Finding David: Old spymasters never retire, they just change direction

By J. McL. Harris

Sometimes the stories grandparents tell seem just that, stories. After the death of her mother, Joanna Fallon visits an old lady who claims to be her grandmother, Maria. She tells Joanna a detailed story of how she met her grandfather, David, and how they ran a yacht charter business in the south of France in the late 1930s. David disappeared at the beginning of World War II.

Now that the war records have been opened, Maria asks Joanna to find out what happened to David. A simple task? When skeptical Joanna sets out to confirm Maria's story she discovers it is true, but not the whole truth. There is a lot more. Unbelievably more. Has Maria cleverly set a trap using Joanna as the bait? What Joanna finds is the untold, horrifying other half of the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922565372

Book preview

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Chapter 1

Traffic was very light on the Tasman Highway at three o’clock on a mid-summer hot Wednesday afternoon. After staying overnight with her friend as she had done every week for the last year Isobella Fallon left Scottsdale for the return trip to Launceston at two-thirty to allow plenty of time to traverse the narrow twisting road through the mountains. Passing the lookout point halfway up the range she noticed a large prime mover emerge from the parking area and quickly come up behind her car. The closeness to her made her even more nervous than she usually was and she sped up to get away but the truck kept right on her tail. Approaching a particularly tight hair-pin bend she looked in the rear-view mirror for too long and the car went into a skid. As Isobella frantically over-steered the truck driver saw his opportunity and shunted her car over the edge of the narrow road. The car flipped over and over as it plunged down the steep slope a long way before it slammed into a tree upside down. The truck driver stopped and waited until the wreck burst into flame then, satisfied that there would be no survivor, he kept going believing he had been unobserved. But he failed to notice a dun-coloured Forest Ranger’s four-wheel drive waiting in the shade for the school bus slightly up a dirt side road. A shocked young mother of two children switched on her CB radio and passed the truck’s description to headquarters. The information was promptly passed on to the police.

* * *

The letter came for Joanna a week after her mother’s funeral. Mr Daniel Smith of Jones, Lavercrombie and Fulton, a law firm with an address in Hobart, was obliged to inform her that her mother’s mother wished to see her. Would she please present herself to Mr Smith in the first instance. A telephone number was provided. Joanna was in no mood for practical jokes. Her mother’s death had saddened her beyond all expectation. They had been particularly close during Joanna’s teens but after she moved to Hobart to do an Arts degree and then got a job as a reporter for the Community Times they had drawn somewhat apart. Launceston was a long way north and communication with her mother had dwindled to a weekly telephone call.

Is this a joke? I don’t have a maternal grandmother. She died years ago.

Miss Fallon I assure you this is not a joke.

Mr Smith seemed quite indignant at the thought. He looked at his dark-haired visitor through his rimless spectacles, his eyes disturbingly blue and concerned.

My understanding is that your mother and grandmother did not get on very well. Your mother wished to be completely independent and she refused to let your grandmother know where she was or what she was doing since 1958. Your grandmother did not know of your existence until we duly notified her in accordance with your mother’s will. That is why quite naturally she wishes to see you now as a matter of urgency. She is, after all, nearly 90 years old. That is why you must travel to Sydney to see her.

Mr Smith leaned back in his creaky chair and coughed discreetly to indicate that his duty was now done. Joanna had followed this fantastic explanation with all the professional zeal of a junior reporter but now she looked away and stared unseeing at the picturesque view of tiny Constitution Dock with Storm Bay beyond it through the solicitor’s fourth floor window.

1958, she calculated, Mother married in 1962 and I wasn’t born until 1965 so it couldn’t have been that.

She looked back at Mr Smith who had been quietly watching her.

What was she doing? Why didn’t she contact grandmother? What is her name by the way?

Mr Smith recognised the shift back to normality. Joanna’s curiosity had overcome the shock at the exposing of a family secret and the sudden realisation that perhaps she was not alone in the world after all.

Her name is Mrs Maria Jackson, he said. But apart from the fact that she is still alive although not in the best of health and living at the address we will give you we know nothing more. You will have to ask her.

Joanna had quickly adjusted back to her practical nature and focussing her direct look on the young solicitor she asked "Can you tell me about my mother’s will please? What do I have to do? I’m not well up with this sort of thing I’m afraid."

Mr Smith was glad to progress so rapidly to practical business. Looking at some notes on the desk he said Now that the first requirement of your mother’s will has been accomplished I am pleased to inform you that your mother’s estate is left entirely to you and consists of the house where she lived plus two apartments in Launceston. There is also a life insurance policy and several term deposit accounts and of course the car which has been written off after the accident.

He paused briefly and glanced at Joanna while pretending to blow his nose, waiting to see the reaction. When none came he continued.

The insurance company has agreed to pay the insured value in full since the fault lay entirely with the truck driver. Probate will take some time I’m afraid but I’m sure the bank will advance you against the term deposits on my authority if you need that?

He paused again, waiting for a response.

No, I won’t need that.

Joanna had again followed this dry recital attentively and he was impressed by her composure. She rose and held out her hand.

Thank you for your prompt attention to my affairs, I appreciate that.

