You Must Remember This...

Prologue

Do you ever wonder, as you sit and watch a movie, about what happened to those characters on the screen before the story you are watching starts? Or what was going on elsewhere as the movie tells its tale? Or about how their lives pan out after the movie ends and you have left the cinema and made your way home? (All right, maybe I've just been to see some dull movies lately.)

This tale features some of those characters, immortalised on film by Bogart, Bergman, Dooley Wilson, Paul Henried, Claude Rains and Tim Moxon.

There's a couple of people from the real world in here too but of course this story is as fictional for them as it is for the characters that we've known from favourite movies.

As for our hero, the story picks up not long after the conclusion of “The Golden Age”. Avid fans of Freddie's Tales will recall that “The Golden Age” ended with Freddie in Florida and some thoughts about what happened to Freddie next. In fact, as is often the case with information about Freddie Clegg, this turns out not to have been entirely accurate.

The suggestion that he had been involved with the Special Operations Executive now appears to be wrong. Although Freddie did get involved in secret operations in Europe it wasn't quite as it originally appeared. Nor did Sandy flee France in the face of the German advance as had been previously thought. She stayed and made her own special contribution to the war effort as you'll learn.

I'll leave you to work out who should be playing Freddie, Elly, Sandy and the others when they come to make the movie of “You Must Remember This”.

As for the rest of it, Robert Harris isn't the only one with insights as to what was going on at Bletchley Park in the 1940's.

Bar Talk : Paris, June 1940

June 13th, 1940. Barely three weeks after the evacuation of British troops from Dunkirk was completed, German forces were pressing closely on the outskirts of Paris.

In the cellar of a small café in Montmartre, one Englishman was hard at work.

Freddie Clegg tightened the rope that held Mademoiselle Louise Barchant to the solid wooden chair on which she was seated, ignoring the gagged groans of Louise and those of her friend Annette Coursonne as she struggled against her own restraints. Clegg fussed at each knot, checking the tension of the rope, the lay of the cords, the way in which the ropes wound securely around the limbs of his victim and the rungs and struts of the chair. It was, Clegg, concluded, still the part of his work that he most enjoyed; the simple craft of restraining a captive so that she is held securely, unable to escape, and yet with no more discomfort than was absolutely desirable. It made a pleasant change in some ways, Clegg thought, He’d been disappointed to have to break up the old organisation but, with the war, it was all getting too big and too complicated. There were some benefits, however, he reflected. It meant he could go back to this; doing what he was good at, what he enjoyed.

Louise gave a frustrated groan of impotence as her struggles failed to make any impression on her captivity, her evident anger and frustration stifled by the cloth that filled her mouth. Freddie smiled, pleased that she was still showing such spirited resistance. That was the good thing about girls from the night clubs; they were used to working hard for their living. The Trocadero made it so easy too. It was never any problem for an ardent admirer to get to see the girls. And with all the uncertainty and panic in the city no one was going to miss them. Freddie waved at Louise and Annette with a mock salute and headed off towards the stairs that led up and out of the cellar prison. The girls scowled at him as he left them. He picked his way through the wine cases and barrels that were piled, untidily around the room. Most of the good stuff had been drunk. There was no point in leaving that for the Germans. Clegg locked the door behind him., ignoring the plaintive  muffled groans of the girls.

He emerged into the bar of La Belle Aurore. Rick, the owner, was sitting at a table near the bar. On the far side of the room Sam, the bar’s pianist and one of the finest jazz musicians in Paris, was chatting with the small knot of girls that had gathered around him as he improvised a short tune at the keyboard.

Clegg leant on the bar and ordered a Pastis. He turned to Rick. “One for you?” he asked.

Richard Blaine looked up from the table and shook his head. “Come on Freddie,” he said. “You know I never drink with customers.”

Freddie looked apologetic. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess you’ve got other things on your mind right now, too.”

“Haven’t we all?” Rick nodded towards the open door of the café. Outside the streets were quiet except for the not so distant thump of German artillery. The sound of the shell fire was louder, closer, than it had been that morning. Clegg looked down at the milky coloured drink, pondering for a few moments whether he preferred the smoother French take on aniseed flavoured alcohol over the Greek or the Turkish. There wasn't much to choose, he decided, sinking the contents of the glass.

