The Flyer

by Stuart Harrison

  Though it was almost more temptation than he could bear, he refused. ‘You’ve already put yourself at risk for me. I can’t take your food as well.’

  ‘If you do not eat you will not get to the frontier. Anyway, I have more.’ She showed him her basket. ‘Every morning I go to the market to trade eggs and sometimes cheese for other things we need. One loaf less won’t make any difference.’

  Unable to resist any longer, William thanked her and tore off a chunk of the loaf. The crust was still warm and crispy though the bread was heavy and chewy.

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘Yesterday.’ He told her about the farm where he’d stolen eggs and potatoes.

  ‘Here.’ She gave him a piece of sausage, which after a moment’s hesitation he accepted gratefully.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked her.

  ‘On a small farm near here. If you want, you can come there with me. You can rest your leg. You need some proper food and I can find some clothes that fit you better.’

  ‘I can’t ask you to put yourself in any more danger after what happened to those poor devils in the square.’

  ‘There is a war,’ she answered simply. ‘If we are to drive the Germans from France, we must be prepared to resist them.’

  The prospect of shelter and food was appealing, and William knew if he was going to get to the frontier he needed her help. ‘Alright, thanks,’ he agreed. ‘But I’ll only stay for a few days and then I’ll go.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  When they continued on their way the woman told him that her name was Helene Lisle, and that the farm where she lived belonged to her husband’s parents. When the Germans invaded Belgium he had left her there to look after them and had gone to join the army.

  ‘We did not know the Germans would get this far, otherwise I would not have stayed,’ she said.

  ‘Where would you have gone?’

  ‘To our home in Rouen. I was a schoolteacher there. We had only come here to visit Jean’s parents.’

  ‘Where is your husband now?’

  ‘He is dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She didn’t speak again until they came to a farm track that led through the fields towards a farmhouse and some outbuildings some distance away.

  ‘It would be better if Jean’s parents do not see you,’ Helene said. ‘I will take you another way to the barn. There is a loft for the hay where you can stay without them knowing you are there.’

  William hesitated, concerned at the need for secrecy.

  ‘It is alright,’ Helene said. ‘They are old, that is all. They will worry if they know.’

  He felt there was something she wasn’t telling him. Briefly he wondered if he could trust her, but then he reminded himself that she had saved his life and he felt guilty for doubting her. ‘Alright,’ he said.

  She led him away from the track to a wood, and eventually they emerged from the trees to approach the farm from another direction. A hedgerow hid them from the house until they reached the back of a barn, where there was a narrow wooden door.

  ‘Wait here,’ Helene instructed. ‘I will make sure there is nobody inside.

  While she was gone, William had a chance to get a better look at the farm. The buildings were made of old brick and timber and had a neglected, mean air. The roof of the house was poorly patched and a corner of one wall bulged where it had sagged. Ancient, faded paint flaked from the wooden doors and windows, and around the buildings weeds and nettles grew unchecked, smothering abandoned rusted implements and a pile of crumbling bricks and rotting timber. It was barely a farm at all, William guessed, just a few acres from which its inhabitants scratched a meagre living, huddled in a depression in the land beneath a leaden sky.

  After a few minutes Helene returned. ‘Come. It is alright. There is no-one there.’

  Inside the barn the light was dim and the air musty with the mingled smells of animals and old hay. Helene ushered him towards a wooden ladder that led up to a shadowed loft.

  ‘I will come with some food when I can. Albert and Marie go to bed very early, until then you must be very quiet.’

  ‘What if somebody comes?’

  ‘Albert is too old to climb the ladder. If you are careful he will never know you are here.’

  Once again, William hesitated. It occurred to him that he was putting his life in the hands of a woman he barely knew, and yet without her he would almost certainly have been caught back in the town. He began to climb the ladder, and at the top found a space about thirty feet long and twenty wide. It was partially filled with hay and could be accessed by a pair of wooden doors that opened above a yard outside. He went to a corner and made a kind of bed for himself, piling the hay around so that if anyone came up the ladder he couldn’t be seen, then he put his revolver close to hand and lay down. Within minutes he was asleep.

  *****

  When William woke it was almost dark. He climbed down the ladder into the barn and stood still for a few moments, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. The doors were closed. A horse regarded him from a stall, and in another were two cows. Fat brown hens pecked at the dirt floor. He went outside to the back of the barn and relieved himself at the edge of the field, being careful not to be seen from the house. The rain had stopped, but it was very cold, and the wind made him shiver. To the south, flares cast a glow above the horizon.

  When he returned to the loft he sat by the hay doors. Between cracks in the boards he could see the house on the other side of a yard. A light showed in a downstairs window and occasionally he saw signs of movement. He pictured Helene and her husband’s parents sitting down to eat their evening meal, and wondered if Helene would tell them about the spies the Germans had executed in the square that day. It made him uneasy to think that her parents-in-law were oblivious to his presence, and yet by being there he was putting them all in great danger.