Mr Smith shook her hand firmly but carefully and looked slightly embarrassed.

If there is anything else I can do please let me know.

She nodded and turned to the door which he hurried to open for her then watched her walk towards the lifts. Tall and slim and very attractive. It was the eyes, he mused, dark blue and very direct and the black frame of hair around her face. Definitely Italian looking although there was no indication of foreign blood in the names on any of the documents he had.

* * *

Joanna paid off the taxi and turned to look at the large house at the address given to her by the solicitor. Vaucluse in Sydney is one of the older and wealthier harbour-side suburbs and the street was typical of the area with solid looking turn-of-the-century Federation houses set in well-tended large gardens. There was no sign of any mid-morning activity, no one in any of the neighbouring gardens or verandahs.

‘Well, there is not going to be a welcoming party,’ Joanna thought, ‘No telephone number listed in the Sydney directory and no more information available from Jones, Someone, Someone.’

She picked up her cases and headed for the front door. A discreet Avon-style ding-dong came from somewhere in the house in response to her press on the doorbell button. After a long period of silence footsteps echoed on a tiled floor and the door opened to reveal a small, middle aged woman with questioning brown eyes.

Yes?

There was a distinct accent evident.

My name is Joanna Fallon. Does Mrs. Maria Jackson live here?

Accustomed as she was to interview resistance Joanna knew how to take the initiative.

Yes she does. Why do you want to know?

The interview was not going well. The woman was obviously not in her grandmother’s confidence and gave every indication that she wished Joanna on her way. A dragon guarding a lair.

She wants to see me. Can I come in.

Joanna made the last bit a statement rather than a request. She picked up her cases and moved into the doorway.

You can put those cases over there, the dragon said backing off and pointing towards an antique umbrella and hat stand. Wait in here. She pointed to a doorway. I shall see if Mrs. Jackson is at home.

‘Good grief,’ thought Joanna as she moved into the drawing room as bidden, ‘If she’s nearly 90 I’d be surprised if she wasn’t at home!’

The drawing room was slightly musty and the heavy drapes around the window looked as if they hadn’t been moved for years. The fireplace was clean of any indications that a fire had ever been lit in it, the sofas smooth, apparently rarely used. There were several large pictures on the walls, obviously originals but of general views of the countryside and not very enlightening. There were no family portraits or any personal bric-a-brac that might normally be in a family house. Joanna went back to the door and listened then hearing nothing but the loud ticking of a grandfather clock across the hall she opened the door opposite and raised her eyebrows at the contents of the room. She was looking into a doctor’s surgery but of a time long past. There was a skeleton hanging in one corner from a frame and an eyechart with progressively diminishing rows of letters. A beautiful oak desk sat with its back to the window, a bentwood arm-chair tucked neatly in. On either side of the fireplace were bookshelves full of large old-fashioned bound medical volumes. A patient’s couch sat against the opposite wall with a folding screen partially around it. Medical equipment hung near the skeleton and a stethoscope lay on the desk. There was a name plate on the desk which read Dr David R. Jackson. Joanna just had time to read it before footsteps came rapping down the tiled hall. She quickly closed the door and turned to meet a steely glare.

Come with me please.

No refusal permitted, the small woman turned away and head held high in reproof marched smartly to the stairs hidden behind curtaining in the hall. Joanna followed, wondering whether the surgery had belonged to her grandfather. At the top of the stairs the woman turned to the right down a short passageway that had four doors to what were apparently large bedrooms. At the second door on the left she knocked gently and opened the door. Joanna could see over her head into a bright airy room facing east with the morning sun pouring light into it. A large four-poster bed occupied most of one wall and in it a white-haired old lady half reclined against a number of bulky pillows. She was reading a letter and other letters were piled on either side of the bed. She looked up, peering over her spectacles as her two visitors entered, gave a gasp, sat up straight and ignoring the woman beckoned urgently to Joanna.

Come closer, she demanded and after Joanna had obeyed she looked intently at her through her spectacles for a moment.

Go over there, she waved at the chest of drawers and as Joanna turned she noticed that the woman had gone out and closed the door. In the second drawer on the right there is a box of photographs. Bring it over here.

The old lady flipped through the photos until she found the one she wanted. It was a faded, slightly sepia old print and she looked at it for some time before looking up at Joanna sharply then back at the print several times. Finally she handed it to Joanna without speaking. Joanna saw two people with their arms around each other standing on the deck of a large sailing boat and smiling at the camera. It was a very clear picture for its age. The man and woman were obviously in love and the woman looked an exact image of Joanna with dark hair framing an oval shaped face in which dark eyes and eyebrows dominated. Joanna looked back at the old lady and found her staring again, anxious that Joanna should find what she had intended.

This is you, Joanna stated, And presumably this is your husband, Dr Jackson?

The old lady nodded but still didn’t speak although her eyes were very bright. Joanna looked at the photo again, searching her reporter’s repertoire for the right questions since this was obviously an emotional moment for the old lady.

Where was this taken?

She waved the print, then turned it over looking for clues. Sure enough on the back there was a studio stamp, Vo-Vo Foto with an address in Toulon.

