He found Caroline in the kitchen with George and Sophie, who were preparing the midday meal in an easy partnership.
‘Catch,’ Caroline said and he managed not to disgrace himself.
‘A potato?’
‘One of many waiting to be peeled,’ she said. ‘Find a knife and lend a hand.’
‘I shall, but I think you should all know that the Directorate is anticipating a Holmland attack within a week.’
‘We know,’ George said. ‘Caroline told us.’
‘Good, good. I suppose these potatoes need peeling, then?’
Soon, he was standing at a bench with Caroline, a large bowl of water between them. It was simple, homely work and, as such, Aubrey found it comforting to work with her on such a thing. Reaching for potatoes, dipping them in the water and fumbling about provided ample opportunities for them to touch hands, to apologise, to laugh and generally to put aside the war for a while. Even when great events were in motion, Aubrey decided, the ordinary things like food and friends needed attention.
Sophie banged a lid on the pot at the back of the stove. Her face was pink from the heat of the cooking and she wiped it with an apron she’d found. ‘Aubrey, I have an idea.’
He didn’t stop peeling. ‘All ideas are welcome, Sophie. You know that.’
‘Put it on the table, my gem,’ George said, pausing in his carrot slicing. ‘Share it with everybody.’
Sophie made a quick gesture, bringing her thumb and fingers together. ‘Ah, I see. Table.’ Aubrey knew that she had taken the phrase and remembered it. He wouldn’t be surprised to hear it popping up in her conversation in the near future. ‘I want to tell everyone what is happening here.’
‘Everyone?’ George said. ‘That’s ambitious.’
She threw him a smile. ‘The people, I mean. News from the front, this front, has been sparse. When we hurried through Lutetia the newspapers were full of news of the war, but the news of the Divodorum front was laughable. Rumours, gossip, nothing more.’
‘It must be hard to obtain reports from here,’ Aubrey pointed out. ‘Almost everyone has gone.’
‘I want to send the real story of what is happening here.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ Aubrey said. ‘Military secrets, battle plans, things like that.’
Sophie threw her hands up in the air. ‘Secrets! That is the way military people think. Do not the people deserve to know what is happening?’
‘Well…’
‘Do you think that Gallians are cowards, ready to collapse if they hear that things are bad? If the Gallian people know, it will only make them more determined to fight!’
George popped a disc of carrot into his mouth and chewed for a moment. ‘If it’s done properly, if a story is well written, it could rally the nation.’
‘After all,’ Caroline put in, ‘the alternative hasn’t worked. Keeping the people in the dark has made them more fearful rather than less.’
Sophie brandished a knife. Aubrey had never seen her so passionate. ‘The government, the generals, they treat the people like children. In Gallia, where we had a revolution for the people!’
‘We’d have to leave out anything that would be useful information for Holmland spies to relay back to Fisherberg,’ Aubrey said and he realised that they now weren’t talking about whether Sophie’s idea was a good one or not – they were discussing the best way to implement it.
‘That will be easy,’ Sophie said.
‘What about the censor?’ George said. ‘In Albion, all the newspapers have to submit war stories to the official censor for approval.’
Sophie laughed. ‘Our government tried such a scheme, but it collapsed. None of the newspapers cooperated. All the cartoonists poked much fun at the idea.’ She looked at George. ‘Poked fun is correct?’
‘You’re perfect, my gem. Fun is poked, not prodded.’
‘How would we get your story to your newspaper?’ Aubrey asked, confident that with such a team, he would have at least one useful answer, if not two or three.
‘George,’ Sophie asked, ‘do you have the time?’
George took out his pocket watch. ‘It’s just after noon.’
‘Very good.’ Sophie went to the door of the kitchen, opened it, and waved. ‘This is Claude,’ she said.
Claude was short and stocky, and when he took off his cloth cap he revealed a shock of thick, black hair that looked as if it would be an excellent defence against head injury. He bowed, nervously. ‘Claude’s father was the editor of the local newspaper,’ Sophie continued. ‘George and I found him on our way back from meeting Major Saltin.’
‘I represent The Divodorum Journal,’ Claude said in good Albionish. ‘It is a dull name, but it has been with the people of Divodorum for fifty years. They are used to it.’
‘Claude is the local correspondent for my newspaper, The Sentinel , but since the offices of the Journal were bombed, his job has been difficult.’
‘I have photographs of the front,’ Claude explained. ‘I want to get them to Lutetia.’
‘How did you get photographs?’ Aubrey asked. ‘Isn’t the military sensitive about things like that?’
Claude beamed, showing a gap in his front teeth. ‘I have friends at the fortress. They send provisions to the front in lorries. A lorry stops at a bridge just to the north. I jump on, spend time at the front, then jump back on the lorry to come home.’
‘No-one objects? What about the officers?’
‘I take photographs of them and promise I will send them to their wives and sweethearts.’
Claude explained how he’d cross the river and catch a train to Lutetia with Sophie’s stories and his photographs never leaving his grasp.
Sophie insisted that he had been a reliable contact in the past. ‘I will have an account of the defence of Divodorum ready tomorrow,’ she said.
Aubrey thought about the timing. The adage about two birds and one stone came to mind. ‘Claude, if you can join us here at ten o’clock on Thursday, we have to hire a barge to fetch a delivery across the river. If you help us find a reliable bargemaster, we will pay and give you a lift.’
‘A lift?’ Claude raised an eyebrow at Sophie.
‘We will take you across the river as our guest,’ she said airily. ‘It is an Albionish way of saying things.’
35
Claude was leaving when the lorries with von Stralick, Madame Zelinka and the Enlightened Ones drove in through the gates. The backboards banged down. A few of the Enlightened Ones had to be helped down by friends. Aubrey dragged open the front doors of the factory. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing.’ Madame Zelinka was grey-faced with exhaustion and something else – pain? ‘And too much.’
‘We have a major problem here in Divodorum,’ von Stralick said. He eased Madame Zelinka to a chair, and Aubrey then saw that she was cradling one arm in the other.
‘Only half the Enlightened Ones have come back,’ Caroline said softly.
Von Stralick barked orders to Madame Zelinka’s colleagues. The uninjured began unloading medical supplies from the lorries, while four sat on the floor, against the wall, roughly bandaged.
‘What happened?’ Aubrey repeated.
Von Stralick shook his head. ‘Downstairs. Close the doors first.’
In the basement, the Enlightened Ones showed no trace of panic, just careful, methodical movements. The injured were helped down the stairs and onto the bedding that took up most of the floor space. Others distributed water.
Madame Zelinka refused to lie down. Von Stralick eased her into one of the ancient lounge chairs that George had bought when trying to make the place more comfortable. ‘The fire, at the warehouse.’ Madame Zelinka took a
