Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  She listened and almost imagined she heard the rumbling of the surf down in the cove and the scrunch of boats as they grounded on the pebbles. Almost imagined, too, that she heard the sound of footsteps as the guides led the passengers past the farmhouse down to the beach …

  With a sigh, Julie returned to her book. Always imagining things!

  But she stared at the pages, unseeing, and thought of the waiting men and the steep path to the beach and the dark cover again. She hadn’t been back to the beach since that night, four months ago now. In one way she was sorry – she’d rather enjoyed it – but she was determined not to get involved too deeply. Her instincts still told her that it would all go wrong, that, sooner or later, it would end in disaster. And she couldn’t bear the thought of being caught. Nothing could be worth that.

  At the same time she couldn’t help worrying. Especially tonight.

  The night had a bad aura about it, an indefinable atmosphere of depression and doom. She couldn’t say why, or in what way. At ten she had gone to bed and tried to sleep, but her feeling of despair had been so strong that she had come down to sit with Tante Marie and wait. Of course a man would laugh at the whole idea of feeling these things, but for her it was almost tangible.

  Except that now, two hours later, she wasn’t quite so certain as before. Perhaps nothing was going to happen after all. She rubbed her eyes. She was beginning to feel tired. It might be worth trying to go back to sleep again.

  It was comfortable there by the stove. She rested her head against the chair-back and closed her eyes. She’d make the effort to go to bed in a moment.

  Suddenly she stiffened.

  There was a slight unidentifiable sound, something that hadn’t been there before …

  She stood up and, dousing the small oil lamp, went to the door and opened it.

  The wind was sighing and rustling round the farmyard, a cow shuffled restlessly in the barn, then … Yes, it was there! Something … Julie felt her blood run cold.

  But what was it! What?

  Machines? Men?

  Whatever – it was something that shouldn’t be there.

  Quickly she closed the door, lit a candle and took it to her room. She found warm clothes: vest, woollen blouse, thick sweater, trousers, socks, sturdy shoes. Back in the kitchen she took a waterproof cowman’s jacket from the back of the door and Jean’s beret, pulling it low over her head and tucking her hair up inside the crown.

  She touched Tante Marie’s arm. The old woman woke with a start and looked at Julie in horror. She exclaimed, ‘Where are you going? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Don’t worry! I just have to get out, that’s all. Just to listen … and watch for them.’

  ‘Julie, don’t go!’ Tante Marie hissed. ‘You don’t know where the patrols are! You might stumble into one of them. Don’t go, I tell you!’

  Julie shook her head. ‘I’ll be careful … I just want to see that everything’s all right. That’s all. Don’t worry.’

  She turned quickly and went to the door. Waving briefly to the old woman, she stepped out into the night. She waited a moment to get her eyes accustomed to the darkness, then walked quietly round the side of the house to the road.

  She paused and listened. Whatever that sound had been, it had gone. There was nothing now, only the rustling of the trees and the sigh of the wind.

  But still, she had to go. She set off along the road, walking rapidly, her shoes making no sound on the hard surface. After five minutes she had made good progress: almost halfway up the hill that led to the open heathland. She walked steadily, her hands deep in her pockets, her mind locked on the necessity of reaching the clifftop. Once there she would wait and listen until she knew everyone was all right.

  She stopped dead. There was that sound again.

  It was a low whining, far off, back towards the village.

  It was like the whining she’d heard in her imagination once: the whining of trucks. Trucks climbing.

  Up the hill towards her.

  She froze, still listening, unbelieving …

  … the sound of trucks climbing. Oh God!

  Then she ran, she ran fast and straight; she ran along the dark narrow lane, up and up, on and on, until the air rasped in her throat and the heavy shoes were like lead on her feet.

  She ran with grim determination, absolutely certain that she must reach the clifftop: absolutely sure that she must get there before them.

  She ran until her lungs were bursting and her heart was hammering in her ears.