Were you living in France?

Oh, yes! I was living in France, the old lady said with rancour. Then she seemed to come out of her trance and recovered her imperiousness. First I want you to tell me all about yourself. How long can you stay here with me?

Joanna was at a loss. She had not even thought about the future if this person really was her sole surviving relative. She had only gone as far as thinking about disproving that she had a living grandmother. Her mother had been quite vague about the matter of family insisting that the dead should be left alone and always deftly changing the subject. Although Joanna had been naturally curious about relatives her mother had only told her that both she and her father had no brothers or sisters and both their parents were long dead.

Having no grandparents or uncles or aunts had not been a disadvantage to young Joanna. She had grown up only slightly precocious and was pretty and quick-witted enough to make friends with people of all ages that she came into contact with at school and in association with her parents. Her father’s death from a heart attack when she was eighteen came as a severe blow since he had been the main influence on her life with his frequent moves as a bank official, his clear explanations of monetary matters and his many consequent personal contacts. The travelling life and temporary homes had forced Joanna to adjust to circumstances quickly and to take the lead in establishing new friends and acquaintances. There were times when she had longed for a particularly close friend such as many of her school friends had but these moods soon passed as she addressed one of the many hobbies that took the place of absent people. Sport of any kind was taken up with vigour, particularly the individual ones since they were more portable and practical than team games. She had reduced her golf handicap to nine at the age of sixteen and had come to the attention of State selectors looking for representatives but her father had insisted that studies take preference for the final years of her schooling and the matter ended there. Sailing had also been one of her joys during her teen years and the predominance of coastal postings for her father around Tasmania had enabled her to keep a dinghy through those years. The other side of the sports coin was not forgotten however and she had been encouraged by her parents to develop a solid game of tennis so that she could socialise and develop teamwork. At university this aspect had paid off very well since the majority of the upper social set came from homes which naturally had tennis courts. Joanna had not been backward in accepting invitations to weekend tennis parties and any opportunity to expand her circle of acquaintances was smartly taken up in the absence of family. Now she faced an entirely new problem. Her first instinct was to get the story and move on but if the photograph was proof then this old lady apparently was her grandmother and the stirring of a family commitment feeling made her say I could stay for a few days if that’s all right?

Make it two weeks to begin with.

The pleasure in the old lady’s eyes pulled further at Joanna’s heart.

We have a lot to catch up on and I need time to rest and remember.

She pressed a button on the wall near the bed and a buzzer sounded in the distance.

Go and get settled and we’ll talk after my afternoon nap.

The old lady paused for a moment then she asked Did you say anything to Betty about our family relationship?

Is Betty your housekeeper?

The old lady snorted.

Keeper is more like it, but yes, housekeeper is close enough. I don’t want her to know anything about us. Did you say anything to her?

No, said Joanna, impressed that the old lady had not let go of the point. She didn’t ask so I didn’t say anything.

Good. So far as she’s concerned you’re a journalist come to write a book about my life. I’ll tell you more later, she added as Joanna looked at her enquiringly.

Betty appeared in answer to the summons.

Put Miss Fallon in the Green Room. She’ll be staying for at least two weeks

The order was acknowledged with a nod.

Off you go now, she waved at Joanna and with this dismissal the old lady began to sift through the box of photographs with a look of contentment and a faint smile on her face. Joanna followed her escort into the hall and found her suitcases outside the door of the room opposite.

This is the Green Room, announced Betty opening the door and, picking up the cases, marching into the room. Joanna was doubly amused. As the pre-positioning of the cases indicated Betty had already summed up part of the situation and the so-called Green Room was furnished predominantly in blue. Maybe someone was colour-blind.

Has it been redecorated recently? Joanna asked with laughter close to the surface.

Betty answered with frost in her voice The green refers to the view and she drew back the heavy lace day-curtains with a snap. Joanna was impressed. Even from the second level of the house no neighbouring houses were visible through the thick wall of trees and shrubbery. The garden on the south side of the house consisted entirely of permanent green shades. A large curving expanse of lawn ended in a row of various species of thick conifers on the boundary and several garden beds contained shrubs in hues of green. No other colour was visible, even the potting shed partially hidden behind a clump of junipers was painted a blending shade of green.

I’ll bring up your lunch on a tray while you unpack. The bathroom is next door, Betty informed her. Mrs Jackson sleeps until four, and she marched out of the room closing the door firmly behind her. Joanna sighed and wondered if Betty was an ex-Sergeant Major. Obviously not very friendly but not slow on the uptake. She reminded Joanna of the instructor at the rifle club in the country she had once belonged to as a teenager. ‘All right you lot, face the front. Never point a rifle at someone if you don’t intend to kill them. This is a dangerous weapon. Face the front when I’m talking, don’t look around, concentrate on the target.’ All those and other marvellous phrases echoed in her mind as she unpacked and wondered about Betty and the veto the old lady had made.

