by Shirley Mann
She had retrieved her radio, relieved that her confused grandmother had not even noticed that Marie had not been there for several weeks. Choosing her time to send messages was crucial, they had to be short and incomprehensible to anyone listening in. The penalty for possessing a radio was death. She had transmitted faster than ever before, sticking to the codes she had agreed with Edward and once the message had been sent, she buried the radio next to the privy in the back garden, perilously close to the long drop of the toilet. There had been no time to alert the baker, whose van was due any minute now to pick up Raoul and Michel, and he would be in complete ignorance of the added threat of the soldiers. She scanned the street from her position. There were two German guards, dozing in the doorway down the street outside a house where a platoon was, she hoped, sleeping soundly.
She suddenly spotted Michel and Raoul dodging into doorways down the street. Marie held her breath. At that moment, Monsieur LeClerc’s baker’s van drove into view, waking up the two guards who grasped their rifles, ready to challenge the vehicle but then relaxed again when they saw it was the regular bread delivery. It was time for Marie to act out her part to distract the soldiers from the sight of two men sliding into the van.
She slid out of the doorway towards the soldiers, giving them her sexiest smile. She was veering from side to side, looking, she hoped, very drunk. It was an offence to be out during curfew and she was taking a huge risk.
Behind her, Monsieur LeClerc was unloading his bread, not the baguettes he loved to bake but the stodgy, tasteless brown loaves that had become the norm during the war. He was desperately hoping the Allies’ landings would result in some white flour. However, this morning, the condition of his bread was the last thing on his mind. He was horrified to see the soldiers and for a second, hesitated, but then he heard the passenger door quietly opening and he knew his cargo had arrived. He had to carry on.
‘Bonjour, mes beaux soldats,’ Marie said slurring her speech. ‘Je suis perdue. J’ai passé une telle bonne nuit avec votre commandant et maintenant, je dois aller chez moi.’
She hoped that telling them she was lost after spending the night with their commandant would strike enough alarm in the men to make them nervous of carrying out their duty.
She sidled up to one of them, she was counting on the fact that the smell of the wine she had gargled with would suggest an alcohol-fuelled night.
The two men looked at each other. Their commandant was a fearsome man and well-known for his liaisons with women.
One of them, the smaller of the two, looked up as the baker’s van went slowly down the street. They had been in France long enough to know that there were two things that the French would not forgo just because there was a war on. One was their wine and the second was their bread but the appearance of this woman just as the van arrived was just a little too coincidental.
He grabbed Marie’s arm. He was going to take her to the commandant and check out her story. He nodded towards the van, saying something to his friend in German.
Marie had to think fast.
She retched and doubled over, putting her finger down her throat as she did so.
She was sick all over the soldier’s shiny boots. He pushed her away from him in disgust.
She took her chance and wobbled off down the road as casually as she could, her heart racing, not sure whether she had got away with it until she turned the corner where she broke into a run, preparing to vanish back into the shadows.
The van disappeared over the horizon. Inside, Michel and Raoul had hidden themselves under the sacking that held the bread. They had no idea of the drama they had left behind, but they knew they had nearly forty kilometres to go and then a tight schedule to coordinate with a tiny boat that they hoped would be waiting off the Normandy coast for them. They had told Claudette nothing, but in two hours she would get up to prepare breakfast for them. They hoped she would not worry too much and would spot the tiny silver spoon they had left on the sideboard. It was a signal they had agreed on in case of the need for a quick escape. She was not to sound the alarm but to pretend they were still there for as long as possible—hopefully until the Allies got there. It was a huge responsibility to ask of her, but she had welcomed the chance to do something to protect the two men she loved most in the world.
Chapter 38
It was only like the hum of a motorbike but when the pilotless planes sounded over the fields of Norfolk, the local people, including the Hollis household, held their breath. It was safe as long as they could hear it but once the hum stopped, that heralded the moment when it was ready to bomb the ground beneath and they would all dive for cover. Germany was using the V1 bombers relentlessly, as if to remind the British that one small D-Day victory on the northern coast of France was a drop in the ocean in this global war.
There had been many occasions when the Hollis family had ducked under the dining room table, only to hear the buzz of the aircraft disappear into the distance. After several embarrassing occasions when they all emerged, patting their clothes into place, they, like many English people, became somewhat blasé and would just look skyward as if they could puff their cheeks out and blow any planes away to a harmless end in an empty field.
Bobby was propped up on the chaise longue in the dining room. She strained her ears; there was that familiar eerie sound. She still found it difficult to move but if she leaned towards the window, she could glimpse the sky. There it was, heading their way.
Her mother hurried in. ‘Bobby, get under the table, quick. It’s one of these darned things.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, mother, stop fussing, it’ll pass over.’
But then the hum stopped. Mathilda Hollis grabbed Bobby and pulled her with her under the relative safety of the huge oak dining table. Bobby cried out in pain from her ankle but then immediately shouted to the kitchen for them all to take cover. She could not get to Elizé to protect her and her heart started to thump.