  And she didn’t look back – she didn’t dare. She just ran. Push, push … On, on … Think of nothing … Just trucks! Climbing! Oh God, let me get there first!

  She was slowing. She panted, ‘Come on! Come on!’

  The heathland, at last. Now gorse reared up and pulled at her clothing; and the uneven ground rose and fell unexpectedly before her, jarring her legs, unbalancing her body. She stumbled and picked herself up again, still running.

  It was dark, very dark. She tried to get her bearings. It was a long cliff and there were several paths, all leading down. Only one path was the right one. She looked ahead, trying to read the contours of the land. It all looked the same!

  Now the effort was terrible. At every breath her lungs shot with pain and at every stride her legs flailed, less and less controllable, until she was half-running, half-staggering.

  She sobbed, ‘Come on! Come on!’

  She tripped and fell. She put out her hands, too late. Her head hit the ground with a dull thud. For a moment she was dazed then she thought: Get up! She pulled herself up and staggered forward again.

  Now at last there was something paler ahead. The wide expanse of the sea. Bordering it was the dark rim of the clifftop. Sobbing with relief she looked wildly to right and left. Which way?

  Right. Yes: right.

  She ran, looking desperately for familiar landmarks.

  Then she saw a hillock, and a hollow … She was there. At the path.

  She stopped, panting wildly. There was nobody. She called softly. Nobody. Perhaps the lookout was further along the cliff.

  She hesitated for a moment, then set off, down the steep path towards the rumble of the surf. This time she took the path much faster, half-falling, half-running, stumbling against the larger rocks and scrabbling at the loose stone hill for handholds. A rock came up and knocked her chin and she heard her teeth close with a sharp snap. The warm, unfamiliar taste of blood filled her mouth.

  The ground fell away: she had reached the slide at the bottom. She thought of jumping, but it was at least six feet and she was too tired. Wearily, she sat down and slid. The beach rushed up, she braced her legs. They gave way under her and she landed heavily on her side.

  Slowly she got to her feet and staggered across the pebbles. She was so tired she’d almost forgotten why she had come. She called softly. Nothing. She called louder. Where were they? She thought: Oh God! Please let them be here. Please!

  The finger of rock was deserted: no-one was waiting there. Down to the water then.

  Suddenly, close by, there was a voice. Julie jumped and gave an involuntary cry. The voice repeated, ‘St Brieuc!’ It must be a password and she didn’t know the response.

  She was shaking violently. She cried, ‘It’s me, Julie Lescaux. I don’t know the password. Please – I’ve come to warn you …’

  ‘We can’t go now! The surfboat’s already on its way!’

  There was a short silence, the men huddled in a nervous group, their faces hidden in the darkness. Then everyone spoke at once. One voice emerged high above the rest. Julie recognised it immediately: it was the leader. ‘We must go now! Now! We must abandon the mission!’ His voice was shrill, anguished. ‘Come on! Let’s go!’

  Again, there were many voices. Julie realised with a shock that one of them was Jean’s. Then there was a lone voice, a strong voice, someone who commanded, ‘Stop!’ And there was silence again. The strong voice went on, ‘Those who want to g
o, go now! The rest of us stay and get our passengers away.’ There were mutterings of agreement, then the leader was speaking again, louder, shriller, ‘It’s madness to stay! We must go now! Now!’ The strong voice said, ‘Go then!’ Julie realised it was the voice of the man who’d sat next to her by the rock, that first time, a man she’d later realised to be a fisherman from a small cove in the next bay: a man called Gérard.

  Now Gérard came close to her, saying, ‘Here, Julie, the wireless! Try to make contact with them! Warn them!’

  The hard oblong box was thrust into her hand. Julie grasped it. She walked unsteadily away and sat on a rock, trying to remember how it worked. Her body was still shaking with exhaustion and she fumbled clumsily with the knobs. She tried the on/off button. It was difficult to know if it was working: the surf was roaring and the wind whistling so loudly that she couldn’t hear. She put the receiver part to her ear: there was a faint crackling. Now the aerial. She pulled it up, found the transmitting button, and pressed it. She called, ‘Hello.’ There was nothing. She tried again: still nothing.

