by Nevil Shute
‘Well,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t have worn that in a museum.’
She stared at him, nonplussed. ‘But no …’ And then she laughed. ‘It would be quite ridiculous, that.’ She smiled again at the thought. ‘Monsieur, you say absurd things, just the same as John.’
It was four o’clock when the train pulled into the little station of Landerneau. They tumbled out of the carriage with relief. Nicole lifting each child down on to the platform except Ronnie, who insisted on getting down himself. They fetched the pram from the baggage-car and put the remainder of their lunch in it, with the kitten.
There was no guard at the guichet and they passed through into the town.
Landerneau is a little town of six or seven thousand people, a sleepy little place upon a tidal river running to the Rade de Brest. It is built of grey stone, set in a rolling country dotted round with little woods; it reminded Howard of the Yorkshire wolds. The air, which had been hot and stuffy in the railway carriage, now seemed fresh and sweet, with a faint savour suggesting that the sea was not so very far away.
The town was sparsely held by Germans. Their lorries were parked in the square beneath the plane-trees by the river, but there were few of them to be seen. Those that were in evidence seemed ill at ease, anxious to placate the curiosity of a population which they knew to be pro-English. Their behaviour was most studiously correct. The few soldiers in the streets were grey faced and tired looking, wandering round in twos and threes and staring listlessly at the strange sights. One thing was very noticeable; they never seemed to laugh.
Unchallenged, Howard and Nicole walked through the town and out into the country beyond, upon the road that led towards the south. They went slowly for the sake of the children; the old man was accustomed now to the slow pace that they could manage. The road was empty and they straggled all over it. It led up on to the open wold.
Rose and Willem were allowed to take their shoes off and go barefoot, rather to the disapproval of Nicole. ‘I do not think that that is in the part,’ she said. ‘The class which we represent would not do that.’
The old man said: ‘There’s nobody to see.’
She agreed that it did not matter much, and they went sauntering on, Willem pushing the pram with Pierre. Ahead of them three aircraft crossed the sky in steady, purposeful flight towards the west, flying at about two thousand feet.
The sight woke memories in Rose. ‘M’sieur,’ she cried. ‘Three aeroplanes—look! Quick, let us get into the ditch!’
He calmed her. ‘Never mind them,’ he said equably. ‘They aren’t going to hurt us.’
She was only half-reassured. ‘But they dropped bombs before and fired their guns!’
He said: ‘These are different aeroplanes. These are good aeroplanes. They won’t hurt us.’
Pierre said, suddenly and devastatingly, in his little piping voice: ‘Can you tell good aeroplanes from bad aeroplanes, M’sieur Howard?’
With a sick heart the old man thought again of the shambles on the Montargis road. ‘Why, yes,’ he said gently. ‘You remember the aeroplanes that mademoiselle took you to see at Chartres? The ones where they let you touch the bombs? They didn’t hurt you, did they? Those were good aeroplanes. Those over there are the same sort. They won’t hurt us.’
Ronnie, anxious to display expert technical knowledge, endorsed these statements. ‘Good aeroplanes are our own aeroplanes, aren’t they, Mr. Howard?’
‘That’s right,’ the old man said.
Nicole drew him a little way aside. ‘I don’t know how you can think of such things to say,’ she said in a low tone. ‘But those are German aeroplanes.’
‘I know that. But one has to say something.’
She stared at the three pencil-like shapes in the far distance. ‘It was marvellous when aeroplanes were things of pleasure,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Have you ever flown?’ he asked.
She said: ‘Twice, at a fête, just for a little way each time. And then the time I flew with John over Paris. It was wonderful, that …’
He was interested. ‘You went with a pilot, I suppose. Or did he pilot the machine himself?’
She said: ‘But he flew it himself, of course, m’sieur. It was just him and me.’
‘How did he get hold of the aeroplane?’ He knew that in a foreign country there were difficulties in aviation.
