Bloody Right

by Georgia Evans

  They were sitting huddled in the back of the lean-to, eating cold, baked parsnips and sharing a couple of tins of bully beef the Englishman carried with him. He and a resistance worker, a bearded Dutchman called Piet, whom Bela had met before, hauled a large sack of supplies with them. Piet left almost immediately to return to his camp before dark and the Communists delved into the sack.

  “Where did they get all this?” one of them asked.

  The Englishman shrugged and looked at Bela. “Tell him I haven’t the foggiest idea,” he replied. “They gave it to me to carry and I said, ‘Thank you.’”

  “I told them,” she replied, “but I think they wanted explosives, not food.”

  He grinned at her in the dark. “Didn’t realize they’d put in an order.”

  She laughed, much to the obvious disgust of the two Communists. They’d never volunteered their names, but Rolf had warned her they were mistrustful of everyone, even their allies. “Have you been free long?” she asked the Englishman.

  “Six weeks,” he replied. “We should have been on our way before this, but Jules got sick and needed to rest. He’s still in a bad way.”

  “We’re only a day’s travel away. Our place is bigger, and deeper in the mountains. I’d be mistrustful and uneasy, too, if we were this close to the farms.”

  He held out his gloved hand. “I’m Simon.”

  “Bela. I won’t share the others’ names. We have to be careful.”

  “Fair enough, Bela. So we spend the night here then move on?” She nodded. “Leave first thing, if we can.”

  At least she hoped so. After the scowls and sidelong looks from this pair, Angela would seem welcoming and friendly.

  Food shared, they took it in turns to go outside, Rolf and Simon helping Jules, who still had trouble walking. Then they settled into shared blankets and bed rolls. They were cramped, but they’d be gone at first light.

  In the morning, it was clear to everyone that the Frenchman was too weak to travel. But the prospect of feeding all five of them until he recovered, was unacceptable to their stingy hosts. In the end it was decided the Rolf would stay and help take care of Jules. Hans, Bela and Simon would go ahead, and Rolf would follow with Jules in a day or two.

  They left right after a breakfast of hard black bread and more parsnips. “Can that Englishman ski?” one of the Communists asked.

  He could. “Not awfully well,” he told Bela. “But I can keep upright most of the time,” he added with a lopsided smile.

  A hundred meters after they left, it was obvious that he could do more than stay upright. “You’ve skied before?” she said.

  “A few times. My parents took my brother and my sister and me to Switzerland a couple of times. It’s been a while. Beats walking though.”

  They continued in cautious silence for hours. That was why Bela heard the first gunshots and the baying of the dogs ahead.

  “Into the trees,” Hans said in a hoarse whisper. Shouldering their skis, they fled into the shelter of the trees and hunkered down together among a cluster of dark pines.

  No point in asking what was happening—gunshots meant only one thing. “Let me go and see,” Bela said.

  Hans nodded.

  “What’s going on?” Simon asked. She told him and he as good as exploded. “You can’t go on alone. You’re a woman.”

  He still harbored the illusions of his comfortable life before the war. “I can move fast. I’m used to the woods and I know my way. You stay with Hans. I’ll be back.”

  Bela unslung her gun. “I assume you know how to use this?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Take it. Without it, I’m a peasant gathering wood. With it, I’m a partisan.”

  He wasn’t happy but Hans got the gist of their conversation, even before she translated. “Go,” he said, “find out what’s happening.”

  “I will.” She knew what it cost him to stay, knowing Angela and Rachel were in danger. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

  Pausing only to gather a bundle of wood to strap on her back, she set off, fast as only a Fairy could travel. The cold hampered her a little but she covered the distance in a fraction of the time a mortal would.

  She smelled cordite and blood from a distance and slowed, moving from tree to tree with a Fairy’s skill. She tamped back the fear that the German soldiers were looking for her and Gela. That they’d developed some means of tracking her spirit. Unlikely. Attacks on partisans were more commonplace than hunts for Fairies.

