‘The time to postpone is gone.’
‘In another lifetime, do you think…?’
‘We have no other lifetime.’
‘What will become of us?’ she said, although she knew he couldn’t answer her. ‘You must come back. Promise me, when all this over, you will come back,’ but he looked at her silently, his eyes liquid with moisture. Eventually he roused himself with a shuddering sigh and said, ‘Do not watch me go.’
‘I must.’
‘It is bad for both of us.’
‘It’s already as bad as it could possibly be.’
* * *
Lukas paused at the exit of the yard, searching the night sky for the Great Bear to help him locate north. The wind had dropped and the air felt balmy. The moon had almost reached the horizon but enough light reflected off the snow for him to see the farm buildings clearly.
He pulled the collar of his coat up to his throat and allowed himself one more backward glance at the farmhouse before turning east and plunging away from the track.
He wondered how long she stood and watched or whether, at the final moment, it was more than she could bear. He was out of sight of the farm now, staying on the higher ground of the plateau, avoiding the lanes and tracks.
It was harder going across open land but that was good, exhaustion might stop him going back, stop him planning how he could stay, how he could hide, how they could be together, because thoughts like that would surely make him mad.
* * *
She stood watching long after his silhouette had disappeared below the horizon then she hauled herself up the stairs and along the corridor. When she reached the door of the bedroom, she clung to the doorframe like a drunk before staggering forward and climbing onto the bed.
She pushed her hands under the sheets, longing to feel a vestige of the heat from their bodies but the linen was as cold as the grave.
She lifted the pillow, looking for something – a hair, an eyelash – anything to prove he had lain here, next to her, on her, inside her. She fell into the pillows and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to conjure up that sensation of perfect peace they’d known when they lay in each other’s arms, spent at last.
He’d cracked something open within her, something she knew had always been there, waiting. Now he was gone, leaving an empty socket of pain. She felt eviscerated and profoundly lonely. This final loss, so insignificant compared to losing a father, then a mother, then a husband, had ripped down all her strength, all her pluck.
She abandoned herself to her grief and began to sob, her face distorting into an ugly grimace as she howled, hiccoughing to catch breaths between her cries.
She stopped.
She’d heard a knocking from downstairs. Had they come already?
She struggled off the bed, dashing the moisture from her face. As she fled past her mirror, she caught sight of her wildly swollen face and hastily pressed her icy hands against her cheeks as she scuttled down the stairs.
The hammering came again and Gyp circled around in front of her. With a final sniff, Millie opened the door onto the night.
‘Hello, there,’ Brigsie said, stepping through the door and into the shadow cast by the blackout curtain. ‘Just popped by to pick up my bike.’ As Millie backed up the corridor, the light fell on her face and Brigsie said, ‘Oh my giddy aunt, whatever’s the matter?’
Millie turned away and hurried into the kitchen. She snatched a tea towel from the range and pressed it against her face. Brigsie came towards her, arms outstretched and she fell onto her. Brigsie rubbed her hand up and down Millie’s back and made soothing noises.
Eventually she held her at arms length and stared into her eyes, her face full of worry and sympathy.
‘What’s happened, Mills? You can tell me.’
She felt so unmoored, she almost did, as if love could only exist if it was visible or known but when she imagined saying, ‘He’s a pilot – he’s German,’ her stomach plunged and she knew she could never tell.
Instead she said, ‘It’s Christmas in a few days’ time. This time last year, Jack was alive.’
Brigsie’s face crumpled with concern, her mouth forming a moue of sympathy.
‘Oh, God. I know. I miss my dad powerfully at this time of year but it gets better, Mills. It really does. Time is such a healer and once you’ve passed all those dreadful one-year milestones, you’ll begin to feel better,’ she said. Her kindness increased Millie’s hatred of herself and she hung her head in shame. Brigsie caught her by the hand and led her across to the table, sitting her down.
‘Why don’t you let me stop here for the night?’ she said. ‘They’re out looking for that German, you know.’
‘What?’
‘I could hear the dogs over towards Norrington when I was finishing off up at Barrow Copse this evening,’ Brigsie said.
They’d begun searching on Morney Beswick’s land, miles from here.
‘Thank God,’ Millie whispered, instantly squeezing her eyes shut at her indiscretion.
‘Absolutely,’ Brigsie said. ‘The sooner they catch him the better. What a thing, eh?’
‘He’s probably long gone,’ Millie said.
‘Maybe, but you never can tell. Pretty unlikely he managed to make it out of England. He’ll be hiding somewhere, you mark my words. So, what about it? Shall I stay the night?’
* * *
By the time the dawn began to glow beneath the sky ahead, Lukas had been walking for hours and was exhausted. Now he could see a great plain stretching out below to his left and there, a few miles away, a small town. He remembered seeing it on the map but already he’d forgotten the name. Besides, it was too local to risk making his way down there and finding the railway station. He must get further away from Millie’s farm.
During the afternoon the wind freshened and a light rain began to drop from the low cloud, blurring the landscape. On he walked, stopping only once to eat some of the bread that Millie had packed into his pockets. He was extraordinarily thirsty and gathered dirty snowballs from the drifts beneath the hedgerows to suck as he walked.