She said: ‘He took me to dance, at the flying club, in the Rue François Premier. He had a friend—un capitaine de l’ Aéronautique—that he had met in England when he had been with our Embassy in London. And this friend arranged everything for John.’
She said: ‘Figurez-vous, monsieur! I could not get him to one art gallery, not one! All his life he is used to spend in flying, and then he comes to Paris for a holiday and he wants to go to the aerodrome and fly!’
He smiled gently. ‘He was like that.… Did you enjoy yourself?’
She said: ‘It was marvellous. It was a fine, sunny day with a fresh breeze, and we drove out to Orly, to the hangar of the flying club. And there, there was a beautiful aeroplane waiting for us, with the engine running.’
Her face clouded a little, and then she smiled. ‘I do not know very much about flying,’ she said frankly. ‘It was very chic, with red leather seats and chromium steps to make it easy to get in. But John was so rude.’
The old man said: ‘Rude?’
‘He said it looked like a bed bug, monsieur, but not so that the mechanics could hear what he said. I told him that I was very cross to hear him say such a thing, when they had been so kind to lend it to us. He only laughed. And then, when we were flying over Paris at grande vitesse, a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour or more, he turned to me and said: “And what’s more, it flies like one!” Imagine that! Our aeroplanes are very good, monsieur. Everybody in France says so.’
Howard smiled again. ‘I hope you put him in his place,’ he said.
She laughed outright; it was the first time that he had heard that happen. ‘That was not possible, Monsieur Howard,’ she said. ‘Never could I put him in his place, as you say.’
He said: ‘I’m sorry about that.’ He paused, and then he said: ‘I have never flown over Paris. Is it beautiful?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Beautiful? I do not think that anything is beautiful seen from the air, except the clouds. But that day was marvellous, because there were those big, fleecy clouds that John called cum … something.’
‘Cumulus?’
She nodded. ‘That was it. For more than an hour we played in them, flying around and over the top and in between the white cliffs in the deep gorges of the mist. And every now and then, far down below, one would see Paris, the Concorde or perhaps the Etoile. Never shall I forget that day. And when we landed I was so sleepy that I went to sleep in the car on the way back to Paris, leaning up against John, with my head on his shoulder.’
They walked on in silence for a time. Pierre and Willem tired of pushing the pram and gave place to Rose, with Sheila trotting at her side. The kitten lay curled up in the pram, sound asleep.
Presently Nicole pointed ahead of them. ‘That is the house—amongst those trees.’
The house that she pointed to lay about a mile ahead of them. It seemed to be a fairly large and prosperous farm, grouped round a modest country house standing among trees as shelter from the wind. About it rolled the open pasture of the wold, as far as could be seen.
In half an hour they were close up to it. A long row of stabling showed the interests of the owner; there were horses running in the paddocks near the farm. The farm buildings were better kept and laid out than the farms that Howard had had dealings with upon his journey; this was a cut above the usual run of things.
They went up to a house that stood beside the entrance, in the manner of a lodge; here Nicole enquired for M. Arvers. They were directed to the stables; leaving the children with the pram at the gate, they went forward together.
They met their man half-way.
&nb
sp; Aristide Arvers was a small man of fifty-five or so, thin, with sharp features and a shrewd look. Howard decided at the first glance that this man was no fool. And the second thought that came into his mind was realisation that this man could well be the father of a beauty queen, of Miss Landerneau. The delicate features, sharpening by advancing age, might well be fascinating in a young girl.
He wore a shapeless black suit with a soiled scarf wrapped around his neck in lieu of collar; a black hat was on his head.
Nicole said: ‘Monsieur Arvers, do you remember me? You were so kind as to invite me here one day, with my father, Colonel Rougeron. You showed my father round your stables. After that you entertained us in your house. That was three years ago—do you remember?’