  Hidden in the trees she waited until the last of the soldiers left and the quiet descended once again.

  She made her stealthy way forward. Their camp was wrecked and burning. Foolish mortals—even in winter a fire could spread. Did they care? She didn’t care much, either. Then she saw Angela, face down in a bank of red snow. Bela blinked back her tears. Angela had been no friend of hers but she’d been a brave fighter and hated the Nazis as much as Bela did. Now she was gone. Her life snuffed out just as Gela’s had been.

  Of Rachel there was no trace.

  Once she was certain no mortal remained within scent or earshot, Bela stepped forward. Their camp was truly wrecked. They’d smashed and broken everything in sight, even ripped open sacks of beans and flour and pissed over them to render them inedible. Only a few stores remained intact. There was precious little they could salvage.

  That must wait.

  By the time she returned to Hans and Simon, it was close to dark.

  “You’re sure Angela is dead?” Hans asked. They were cousins.

  “They blew off the back of her head at close range. We must warn the others.”

  “Let me think.” It took Hans only a couple of minutes. “I’m going back to warn the others. We have to spread the word. Thank God there’s a moon tonight. You go ahead, with the Englishman. You’ll need these.” He dug a compass and folded map in a waterproof envelope out of his inside pocket. He unfolded the map. “Here’s the camp,” he said, stubbing a gloved finger on the map. “Head for Axel’s group. They need to be warned. It’s the next stage in the escape route. Get there as soon as you can.”

  “I will.” But not as soon as she could on her own. Simon looked downright perplexed. Bela explained what she’d found. He paled visibly.

  “Poor woman,” he said, shaking his head.

  She was more worried about Rachel being taken prisoner. How long could she hold out? “It’s a risk we all take.”

  “So,” he went on. “We go ahead.”

  “Yes, it’s a steep path. Our skis will be useless. We’ll have to walk most of the way.”

  In the end, they left their skis where Hans could find them later. He retraced their path to go warn the others. She and Simon went on.

  As Bela passed within a hundred meters of Gela’s grave, she bade her sister a silent farewell. She would not be coming back. “Wait here,” she said to Simon. “I’m going to get what I can from the camp. There’s not much left, but I might find something we can use. We’ve a journey ahead of us.”

  “How about I come with you?”

  She shook her head. “I can go faster on my own, but give me your rucksack. I’ll be back.” His trust impressed her, but maybe he realized he had no option. If the Nazis caught him, out of uniform, no doubt they’d shoot him out of vindictiveness.

  She ran even faster this time, her senses alert to scent or sound of humans. Nothing. The cave was even colder, but she found Angela’s secret storeroom. Not so secret from Fairies. Gela had noticed and told Bela. Inside were chocolate bars, packets of rusks and biscuits, foil-sealed cheese and cans of evaporated milk. No can opener, though, and she didn’t have time to search the debris for one. She did find a packet of tea. Might be handy for trading or bargaining. She stuffed the lot into Simon’s pack and then, by a wonderful chance, noticed a large package stuffed high on a ledge. Yanking it down, she discovered she had two sleeping bags. She tied the entire bundle to the rucksack and made her way back to Simon.

  �
��Quite a haul,” he said, as she showed what she had. “Sure no one saw you?”

  “If they had, I wouldn’t be here. Let’s split up this load and get going. It’s some distance.” She wasn’t about to tell him how far. He looked worn out already, but insisted on carrying most of the load, aside from what she stuffed into pockets and inside her jacket. The roll of sleeping bags, when they opened it to take one each, also contained a length of good rope. He immediately put that over one shoulder and across his body.

  “You’re a climber?”

  He nodded. “With my brother. Before the war.”

  Might be easier than she thought to get him up to Axel’s camp. At least there was a moon and it seemed Simon had little trouble keeping up.

