Complete Works of Nevil Shute

by Nevil Shute

  She drew back from the door. “Will you not come in and sit down?” she said.

  7

  HE TURNED AND motioned to the children. Then he glanced at the girl, and caught an expression of surprise, bewilderment, upon her face. “There are rather a lot of us, I’m afraid,” he said apologetically.

  She said, “But I . . . I do not understand, Monsieur Howard. Are these your children?”

  He smiled. “I’m looking after them. They aren’t really mine.” He hesitated, and then said, “I am in a position of some difficulty, mademoiselle.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “I wished to talk it over with your father.” He wrinkled his brows in perplexity. “Did you think that it was something different?”

  She said hastily, “No, monsieur — not at all.” And then she swung round and called, “Maman! Come quickly; here is Monsieur Howard, from Cidoton!”

  The little woman that Howard remembered came bustling out; the old man greeted her ceremoniously. Then for a few minutes he stood with the children pressed close round him in the little salon of the flat, trying to make the two women understand his presence with them. It was not an easy task.

  The mother gave it up. “Well, here they are,” she said, content to let the why and wherefore pass. “Have they had déjeuner? Are they hungry?”

  The children smiled shyly. Howard said, “Madame, they are always hungry. But do not derange yourself; we can get déjeuner in the town, perhaps?”

  She said that that was not to be thought of. “Nicole, stay with Monsieur for a little, while I make arrangements.” She bustled off into the kitchen.

  The girl turned to the old man. “Will you sit down, and rest a little,” she said. “You seem to be very tired.” She turned to the children. “And you too, you sit down and stay quiet; déjeuner will be ready before long.”

  The old man looked down at his hands, grimed with dirt. He had not washed properly, or shaved, since leaving Dijon. “I am desolated that I should appear so dirty,” he said. “Presently perhaps I could wash?”

  She smiled at him, and he found comfort in her smile. “It is not easy to keep clean in times like these,” she said. “Tell me from the beginning, monsieur — how did you come to be in France at all?”

  He lay back in the chair. It would be better to tell her the whole thing; indeed, he was aching to tell somebody, to talk over his position. “You must understand, mademoiselle,” he began, “that I was in great trouble early in the year. My only son was killed. He was in the Royal Air Force, you know. He was killed on a bombing raid.”

  She said, “I know, monsieur. I have the deepest sympathy for you.”

  He hesitated, not quite sure if he had understood her correctly. Some idiom had probably misled him. He went on, “It was intolerable to stay in England. I wanted a change of scene, to see new faces.”

  He plunged into his story. He told her about the Cavanaghs at Cidoton. He told her of Sheila’s illness, of their delay at Dijon. He told her about the chambermaid, about la petite Rose. He told her how they had become stranded at Joigny, and touched lightly upon the horror of the Montargis road because Pierre was with them in the room. He told her about the Royal Air Force men, and about the little Dutch boy they had found in Pithiviers. Then he sketched briefly how they had reached Chartres.

  It took about a quarter of an hour to tell, in the slow, measured, easy tones of an old man. In the end she turned to him in wonder.

  “So really, monsieur, none of these little ones have anything to do with you at all?”

  “I suppose not,” he said, “if you like to look at it that way.”

  She pressed the point. “But you could have left the two in Dijon for their parents to fetch from Geneva? You would have been able then, yourself, to have reached England in good time.”

  He smiled slowly. “I suppose so.”

  She stared at him. “We French people will never understand the English,” she said softly. And then she turned aside.

  He was a little puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”

  She got to her feet. “You will wish to wash,” she said. “Come, I will show you. And then, I will see that the little ones also wash.”

  She led him to an untidy bathroom; manifestly they kept no servant in the flat. He looked around for a man’s gear, hoping for a razor, but could find none. Howard contented himself with a wash, resolved at the first opportunity to see if he could get a shave.

  The girl took the children to a bedroom, and washed them one by one quite thoroughly. Then it was time for déjeuner. By padding out the midday meal with rice, Madame Rougeron had produced a risotto; they sat down to it round the table in the salon and had the first civilized meal that Howard had eaten since Dijon.

  And after lunch, sitting around the littered table over coffee, while the children played together in a corner of the salon, he discussed his future with them.

  “I wanted to get back to England, of course,” he said. “I still want to. But at the moment it seems difficult.”

  Madame Rougeron said, “There are no boats to England now, monsieur. The Germans have stopped everything.”

  He nodded. “I was afraid so,” he said quietly. “It would have been better if I had gone back to Switzerland.”

  The girl shrugged her shoulders. “It is always easy to be wise later,” she said. “At the time, a week ago, we all thought that Switzerland would be invaded. I think so still. I do not think that Switzerland would be at all a good place for you to go.”

  There was a silence.

  Madame said, “These other children, monsieur. The one called Pierre, and the other little Dutchman. Would you have taken them to England?”

  Sheila, bored with playing on the floor, came up and pulled his sleeve, distracting him. “I want to go out for a walk. Monsieur Howard, may we go out for a walk and see some tanks?”