Sam was closing the lid on his piano; the girls waving as they left. He came across to where Rick was sitting. “Time to go, Boss,” he said. “You don’t want to keep Miss Ilsa waiting and the Marseilles train ain’t gonna wait for either of you.”

Freddie reflected on the impact that “Miss Ilsa” had had on his friend. He was just disappointed that he hadn't had the chance to meet the woman that seemed to have made such a change in Rick's life.

“Sure Sam,” Rick said getting to his feet. He turned to Freddie. “It’s good of you to close things up here.”

“That’s OK,” Freddie replied raising his glass of pastis. “I guess the Germans don’t have quite as much interest in meeting me as they do you and i’ve got a few loose ends to tidy up. It will be another day before they’re in the city anyhow.” 

“Well, make sure you get yourself out of here soon. Paris isn’t going to be too healthy, even for a man of your resources.”

Freddie acknowledged Rick’s remarks with a nod as he downed the last of his drink. “Well, thanks for the use of the cellar,” he said.

Rick shook his head. “I don’t want to know,” he said. “Somehow, Freddie, I don’t feel everything you get up to is quite legal.” He smiled as he grabbed his hat and trench coat. “Come on Sam,” he said moving to the door.

Sam was trying to collect up his sheet music. “You go on, Mr Richard,” he said. “i’ll catch you up.” Rick pulled his hat on and stepped out onto the streets of Montmartre as they glistened in the late afternoon rain of a summer storm. Sam pushed the piano back against the wall. He disappeared upstairs for a while and then came back down with a small battered suitcase. He went back to the piano to retrieve his music.

Freddie watched as Sam pulled the sheets of music together into a bundle. “Rick’s changed,” he said.

Sam looked up. He seemed reluctant to leave but he was never the most talkative of men, especially when it came to discussing his employer. “I wouldn’t know about that, Mr Freddie,” he replied.

“Oh, come on, Sam.” Clegg admired Sam’s loyalty but sometimes he appeared to be trying to seem dumber than anyone could be in reality. “This Miss Ilsa must be quite something.”

“He sure thinks so.” He turned back to the pile of music on the chair of the piano. “Songs From The Shows,” said the top one, “Everybody’s Welcome – Hermann Hupfeld”. Clegg looked at it sceptically. Hupfeld? What sort of name was that for a songwriter?

Freddie poured another glass of the aniseed liquor. “Well, good luck in Marseilles, or wherever,” he said lifting his glass in a toast as Sam collected his case. The phone on the bar rang, Clegg picked it up. “Hi Rick,” he said. “No, he’s still here. I guess he was just leaving. OK. Sure. I’ll tell him. No, it’s no trouble.” He put the receiver down.

“Ilsa’s not at the station,” he said. Sam rolled his eyes in apprehension. “Rick says can you stop by her hotel on the way over?”

“Sure thing,” Sam said, looking no happier. He picked up the bundle of music. “I guess I should be going, anyway.”

A face appeared at the door. A French urchin child was waving an envelope. “Message for Mr Blaine,” he called. Sam grabbed it, seeing the crest of Ilsa’s hotel. “I got a bad feeling about this whole thing, Mr Freddie,” he said, pushing the letter into his pocket as he headed out.

“Tell Rick to call me in London,” Freddie said. “When he gets to where ever he’s planning to go. Look after him, Sam.”

“Sure thing Mr Freddie,” said the pianist as he elbowed his way around the urchin and out, pushing the door shut behind him.

Clegg watched him go. The bar was suddenly quiet enough to allow the complaining grunts of the two girls in the basement to become faintly audible. It wasn’t a problem for Clegg, he didn’t expect to have to keep them there long.

The door to the bar opened again. An enormously tall man in French military officer’s uniform, his kepi adding to his height so that he had to stoop to pass through the door, entered. He was followed by two troopers.

Clegg looked up and raised his almost empty glass. “Mon Général,” he smiled. “It doesn’t sound as though things are going so well.” The sounds of German artillery fire were getting  closer still and there wasn't much evidence of any returning fire from the French positions.

The Frenchman shrugged. “For now things do not look good,” he said. “But whatever happens some of us will fight on.”

“And in the mean time you look to your amusements?”

“What else can we do? Are things as agreed?”

