The snow rose and sank in dunes, the tops of bushes and posts rising above it in unexpected places. Before long his trousers were soaked underneath his gaiters and he had to keep stopping to pull compacted snow from the top of his boots.
This bloody blackout. If only he could see the lights of Shawstoke down on the plain, he’d know he was getting close but all he could see was gloopy drifts and thick, thick snow.
He leaned into the screaming wind, staring at the greyness swirling in front of his eyes and there, as a squall tore apart a sheet of snow, he saw the blur of a thicker patch of blackness in the distance.
Could it be a building? He was certain it was. With renewed energy he struggled on, his thighs aching from the constant high stepping, his whole body exhausted from the effort of plunging on, dropping through the glazed crust of ice covering the drifts.
He felt his feet beginning to slip, put his hand out to steady himself but his arm disappeared into the soft wall of snow and his body followed, drifting downwards, the snow crunching like cotton wool against his ears, ice cold on his face.
He lay still, the screaming wind muffled now, and felt a strange peacefulness wash over him, a beguiling sense of warmth as if he’d chucked a glass of whiskey down his neck and the alcohol was coursing through his veins, right into the tips of his fingers and toes. He wondered if it wouldn’t be simpler to lie there, against this drift, just for a few minutes.
He closed his eyes, felt his body relax into the soft bed of snow but then an image rose up in front of him, the window at Enington Farm that looked out across the escarpment. He saw Millie’s face staring out at the blizzard. She looked so vulnerable, that tiny triangle of face underneath a halo of hair, all alone with the tempest raging around her. It seemed she was waiting for someone. Jack?
No, she couldn’t be waiting for Jack. Jack had betrayed her, abandoned her when she needed him the most, left her to the mercy of the village gossips. All those whispers that she must have been a bad wife – if she’d been a good one, she could have saved him. But she couldn’t. Hugh knew that. He’d known Jack since he was a child, understood his moods. Gloomy lot, those Sangers. No one could’ve helped Jack, not when the black dog had him by the throat.
She’s waiting for me, he thought.
He’d always been her champion. Who had she run to when Jack did that dreadful thing? She’d run to him and he’d sorted it all out for her, saved her the agony of seeing the body cut down, laid out in the trailer like a piece of livestock. He could still see Jack’s handsome face, grey as thin milk, his mouth swollen as if he’d been bitten by the midge and got bluetongue, everything bulging, distorted, hideous.
She never had to see that, not close up, not after they cut him down. She could remember Jack as he was.
Hugh couldn’t.
* * *
Millie went into the pantry and collected a plate of rabbit meat and some onions. When she came back, Lukas was kneeling by the grate.
‘I do this for you before I go,’ he said, ‘to thank you.’
Millie began to chop the onions, whistling quietly though her teeth.
‘You whistle because you are happy?’ he said.
‘Oh, no. I mean, I’m not unhappy. But if you whistle it blows the onion fumes away and stops your eyes from watering.’
‘Ah – I see. You know many things.’
She looked at him to see if he was teasing her but he was busy with the fire. She smiled to herself and scooped the onions into the pan.
They sizzled in the butter; the kindling crackled and popped. Lukas sat back, brushing the soot from his hands. He looked so different in country clothes, his hair unbrushed, that Millie had to remind herself of the peril his continuing presence put her in.
‘Now,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I must leave.’
‘Take a coat. There are plenty in the boot room.’
He looked over in the direction she indicated but didn’t move.
‘Where will you go?’ she said to fill the silence.
‘I travel to the coast.’
‘To get back to France?’
‘Yes. I must find my Gruppe once more.’
The onions were softening and smelling sweet. It was time she put the rabbit joints in to brown.
* * *
Hugh roused himself with a snort of horror. What on earth was he doing? If he lay here any longer, old Watkins would be digging him out in the morning and unlike the ewes, he didn’t have a nice wall to press his nose against as the snow silently covered him. He had to get up, had to keep moving. This warmth and relaxation were a trap, a trick of the elements to calm his fear when all the time an icy vapour was wrapping round him. He mustn’t submit to its sleepy seduction.
He fought up through the snow, his arms flailing like a drowning man and finally managed to struggle free of the drift. Upright at last, he looked around. The wind still whined across the land but the snow had almost stopped; nothing but a few granules skidding across his cheeks.
How long had he lain there? Looking up he saw the moon, painfully bright in the sky and over there, to his left, a group of buildings hunched and softened by the snow. He was so exhausted, so disorientated, he wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him, throwing up ghostly images where there was nothing but snow.
He moved painfully towards the farm, his legs frail beneath him. He felt a mad longing for Millie, an absolute certainty that when she opened the door and saw him standing in front of her, she would finally understand everything. She would take him in, dry him, feed him, care for him.
* * *
‘Look,’ Millie said. ‘Why don’t you wait until the meal’s ready. You don’t know when you’ll have another chance to eat.’
‘It is dangerous to stay for longer,’ Lukas said.
She nodded and, picking up the plate of rabbit, she began to drop the pieces into the pan.