  He put his arm round her absently. “Not just now,” he said. “Stay quiet for a little. We’ll go out presently.” He turned to Madame Rougeron. “I don’t see that I can leave them, unless with their relations,” he said. “I have been thinking about this a good deal. It might be very difficult to find their relations at this time.”

  The mother said, “That is very true.”

  Pursuing his train of thought, he said, “If I could get them to England, I think I’d send them over to America until the war is over. They would be quite safe there.” He explained, “My daughter, who lives in the United States, has a big house on Long Island. She would make a home for them till the war ends, and then we could try and find their parents.”

  The girl said, “That would be Madame Costello?”

  He turned to her faintly surprised. “Yes, that is her married name. She has a little boy herself, about their age. She would be very good to them.”

  “I am sure of that, monsieur.”

  For the moment the difficulty of getting them to England escaped him. He said, “It’s going to be practically impossible to find the little Dutchman’s parents, I’m afraid. We don’t even know his name.”

  Beneath his arm, Sheila said, “I know his name.”

  He stared down at her. “You do?” And then, remembering Pierre, he said, “What do you think he’s called?”

  She said, “Willem. Not William, just Willem.”

  Howard said, “Has he got another name?”

  “I don’t think so. Just Willem.”

  Ronnie looked up from the floor. “You are a story,” he said without heat. “He has got another name, Mr. Howard. He’s called Eybe.” He explained. “Just like I’m called Ronnie Cavanagh, so he’s called Willem Eybe.”

  “Oh . . .” said Sheila.

  Madame said, “But if he can’t speak any French or English, how did you find that out?”

  The children stared at her, uncomprehending, a little impatient of adult density. “He told us,” they explained.

  Howard said, “Did he tell you anything more about himself?” There was a silence. “Did
he say who his Daddy or his Mummy were, or where he came from?”

  The children stared at him, awkward and embarrassed. The old man said, “Suppose you ask him where his Daddy is?”

  Sheila said, “But we can’t understand what he says.” The others stayed silent.

  Howard said, “Never mind, then.” He turned to the two women. “They’ll probably know all about him in a day or two,” he said. “It takes a little time.”

  The girl nodded. “Perhaps we can find somebody who speaks Dutch.”

  Her mother said, “That might be dangerous. It is not a thing to be decided lightly, that. One must think of the Germans.”

  She turned to Howard. “So, monsieur,” she said, “it is clear that you are in a difficulty. What is it that you want to do?”

  He smiled slowly. “I want to get to England with these children, madame,” he said. “Only that.”

  He thought for a minute. “Also,” he said gently, “I do not wish to get my friends into trouble.” He rose from his chair. “It has been most kind of you to give us déjeuner,” he said. “I am indeed sorry to have missed seeing Monsieur le Colonel. I hope very much that when we meet again you will be reunited.”

  The girl sprang up. “You must not go,” she said. “It is not possible at all, that.” She swung round on her mother, “We must devise something, mother.”

  The older woman shrugged her shoulders. “It is impossible. The Germans are everywhere.”

  The girl said, “If father were here, he would devise something.”

  There was a silence in the room, broken only by Ronnie and Rose chanting in a low tone their little song about the numerals. Faintly from the town came the air of a band playing in the main square.

  Howard said, “You must not put yourselves to inconvenience on our account. I assure you, we can get along very well.”

  The girl said, “But, monsieur — your clothes alone — they are not in the French fashion. One would say at once that you are an Englishman, to look at you.”

  He glanced down ruefully; it was very true. He had been proud of his taste in Harris tweeds, but now they were quite undeniably unsuitable for the occasion. “I suppose so,” he said. “It would be better if I got some French clothes, for a start.”

  She said, “My father would be glad to lend you an old suit, if he were here.” She turned to her mother. “The brown suit, mother.”

  Madame shook her head. “The grey is better. It is less conspicuous.” She turned to the old man. “Sit down again,” she said quietly. “Nicole is right. We must devise something. Perhaps it will be better if you stay here for the night.”

  He sat down again. “That would be too much trouble for you,” he said. “But I should be grateful for the clothes.”

  Sheila came up to him again, fretful. “Can’t we go out now and look at the tanks, Mr. Howard?” she said in English, complaining, “I do want to go out.”

  “Presently,” he said. He turned to the two women, speaking in French. “They want to go out.”

  The girl got to her feet. “I will take them for a walk,” she said. “You stay here, and rest.”

  After a little demur he agreed to this; he was very tired. “One thing,” he said. “Perhaps while you are out it would be possible for me to borrow an old razor?”

  The girl led him to the bathroom and produced all that he needed. “Have no fear for the little ones,” she said. “I will not let them get into trouble.”

  He turned to her, razor in hand. “You must be very careful not to speak English, mademoiselle,” he said. “The two English children understand and speak French very well. Sometimes they speak English, but that is dangerous now. Speak to them in French all the time.”

  She laughed up at him. “Have no fear, cher Monsieur Howard,” she said. “I do not know any English. Only a phrase or two.” She thought for a minute, and said carefully, in English, “A little bit of what you fancy does you good.” And then, in French again, “That is what one says about the apéritif?”