  After an hour, she purposely sped up. He hesitated only a few moments then matched his pace to hers and kept up all the way. She stopped a little after midnight, a short distance from where she guessed lookouts would be posted.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “What now is we announce our arrival and ask for help.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The new, so-called gardener walked into her kitchen and Edith Aubin wanted to slam his hand in a drawer. That would wipe the nasty smirk off his face. Might just bring retribution on her family, though. Mind you, talking to Mary yesterday had lifted her hopes. Perhaps things weren’t as bad as feared back home. Except Jersey wasn’t Guernsey and never would be. But still…

  The arrogant fool had the nerve to walk into her kitchen in muddy boots. “Take them off, and leave them outside,” Edith snapped. “I won’t have boots like that over my clean floor.”

  He actually looked as if he were about to refuse but with Molly, the one remaining housemaid, as witness, it seemed even Paul Smith had his limits.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, not sounding the least apologetic, and backed out to reappear moments later in stockinged feet.

  “Come for breakfast?” Edith asked. “Kitchen meal is over. Molly just got back from taking up the house breakfast.” Strange chap. He hadn’t eaten one meal in the kitchen since he arrived three days ago. Just grabbed sandwiches or toast and took it back to his room. Odd, but it spared them his company.

  “Never mind. I wouldn’t mind a slice or two of bread.”

  “How about a couple of slices of toast?” Molly asked.

  Edith delved into a drawer to hide her smile as Molly retrieved the two slices she’d scraped and then rejected as too burned for the house breakfast.

  “Thanks,” he replied with a nasty smirk. Edith longed to point her finger and denounce him for a spy. Why had she let her fear for her family drag her into this? She’d convinced herself it was the only thing to do, but in her heart she knew better.

  After Molly left to take care of the bedrooms, Paul Smith (Honestly, what a name! Weiss could have picked something more original) came over to where Edith stood, measuring out flour to make a pie.

  “Who,” he asked in his nasty, arrogant voice, “are these expected visitors?”

  “As if they’d tell me,” she replied. “Six extra, is what they told me, and six is what I’m cooking for.”

  “I heard it was Churchill coming.”

  “You did, did you? If you know that for sure, why are you asking me?”

  “If I ask, you tell me. Who was the woman here yesterday?”

  Did he never stop? “A friend of mine.” Who did not need to have to cope with the likes of him. “And in case you’re interested, she doesn’t work for the government, isn’t a cabinet minister and can’t tell you any state secrets.”

  “Her name?”

  He was not getting Mary’s name from her. “Guinevere Pettigrew. If it’s any business of yours.”

  “Woman, watch yourself,” he hissed, as he kicked the table and sent everything wobbling.

  “You watch out for that bottle of milk. This floor was washed yesterday.” His face was sour enough to curdle the milk. “You’d better get to work. And if you want lunch, come on time. The kitchen eats at eleven-thirty.”

  He snarled. It gave her the willies and she couldn’t suppress a shudder. Whoever he was, he was nasty. As he slammed the door behind him, she wondered at her temerity. Could have been the lovely chat with a fellow islander yesterday, but really it was the letter in her apron pocket. It came in the morning post from her married niece in Plymouth. Yes, there had been some inked-out lines. No doubt about bombing or food shortages, but the important news was that everyone was well at home, even to the point of her sister having had a new daughter.

  Rather reinforced what Mary told her. Things were sticky but so far no deportations or mass arrests. Smith, and the other one who called himself White, had lied. It had worked, hadn’t it? She’d been ready to do anything to save Beryl and Julia and the rest of her family. So ready, she’d sunk to treason. The word sent icy shivers across her skin. How had she come to this? And what was she going to do now?

  “What the bloody hell am I going to do?” Andrew Barron forgave himself for swearing. He felt more than justified. He reread the letter, just to make sure he hadn’t skipped words and misunderstood.

  He hadn’t.

  Because of security problems (and he couldn’t deny they had had their difficulties), the plant was closing and he’d be transferred to a vast plant now under construction in the north of England. Damn, he didn’t want to leave Brytewood. He was getting married, settling here with Gloria, planning a life together.

