Chapter Ten

The summer months flew by and Grey showed no signs of restlessness, which Mabel assured me was nothing short of miraculous. He was funny, attentive and undeniably good company. We also made no bones about being attracted to each other.

At the end of August I wrote to Maggie, attempting to describe him in the hopes that they might meet one day; her reply was less enthusiastic. 'I'm sure he's lovely,' she wrote. 'But in the words of our mother, he sounds like he'll be a hard dog to keep on the porch.' I stewed over this remark for a few days, turning it over in my mind again and again.

At least things with Rochard seemed to have improved. He could be brusque, but I had come to the realisation that his behaviour shouldn't be taken personally; it was simply his way of coping. There would be no drastic change in personality, no sudden flash of brilliance breaking through the turbulent exterior.

The autumn of 1942 brought troubling reports from Poland of the expansion of the labour camps, facilitating the mass deportation of Jews and prisoners of war to the east. We knew the war had taken a darker turn, but Rochard would have little influence without verifiable evidence. By October he had run out of patience. There had been no recorded successful breakouts from the camps with the exception of Bartosz, and Crawley was adamant in his refusal to release funding for reconnaissance trips. Without it, we were at an impasse. As the evenings began to draw in, he would wait until the office was empty before turning the record player at full volume. Bach, Haydn and Handel were his favourites. Not long after the incident with Crawley, he began playing more of my father's records; the 1920 Berlin concert, the 1922 Florentine recital. They were rare recordings, some of which even I didn't own. I hadn't forgotten that Rochard had seen him in concert once, in 1924; I would have been there, too, watching somewhere in the wings. Whenever I heard them my impression of him at sixteen, enigmatical at best, would flicker to life momentarily.

November came, and with it my birthday on a Thursday. Grey brought me red roses, and on the way back from the pictures we kissed for the first time. He obviously knew what he was doing, his lips brushing against mine in measured, languorous strokes. In the crisp autumnal air, the pleasure of being enveloped in his warm coat was undeniable. When we both finally drew away, it was with reluctance.

"Happy Birthday, darling," he murmured.

I swayed slightly. "Thank you."

"Are you cold?"

"Just a little." He gave me his scarf to wear as we walked the rest of the way to my flat.

"You're awfully quiet," he said after a while, glancing at me cautiously. "What are you thinking about?"

I knew I couldn't tell him about Maggie's letter, which had managed to resurface in my memory the moment we had broken the kiss. "Nothing."

"Christine. I know you well enough by now to know when you're holding something back. What is it?"

"It's just – something my sister said. It's stayed with me all week, and I feel rather ashamed about it now."

"What did she say?"

I looked away. "I'm afraid if I say it you'll be offended. I told her I thought things were going well and she said….she said she thought you'd be 'a hard dog to keep on the porch'".

He didn't reply immediately, but reknotted the scarf around my neck with a maddening patience. "She doesn't know me," he said, "but you do. I rather think you're a better judge of me than she is. Don't you?"

I avoided meeting his eye. "I don't know how someone like me could possibly interest someone like you."

"Someone like me? And who do you imagine I am?" His tone was encouraging, but I suddenly felt silly voicing my fears.

"You draw people to you," I began hesitantly. "You can't help it. You're charming. And you're very handsome."

I heard him laugh quietly. "I see. And what else?"

"I'm not any of those things."

He seemed to find this even more amusing.

"If that's all I have to recommend me, perhaps we don't know each other so well after all."

"No, that's not what I mean," I said hurriedly. "I'm sorry to be so…indecisive."

His hands squeezed my arms lightly. "Stop overthinking it. Just tell me the first thing that comes into your head. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." I looked directly at him. "But I'm afraid I'll bore you. Eventually." I winced as I said it; it was exactly the kind of thing Maggie would have told me not to say to a man I liked.

"My darling girl," he said, "nothing you do could bore me." He paused. "I don't know how to explain it exactly. Time will tell, though. You'll see." I let him kiss me again; I liked him too much not to. As soon as I was alone, I made a new resolution to try and give him the benefit of the doubt.

The next evening I worked late again. For some time I'd attempted to persuade Rochard that he needed to leave work earlier and rest, but nothing would move him. He prowled the office and the typing pool outside as the music played. It seemed to help him think. I'd begun the day with the hopes of finishing the work he had placed in my in-tray by six, but the stack of work had doubled. More than once he caught me glancing wistfully at the clock; each time, he seemed on the verge of saying something. I schooled myself for a sarcastic remark.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"I…breakfast time, I think."

"Why didn't you eat at lunchtime?"