After lunch she went to the window, slipped its latch and opened it wide letting the warm summer air waft in. She moved a chair up close, sat and leaned her elbows on the sill. The view was really amazing. She wondered why anyone would want to make a view deliberately all green and so utterly peaceful. Could it have been her grandmother, but there she was already thinking of the old lady as Grandmother and nothing had been proven yet. The photograph was interesting, the man had been fair-headed and her mother had been a blond but that was hardly conclusive. Her father’s hair had been thick dark brown and wavy and Joanna had always assumed she had inherited that trait. Now here was another family characteristic in the eyebrows and eyes. Joanna thought of her mother and remembered the effort she had made to keep herself looking smart, buying the latest fashions in clothes, the constant visits to the hairdresser and fuss about makeup and plucking her eyebrows, all those little things Joanna didn’t need and secretly despised.

‘Ah Mother, why didn’t you confide in me, your only child? What made you distance yourself from your own mother?’ With those sad thoughts Joanna surrendered to melancholy and putting her head on her arms cried at last for her mother in the serenity of the Green Room and its view.

Chapter 2

A month later Joanna spoke to her editor pleading unsuccessfully for understanding that she had to make a journey to Europe to research some important family history. Although nice words were spoken in the end she was out of a job and shortly afterward on a flight to London. During the long flight Joanna tried to sleep but questions kept popping into her dreams and her notebook began to fill with items as the hours drifted on. She longed for her computer to arrange all the detail she was jotting down but it was stowed safely in her baggage. Dozing lightly she let the words of the old lady and the story she had typed at length into her computer pass through her restless mind. It had started in the south of France late in 1938.

* * *

The boat lay alongside the old mill wharf and took up most of the available space. At 55 feet the ketch was large for the small port of St Pierre. The other thirty or so vessels in the tiny harbour were either smaller single-masted yachts of the not-quite-so-wealthy foreigners who wintered their boats in the south of France or luggers of the local fishermen. The ketch had a slightly shabby appearance as if it had seen hard times but the smooth sweep of the deck lines and the nicely proportioned deckhouse with its large brass-bound wheel gave it an air of grace like a middle-aged lady slightly down on her luck. An early November cold brisk sea breeze kept harbour activity at a minimum except for the man on the ketch who was busily lifting pieces of timber off the wharf and carrying them below.

By midday the man had finished unloading the timber off the wharf and he disappeared below. A wisp of smoke came from the cabin flue and shortly after the urgent whistle of a boiling kettle sounded. It went on for some time and eventually the fisherman sitting on the end of the wharf got up and peered down through the wheelhouse opening.

Eh! he shouted. Monsieur Jackson. Are you there? The noise is scaring the fish away.

From the bowels of the boat came a call.

Andre, can you give me a hand please? Take the bloody kettle off the stove and come back here.

Andre found the source of the voice in the engine-room under the companionway steps, half underneath the engine holding a wad of rag against it and cursing.

At last! Would you sweep your hand under the front of the engine and find the plug for the sump. I forgot the drainage tray is corroded and oil is going everywhere. Now I’ve dropped the bloody plug.

Andre found the missing piece and passed it back.

Thanks, said the voice and the plug was screwed in with a last curse. Got you, you bastard.

The Frenchman was amused.

Do you Australians always curse at everything?

A grimy figure emerged from under the engine.

It’s just our form of encouragement. Merci, mon ami. Come and wash the oil off and have a cup of coffee or maybe something a little stronger eh?

The two men had only known one another for a little over a month. Andre Boucher was a retired fisherman whose boat was now run by his two very able-bodied sons. Unable to bear the thought of being out of sight or touch with the sea he loved so much he had become unofficial deputy to the Harbour Master of St Pierre. In reality he spent most of his days fishing from the mill wharf, dreaming of the old days when the fish were better and he was captain of his boat. The Harbour Master left the daily routine to Andre and spent most of his days out of town away from his shrewish wife. Rumour had it that he spent a lot of time at the chateau up on the hill where Mama Rose kept her discreet brothel but no-one seemed to mind so long as the little port was kept running properly and Andre did that. When the English owner of Misty had made enquiries about refitting the 55-foot ketch in St Pierre Andre was the one who had stepped out the measurements and moved other boats around to make the accommodation. He was interested to find that an Australian, a friend of the Englishman, had been engaged to do the refit and kept himself extremely busy doing carpentry to all hours of the night. So far Andre had not got past a sort of reserved quietness in Monsieur Jackson in the six weeks he had been in St Pierre but now things seemed to be improving and Andre sipped his glass of cognac appreciatively while watching David scrambling a heap of eggs on the small stove.

How is the refit going? Andre asked looking about at the mess everywhere. Timber was stacked loosely along one side away from the settee he was sitting on and towards the bow, cabin doors were off their hinges and bits and pieces of broken wood were scattered all over the floor.

Well, I’m still pulling out old rubbish. It’ll get worse before it gets better.

David turned from the stove with two plates piled high with food Is this alright with you?

He put the plates on the table in front of Andre and slid onto the settee beside him. Andre was fascinated.

This is how Australians eat lunch? he asked. Cognac and fluffed up eggs?

For a moment he thought he had gone too far and perhaps insulted his host but he was rewarded with a laugh.

You helped me so now I help you, said David with a grin on his face. This is good Aussie tucker, mate, and he began eating, leaving Andre perplexed by the unusual language.

