Chapter 25 Frances
Frances
Paris
I didn’t say a word more to Alain about his name, or his dealings with the Nazis. I stewed about it in my own head, until I was barely sleeping or eating. It felt like the stakes were suddenly heightened, and I didn’t know what to do for the best.
I watched Alain like a hawk and saw nothing more to make me suspicious. But my observations did make me realise I’d been right when I thought he and Guy were more than just friends. They moved around one another so comfortably, talking quietly to each other and holding the other’s gaze.
Even Sylvie had seen it.
‘They are a couple, I think,’ she said, seeing me watching them.
‘I think so, too.’
‘Do you mind?’ she asked.
‘No. Do you?’
‘No.’
She nodded, like I’d passed a test.
‘But I’m worried,’ I added.
‘Because the Nazis also hate men who like men?’
‘Yes.’
Sylvie snorted. ‘Half of them also feel that way. It would not surprise me if along with the alcohol and the medicine and the women, Alain is also providing the Nazis with men.’
I was startled. ‘Women and men?’ I said with a shudder. ‘Surely not? Selling booze is one thing, but people?’
‘This is Paris,’ said Sylvie. ‘City of love.’
‘That’s not love.’
Sylvie shrugged. ‘We do what we can.’
I looked at her, not sure what to say, then I was saved by the rumble of an engine outside.
‘Another delivery?’ I said.
‘Were you expecting something?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. Could this be from London? The books Marcus had arranged for us to send out.
Together, Sylvie and I went out of the side door and into the courtyard where a van was pulling up.
‘For Frances Reed,’ the driver said out of the window.
‘That’s me.’
He opened the door and got out, then he went to the back of the van and opened it up. Sylvie and I stared inside. The whole van was full of boxes, each labelled Peacock Books.
‘What is this?’ Sylvie said. ‘There are so many.’
‘Are these for the soldiers?’ Alain and Guy had come outside too, obviously having heard the van, and Guy was looking just as shocked as we were. ‘Where have they come from?’
‘Let’s unload them all, and then I’ll tell you.’
We formed ourselves into a line and began passing the boxes along, into the library, as we always did. We were quite slick at it now.
Guy went to find a trolley and Alain – at the end of the line – loaded the boxes on. When the trolley was full, we all paused and Alain helped Guy unload them again in the part of the library we’d been using for the Soldiers’ Book Service.
Usually, we only had to do this once – or perhaps twice if it was a particularly large donation – but today we did it three times.
There were so many boxes, we had to pile them on top of each other.
I signed the van driver’s paperwork, and off he went.
We all stood for a second, staring at the books in disbelief.
‘Where have all these come from?’ asked Guy. ‘Did you know they were coming?’
‘Ah,’ I said. I sat down on one of the boxes. ‘Let me tell you about this.’
Everyone else sat down too. I’d gone over in my head how to tell everyone what was happening, while not telling them too much, but I suddenly felt nervous about it.
‘Peacock are doing special editions of some of their books for the forces,’ I began. ‘Because we have contacts already, they’ve asked us to help get them out to soldiers in the field. We’re just a staging post really. The books will come here, and we’ll send them on.’
Guy looked thoughtful. ‘It’s a good idea,’ he said.
‘I agree.’ I smiled at him. ‘They’ve chosen stories they think soldiers will like.’
‘What have they chosen?’ asked Sylvie.
‘Let’s have a look,’ I said, standing up. I hadn’t been intending to open the boxes – Marcus had said we simply needed to add them to our own collections – but they were here and suddenly I wanted to be sure that the boxes did actually contain books.
So with one of my keys, I sliced the tape that was holding one box closed, and breathed a sigh of relief as it sprang open to reveal the distinctive Peacock books inside.
I took one out – it was Death of a Ghost by Margery Allingham. ‘Oh,’ I said in delight. ‘I love this story.’
I turned it over in my hand. It was slightly different from the usual Peacock books.
It was a bright blue colour – peacock blue in fact.
I knew they were usually orange, or green.
And it was smaller than other books. The perfect size to fit in a pocket.
Underneath the title on the cover were the words ‘Services Edition’.
‘You’d like this one,’ said Guy, who’d opened another box. ‘Modern American Short Stories.’
I hadn’t intended to open more boxes, but it seemed churlish to say so now.
‘Are they all different?’ asked Sylvie, holding out her hand for Guy’s keys so she could open a box.
‘I think there are twelve different books for now, but they’re intending to do more,’ I told her, watching as she pulled out The Patrician by John Galsworthy. ‘You won’t like that, Sylvie. It’s terribly English.’
Sylvie dropped the book back into the box like it was hot and I laughed, opening another box and finding Cold Comfort Farm inside.
‘You’d like this though.’ I handed it to her.
Sylvie began leafing through the pages, chuckling as she read.
Alain was looking at Brighton Rock.
‘These books have come from shops,’ he said, turning the novel round so we could all see the stamp in the front page.
I went cold. Of course, it had to be Alain who noticed that.
‘I’m not sure where they’ve come from.’ I kept my voice steady. ‘We’re just sending them out, that’s all.’
Alain nodded, frowning at the address in the front of the Graham Greene he was clutching. ‘Why haven’t the bookshops just sent them out to where they need to go?’
‘They don’t know where they need to go,’ I said. ‘That’s why the British asked us to help.’
‘Right,’ said Alain. He didn’t sound convinced. ‘It makes sense, I suppose.’
He looked down at the novel he was holding. ‘I’ve never heard of Graham Greene. He can’t be very good.’
‘He’s terrific,’ I said, sharply. ‘And this book is great. Perhaps you should read it? Read them all. You might learn something.’
Alain’s eyes widened.
‘I’m a great reader,’ he said. ‘I’ve read all the classics. I’ve done a bit of writing too. One of my professors at university said my prose was some of the best he’d read.’
And perhaps it was my nerves, or the lack of sleep, or just everything, but I snapped.
‘Oh, of course he did.’
Alain put Graham Greene back in the box and looked at me, a smirk on his face. ‘Tout va bien?’
‘No, I’m not all right,’ I said. ‘I am not. Because we are doing important work here and you are full of stories about university and books and the bloody Resistance, and you are getting on my last nerve.’
‘Frances,’ said Guy, holding his hand out towards me like I was an unpredictable dog. ‘Calm down …’
‘Get. Out,’ I said to Alain. ‘We don’t need you here. Go.’
Alain shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want.’
He turned to go.
‘Alain!’ said Guy, as Sylvie said, very firmly: ‘Stay here, Alain.’
Alain stopped where he was. I looked at him and at Guy and Sylvie.
‘We need Alain,’ said Sylvie. ‘We need him because we can’t do the deliveries without him.
And if there are many boxes like these on their way, we can’t do the Soldiers’ Book Service without him either.
And I know he is really annoying, and he is too fond of his own voice, and his stories are probably all lies, but we need him. ’
‘Thank you?’ said Alain, exchanging a glance with Guy. ‘I think?’
Sylvie lifted her chin. ‘If you send Alain away,’ she said. ‘Guy and I will go too. We are a team. One for all, all for one. Like The Three Musketeers.’
Next to her, Guy chuckled, then put his hand over his mouth to stifle it.
My chest was tight and I felt close to tears. I was still suspicious about Alain, but I also knew Sylvie was right.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Alain, please stay.’
Alain, looking slightly baffled, nodded.
‘Good,’ said Sylvie.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Alain.
‘Pfft,’ said Sylvie. ‘Don’t go too far.’