Until We Find Home

by Cathy Gohlke

Claire’s reverie was broken by raised male voices outside the lorry—intense, animated arguments in French so hard and clipped she couldn’t catch the words. Claire shook the arm of the child beside her and shifted the little one in her lap. “Réveillez-vous. Restez silencieux. No talking, but be ready.” She smiled into the dark, hoping to infuse her voice with comfort and confidence, hoping they understood something of her mixed French and English.

  She pitied them for being bumped through the night with barely more than they wore . . . pitied them for leaving parents and older siblings they loved and who must love them. She swallowed, trying to imagine such love. Off to a new country where you’ll understand precious little of the language. Poor souls, fleeing home and dear Paris in springtime. Poor, brave little soldiers.

  Knowing time was of the essence, Claire gently pushed the child from her lap and crawled toward the tailgate. She peeked beneath the canvas, eager to glimpse their surroundings and to encourage their driver to move the mission forward.

  The engine roared. Tires spun and the lorry jerked to life again. The sudden sharp swerve and the squeal of floored brakes brought cries from every child. Claire’s head slammed against the tailgate.

  One of the larger children yanked her back into the center of the bed. “Mademoiselle!”

  “All right. I’m all right,” Claire mumbled, reaching for her forehead. But her fingers came away sticky.

  A mile or more the lorry bumped and sped. Finally the brakes slammed again. Still dazed, Claire didn’t move from the floor. Five minutes must have passed before the driver lifted the canvas. “Vite! Come quickly—now!” He pulled open the tailgate and lifted the children down in the pale light of a shaded lantern. “Get your things—all of them. Leave nothing!”

  “Arnaud?” Claire whispered into the streaming rain, her vision blurred and head pounding.

  “He is not here.” The driver’s panic seeped through every word. “The fisherman’s contact said he has not come; neither has the children’s escort. The tide is turning—not a moment to waste. Run down to the water’s edge now!” He pushed the children toward the shore, young ones clasping the hands of older, taller children, all stumbling after a flapping mackintosh–clad fisherman with a feeble torch.

  “A fishing boat . . . on the Channel . . . on a night like this?” Claire’s temples throbbed and she couldn’t stop the world from spinning. “Is it safe?”

  “Safer for them than Paris.”

  “They must wait for their escort. We can’t send them off alone.”

  “Did you not hear me, mademoiselle? The tide is turning. It will be daylight before it turns again. The captain cannot wait. He refuses to come another time.” The stale breath of the driver nearly overpowered her. “You must go with them, mademoiselle. Tout de suite!”

  “Me? No, you don’t understand. I’m staying . . . returning to Paris. There are more children to help. These will be safe in England, but I’m needed—”

  “They cannot go without an escort. Your English fisherman won’t take them alone. There is no one else and there will be no more trips. To wait is madness!”

  Claire counted the children’s fuzzy silhouettes against the fisherman’s torch as they clambered over the side of the boat. Five. Only five souls from one very small to one nearly as tall as Claire. She closed her eyes and painfully shook her aching head. “Surely he can manage five children. I must go back for Arnaud. I don’t know what’s happened to him.”

  “Ha! It seems he has left you, chérie!”

  It was the thing she’d feared each day—that he would leave her, that he did not love her as she loved him. Still, she shook her head, vouching for him. Something warm and liquid seeped into her eye. “Then you must go with the children, monsieur—you’re responsible for them. Arnaud paid you. Please, I must get back to Paris.”

  He slammed the tailgate. “You are crazy, mademoiselle. I will not take you. And I am not responsible for these young ones. I’ve done what I was paid to do. I’ll not risk my life or my family.”

  Unbelieving, Claire yanked his arm as he climbed into his lorry. “Wait! I’ll go with them tomorrow night if the contact doesn’t come.” She steadied herself against the cab door. “Let me talk to the fisherman—ask him to wait one day—just until tomorrow night. Arnaud will come, I know!”

  “I told you: this is his last run. He’s a fool to try even now.” The driver pushed her away. “You’ll be lucky to get through the harbor.”