“The two young ladies are available for you down stairs,” said Clegg. “I assume that you have transport available. You’ll no doubt wish to examine them before parting with the fee.”

The general gave a nod. Clegg gestured towards the door to the cellar. The two men went through the door and down the steps.

The general smiled as he saw the two helpless girls. The girls, eyes wide with terror, gave muffled grunts of confusion at the sight of their visitor. “Splendid, Monsieur Clegg, splendid. If only my troops were as successful at meeting their commitments as you are, then the Germans would not have taken a single step onto French soil.” He stepped up to each of the girls in turn, staring at them closely, moving their heads left and then right in spite of their gagged protests, pushing up Louise Barchant’s skirt to gain a better view of her legs. “Exactly as agreed. And collaborators too, I believe? All the better.” He stood up and reached into his jacket, pulling out a battered leather wallet. “Now for my part.” The general counted out a growing pile of £100 notes onto one of the wine barrels.

“The Trocadero’s loss, is your gain, General. I fear their German sugar-daddy will miss them but such is war,” Clegg smiled scooping up the pile of money. “I’m sorry it had to be Sterling, but you see how things are.”

The general gave Clegg a supercilious look. “For now, perhaps. We will see how well you British do when the Germans are on your beaches and in your fields.” He gestured to the two troopers. They trotted down the steps into the cellar and set to releasing the girls from their chairs. Keeping their wrists and ankles bound each hoisted one girl onto his shoulder and stood smartly to attention, steadying a struggling girl with one arm while saluting with the other. Not an easy trick, thought Clegg.

“Carry on,” said the general and the troopers carried their wriggling captives out of the cellar. Clegg and the general shook hands. “Are you going back to London?”

Clegg nodded.

“Go west,” advised the general. “There will be boats leaving from Cherbourg and Saint Malo. I have to be in London tomorrow or the day after. I may see you there. As for my toys,” he nodded towards the door the two girls had been carried through, “well, I am sure I will find somewhere to keep them.”

“Well, good luck, General,” Clegg said as the Frenchman picked up his kepi. “I hope you get the chance to enjoy them.”

Air Raid Precautions : London, March 1941

It was dark and cold. The whine of the air raid siren sounding the “all clear” cut through the night, blotting out the hissing and crackling sound from the fires that raged a block or so from where Clegg was standing. “Inconvenient,” he thought, “I wasn’t quite finished.” It wasn't too much of a problem though; it would be a while before folk emerged from the shelters.

As if to add to his difficulties, the wall of a nearby building collapsed with a crumbling crash, spewing a jet of dust across the roadway beside him. He scowled at the rubble, brushing himself down as he did so.

Freddie Clegg had found the blitz a lot less of an imposition than most of his fellow Londoners. While many of them were spending uncomfortable nights in the Underground or in makeshift shelters of their own, Clegg was hard at work. The raids were coming almost every night now. Two hundred bombers at a time or more they said. He'd watched them fly over many times - Heinkels with their soft rounded wings; Junkers, engines throbbing with a characteristic beat; Dorniers, slim as pencils and fragile looking but still capable of delivering a powerful load of incendiaries and high explosive. Anti-aircraft fire didn’t seem effective and he’d seen nothing of the promised night fighter successes. Occasionally a bomber would be coned in the brilliant shafts of a pair of search lights and the concentration of fire would bring it down. But there still seemed plenty more to come the next night, and the next.

Clegg didn’t mind, though - so many of his enterprises benefited from the black out. The police were busily occupied with coping with the effects of the raids. The streets were deserted; broken buildings left dark corners. As long as you took no notice of the falling bombs and the collapsing masonry and stayed away from the spivs and the black marketeers that were making the most of the opportunities for “liberating” bomb damaged property, you had the city to yourself.

An unconscious girl of twenty two or three, the latest focus of Clegg’s attentions, was lying propped against a half demolished wall. Her unconscious state might seem to have been the consequences of German military activity. In all honesty, though, Clegg had to confess it was entirely due to the pad of chloroform he had pressed against her face. Her brown tweed coat fell open as Clegg dragged her wrists behind her back so that he could tie them with the length of cord he had pulled from his pocket. She was still wearing her steel helmet with the letters “ARP” on the front but Clegg noted with satisfaction that she’d obviously come straight from the club to take her turn on Air Raid Precautions, watching for fires.  Her coat fell open. Clegg could see her cigarette girl’s outfit beneath it. The absurdly short skirt gave Clegg an agreeable prospect of her stocking clad legs. He’d seen her a few times at the Windmill. No doubt Mrs Van Damme would be sorry to lose her.

