The girl said, ‘The Programme Director is still out of Paris, sir, can anyone else help?’
‘How about Mr Kilduff? He’s a Lieutenant with your Military Police I think.’
‘We have no one with that name here, sir, but if you’ll wait a few seconds I shall connect you.’
Kilduff was laughing as he picked up the phone. He said, ‘You’re a cocky little bastard. I can’t believe that you’re still running around loose. What do you want?’
‘Nothing. I just picked up a telephone to see if it worked.’
‘They all do. Right across Europe. If you have the number you can phone up the bunker and speak to Goebbels.’
‘Have you done that?’
‘We all have. It really pisses them off – they’re still trying to fight the war. I’ve been doing that a lot since I met you: trying to piss people off. You give people really bad ideas.’
‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
‘You were born with the words I don’t understand dribbling out of your mouth; probably in a talk bubble, like in the comics. You remember my Scotch nigger McKechnie?’
‘Yes, I do. What happened to him?’
‘Done a runner, just like you, Charlie. The bastard even left me a letter, resigning from the war. You found that woman yet?’
‘I’m getting closer. When I do I’m coming back for you and your lunatics.’
He laughed at that, ‘Maybe they don’t want you to find her any more? Ever thought of that?’ Then he laughed again. Really laughed, and put the phone down on me.
Cummings was standing beside me, moving restlessly. He wanted to move. Something that Kilduff had said had registered with me. I told Cummings, ‘You go up to the church without me, if that’s what you want.’
He nodded.
I added, ‘I want to make another call while I can. This might be the only phone line in Belgium still working.’
‘OK, sir, but please don’t touch anything else. These spaces could be wired.’
‘OK, I won’t take any chances.’ But I already had, just by lifting the phone without thinking. Stupid.
He and Doug moved down the tiled passageway, and out into the light again. I picked up the telephone handset and the same girl answered. My French sounded better than hers. I gave the telephone number for Crifton – the big house in Bedfordshire – and asked if I could call there. She asked if I had an authorization for calling England. I said I didn’t know, and she asked for my service number. She went to silent running for about a half minute, and then came back and said that that was OK. Barnes answered. I told him, ‘It’s Charlie Bassett.’
He said, ‘It’s good to hear from you, Mr Charlie. Where are you?’
‘Somewhere in Europe. Is Mr or Mrs Baker at home?’
‘Mrs Baker’s standing alongside me, sir. I’ll put her straight on.’
Even over a crackly line Adelaide’s voice was unmistakable. Unless you mistook her for Lauren Bacall that is.
‘Hello Charlie. Any news?’
‘No. That’s what I was going to ask you.’
‘No. Except that creepy policeman from London came back to visit, and leer at me. He said that she’s definitely not in London.’
‘She’s been in France, but she’s not there now. I found someone who met her here. It sounds as if you have a grandchild, by the way, but I don’t know the details: congratulations. I’m heading north.’
The line was noisier now; and having phoned Grace’s home out of curiosity really, I now found that I had little to say. So I closed it down.
‘I must go now.’
‘Take care, Charlie.’
‘I will. Take care yourself. Look after Barnsey.’ Why did I think that she sounded odd: or that there was something different in her voice? Maybe that bastard Kilduff had spooked me.
I stepped away from the telephone; and then back to it, and picked up the handset for the third time. After a ten-second buzz the same operator answered.
I said, ‘This is Pilot Officer Bassett of the RAF. Somewhere in Belgium, I think.’
‘I know. I checked your number against our list. Serving officers are authorized for telephone traffic.’
‘I’m pleased. I telephoned again because I really like the sound of your voice, and wanted to know where your telephone switchboard is and if I could meet you. What town do you work in?’
After a pause she said, ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you.’
‘No. You probably shouldn’t. What’s your name then?’
‘Ingrid.’
‘Tell me where you work, Ingrid.’
There was a ten-beat pause again, before she said, ‘Bremen. At the International Telephone Exchange. I speak four languages.’
‘You’re German?’
‘Ja.’
‘In Germany?’
‘Ja.’
‘Crikey!’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Do you think that the war is nearly over?’
‘Yes. Yes; I hope so.’
‘I hope so too. I am frightened. Frightened of the bombing and the occupation. Frightened the Russians will get here first.’
‘So am I. Frightened, I mean. I’ll find you if I get to Bremen. What’s your other name?’
‘Knier. We spell it with a K and an N. That is K-N-I-E-R.’
‘And where do you live?’
‘Here; at the telephone offices. My own house was bombed. This is a silly conversation, Pilot Officer – you are not writing down what I am saying.’
‘I have an exceptional memory; trust me. You are Ingrid Knier, with a K, and you live at a telephone exchange. You are very pretty – I can tell that from your voice. You’re frightened of the bombing, and the occupation. I’m going to find you in Bremen.’ All my life I have been good at girls who are good at conversational pauses. Then she said, ‘I think not, Pilot Officer. I must go now. Take care of yourself, and live long.’
Then there was a click. I put the handset down in its cradle, and picked it up again.
The line was no longer live. For the first time since I had joined up I had spoken to the enemy, and the enemy had spoken back to tell me to take care of myself, and live long. Funny bloody world.
I walked out onto the road, and caught Cummings and Doug outside the church talking to a man who was