  She thought: I’m doing something wrong.

  She peered at the various buttons and remembered something about two different frequencies. She found a sliding switch and pushed it the other way. She called again, ‘Hello.’

  The wireless crackled and, above the rumble of the surf, she heard a tinny voice, ‘Bertie here, Please identify. Over.’ Julie shivered with surprise.

  Then she remembered that she was meant to say something: a password. But it was no good, she couldn’t remember it. She pressed the transmitter and said, ‘Beach here.’ Now what? Information. She said hastily, ‘You may be in danger. The Germans are searching the cliffs.’

  The wireless crackled, ‘Understood. But our party’s arrived, hasn’t it? Over.’

  Julie was confused until she realised she was talking to the ship, not the boat. She looked quickly along the beach. Yes – he was right – something was happening. The men had gathered at the water’s edge and a shape was showing dark against the whiteness of the breaking waves: the surfboat.

  She pressed the transmitter. ‘They’re here. We’ll get them off again as soon as possible.’ She left her finger on the button but couldn’t think of anything else to say. She released it, then pressed it again hurriedly and said, ‘Over.’ When she let go again the man on the ship was already speaking, ‘… short message when they leave. Out.’

  Julie blinked and wondered whether to reply, but ‘Out’ probably meant that the man had signed off. She’d understood what he meant: they wanted to know when the surfboat left. Best not to talk again and confuse the matter. She switched off the wireless and, getting up, walked along the edge of the water towards the surfboat.

  It was terribly windy: she had to lean her body forward in order to walk. The surf was very loud, too, and it was impossible to hear anything above the thunderous roar. Julie hoped someone was keeping a good lookout up on the clifftop …

  As she approached the boat, she saw frantic activity: the men were dragging things out of it and removing the oars from the rowlocks. She saw with horror that one of the oars was broken. Most of the men went to one side of the boat and, with a heave, tipped it right over. Water poured out and Julie realised it must have been half full.

  Suddenly the firm voice of Gérard was at her elbow again. ‘Julie! Come!’ His tone was urgent, authoritative. He led her past the men working on the boat to a figure who stood slightly apart from the rest.

  Gérard pulled her in front of the figure and said, ‘Please explain that the Germans are near!’

  Julie realised it was one of the British crew. She said in English, ‘We think the Germans are about! Searching the clifftop. They may know you’re here. You must get away quickly, straight away!’

  The figure stepped closer and she felt a strong hand grip her arm. ‘Tell your friend, it’s not just the oar that’s broken – there’s a hole in the boat too! We’ve got to find something to stuff in it, and quick!’

  She translated quickly and turned back, saying, ‘Yes, he understands that.’

  The hand was still on her arm. ‘And tell him we can only take six passengers. It’s just too rough out there to risk any more.’

  Again, Julie translated. Gérard nodded. The British officer said, ‘Right! Let’s get going!’ The men were already at work: tearing a wool jacket in half to make a bung, sorting out passengers, cutting cord to whip together the two pieces of broken oar.

  So little time! Julie stood, frozen with worry, willing them to finish.

  But a moment later there was an exclamation. It came from someone standing a little way up the beach. There was something about the shout which made everyone stop and look up. The man was running frantically towards them, hissing, ‘A light … A signal!’

  Julie looked up at the cliff and felt a thud of fear.

  There was a dim red light, blinking through the darkness.

  A warning. Blood-red.

  For a second there was silence, then Gérard’s voice floated over the thundering surf. ‘The boat! We must hide the boat! In the rocks on the point. Quick!’ Everyone jerked into action, hauling on the boat, dragging it along the beach.

  The British officer ran up to her and grabbed her arm. ‘What in hell …?’

  ‘The Germans! They’re coming!’

  ‘Christ!’ He turned and shouted, ‘Jenkins! Turner! Pick up your weapons! Get this boat hidden, then follow these men!’