  An hour after dark, the yellow glow of a lamp showed in one of the upstairs rooms, and shortly afterwards was extinguished again. Another hour passed before William heard the creak of the doors. He went to the ladder and peered into the darkness, and after a few moments Helene climbed up and passed him a pot.

  ‘Be careful,’ she said quietly. ‘It is hot.’

  They sat in the corner he had cleared and she gave him a spoon that she took from her pocket.

  ‘I am sorry I took so long. I had to wait until I was sure Albert and Marie were sleeping.’ She gestured to the pot. ‘Eat. And then we will talk.’

  The smell of the food when he lifted the lid made his mouth water. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is made from beans and other vegetables. A little pork. Whatever we can find.’

  William tasted it. The gravy was thick, with a strong flavour of garlic and herbs. There were vegetables that he couldn’t identify, and small nutty things that he thought were acorns. Helene told him that things were bad in the towns. The Germans had gone to the farms and stolen the animals and crops and the people had very little left to sell. But at least the people on the farms could forage for food in the fields and the woods.

  ‘Did the Germans come here?’ William asked.

  ‘Yes, in the summer. They took everything.’

  ‘What about the animals down there?’

  ‘Albert managed to hide them in the woods. Every morning he takes them away again in case the soldiers come back and then brings them here at night. We manage, but it is difficult.’

  He paused between mouthfuls of stew, stricken by guilt that he was eating their food, but she urged him to finish it. When he had finished every scrap she went to the ladder and climbed down into the barn, and when she returned she had a bottle of wine and two mugs.

  ‘The Germans did not find this,’ she said as she poured the wine. ‘How long have you been a pilot?’

  ‘I learned to fly before the war, and I volunteered for the Flying Corps at the beginning.’

  ‘The German aeroplanes fly over here so
metimes. You can even see the pilots looking down at us. Albert worries that one day they will see his cows.’

  They must be low, William thought, if they can see the pilot. ‘Is there an aerodrome near here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘A few kilometres. Five, six maybe.’

  He leaned back against the wall and stretched out his leg carefully.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ Helene asked.

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Let me look at it.’

  ‘It’s alright.’

  ‘You should let me see it,’ she insisted. ‘My father was a vet. When I was young I used to help him.’

  Reluctantly, he undid his trousers and pulled them down, and she knelt beside him and struck a match so that she could see. His thigh was badly bruised, the flesh purple, fading to dark green and an ugly yellow colour at the edges. He saw her looking at the old scars and ridged tissue. When the match went out she gently felt with her hands, applying pressure while she watched his reaction. He winced now and then, the pain like the thrust of a knife.

  ‘This is an old injury,’ Helene said eventually. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘An accident. I was caught in a harvester when I was a child.’

  ‘It must have been very bad. Has it always troubled you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘The bruise is bad, but nothing is broken. I think perhaps there is a weakness. It will heal again if you rest, but if you do not it may get worse.’

  He thought that she was right. Since the crash, the pain hadn’t improved and he was limping more, but he had already decided he couldn’t stay there. ‘I have to reach the frontier.’

  ‘As you wish.’ She picked up the empty pot. ‘I must go. In the morning I must go to the market. If you are here when I return, I will bring you some food.’

  Her manner had become brusque, as if his decision to leave offended her. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For everything.’

  She went to the ladder, only glancing at him quickly before she climbed down. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  A few moments later he heard the creak of the door.

  ******

  When William woke it was pitch black. He didn’t move, sensing that somebody was close by. He opened his eyes a fraction and saw a shape right beside him. With a quick movement he reached for his revolver with one hand and at the same time grabbed hold of whoever was there. Helene stared at him, her eyes wide. The revolver was pointed at her face, the hammer cocked.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said, his heart pounding as he released the pressure of the trigger. ‘I could have killed you.’

  ‘I did not want to wake you. I brought you some things.’ She gestured to a bundle.

  The tension slowly flowed out of him. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Early. It will be light soon.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Not long. A few minutes.’

  He saw she had brought him clothes and a pair of shoes.

  ‘They belonged to Jean,’ she said. ‘There is soap also. You will find a stream in the woods where you can wash without being seen.’ She fished two hard boiled eggs from her pocket and a piece of bread. ‘There is more food with the clothes. I must go to the market now.’

  He took the food and thanked her.

  She nodded and went to the ladder. ‘Good luck,’ she said.

  As she climbed down he went to the edge of the loft. He wanted to say something more, but he didn’t know what. At the door she slipped outside and from the hay doors he watched her cross the yard. He thought she would look back one more time but she didn’t, and then she reached the corner and vanished from sight.

  A few minutes later William gathered the things Helene had brought him. He wished he had something to write with so that he could leave a note, thanking her again for risking her life to help him. Outside, the night was giving way to a grey dawn. The fields were shrouded in mist. He made his way to the wood and found a small stream at the bottom of a steep bank. He climbed down carefully using small trees and roots protruding from the ground to stop himself falling. When he reached the bottom he found the water was icy cold, but he stripped off everything and scrubbed himself clean and shaved with a razor he found in the bundle of clothes Helene had brought him.