Clegg felt a small pang of guilt as he tightened the cords. It was a shame that her public spiritedness in going out on fire watch should have placed her at risk from the likes of him.  But at least the bombers had gone, he thought as he looked skywards for a moment. Her  fire watching wouldn’t be needed any more tonight.

Clegg considered the girl as she lay limply on the dust and rubble strewn linoleum floor of the bombed out building. He was pleased with his choice. She’d have plenty of chances to make a new contribution to the war effort. After all someone had to keep the Middle East on the Allies’ side if they were going to keep hold of essential supplies of oil. London showgirls and hostesses still represented a valuable commodity with those whose influence counted in and around Baghdad. Clegg felt it was almost his patriotic duty to meet the demand.

The girl began to stir. Clegg thought for a moment. Should he gag her first or tie her ankles? She slumped back again, her head lolling limply, a trickle of dust from the wall above coursing down across her forehead. There wasn’t much risk of her either running or crying out, Clegg decided. Since he still had cords in his hand he lashed her ankles together, his hands brushing across her nylon covered calves. “It isn’t easy,” Clegg, thought. “Too much risk of  being distracted. People don’t appreciate how hard I have to work to keep my mind on what I am doing.” Forcing himself to concentrate on his task, he focussed his attention on the cords and the knots, threading the cords between her feet and ankles to cinch them tightly together. He pulled the girls own scarf from her neck, knotted it in the middle, pushed the knot between the girls lips and then tied the scarf in place as a gag. By now the girl was stirring again, this time with more effect. Realising her situation she groaned into her gag and struggled against the cords that held her arms and legs. Clegg bent down beside her. In what was intended to be a reassuring gesture, he reached forward to brush away a strand of hair from the girl’s face. She, fearing a slap or worse, tried to pull away from him, taking no comfort from his look of concern.

Clegg’s attention was attracted by the sound of bricks tumbling as someone made their way through the rubble. The girl, sensing rescue, tried to squeal. Clegg pressed his hand over her mouth adding to the muffling effect of her gag. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the flickering flames of the fires raised by the bombers’ incendiaries, was a woman. As she came closer the girl saw she was dressed in a blue serge battledress with the insignia of the Auxiliary Fire Service on it. Worried that this newcomer would also fall prey to her attacker the girl courageously tried to kick out in an attempt to dislodge some of the bomb damaged wall as a warning. Her attacker, though, simply waved at the woman and turned around to pick the girl up from where she was laying.

Clegg hoisted the girl over his shoulder. “Did you get the appliance, Elly?” He asked.

Elspeth Grant nodded as Clegg carried the girl by her. She looked back into the remains of the room where the girl had been grabbed. The girl’s ARP helmet, her gasmask case, her handbag, were all that there was to show where she had been. It would be enough. It would just be assumed that she’d been buried in the rubble. Heaven knew, enough of them were.

She stopped for a moment as she saw the girl's ration card sticking out from her handbag. That could be useful, she thought. She reconsidered. A missing ration card would look odd. Better to leave it there. Besides, Freddie wasn't exactly letting them go short. He had enough contacts in the black market.

The girl squealed again as she realised where Clegg was taking her. In the dark of the bomb damaged road, between the craters and piles of rubble, stood a small truck with the AFS crest on the side. A trailer pump, hung about with hoses and ladders was hitched to the back of the truck. Elly pushed by and swung open the back of the trailer pump, revealing a small false compartment. Clegg carefully set the girl inside it before Elly, ignoring the girl’s cries of increasing distress, pushed the door back into place and twirled home the butterfly nuts that closed it securely.

Clegg walked around to the passenger side, Elly to the driver’s. As she got in Clegg pulled a cigarette from a pack of Players Navy Cut. He struck a match, cupping the flame in his hands to light the cigarette.

“Oi!” Came the voice of an officious ARP warden from some way off. “Put that ruddy light out!”

