Pied Piper

by Nevil Shute

  Pierre stared up at her. ‘Will you be coming with me to America?’

  She said quietly: ‘No, Pierre. I must stay here.’

  The corners of his mouth dropped. ‘I don’t want to go alone.’

  Howard said: ‘Perhaps Rose’s father will want her to go too. Then she would go with you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  Sheila said: ‘May Ronnie and I go, Mr. Howard? Can we all go with Pierre?’

  He said: ‘I’ll have to see about that. Your Aunt Margaret may want you in England.’

  Ronnie said: ‘If she doesn’t want us, may we go to Coates Harbor with Pierre?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If she wants you out of England you can all go to Coates Harbor together.’

  ‘Coo,’ said the little boy unfeelingly. ‘I do hope she doesn’t want us.’

  After a time they got the children settled down to sleep; they went downstairs again and out into the garden until supper was ready. The old man said:

  ‘You know a good deal about my daughter’s house in America, mademoiselle.’

  She smiled. ‘John used to tell me about it,’ she said. ‘He had been out there, had he not, monsieur?’

  He nodded. ‘He was out there with Enid for a time in 1938. He thought a great deal of her husband, Costello.’

  She said: ‘He told me all about it very early one morning, when we could not sleep. John loved America. He was aviateur, you understand—he loved their technique.’

  Not for the first time the old man wondered doubtfully about the nature of that week in Paris. He said absently: ‘He enjoyed that visit very much.’

  He roused himself. ‘I am a little bit worried about Pierre,’ he said. ‘I had not thought of sending anybody over with him to America.’

  She nodded. ‘He is sensitive, that one. He will be lonely and unhappy at first, but he will get over it. If Rose could go too it would be all right.’

  He faced her. ‘Why not go yourself?’ he suggested. ‘That would be best of all.’

  ‘Go to America? That is not possible at all, monsieur.’

  A little fear stole into his heart. ‘But you are coming to England, Nicole?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, monsieur. I must stay in France.’

  He was suddenly deeply disappointed. ‘Do you really think that is the best thing to do?’ he said. ‘This country is overrun with Germans, and there will be great hardships as the war goes on. If you came with us to England you could live with me in my house in Essex, or you could go on to America with the children. That would be much better, Nicole.’

  She said: ‘But monsieur, I have my mother to consider.’

  He hesitated. ‘Would you like to try to get hold of her, and take her with us? Life in France is going to be very difficult, you know.’

  She shook her head. ‘I know that things are going to be difficult. But she would not be happy in England. Perhaps I should not be happy either—now.’

  ‘Have you ever been to England?’ he asked curiously.

  She shook her head. ‘We had arranged that I should visit John in England in October, when he could get leave again. I think he would have taken me to see you then, perhaps. But the war came, and there was no more leave.… And travelling was very difficult. I could not get a visa for my passport.’

  He said gently: ‘Make that trip to England now, Nicole.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, monsieur.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She said: ‘Are you going to America with the children, yourself?’

  He shook his head. ‘I would like to, but I don’t think I shall be able to. I believe that there’ll be work for me to do when I get back.’

  She said: ‘Nor would I leave France.’

  He opened his mouth to say that that was quite different, but shut it again without speaking. She divined something of his thought, because she said:

  ‘Either one is French or one is English, and it is not possible that one should be both at the same time. And in times of great trouble, one must stay with one’s own country and do what one can to help.’

  He said slowly: ‘I suppose so.’

  Pursuing her train of thought, she said: ‘If John and I———’ she hesitated—‘if we had married, I should have been English and then it would be different. But now I am not to be English, ever. I could not learn your different ways, and the new life, alone. This is my place that I belong to, and I must stay here. You understand?’

  He said: ‘I understand that, Nicole.’ He paused for a minute, and then said: ‘I am getting to be an old man now. When this war is over I may not find it very easy to get about. Will you come and stay with me in England for a little? Just for a week or two?’

  She said: ‘Of course. Immediately that it is possible to travel, I will come.’

