by Janet Tanner
And then, just when he had almost given up hope, he heard the unmistakable sound of an aircraft engine. He thrust the hip flask back into his pocket with fingers gone stiff from the cold.
He signalled to Albert, lit the lamp closest to him and grabbed his torch, flashing the agreed letter in Morse Code, whilst Albert, moving swiftly for once in spite of his bulk, hurried to light the other two.
The Lysander came overhead, skimming the tops of the trees. Paul signalled again, the Lysander replied, and its landing light blazed into life. Paul watched it make its circuit and come in in a descending turn towards the first of the lamps. It seemed to be going very fast. Paul found himself holding his breath and hoping fervently that the field was long enough. Then wheels touched grass, the Lysander bounced once, then steadied, braking into wind, turning around the lamp furthest from it and taxiing back across the field.
The hatch opened and the pilot’s head emerged.
‘Hi, fellas. Nice landing site.’
Simultaneously the first of the two passengers scrambled from the plane, revolver at the ready, and the second handed down the baggage to him. Scarcely were they clear of me aircraft than the pilot called a farewell, closed the hatch and put on full power. He took off, skiniming the hedges, and Paul approached the newcomers.
‘Welcome. I am Paul Curtis.’
‘I’m Jacques – your radio operator. This is Maurice.’
‘Good. We’d better get moving, though, in case anyone spotted the aircraft. Albert here will take you to a temporary safe house. I’ll be in touch shortly.’
They made their way back across the field to where Albert’s truck was parked and piled inside. The engine coughed to life and Paul watched it disappear down the lane before recovering his bicycle from the hedge. The two village lads who had acted as lookouts had already gone, sure-footed shadows swallowed up by the darkness.
So far so good. The operation had passed off more smoothly than he had dared hope. Paul mounted his bicycle and started up the lane in the direction of the château. The silence of the night was unbroken and he began to relax. He pedalled on, unaware of just how close he was to disaster.
The German patrol vehicle must have been coasting down the hill with its engine and headlamps switched off. Why it should have been doing so he never knew but afterwards he could not imagine any other reason why he should not have heard its approach. It rounded the bend without warning, a dark, squat bulk in the moonlight. Without stopping to think Paul threw both himself and his bicycle into the hedge, but he knew with a cold certainty, that transcended the sharp gut-churning fear that they must have seen him. The headlamps came on full beam, shockingly bright, as he scrambled through the hedge. Twigs tore at his coat, he wrenched himself free and rolled into the long frosty grass, inching along on his stomach. Then he heard the car door open and the shouts in German: ‘ Here! Just here! It’s a bicycle!’
His heart was pounding, sweat pouring down his face. He crawled on along the perimeter of the field Not far ahead of him was another hedge, dividing this field from the next. If he could get through it perhaps there was a chance for him. The only alternative he could see was a small wood at the far side of the field. Beyond it, he knew, was a river and the outskirts of the de Savigny estate. But the field between was an open expanse of no man’s land. He’d never get across if he simply made a run for it, and even if he did he would be leading the Nazis direct to the château. No, there was nothing for it but to attempt to stop his pursuers. He did not know how many of them there were, didn’t know how many he could get before they got him, but there were six bullets in his gun.
Paul rolled closer to the hedge, adopted a crouching position, drew his gun out of his pocket and released the safety catch. The first German emerged from the shadow of the hedge and without a moment’s hesitation Paul fired. Even from this position and at this distance his aim was excellent; he had been shooting since he was a boy and he had a natural eye for it. The first German fell with a startled scream, clutching his stomach. Another German blundered through the hedge and Paul fired again. The first shot missed or merely winged him, Paul was not sure which, and he spun round firing back indiscriminately. Machine-gun bullets raked the grass and Paul felt a sudden sharp pain in his arm followed by total numbness. He froze, merging into the shadows. The German approached along the line of the hedgerow, gun at the ready, but he did not fire again. He thinks he got me, Paul thought. He waited, forcing himself to keep absolutely still, until the German was so close he could make out his fleshy features in the moonlight. Then he pulled the trigger.
The German crashed to theground with scarcely a sound, shot through the heart. Paul waited a few moments. Were there anymore of them? But there were no more shouts from the direction of the lane, only the groans of the first man he had shot threshing about in the grass. Paul knew he did not dare leave him alive. He crossed to him and without grving:himself time to think about what he was doing shot him in the head. The man jerked once and was still.
Paul looked around. His heart was hammering and he was as out of breath as if he had just run a mile. Lucky for him there had been only two of them, but he had to get away before reinforcements arrived.
His first instinct was to make a run for it across the fields but he knew he must not leave his bicycle. One bicycle here in the country was very like another but there was always the risk it might be identified. Somehow he crawled back through the hedge and ran up the lane to where the scout car had come to a stop. The engine was still running and the doors swinging open. He reached inside and switched off both engine and lights. It wouldn’t be long before it was found in any case but the less attention it attracted the more precious time he would gain.
