A Dangerous Act of Kindness

by A Dangerous Act of Kindness (retail) (epub)

  Lukas glanced across at Fischer curled up in the next bed and silently wished him well. Part of him was sorry not to be heading to Canada for a bit of tree felling. That would be a type of freedom, compared to the situation he was in now.

  They marched him across to the washrooms, then on to the mess hut. He was given a bowl of porridge and a mug of sweet tea by a bleary-eyed private behind the serving hatch. He hobbled to the nearest table. When he started to eat, the sound of the spoon catching the edge of his enamel bowl echoed round the room. The two guards stood by the exit, talking to one another in hushed voices and smoking, waiting for him to finish.

  Dawn was breaking over the horizon as they escorted him towards the gatehouse. There wasn’t a soul around, apart from a handful of guards, stifling yawns at the end of their shifts. It wouldn’t be long before the bugle sounded for roll call. The guard with the bad breath checked his watch and picked up the pace. They want me out of sight, Lukas thought, before the others wake.

  At the gatehouse, he was handed over to a pair of new guards waiting by the tailgate of a closed truck. These two were less taciturn. The dark-haired one had a missing front tooth and asked him, please, to step up into the back, waiting patiently as Lukas hauled himself up, grunting with pain. Then he climbed in behind him. The younger guard, a boy with a snub nose and pale blue eyes, handed up several large thermos containers, tin mugs and padded carriers before climbing up into the lorry and joining them.

  ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars,’ the guard with the missing tooth said, then roared with laughter. ‘But we all are, I suppose.’

  The lad chuckled and caught Lukas’s eye.

  ‘You speak English, yes?’ he said in a piping voice.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘That’s good,’ the one with the missing tooth said. ‘We don’t speak no Kraut.’

  The tailgate was slammed up from outside and the canvas secured. Lukas heard the plaintiff call of the bugle as the truck rumbled away from the camp. He imagined Fischer waking, stretching and breaking wind, the first laugh of the day, before seeing the folded mattress and asking the others, ‘Anyone seen Lukas? Do you know where Lukas went?’

  Would he think the Rollkommando had got him? Probably not. He’d just consign him to the long list of pilots he’d never see again.

  ‘Do you know where we go?’ Lukas asked.

  The gap-toothed guard shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate. South is all we know,’ but they were happy to chat about the weather, army food, general stuff and it took his mind off this unpleasant feeling of uncertainty. Gradually the canvas overhead lightened, the roads became smoother and every now and then Lukas heard columns of heavy vehicles passing outside.

  They stopped several times during the morning, usually at checkpoints, once at a barracks where the guards changed over, then back into the drumming boredom of the lorry, the smell of exhaust and petrol, the monotonous drone of the wheels. The shafts of light, flashing underneath the canvas, faded on one side as the sun rose, brightened on the other and disappeared altogether with the coming darkness.

  Lukas was glad of his Canada coat. As they drove through the night, the wind resistance rattled the canvas as if they were driving into the teeth of a gale while the metal of the seat sucked the warmth from his body. He tried to get comfortable, propped up against the back of the cab, his coat wrapped tightly around him, the collar pulled up against the draughts.

  To take his mind off the pain, he imagined the road passing beneath them was a ribbon, drawing him further south, nearer to Millie. Images floated into his consciousness but before he could grasp them, the truck would hit a bump in the road, or lurch to a juddering stop and he’d wake fully, pain scissoring through his body. He was cold to the bone and a dusty, grinding nausea was building deep in his stomach.

  More stops. Different guards. Another barracks in the shivering darkness for a meal in another empty dining room and back on the road.

  All the time he bargained with himself. How much was he prepared to do? What if, having agreed, he became uncooperative? This pointless, circular argument filled him with a hollow despair. Why bother to save Millie from the noose if he was only postponing it? And would they really do that, hang her for taking pity on an injured man, this nation who prided itself on mercy?

