The Lavender Keeper

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Visit the café daily. You’ll receive a message. But Angeline, we have to be careful with you.’

  ‘I understand. But even if you use me as a lookout, let me help.’

  ‘All right. There may be something shortly.’

  ‘I hear the telephone exchanges have been hit,’ she said, remembering gossip she’d overheard. ‘Sylvie?’

  He grinned and stood, stretching in the thin sunlight. ‘She single-handedly destroyed one exchange north of Paris that forced the Germans to switch to radio. It means Bletchley Park can listen in on their communications.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘I have no reason to believe otherwise.’

  Lisette stood and kissed both of his cheeks. ‘Thank you, Armand – not just for today but for … well, you know, being my rearguard. I didn’t mean to take up so many precious hours of other people’s time.’

  ‘You’ve got Faucille to thank for that. I hope he comes back to you safely.’

  ‘So do I,’ she said, suddenly frantic to see Luc again. ‘So do I.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Luc had left Paris in the early hours of the morning after reading Sylvie’s note. He didn’t want to think it was her taunt that sent him hurtling from the city, but whatever it was, it was for the best. He had to get away from reminders of Lisette. By leaving the colonel’s driving crew, he knew he was blowing any chance of getting close to Kilian again, but it was only a matter of time before the Gestapo closed in. It was better to get out of Paris, and he could be more help if he headed south, where the main activity was gathering pace.

  The call to action was to stymie German progress at all costs. With the name Ravensburg openly circulating within the Gestapo, Luc opted to use Christian Loewe as his cover, especially as it permitted him to carry official German papers as a driver attached to the Paris-based military. Using the pretence that he was being sent south to drive back some high-ranking militia, he managed to get out of Paris on a gazogene bus for ten francs. Mont Mouchet was his target. This was one of the key regions to hamper the German advance from the south, and given that it was mountainous territory, it suited Luc well.

  Overland, sleeping rough, mostly stealing food, sometimes lucky enough to be given a meal by a friendly farmer, Luc made his way first to Montluçon, but it was crawling with Gestapo. Buying a stick of bread and a small wedge of cheese, he felt out the owner of the grocery and took a risk. Luc wanted to know where it was safe for a maquisard to find the local Maquis, and there was no alternative. To his relief, the man with the long face and hangdog expression was Gaullist.

  ‘Go to the viaduct at Garabit,’ the grocer advised. ‘If they want you, they’ll find you.’

  He did as he was told, surprised to find the local townsfolk on a twenty-four hour watch to prevent the Mont Mouchet Maquis, based nearby, from blowing up the only remaining road to Paris.

  ‘They’ve already destroyed the stone bridges around the railways,’ a local complained.

  Luc had wondered at the people’s stupidity. Did they really want the Germans having this easy access to Paris? He’d waited several hours before a man sidled up to him and nodded. Luc followed him, disappearing into the surrounding forest. There he had stayed for weeks, joining more than ten thousand Maquis in the region. German forces surrounded them but the Maquis leader kept his men calm, determined and useful, even without artillery. Missives were sent to London demanding weapons for this perfectly placed group of guerillas and they couldn’t have come quicker.

  On 18th June, set upon by a force of well-armed Germans, backed up by heavy artillery, the Maquis, making the best of the weaponry it had, went into battle at Mont Mouchet. The fighting began in the early morning and raged until darkness engulfed them.

  Luc had little experience with guns. His skills with explosives had improved rapidly with his various sabotage jobs in Paris, but his exposure to real fighting was minimal. The reality of the assault was shocking; the noise alone disoriented him. Rather than shooting at the enemy, he quickly established himself as a messenger between groups of fighters. He was fleet but especially surefooted in the terrain. And Luc had a natural skill for understanding the lie of the land. He’d already got to know his way reasonably well around the region, and his excellent eyesight and speed meant he was able to keep up the lines of communication between the pockets of maquisards, as well as rescuing the fallen.

  At one point during that terrible day, he had a man across his back and was dragging another by the arm up through the scrub, his gaze fixed firmly on a ridge, when he felt a bullet hit the man on his back. Using all his strength, he threw both men into a ditch behind a hillock; he nearly wept when he could find no pulse on the young maquisard he’d hauled up on his shoulders. The dead man was no older than nineteen.