He nodded. ‘I remember that very well, mademoiselle. M. le colonel was very interested in my horses for the army, being himself an artillery officer, if I remember right.’ He hesitated. ‘I hope you have good news of M. le colonel?’
She said: ‘We have had no news for three months, when he was at Metz.’
‘I am desolated, mademoiselle.’
She nodded, having nothing much to say to that. She said: ‘If my father had been at home he would no doubt, have come to see you himself. As he is not, I have come instead.’
His brows wrinkled slightly, but he bowed a little. ‘That is an added pleasure,’ he said perfunctorily.
‘May we, perhaps, go to your office?’
‘But certainly.’
He turned and led them to the house. There was a littered, dusty office, full of sad-looking account-books and files, with bits of broken harness thrown aside in corners. He closed the door behind them and gave them rickety chairs; there being no other seats, he leaned backwards against the edge of the desk.
‘First,’ said the girl, ‘I wish to introduce you to Monsieur Howard. He is an Englishman.’
The horse-breeder raised his eyebrows a little, but bowed ceremoniously. ‘Enchanté,’ he said.
Nicole said: ‘I will come directly to the point, Monsieur Arvers. Monsieur Howard is a very old friend of my family. He is travelling with several children, and he is trying to return to England in spite of the Germans. My mother and I have talked about this, in the absence of my father, and it seemed to us that Jean Henri could help perhaps with one of his boats. Or, if that was impossible, Jean Henri might know some friend who would help. There is money enough to pay for any services.’
The man said nothing for a time. At last: ‘The Germans are not to be trifled with,’ he said.
Howard said: ‘We appreciate that, monsieur. We do not wish that anyone should run into trouble upon our behalf. That is why mademoiselle has come to talk to you before going to your son-in-law.’
The other turned to him. ‘You speak French better than most Englishmen.’
‘I have had longer than most Englishmen to learn it.’
The Frenchman smiled. ‘You are very anxious to return to England?’
The old man said: ‘For myself, not so very anxious. I should be quite happy to live in France for a time. But I have children in my care you understand, English children that I have promised that I would escort to England.’ He hesitated. ‘And, as a matter of fact, there are three others now.’
‘What are those other children? How many of you are there altogether? And where have you come from?’
It took nearly twenty minutes to elucidate the story. At last the Frenchman said: ‘These other children, the little one called Pierre and the little Dutchman. What is going to become of them when they reach England?’
Howard said: ‘I have a daughter, married, in America. She is in easy circumstances. She would make a home for those two in her house at Long Island till the war is over and we can trace their relations. They would be very happy there.’
The man stared at him keenly. ‘In America? That I can well believe. You will send them over the Atlantic to your daughter? Will she be good to them—children that she has never seen? Unknown, foreign children?’
The old man said: ‘My daughter has one child of her own, and now hopes for another. She is very fond of all children. They will be safe with her.’
Arvers got up suddenly from the desk. ‘It is impossible,’ he said. ‘If Jean Henri should put his hand to this he would be in great danger. The Germans would shoot him, beyond all doubt. You have no right to suggest such a thing.’ He paused, and then he said: ‘I have my daughter to consider.’
There was a long, slow pause. At last the old man turned to Nicole. ‘That’s the end of that,’ he said. He smiled at Arvers. ‘I understand perfectly,’ he said. ‘In your place, thinking of my daughter, I should say the same.’
The Frenchman turned to the girl. ‘I regret very much that I cannot help you in the way you want,’ he said.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Tant pis,’ she said. ‘N’y pensez plus.’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘These children,’ he said. ‘Where are they now?’
They told him that they were waiting in the road, and he walked with them to the gate. It was getting towards evening. The children were playing at the edge of a pond, muddy and rather fractious. There were tear streaks around Sheila’s face.
Arvers said awkwardly: ‘Would it help you to stay here for the night? I do not think we have beds for so many, but something could perhaps be managed.’
Nicole said warmly: ‘You are very kind, monsieur.’