This, er, mate, he said slowly, Am I now on your ship as next to the captain. And what is tucker?

David looked at him for a moment then apologised in passable French.

Pardon Andre. You understand English very well. But Australian English has as many idioms as your language, like a patois really. Now, mate means friend in the closest sense. I really appreciate your help in getting this berth for Misty and for taking the interest to give me a hand with that engine. So you and I are now mates, see, special friends.

They chatted on casually about boats and sailing after that but secretly Andre was flattered that this aristocratic looking English-person with his blond hair and deep blue eyes should actually consider him as a friend and talk to him so personally. It was definitely not the English way. A real Anglais, like that Parsons fellow who owned the yacht would have been condescending.

* * *

In the first flush of light preceding dawn the motor-cycle came roaring down the hill into St Pierre its engine noise amplified by the closed-in street. Sweeping around the wide curve at the bottom of Rue de la Chantille its rider was suddenly startled when a large ginger cat ran across in front of the motor-cycle. Both swerved to take avoiding action. The cat, recognising danger, doubled back and the rider lost control of the motor-cycle. It fell on one side with a crash and squeal of metal against hard cobblestone, landed on top of the cat and the whole went sliding across the narrow street to end with a crump against the gutter. In the resulting silence the rider heard windows being thrown up and someone shouted Are you alright? Apart from a bruised knee David Jackson was unhurt and he shouted back It’s nothing. A man came out of an apartment on the street and helped him lift the motor-cycle. The cat was found lying underneath, apparently dead.

Too bad. Nine lives were up, eh? and the man gave a callous laugh.

David set the motor-cycle on its stand and examined the cat. He found a pulse but one leg was obviously broken and it was unconscious.

Do you know whose cat this is? he asked.

By this time several others had joined the group out of curiousity. One of the women pointed across the street and mumbled something. David asked again and the man said with a shrug It belongs to the crazy woman in Apartment 2, the small one under the stairs.

The spectators all turned away not wanting to get involved any further. David went across to the run-down building holding the cat awkwardly, let himself in the entrance and found Apartment 2 at the end of the narrow hallway. He knocked and heard someone moving inside but the door remained shut. He knocked again louder and called loudly in French I have your cat. The door opened a crack and he saw a pallid face with enormous dark eyes that looked at him then dropped to the cat in his arms.

II e morte.

It came out as a statement rather than a question. The woman’s eyes closed briefly then she looked again at the cat and shut the door. David moved the cat into the crook of one arm and pounded the door again.

Is this your cat? he called but the door stayed shut.

The cat began to stir so he gave up on the door. Putting the cat on the floor he removed his jacket, wrapped the animal firmly in it then went back outside. In the early morning light people were now moving in the street heading off about their business and totally disinterested in his minor accident.

Back at the boat David treated the cat as best he could using the medical kit he had carried with him from Australia. The animal seemed to understand that David was a friend and settled with its splinted broken leg on his jacket. David gave it some milk and sat talking gently. Strong feelings swept over him. Caring for a damaged body and soul always seemed to have this effect on him now. ‘Caroline,’ he thought, ‘I couldn’t save you. Me, a highly qualified and experienced doctor and I couldn’t save my own wife.’

He lapsed into introspection and memories, repressed for more than a year since her death, came washing over him again. Cancer is not something medical science can cure,’ all the experts had told him. ‘You just have to live with it as best you can.’ Caroline had taken the news better than he had, adjusting to her disease with a sense of fatality that had astounded and angered him. He had been so angry when his lovely wife of eighteen months had been given a sentence of only about five years to live but she had said ‘We will just make the most of it, that’s all’. And they did. She listened to him when he talked about difficult cases and went with him everywhere when he searched for enlightenment about advances in medical knowledge. But even America and Britain could not provide the one answer he wanted but never discussed with Caroline. She had refused any treatment except painkillers towards the end. He had watched a vibrant woman turn into an emaciated wreck longing for death and he had not been able to do anything about it.

After her death he had wandered away from medicine and wound up a drunken piece of humanity on Angus Parsons’ doorstep in London in the late summer of 1938. They had met in New York two years before at a conference on humanitarian aid and Parsons’ instant rapport with Caroline had made him a permanent friend to David. Now Parsons had taken David in hand and given him the task of setting up the ketch Misty for chartering in the Mediterranean as a sort of healing process for a physician unable to heal himself. With a start David realised he had been in his reverie for over an hour. The cat had gone to sleep so David made breakfast, bandaged his bruised knee and got on with his work. The next day the cat still seemed quite comfortable so David wrote a note, struggling with written French, went back up Rue de la Chantille to the shabby apartment building and slipped the note under the door of Apartment 2.

That afternoon Andre came around with his fishing rod, business completed, and found David sawing wood on the wharf.

I hear you killed a cat with that wreck of yours.

He gestured at David’s battered motor-cycle.

Have a drink and come visit the dead then, invited David, leading the way down the companionway. The cat sat up and mewed as they entered the saloon. There you go, one dead cat, said David as he put some more milk in its bowl. Andre was amused.

Well, I’ll have to set the gossips to rights about it then.