‘You’d better take some bread and cheese with you at least,’ she said, not wanting to risk looking at him. She watched the butter foaming around the pieces of meat.
‘What do you make?’ he said.
‘Only stew.’
‘It smells very good.’
‘There really will be enough for two.’
They looked at one another for longer than was natural and she felt herself imperceptibly sway towards him.
The thundering bang on the windowpane shot them apart as powerfully as if a grenade had landed between them.
Lukas darted into the darkness of the back corridor. Even as the raw agitation thundered in his chest, he was able to wonder what she would do now. Surely, she must surrender him to the authorities but in that instant, she came after him.
‘Move,’ she said, her voice hissing with panic. She clutched at his arm and pushed him towards a door.
Opening it, he stared into a black void but before he could speak, she propelled him forward. He stumbled down the first step, slapping his hand onto the rough wall for support.
He turned to look back at her and she returned his gaze so nakedly, he knew she had no intention of giving him up.
The door closed, leaving him alone in the dank, mushroom-smelling darkness, winded by an awareness that had ignited between them, ignited all the more violently because they pivoted on the edge of disaster.
* * *
Hugh, who had climbed over the drift piled against the wall, to reach the casement, lost his footing the instant he banged on the pane. He grabbed at the sill, felt the snow beneath him shift and down he tumbled with a terrible moan.
There was a commotion inside the house and he thought he heard talking. Now Gyp was barking. Was she talking to Gyp? He struggled to get to his feet but he’d lost confidence in his legs. He lay back against the drift. He heard the rattle of a door opening with some difficulty, heard the squeak of footsteps and saw the light of a lantern bouncing along the snow towards him.
‘Who’s there?’ Millie said, her voice tight with fear. She trembled so violently
the handle of the Tilly lamp chattered in her hand. The light fell across his face and he turned away, shielding his eyes as if the brightness would burn him.
‘Hugh!’ she said. She sounded furious. ‘What… What the hell are you doing here?’
His body felt like lead. He tried to stand, sat back down again.
‘Give me a hand, old girl,’ he said.
There was an inelegant struggle until finally he managed to rise. He knocked the snow off his front and looked down at her. She glanced over her shoulder at the open door but didn’t move.
‘What are you doing?’ she said again.
‘I came to help you.’
‘Help me?’ she said. ‘I don’t need any help.’
‘I do, Millie. I need help,’ he said reaching out for her hand but she took a step back and said, ‘Where’s the tractor? I didn’t hear the tractor.’
‘Abandoned it,’ he said with an expansive sweep of his arm. ‘Somewhere out there. It’s no good until the morning.’
‘How on earth are you going to get back tonight?’
‘Get back?’ he said, his voice high with astonishment. ‘I can’t get back tonight.’
‘Then what are you going to do?’
‘Stay here, of course.’
Chapter Eighteen
Groping blindly with his foot, Lukas felt for the next step. He could hear a man’s voice booming above. It seemed so near, he was certain that the crunch of grit below his boot would give him away. With agonising care, he made his way down into the cellar.
The ceiling was low. The light filtering between the floorboards flashed as the shadows passed above him. A chair leg scraped across the floor, inches above his head and he heard the clink of a glass.
He felt a pang of fury. Who could be up there? Certainly no one official. It must be the neighbouring farmer she’d talked about. Stupidly, he’d imagined a man too old for army service but the fellow in the room above chatted with the animation of a younger man. Whoever he was, it was clear he wouldn’t be leaving any time soon.
Desperately he tried to follow their conversation. He couldn’t make out the words; instead he concentrated on the pace and tone of the exchange. Millie’s voice sounded unnaturally smooth, the man’s strangely hearty.
Could he be an admirer? The thought hijacked him and he felt jealousy rising like bile. He struggled to quell it; he had no right to feel that way. He must distract himself. His eyes were adapting to the darkness and he peered into the void, imagined the cellars rambling on underneath the building.
After a while, he tired of straining to hear their conversation. He wanted to sit down. He was less likely to be heard moving around if he went deeper into the cellar. With painstaking care, he moved away from underneath the kitchen. Within a few minutes of feeling around in the darkness, his hands made contact with a box and he sank down onto it to wait.
As the minutes passed, he began to feel cold. He was only wearing the shirt and sleeveless sweater she’d given him. How he wished he’d fetched that coat when she told him to. He needed to move around, keep himself warm. Carefully he paced back and forth, checking there were no obstacles in his way. As the minutes turned to hours his impatience got the better of him and he crept back to stand underneath the kitchen.
His nostrils flared. He could smell the stew. His mouth filled with saliva as he stood, listening to the clink of cutlery. The bloody man was having a meal, eating the stew he’d watched her prepare. He went back to his box in the darkness, overwhelmed with the injustice of the situation. The heady excitement of their conspiracy had been utterly destroyed by this interloper. Why hadn’t she got rid of the man? The longer Lukas sat there, bored and cold, the more jealousy raged in his bones.