  * * *

  It was still dark when they arrived but as he stepped down onto the gravelled drive, his body stiff and frozen, he heard the clear note of a blackbird. It was nearly dawn. The song sounded so sweet and clear, he imagined a delicate puff of steam rising from the bright yellow beak into the chill morning air and there, further off to his left, a trill of notes answered the call. He filled his lungs with the smell of the countryside, clear as schnapps, a balm after the purgatory of the lorry.

  He was taken along the side of a building, clumps of shrubbery against the walls visible in the dark. It didn’t look like a prisoner-of-war camp although he could see a watchtower in the distance silhouetted against the sky. On the third floor he was shown into a room. It had the standard metal bedstead but there was a sink in the other corner, a desk in front of the window, a side table and a lamp. On a chair beside the bed was a pile of folded clothes. The guard checked his watch.

  ‘Two hours before reveille,’ he said. ‘I’d get some shut-eye if I were you.’

  Lukas eased off his boots and lowered himself onto the bed, reaching down to pull the cover up his body. He pressed his freezing fingers onto his neck to warm them and his dark thoughts swept in again.

  Where had his honour gone, he wondered, his patriotism, his love for his country? Love can make men betray their wives; it sometimes makes mothers betray their children. Which was more cowardly – agreeing to this blackmail or turning his back on a woman who had helped him, cared for him, loved him? He didn’t know any longer, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep.

  A minute later the guards woke him. For a moment he thought they’d decided to deprive him of sleep to force him to co-operate. He felt a wave of muddled dread grip his throat but then one of the guards clattered with the blackout shutters, dropping them to the floor with a thud, letting broad daylight pour into the room.

  His mistake made him feel foolish, exposed, as if they’d seen his panic, heard his thoughts. He was disgusted with himself. Another guard came in with a tray and put it on the desk.

  ‘Sergeant Thalhaüser will be along shortly,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Our unit leader. He sent this up for you. Take some.’ He handed him a pink packet with Aspro written across it in blue. ‘They’ll help with the pain. Better eat up,’ the guard said as they left, locking the door behind them.

  Lukas struggled to get his boots back on. He went over to inspect his breakfast – porridge and a mug of tea. What else did he expect? He ate standing up, staring out of the window, trying to get his bearings.

  He could see a collection of Nissen huts in a large paddock to the left of the main building, the heavily wooded countryside stretching away beyond. On the right was another wing. It seemed he was staying in a large country house, brick-built with stone-mullioned windows. He wondered if it might once have been a hotel.

  He heard voices approaching and the door swung open, admitting a tall, fine-looking man in a British uniform. His thick hair was combed back from his face and looked as if it had been shingled, the ridges bright with Brylcreem. He had large features and luminous eyes, black as plums. He was a Jew.

  ‘Good morning, Oberleutnant Schiller,’ he said, in faultless German. ‘I am Sergeant Thalhaüser. As you can see, we’ve left some clothing for you. I suggest you change out of your prison uniform. Most of the time you’ll be working on your own but occasionally, contact with members of my unit will be unavoidable and questions may be asked. Gentlemen,’ he said to the guards, ‘let us give Oberleutnant Schiller a moment of privacy to change before we take him downstairs.’

  Half an hour later, Lukas marched along the corridors behind Sergeant Thalhaüse
r. The two guards marched behind but, instead of army boots, they wore soft-soled desert boots, which squeaked on the floor as they walked.

  The Sergeant chattered over his shoulder in a quiet voice as they walked, explained they were in the servants’ quarters of the house. ‘Very useful, being able to come and go without being seen,’ he added with a smile.

  They threaded their way down narrow, twisting staircases.

  On one landing Lukas smelt food; as they went lower, he smelt oil. When they reached the basement he heard the roar of the boilers in a tunnel ahead, saw the ceiling was thick with service ducts and wires. They went up another short flight of stairs and into a long passage of closed doors.

  ‘Right,’ the sergeant said, showing Lukas into an airless cubicle, ‘this is you.’ A large desk stood against the wall, piled high with buff-coloured folders, stuffed with papers.