David set a cup of coffee in front of Andre and asked about the woman in Apartment 2.

Is she really crazy?

Andre told him what he knew about Maria Pisoni.

I don’t think she’s crazy. People just avoid her or treat her as if she doesn’t exist. Actually she’s Italian, sent here as an exile. You see she was convicted of murder but reprieved to fifteen years in jail. They let her out early this year and now she’s stuck here under police supervision. The gendarmes make certain that everyone knows about her and they keep away.

David was appalled.

And she’s not allowed to go outside St Pierre. That’s a double sentence. How can that be justified?

Ah! Andre lit his pipe and sucked thoughtfully. She murdered her husband you see and his family pay to keep her here on a pittance and they also pay the local gendarmes to make sure she stays here.

Andre went up on deck then and got on with his fishing as the tide began to tum. David went on with his work of refitting the forward cabins with two bunks each and constructing a forward bathroom between the two starboard cabins. He had to fit an additional bulkhead and cutting the curve to fit against the hull was proving to be a problem. Not satisfied with the piece he had cut he went up the steps to find another piece on the wharf. Out of the comer of his eye he saw a slight movement from behind one of the old huge bollards that had held coastal steamers in times past when the timber mill was a major feature of town life. Andre was sitting with his back to the town fishing into the outgoing tide. David went on with his task of locating a piece of timber suitable for his purpose but he had the feeling that he was being watched. Curious, he deliberately turned his back and sauntered up to Andre.

Any luck? He looked into Andre’s cane creel. I think we are being watched by someone hiding behind the second bollard near the stem of Misty. Any idea who it might be?

Probably a kid playing peekaboo, retorted Andre concentrating on his rod.

David glanced around suddenly and saw a pale face looking at the yacht.

Ah! It’s that woman come for her cat.

He strolled back along the wharf but the woman saw him coming and walked quickly away, slipping around the comer. She was dressed in the typical long black dress older woman wore with a black scarf around her head and shoulders but the pale and drawn face had been unmistakable.

The next morning the same procedure was followed. Whenever David climbed onto the wharf the woman would slip quickly away but when he went below she would pop back persistently. The note he had left telling her the cat was alive and recovering was obviously the carrot. Eventually, sympathetic to the woman’s reticence, David picked up Chat as he had named the cat, went on deck and holding the cat aloft he called It is alright. Here he is. Come and get him.

He put the cat gently on the wharf and went down below, slipping quickly forward to watch from the opened hatch on the foredeck. The woman called to the cat but it sat where David had placed it, quite happy in the midday sun. After a few minutes the woman tentatively approached it with a look of anxiety that changed to hope as she saw that it was indeed her cat. But before she could pick it up the cat slipped back on board the boat and hopping on its splinted leg disappeared around the side of the wheelhouse. The look of distress on the woman’s face decided David and he called out from the hatchway You wait there. I’ll get him for you.

She looked from the wheelhouse to David and back again several times but at least she didn’t back off so David climbed out through the hatch and calling softly to the cat, came along the deck.

Come on you little devil. Your Mother wants you. Time to go home.

Suddenly the woman spoke.

You are English?

He looked up at her in surprise. He hadn’t realised he was calling to the cat in English but the woman spoke it well with only a slight continental accent. He smiled at her, noticing a look on her face which seemed to be relief.

I am Australian, he said. David Jackson. Your cat is really quite alright, just a broken leg and bruises.

He caught the cat and brought it to the woman who was searching his face as if looking for more words. He handed the cat up to her but she backed off so he placed it carefully on the wharf stroking it gently.

There, there, old fellow. You’ll be right now.

He had noticed the woman’s extreme wariness and he wondered why he was so menacing to her. Looking back up he asked quietly in English What’s his name?

Her eyes moved back and forth from David to the cat as if trying to judge whether to make a grab for the cat and run. David moved back slightly to give her breathing space and continued I called him Chat but that’s French and you probably call him something Italian, something like Il Duce perhaps?

Still wary of David she bent down to stroke the cat but it did as it had done previously and hopped back on board the boat then proceeded to preen itself halfway between the two humans. David followed this lead by changing the subject.

Would you like a cup of coffee? and without waiting for a response he moved away saying You wait there with The Leader and I’ll be back in one minute.

The kettle had been simmering on the wood stove in the saloon and he quickly threw makings onto a tray and came up on deck carefully, doing his utmost not to startle either the woman or the cat, neither of whom had moved.

His name is Barolo, she said clearly.

David was astonished at her precise diction but he tried not to show any major reaction using all his old doctoring skills to keep the revelations coming.

Ah, he said nodding sagely while putting the tray on the rear hatch cover, The full-bodied red wine of Piedmont. Yes, he looked at the cat, He is full-bodied, a big cat and ginger is sort of red, so Barolo. And what is your mistress’s name?

He gave her his best doctor confidential look. She was looking at him in surprise that he should know about Italian wine.

My name is Maria Pisoni, she said in her impeccable English.

Gravely he acknowledged with a nodding bow.

