‘What happened to your Jerry?’
‘I had a card from Beauvais last week. He’s waiting for transport to England, with his wife and son. Turns out he’s a spy been sending information to England since 1942. There was I, part scared and part ashamed because I’d thrown my lot in with the Jerries, an’ my Jerry was spying for our lot all along. He was sending them details of the food that the Nazis were moving around France: from that they could work out what kind of unit, and how big, was being supplied. Silly, isn’t it?’ I noticed that ain’t was now isn’t.
‘Why did you shoot Mr Bonnet?’
‘For what he was doing: he was rounding up Jews and poor folk for the Black Riders. I wasn’t standing for that. What a tosser!’
‘Who are the Black Riders?’
‘The SS. Freemasons with a bad attitude. They’re a mad, bad bunch keen on black underwear, and cloaks down to the ground. Stay away from them.’
‘How did you meet your Jerry?’
‘He came the morning after the Lancaster dropped into the back garden: to take it away. Fancy another cup of this stuff, or a little glass of wine?’
‘The wine would be good.’
The small stove radiated heat, and I felt very comfortable. It’s the only word I can use. The wine she brought back with her was thick and heavy and sweet. Like port. She said that it was Madeira, or from Madeira; I can’t remember which. You drank it in small half-glasses with thick stems. Mrs Maggs said, ‘Your turn. What’s the fine Major and Mister Finnigan up to?’
I can’t remember any more. Until the morning.
It was a Hollywood hangover, but not a classic. My head felt as if it was full of cotton wool. There was a nasty dry taste in my mouth: a mixture of the herbal tea I had taken the evening before, and that heavy wine. Raffles wasn’t best pleased with me. In fact I was almost certain that he was angry. I knew that from what he did and said. I must have slept on my back fully clothed. Les scooped me up by my shirt front with one hand, dropped me on the floor and snarled, ‘You’re an effing idiot, Mr Charlie; officer or not.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, Les.’ I just wished that I could care.
I noticed that the stale perfume I could smell from his clothes wasn’t the same stale perfume I noticed in his room. Somewhere in the house Sam Browne sang ‘Let’s Face the Music and Dance’ from a reedy radio. The Major looked a bit washed out. He was sitting at the table in the aluminium kitchen, with a glass of water in front of him, trying to work up the nerve to drink it. He said, ‘Good morning, Charlie,’ then winced, and added, ‘We owe you an apology, Private Raffles and I. Sometimes we fail to take account of the fact that you and we have been fighting different wars.’
‘Sorry, Major. I don’t quite follow you.’
‘Not like you followed Evelyn’s herbal tea last night?’
‘Evelyn?’
‘Maggs.’
‘I still don’t follow.’
‘Les and I should have warned you about her herbal tea: it’s not quite what you imagine. Her husband, Bonnet, was once a Legionnaire, and brought the plants back from North Africa when he settled down. I understand that jazz musicians are quite attached to it.’
‘You mean . . .?’
‘ ’fraid so, old boy . . . that interesting and profoundly illegal stuff you’ve seen the War Ministry film about. Don’t worry: it won’t make your knob drop off, or anything like that, but it does make you unco’ chatty.’
‘How did you know?’
‘This morning. Mrs M told me all about your little errand, then asked me a favour – you’d been babbling like the proverbial brook. Donald Peers. That worries me, because you must have picked up bits and pieces about us, if you’ve half a brain. Les and I are seriously secretive about our business affairs.’
‘That had occurred to me. Can I have that water, if you’re not going to drink it?’
‘Get your own.’
Les said, ‘I’ll do it. Sit down before you fall down.’
I asked them, ‘Where’s all this leading to?’
‘A decision about whether Maggs lives to collect her Légion d’Honneur, or joins the other two, under the cabbage patch.’ That was Les.
‘You cannot be serious,’ I told him.
England said, ‘I quite like that. I might write it down later.’
Les came back at me with, ‘Try me.’
And the Major explained, ‘It depends on what you told her. I know you told her all about you, and your bint, but I don’t know what you told her about us.’
‘Nothing. I don’t know anything about you, do I?’
‘That was what she said. I don’t know whether or not to believe it. Did she ask?’
A light went on behind my eyes.
‘Yes. I told her I didn’t know.’ I drank the water Les had stuck in front of me. It was icy and sweet.
The Major went on, ‘She told us she didn’t ask.’
‘She’s scared of Les,’ I told him.
‘So am I,’ he said.
‘Where is she?’
‘Safe. Locked in her bedroom contemplating her sins. Bugger it, Les: what do you think?’
‘Fuck knows. Toss you for it, or leave it to Charlie? He was here. We weren’t.’
England started in on his water, wincing with each sip. I decided to let him lead. He asked me, ‘Look, is this thing we’re sitting in still a Lancaster bomber?’
‘No; it’s part of someone’s kitchen.’
‘It’s an example of nothing being what it seems, Charlie. Mrs Maggs is not just a friendly old Madame. Nor is she only a sad old murderess, collaborator or Resistance fighter. She’s all of those things, and more besides. She swaps information for favours, with anyone she needs to. That includes me, the Yanks, the
