by Nevil Shute
Nicole said, “I do not know. But what you are doing now will help us all, I think. To get these children out of Europe must be a good thing.”
Presently they were called to the kitchen for their supper. Afterwards, in the salon, Arvers talked to them.
“Listen,” he said, “and I will tell you what I have arranged.”
He paused. “Lannilis is full of Germans. That is four miles from the coast, and the places at the coast itself, l’Abervrach and Portsall and places of that sort, are very lightly held or even not occupied at all. They do not interfere with the traffic of the country, and this is what I have devised for you.”
He said, “Three miles this side of Lannilis there is a farmer called Quintin, and he is to send a load of manure to-morrow to a fisherman called Loudeac, the captain of the lifeboat at l’Abervrach, because Loudeac has a few fields on the hills and wants manure. I have arranged all that. The manure will be delivered in a cart with one horse, you understand? You, m’sieur, will drive the cart. Mademoiselle and the children will accompany you for the ride.”
Howard said, “That seems sound enough. Nobody would suspect that.”
Aristide glanced at him. “It will be necessary that you should wear poorer clothes. That I can arrange.”
Nicole said, “How do we get into touch with Focquet to-morrow night?”
The horse dealer said, “To-morrow night, Focquet will come at nine o’clock to the estaminet upon the quayside. He will appear to be slightly drunk, and he will ask for Pernod des Anges. There is no such drink. In that way you will know him. The rest I will leave to you.”
Howard nodded. “How can we get to Quintin’s farm?”
“I will take you myself so far in the car. That will be safe enough, for it is this side of Lannilis and there will be no questions asked. But there I must leave you.” He thought for a minute. “It will be better that you should not start from Quintin’s farm much before five o’clock,” he said. “That will make it reasonable that you should be in l’Abervrach at nightfall, and even that you should spend the night there, with Loudeac.”
Nicole said, “What about Loudeac and Quintin, monsieur? Do they know that Monsieur Howard and the children will escape?”
The man said, “Have no fear, mademoiselle. This is not so uncommon, in these times. They know all that they wish to know, and they have been paid. They are good friends of mine.”
Howard said, “I must now pay you, monsieur.”
They settled down together at the table.
Soon after that they went to bed; refreshed by a restful day Howard slept well. In the morning he went down for coffee feeling better than he had felt for some days.
Aristide said, “We leave after déjeuner. That will be time enough. Now, I have borrowed clothes for Monsieur. You will not like them, but they are necessary.”
The old man did not like the clothes at all. They were very dirty, a coarse, stained flannel shirt, a pair of torn blue cotton trousers, a dirty canvas pullover that had once been rusty pink in colour, and a black, floppy Breton casque. Wooden sabots were the footgear provided with this outfit, but the old man struck at those, and Arvers produced a torn and loathsome pair of boots.
It was some days since he had shaved. When he came down to the kitchen Nicole smiled broadly. “It is very good,” she said. “Now, Monsieur Howard, if you walk with the head hanging down, and your mouth open a little — so. And walk slowly, as if you were a very, very old man. And be very deaf and very stupid. I will talk for you.”
Arvers walked round him, studying him critically. “I do not think the Germans will find fault with that,” he said.
They spent the rest of the morning studying appearances. Nicole kept her black frock, but Arvers made her dirty it a little, and made her change to a very old pair of low-heeled shoes belonging to his wife. With a shawl belonging to Madame Arvers over her head, he passed her too.
The children needed very little grooming. During the morning they had been playing at the duck-pond, and were sufficiently dirty to pass muster without any painting of the lily. Ronnie and Willem were scratching themselves a good deal, which added verisimilitude to the act.
They started after déjeuner. Howard and Nicole thanked Madame Arvers for her kindness; she received their thanks with calm, bovine smiles. Then they all got into the little old de Dion van that Arvers kept for the farm, and drove off down the road.
Ronnie said, “Are we going to the train that we’re going to sleep in, Mr. Howard?”
“Not just yet,” he said. “We shall get out of the car presently and say good-bye to Monsieur Arvers, and then we have a ride in a cart. You must all be very careful to speak French only, all the time.”
Sheila said, “Why must we speak French? I want to speak English, like we used to.”
Nicole said gently, “We shall be among the Germans. They do not like people who speak English. You must be very careful to speak only in French.”
Rose said suddenly, “Marjan says the Germans cut his mother’s hands off.”
Howard said gently, “No more talk about the Germans now. In a little time we shall get out, and have a ride in a horse and cart.” He turned to Pierre. “What sort of noise does a horse make?” he asked.
Pierre said shyly, “I don’t know.”
La petite Rose bent over him, “Oh, Pierre, of course you know!”
My great-aunt lives in Tours,
In a house with a cherry tree
With a little mouse (squeak, squeak)
And a big lion (roar, roar)
And a wood-pigeon (coo, coo). . . .
That lasted them all the way through Landerneau, of which they caught only glimpses through the windows at the back of the old van, and half way to Lannilis.
Presently the car slowed, turned off the road, and bumped to a standstill. Arvers swung round to them from the driving seat. “This is the place,” he said. “Get out quickly; it is not wise to linger here.”