  Claire’s head rang and swam. The reversing lorry roared to life once more, its spinning tires spraying her with cold rain and filling her mouth with graveled mud as the darkness closed in and claimed her.

  “Shh, she’s coming round,” a feminine French face, dancing in the light of a swaying battery lamp, whispered over Claire’s pounding head.

  “Wipe her forehead now—quick—before she wakens. It will sting more if you don’t.” A boy, perhaps eight or nine, spit into his soiled handkerchief and passed it purposefully toward the feminine face. “Clean out her eye or she’ll go blind from the blood.”

  “Oh, be quiet,” the lovely girl ordered. “You say the stupidest things, Gaston.”

  Claire groaned and closed her eyes again. The crashing in her head and the rolling in her stomach heaved into one large inner motion. “Where am I?”

  “You’re on the HMS Miss Bonny Blair,” a new voice announced in perfect English with a very French accent. Claire opened one eye to see a taller boy, maybe eleven or so, hovering too close. The boy blushed. “At least that’s what Capitaine Beardsley said before we left the shore beyond Calais, though I think it rather more a fishing boat.” He grabbed a bar above his head to steady himself.

  “Captain Beardsley? A fishing boat?” Claire heard herself moan again.

  “Aye, aye.” The youngster called Gaston pushed closer. “And we’re all his mates. That’s Bertram, my brother. I’m Gaston—Capitaine Beardsley’s first mate. And you’re the lively wench he rescued.”

  “Gaston! That is vulgar. Mademoiselle is our rescuer,” the feminine voice gasped. “I’m Jeanine.” She leaned closer, confiding, “We were told never to give our family names, but I will tell you that Elise, here, is my sister. This littlest one came alone and is called Aimee. These boys we met through Monsieur Arnaud.”

  “Arnaud? He’s here?” Claire’s heaving stomach skipped into her heart.

  “Non, mademoiselle,” Jeanine sympathized. “He is not. He told us he would come if he could, but . . . You’ve been calling for him in your sleep.”

  Claire pulled herself to one elbow and reached for her forehead. “Sleep? How long?” I must convince Captain Beardsley to turn the boat around.

  “Hours, I’d say,” Gaston cheerfully volunteered.

  “What?” Panic sped through her veins.

  “We must be nearing England’s shores,” Bertram offered. “Rest easy, mademoiselle. Capitaine Beardsley said he will find you a doctor once we land.”

  “It doesn’t take hours to reach England.”

  “It does when you’re going the long way round,” Gaston declared. “Le capitaine said we travel wise as serpents and harmless as doves.”

  What can that mean? But Claire’s head hurt too much to think about it now. She lay back on the makeshift pallet and closed her eyes against the swaying walls and the heaving in her stomach. She hated crossing the Channel in fair weather. She’d never have dared to cross it in foul, much less on the back of a storm-tossed sea. Mad sea captain—he must be kin to Captain Ahab!

  The last thing Claire heard was Gaston admonishing Jeanine, “You needn’t have shushed me. I simply made a mistake with my English. She’s not ‘lively’ at all, not a bit, even for a grown-up. But she is quite a ‘likely’ wench, I’d say—at least that’s as Capitaine Beardsley vowed.”

  Chapter Two

  CLAIRE FELT the captain’s strong arms lift her from the floor, then half carry, half drag her off the boat and through the slowing drizzle, up and off a short, r
ough dock. Her feet pulled through sand. His scraggly beard scratched her cheek until he deposited her on a heap of sails and nets inside what must be a fishing shack. He left her with the children huddled around her but was back in less than thirty minutes. Despite the predawn hour, as good as his word to Bertram, he’d procured a no-nonsense doctor. The cleaning of Claire’s wound and the piercing stitches thrummed painful in her head.

  “Rest and a daily change of bandage,” the doctor ordered. He looked at the five drowsy children by her side and shook his head at their rescuer. “I won’t ask and don’t want to know. But I swear by King George, you’re in over your head, Captain, and too old by far for such nonsense.”

  “Aye. I’m trusting you now, Doc. You won’t be letting me down, eh?”

  “Not a word. Not in these times, poor little devils. Don’t make a habit of it.” The doctor snapped shut his black bag and pushed out into the dark and rain.

