Almost immediately a rousing chorus struck up.
‘Now,’ Frelon urged and grabbed her hand.
‘How do you know we’re safe?’
‘No one in the village would dare not attend Madame Bernard’s celebration. Madame Pascal has claimed a headache.’
At the opening of a small lane she glimpsed the village folk before Frelon was opening a side gate and pushing her through.
‘Hurry,’ he whispered, then pointed to the back door where she could make out a figure waiting. ‘Madame Pascal.’
Lisette was led into the parlour, lit only by a single candle.
‘Thank you,’ she said to her host. ‘I am very grateful for the risk you’re taking.’
And it surprised her to feel her heart swell when the small, unassuming woman gave a familiar shrug.
‘What else can we do?’ Madame Pascal replied in a soft voice.
‘I will be back at five, Angeline,’ Frelon said.
‘I’ll be ready.’
He grinned in the low light; they were of similar age, she guessed.
The door was closed and she turned to face her host, who stood by a long cherrywood table that held only a simple jug of flowers. Beneath her she felt the uneven red tiles rubbed smooth over years of wear, and a pot was simmering gently on a wood stove.
‘Thank you. Do you have children?’ Lisette asked.
Madame Pascal nodded. ‘Our eldest son was killed in the fighting. His brother is doing his STO in Germany. Eight months to go and we hope he will return safely.’
Le Service du travail obligatoire, or the despised STO as it was becoming known, had been introduced earlier that year, replacing the notion of voluntary work in Germany with forced labour. The STO had been responsible for hundreds of Frenchmen being sent to work in Germany each week, labouring on behalf of the Reich. They had no choice.
‘We have a daughter,’ continued Madame Pascal. ‘She is living in Marseille. Her husband is also on STO. She raises our granddaughter alone. I keep telling her to come home.’ She sighed. ‘May I offer you something? Some coffee, perhaps? Are you hungry?’
‘I’m not hungry, thank you, but if you’re having a coffee, I will share some with you.’ Lisette was mindful that people in France were harshly rationed.
‘Please, sit,’ her host said. ‘I baked a small cake earlier this week. I’m sure you could force down a little piece, eh?’ She began to busy herself making the coffee, cutting a slice of the fruit cake.
It was lovely to hear French being spoken, albeit in the Provençal dialect.
‘This clandestine work you do – are you not afraid of being discovered?’
Madame Pascal gave a snort. ‘So they shoot me,’ and gave Lisette a weary grin. ‘I am very careful and I know you will be, so we will all live to fight another day. And his friend is the best in the region,’ she said, nodding at the door.
‘The one they call Faucille?’
‘Yes. I have not met him; I have not met anyone who has met him, other than Frelon and Roger. But he’s good. He will get you to wherever you need to go.’
Madame Pascal set down a small cup with black liquid in it that smelt nothing like coffee. ‘Follow his ways. Tell no one anything, Mademoiselle Angeline. Then no one can harm you,’ she said.
The drink was hot and strong. It would help to keep Lisette alert. She sipped gratefully, warming her fingers around the cup. Whatever it was tasted vile.
Madame Pascal smiled and in the low light looked somehow sadder for the gesture. ‘Forgive me … we have no coffee any more in the south. We have to use roasted barley.’
‘It is fine,’ Lisette lied.
‘Sometimes we can exchange coffee for our rabbits and a chicken or two from Marseille if anyone is passing through, but I think even the far south has run out of coffee. I taste it in my dreams sometimes.’
‘Rationing is hard,’ Lisette agreed.
‘The Germans take everything; our milice is just as bad. But they can’t take our spirit, eh?’
Lisette raised her cup. ‘Santé!’
They drank in comfortable silence for a minute.
‘There is an old sofa in our salon,’ said Madame Pascal. ‘I have put a blanket there for you – please forgive that I haven’t lit a fire. If anything happens, there is another small door leading off that room. It’s a trapdoor, hidden behind the sofa. It will take you out into a shed. Do not leave the shed through the entrance. Go up the ladder into the loft and climb out onto the rooftops. Head to your right towards open country. Frelon will find you.’