They opened the door at the back of the van, and got out. They were in a very small farmyard, the farmhouse itself little more than a workman’s cottage of grey stone. The air was fresh and sweet after the van, with a clear savour of the sea. In the warm sun, and looking at the grey stone walls and roofs, Howard could have thought himself in Cornwall.
There was a cart and horse, the cart half loaded with manure, the old grey horse tied to the gate. Nobody was to be seen.
Arvers said, “Now quickly, monsieur, before a German passes on the road. There is the cart. You have everything quite clear? You take the dung to Loudeac, who lives up on the hill above l’Abervrach, half a mile from the port. There you unload it; Mademoiselle Rougeron must bring back the cart to-morrow to this place. Focquet will be in the estaminet to-night at nine o’clock, and he will be expecting you. He will ask for Pernod des Anges. It is all clear?”
“One thing,” the old man said. “This road leads straight to Lannilis?”
“Assuredly.” The horse dealer glanced nervously around.
“How do we get through Lannilis? How do we find the road out of the town, to l’Abervrach?”
The hot sun beat down on them warmly from a cloudless sky; the scent of briar mingled with the odour of manure about them. Arvers said, “This road leads straight to the great church in the middle of the town. From the west end of the church a road runs westwards; follow that. Where it forks at the outskirts of the town, by an advertisement for Byrrh, take the right-hand fork. From there to l’Abervrach is seven kilometres.”
Nicole said, “I have been that way before. I think I know the road.”
The horse dealer said, “I will not linger, mademoiselle. And you, you must move off from here at once.” He turned to Howard. “That is all that I can do for you, monsieur. Good luck. In happier days, we may meet again.”
The old man said, “I shall look forward to thanking you again for so much kindness.”
Arvers swung himself up into the seat of the old van, backed out into
the road, and vanished in a white cloud of dust. Howard looked around; there was no movement from the house, which stood deserted in the afternoon sun.
Nicole said, “Come, children, up you go.”
Willem and Marjan swung themselves up into the cart; the English children, with Pierre and Rose, hung back. Ronnie said doubtfully, “Is this the cart you said we were going to have a ride in?”
Rose said, “It is a dung cart. It is not correct to ride in a cart full of horse dung, mademoiselle. My aunt would be very cross with me if I did that.”
Nicole said brightly, “Well, I’m going to. You can walk with monsieur and help lead the horse, if you like.” She bustled the other children into the cart before her; it was only half full and there was room for all of them to stand and sit upon the edges of the sides in front of the load.
Pierre said, “May I walk with Rose and lead the horse?”
Nicole said, “No, Pierre, you’re too small for that and the horse walks too quickly. You can stroke his nose when we get there.”
Howard untied the bridle from the gate, and led the horse out into the road. He fell into a steady, easy shamble beside the horse, head hanging down.
For an hour and a half they went on like that before they reached the first houses of Lannilis. In the cart Nicole kept the children happy and amused; from time to time the old man heard a little burst of laughter above the clop, clop of the hooves of the old horse. La petite Rose walked on beside him, barefoot, treading lightly.
They passed a good deal of German transport on the road. From time to time lorries would come up behind them and they would pull in to the right to let them pass, the grey-faced, stolid soldiers staring at them incuriously. Once they met a platoon of about thirty infantry marching towards them down the road; the Oberleutnant in charge looked them over, but did not challenge them. Nobody showed much interest in them until they came to Lannilis.
On the outskirts of the town they were stopped. There was a barricade of an elementary nature, of two old motor cars drawn half across the road, leaving only a small passage between. A sentry strolled out sleepily in the hot afternoon, and raised his hand. Howard pulled up the horse and stared at him, and mumbled something with head hanging and mouth open. An Unteroffizier came from the guardhouse, and looked them over.
He asked in very bad French, “Where are you taking this to?”
The old man raised his head a little and put his hand to one ear. “Eh?”
The German repeated his question in a louder tone.
“Loudeac,” the old man said. “Loudeac, outside l’Abervrach.”
The Unteroffizier looked at Nicole. “And Madame goes too?”
Nicole smiled at him, and put her hand upon Pierre’s shoulder. “It is the little one’s birthday,” she said. “It is not easy to make fête these days. But as my uncle has to make this trip this afternoon, and as the load is only half and therefore easy for the horse, we make this little journey for an outing for the children.”
The old man nodded. “It is not easy to make a treat for children in times like these.”
The Unteroffizier smiled. “Proceed,” he said lazily. “Many happy returns of the day.”
Howard jerked up the old horse, and they passed up the street. There was little traffic to be seen, partly because the French were keeping within doors, partly no doubt because of the heat of the afternoon. A few houses were evidently requisitioned by the Germans; there were German soldiers lounging at the windows of bare rooms cleaning their equipment, in the manner of soldiers all over the world. None of them paid any attention to the dung cart.
By the great church in the middle of the town three tanks were drawn up in the shade of the plane trees, with half a dozen lorries. From one large house the swastika flag floated lazily in the hot summer afternoon from a short staff stuck out of a first floor window.