  ‘Don’t take it too hard,’ the second man said, seeing Luc’s despair. He shrugged. ‘We’d all rather die like this than working for the Boches in some stinking factory in Germany.’

  Luc nodded at the grimy, weathered face of the injured man. ‘Where are you hit?’

  ‘Thigh, just above my knee. Not too bad. Here, take this,’ he said, pulling a bandana from around his neck. ‘Tie it round. Hard as you can.’

  Luc did as the man asked, watching his companion suck in his breath as Luc pulled on the knot. ‘All right?’

  ‘I’ll live to kill a few more if you hand me that boy’s gun.’

  An explosion rocked the earth below them.

  Luc passed him the gun from the pocket of the dead man. ‘My name’s Luc. I used to grow lavender,’ he said.

  ‘Claude. I grew grapes and olives. Best vinegar, best oil in the south.’ He grinned and the dried blood cracked on his face. Luc wasn’t sure if it was Claude’s blood or someone else’s. It didn’t matter. ‘Thanks for the gun,’ Claude said, adding, ‘and if you can find some Pernod somewhere, I’ll have that too.’

  Luc laughed grimly. His attention was caught by another maquisard in trouble. Smoke was clearing and he could see more blood-soaked bodies sprawled on the hillside to his left. He counted three who looked to be dead but one was moving.

  ‘Someone needs me, Claude.’

  ‘Good lad. I won’t forget you. Off you go.’

  Luc leapt over the top of the ridge and began zigzagging his way across to the fallen. He could hear the injured man screaming now, and could see that he’d lost half of his leg. As twilight began to descend Luc could sense that the Maquis were fighting a losing battle.

  He reached the man, who was no longer screaming; he wept quietly instead. He had lost too much blood – Luc knew he would not make it. He didn’t know what he could do except lay down beside him and hold his hand. The man began to babble. He was from Limoges and was a worker in the ceramics industry. He had four children, a wife.

  ‘Tell them I’m sorry,’ he whispered close to Luc’s ear. ‘My name is Olivier Roussel.’ He was younger than Luc had thought at first, probably barely thirty. His breathing was shallow and rapid. Luc pulled out a grubby handkerchief and wiped the man’s face of blood. He looked like Laurent, with the same glint in his eyes, even though they were beginning to dull.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. His politeness was achingly sad.

  Luc ignored the whistle of bullets, the explosions of earth around him and the yells of dying men. He felt obliged to remain here until the man died.

  Finally, Luc unwrapped his fingers from the dead man’s hand and a deep sorrow permeated his soul. This battle felt hopeless, especially with aircraft strafing the region.

  The French could not win – he knew that now – but for every hour they held the Boches pinned down here, it was another hour for their compatriots up north … another hour in which the Allies could fight their way closer to Paris. That was why they had to battle on here, but Luc was exposed. He needed to seek cover, get back to the main group and see if any messages had to be run through. He couldn’t think about fatigue; none of them could.

&n
bsp; Luc picked himself up, grabbed a sten gun lying nearby and ran through thick smoke. He had no idea what was coming at him; all he could do was head towards the higher ridges where he knew one of the main pockets of the Maquis were positioned.

  He never made it.

  The explosion erupted so close to him that it threw him up into the air. It felt like an eternity before he was flung back down to the ground, and in that space of time, where the sounds around him seemed to become muted, all activity halted. Smoke billowed and yet was still, men yelled but their faces were caught as though frozen. He could even see the flash of the guns – the flare in suspended animation – while he moved sluggishly, unsure of where he was in space, his mind blurry, his body numbed. Only one thought was clear – Lisette. Her name was a mantra in his mind, repeating. He was incapable of hearing anything else or forming any words or thoughts.

  He mustn’t die here. He had to get back to her.

  Luc crumpled back onto the hard earth and lay lifeless as night finally closed in and the Maquis leader called his men into retreat.