  Through her brain fog Claire marveled that in this putrid place the captain somehow brewed tea over a can’s open flame. He handed her the chipped and steaming mug, then found her a thick blanket, reeking of fish. Both were welcome. She tried to thank him, but the words muddled.

  “Rest easy, lass. There’ll be time to talk by and by.”

  It was good he’d issued the order. Claire couldn’t have kept her eyes open another minute.

  Morning erupted in streaks of red, orange, and violet across the eastern sky, streaming through the dirty porthole-shaped window of the fishing shed.

  “Sailors take warning,” Claire whispered.

  “A good day to keep beneath the tarps,” Captain Beardsley pronounced, handing dry and broken buns and a jar of now-lukewarm tea round the motley group. He must have gone out and come in again with such largesse, though Claire had never heard him.

  Claire tried to sit up, to smooth her hair and stir some life into her bones, but her head still throbbed.

  “Sit back, now, or you’ll be bleedin’ all over my tarps, and that won’t do.”

  The tallest girl, the one with the lovely face—Jeanine—was at Claire’s side in a moment, supporting her neck with a firm hand and raising a bunch of rags behind her head for a pillow. “Mademoiselle,” she whispered.

  “Merci,” Claire breathed. “I should be looking after you, not this way round. Arnaud?” She’d dreamed he’d come. But Jeanine silently shook her head.

  The captain looked away, as if embarrassed. “Don’t ’spect he was able to cross.”

  Claire bit her lip. “Our contact—has he come?”

  “No.” The captain grimaced. “He should have been here before two this mornin’.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Gone half after five. It’s no good. He can’t tote five blighters through the docks in broad daylight. You’ll have to stay here today, at least until after the night watch. Not a peep. Not one sound. I’ll make my rounds, see what I can learn.”

  Jeanine whispered in Claire’s ear, “We all need the toilette, mademoiselle.”

  Of course they did, and so did she. “Captain, what about facilities for the children?”

  “‘Facilities’?” But his bluster faded when he saw tears well in the smallest girl’s eyes. He opened the door and a gust of sea air poured in. He was back in a moment with a tin bucket. “Here, use this. I’ll empty it when I get back. Not one of you go outside that door, and keep mum. Do ya hear me?”

  “Oui, monsieur.” Five heads nodded, eyes wide as tea saucers.

  “And that goes for you, miss. Can’t have no woman traipsing the docks. It’s like wavin’ a red flag.”

  “I promise. Thank you.” Claire had used some primitive facilities in France but never a bucket before a roomful of children. They’d simply have to rig a tarp round one corner and take turns holding it up for privacy.

  “If your man don’t come by dark . . .”

  “Yes?” Claire didn’t see how Arnaud could get to England now, but he must, he simply must.

  The captain didn’t finish his statement. He coughed and harrumphed, but it failed to cover his anxiety. One glance at the children’s pale faces and he pushed out his chest. “Rest easy today. No one should bother you here.”

  “But if the contact comes . . . or if Arnaud . . .”

  “Neither will come in daylight.”

  The captain made to go, but Claire pushed up from the floor with her back to the children, faced him, and whispered, “Have you heard the wireless this morning? Do you know if—?”

  But the captain shook his head. “I’ll be back when I can.” That quickly he was gone.

  By the time the shadows lengthened and the dock settled again for the night, Claire could barely breathe for worry. Had Arnaud been captured? Injured? And what about the captain? What if he didn’t return? Could they trust him to help more than he had?

  The hours crept by. Moonlight through the grimy window painted worried young faces in an eerie glow. Off and on they dozed. Off and on the younger girls leaned, even snuggled, against Claire. The unexpected intimacy unnerved her. Still, it didn’t seem right to push them away.

  Deep in the night, the latch on the shed finally lifted. Every eye flew open, but the children remained quiet as church mice. Claire swallowed, pushed the little girls and tarp aside, and stood between the children and the door, ready to face what or whom she must.

