by Nevil Shute
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 realised … 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 Conquet. 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 that 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 Conquet, 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 sailcloth 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 fishermen, 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. Sometim
es, 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.
They discussed it in all aspects. Obviously, it was impossible to find out how Guinevec was placed; the only thing to do would be to go there and find out. ‘But if Jenri should have gone away,’ the mother said, ‘there are all the others. One or other of them will help you, when they know that you are friendly with my husband.’ She spoke with simple faith.
The girl confirmed this: ‘One or other of them will help.’
The old man said presently: ‘It really is most kind of you to suggest this. If you would give me a few addresses, then—I would go to-morrow, with the children.’ He hesitated. ‘It will be better to go soon,’ he said. ‘Later, the Germans may become more vigilant.’
‘That we can do,’ said madame.
Presently, as it was getting late, she got up and went out of the room. After a few minutes the girl followed her; from the salon Howard could hear the mutter of their voices in the kitchen, talking in low tones. He could not hear what they were saying, nor did he try. He was deeply grateful for the help and encouragement that he had had from them. Since he had parted from the two Air Force men he had rather lost heart; now he felt again that there was a good prospect that he would get through to England. True, he had still to get to Brittany. That might be difficult in itself; he had no papers of identification other than a British passport, and none of the children had anything at all. If he were stopped and questioned by the Germans the game would be up, but so far he had not been stopped. So long as nobody became suspicious of him, he might be all right.
Nicole came back alone from the kitchen. ‘Mamam has gone to bed,’ she said. ‘She gets up so early in the morning. She has asked me to wish you a very good night on her behalf.’
He said something conventionally polite. ‘I think I should be better in bed, myself,’ he said. ‘These last days have been tiring for a man as old as I am.’
She said: ‘I know, monsieur.’ She hesitated and then said a little awkwardly: ‘I have been talking with my mother. We both think that it would be better that I should come with you to Brittany, Monsieur Howard.’
There was a momentary silence; the old man was taken by surprise. ‘That is a very kind offer,’ he said. ‘Most generous of you, mademoiselle. But I do not think I should accept it.’
He smiled at her. ‘You must understand,’ he said, ‘I may get into trouble with the Germans. I should not like to think that I had involved you in my difficulties.’
She said: ‘I thought you might feel that, monsieur. But I assure you, I have discussed the matter with maman, and it is better that I should go with you. It is quite decided.’
He said: ‘I cannot deny that you would be an enormous help to me, mademoiselle. But one does not decide a point like that all in one moment. One weighs it carefully and one sleeps upon it.’
It was growing dusk. In the half-light of the salon it seemed to him that her eyes were very bright, and that she was blinking a little. ‘Do not refuse me, Monsieur Howard,’ she said at last. ‘I want so very much to help you.’
He was touched. ‘I was only thinking of your safety, mademoiselle,’ he said gently. ‘You have done a very great deal for me already. Why should you do any more?’
She said: ‘Because of our old friendship.’
He made one last effort to dissuade her. ‘But mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘that friendship, which I value, was never more than a slight thing—a mere hotel acquaintance. You have already done more for me than I could have hoped for.’
She said: ‘Perhaps you did not know, monsieur. Your son and I … John … we were good friends.’ There was an awkward pause.
‘So it is quite decided,’ she said, turning away. ‘We are quite of one mind, my mother and I. Now, monsieur, I will show you your room.’
She took him down the corridor and showed him the room. Her mother had been before her, and had laid out upon the bed a long, linen nightgown, the slumber-wear of Monsieur le Colonel. On the dressing-table she had put his cut-throat razor, and a strop, and his much-squeezed tube of shaving-paste, and a bottle of scent called FLEURS DE ALPES.
The girl looked round. ‘I think that there is everything you will want,’ she said. ‘If there is anything we have forgotten, I am close by. You will call?’
He said: ‘Mademoiselle, I shall be most comfortable.’
‘In the morning,’ she said, ‘do not hurry. There are arrangements to be made before we can start for Brittany, and one must make enquiries—on the quiet, you will understand, monsieur. That we can best do alone, my mother and I. So it will be better if you stay in bed, and rest.’