‘I hope it will not come to that.’
‘We have to be ready for any event. Faucille’s orders. The milice raid at all hours and they would probably like to take us by surprise on Madame Bernard’s special evening.’
‘I’m sorry you missed it for my benefit.’
‘It has been a pleasure, mademoiselle. I am Gaullist. It is my duty to do what I can, however small.’ Then she added softly with her hand in a fist, ‘France libre!’
Lisette was kissing Madame Pascal on each cheek at a minute to five the following morning, and emerging into a cold, crisp and silent Saignon. Her hostess made sure that Lisette had a hot cup of barley coffee, and she’d packed some bread and goat’s cheese into a napkin. She pushed an apple and a pear into each of Lisette’s coat pockets. Frelon was waiting.
‘It is nothing,’ she whispered at Lisette’s profound thanks.
Lisette hugged her hard before heading off into the darkness once again.
‘We’re going over the hills this way,’ Frelon pointed. ‘On the outskirts of the next village I have a horse and cart waiting for us.’
‘What’s down below?’ Lisette said, looking into the distance where a sprawl of lights were winking at her.
‘That’s Apt. Not a good place right now. Crawling with Germans. Let’s go. Faucille is waiting and I don’t want us seen here.’
They left the pretty village of Saignon and began the long climb up.
Out in the open, Frelon relaxed. ‘Did you manage to sleep, mademoiselle?’
‘Please, call me Angeline. I dozed for a couple of hours.’
‘Good. It will be a bit milder today. I’m glad we got going early. Here, let me take the bag for you.’
‘No, please.’
‘I was raised to be polite, Angeline. Besides, the path’s about to get much harder, and you’ll be grateful to use me as your goat.’
‘If you insist.’
As she handed him her small holdall, a scent of lavender drifted over her and she gave a small gasp. ‘Oh, how beautiful that fragrance is.’
Frelon nodded. ‘It will be even more beautiful when the sun warms the fields. Best in the evening, though.’
‘I come from a big city, where you never smell such things.’
‘So you’re from the city. We try not to ask too much, but it’s horrible to walk in silence.’
She agreed. ‘Are you from around here?’
‘Yes. I know the region well. These lavender fields belonged to a family from this village.’
‘Not any more?’ She frowned.
He shook his head sadly. ‘They were Jewish. Taken away last year. It was dreadful. They were a good family; had lived here all their lives. They were probably sent to the prison camps.’
‘I’m so sorry. We have not been told of this in London.’
‘Your government chooses not to tell its people perhaps.’
She shook her head, shocked. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘We heard through our circuits that more than ten thousand Jewish people – whole families, including newborns – were rounded up by the milice obeying Nazi demands. They were held at the Winter Velodrome.’
‘I know that place,’ she admitted, her tone full of sorrow.
He nodded. ‘That building became a prison last year.’
‘I remember a glass roof. It was magnificent.’
‘They’ve painted it over so it doesn’t attrac
t the Allied bombers.’
Lisette suddenly wished she’d never mentioned the lavender. ‘Well, Frelon, I do hope the Jewish family from around here can return to their lavender fields one day,’ she said.
He shot her a dark look. ‘I don’t think so. If the rumours are right, no one is ever coming back from those camps.’
Lisette didn’t want to talk about it any more. ‘Are you married?’ she asked, for want of anything else to say.
‘There was someone but these are not the right days to be thinking too far ahead. Perhaps I should ask you to marry me when it is over. After all, you are the first of our visitors who seems genuinely French.’
Lisette grinned. ‘Are you sure we’re safe to talk like this?’ She looked around, surprised at how high they suddenly were, now that the sky had lightened.
Saignon was a long way down and she could no longer make out Apt; all the effort in clambering almost vertically – or so it felt – had been worth it to climb such a great distance so quickly. In fact, they were about to crest a ridge, along whose natural line various settlements seemed to link up.
