The Battle of Brittany

Holidays

Heidi kicked around Geneva for a few days. The hotel was paid for so she might as well see the city. She had always visited before as part of a group with functions and prescribed outings, timetables to adhere to. She liked schedules and lists, they had a type of beauty to them. While the city was certainly impressive, there was nothing to notch her day, no anchor of responsibility to hold her down.

On the third day, she went back to the offices of the European History Society. Her jeans were dirty but she wore them anyway, at least until Frau M. noticed her hanging around the corridors.

"Heidi, you're an embarrassment. If you want to come here when on holiday, at least dress the part."

She returned to her hotel room in a rage., declaring she would never go back to the offices and would wear what she liked.

Yet day four of her enforced vacation saw her dressing carefully at 7.15 in the morning. She chose a smart dark green jacket and skirt with a white shirt, ruffled down the front.

Frau M. said nothing when she entered the typing pool and placed her handbag on her temporary desk which stood with all the other desks in evenly-spaced rows like soldiers on parade; Heidi almost expected the desks to shuffle sideways to adjust the difference between them.

But forty-five minutes later, in which Heidi had gone to the bathroom twice and read the lunch menu in the canteen until she knew it by heart, Frau M. walked past her desk and indicated for Heidi to follow her.

They sat in the big bucket chairs of the small conference room. Frau M. had poured steaming coffee from a pot freshly made and placed a plate of delicate chocolate and ginger biscuits before them.

"These are delicious, Frau M.," Heidi said.

"I made them for you."

"No! Really? But how did you know I'd be in?"

"I took one look at the back of your neck when you stalked off yesterday after I complained about your selection of office attire and I knew you'd be back, properly dressed this time! You cannot keep away, Heidi Hilz and that's a fact."

"I was a bit lonely walking around Geneva on my own."

"I should have thought about that," Frau M. replied. "I say, would you like something to do, some work, I mean, to fill your holidays? I don't mean typing, Heidi, I might be able to come up with something else."

"Yes, please, Frau M."

"I'll see what I can do. Now, off with you back to the typing pool and take the rest of the biscuits for the other girls."

Heidi went back to her desk, re-organised her one metal drawer for quick and easy access to her accessories, typewriter ribbon to the left, correcting fluid to the right, paper reserve in the middle. Then, mercifully, Frau M. came back with a clutch of fax paper in her right hand.

"I'm sorry, Heidi", she said, "but it's typing after all. These are the daily reports from your boss. I need them typed up into a log, in date order."

"Yes, of course, Frau M."

Frau M. left for a meeting. The impression in her mind of a young face shining with excitement stayed with her all day.

Heidi thought about her task for ten minutes, begged three different colour folders from stationery and set about typing in triplicate; one for the President, one for the files.

And one for herself.

Charles Berrince was wealthy enough to have his own doctor on staff. Dr Lagout had been with Berrince officially since the Battle of Bremarché on 14th May 1942, but they had known each other since infancy.