table. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Trevaunce here’s like a breath of spring, sir.”
“Bloody cheeky rascal,” Munro said. “Go on, get out of it!”
Schmidt retired and Martin Hare poured Genevieve another cup of tea. “All this must seem very weird to you.”
“You can say that again.” She had liked him at once on their first meeting up at the airfield, just as she had thoroughly disliked Edge. “You must feel pretty strange yourself sometimes when you look in the mirror and see that uniform.”
“She’s right, Martin,” Munro said. “Do you ever wonder which side you’re really on?”
“As a matter of fact I do sometimes.” Hare lit a cigarette. “But only when I have to deal with Joe Edge. A disgrace to the uniform.”
“To any uniform,” Craig said. “He’s totally unbalanced in my opinion. Grant told me a pretty unsavoury story that just about sums him up. During the Battle of Britain a Ju88 lost one engine and surrendered to two Spitfire pilots who took up position on either side and started to shepherd it down to land at the nearest airfield. It would have been quite a coup.”
“What happened?” Genevieve asked.
“Apparently Edge came up on his rear, laughing like a maniac over the radio and blew him out of the sky.”
“That’s terrible,” she said. “Surely his commanding officer should have had him court-martialled?”
“He tried, but he was overruled. Edge was a Battle of Britain ace with two DFCs. It wouldn’t have looked goodin the papers.” Craig turned to Hare. “Like I said, the war hero as psychopath.”
“I heard that story too,” Hare told him. “The one bit you left out was that Edge’s commanding officer was an American. Ex Eagle Squadron, so I understand. Edge never forgave him and he’s hated Americans ever since.”
“Yes, well he’s still the best damn pilot I ever saw,” Munro told them.
“If that’s so, why isn’t he doing the drop on Thursday instead of Grant?” Genevieve asked.
“Because he doesn’t fly a Lysander, he pilots a German Fieseler Storch for that sort of flight and only on very special occasions,” Munro told her. “The Thursday flight is comparatively routine.”
The door opened and Edge came in, the usual unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Everybody happy?” There was a sudden silence as he came across to the table. “Grant got away okay, sir,” he told Munro. “Back Thursday at noon.”
“Good show,” Munro said.
Edge leaned so close to Genevieve that she could feel his breath on her ear. “Settling in all right, are we, sweetie? If you need any advice, Uncle Joe’s always available.”
She pulled away, angry, and stood up. “I’ll see if Madame Legrande needs any help in the kitchen.”
Edge laughed as she walked away. Hare glanced at Craig with lifted brows. “Not fit to be out, is he?”
Julie was washing dishes, elbow-deep in the sink when Genevieve entered. “Madame Legrande, the breakfast was excellent.” She picked up a dishcloth, “Here, let me help.”
“Julie, chérie, ” the other woman said with a warm smile.
Genevieve suddenly remembered that Hortense had always called her that. Never Anne-Marie, only her. Sheliked Julie Legrande at once. She picked up a plate and smiled. “Genevieve.”
“Everything all right?”
“I suppose so. I like Martin Hare. A remarkable man.”
“And Craig?”
Genevieve shrugged, “Oh, he’s all right, I suppose.”
“Which means you like him a lot?” Julie sighed. “An easy thing to do, chérie, but he carries the pitcher to the well too often, that one, I think.”
“And Edge?” Genevieve said.
“From under a stone. Steer clear of him.”
Genevieve continued to dry plates. “And where do you fit in to all this?”
“I run the house and this place. I’ll take you up there later. Settle you in.”
The door opened and the Brigadier looked in. “Craig and I are going up to the house now. Lots to
“Bloody cheeky rascal,” Munro said. “Go on, get out of it!”
Schmidt retired and Martin Hare poured Genevieve another cup of tea. “All this must seem very weird to you.”
“You can say that again.” She had liked him at once on their first meeting up at the airfield, just as she had thoroughly disliked Edge. “You must feel pretty strange yourself sometimes when you look in the mirror and see that uniform.”
“She’s right, Martin,” Munro said. “Do you ever wonder which side you’re really on?”
“As a matter of fact I do sometimes.” Hare lit a cigarette. “But only when I have to deal with Joe Edge. A disgrace to the uniform.”
“To any uniform,” Craig said. “He’s totally unbalanced in my opinion. Grant told me a pretty unsavoury story that just about sums him up. During the Battle of Britain a Ju88 lost one engine and surrendered to two Spitfire pilots who took up position on either side and started to shepherd it down to land at the nearest airfield. It would have been quite a coup.”
“What happened?” Genevieve asked.
“Apparently Edge came up on his rear, laughing like a maniac over the radio and blew him out of the sky.”
“That’s terrible,” she said. “Surely his commanding officer should have had him court-martialled?”
“He tried, but he was overruled. Edge was a Battle of Britain ace with two DFCs. It wouldn’t have looked goodin the papers.” Craig turned to Hare. “Like I said, the war hero as psychopath.”
“I heard that story too,” Hare told him. “The one bit you left out was that Edge’s commanding officer was an American. Ex Eagle Squadron, so I understand. Edge never forgave him and he’s hated Americans ever since.”
“Yes, well he’s still the best damn pilot I ever saw,” Munro told them.
“If that’s so, why isn’t he doing the drop on Thursday instead of Grant?” Genevieve asked.
“Because he doesn’t fly a Lysander, he pilots a German Fieseler Storch for that sort of flight and only on very special occasions,” Munro told her. “The Thursday flight is comparatively routine.”
The door opened and Edge came in, the usual unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Everybody happy?” There was a sudden silence as he came across to the table. “Grant got away okay, sir,” he told Munro. “Back Thursday at noon.”
“Good show,” Munro said.
Edge leaned so close to Genevieve that she could feel his breath on her ear. “Settling in all right, are we, sweetie? If you need any advice, Uncle Joe’s always available.”
She pulled away, angry, and stood up. “I’ll see if Madame Legrande needs any help in the kitchen.”
Edge laughed as she walked away. Hare glanced at Craig with lifted brows. “Not fit to be out, is he?”
Julie was washing dishes, elbow-deep in the sink when Genevieve entered. “Madame Legrande, the breakfast was excellent.” She picked up a dishcloth, “Here, let me help.”
“Julie, chérie, ” the other woman said with a warm smile.
Genevieve suddenly remembered that Hortense had always called her that. Never Anne-Marie, only her. Sheliked Julie Legrande at once. She picked up a plate and smiled. “Genevieve.”
“Everything all right?”
“I suppose so. I like Martin Hare. A remarkable man.”
“And Craig?”
Genevieve shrugged, “Oh, he’s all right, I suppose.”
“Which means you like him a lot?” Julie sighed. “An easy thing to do, chérie, but he carries the pitcher to the well too often, that one, I think.”
“And Edge?” Genevieve said.
“From under a stone. Steer clear of him.”
Genevieve continued to dry plates. “And where do you fit in to all this?”
“I run the house and this place. I’ll take you up there later. Settle you in.”
The door opened and the Brigadier looked in. “Craig and I are going up to the house now. Lots to
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