my sister, Simone.”
I knew who he was now. I had seen him before at the Christmas party at Jermyn’s Priory when he had first met Dorabella. He was the French artist who had been painting the Cornish coast, and for the sake of whom she had faked a drowning accident and fled to France, leaving her husband and her little son Tristan.
He released her and turned to me, stretching out a hand and taking mine in his.
“I am so glad to see you,” he said in his accented English. “I did not think we would arrive. The sea is calm but the craft is frail … and it is a long way to come.”
“Why … why?” stammered Dorabella.
“You ask that. We cannot live in France … not till we are free again. Neither Simone nor I. It is impossible. We are two of many who are making this journey. They take to the sea … they take the small boat… and they risk their lives …but what good is life as slaves, eh? So, we escape.”
“I see,” said Dorabella. “It was very brave of you.”
She was studying Simone, a small, dark girl who looked romantically beautiful in the darkness of the night. I noticed she was shaking, and I said: “You must be cold.”
“We had long at sea,” she answered. “It is not easy … this Manche. No … even on such a night as this. We are cold and hungry but we rejoice to have succeed. We are here … as we planned to be.”
“We can give you some food and something to drink,” I said. “Come up to the house. You can tell us all about what is happening over there.”