  Luc regained consciousness to the sounds of a donkey braying and chickens clucking. He was hot, parched and bright sunlight was bursting through the wooden slats of the walls around him. There was something soft behind his head but the ground was hard beneath him. He was lying in a shed, he decided.

  He blinked, disoriented.

  Someone grabbed his hand and when he turned he was confronted by a child. The lad’s round, wide-eyed face was stained with smudges of grime, and the boy was peering solemnly at him through dark-blue eyes. Luc could focus properly now and noticed that the youngster’s face was lightly freckled and he was missing his front teeth.

  ‘You’re alive, monsieur,’ the child confirmed with a soft lisp.

  Luc tried to talk but his mouth was parched. ‘Water,’ he croaked and the boy rushed away. When he returned he had an old woman with him. Her hair was grey and wrapped neatly in a bun, her clothes old but clean. She reminded him instantly – and sorrowfully – of his murdered grandmother.

  The elderly woman urged her little companion to help Luc to lift his head.

  ‘Drink, monsieur.’ She gestured at the mug.

  Luc gulped at the water. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter.

  ‘Where am I?’ he wheezed. ‘I thought I was doomed.’

  She chuckled in response. ‘You are close to Pontajou. This is a farmlet, very isolated. It’s about five kilometres from the fighting.’

  ‘How did I get here?’

  ‘Maquis brought you. A man called Claude was with them. As I understand it, they were leaving you for dead. But he put you on his back and dragged you to safety.’

  ‘Claude,’ Luc whispered. ‘He was injured.’

  ‘The bullet went through cleanly,’ the woman assured him. ‘He’ll limp but he’ll see it as a badge of honour. The Maquis held up the soldiers all day, most of the evening. There was another battle. Maquis lost that too but they did what was needed. Delayed the filthy Boches.’ She turned slightly and spat.

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Taking their reprisals over in Clavières and surrounding villages, we hear.’ She said it wearily, with no malice.

  Luc closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re safe here. We’re on no map, and this barn can’t be seen from the nearest track. We’ll have good warning. You can run into the woods if need be.’

  ‘Did they leave others?’

  ‘You are all I could manage – with Robert’s help,’ she said, squeezing the boy’s hand. ‘But how are you feeling?’

  He was so sore he couldn’t tell immediately. He slowly tested his limbs and finally shook his head. ‘My head hurts, my ears are ringing. To be honest, madame, every inch of me aches.’

  ‘I imagine it would. But the angels were surely protecting you in such a battle. Claude said you were flung by an explosion.’

  ‘Yes, I remember it now.’ He instinctively reached to touch the lavender pouch beneath his shirt. ‘Is Claude nearby?’

  She shook her head. ‘He couldn’t risk it.’

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Four days.’

  He was surprised. ‘I won’t stay long, madame. You have Robert to worry about.’ He looked at the young boy.

  She smiled. ‘What is your name, son?’

  ‘Luc Bonet.’

  ‘Well, Luc, you must rest. Robert will stay close. He knows to watch you, and he far prefers that to his chores.’

  Luc thought he smiled, but his world went dark again quickly.

  It was mid-July before Luc left the farmlet. At his hosts’ insistence he’d moved into the main house, a stone cottage that was bigger than it appeared, angling down the sloping land.

  Marie, the old woman, had become a widow six months earlier. One of her sons had also died, fighting with the Maquis, and her second son – Robert’s father – was doing his STO in Germany while his mother was working in Vichy. Robert did not see his mother for six weeks at a time but her sister dropped in on the boy and his grandmother once a month.

  ‘Best you leave before Juliette pays her visit on Sunday,’ Marie warned as she, Luc and Robert sat outside one day, Luc shaving himself with a small mirror and portable basin. ‘She’s not good at secrets.’ Luc glanced at Robert, who was chatting to the donkey. Marie caught the glance. ‘You have nothing to fear there,’ she reassured him. ‘He is far more reliable than his aunt. Plus she’s looking for a husband, and you’d do nicely. You’ll never get away to that girl of yours called Lisette.’

  Luc stared, astonished, at Marie.

  Robert laughed at his expression. ‘You talk in your dreams, Monsieur Luc.’