  They walked beside each other in silence for the length of the paddock. Presently she said: ‘Now for the detail of the journey. Focquet will take the boat to-night from Le Conquet to go fishing up the Chenal as far as Le Four. He will not return to Le Conquet, but to-morrow night he will put into l’Abervrach to land his fish, or to get bait, or on some pretext such as that. He will sail again at midnight of to-morrow night and you must then be in the boat with him, for he will go direct to England. Midnight is the latest time that he can sail, in order that he may be well away from the French coast before the dawn.’

  Howard asked: ‘Where is this place l’Abervrach, mademoiselle? Is it far from here?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Forty kilometres, no more. There is a little town behind it, four miles inland, called Lannilis. We must go there to-morrow.’

  ‘Are there many Germans in those parts?’

  ‘I do not know. Aristide is trying to find out the situation there, and to devise something for us.’

  The boy Marjan passed through the paddock on his way to the house. Howard turned and called to him; he hesitated, and then came to them.

  The old man said: ‘We are leaving here to-morrow, Marjan. Do you still want to come with us?’

  The boy said: ‘To America?’

  ‘First we are going to try to get away to England. If we do that successfully, I will send you to America with Pierre and Willem, to live with my daughter till the war is over. Do you want to go?’

  The boy said in his awkward French: ‘If I stay with M. Arvers the Germans will find me and take me away. Presently they will kill me, as they killed my mother and as my father will be killed, because we are Jews. I would like to come with you.’

  The old man said: ‘Listen to me. I do not know if I shall take you, Marjan. We may meet Germans on the way from this place to the coast; we may have to mix with them, eat at their canteens perhaps. If you show that you hate them, they may arrest us all. I do not know if it is safe to take you, if it is fair to Rose and Ronnie and Sheila and Willem and to little Pierre.’

  The boy said: ‘I shall not make trouble for you. It will be better for me to go to America now; that is what I want to do. It would only be by great good luck that I could kill a German now; even if I could creep up to one in the darkness and rip him open with a sharp knife, I should be caught and killed. But in a few years time I shall be able to kill many hundreds of them, secretly, in the dark streets. That is much better, to wait and to learn how these things should be managed properly.’

  Howard felt slightly sick. He said: ‘Can you control yourself, if Germans are near-by?’

  The boy said: ‘I can wait for years, monsieur, till my time comes.’

  Nicole said: ‘Listen, Marjan. You understand what Monsieur means? If you are taken by the Germans all these little boys and girls will also be taken, and the Germans will do to them what they will do to you. It would be very wrong of you to bring that trouble on them.’

  He said: ‘Have no fear. I shall be good, and obedient, and polite, if you will take me with you. That is what one must practise all the time, so that you win their confidence. In that way you can get them at your mercy in the
end.’

  Howard said: ‘All right, Marjan. We start in the morning; be ready to come with us. Now go and have your supper and go up to bed.’

  He stood watching the boy as he made his way towards the house. ‘God knows what sort of world we shall have when this is all over,’ he said heavily.

  Nicole said: ‘I do not know. But what you are doing now will help us all, I think. To get these children out of Europe must be a good thing.’

  Presently they were called to the kitchen for their supper. Afterwards, in the salon, Arvers talked to them.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘and I will tell you what I have arranged.’

  He paused. ‘Lannilis is full of Germans. That is four miles from the coast, and the places at the coast itself, l’Abervrach and Portsall and places of that sort, are very lightly held or even not occupied at all. They do not interfere with the traffic of the country, and this is what I have devised for you.’

  He said: ‘Three miles this side of Lannilis there is a farmer called Quintin, and he is to send a load of manure to-morrow to a fisherman called Loudeac, the captain of the lifeboat at l’Abervrach, because Loudeac has a few fields on the hills and wants manure. I have arranged all that. The manure will be delivered in a cart with one horse, you understand? You, m’sieur, will drive the cart. Mademoiselle and the children will accompany you for the ride.’

  Howard said: ‘That seems sound enough. Nobody would suspect that.’