‘We are safe. We are now in Maquis territory. Over there is Bonnieux. Down there is Lourmarin.’ Frelon rattled off a few other names that sounded like places she’d like to see one day. ‘But we’re going to follow this track. Are you hungry?’
She lied. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Good, then you can wait until we’re travelling to Bonnieux.’
The transport Frelon had promised was waiting with a man who regarded her from hooded eyes.
‘Most of our horses have been requisitioned by the Germans,’ Frelon explained as she settled herself next to him in the cart. ‘Thank you,’ he called to the man.
Without saying a word the man nodded and left.
‘Forgive his manners. He is fiercely Gaullist. Without people like him the Maquis couldn’t survive.’
As soon as they were on their way, Lisette began digging in her bag for Madam Pascal’s food.
‘They are very courageous these farmers, you know,’ Frelon continued. ‘We hide, we run around in the dark, we do everything in secret, using codenames in whispers. People like him or Madame Pascal have to live in the open, face the milice or the Germans if they bang on their doors, and keep a straight face when they lie, knowing it could cost them their lives.’
‘Their lives?’
‘Why, yes. Only a week ago, in a nearby hamlet, a man was shot in front of his family because it was suspected that he had helped some resisters escape.’
‘Summary executions?’
‘We have heard all sorts of incredible stories. The Germans take reprisals on whole villages if someone from that village offends. It’s why men like me run away from our families, keep ourselves secret, so that our loved ones and neighbours don’t pay the price for our patriotism.’
Suddenly all the dangers that SOE had trained her for felt horribly close. Lisette had plenty to think about as Frelon fell quiet; only the sounds of the pony’s efforts punctuated the silence.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lisette could finally see the soaring church tower of Bonnieux. The village spilt gently down the hillside to the plain. Her heart told her she was home … even though she had never been south of Paris. This was the rural France of stories and paintings; tumbling stone buildings that looked as though they were carved from the rock, vivid colours, stony hillsides, pinewoods and chequered plains. From this distance life looked peaceful and picturesque, but Frelon told her a different story.
‘We’re on foot from here,’ he warned, ‘and we must be alert. We can trust no one.’
‘What about the pony?’
He leapt down from the cart. ‘Someone will pick up our four-legged friend. We must cross the hillside rather than use this track.’
‘Are there Germans here?’
‘No. Sometimes I’m not sure what’s worse. German soldiers or milice. They both want every maquisard dead. But we don’t know who might be friend or foe within the village.’
‘Then why come here?’
‘The decision was made by Roger.’
‘How long will we stay?’
‘Just one night. Roger will be here too. He never stays longer than a night anywhere if he can help it. But he’s never refused a bed.’
‘Really?’
Frelon winked. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand why soon.’
She laughed, surprised by his implication.
‘Roger is truly admired by the Maquis. You will like him. If we’re stopped, we are brother and sister. My name is Alain and you are Angeline. I am twenty-five. You are …?’
‘Twenty-four.’
‘I come from Apt but you have been studying up north.’
‘In Lille,’ she said immediately.
‘You know it?’
She nodded.
‘What have you been doing in Lille?’
‘I studied at the university and worked in Strasbourg. I’m here in the south for a brief visit before going to Paris to start a new job but with the same company as in Strasbourg.’
‘You have all the paperwork? A permit to enter the free zone, all your identity papers …?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Let’s go.’
They skirted the village for an hour before Frelon brought them alongside the low wall that rimmed a stone cottage. Lisette could smell something baking. The aroma drew them through the sprawling, meadowy garden, crammed with herbs outside the back door. Frelon knocked.
‘Who is it?’
‘It is Alain, madame. We are here at last.’
He sounded entirely unrehearsed and casual. A small, round woman answered the door. ‘Ah, Alain. Welcome, welcome. And this is your sister. Hello, I’ve heard so much about you.’ She ushered them in and as soon as the door was closed, all pretence was dropped. ‘No problems?’
‘None,’ Frelon replied.
‘I’m Angeline,’ said Lisette. ‘It is very kind of you to have me here.’