He lifted the bicycle out of the ditch and mounted it with difficulty. His arm was throbbing violently now and his fingers were sticky with blood that was pouring down. Gritting his teeth he began to ride, wobbling badly, along the road back to Savigny.
Kathryn had been unable to sleep. For a long while she had lain staring into the darkness wondering what Paul was up to, and once she thought she heard the sound of a plane overhead.
Beside her Charles was snoring gently – a habit Kathryn found repulsive these days. She pushed aside the covers and got out of bed, reaching for her kimono and pulling it on. The bare boards of the bedroom floor beyond the rug struck cold; she found her slippers, pushed her feet into them and crossed to the window.
Bright moonlight illuminated the parkland and Kathryn glanced up at the sky. No sign of a plane now, just the stars shining brightly and a scattering of high cloud. For a long while she stood there, looking out and thraking about Paul. What he had told her – or rather not told her – about the fate of his wife and child had affected her deeply and she found herself wondering about them too. It was difficult to imagine that hard, seemingly nerveless man as a loving husband and father, yet he had cared for them very deeply, she was certain, and grieved for them with an intensity that was almost beyond her comprehension. With something of a shock Kathryn realised just how limited was her own emotional experience. She loved Guy, of course, with the deep protective and proud love of a mother, but that was perhaps the extent of it She had thought she loved Charles, but that love had died, not in an explosion of pain but rather petered out like a damp squib, leaving only regret and resentment that he was not the man she had thought him to be and probably never had been. Otherwise her emotions were mostly negative, futile ones – loneliness, longing and, since the war had come, anger and fear. Measured against Paul’s obvious depth of feeling they seemed shallow and selfish.
Kathryn shivered. The thin silk kimono was no protection against the frosty night. If she didn’t go back to bed she’d catch a chill. But she did not want to go back to bed. The thought of lying there, listening for the small sounds that would tell her Paul had returned, was not an inviting one.
Suddenly a movement on the drive caught her eye. She leaned forward against the windowsill, pee
ring out. Paul – it had to be! She experienced a rush of relief and then, as suddenly, the first creeping fingers of alarm. His progress was erratic, he was pushing the bicycle in a way that looked more as if the bicycle was supporting him than the other way around, and his other arm looked strangely awkward. Something was wrong. She knew it with instinctive certainty and knew, just as surely, that she had to find out what it was.
Charles was still sleeping soundly, his snores softened into deep, regular breathing Kathryn padded into the dressing room and found a coat. Then she changed her slippers for a pair of fiat-heeled shoes, let herself out of the bedroom and crept down the stairs.
The back door of the château was unlocked, evidence that he had intended to return that way, and she crossed the courtyard to the shed, the door of which was ajar. She pushed it open and as she did so heard the click of a gun being cocked.
‘It’s me!’ she hissed urgently. ‘Is that you, Paul?’
‘For God’s sake! I almost shot you!’ His voice was thick.
‘Are you mad?’ she whispered, shocked.
The shed was very dark after the bright moonlight outside but she could just make out the figure leaning heavily against the wall, clutching his arm.
‘Paul?’ she said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘No, I’m bloody not. I nearly got caught, dammit. I killed two Germans. And one of them got me in the arm.’
‘On my God!’ Kathryn went hot, then cold, and for a moment she thought she was going to faint. Never in her life before had she experienced such overwhehning terror. ‘You killed two Germans? Paul – you’ll bring the roof in on us!’
‘Never mind them for the moment. It’s me I’m concerned about. I’m dripping blood everywhere and I think my arm is broken.’
‘Oh my God!’ she said again. Her eyes were beginning to get used to the light now. She went over to him. ‘Show me.’
‘This one. Christ!’ He winced as she touched it.
The thick material of his jacket felt soggy and sticky to her touch; a dark pool of blood had dripped on to the floor.
‘Stay here,’ she said. ‘You can’t come back into the house while you’re bleeding like that. I’ll get something …’
She left him in the shed and flew back into the kitchen. A few minutes later she was back with a thick towel.
‘Can you take your jacket off?’
He groaned as he eased it off his shoulder; she peeled the sleeve back down his arm, wrapping the towel around it as firmly and gently as she could.
‘That should take care of it for a minute or two. Let’s get you inside.’
She put her arm around him, supporting him, and he leaned against her gratefully. Every last reserve of his strength had gone into getting back to the château and now he felt weak and shaky.
‘Can you make it up to your room?’ she asked when they were back in the kitchen. ‘I’d better do something about the blood in the shed.’
‘I’ll make it,’ he said through gritted teeth.
She filled a bucket with water, found a scrubbing brush and took both out to the shed. In the half-light she was not sure how good a job she would be able to make of clearing up but at least she had to try. After a few minutes’ work the floor looked reasonably clean again. She scattered some sawdust which she found in a sack by the door over the wet patch and rearranged a couple of sacks to half cover it. The bicycle she stowed away against the far wall. Then she emptied the bucket down a drain in the yard and went back into the house, bolting the door behind her and creeping, up the stairs to Paul’s room. He was sitting on the bed cradling his arm, which was still swathed in the kitchen towel. His face was drawn into tight lines of pain and lacked any vestige of colour.