They called the children and introduced them one by one to the horse-dealer; then they went towards the house. The man called his wife as they approached the door; she came from the kitchen, a stolid peasant woman. He spoke to her, told her that the party were to stay with them for the night, introduced her formally to them. Nicole shepherded the children after her into the kitchen. Arvers turned to Howard.
‘You will take a little glass of Pernod, perhaps?’ he said.
A little glass of Pernod seemed to the old man to be a very good idea. They went into the salon because the kitchen was full of children. The salon was a stiff and formal room, with gilt-legged furniture upholstered in red plush. On the wall there was a very large oleograph of a white-robed little girl kneeling devoutly in a shaft of light. It was entitled: ‘La Première Communion.’
Arvers brought the Pernod, with glasses and water, and the two men settled down together. They talked about horses and about country matters. Arvers had been to England once, to Newmarket as a jockey when he was a very young man. They chatted pleasantly enough for a quarter of an hour.
Suddenly Arvers said: ‘Your daughter, Monsieur Howard. She will surely find so many foreign children an encumbrance? Are you so certain that they will be welcome in her home?’
The old man said: ‘They will be welcome, all right.’
‘But how can you possibly know that? Your daughter may find it very inconvenient to have them.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. But if that should be so, then she would make arrangements for them for me. She would engage some kind woman to make a home for them, because that is my wish, that they should have a good home in America—away from all this.’ He motioned with his hand. ‘And there is no difficulty over money, you understand.’
The Frenchman sat silent for a little time, staring into his glass.
‘This is a bad time for children, this filthy war,’ he said at last. ‘And now that France is defeated, it is going to be worse. You English now will starve us, as we starved Germany in 1918.’
Howard was silent.
‘I shall not blame your country if you do that. But it will be bad for children here.’
‘I am afraid it may be,’ said the old man. ‘That is why I want to get these children out of it. One must do what one can.’
Arvers shrugged his shoulders. ‘There are no children in this house, thank God. Or—only one.’ He paused. ‘That was a hard case, if you like.’
Howard looked at him enquiringly. The Frenchman poured him out another Pernod. ‘A friend in P
aris asked me if I had work for a Pole,’ he said. ‘In December, that was—just at Christmas time. A Polish Jew who knew horses, who had escaped into Rumania and so by sea to Marseilles. Well, you will understand, the mobilisation had taken five of my eight men, and it was very difficult.’
Howard nodded. ‘You took him on?’
‘Assuredly. Simon Estreicher was his name, and he arrived one day with his son, a boy of ten. There had been a wife, but I will not distress you with that story. She had not escaped the Boche, you understand.’
The old man nodded.
‘Well, this man Estreicher worked here till last week, and he worked well. He was quiet and gave no trouble, and the son worked in the stables too. Then last week the Germans came here and took him away.’
‘Took him away?’
‘Took him away to Germany, to their forced labour. He was a Pole, you see, m’sieur, and a Jew as well. One could do nothing for him. Some filthy swine in town had told them about him, because they came straight here and asked for him. They put handcuffs on him and took him in a camion with several others.’
‘Did they take the son as well?’
‘They never asked for him, and he was in the paddock at the time, so I said nothing. One does not help the Germans in their work. But it was very hard on that young boy.’
Howard agreed with him. ‘He is with you still, then?’
‘Where else could he go? He is useful in the stables, too. But before long I suppose they will find out about him, and come back for him to take him away also.’
Nicole came to them presently, to call them to the kitchen for supper. She had already given the children a meal, and had put them to sleep on beds improvised upstairs by Madame Arvers. They ate together in the kitchen at a long table, together with two men from the farm and a black-haired Jewish-looking boy whom Madame called Marjan, and who said little or nothing during the meal.
The meal over, Arvers escorted Nicole and Howard back to the salon; presently he produced a set of dominoes and proposed a game. Howard settled down to it with him. The horse-dealer played carelessly, his mind on other things.