Their compact host danced lightly on her feet. ‘Anything to defy them,’ she said. ‘I’m Madame Marchand. You are so young, my dear, and thin.’ She pinched the top of Lisette’s arm. ‘Oh! But strong, eh? It’s good then that I baked, although I made biscuits because it keeps nosy neighbours from wondering …’
‘They smell delicious,’ Lisette admitted.
‘Come,’ the woman said, leading them into her scullery. ‘Sit, please,’ she offered, immediately putting water on to heat. ‘How are you, young man? Are you staying?’
‘I am well, as you can see.’ Frelon smiled. ‘But I cannot stay. Take care of Angeline.’
‘With all my heart,’ Madame Marchand replied.
Late into the evening, dozing in an armchair, Lisette heard the sound of a motorbike. She glanced at her wristwatch – her mother’s. It was French-made and enhanced her cover. It was a few minutes before the ten o’clock curfew. She yawned, stretched and shook the dull feeling from her mind. She wished she could brush her teeth and wake up instantly but she hadn’t been allowed to bring any toiletries. Madame Marchand was at the back door welcoming new visitors in hushed whispers. All lights had been turned off in favour of a couple of candles, which flickered as a cold draught stirred the room’s peace.
Lisette stood as two men entered the kitchen; both were tall and bent to kiss Madame Marchand once, twice, three times. The tallest of the strangers regarded Lisette with a grin. Even in this low light he possessed the dashingly good looks of a film star; there were strong echoes of Ronald Colman about him. This must be Roger.
‘Angeline?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, unsure whether to shake hands. She was relieved when he took the lead.
‘Let’s keep it French,’ he said amiably and kissed her in the same manner as he had Madame Marchand. ‘I’m Roger.’ He had to be six-foot four at least, she thought, as he bent low to greet her. She felt his moustache graze gently against her cheek.
‘Welcome to Prove
nce,’ Roger said. ‘This is the Luberon, a mountain that runs from east to west and is cleft in two. The region is flanked by two valleys and their rivers. I’m telling you this for two reasons – firstly, we are relatively safe up here, and secondly, so that you understand it will be a challenging journey ahead. I hope you’re up to walking rough terrain.’ He smiled kindly. ‘Paris is a long way from here.’
‘You learnt your French in Belgium, Roger?’ Lisette asked.
He grinned. ‘My grandfather is Belgian, although I spent a lot of time in France. You’ll have to tell me what gave me away. Now, let me introduce you to my friend. He prefers simply to be known as Faucille.’
Sickle, Lisette repeated in her mind. Appropriate, given the dark look he cut her. ‘Monsieur,’ she said. ‘Angeline.’
He did not kiss her but simply nodded from where he seemed to brood in the shadows. ‘Angeline,’ he repeated.
His voice was low but far smoother than Lisette expected, given his glare. As he pushed away from the sink and turned to face her square on, she realised with a jolt how handsome he was. His yellow-blonde hair and penetrating, light gaze was uncommon in this part of the world.
‘I hope you have some other clothes,’ he added.
‘Blunt as ever,’ Roger said.
The smile she’d given Faucille faltered. His French was perfect, southern, perhaps, although she heard none of the singsong giveaway of the south. His accent could pass for Parisian. ‘My clothes?’
‘They’re not appropriate,’ he said to Roger, ignoring her.
‘But they’re French,’ she argued, dismayed.
He looked back at her, unmoved. Lisette was irritated now, but couldn’t help herself from noticing his strong build and the two small lines either side of his mouth that hinted at laughter in his life. ‘They are too expensive,’ he said dismissively. ‘You can risk your life, mademoiselle, but not mine.’
This was the man Madame Pascal had spoken so highly of? A brute. ‘They’re years old,’ she pressed.
He shook his head, his gaze narrowing. ‘They look new and too chic for this part of France. No doubt you might get away with them in Paris, but here they will win you the wrong sort of attention. Besides, we’re going across the mountains. They will not do, especially those heels. You will not pass for a country girl, and unless you want to freeze, they are not warm enough.’
The Lavender Keeper Page 13