  “Yes,” he said. He stared at her, puzzled again.

  She did not notice. “And to rebuke anybody,” she said, “you ‘tear him off a strip.’ That is all I know of English, monsieur. The children will be safe with me.”

  He said quietly, suddenly numb with an old pain, “Who told you those phrases, mademoiselle? They are quite up to date.”

  She turned away. “I do not know,” she said awkwardly. “It is possible that I have read them in a book.”

  He went back with her to the salon, and helped her to get the children ready to go out, and saw them off together down the stairs. Then he went back into the little flat; Madame had disappeared, and he resorted to the bathroom for his shave. Then in the corner of the settee in the salon he fell asleep, and slept uneasily for about two hours.

  The children woke him as they came back into the flat. Ronnie rushed up to him. “We saw bombers,” he said ecstatically. “Real German ones, ever so big, and they showed me the bombs and they let me go and touch them, too!”

  Sheila said, “I went and touched them, too!”

  Ronnie said, “And we saw the bombers flying, and taking off and landing, and going out to bomb the ships upon the sea! It was fun, Mr. Howard.”

  He said mildly, “I hope you said ‘Thank you’ very nicely to Mademoiselle Rougeron for taking you for such a lovely walk.”

  They rushed up to her. “Thank you ever so much, Mademoiselle Rougeron,” they said.

  He turned to her. “You’ve given them a very happy afternoon,” he said. “Where did you take them to?”

  She said, “To the aerodrome, monsieur.” She hesitated, “I would not have gone there if I had realized . . . But they do not understand, the little ones.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s all great fun to them.”

  He glanced at her. “Were there many bombers there?”

  “Sixty or seventy. More, perhaps.”

  “And going out to bomb the ships of my country?” he said gently.

  She inclined her head. “I would not have taken them there,” she said again. “I did not know.”

  He smiled. “Well,” he said, “there’s not much we can do to stop them, so it’s no good worrying about it.”

  Madame appeared again; it was nearly six o’clock. She had made soup for the children’s supper, and she had prepared a bed in her own room for the two little girls. The three little boys were to sleep in a bed which she had made up on the floor of the corridor; Howard had been given a bedroom to himself. He thanked her for the trouble she had taken.

  “One must first get the little ones to bed,” she said. “Then we will talk, and devise something.”

  In an hour they were all fed, washed, and in bed, settling for the night. Howard sat down with the two women to a supper of a thick meat broth and bread and cheese, with a little red wine mixed with water. He helped them to clear the table, and accepted a curious, thin, dry, black cigar from a box left by his absent host.

  Presently he said, “I have been thinking quietly this afternoon, madame,” he said. “I do not think I shall go back to Switzerland. I think it would be better to try and get into Spain.”

  The woman said, “It is a very long way to go.” They discussed the matter for a little time. The difficulties were obvious; when he had made the journey there was no sort of guarantee that he could ever get across the frontier.

  The girl said, “I also have been thinking, but in quite the opposite direction.” She turned to her mother. “Jean Henri Guinevec,” she said, and she ran the two Christian names together to pronounce them Jenri.

  Madame said placidly, “Jean Henri may have gone already, ma petite.”

  Howard said, “Who is he?”

  The girl said, “He is a fisherman, of Le Conquêt. In Finisterre. He has a very good boat. He is a great friend of my father, monsieur.”

  They told him about this man. For thirty years it had been the colonel’s habit to go to Brittany each summer. In t
hat he had been unusual for a Frenchman. The sparse, rocky country, the stone cottages, and the wild coast attracted him, and the strong sea winds of the Atlantic refreshed him. Morgat, Le Conquêt, Brest, Douarnenez, Audierne, Concarneau — these were his haunts, the places that he loved to visit in the summer. He used to dress the part. For going in the fishing boats he had the local costume, faded rust and rose-coloured sail cloth overalls and a large, floppy black Breton casque.

  “He used to wear the sabots, too, when we were married first,” his wife said placidly. “But then when he got corns upon his feet he had to give them up.”

  His wife and daughter had gone with him, every year. They had stayed in some little pension and had gone for little, bored walks while the colonel went out in the boats with the fisherman, or sat yarning with them in the café.

  “It was not very gay,” the girl said. “One year we went to Paris-Plage, but next year we went back to Brittany.”

  She had come to know his fishermen friends through the years. “Jenri would help us to help Monsieur Howard,” she said confidently. “He has a fine big boat that could cross easily to England.”

  Howard gave this serious attention. He knew a little of the Breton fishermen; when he had practised as a solicitor in Exeter there had been occasional legal cases that involved them, cases of fishing inside the three mile limit. Sometimes they came into Torbay for shelter in bad weather. Apart from their fishing peccadilloes they were popular in Devon, big, burly men with boats as big and burly as they were themselves, fine seamen, speaking a language very similar to Gaelic, that a Welshman could sometimes understand.

  They discussed this for some time; it certainly seemed more hopeful than any attempt to get back through Spain. “It’s a long way to go,” he said a little ruefully. It was; Brest is two hundred miles or so from Chartres. “Perhaps I could go by train.” He would be going away from Paris.