  Claire sensed each small chest heave a sigh of relief as great as her own when the captain appeared. “What news?” she begged. “I must return to Paris, Captain Beardsley. I must get back to—”

  “And how would you propose we do that, miss?”

  “You made it through. You could do it again.”

  “Pity and foolishness on my part. That was my last run. There’s ships bringing over some latecomers to Folkestone. Perhaps your young man’ll make it yet. Besides, these youngsters are the first order of the day. What do you propose to do with them?”

  “I’m not saying I mean to abandon them, but Arnaud had arranged for someone to meet them—you know that.”

  “Well, it’s not my mistake, now is it? And it’s not the mistake of these young blighters, neither.” Captain Beardsley set down his kit. “I couldn’t very well leave you passed out and bleeding on the beach, and someone was needed to mind the young ones for the crossing. There’s no goin’ back—not till this thing’s good and over.” He turned away. “It’s the trouble with Americans . . . all talk and show and no sticking it out.”

  If the captain had discovered a magic button, he could not have pressed a more sensitive nerve. “You underestimate both me and my country, Captain. President Roosevelt won’t abandon England in your hour of need. You’ll see.”

  “Pray you’re right, miss. I’ll not be holdin’ my breath. Your President Wilson took his good, sweet time in the last war, didn’t he? I don’t see much difference now. But that’s never mind. What these youngsters need is a dry billet and a crust of bread and tea. And that’s up to you.”

  “But I have no contacts here.” Claire felt the earth shift beneath her. How could she possibly be responsible for them?

  Captain Beardsley sighed, sat down on a barrel, and pulled the cap from his head. He scratched his scalp, vexed or perplexed—Claire couldn’t decide which. But the drawn lines of his face and darkened rings beneath his eyes told her he’d used his last reserves getting them across the Channel and keeping them fed and hidden.

  “That’s a quandary,” the captain said at last.

  “I’ve truly no idea where to take them. I mean, we’re here illegally, aren’t we? If we go to immigration or even the American embassy—”

  “No, no, you can’t be doin’ that. We’d all hang for a good deed.” He scratched his head again and waited, staring at his boots for inspiration. “I s’pose I can muster identity cards in time—make these young folk look as British on paper as King George himself. They’ll need them to get ration books; there’s no eating without. But I’ve got no place for the lot of you to go in th
e meantime, and it’s no good stowin’ you here. Somebody’s bound to hear them sooner than later, and the Jerries’ll bomb our port towns first once they let go. It’ll be no safer here than—”

  “If they let go. Nothing’s certain—”

  “Invasion, that’s the fear. It’ll happen. Could be any day now. Hitler’s not satisfied with what’s his. He thinks it’s all his for the takin’. Anyhow, findin’ billets ain’t part of my packet. It’s yours and that Arnaud fella.” He grunted. “Suffer the French.”

  “Captain, I’m telling you, I don’t know a soul here.” Claire tried to stick to the point, though the idea of German invasion and what that would mean for her, for the children, for Arnaud, wherever he was, chilled her heart.

  “You’ve been livin’ in Paris, but you’ve not one relative or friend this side of the Channel? Where were you plannin’ to go once Uncle Adolf starts shootin’ his firecrackers off the Eiffel Tower?”

  A soft whimper came from behind her but Claire didn’t turn. She’d no plan beyond escorting the children to Calais because she’d never expected to need one. Arnaud had always said it was safer that she not know other contacts. What now? What can I do with these children? Where will they be safe?

  Circling her temples with her fingertips, willing the pain and mounting fear to go away, helped nothing. And then she remembered. There was one person, one distant family connection in England. Claire didn’t know her and knew little of her. Aunt Miranda—the one whose letters Mother refused, the one she always said I reminded her of . . . most definitely not a compliment. She lived somewhere in the north of England. Where? Somewhere in the Lake District. Claire remembered the one envelope with English stamps she’d found when snooping among her grandmother’s things after her passing—the one her mother had shredded the moment she realized it existed. What was the address, the town? Does Aunt Miranda still live there? Might she take the children? Will she take them once she knows I’m behind the scheme? Does she hate Mother as Mother hates her? They’ve not spoken in years—does Aunt Miranda even know I exist?