‘You look terrible,’ she said.
‘Thank you very much!’
‘Don’t be flip. What are we going to do about your arm?’ She crossed to him, sitting on the bed beside him and trying to unwrap the towel. He winced.
‘Leave it, can’t you?’
‘No, I can’t. Let me look at it.’
He allowed her to unwrap the towel, wadding it underneath to prevent blood dripping on to the floor. It was an ugly wound but at least she did not think the arm was broken.
‘I’ll try to clean this up,’ she said, ‘but you are going to have to get it seen to professionally.’
‘And how the hell do I do that?’ The pain was making him sharp and snappy, loss of blood and exhaustion fogging his brain.
‘What about your doctor friend in Périgueux? I’ll take you there tomorrow. But you’ll have to keep out of sight. Thank goodness they are all busy at the distillery is all I can say. And thank goodness I happened to see you coming back!’
He said nothing. It was alien to him not to be in control but for the moment he was glad to be able to leave it all to her.
Kathryn went back downstairs for a bowl of water and disinfectant – she was afraid to use the bathroom in case someone heard her. Bad enough running water at all in the middle of the night – the ancient plumbing could make ghastly noises in the pipes. When she returned she bathed the wound as best she could, steeling herself to ignore Paul’s muffled groans of anguish. When she had finished she bound it up with yet another clean towel and secured it with a long silk scarf around his neck. Then she helped him to lie down on the bed, fully clothed, and covered him with the eiderdown.
‘I don’t suppose you’ll sleep much but do at least try,’ she said. ‘I must go to bed myself now or Charles will miss me. I’ll bring you breakfast in the morning and we’ll work out a plan of some kind.’
He nodded, reaching out a band to her.
‘You know, Kathryn, you’re quite a girl.’
‘Yes,’ she said drily. ‘ I surprise myself sometimes.’
But there was a glow in her, a tenderness erasing the anxiety momentarily. It went with her as she returned to her bedroom, hanging up the coat and draping her kimono over a chair. As she slipped into bed Charles stirred, reaching for her in his sleep. She eased herself out of his reach but for a moment she found herself imagining that the body beside her, emanating warmth, was not Charles but Paul. She lay, savouring the illusion, too tired to wonder at it let alone try to evaluate or understand. But still sleep would not come. Every time she closed her eyes she was reliving the events of the last hour and soon the pleasant illusion was overtaken by anxiety once more – anxiety for Paul, anxiety for herself, for what she had to do and how she was going to achieve it. And then, just at the point when sheer exhaustion was about to claim her, heart-stopping terror.
Paul had killed two Germans, he had said. Whether they knew he was responsible or not, what dire consequences would that have for them all?
Dawn was breaking, silver and pink, before finally Kathryn managed to grab a couple of hours’ desperately needed sleep.
Chapter Ten
WHEN SHE WAS sure that the coast was clear Kathryn went to Paul’s room.
He was lying on the bed dozing but the tumbled eiderdown and pillows told her he had, not surprisingly, spent a bad night. As soon as he realised he was no longer alone he jerked violently, groaned and tried to sit upright.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
‘Lousy.’
‘I can see that. Look, I’ve brought you a cup of coffee. We have to talk. We must decide what to do.’
She set the cup down on a small table within reach of his good arm, glancing, as she did so, at the towel with which she had bound up the wound. Though a dark patch of blood was visible it was not as large as she had feared it might be.
‘At least the bleeding seems to have stopped,’ she said, ‘but I still think you should get it seen to. It could turn septic. And the trouble is I can’t ask a doctor to call here. We daren’t draw attention to the fact that you need treatment, and in any case I’m not sure how far Dr Artigaux is to be trusted. I’ll have to take you to Périgueux. I only hope there’s enough petrol left in the Hispano.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t ask you to do that, Kathryn. I’ve had a chance to think now – I’ve been awake most of the night. The best thing would be for me to get of here altogether. Then if the Gestapo come asking questions about the murder of two German soldiers they won’t find you sheltering an enemy agent under your roof.’
‘But where would you go?’ Instead of relief Kathryn was’ experiencing a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
‘I have other contacts. They’d hide me and I can change my identity. Now this has happened I can’t endanger you any more than I already have done. With hindsight perhaps I shouldn’t have come back here last night at all but there are things I need to remove. They are well hidden but if the Germans made a really thorough search I wouldn’t like to guarantee they wouldn’t find them. Besides, I was worried about the damn bicycle – I thought it might be identifiable.’
‘Oh Paul, I don’t know … The very fact that you had disappeared would be suspicious. How would I explain that?’
‘You wouldn’t. You’d just have to plead complete ignorance, pretend you were as taken in as the rest of them. Even if your family had doubts they wouldn’t betray you, would they? And to the outside world the fact that they have been such good citizens of the new France should stand you all in good stead.’