  The boat was halfway up the beach now. Her heart in her mouth, Julie ran as fast as she could over the slippery pebbles, following the rapidly moving shadows of the men as they fled across the beach to the rocks.

  By the time she reached the point, the men had hidden the boat behind a large rock and were covering it with seaweed. As soon as the boat was camouflaged people moved quickly away towards the jumble of rocks and boulders that tumbled down from the headland above, and slid quietly into the shadows of the crevices.

  Julie looked blindly around, panic rising in her throat. Where was Jean? And Gérard? She stumbled closer to the rocks, searching desperately. Then Jean was beside her, taking her arm, guiding her in towards the rocks. She cried, ‘Oh Jean!’

  ‘Julie, it’ll be all right. All we have to do is keep quiet! Now, go in here. In here!’ He pushed her into a crevice between two tall rocks. She settled herself on the stones and then realised Jean hadn’t followed her. Where was he? Why hadn’t he followed?

  All around her there were clicking noises: Julie realised the men were checking their weapons. She felt sick. Where was Jean?

  Suddenly he was back, pushing another figure towards her. With surprise she realised it was the British officer. She hissed, ‘Jean! Jean! Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ll just be next door! Next rock!’

  The officer had crawled in beside her and was tugging gently at the strap on her shoulder. She’d forgotten about the wireless.

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘But I must contact my boat. Our own set got wet.’

  ‘Of course.’ She felt a fool, for having panicked. She passed over the wireless and listened as he clicked the switches. There was a hum and he said, ‘Bertie, Bertie, this is Alfie calling. Over.’

  There was a silence, then he tried again. Still nothing. Julie felt for him. Suddenly she felt guilty. She should have thought of calling the ship herself as she came along the beach. The wireless probably would have worked then, out in the open. Stupid of her!

  She started to say, ‘I’m sorry, I …’ But he said ‘Shush!’ and she bit her lip.

  After another two minutes he called into the wireless again. Still there was nothing. She heard the click of switches again and realised he was putting the wireless down onto the ground. He sighed and said very quietly, ‘I think that perhaps it just isn’t my day.’

  Then he leant closer to her and whispered, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to shut you up just then, but I thought I heard something …’

  ‘That
’s all right.’

  ‘You’ve been a great help. Thank you.’

  Julie nodded briefly in the darkness, then turned her head to listen for sounds from the beach. She strained her ears but it was impossible to hear anything over the rumbling of the surf. Suddenly there was a scraping noise; the officer was moving forward. His figure became a silhouette against the paler black of the sky, a weapon just visible in his hand.

  Tentatively Julie followed until she too could see down to the impenetrable darkness of the beach.

  After a while, she realised quite a lot of time had passed. Half an hour, maybe more. And still there was nothing.

  Perhaps they were going to be safe after all.

  Suddenly she sensed the officer stiffen. He got up on one knee, then rose and walked forward until he was standing just clear of the rocks.

  Then she heard a sound: the sound of an engine. Not a truck, not from the cliff. It was something more familiar. She tried to place it. It was the sound of an engine over water, like a fishing boat’s but deeper, throatier …

  She heard the Englishman say, ‘Christ All Bloody Mighty!’ Then he turned and crawled slowly back in beside her. She thought she heard him laugh; she must have misheard. But no, there it was again.

  She whispered, ‘What is it?’

  He said bitterly, ‘I think I’ve just missed my bloody boat!’

  Ashley opened his eyes and frowned slightly. Hanging from the ceiling above him there was a model aeroplane made of cardboard and paper. He turned his head. On the walls there were a couple of bright paintings – one of a tractor, the other of a car – and two posters of Paris. A child’s room. A rather small child at that: he looked down and saw that his feet were protruding from the end of the totally inadequate bed. It was the coldness of his toes which had woken him.

  He looked at his watch: nine-thirty. GMT, that was: an hour later in France. He must have been asleep for three hours then.