  ‘I hope you can work one of those things,’ Sergeant Thalhaüser said, pointing at the typewriter on the table.

  ‘What am I expected to do?’

  ‘I thought all that had been explained to you.’

  ‘No.’

  The sergeant gave a little sigh and beckoned Lukas over to the table, taking a file from the top of the pile. ‘These are German transcripts. All you have to do is transcribe them into English for us.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Well, that’s not really the point, is it?’

  One last chance to show them that he still had his pride.

  ‘I will not help you win a war against my country.’

  Sergeant Thalhaüser closed the cover of the folder and took a step forward. The good humour had gone from his face and his luminous eyes bored into Lukas’s.

  ‘Our country, Oberleutnant Schiller. I think you mean our country.’

  Chapter Fifty Five

  Women are the very devil, Hugh thought, chugging across the Downs in the early morning to collect the churns from Enington Farm. After the dance, he’d had every intention of saying, ‘Look, June, old girl. I think we both had a bit too much to drink the other night. No harm done and all that,’ but now too much time had passed. Whenever he was at the farm, June drifted around the milking sheds like a wraith, casting her eyes to the floor if he looked at her. He was trying to make amends by being extra helpful around Danny but instead of improving things, she’d started avoiding him altogether, feigning tiredness, leaving Millie to manage the milking on her own.

  And having Christaff Farrow home on leave – Surgeon Lieutenant if you please – didn’t help the situation. He was a nice bloke though. Hugh took him over to the pub on his second night, heard all about his war, seas so cold that metal took the skin off the palms of your hand if you grasped it without gloves. They talked a lot about girls too, seemed Christaff was quite the ladies’ man and Hugh couldn’t quite resist having a brag about the girls over at Enington.

  On top of all that, Brigsie had upped and left for no apparent reason at all. That was probably boyfriend trouble too. Hugh knew she’d been knocking around with some Canadian. Perhaps he’d given her the bum’s rush.

  Whatever the explanation, poor old Millie had been left completely in the lurch. In fact, the only person at Enington who was a bit less irritating than usual was Ruby. Her stock had risen as the others had fallen. She kept up her teasing and banter, oblivious to anyone else’s mood and it kept things bowling along. Of course, the bulk of the work still landed squarely on Mills but this morning Hugh was going to change all that.

  When he turned into the yard, he could see Danny was down in the paddock, bashing nettles with a bamboo cane, or killing Nazis, as he preferred to call it. He ran towards the stables, making machine-gun noises, clutched his stomach and flung himself into the grass with a gurgling cry of agony. A moment later he hopped up and belted into the stables, racing up the ladder towards the loft.

  It was the summer holidays and Hugh knew the boy was bored. Never mind. Harvest camp would be starting soon; that would keep him out of Millie’s hair.

  Millie came out into the yard. She raised a weary hand and then, to Hugh’s surprise, sank down on the mounting block. Gyp ambled over towards her and she laid her hand across the dog’s shoulders, dropped her head back on the wall and closed her eyes. Hugh scrambled out off the tractor and went over to her.

  She rolled her head towards him and smiled.

  ‘It’s going to be hot today,’ she said, ‘I can smell it in the air.’

  ‘You look absolutely done in, old girl,’ he said.

  ‘I’m a bit tired.’

  He sat down next to her and she looked at him with unexpected warmth.

  ‘What are you cooking up, Hugh?’ she said, narrowing her eyes.

  He squinched his eyes too, feeling the tug of conspiratorial excitement in his chest. Something was changing between them. He was sure of it. He slapped his thighs and got to his feet.

  ‘I’ve a proposal to put to you.’

  ‘What?’

  She looked so panicked, he laughed out loud.

  ‘Don’t be horrified,’ he said, ‘you can always say no. I was wondering if you’d like to learn how to drive the old Fordson here.’

  ‘Goodness,’ she said.

