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She was given a name, Geoff, and an address. It was a butcher’s down the street. ‘The code will be as follows. He will say, “I hear that oxtail is as fine as brisket in a stew,” and you will reply, “Yes, though the brisket is more tender.” From there you will use your code name – which is Anne – and he will radio whatever intelligence you find.’
‘Radio?’
‘To the British.’
Marianne’s eyes widened.
‘We are not as alone as we thought, trust me.’
She was glad to hear of it.
‘I understand,’ said Marianne.
The sale of the shop below her apartment was completed and it was officially now in Marianne’s name. She used the money that Freddie had sent her when the war broke out to buy it. She smiled, thinking of what Sebastien had said about how the British were helping; sometimes they were helping like Freddie had now, without even realising it. But she was grateful – she wasn’t sure she would have been able to do it otherwise. Even with the help from Otto it wasn’t enough to secure the building and she had been adamant that she wanted to own it.
She wanted to put the Blanchet name on that purchase as an act of defiance after Jacques had been forced to give up his name.
She knew that she wouldn’t need a lot of staff – she hadn’t needed much in the restaurant in Provence – but she knew she couldn’t do it alone, and so she placed an advertisement in the local paper and had a handful of respondents who she interviewed in the empty shop below. Most of the people who applied weren’t a good fit, however, like the bitter, tired woman with dirty blonde hair and very large, almost bug-like blue eyes, who had lost her husband and was so full of blind hatred she spent fifteen minutes telling Marianne how evil she was for opening up a restaurant, how awful it was that she was collaborating like this. ‘How do you sleep at night?’
Marianne just raised a brow. ‘I don’t sleep much,’ she answered mildly, yet truthfully.
The woman shrugged. ‘Yeah, well me neither, not with the baby,’ she confessed, reluctantly. Then she looked at Marianne. ‘So are you going to give me the job or what?’
It was like looking at a distorted reflection of herself.
When Marianne demurred, saying that she was still interviewing other candidates, she narrowed her eyes and then spat on the floor.
‘I’ll get back to you,’ said Marianne, with a half laugh.
Someone else joined in. She looked past the woman who was leaving with thunder on her face and saw a teenage boy with red hair and freckles.
‘Are you Madame Blanchet?’ he asked. ‘I’m here about the job as a kitchen assistant, and I er… promise not to spit on the floor if that will help my chances.’ And he grinned.
She laughed. ‘You must be Gilbert Géroux?’
He nodded. He was the last person on her list and she sighed in relief; to be honest, he was the best thing that had happened all morning. Every other person she had interviewed acted as if they were being led to the gallows, apart from this bright-eyed freckled boy, who appeared to have brought some sun.
This boy would do very well, she thought.
A week later, she met her contact at the butcher’s. He was perusing the near-empty shelves. He was in his mid-thirties or so and walked with a cane, he had dark hair that was neatly combed back, and was very tall and thin. He wore a long black overcoat, with a matching hat, and he had twinkling blue eyes.
As she made her way over, he said, ‘I hear that oxtail is as fine as brisket in a stew.’
She detected an English accent, rather posh.
She smiled in reply. ‘Yes, though the brisket is more tender.’
‘Anne?’ he asked.
‘Geoff?’
He nodded. ‘Bonjour, monsieur, Can I have some lamb chops?’ he asked the butcher, who came in from the back, wiping his hands on his stained apron. The butcher nodded, then looked at Marianne, who said, ‘The same, please.’
‘Two each,’ said Geoff, handing over ration cards.
As the butcher began to prepare the meat, Geoff looked at her. ‘You’re all set to open?’
‘Won’t be long now.’