They paced steadily through the town, past shops and residences, past German officers and German soldiers. At the outskirts of the town they took the right fork at the advertisement for Byrrh, and left the last houses behind them. Presently, blue and hazy in a dip between two fields, the old man saw the sea.
His heart leaped when he saw it. All his life he had taken pleasure from the sight and savour of the sea. In its misty blueness between the green fields it seemed to him almost like a portion of his own country; England seemed very close. By to-morrow evening, perhaps, he would have crossed that blue expanse; he would be safe in England with the children. He trudged on stolidly, but his heart was burning with desire to be at home.
Presently Rose became tired; he stopped the cart and helped her into it. Nicole got down and walked beside him.
“There is the sea,” she said. “You have not very far to go now, monsieur.”
“Not very far,” he said.
“You are glad?”
He glanced at her. “I should be very, very glad, but for one thing,” he said. “I would like you to be coming with us. Would you not do that?”
She shook her head. “No, monsieur.”
They walked on in silence for a time. At last he said, “I shall never be able to thank you for what you have done for us.”
She said, “I have benefited the most.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
She said, “It was a very bad time, when you came. I do not know if I can make you understand.” They walked on in the hot sun in silence for a time. “I loved John very much,” she said simply. “Above all things, I wanted to be an Englishwoman. And I should have been one, but for the war. Because we meant to marry. Would you have minded that very much?”
He shook his head. “I should have welcomed you. Don’t you know that?”
She said, “I know that now. But at the time I was terribly afraid of you. We might have been married if I had not been so foolish, and delayed.” She was silent for a minute. “Then John — John was killed. And at the same time, nothing went right any more. The Germans drove us back, the Belgians surrendered, and the English ran back to their own country from Dunkirk and France was left to fight alone. Then all the papers, and the radio, began to say bad things of the English, that they were treacherous, that they had never really meant to share the battle with us. Horrible things, monsieur.”
“Did you believe them?” he asked quietly.
She said, “I was more unhappy than you could believe.”
“And now? Do you still believe those things?”
She said, “I believe this, that there was nothing shameful in my love for John. I think that if we had been married, if I had become an Englishwoman, I should have been happy for the remainder of my life.”
She paused. “That is a very precious thought, monsieur. For a few weeks it was clouded with doubts, and spoilt. Now it is clear once more; I have regained the thing that I had lost. I shall not lose it again.”
They breasted a little rise, and there before them lay the river, winding past the little group of houses that was l’Abervrach, through a long lane of jagged reefs out to the open sea. The girl said, “That is l’Abervrach. Now you are very near the end of your journey, Monsieur Howard.”
They walked in silence, leading the horse, down the road to the river and along the waterfront, past the cement factory, past the few houses of the village, past the lifeboat house and the little quay. Beside the quay there was a German E boat apparently in trouble with her engines, for a portion of her deck amidships was removed and was lying on the quay beside a workshop lorry; men in overalls were busy upon her. A few German soldiers lounged upon the quay, watching the work and smoking.
They went on past the estaminet and out into the country again. Presently they turned up the hill in a lane full of sweetbriar, and so came to the little farm of Loudeac.
A peasant in a rusty red canvas pullover met them at the gate.
Howard said, “From Quintin.”
The man nodded, and indicated the midden. “Put it there,” he said. “And then go away quickly. I wish you
good luck, but you must not stay here.”
“That is very well understood.”
The man vanished into the house, nor did they see him again. It was getting towards evening; the time was nearly eight o’clock. They got the children down out of the cart and backed the horse till the load was in the right place to tip; then they tipped the waggon and Howard cleared it with a spade. In a quarter of an hour the job was done.
Nicole said, “There is time enough, and to spare. If we go now to the estaminet, we can get supper for the little ones — coffee, perhaps, and bread and butter.”
Howard agreed. They got into the empty cart and he jerked up the horse; they moved out of the stable yard and down the road towards the village. At a turn of the road the whole entrance to the harbour lay before them, sunny and blue in the soft evening light. In the long reach between the jagged rocks there was a fishing boat with a deep brown lug sail coming in from the sea; faintly they heard the putter of an engine.
The old man glanced at the girl. “Focquet,” he said.
She nodded. “I think so.”
They went on down to the village. At the estaminet, under the incurious glances of the German soldiers, they got out of the cart; Howard tied the bridle of the old horse to a rail.
Ronnie said in French, “Is that a torpedo boat? May we go and see it?”
“Not now,” said Nicole. “We’re going to have supper now.”
“What are we going to have for supper?”
They went into the estaminet. There were a few fishermen there standing by the bar, who looked at them narrowly; it seemed to Howard that they had divined his secret as soon as they set eyes on him. He led the children to a table in a far corner of the room, a little way away from the men. Nicole went through to the kitchen of the place to speak to Madame about supper for the children.
Supper came presently, bread and butter and coffee for the children, red wine mixed with water for Nicole and the old man. They ate uneasily, conscious of the glances at them from the bar, speaking only to assist the children in their meal. It seemed to Howard that this was the real crux of their journey; this was the only time when he had felt his own identity in question. The leaden time crept on, but it was not yet nine o’clock.