  Aristide glanced at him. ‘It will be necessary that you should wear poorer clothes. That I can arrange.’

  Nicole said: ‘How do we get into touch with Focquet to-morrow night?’

  The horse-dealer said: ‘To-morrow night, Focquet will come at nine o’clock to the estaminet upon the quayside. He will appear to be slightly drunk, and he will ask for Pernod des Anges. There is no such drink. In that way you will know him. The rest I will leave to you.’

  Howard nodded. ‘How can we get to Quintin’s farm?’

  ‘I will take you myself so far in the car. That will be safe enough, for it is this side of Lannilis and there will be no questions asked. But there I must leave you.’ He thought for a minute. ‘It will be better that you should not start from Quintin’s farm much before five o’clock,’ he said. ‘That will make it reasonable that you should be in l’Abervrach at nightfall, and even that you should spend the night there, with Loudeac.’

  Nicole said: ‘What about Loudeac and Quintin, monsieur? Do they know that Monsieur Howard and the children will escape?’

  The man said: ‘Have no fear, mademoiselle. This is not so uncommon, in these times. They know all that they wish to know, and they have been paid. They are good friends of mine.’

  Howard said: ‘I must now pay you, monsieur.’

  They settled down together at the table.

  Soon after that they went to bed; refreshed by a restful day Howard slept well. In the morning he went down for coffee feeling better than he had felt for some days.

  Aristide said: ‘We leave after déjeuner. That will be time enough. Now, I have borrowed clothes for m’sieur. You will not like them, but they are necessary.’

  The old man did not like the clothes at all. They were very dirty, a coarse, stained flannel shirt, a pair of torn blue cotton trousers, a dirty canvas pullover that had once been rusty pink in colour, and a black, floppy Breton casque. Wooden sabots were the footgear provided with this outfit, but the old man struck at those, and Arvers produced a torn and loathsome pair of boots.

  It was some day since he had shaved. When he came down to the kitchen Nicole smiled broadly. ‘It is very good,’ she said. ‘Now, Monsieur Howard, if you walk with the head hanging down, and your mouth open a little—so. And walk slowly, as if you were a very, very old man. And be very deaf and very stupid. I will talk for you.’

  Arvers walked round him, studying him critically. ‘I do not think the Germans will find fault with that,’ he said.

  They spent the rest of the morning studying appearances. Nicole kept her black frock, but Arvers made her dirty it a little, and made her change to a very old pair of low-heeled shoes belonging to his wife. With a shawl belonging to Madame Arvers over her head, he passed her too.

  The children needed very little grooming. During the morning they had been playing at the duck-pond, and were sufficiently dirty to pass muster without any painting of the lily. Ronnie and Willem were scratching themselves a good deal, which added verisimilitude to the act.

  They started after déjeuner. Howard and Nicole thanked Madame Arvers for her kindness; she received their thanks with calm, bovine smiles. Then they all got into the little old de Dion van that Arvers kept for the farm and drove off down the road.

  Ronnie said: ‘Are we going to the train that we’re going to sleep in, Mr. Howard?’

  ‘Not just yet,’ he said. ‘We shall get out of the car presently and say good-bye to Monsieur Arvers, and then we have a ride in a cart. You must all be very careful to speak French only, all the time.’

  Sheila said: ‘Why must we speak French? I want to speak English, like we used to.’

  Nicole said gently: ‘We shall be among the Germans. They do not like people who speak English. You must be very careful to speak only in French.’

  Rose said suddenly: ‘Marjan says the Germans cut his mother’s hands off.’

  Howard said gently: ‘No more talk about the Germans now. In a little time we shall get out, and have a ride in a horse and cart.’ He turned to Pierre. ‘What sort of noise does a horse make?’ he asked.

  Pierre said shyly: ‘I don’t know.’

  La petite Rose bent over him. ‘Oh, Pierre, of course you know!