I am very pleased to meet you Maria. Will you come aboard for coffee? and he held out his hand to assist her make the step down from the wharf. Ignoring his proffered hand she moved away and jumped lightly onto the afterdeck. ‘She’s full of surprises,’ he thought, ‘She’s been on boats before.’ He busied himself pouring two coffees, black and with sugar while she stepped across the afterdeck and sat on the hatch stroking the cat which had moved when she did. David sat away from her on the deck with his back to the rail and tried not to press the conversation sensing that things would be better if the pace was left to Maria. She kept darting looks at him while sipping coffee and paying attention to the cat, obviously unsure what to do or say. Eventually she plucked up enough courage to say I would like to speak English. No-one here will speak anything but French and my French is not good.

David nodded with sympathetic understanding.

My French is terrible so I’d be glad to talk in English. Taking up the lead he asked How is it that you speak such excellent English?

To his surprise she flushed at this praise and seemed to falter.

I, ah, had a good teacher for some years.

David thought ‘Probably in jail’ so he changed the subject.

Have you been on a yacht like this before?

Again she lapsed into a sort of introspection.

I, ah, many years ago. It is a beautiful ship. Is it yours?

She was as adroit as he at changing the subject he noted with interest but he told her about his friend Parsons and the need for renovation to suit the yacht for charter work. While he was talking she listened intently, watching his face, seeming to assess every word and every movement. He tried not to look at her too much for her face had come alive, the hollow cheeks gaining some colour and her dark eyes had lost that furtive look. They reminded him of the look in the eyes of those seriously ill but reluctant patients who finally placed their trust in him as a medical practitioner. It was a look of hope.

Andre passed them by without a word half an hour later going home for his lunch. David managed to convince Maria to eat with him on the afterdeck. She was still wary of being too close but at least they could talk more easily. She told him about having to stay within the confines of St Pierre and to report to the police station every morning at nine. David was careful not to pry too much but he thought quickly for something to say.

Are you allowed to work?

No-one would employ a criminal, she said. Particularly when I can’t speak the local language very well.

Pretending to ignore that he looked away from her across the harbour and asked quietly Would you help me with this boat? The deck needs scrubbing and all the topsides need repainting. I’m busy below decks re-arranging the accommodation and the season will change soon. I can’t do both and I need help.

He left the invitation hanging, hoping she would take the offer. There was a long silence during which he was aware that she was staring at him but he studiously avoided her eye.

You can’t be serious, she said flatly. The police probably won’t let me.

He inwardly exulted ‘She wants to do it’. He looked at her then, totally serious.

You let me deal with the police. Have you got any work clothes? Trousers preferably and smocks. It’s dirty work.

Glumly she shook her head, gesturing at her old woman’s clothing.

This is all I’ve got.

Again David was appalled at what this woman endured but keeping it to himself he said briskly Right. You wait here.

He came back with some money which he gave her saying Buy some trousers, smocks, work gloves and soft soled deck boots. You know the sort? He showed her his and she nodded. Off you go. Now, and he waved her away. Leave Barolo. Come back tomorrow dressed for work. Alright?

She hesitated as if wanting to say something but he turned away first saying See you tomorrow. Around ten o’clock. I have things to attend to before then. Goodbye, and he disappeared below deck hoping she would not think him too brusque but he didn’t want to give her any opportunity to renege. After checking that Maria had indeed turned towards the shopping area of town David cleaned himself up, started the motorcycle and headed for Toulon. Parsons had made arrangements with several business houses in Toulon. One of these was a law firm which had been engaged to check the legal requirements for establishing charter operations. David spoke to his contact, Marcel Brussaud, about the legalities of enforced exile and after several phone calls the irrepressible Marcel stated that Maria’s situation had no legal basis. She had served her time in prison and could not be considered a danger to French society. Marcel laughed when he said that but he stopped when David insisted that he, Marcel, must be in St Pierre police station at eight-thirty the following morning to make the point clear.

But Monsieur David, mon ami, that is far too early for me and besides I have many important things here to do.

David responded by asking for the telephone and for a call to be put through to Angus Parsons in London.

It would seem that his business should go elsewhere, David said grimly. Marcel backed down quickly. Parsons was a valuable customer and would remain so.

The next morning Maria dressed in her usual widow’s black dress and scarf and proceeded to the police station. To her surprise the desk officer instead of giving her his usual surly nod and waving her away showed her through to the senior officer’s room.

Madame d’Este. Come in. Come in, said the man obsequiously, holding the door for her.

Maria had never seen him before and she glared at him.

Don’t call me that. My name is Pisoni.

Then she stopped abruptly, noticing that David and another well-dressed man were in the room. David stood up, held a chair for her and said Sit here Maria. Then he said quickly and quietly in English Everything is alright. Don’t worry. She sat, never having been asked to sit in a senior policeman’s room before.

Madame d’Este, er Pisoni, he hastily corrected as she raised her chin at him, I have the pleasure to inform you that you will no longer be required to present yourself to this establishment at nine each morning. You are no longer under police surveillance.

He sat back, his duty done. Maria stared at him, absorbing the message then slowly turned huge eyes on David who remained impassive but Marcel took charge.

Thank you Inspector. Now we will depart.