Clegg flicked the match into the gloom of the bomb damaged building. He stared at the flames streaming skywards in the aftermath of the raid. It looked like the East End had got it bad again. Another loud “crump”, followed by a flash of flame and a cloud of smoke announced the detonation of another bomb; delayed action, maybe, or just a faulty fuse. “Put that light out!” Thought Freddie as he stared at the way that the fires in the Docks cast an orange glow across the whole of the eastern sky. “Somebody ought to tell Jerry that.”

Clegg climbed into the truck as Elly started the motor and the two of them drove off with their helpless passenger squealing almost inaudibly in the trailer behind.  He was pleased with the evening's work. The girl would keep his bank account in the black for a little longer.  

Gaslight : London, September 1941

The Gaslight Club was in Great Compton Street. Soho retained, even in war time, its air of corrupt pleasure. A curious mix of illicit sexuality and hedonistic enjoyment seemed to infuse the smoke stained bricks of the buildings. The garish neon signs were gone from the clubs, of course, banished by the blackout legislation but there were plenty of servicemen on leave, keen to find a way to forget about life for a while. Sharp suited men still slouched at the entrance to the clubs, enticing passers by with their promises of a “lovely time with lovely girls”.

Clegg knew better. He pushed his way across the road towards the Gaslight Club with no such hopes. It was lunchtime but he was pretty sure that this was no place to eat. It  was just the place suggested by the Lieutenant Commander when he'd phoned earlier that morning. He seemed to think he had a proposition that would interest Clegg. For his part, Clegg doubted it. He disliked getting involved with the military, unless of course they were customers like the general.

The barker at the club door met his gaze as Clegg went by. “They’ll look after you downstairs,” he said.

“I’m sure they will,” said Clegg evenly, although he wasn’t sure of anything of the sort.

He wasn't looking forward to the meeting. He had a suspicion of military types and he wasn’t at all sure why the Lieutenant Commander had asked to meet him. He had avoided conscription so far by virtue of having a reserved occupation. Somehow his business had been designated as essential war work. It had required quite a few favours to get that organised and he still owed a few “amusements” to some people at the Board of Trade. After all that effort, Clegg didn't want some military type rocking the boat.

At the foot of the stairs a girl peered out from behind a desk and offered to check his hat and coat. There were only half a dozen other coats on the rack behind her. It didn’t look like the place was too busy, Clegg thought.

He left his coat with her and pushed his way through a beaded curtain into the bar. Three of the dozen or so tables were occupied. Two airman were enjoying the attentions of a pair of well endowed girls who were busily soaking up what ever pop had been decanted into the champagne bottles that sat in ice coolers beside their table. In the far corner two men in civvies were deep in conversation about some, probably illicit, business venture. Clegg thought he knew one of them. Standing at the bar was a man in naval officer’s uniform, he raised his hand in recognition. Clegg found that disturbing in itself.

Freddie walked across to the bar. “Hullo, Clegg. I’m Strangways,” the officer said, introducing himself.

Clegg looked at the man. His uniform had the well-used look of a career naval officer but carried the wavy stripes of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve; he hadn’t just joined up as far as Clegg could see. On the other hand, Clegg didn’t think he’d been at sea for quite a while. The man’s pale complexion spoke of a war that had been spent indoors and ashore; the briefcase that lay on the bar beside him was padlocked to his wrist. What was more, on the far side of the bar a particularly attractive WRNS officer was watching them both closely.

“So, why does Naval Intelligence want to talk to me?” Said Clegg.    

“Whatever makes you imagine that I’m anything to do with that lot?” Strangways responded, defensively.

“Only way a Wavy Navy type like you could get to lay alongside a Jenny like that,” Clegg said nodding towards the girl and enjoying the bristling reaction that his remark provoked. The Wren smiled back at Clegg. Only a third officer, Freddie thought looking at the single ring of gold braid on the sleeve of her jacket, but she seemed to have the measure of the Lieutenant Commander.

Strangways sucked his teeth to control his annoyance. “She's got nothing to do with this Clegg.” 

“Please yourself,” said Clegg. He didn’t suppose it mattered much although he was  disappointed not to have the excuse to be introduced to the girl..