  ‘My great-aunt lives in Tours,

  In a house with a cherry tree

  With a little mouse (squeak, squeak)

  And a big lion (roar, roar)

  And a wood-pigeon (coo, coo) …’

  That lasted them all the way through Landerneau, of which they caught only glimpses through the windows at the back of the old van, and half-way to Lannilis.

  Presently the van slowed, turned off the road, and bumped to a standstill. Arvers swung round to them from the driving-seat. ‘This is the place,’ he said. ‘Get out quickly, it is not wise to linger here.’

  They opened the door at the back of the van and got out. They were in a very small farmyard, the farmhouse itself little more than a workman’s cottage of grey stone. The air was fresh and sweet after the van, with a clear savour of the sea. In the warm sun, and looking at the grey stone walls and roofs, Howard could have thought himself in Cornwall.

  There was a cart and horse, the cart half loaded with manure, the old grey horse tied to the gate. Nobody was to be seen.

  Arvers said: ‘Now quickly, monsieur, before a German passes on the road. There is the cart. You have everything quite clear? You take the dung to Loudeac, who lives up on the hill above l’Abervrach, half a mile from the port. There you unload it; Mademoiselle Rougeron must bring back the cart to-morrow to this place. Focquet will be in the estaminet to-night at nine o’clock, and he will be expecting you. He will ask for Pernod des Anges. It is all clear?’

  ‘One thing,’ the old man said. ‘This road leads straight to Lannilis?’

  ‘Assuredly.’ The horse-dealer glanced nervously around.

  ‘How do we get through Lannilis? How do we find the road out of the town to l’Abervrach?’

  The hot sun beat down on them warmly from a cloudless sky; the scent of briar mingled with the odour of manure about them. Arvers said: ‘This road leads straight to the great church in the middle of the town. From the west end of the church a road runs westwards; follow that. Where it forks at the outskirts of the town, by an advertisement for Byrrh, take the right-hand fork. From there to l’Abervrach is seven kilometres.’

  Nicole said: ‘I have been that way before. I think I know the road.’

  The horse-dealer said: ‘I will not linger, mademoiselle. And you, you must move off from here
at once.’ He turned to Howard. ‘That is all that I can do for you, monsieur. Good luck. In happier days, we may meet again.’

  The old man said: ‘I shall look forward to thanking you again for so much kindness.’

  Arvers swung himself into the seat of the old van, reversed out into the road, and vanished in a white cloud of dust. Howard looked around; there was no movement from the house, which stood deserted in the afternoon sun.

  Nicole said: ‘Come, children, up you go.’

  Willem and Marjan swung themselves up into the cart; the English children, with Pierre and Rose, hung back. Ronnie said doubtfully: ‘Is this the cart you said we were going to have a ride in?’

  Rose said: ‘It is a dung-cart. It is not correct to ride in a cart full of horse-dung, mademoiselle. My aunt would be very cross with me if I did that.’

  Nicole said brightly: ‘Well, I’m going to. You can walk with monsieur and help lead the horse, if you like.’ She bustled the other children into the cart before her; it was only half full and there was room for all of them to stand and sit upon the edges of the sides in front of the load.

  Pierre said: ‘May I walk with Rose and lead the horse?’

  Nicole said: ‘No, Pierre, you’re too small for that and the horse walks too quickly. You can stroke his nose when we get there.’

  Howard untied the bridle from the gate and led the horse out into the road. He fell into a steady, easy shamble beside the horse, head hanging down.

  For an hour and a half they went on like that before they reached the first houses of Lannilis. In the cart Nicole kept the children happy and amused; from time to time the old man heard a little burst of laughter above the clop, clop of the hooves of the old horse. La petite Rose walked on beside him, barefoot, treading lightly.

  They passed a good deal of German transport on the road. From time to time lorries would come up behind them and they would pull in to the right to let them pass; the grey-faced, stolid soldiers staring at them incuriously. Once they met a platoon of about thirty infantry marching towards them down the road; the Oberleutnant in charge looked them over, but did not challenge them. Nobody showed much interest in them until they came to Lannilis.