He stood up touching David on the arm, went to the door and opened it saying After you Madame.

On the pavement David waved Maria away saying brusquely but with a wink which Marcel couldn’t see On the boat, ten o’clock sharp. Then he and Marcel turned away towards an expensive motor-car across the road.

Maria went back to her dingy apartment, changed her clothes and on an impulse wrapped the old dress and scarf into a neat parcel. Her mind seemed to be in a state of suspension and she couldn’t think beyond the scene in the police station. It was taking a long time for her to realise that her routine of the past fifteen years had just been broken. She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. ‘No longer under police surveillance’ the phrase kept ringing in her ears. ‘What am I now?’ she wondered as she picked up the parcel and went out into the street. Several of the neighbours stared as she walked past dressed in trousers and jacket and with her head bare but she was so used to them avoiding her that she ignored them. Halfway down the street she dropped the parcel into a rubbish bin. Walking along the wharf she looked up at the sky seemingly for the first time and admired the clear blue morning, feeling the sea breeze in her hair now that the scarf was not restraining it. ‘I’m alive,’ she thought, ‘For the first time since-’ but she shook off the memories and headed for Misty where a blond head was emerging from the rear hatchway.

Aha! Right on time. Come aboard and grab a bucket.

He smiled at her and she couldn’t help smiling back at his infectious good humour. The work started well. David showed her how to swing the bucket into the sea to get it to fill with water. Sloshing water on the deck she attacked it with a scrubbing brush and he left her to it. Shortly after she heard him singing way off tune and key ‘0 sole mio, tra la di da’. As she scrubbed away the grime from the afterdeck a strange light-headed feeling came over her. It wasn’t because of the scrubbing, it was hard work but she was used to that after years in prison, it was something else, as if a great weight suddenly had been lifted off her shoulders. She was out in the fresh air smelling the sea as if for the first time. She suddenly identified it and stopped scrubbing, looking instead slowly around the small harbour noticing things with a new outlook. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she thought. ‘Yesterday was just another hopeless day but today everything is different. I feel free.’

Hey deckhand! Stop work. Coffee break. Come and get it.

David was shouting up the companionway to her so she peeled off her gloves and stepped cautiously down into the bowels of the yacht. Food was set up on the new table in the saloon and David was busy at the stove making a pot of coffee.

Have a seat, he said waving at the table. Eat up. Half an hour break.

But no more work was done that morning. Maria started by trying to thank David for what he had done for her but he held up a hand saying Eat first then if you want to talk, we’ll talk.

She was ravenous and polished off most of the bread and cheese then the fruit before she realised that David was watching her, amused. She flushed, embarrassed but he said I want you to promise me that you’ll eat like that for at least a week. This is a week’s wages in advance. Make sure it is the best food.

He handed her some money knowing that the pittance she received from Italy would only buy enough for one good meal a day. Her eyes widened at the amount of money and she looked up at him protesting This is too much. I can manage on less than half of this.

He shook his head.

No. If you can get the topsides done while I finish down here you’ll have earned it. No more argument.

There was silence for some minutes while Maria mulled things over then she said I will do my best.

During the following week each morning was spent making the most of the fine weather and they worked hard. In the afternoons while waiting for paint and varnish to dry or for glue to set they talked, or rather David asked questions and Maria did most of the talking. At night when she went home the memories came flooding back but she tried to concentrate on separate events so that she could explain to David the detail he seemed to want her to recall.

Chapter 3

Maria was the youngest of six children to Antonio and Anna Pisoni, a wealthy merchant family who lived on an estate just outside Genoa. Her sister Gina was the eldest child and she had helped her mother cope with the brood of high-spirited bright youngsters. Maria had a rather sheltered childhood being the youngest and a girl but she was a good student and excelled at classes in St Agnes Convent. Her parents were pleased that pretty little Maria was a model of dutifulness, always polite and interested in the conversations of her elders. As she developed into young womanhood they cast about for possible marriage partners. Maria was a cut above the others in intelligence and although this didn’t count in the marriage stakes her parents sought an upper-class family to improve their social position.

Antonio Pisoni had business connections in Milan which took him there frequently. One of his export interests was agricultural machinery and amongst the heavy machinery manufacturers were the d’Este brothers who were very rich and definitely old Lombardy family stock. Antonio was aware that the heir to the d’Este fortune was Alfonso, the elder brother’s only son all the other children being girls. Antonio Pisoni became obsessed with the idea of his Maria, a virginal beauty of seventeen, being married to Alfonso d’Este. Using all his business skills and cunning Antonio arranged for Maria to accompany him and his wife on one of his visits to Milan ostensibly for Maria to attend the opera as a treat for having graduated as dux of St Agnes Class of 1921. Maria was ecstatic to be going on her first visit away from Genoa to see the sights of bustling Milan and especially to be allowed to go to the grand opera at La Scala for the social event of the year. This year was to be a re-enactment of Rossini’s masterpiece The Barber of Seville. Antonio had managed at great expense to get a private box with a good view of the d’Este family box with the express aim of trying to catch the eye of Giuseppe d’Este, or more particularly of his son Alfonso.

During the days preceding the opening night