Lucie and Max had gone. She sat for a moment longer, pretending she was reconsidering, then she sighed.
‘Perhaps you’re right.’
Lucie’s relief was palpable. ‘It’s the sensible thing, kid,’ she said in a rush. ‘Best not to get the police involved.’
‘I’ll hang on for Marianne,’ Sandrine said, getting out of the car. ‘See what she says.’
Lucie hopped out too and gave her a hug. ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry.’
‘And, really, you know I wouldn’t mention it to anyone,’ Lucie added. ‘Apart from Marianne, of course, but nobody else.’
‘I won’t,’ Sandrine said, walking up the steps to the front door.
‘All right?’ Lucie said brightly to Max as he reappeared.
‘I’ve left your bike just inside the gate,’ he said, giving Sandrine a slight, formal bow. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Vidal, despite the circumstances.’
‘You too. Thank you. You’ve both been so kind.’
Sandrine watched as Max got into the front seat beside Lucie and they pulled off. As soon as the car had rounded the corner, she ran back down the steps and walked quickly towards the Bastide and the police station.
A few minutes later, Sandrine was standing looking up at the Commissariat of the Police Nationale. In her whole life she had never had cause to go into the elegant white building. Her father had brought her up to trust authority, but that was then. Before the war, before France was cut in two, before the occupation of the north. Given the things the police were obliged to do now – arrests, raids, the implementation of new laws – perhaps Lucie’s caution was justified?
At that moment, the door to the police station flew open and two officers appeared on the top step. They looked Sandrine up and down, then said something to one another and they both laughed. She blushed, made self-conscious by their scrutiny, but it gave her the impetus she needed to go on in.
She ran up the steps. When she got to the top, she turned. The officers were still there on the pavement, staring at her. Sandrine turned her back on them, pushed open the door and went inside.
The station smelt of disinfectant and tobacco and sweat. A woman with smudged eye make-up and a bruised face was sitting sobbing on the long bench that ran beneath the window. At the far end, an elderly man reeking of alcohol and muttering, a down-and-out. A copy of the front page of L’Echo de Carcassonne with a grainy photograph of Maréchal Pétain was stuck to the wall, beside a black and white public information poster advising citizens to be on the lookout for fifth columnists. There was also a noticeboard covered with mugshots of men sought by the police. Reward posters, wanted posters, they all looked villainous. Less than human.
A dark-haired officer with silver buttons, black tie and flashing on his shoulder came down the corridor and gently touched the woman on the arm.
‘We’ll keep him in until he’s slept it off,’ he said. ‘Let’s be getting you home.’
The woman nodded, then slowly got to her feet. Clasping her handbag to her, like a shield, she allowed herself to be led out. Sandrine smiled at her, but the woman’s head was bowed and she didn’t respond.
When they’d gone, Sandrine approached the counter.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
The desk clerk on duty ignored her, just continued to flick through the papers in front of him.
‘ S’il vous plaît ,’ she said, more loudly this time.
He still took no notice. Irritated, Sandrine leant forward and sharply tapped on the bell. The drunk in the corner began to laugh.
‘Jump to it,’ he shouted. ‘Girl wants you. Come to see you,’ he slurred. ‘Pining for you, she is. Your girl, is she? Bit young—’
‘Enough of that,’ the clerk shouted, ‘or I’ll have you back in that cell.’
He did at least look at her then, raising his eyebrows as he took in her dishevelled clothes.
‘Well?’
Sandrine met
‘Perhaps you’re right.’
Lucie’s relief was palpable. ‘It’s the sensible thing, kid,’ she said in a rush. ‘Best not to get the police involved.’
‘I’ll hang on for Marianne,’ Sandrine said, getting out of the car. ‘See what she says.’
Lucie hopped out too and gave her a hug. ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry.’
‘And, really, you know I wouldn’t mention it to anyone,’ Lucie added. ‘Apart from Marianne, of course, but nobody else.’
‘I won’t,’ Sandrine said, walking up the steps to the front door.
‘All right?’ Lucie said brightly to Max as he reappeared.
‘I’ve left your bike just inside the gate,’ he said, giving Sandrine a slight, formal bow. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Vidal, despite the circumstances.’
‘You too. Thank you. You’ve both been so kind.’
Sandrine watched as Max got into the front seat beside Lucie and they pulled off. As soon as the car had rounded the corner, she ran back down the steps and walked quickly towards the Bastide and the police station.
A few minutes later, Sandrine was standing looking up at the Commissariat of the Police Nationale. In her whole life she had never had cause to go into the elegant white building. Her father had brought her up to trust authority, but that was then. Before the war, before France was cut in two, before the occupation of the north. Given the things the police were obliged to do now – arrests, raids, the implementation of new laws – perhaps Lucie’s caution was justified?
At that moment, the door to the police station flew open and two officers appeared on the top step. They looked Sandrine up and down, then said something to one another and they both laughed. She blushed, made self-conscious by their scrutiny, but it gave her the impetus she needed to go on in.
She ran up the steps. When she got to the top, she turned. The officers were still there on the pavement, staring at her. Sandrine turned her back on them, pushed open the door and went inside.
The station smelt of disinfectant and tobacco and sweat. A woman with smudged eye make-up and a bruised face was sitting sobbing on the long bench that ran beneath the window. At the far end, an elderly man reeking of alcohol and muttering, a down-and-out. A copy of the front page of L’Echo de Carcassonne with a grainy photograph of Maréchal Pétain was stuck to the wall, beside a black and white public information poster advising citizens to be on the lookout for fifth columnists. There was also a noticeboard covered with mugshots of men sought by the police. Reward posters, wanted posters, they all looked villainous. Less than human.
A dark-haired officer with silver buttons, black tie and flashing on his shoulder came down the corridor and gently touched the woman on the arm.
‘We’ll keep him in until he’s slept it off,’ he said. ‘Let’s be getting you home.’
The woman nodded, then slowly got to her feet. Clasping her handbag to her, like a shield, she allowed herself to be led out. Sandrine smiled at her, but the woman’s head was bowed and she didn’t respond.
When they’d gone, Sandrine approached the counter.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
The desk clerk on duty ignored her, just continued to flick through the papers in front of him.
‘ S’il vous plaît ,’ she said, more loudly this time.
He still took no notice. Irritated, Sandrine leant forward and sharply tapped on the bell. The drunk in the corner began to laugh.
‘Jump to it,’ he shouted. ‘Girl wants you. Come to see you,’ he slurred. ‘Pining for you, she is. Your girl, is she? Bit young—’
‘Enough of that,’ the clerk shouted, ‘or I’ll have you back in that cell.’
He did at least look at her then, raising his eyebrows as he took in her dishevelled clothes.
‘Well?’
Sandrine met
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