"I forgot."

"You forgot? Miss Jones, you must eat." It took me a moment or two to understand that he was joking. I smiled involuntarily and he did the same.

"I'll go down now," I offered, standing up. "The canteen should still be open. Can I get you anything?"

"I'll go with you." He motioned for me to go first. As we walked down he stayed two steps behind me. When we reached the canteen, he stopped and turned to me. "What would you like to eat?"

"I – whatever they have that's still out. I don't mind." He headed for the kitchen and I chose a table by the window. I had brought a report that needed proof-reading with me, but I was too hungry to concentrate. The nights had begun to draw in; it didn't take much to feel tired any more. I turned back to the report, when a shadow crossed it. It was Rochard. He set down a bottle of red wine and two glasses. "You don't follow your own advice," he said, sitting opposite me. "You eat less than I do."

I watched him pour the wine. "Aren't you going back to the office?" He paused. Immediately I knew I had said the wrong thing.

"Don't let me interrupt you if you're working."

"I only meant –"

"You only meant that you'd rather be alone."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" I threw up my hands. "I'd like some wine."

He poured it without a word. "They'll bring the food when it's ready." Only Rochard could have persuaded the kitchen staff to serve us as if we were in a restaurant. He took out his cigarette case from his breast pocket and opened it, offering it to me. "Be careful," he said as I took one. "They're strong." I held it out for him to light. Then, after lighting his own he shut my file and placed it on the windowsill. "You and Grey seem to be serious."

"I – I don't know about that."

"He certainly seems to be serious about you."

"So he tells me."

"But you don't believe him?"

"Colonel, if you're trying to warn me..." I couldn't think of how to finish the sentence.

He leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie. "No. I'm just curious." I sipped my wine and he mirrored me, his expression inscrutable. "You work together. It might put the two of you in an awkward position if things were to go wrong."

"So you don't believe him, either?" I had to refrain from sounding too sharp. "Considering he's a friend of yours, you don't seem to give him much credit."

"Perhaps." He paused, frowning. "You once told me you had my personal interests at heart. Even though Grey is an old friend, allow me to return the favour."

"Please stop," I rejoined. "You can be sure you've done your professional duty. If I do run into trouble, you'll have nothing to reproach yourself with."

"You misunderstand me. It's quite clear that you…lack experience. No, don't be offended." He leaned forward and repeated it, more gently. "Don't be offended. Even if you choose to disregard everything else I say, believe that I say this with the best of intentions."

"If you really have the best of intentions, I'd rather you didn't say anything."

"I'm not trying to patronise you. But let's talk about something else." He reached for the bottle and I realised we had already drained both of our glasses. We chatted about work instead; when he chose to he could be an attentive listener, and quickly changed the subject whenever we exhausted it. By the time the food came I was lightheaded and ravenous, too hungry even to care how it would look if I wolfed down my food. The dessert was the highlight; baked peaches with whipped cream and rum.

"I haven't had peaches since before the war started," I sighed. "I didn't think you could still get them."

"There aren't many," Rochard stated. He had already finished his food and had lit another cigarette. "Grey told me it was your birthday yesterday, so I called in a favour. This was as much as could be had on such short notice." He watched as I finished the last spoonful, and then raised his glass with a genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Happy Birthday, Miss Jones."

"I – thank you." Such thoughtfulness on Rochard's part was astonishing. "You didn't need to go to so much trouble for me."

"It was no trouble." I wished he would say more, and realised with a jolt that I was fishing for compliments.

"Well, I've had a wonderful birthday."

"I'm glad."

"And I appreciate that you are trying to give me advice about Colonel Grey –"

"But you'd rather I minded my own business."

"No, it was kindly meant, I'm sure. But I don't think it's a mistake. And even if it is, I'd rather make it than be scared off without giving it a chance."

"Some mistakes are irreversible." Once again, I wished he would say more; but the conversation was apparently at an end. He stood up and finished the last of his wine. "I must go back up. Come when you're ready." I stayed for a few minutes after he left, fuming inwardly; it felt like he had played a cheap trick to gain the upper hand. I took the report and returned reluctantly to the office. As soon as I'd finished it I took it to him at his desk. "I've finished proof-reading and I've done everything in my in-tray. I'd like to go home now, if you have nothing else for me."

Rochard looked up. "I've upset you."

I took a deep breath before responding. "No. I've had a long day and I'm tired. May I go?"

"You're not being honest with me. But go, if you're feeling tired. We'll talk again on Monday." I knew if I said anything, it would prove him right. I turned and left without a word.