  ‘Thing is, I’ve gone and hired myself a brand new Ferguson, what with all this extra production, and it makes sense if this old thing,’ he nodded his head towards the tractor, ‘is donated to Enington. Thousands of Land Girls are driving them up and down the country now.’

  ‘I’d love to learn. Is it hard?’

  ‘No – once you’ve got the darned thing started, that’s a bit of a knack. Want to have a go?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Are we going far?’

  ‘I’ll take us up to a safe field for your first lesson.’

  ‘What about Danny?’ she said, cocking her head in the direction of the stables.

  ‘Bring him along. He can keep Gyp company.’

  As Hugh stood there, waiting for a reply, he worked his thumbnail into a callous on the palm of his hand. Her eyes darted around – she was trying to think of all the things that would stop her coming but then the corner of her mouth tilted up, ever such a little, and his tummy gave a flip.

  ‘I’d better leave a note,’ she said.

  He grinned from ear to ear but it didn’t matter, she couldn’t see. She was heading towards the house and there was definitely a lightness to her step. He wondered if she’d passed that magic point his mum kept talking about.

  What was it? That the human heart can only hold on to strong emotions for a limited length of time – love, hate, revenge, grief – and eventually all of them come to a natural end. Had enough time passed since Jack’s death for Millie to finally stop grieving?

  ‘Hey, Danny,’ he called but there was no reply.

  He sauntered towards the stables, a combination of the weather and the conversation with Millie filling his heart with happiness.

  He heard a crack like a bird scarer going off.

  To his horror saw a small body dropping from the first floor of the stables and landing with a soft bounce in a litter of hay.

  Chapter Fifty Six

  Millie was leaning over the kitchen table scribbling the note when she heard the shot. She knew exactly what it was. She pounded across the yard, a thousand horrors hammering through her. She’d forgotten the gun – how could she have forgotten the gun?

  As she swung around the door and into the stables, she was assailed by a far worse terror.

  Hugh was on his knees, cradling Danny against him. She came to a halt, bent over him, her hands on her knees to steady herself. Her head was still ringing with the sound of the shot. In a fever of terror, she scanned the white shirt, the bare legs sticking out from the shorts. No blood.

  ‘Is he dead?’ she whispered.

  Hugh stared up at her with a look of such pain, she could scarcely breathe but an instant later his head snapped back to stare at the boy and she saw
it too. His thin shoulders heaving under his aertex shirt.

  He was alive.

  She flung herself into the hay next to Hugh. Danny took a deep breath and let out an ear-splitting howl.

  Within seconds his cries were mixed with louder, more hysterical screams and June rushed in, bare-footed, her hair unpinned, still wearing her night things. She shoved Millie aside.

  ‘What happened? Danny, Danny. Speak to me.’ As she wrestled with Hugh to take possession of him, Millie frantically cast her eyes around the floor and there it was – the gun lying on the concrete. She kicked it underneath the hay with her foot.

  ‘It went off,’ he wailed, ‘my arm hurts.’

  ‘Which arm?’ Hugh said, taking hold of one of his hands. Danny letting out a piercing scream.

  ‘Don’t, Hugh,’ Millie said.

  ‘He’s dislocated it.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  Because, she wanted to say, it doesn’t look anything like a dislocation.

  ‘He’s broken it,’ June said. ‘He’s broken his bloody arm. He’s got to go to hospital.’ She began crying louder than Danny. At that moment Ruby appeared, her face screwed up in disgust at the level of noise.

  ‘What the bleedin’ hell’s goin’ on out here?’

  ‘Danny fell.’

  ‘I found a gun,’ he said between sobs. ‘It went off and I jumped back…’ and his voice trailed into another heart-rending wail.

  ‘Gun?’ Hugh said, getting to his feet and looking around the floor. ‘What gun? One of Jack’s? Millie?’

  ‘It was a Jerry gun,’ Danny said in a wavering voice.

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘It was,’ he said as he began to sob again, whether from pain or because they didn’t believe him it hardly mattered because Hugh had begun to search through the hay where the boy lay. Millie watched him, almost suffocated by her heartbeats.