“Do you want a drink?” Strangways asked in an attempt to recover the initiative. Clegg knew that the best he was likely to get was a thin beer or a watered down scotch. He shook his head. Strangways fumbled in his jacket pocket for a key to his case. “I’m told you’re a man who can get things done.” Clegg peered back, not saying anything. “A man with European contacts. A man with particular skills.” Clegg’s sense of discomfort was rising. Although he didn't fool himself that no one in the intelligence services knew about some of his projects he was disturbed to be confronted by such suggestions from a relatively junior officer. He went on in an even more disturbing vein. “I hear you have particular expertise in the acquisition, transport and storage of certain rather specialised sorts of merchandise.”

“I think you must have the wrong man.” Clegg never enjoyed attracting attention.  He'd spent his life avoiding the scrutiny of the police, border officials and others that took a dim view of his entrepreneurial activities. The attentions of the military and military intelligence in particular were always unwelcome as far as he was concerned.

“I don’t think so,” said Strangways, pulling two photographs from his briefcase. The grainy black and white prints showed two girls clad only in their underwear, shackled, gagged with heavy leather straps and chained by their necks in what looked like a stone cell.

Clegg looked at the pictures. “They say that sort of thing’s very popular around here,” he said nodding to the empty tables in the club. “When the punters are in, of course.”

“I thought you might recognise them,” said Strangways. “But, then, there have been so many haven’t there?    Louise Barchant?  Annette Coursonne?”

Clegg peered at them again. There had been plenty of girls but he prided himself on trying never to forget those he abducted. He remembered the girls but he wasn't keen to let Strangways know.  “Really,” he said, feigning indifference. “French girls, then, by the sound of it. Should I know ‘em?”

Strangways smiled patiently and took the photographs back. “As you say, French. In fact it was a Frenchman who suggested I talk to you. The Gënëral sends his regards.” Clegg gave no indication that he understood anything of what Strangways was talking about but that didn’t deter the naval officer and Clegg was disturbed by the mention of the general. “Let’s just assume for a moment that I’m talking to the right man. Suppose, just for a moment, that I needed to get hold of a number of girls.”

“You’re in the right place. This club is not the best but I’m told the girls are accommodating.”

“Let’s say specific girls. Particular girls with a particular contribution to make to the security of the nation and the war effort. Girls that happen to be somewhere in mainland Europe. In places, let us say, where we might have some difficulty in operating.”

Clegg was feeling progressively more uncomfortable.

“In that case we might want to find a specialist to help us. Someone with skills that our own teams lack. Someone with contacts that would give a mission a greater chance of success.”

“Someone sufficiently lacking in foresight to go wandering around Europe under the noses of the Wehrmacht?” Clegg was keen to bring the conversation to an end. There was nothing that Strangways had said that was even remotely interesting. “Let me remind you. You’ve used considerable energy and the efforts of His Majesty’s navy in removing a large number of troops from just that position, Lieutenant Commander. In case you've forgotten, it was only just over a year ago that you Navy lot were pulling khaki types off the beaches of Dunkerque with anything that could float. Or were you sat in some comfortable bunker somewhere?” Strangways bristled. Clegg knew his remark had hit home, Strangways didn't look like a man who would relish being in the thick of things. “Going across to the European mainland doesn't sound like my idea of a sensible career move at present. I hope you find someone with the unlikely combination of the required skills and the necessary lack of imagination to go. I don’t think it’s quite my idea of an interesting project. Good afternoon.” Clegg got up to leave.  The Wren officer looked disappointed.

Strangways closed his briefcase with the air of a man who was frustrated by his failure but hardly surprised. “Good afternoon, Mr Clegg,” he said. “I’m sorry if I had the wrong man.”

“No need to apologise,” said Clegg politely as Strangways closed his briefcase and collected his Wren officer. Freddie watched as the girl stepped out on her way back to the stairway that led out of the club.  From the combination of the higher than regulation heels, a skirt tighter than would be approved by the Admiralty and the fact that she'd been able to get hold of silk stockings in a time of severe shortages, he could only assume she had more influence than her junior rank would imply. Whatever the reason, Clegg was happy to enjoy the view. He enjoyed the wink she shot him from under her tri-corn hat, too.

© Freddie Clegg 2007

Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission. All characters and events fictitious.

Email: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com

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