old as my tongue and a bit older than my teeth! So are you going to pour that tea before it’s stewed to ruination, and give me the news from Yorkshire?’ She had never been to Holdenby; probably never would, but that didn’t prevent her feeling a part of Rowangarth.
And Tatiana said she was, then whispered again that she was sorry, because not for anything would she upset Sparrow, who must be at least seventy-five.
Keth shook the hand of a colonel from Army Intelligence, who did not offer his name but asked him, pleasantly enough, to sit down and make himself comfortable.
‘So! The MO and the dental officer have given you the all clear; have you made a will?’
‘Yes.’ Talk of such things made him uneasy. Wills were for old people, he had always thought. ‘When I was first commissioned, I took care of that.’
‘And your next of kin is your mother?’
‘Yes.’ Mention of next of kin gave him the same feeling.
‘Just a precaution. Nothing sinister, but in view of the fact you’ll be under some slight risk …’
‘Slight!’ Keth jerked.
‘You’re having second thoughts? Because now’s the time to say so …’
‘No second thoughts. I was told there would be conditions and I accepted them. But don’t think I shall enjoy going, because I won’t! So does that make me a coward?’
‘No. I wouldn’t give much chance for the safety of any of our operatives who had no fear. Nor would I believe them if they said as much. And a man who admits fear, but still goes ahead with the job is far from being a coward.’
‘I’m a mathematician, sir. There’s not one iota of derring-do in my entire body.’
‘Then be glad of it. It’s the careful ones who make it home every time. But you aren’t a trained operator, as such. We’ve given you only enough knowledge to help you survive. The less you know, the better. We’ll put you ashore, you’ll be met and taken to a safe house. You’ll wait there until you hear that what you have gone to collect will be delivered to you.
‘Then you’ll hang on to it – study it all you can within the bounds of safety – and keep your head down until we can have you picked up. It will depend on weather conditions, and suchlike. Either the submarine that will take you out will bring you back, or we’ll send a Lysander in.’
‘And I’m definitely going in by submarine. No jumps?’
‘No parachuting. According to your records, you wouldn’t survive another jump!’
‘You could be right, sir.’ Keth managed a smile; one of relief rather than pleasure. ‘It’s an experience I’d rather not dwell on. The sea route sounds a lot safer.’
‘It is safe. There’s a submarine flotilla not five miles from here – the fifteenth. They’ve done a fair bit of toing and froing for us in the past. We’ve been in touch with their navigating officer about tides and things. We want a flowing tide; one that will wash away any evidence like footsteps – allow the dinghy to get as far inshore as possible. Provided the Met boys give us the okay weatherwise, you’ll be on your way within hours and back within a couple of weeks. Then you’ll completely forget your little errand to France.’
Little errand? Typical, that was, when just to think of it made his teeth water, Keth brooded.
‘I’ll be happy to – forget it, I mean.’
‘You’ll be in all sorts of trouble if you don’t! Anyway, good luck, Purvis. Get yourself over to Room 22. Your papers are ready – and all you need to know about Gaston Martin. Read them over and over. Think yourself into his identity. He was born in a little place near Lyons, which is in unoccupied France. You won’t be going anywhere near there, so you’re unlikely to run into anyone who might have known him. His family probably have been told that he’s missing, believed killed in action.
‘If anything happens, though, make for the unoccupied sector. You’ll be safe enough there. This far, the Krauts have respected their boundaries and left them alone.’
‘Vichy France, you mean, sir? And what constitutes anything?’
‘Anything going wrong. You can get to the Pyrenees from unoccupied territory, and over into Spain. Or you’ll be told by Room 22 where you can get help. In one of the Marseilles brothels, for instance, the madam can be relied upon.’
‘Brothel?’
‘Yes. Places where men can come and go without being noticed over much. Don’t look so holier-than-thou, man. There is a war on, don’t forget, but you can ask all the questions you want of the Room 22 people. They’ll be rigging you out with clothes and all you need. Ask a lot of questions. What may seem trivial might just stand you in good stead if anything were to go a bit wrong – which it shouldn’t.’
‘No, sir. A straightforward pick-up.’
‘Absolutely.’ The colonel rose to his feet, holding out his hand, wishing Keth good luck, assuring him that if he kept his ears open and his eyes down, the entire operation should go like clockwork.
Keth pushed back his chair, put on his cap, then saluted and left the room, hoping with all his thudding heart that the colonel knew what he was talking about.
Clockwork. He would say it over and over again. It would be his good-luck word. The submarine boys would get him there and someone would get him out. With the package. And he would want to know more about that package and about what he would do when he stood up to the ankles in sea water and the submarine lads were getting the hell out of it!
He thought about the last war and men who were given no choice but to crawl over the tops of trenches into No Man’s Land through barbed wire and uncharted minefields, to face the machine gunners. His thoughts went back to a churchyard in Hampshire; to the grave of the man who had gone over the top many times. And in that moment he felt a strange, fatalistic calm and very near to Dickon Purvis, his father, who, if there really was a hereafter, would be looking down tonight on his son. And understanding.
‘Well, that’s everybody been and gone – well, almost everybody,’ Gracie sighed. ‘Drew and Kitty, and Tatty. And Daisy goes tomorrow.’
‘You’ve forgotten young Keth. He hasn’t been. And what about Bas, then?’ Catchpole demanded.
‘The idiot!’ Bas had decided not to take the one Sunday train to York, saying he would rather stay a few hours longer, then hitch a lift back to his billet at the Army Air Corps base at Burtonwood. ‘He was absent without leave, you know. Someone was covering for him, but I hope he made it back all right. Stupid!’ Gracie fretted, pushing her hoe angrily into a very small weed. ‘One of these days he’ll run into the Snowdrops and his feet won’t touch the ground!’
‘Snowdrops?’
‘Their military police. They call them that because they wear white gaiters and white helmets.’
‘Hm. Snowdrops is nice little flowers. Pretty and dainty – and welcome. You alus know winter is almost over when the snowdrops flower.’