  Bang went all their plans. Like thousands of other couples torn apart by the bloody war.

  He balled up the paper in disgust and tossed it across the room. The childish act made him feel better for all of ten seconds. Then he had to get up and retrieve it before smoothing it out on his desk. He had no choice. There was a war on and he was a government employee.

  He might have to leave but he wasn’t going to leave a single man.

  Gloria said she didn’t want a big wedding. She’d get her wish. It would just be a little sooner than they’d planned.

  He glanced at his watch. No point trying to give her a call, she’d be out and about by now. Except, hadn’t she said something about checking on the Watson twins for Alice? And the Watson farm was one of the few with a phone.

  He picked up his and asked the operator for the number.

  “Something up?” old Mrs. Watson said when he asked her to give Gloria a message.

  He stifled the impulse to say his life was in shreds. “Just something came up. Ask her to give me a call when she gets there, please?”

  He hung up, hoping Gloria wasn’t making the Watson farm the last stop of her afternoon.

  She called twenty minutes later. Twenty minutes he’d spent planning how to salvage his life.

  “Andrew? Something wrong?”

  Everything. “I need to have a quick word with you and not over the phone. Can you meet me?”

  “I suppose so. What’s happened?” He had to tell her face-to-face. Holding her hand, with his arm around her.

  He wouldn’t say don’t panic, or don’t worry. Those words were pretty much certain to guarantee the opposite. “I need to speak to you. Can I meet you? Soon?”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll borrow a lorry.” Invent some lie or other. “And meet you on the road by Fletcher’s Woods. Can you ride down there and wait for me?”

  “I suppose so. After I finish my visit here.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  He hung up before he blurted out the lousy news. Now, time to beg, borrow, or steal a government vehicle for personal use.

  Gloria was direly tempted to call Andrew back and demand an explanation but Melanie Watson’s curious, “Something wrong, Nurse?” brought her back to her responsibilities.

  “Just needed to check something. Now let’s see how those bonny boys are doing. Big boys for almost three months, aren’t they? Let me wash my hands and we’ll have a look at them.” She left a threepenny piece by the phone to pay for the call and headed for the
kitchen to wash her hands in the sink. Her mind was reeling with a hundred possibilities but the Watson twins came first. A fine lusty cry the elder one had too.

  “Alright,” Gloria said, as Andrew jumped down from the cab and hoisted her bicycle into the back of a lorry big enough to carry half the army. “What’s going on?”

  “Hop in,” he replied, “and I’ll tell you.”

  Sitting side by side in the warmth of the cab, he told her.

  “Oh, my God!” she said, fighting back tears. “When?” She’d only just found him, how could they be parted so soon? But they would be, and she had to stiffen her spine and cope, like thousands of other women all over the country.

  “They didn’t say. I keep thinking I’ll get another government communication tomorrow telling me I need to report on Monday.”

  “But Yorkshire?” She was whining. And needed to stop.

  “This is between us, understand? I shouldn’t even have told you.”

  “I know. Foxes can be really quiet when they want to be.” At least that got a smile from him. “What now?” She was glad he’d told her right away but she did need to get back to work. So did he, come to that.

  “Right now?” He almost grinned. What did he have up his sleeve? “We skive off together and go over to Epsom and get a marriage license. If we pay the extra, we can get married in three days. No banns, no waiting. We go back on Saturday, sign our marriage lines and whatever happens, we’re together.”

  Even if they were several hundred miles apart.

  Gloria let out a long sigh and realized he was watching her anxiously. That was an understatement. He was pretty much shaking with worry. Did he think she’d refuse? “Let’s get a move on. I do have patients to see today.”

  He let out a great whoop of laughter, crashed gears and headed down the hill.

  They were getting married! Gloria’s throat went dry as her body melted inside. Married. She’d wanted a small, quiet wedding. She was getting one. She reached over and put her hand over Andrew’s on the steering wheel. “I love you.”

  “Good,” he replied with a grin. A lovely, sexy grin. “I thought you did.”