Two seconds later, a huge explosion rocked the house, sending plumes of dust everywhere.
There was a chilling silence and then a commotion broke out. Everyone was calling to each other. Mrs Hill came running in to the dining room, her face covered in flour.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked urgently, pulling them both out from under the table.
‘I think so,’ Mathilda replied. ‘Bobby?’
‘Yes, I’m OK but everyone else . . . ?’
Mathilda and Mrs Hill ran towards the back door, fearful of what they might find outside. Bobby hobbled behind, not caring whether she put her foot down or not.
The barn was in flames and there was hardly anything left of the buzz bomber apart from splinters of plywood that had scattered in all directions.
Men ran from everywhere, carrying buckets. At the front of them was Archie, his face was grey.
‘Agnes . . . Agnes,’ he called, rushing towards the barn. Two men tried to stop him but he wriggled free and disappeared into the flames.
Mrs Hill said to Bobby in a chillingly quiet voice, ‘Miss Clark went into the barn to get some hay for the haybox.’
Elizé appeared behind Bobby. She had been playing with her toys in her bedroom, fortunately away from the window that had shattered. Bobby clutched her in her arms but looked towards the barn with alarm.
Andrew Hollis raced over from the stock enclosure, shouting to the men to get a chain of water buckets going, but they were already in place, chucking bucketful after bucketful onto the fire. He joined the line, desperate to douse the flames. The fire had taken hold and black smoke from the winter feed was spiralling towards the blue sky.
From one side of the farm a group of Land Army girls ran to join them and from the other, a group of German prisoners of war who were interned at the farm, raced to help. The English officer was in front of them, shouting instructions.
‘There’s my friend, Hannah, and her friend, Karl!’ Elizé shouted above the noise to Bobby. Furious that she could not help, Bo
bby just sent a silent thank you to the two enemies who were working side by side in front of her to try to save her aunt.
At that moment, an ash-covered figure staggered out of the barn. He was holding the inert figure of Agnes.
Everyone rushed forward except Bobby, who staggered, trying to hold onto Rachel’s shoulder.
‘She’s not breathing, she’s not breathing,’ Archie said in short panting breaths. He looked frantically around at the crowd of people who had given up trying to contain the blaze and were standing helplessly, clutching their empty buckets.
‘I can help,’ a German voice said.
A young Land Army girl stepped forward. ‘Let him help, he’s a doctor.’
Elizé ran over to her and took her hand, saying proudly, ‘This is my friend, she’s called Hannah.’
Archie was eyeing up the prisoner with suspicion but Andrew Hollis lurched forward.
‘No, you bastard, you will not touch her.’
He grabbed the prisoner’s rough jacket and tried to push him away but Archie got there first.
‘Move away, Boss. He’s our only hope.’
Andrew Hollis was shaking. He hated having these prisoners on his farm and avoided them at all times. His memories of the Boche charging at their trenches with their bayonets fixed still haunted him and he shivered with hatred every time he came across one. He stood up tall to square up to Archie, but then realised that Archie’s face was smeared with tears. Slowly, Andrew stepped to one side and reluctantly motioned to the German to help Agnes.
Archie was staring, stricken, at the woman in his arms. For years, paralysed by shyness, he had watched Agnes go off every week to a remote spot in the woods, clutching a small posy. He was the only person who knew that it was where she had buried the burnt remains of the telegram telling her that Peter Martin, her fiancé, had been killed at The Somme. He also knew she took the flowers to place reverently on the ground, causing walkers to pause and wonder at the small burst of colour amongst the cracked leaves and that sometimes, she would pound her fists on the oak tree next to it, sobbing her heart out. That weekly pilgrimage had broken his own heart. The tall officer moved forward and gently prised Agnes from Archie’s arms, laying her carefully on the ground. Archie protested when the man loosened Agnes’s top button to expose the top of her chest but this time, it was Andrew who laid his hand on his shoulder to stop him.
‘Give me something to, how you say,’ the doctor rolled his arms to demonstrate.
The girl, Hannah, immediately took off her green jumper and handed it to him, giving him an encouraging smile.
Bobby felt there was a frisson between the two but transferred her concentration back to the doctor, who was turning Aunt Agnes over then rolling the jumper up to put it under her stomach. He moved her forearms to put her head on them, and then pushed Agnes from the base of her spine. The whole group was holding its breath. The POW turned her still body over onto its back and motioned to Archie to hold her hands above her head. Archie looked down at the pale face and tears started to fall freely from his bloodshot eyes. The doctor went on to push forward with his thumbs from below Agnes’s ribs. Suddenly, Bobby’s aunt spluttered and started to cough. Archie could not help himself, he gathered Agnes up in his arms and gently rocked her back and forth and then carried her triumphantly into the house. The German sat back on his knees in relief.
Andrew Hollis looked at Archie’s love-stricken face in shock. His wife gave a secret smile and squeezed Bobby’s hand in satisfaction.
‘Archie’s waited a long time to claim that woman,’ she whispered to Bobby. ‘I think it’s finally time.’
