‘How long did the shooting go on for?’
‘About four days proper. Me and Jimmy arrived on day one. We didn’t fancy all the bullets flying around, so we found a widow with a little house over in the Tivoli. We had a jeep then, so I hid it in her back garden under a tarp. I slept for three days. When we came out again, De Gaulle and Leclerc’s heroes were facing down the Maquis in the Place dew Concorde: each claiming they’d finished the war and beaten les Boches on their own – that’s what they call Jerry. Les Boches.’
‘I knew that.’
‘Not many people do,’ the Major told us, still wrestling with his map.
‘Why does he sometimes say that?’ I asked Les.
‘It’s something he does. Don’t let it worry you. He gets a few words fixed into his head, and worries them to death.’
‘On the squadron ours was “Just like that”, like that comic you told me about.’
‘I like that,’ England said. ‘I really do. I’ll remember that.’
‘Now look what you done,’ Les told me.
The Major put the map away, and Les drove us to three places they had stayed at before. No go. There were liberators everywhere: it cost you three dollars to sleep in someone’s garden. They’d even taken over a couple of the grand old churches for billets.
James England said, ‘No bloody good, Les. What d’y’reckon? Push on, and see if we can get something further out?’
‘How about a drink?’
Les stopped the car alongside an American Snowdrop who looked grateful that we’d distracted him from his duel with the traffic.
‘Aw, fuckit,’ he told us. ‘They can drive on whichever side they wants. I’m up to here with them.’ He held his white night-stick up to chin level.
‘We were looking for a drink,’ I told him.
‘Come far?’
‘From 1942.’
The Yank grinned.
‘Two blocks up, take a left. One block on, take a right. You’re on a wide avenue with trees, running parallel to this. So far?’
‘Yes, so far.’
‘You’ll come to a small square at the junction of three roads. There’s this guy there who sells vino from a sort of pushcart.’
There were two clumps of chairs and tables, under trees coming into early leaf, and a man with a small handcart – like an ice-cream cart – was parked between them, dispensing tencent glasses of wine from big, greasy jars. We parked up at the empty bunch of seats. There seemed to be a party from a heavily laden jeep going on at the other. American brown jobs and a couple of noisy civilians. The old man who sold the drink had moustaches which drooped to the floor and stringy yellow hair. He sold us a plain white wine, cooled by sitting the glass carboy it came in on a block of ice. He thanked me gravely for liberating him. I told him to thank General De Gaulle, and he told me that his grandfather’s oldest pig smelled better than De Gaulle. I held my hands up and surrendered to him with a grin. I wasn’t arguing with him, I said. He said, ‘Bon,’ but after he returned my smile, looked down into his cart. I followed his glance and found myself looking at a revolver. Lying just to hand.
‘I protect my customers,’ he told me, and shrugged.
‘What’s all the Froggie talk about then?’ Les asked me.
‘He wanted to know whether we wanted white or red wine. I told him white.’
‘I thought I could hear you talking about De Gaulle?’
‘He named one of his wines after him. I chose the other.’
‘Just so long as he keeps his mitt away from his gun.’
‘You saw that, did you?’
‘I looked for it. You and I are going to have to have a little chat about self-preservation.’
‘Yes, Les.’ I said it meekly.
‘. . . and stop taking the piss.’
‘Yes, Les.’ I said it even more meekly.
England laughed. He had a big deep laugh.
Halfway through the second glass I had that nervy feeling that I was being watched. Without thinking I said, ‘Someone’s watching me.’
Les said, ‘Get ready to jump, then,’ and casually moved his Sten onto his lap, as if to make himself more comfortable. Then I looked up at the other party. A woman in an olive drab boiler suit was staring at me from twenty-five feet away, a big wicked smile on her face. I knew her short, dark blonde hair. I knew without looking that she had a flash saying War Correspondent sewn sloppily on a place above her left tit, and that she had crooked teeth. She waved. Les tensed.
‘OK chaps,’ I told them. ‘Panic over. I know her: she’s an American journalist I met in England. Sorry about that.’
‘Never say you’re sorry,’ Les told me. ‘It’s a sign of weakness.’ He relaxed.
‘That’s good enough to be in a film one day,’ I told him.
‘I thought so, too,’ the Major said. ‘I’m going to write it into my notebook.’
I waved back, and she sauntered over, rolling her hips like a Clydesdale.
I stood up to shake hands, but she gave a little laugh, and kissed me on both cheeks, Froggie fashion. I probably blushed. She said, ‘Hi, Charlie. Taking some rays?’
‘Rays?’
‘Sitting in the sunshine, dummy. How are you? Stopped flying yet?’
‘Temporarily.’ Then I told my mates, ‘This is Lee Miller. She’s an American photographer and war correspondent. She took my photograph mixed in with