  Luc grinned. Robert had insisted on helping to lather up Luc’s face with soap and now watched with great interest as Luc scraped the old blade across his raspy chin.

  ‘He hasn’t seen a man shave in far too long,’ Marie said. ‘He needs his father.’

  Luc reached out for her hand. The skin was like leather on her palm, but it was parchment-thin on the back where her knuckles, misshapen and arthritic, gave her hands a gnarled look. He held that knotted hand to his damp face. ‘He’ll be home soon, Marie. Your family will be reunited and this wretched war will be done with. Just stay safe, and keep Robert safe a bit longer.’

  She regarded his image in the mirror. ‘Lisette must be missing you by now.’

  He looked down at her hand and covered it with his own. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, go and find out.’ She gave a low chuckle. ‘Women need wooing, Luc … even in wartime.’

  He sighed, looked up at the stone cottage with its dark tiles and symmetrical windows, their flaking paintwork and the broken hinge on the wooden door. Marie was right. It was time to go. He would miss this little haven; it had kept him safe, given him time to heal … and not just physically.

  ‘I regret having to leave.’

  ‘I know. But you will come back one day. I’m sure of it.’

  Luc nodded. ‘Will Robert understand?’

  ‘You and the boy have become close. But children are resilient. Don’t worry on his account.’

  Robert had finished chatting with the donkey he called Bernard, and now came skipping back to Luc, who stood bare-chested, towelling off the final dregs of soap on his face. Earlier, Robert had proudly given him one of his father’s shirts to wear, and Marie had polished Luc’s shoes and dusted his trousers, cleaning them up as best she could.

  Now, Robert took the towel from Luc and then pointed to his father’s shirt, hung on an apple tree nearby. ‘Papa won’t mind.’

  Luc glanced at the grandmother again, with gratitude in his eyes. ‘Marie, I will repay your kindness one day.’

  The old woman made a hushing sound. ‘We all do our bit. Robert’s been wondering about that pouch around your neck. I must admit, I have too, but I told him not to pry. Is that from Lisette?’

  He shook his head. ‘My grandmother gave
this to me. She believed that lavender possesses magic.’ Robert’s eyes widened as Luc spoke. ‘She said I was to wear the pouch of seeds always, and it would protect me.’

  The woman grinned. ‘Grandmothers know best.’

  ‘Oui, madame. I would never argue with that.’ Luc walked to the tree and took the shirt, grimacing at the pain in his shoulders as he put it on. After recovering consciousness he’d discovered an egg-sized lump on his head, and his back was badly bruised even after weeks of healing. He knew how lucky he was not to have broken any bones. His head had only just stopped throbbing constantly, and sunlight no longer made him wince in pain.

  He did up the buttons slowly, feeling the tension in the air twist at his heartstrings. Robert would not be happy at him leaving, and despite her smiles and wise words, he knew Marie would likely miss his presence and companionship too.

  ‘I wish you would not go, Monsieur Luc,’ Robert said sadly. He glanced at his grandmother, an apologetic look on his face.

  Luc swallowed. He crouched down to be eye level with Robert. ‘I promise that I will come back one day. I have an idea – do you have a sewing needle?’

  ‘What for?’ Marie asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Marie’s face formed a question. ‘Wait – I will fetch one.’ She was back soon, and handed a needle to Luc.

  ‘Watch,’ said Luc. He dug the needle into his own thumb and squeezed the flesh until a bead of blood bloomed dark and shiny. ‘Do you think you can do the same?’

  Robert blinked at him, uncertain at first, and then took the needle and bravely nodded.

  ‘It’s called a blood oath. One we can never break.’

  That won the boy’s attention and courage. Without hesitation he took a breath and plunged the tip of the needle into his thumb, giving a soft gasp.

  ‘You’re very brave, Robert,’ Luc soothed. ‘Now squeeze it as you saw me do.’

  Robert obeyed and soon had a matching bead of blood. He looked up at Luc. ‘What now?’

  ‘Now we place our thumbs together like this,’ Luc said, winking at Marie as he brought his large hand next to Robert’s small one. ‘That’s it. Our bloods must mix.’