To distract himself from his ugly emotions, he decided to explore. He moved deeper into the cellar, his arms outstretched as if he were in a trance. Eventually his fingers made contact with fabric. Moving by touch, he worked out it was a tarpaulin covering a piece of machinery. If he could get the cover off, he could wrap himself up in it to keep warm.
His fingers located the cord holding the tarpaulin in place. Closing his eyes, which were useless in the blackness, he untied the knots by feel. He rolled the cord up and pushed it into his pocket. Bit by bit he eased the canvas back. It lifted free but as he gathered it up into his arms, it caught.
He froze.
Gradually he tried to release the tension on the fabric. Something was loose underneath. He felt along the canvas with one hand. He sensed a hard ridge moving under his palm, heard a hiss of friction from underneath the cover.
Something struck the floor with an echoing clang of metal.
* * *
‘What the hell?’ Hugh said, leaping to his feet.
Millie stared at him, momentarily paralysed with terror.
‘The snow’s pulled something off the roof,’ was all she could think to say.
‘That didn’t come from the roof. That came from the cellar. Something’s down there.’ He pushed past her. She plucked at his elbow. He stopped, patted her hand and said, ‘Don’t worry. Leave this to me. Come on, Gyp,’ and set off along the corridor.
‘Hugh. Come back. It’s pitch- black down there.’
‘Bring a lamp,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Wait!’
But she didn’t grab the lantern. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, her fingers pressed to her face, her heart racing. Hugh reappeared by her side and, caught out, she blinked at him and looked away.
‘Lamp, Millie.’
‘Leave it, Hugh. Finish your meal.’
He pushed past her and snatched up the Tilly lamp.
She hurried after him, saw him disappear through the door. She heard the drum of his heel slipping down a couple of steps. He cursed. The light bounced inside the stairwell. She reached the cellar door and looked down on his silhouetted figure, crouching and peering around the lamp.
‘Come back,’ she begged, her voice tight with suppressed panic.
* * *
Lukas pressed himself further into the shadows. The man was in the cellar now, moving towards him but facing away, holding the lamp up to illuminate the corners. He was unsteady on his feet; clearly drunk.
Lukas slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out the string. He stretched the cord and spread his arms, winding one hand towards the other as he formed the garrotte – over the head, under the chin and snap! Pull it tight with all your strength. A silent and swift death. Blood and honour. Another enemy dead.
Then he saw Gyp, sniffing along the tarpaulin, his tail wagging. The domesticity of his friendly search jerked Lukas back to the reality of the situation.
He moved further around the corner, hastily pushing the cord into his pocket. What on earth was he thinking? This man may be a threat to him but she called him by his name. She knew him. It would cause her unspeakable pain if he killed him.
Gyp was still searching.
‘What can you smell, Gyp?’ the man said. ‘Rats?’
Millie thundered into the cellar with another lamp and shouted, ‘Hugh. Leave it!’
And Lukas used the noise of her din to move deeper into the cellar. She grabbed at Gyp’s collar and said, ‘There’s no point crashing around down here in the dark.’
‘It’s rats.’
‘So what? They’re everywhere in winter. I’ll put some poison down in the morning. Now, for the love of God, will you come and finish your meal before it gets stone cold.’
Lukas watched through a gap in some shelving as she retreated but the man hesitated.
‘I’ll grab a bottle of poteen,’ he called after her.
She shot back, plucked a bottle out of a brick alcove and thrust it into his midriff.
‘There. Now, get upstairs.’
Before she followed, she momentarily raised the lamp and peered around, her eyes wide with anxiety but Lukas stayed where he was, hidden from sight.
When the cellar door shut and the darkness close
d in again, Lukas slunk back to his box, weak with horror and shame. He leant back against the powdery stone.
What was happening to him? He was a German, for God’s sake. He belonged to the best and most important movement the world had ever experienced. Throughout his time in the Hitlerjugend he was proud of his physical fitness and hardness. He may have found the constant need to conform irksome but, when he thought about politics at all, which was seldom, he tended to dismiss most of Tante Marta’s concerns about the direction Germany was taking. Without Hitler he would never have had the opportunity to fly.
It was different, up there in the sky. The dog fights were exhilarating, machine against machine, a fight for survival. Firing down on hundreds of small, black dots, scattering in all directions, felt no more merciless than frying ants with a magnifying glass but that didn’t mean he was soft.
He would have throttled that man under normal circumstances – but not here. Not with her as witness. If that was the case, he was in terrible danger.
Chapter Nineteen
Millie headed across the yard in the pitch black morning. What else could she do? She didn’t want to leave Hugh sleeping upstairs in the old spare room but she didn’t want to wake him either. She wanted to get the cows sorted so that, come the dawn, he’d ruddy well go home.
Her nerves were in tatters. When the stew was ready, she’d tried to eat, pushing the food around her plate, the strain on her emotions like a howl. The crash from the cellar nearly undid her but afterwards, the sheer relief of closing the door, plying Hugh with more booze while she sipped glasses of water, brought her some comfort. He hadn’t found him. He was well hidden but she had to get Hugh out of the house before he went down there again.
A Dangerous Act of Kindness Page 8