Beneath the impenetrable cloud cover, he lost track of time and direction and found himself once more beside a spinney he’d passed several hours earlier. Dispirited and exhausted, he knew he must find shelter for the night.
He saw a thick plantation of evergreen trees nestled down in a fold of land ahead. When he eventually reached them, the sky was dark and he blundered into the barbed wire that surrounded the thicket. Cursing, he picked the fabric of his trouser leg free from the barbs and stamped the lower wire to the ground, squeezing through. He pushed a short way in amongst the trees, his feet slipping on the dry pine needles, and collapsed at the foot of a stout fir, leaning back on the trunk.
He felt more wretched than when he’d lain in that barn. Although his shoulder was painful, it was nothing like the agony he endured after his crash, and all in all, the day had gone reasonably smoothly – admittedly he’d no idea how many miles he’d walked, and he’d torn the skin of his thigh on the barbed wire but not badly enough to slow him down. He still had some food left and he’d found a dry, sheltered spot to spend the night and yet he felt so dejected.
He threw himself onto his back and stared up into the branches above his head. The darkness around him was so dense it seemed to press against his skin but high in the canopy he glimpsed fragments of sky between the branches. One of these geometric spaces framed a single star and he knew its delicate light was shining down on Millie’s farm as it shone on him and he knew there was no possibility of ever salving his grief.
Instead, he allowed himself to imagine how he could be with her. Despite the destruction heaped on his Gruppe by the British, perhaps it was true, that the German invasion was only a matter of weeks away. If his escape plan failed, he would soon be freed by the invading army, free to come back here, free to return to his saviour, his lover, his life.
He sighed. He was fooling himself. When Britain capitulated, h
e’d be sent to fight along another border, thousands of miles across the continent to the east and even if he weren’t, how many years of German occupation would have to pass before the English accepted them, before he could return to Millie without damning her to a life of persecution?
A few hours later, he heard bombers passing overhead and longed to still be up there, flying in formation with his comrades, fighting to bring this war to a swift end. He must have eventually fallen asleep because he was woken by spots of water dripping onto his skin.
Stiffly he pushed himself into a sitting position and listened to the steady drumming of the rain. A dawn twilight had penetrated the thicket and he knew she was still with him. He could feel her, as if she were a part of him. He closed his eyes, cupped his hand over his nose and mouth, breathing in. His skin smelt salty but there, in the background, was a smell of lemons. She still clung to his skin.
He felt a flutter of hope that something this strong had to work out all right in the end but his Swabian melancholy tainted the thought and he flung his hands away from his face, a feeling of profound misery overwhelming him.
Chapter Thirty
Lukas made his way to the edge of the copse and looked out across the countryside. The rain was coming down heavily, thinning the snow where it lay across the fields, patches of yellowed grass appearing on the crest of the hill where the winds had dispersed the snow. Striking the rain from his eyes, he scanned the sky to see if he could work out the position of the sun but it was hopeless. Then he remembered from his time in the Hitler Youth – that moss grows on the north-facing side of tree trunks and, staying close to the edge of the copse, he set off east again.
He’d seen little sign of habitation the previous day but now a thin plume of smoke rose above a shoulder of hill and he guessed there was a dwelling ahead which he needed to avoid. He made his way down into a dip in the land that took him directly away from the smoke but in his eagerness to monitor the position of the cottage, he didn’t notice a figure a good half mile away in the field behind him until he heard barking.
A black and white sheepdog was moving across the field towards him, its head and shoulders low as it ran. Lukas paused, wondering what to do. He raised his hand towards the farmer in greeting. The farmer returned the wave and called his dog to heel. Lukas walked on in as nonchalant manner as possible, not daring to turn around.
He heard the farmer whistle, then shout.
The dog hadn’t returned to his master but was racing along the edge of the field towards a gap in the wall, the farmer lumbering behind, shouting at it to obey. Lukas usually had a way with dogs but knew that when the red mist descended, working dogs were seldom susceptible.
Spotting a rough hut built into the dry-stone wall a few hundred yards ahead, he started to run. He couldn’t outpace the animal on open ground but he could barricade himself into the hut. He’d almost reached it when a shot rang out and he froze, raising his hands high above his head before turning round.
The dog had dropped onto the ground and the farmer, who’d clearly fired his shotgun into the air to make the dog stop, slowed his pace. The rifle was broken over the crook of his arms.
Lukas brought his hands down and around the back of his head even though he knew he couldn’t cover his mistake. The farmer scolded the dog, telling him to stay and, as he neared Lukas, he closed the gun barrel with a click. He was probably in his late fifties but his outdoor life had thinned his skin, making him look older.
‘Not from round here,’ he said.
Lukas shook his head.
‘Bit jumpy?’
Lukas knew he was going to have to speak.
‘I heard the shot.’
The instant he heard his accent, the farmer pulled his head back and stiffened.
‘It was for the dog to hear,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. ‘You’re on my land.’
Lukas shrugged to imply he hadn’t realised.