Andrew went over to the doctor and after a moment of staring into his eyes, reached out his hand slowly. The German took hold of it and shook it firmly. Mathilda’s eyes clouded with tears. Ever since Elizé had arrived Mathilda had seen glimpses of the kind man she had married and now, here he was, shaking the hand of his enemy.
Bobby looked over at the little family graveyard to the side of the barn, it was more visible now from the house. A late afternoon sunbeam was lighting up the white marble of her brother’s grave. She followed its shaft and blew a kiss towards the blue sky above her.
Chapter 39
Gus looked at his parents in horror.
‘What do you mean, I won’t be able to walk?’
His mother looked at his father. He coughed and said gently, ‘You may be able to walk, in time, but it’s not going to be easy.’
‘What about flying?’ Gus asked quietly.
There was a dreadful pause and then his father said, ‘Fraid not, son, not unless this terrible war goes on for years.’
Gus lay back on his pillows. He had nothing else to say.
Day went to night and back to day. Gus lay for hours staring at the curtains around his bed without seeing them.
After several days, Bobby hobbled into the ward. She was leaning on her crutches, finally able to put her weight down.
Gus was turned on his side, staring at the wall. She spoke softly, ‘Gus, Gus, can you hear me?’
Gus did not want to turn to face her. She was the last person he wanted to see. To win Roberta Hollis, he felt he had to be a whole being, not a broken body and a fragile mind. From their days at school, he had somehow thought of the two of them as examples of what young people should be: athletic, able and confident – the sort of youngsters who made heads turn. It was not a conceit, just a confidence that came of being admired by classmates and being the best at everything. He tensed his body, he felt ashamed of how it had let him down.
A nurse followed Bobby to the bed and drew up a chair for her, which she flopped down onto thankfully. The nurse looked at Gus and gave a little shake of her head like a teacher of a naughty pupil.
Bobby did not know what to say. The last time she had seen Gus, he had been so full of confidence, almost to the point of being cocky. This shrunken figure in front of her was like someone she did not know.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your leg,’ she started. ‘It must be terrible for you.’
It suddenly occurred to her how she would feel if she had been told she could not fly again and she reached out her hand to touch him, but then withdrew it.
‘What happened to your foot?’ he asked flatly.
‘Broke it,’ she replied. ‘It seems we’re still trying to compete with each other.’
Gus did not smile and then muttered something.
‘I’m sorry, Gus, what did you say?’
He turned over and looked at her.
‘I said, I’d rather have died in that plane.’
Bobby put her hand to her mouth in horror. ‘Oh, please don’t say that,’ but part of her knew what he was talking about. A life spent in a wheelchair was something she could not contemplate for herself or for the man she thought she knew in front of her. She had no solution, no hope to offer him. Being anything less than fit and able was a prospect neither of them could cope with.
They were so alike, she realised. They needed the bravado, the glamour and the exhilaration. That was what had given their burgeoning relationship such a tingling excitement. Without that, they were both just a sham. Their relationship was as thin as the lightest clouds in the sky.
She sat for a few more minutes but could not think of anything to say. After an agonising silence, the nurse came back and told Bobby she needed to take his temperature.
Bobby reached for her crutches in relief and stood up with a wobble. ‘I’ll come again, Gus, you take care of yourself.’
Gus stared after her. Her golden auburn hair seemed to have lost its lustre.
As Bobby went shakily out of the ward, she knew a bond had been broken between them. Gus knew it too and turned back to the wall.
*
Edward Turner dug out his old sailing boots, lifejacket and sou’wester from the stowage in the cockpit. The weather was going to be terrible and he was going to need them on his beloved forty-five foot motorsailer, the aptly-named ‘C
hallenge’, a name that summed up what lay ahead of them. Since the war had begun, the boat had been commandeered to pick up downed Spitfire pilots off the English coast, but tonight this powerful little vessel was going to rescue two resistance fighters who were being brought halfway across the English Channel on a small French boat. It was Edward’s pride and joy and he wanted to be the person to helm it.
He had received a coded message from Adèle just twenty-four hours earlier to say that the pick-up had been brought forward and had picked up the telephone to organise a rendezvous with his contacts on the south coast, but then his finger paused over the dial and it only took a brief moment for him to persuade himself that, as a covert operation, he could organise the pick-up much better if he went to Portsmouth in person. As soon as he got to the boat, he found John Blake, his sailing friend and mentor fast asleep in the bunk, surrounded by empty beer bottles. He grinned with delight at the fact that, really, there was no choice, he was going to have to make the journey himself, which was, in all honesty, exactly what he had hoped.
Edward hugged the unexpected opportunity to himself. He had been getting fed up with being office bound in a suit and this was his chance to taste the excitement and thrill of danger, which had been lacking in his life recently. Sailing had always provided the excitement he craved and tonight, with an important mission to undertake, his whole body was quivering as a testament to his belief that he was, for once, doing something important that did not involve endless strategy documents. It also occurred to him that by doing something heroic, he might in some small way be able to compete with an RAF pilot at Tempsford.