The Girl Who Fell From the Sky Read Online Free PDF

Perhaps they had followed her here. Perhaps they were listening to see what she said. But the other diners were engrossed in their own conversations, indifferent to the couple in the corner whispering to each other in French. ‘I’ve no idea. “The Organisation”, that’s what they call it. They’ve got a place in Portman Square. But the real name’s secret.’ She laughed. ‘I ask you, what’s the point of having a name if it’s secret?’
    ‘Maybe it’s like the naming of cats.’
    ‘The name that no human research can discover—’
    ‘—but that the cat himself knows and can never confess.’ They laughed. He’d bought her the book for her Christmas present in the first year of the war: whimsical poems about cats by one of the most serious of poets. ‘Where will they send you? Might you go to Paris?’
    Would she? She had no idea. The future was all mysterious, an unknown world.
    ‘Because if you were to go to Paris, you might look up Clément Pelletier.’
    ‘Clément?’ Her surprise was feigned, part of a defence mechanism left over from childhood. She had already thought of Clément, of course she had. How could she not? As far as she knew he was still in France, but she couldn’t be certain. That was what happened these days; families and friends dispersed, contacts lost, relationships blighted. Perhaps he had forgotten her by now, as she, occasionally, managed not to think of him. But memories remained, small nuclei of longing and guilt lodged within her mind. ‘I haven’t seen him for years. He’ll have forgotten who I am.’
    Ned grinned. ‘I very much doubt that.’
    Marian felt herself blushing. She looked away in the hope Ned wouldn’t notice, but if he did he said nothing. Once he would have remarked on it and made it worse –
Marian has gone all red
, he’d say so that everyone would stare.
    ‘Didn’t he used to write to you when you went away to school?’
    ‘Occasionally.’
    ‘More than occasionally. I think he was pretty soft on you.’
    ‘I was only fifteen, Ned. Fifteen, sixteen. Just a girl. He was more than ten years older.’
    ‘You didn’t
seem
that young.’
    ‘And anyway, he’s probably married with children by now.’ She picked at her bread, sipped some beer – beer was all they had; these days wine was as difficult to find as oranges or bananas. ‘Have you heard anything about him?’
    ‘Nothing but speculation. I believe he’s still at the Collège de France. There’s the cyclotron that Fred Joliot had installed immediately before the outbreak. Presumably it’s working now, unless the Germans have carted it off to Heidelberg or somewhere.’ He shrugged, fiddling with the cutlery. ‘God knows what’s going on there.’ He appeared distracted, as though mention of Clément and Paris had upset him. Only after the waiter had brought their food did he continue. ‘You know, I’ve never really understood why Clément stayed behind in France. He had the opportunity to get out of the country in 1940 but he stayed put.’
    ‘What are you suggesting? That he should have run away?’
    ‘Others from the Collège escaped – Lev Kowarski, von Halban – and brought out a whole lot of equipment. Why in God’s name didn’t Clément come with them? He was there in Bordeaux. There was a berth on the ship. He could have been in England the next day. What did he have to lose?’
    ‘Maybe his honour. The others aren’t French, are they?’
    ‘Russian and Austrian.’
    ‘Well, there you are. Clément is French through and through. For God’s sake, abandoning your country when it’s invaded isn’t particularly admirable. If more people had stood and fought …’
    ‘But he wasn’t fighting, was he? He was doing scientific research.’
    ‘So perhaps he felt above it all. Pure science, that’s what he used to say.’
    Ned gave a bitter laugh. ‘One thing I’ve discovered, Squirrel, is that there is no longer any such thing as pure science. What I do, or