‘What are you doing up here?’
‘I help on a farm… I am from Poland.’
‘Poland? Are you, now?’ The farmer looked him up and down. ‘You’d better be on your way then.’ He pointed up the track with the barrel of his gun. ‘Back to that farm you’re helping out on.’
Lukas took a few paces backwards before turning to walk away. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Was it possible the farmer believed his story? He risked a glance back over his shoulder and saw the farmer hurrying in the opposite direction, heading for the cottage, his dog bounding excitedly at his heels.
Lukas broke into a run.
He left the track as soon as he could, heading for a pine wood that was spread across the side of the adjacent hill. The thick trunks would give him good cover but the side of the hill was steep and he found himself struggling through a plantation of old bracken, its yellowed and withered fronds breaking through the covering of snow. He resorted to scrambling up it on all fours, his boots slipping on the stalks, the rustling of the ferns rattling like pebbles on a shoreline. By the time he reached the trees, his chest was heaving, his head pounding and his legs aching from the climb.
From his new vantage point he turned and looked back down the valley. He could see the cottage clearly and as he panned his eyes along the road, he saw an old cart in the distance, bumping along towards the edge of the escarpment. The farmer was on his way to get help.
Throughout the afternoon, he moved as swiftly as he could through the pines. When they became too thick, he risked leaving the sanctuary of the trees to make up time on open ground, keeping a careful eye on the land below him. He had to stop frequently to rest, his energy levels flagging now; he’d eaten all the food Millie had given him.
As dusk fell, he began to hope he’d been wrong about the farmer. He’d either believed him or not been keen to get involved, but as the countryside below darkened he heard the sound of heavy vehicles in the distance.
He dropped low to the ground, a terrible sense of doom creeping up his insides.
Between the folds of the hills he spotted pinpoints of light, hooded headlamps flashing intermittently and he knew that army vehicles were making their way up the escarpment.
He pushed on through the edge of the trees to put as much distance between himself and the searchers. It was raining heavily now.
He heard a distant fizz and spun round, watched the light of a flare in the distance.
Could the searchers be moving away? Yes, he was sure of it. He could no longer hear the sound of vehicles. The filthy weather and darkness were on his side. He knew he had to keep going but somehow this thought slowed his pace and he began to feel bone tired. He was going to have to risk a few hours rest before pressing on.
In the deep, dark interior of the forest, he settled down on the spongy pine needles, listening to the patter of the rain and the soughing of the wind in the branches overhead, country noises that whispered to him that he was safe for the time being.
His limbs were exhausted but instead of falling asleep, he found his mind wandering over the countryside, back to Millie.
In his waking dream he heard the thunder of the bath water, felt the fluttering in his chest as he opened the door, remembered seeing her through the steam, her clothes dropping away, her skin, white as ivory. He felt the same sharp pinch beneath his rib cage. She filled his consciousness like a soft but continuous noise in his head. It was as if her soul was an all-seeing eye travelling with him, feeling his exhaustion, his cold, his hunger.
He was suddenly alert.
He could hear the baying of dogs echoing in the distance.
He scrambled to his feet, his joints stiff from the damp and cold, and began pushing through the trees, away from the sound. He blundered into branches and grazed his knuckles on the bark of the trunks before he saw a dim glow ahead and knew he’d reached the edge of the trees. He broke free, crunching onto the bracken.
To his horror he could see the light of at least three lamps muted by some sort of blackout hood, jumping and
bouncing out in the darkness of the field below.
He began to run and heard a shout behind him. In the darkness it was difficult to see the lie of the land. He took two or three lurching strides down a steep slope before losing his footing.
He covered his head with his hands as he rolled, felt boulders and branches glancing off his sides and landed on his back with a mighty thump. He hacked and heaved, the air knocked from his chest, the dark clouds of night spinning in a drunken, sickening dance above him.
When they slowed, he turned his head and saw the silhouettes of men and dogs on the crest of the hill above.
He pushed himself up, his hands sinking into freezing mud. He could hear the rush of a stream beside him and he plunged across it, the icy water flowing in over the top of his boots. He scrambled up the shallow bank on the other side and pulled his feet through the marshy ground. He was on open land now, visible against the snow that still clung to the ground.
Would they shoot?
He flung himself down on the ground and pushed through the mud, his injured shoulder burning with pain. He heard the splosh of feet behind and knew they were crossing the brook.
He hauled himself over a low patch of tussocks and began to push the mud aside in the marsh, lying on his back and driving his body into the ground. He felt the gritty water sluice past his neck and under his clothes. He swiftly dashed a handful of dirt across his face to blacken it and lay still, his nose and mouth barely clear of the water.
‘Where the hell is he?’ he heard someone shout, the noise distorted by the water in his ears.
‘He can’t just disappear.’
The squelching of boots stopped. All Lukas could hear was the drumming in his head.
He raised his eyes and saw the dark shape of a figure standing right beside where he lay but the man was looking out across the marsh.
He took a step and Lukas felt a knock on the side of his boot, followed by a grunt – the man had tripped over him.
A Dangerous Act of Kindness Page 13