He said: ‘Oh, but there are the children. I shall have to see to them.’
She smiled: ‘In England, do the men look after children when there are two women in the house?’
‘Er—well,’ he said. ‘I mean, I didn’t want to bother you with them.’
She smiled again. ‘Stay in bed,’ she said. ‘I will bring coffee to you at about eight o’clock.’
She went out and closed the door behind her; he remained for a time staring thoughtfully after her. She was, he thought, a very peculiar young woman. He could not understand her at all. At Cidoton, as he remembered her, she had been an athletic young creature, very shy and reserved, as most middle-class French girls are. He remembered her chiefly for the incongruity of her close-curled, carefully-tended head, her daintily-trimmed eyebrows and her carefully-manicured hands, in contrast with the terrific speed with which she took the steepest slopes when sliding on a pair of skis. John, who himself was a fine skier, had told his father that he had his work cut out to keep ahead of her upon a run. She took things straight that he made traverse upon and never seemed to come to any harm. But she had a poor eye for ground, and frequently ran slowly on a piece of flat while he went sailing on ahead of her.
That was, literally, about all the old man could remember of her. He turned from the door and began slowly to undress. She had changed very much, it seemed to him. It had been nice of her to tell him in her queer, French way that she had been good friends with John; his heart warmed to her for that. Both she and her mother were being infinitely kind to him, and this proposal that Nicole should come with him to Brittany was so kind as to verge on the quixotic. He could not refuse the offer; already he had come near to giving pain by doing so. He would not press a refusal any more; to have her help might make the whole difference to his success in getting the children to England.
He put on the long nightgown and got into bed; the soft mattress and the smooth sheets were infinitely soothing after two nights spent in haylofts. He had not slept properly in a bed since leaving Cidoton.
She had changed very much, that girl. She still had the carefully-tended curly head; the trimmed eyebrows and the manicured hands were just the same. But her whole expression was different. She looked ten years older; the dark shadows beneath her eyes matched the black scarf she wore about her neck. Quite suddenly the thought came into his mind that she looked like a widow. She was a young, unmarried girl, but that was what she reminded him of, a young widow. He wondered if she had lost a fiancé in the war. He must ask her mother, delicately, before he left the flat; it would be as well to know in order that he might avoid any topic that was painful to her.
With all that, she seemed very odd to him. He did not understand her at all. But presently the tired limbs relaxed, his active mind moved more slowly, and he drifted into sleep.
He slept all through the night, an unu
sual feat for a man of his age. He was still sleeping when she came in with his coffee and rolls on a tray at about a quarter past eight. He woke easily and sat up in bed, and thanked her.
She was fully dressed. Beyond her, in the corridor, the children stood, dressed and washed, peeping in at the door. Pierre ventured in a little way.
‘Good morning, Pierre,’ said the old man gravely. The little boy placed his hand upon his stomach and bowed to him from the waist. ‘Bonjour, M’sieur Howard.’
The girl laughed and ran her hand through his hair. ‘It is a little boy bien élevé, this one,’ she said. ‘Not like the other ones that you have collected.’
He said a little anxiously: ‘I do hope that they have not been a trouble to you, mademoiselle.’
She said: ‘Children will never trouble me, monsieur.’
He thought again, a very odd young woman with a very odd way of expressing herself.
She told him that her mother was already out marketing in the town, and making certain enquiries. She would be back in half an hour or so; then they would make their plans.
The girl brought him the grey suit of her father’s, rather worn and shabby, with a pair of old brown canvas shoes, a horrible violet shirt, a celluloid collar rather yellow with age, and an unpleasant tie. ‘These clothes are not very chic,’ she said apologetically. ‘But it will be better for you to wear them, Monsieur Howard, because then you will appear like one of the little bourgeoisie. I assure you, we will keep your own clothes for you very carefully. My mother will put them in the cedar chest with the blankets, because of the moths, you understand.’
Three-quarters of an hour later he was up and dressed, and standing in the salon while the girl viewed him critically. ‘You should not have shaved again so soon,’ she said. ‘It makes the wrong effect, that.’
He said that he was sorry. Then he took note of her appearance. ‘You have made yourself look shabby to come with me, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘That is a very kind thing to have done.’