  When he’d dressed again, William buried the old clothes in a shallow pit, and while he ate the eggs and bread he felt something in the pocket of his jacket. It was a tin containing cigarettes and a roll of money. He counted the notes, and then sat down and lit one of the cigarettes. While he smoked he thought about the money. It must be everything Helene had. He resolved that if he survived the war he would come back and find Helene one day, and somehow he would repay her for everything she’d done for him.

  When he finished his cigarette he got up to go. It was much more difficult climbing up the bank than it had been getting down, and when he was halfway up William thought he should have walked along the stream and found an easier way. By then though, he decided he may as well carry on. As he neared the top he reached for a tree to haul himself up, but as he did his foot slipped and he lost his balance. For a moment he wavered, but then he began to slither backwards. He twisted around to try and regain his footing, but instead his momentum pitched him forward and he fell. There was nothing he could do other than try to slow his descent as he rolled and tumbled towards the stream. He grabbed for handholds, that tore his skin, and tried to dig his heels into the ground, but it was too slippery to get a hold, and then suddenly he slammed into the earth at the bottom. A sharp flash of agony knifed through his injured leg. He stifled a yell and lay on his back, breathing hard and looking up at the tops of the trees.

  Ten minutes passed before William tried to move. He broke off a sapling that was strong enough to take his weight, and using it as a cane began to limp painfully along the edge of the stream until the bank gradually flattened to a shallow slope. After that it took him another hour to get back to the barn.

  *****

  Soon after William managed to climb up to the loft again, he heard the barn doors open. He cleared some hay aside and peered down through the cracks in the floorboards to see an old man moving about below. He was thin-faced with lank strands of grey hair clinging to a grizzled scalp. One arm hung uselessly at his side, the fingers of his hand frozen like a claw. He fetched a stool and set it down beside one of the cows, and then placed a pail beneath its udder and, resting his head against the animal’s flank, he began to squeeze milk into the pail with long, rhythmic squirts. As he milked the cows the old man mumbled to himself, a low muffled monologue of which William could only make out the occasional word or phrase, but which seemed to be an incessant grumble against the injustices he’d borne throughout his life. When he’d finished the milking, the old man collected eggs from the hay around the barn and left. A few minutes later he returned and led the cows and the horse outside, and William watched from the hayloft as the little procession plodded through a field toward the woods.

  Later he saw an old woman came out of the house to throw scraps to the hens that had left the barn and were now pecking in the yard. She was heavy, her face set in a perpetual scowl. She spent part of the morning in a room beside what William assumed was the kitchen. The windows were open and he could see her washing clothes in a tub, and afterwards she put them through a heavy ringer and hung them on a line at the end of the yard. When she was finished she went to a small building at the end of the house, and though he could see her moving about he couldn’t tell what she was doing.

  When Helene returned at midday, she crossed the yard and went into the house. When the old woman saw her she stopped what she was doing and hurried after her, though neither of them spoke. Half an hour later Helene came to the barn. William went to the edge of the loft, and when she looked up and saw him her eyes widened in surprise, though he had the feeling she was also pleased. She glanced over her shoulder to m
ake sure there was nobody around and then quickly climbed the ladder.

  ‘Why didn’t you leave?’ she asked, keeping her voice to little more than a whisper.

  ‘I fell down the bank by the stream,’ he said.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘It’s my leg.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  She felt the bruising while he gritted his teeth and sweat popped on his forehead.

  ‘Can you walk?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Not very well.’

  ‘I will bring something that will help later.’

  As she turned to go he held her arm. ‘Wait.’ He dug in his pocket and gave her back the roll of money he’d found earlier. ‘It looks as if I won’t need this.’

  She hesitated, then took it. ‘I will come when it is dark.’

  For the rest of the day William sat by the hay-doors, where he could see outside. He watched Helene go out into the fields carrying a basket, and later when she returned it was full of things he assumed she’d gathered from the hedgerows and woods. Later, he saw her cutting wood and carrying it inside, and afterwards he glimpsed her digging in a garden. She worked without seeming to stop. But what struck him most of all was that she never spoke to the old couple, nor they to her. In fact she went about her work almost as if they didn’t exist, though several times William saw the old woman scowl at Helene’s back and mutter something under her breath.

  Late in the afternoon he heard the sound of engines, and soon afterwards a dozen Albatrosses passed by about half a mile away. They were losing height, and he thought they must be returning from a patrol to land at the aerodrome Helene had told him was nearby. Seeing them made William realise that, for now at least, the war was over for him, and he admitted to feeling a certain degree of relief.

  At some point William fell asleep. He woke up when the old man brought the animals back to the barn. By then the light had faded and it was raining. William watched the house as he had the night before, and some-time after the lights were extinguished he heard the creak of the barn doors and went to the top of the ladder to help Helene. She had brought more stew, made from vegetables and some sort of fatty meat, and when he’d finished eating they shared a cigarette and she poured wine into his mug.