Butler cocked his Sten automatically and set his back on one side of the doorway as Audley reached up to bang on the door with the side of his fist. The dull thump— thump-thump-thump— drove the dog inside frantic with rage: Butler could hear its paws scrape and skid on the floor as it strained against its chain.
Audley banged on the door again. Suddenly the barking subsided into a continuous growl. " Qui est il?"
Audley pressed his face to the edge of the door. "M'sieur Boucard?"
"Qui est il?"
" M'sieur Boucard, c'est David Audley . . . David Audley, le fils de Walter Audley, de Steeple Horley, en Angleterre."
The growling continued.
"C'est David Audley, M'sieur Boucard—tu ne me remets pas?"
There were other sounds behind the door now; someone even hushed the watchdog into silence.
A man's voice and a woman's voice . . . but Butler couldn't catch any of the words.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
Audley placed both palms against the door and leant forward on them. "M'sieur Boucard—"
"C'est toi, David?"
" Oui, maman, c'est moi— what's left of me," said Audley wearily.
17. How Corporal Butler made a promise to a lady
The lamp on the hall table was turned down so low that Butler couldn't make out the woman's features even after she had stopped hugging Audley, but more particularly because most of his attention was on the shotgun which the man of the house was pointing at him.
"Oh . . . my little David—but you have grown so much! You are so big!" The woman held Audley at arm's length.
"And so smelly, maman . . . I'm afraid I didn't wash behind the ears this morning, as you always taught me to," said Audley carefully, as though he was pronouncing a password.
The shotgun stopped pointing at Butler: perhaps it really was a password at that, thought Butler—an old shared memory which Audley had deliberately produced to prove that he was indeed that long-lost "little David."
"My dear boy!" Monsieur Boucard's English was not merely perfect!, it was decidedly upper-class. "My dear boy!"
"It's good to see you again, sir ... Maman, allow me to present my friend Corporal Jack Butler—
Corporal, Madame Boucard, my godmother, and M'sieur Boucard, one of my father's oldest friends."
Butler just had time to wipe his sweaty hand before accepting Madame Boucard's.
"Corporal Jack, I am so pleased to meet you—" Madame Boucard peered up at him. "Turn up the lamp, if you please, Georges."
The lamp flared into brightness, shooting great shadows all around. For a moment Butler registered only the substantial remains of what must once have been marvellous beauty, but then her expression changed to one of alarm and concern.
"Oh— mon Dieu!" Madame Boucard raised a hand towards him. "You are hurt, Corporal Jack—you are wounded." She swung round quickly. "Madeleine! Madeleine! Le caporal est blessé—vite, vite!"
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
There came a scuffling from the back of the hallway, from the darkness on the far side of the great bare staircase which rose up ahead of them.
Butler blinked stupidly from the darkness back to Madame Boucard. "It's quite all right, madame. It's only a"—he shied away from the word "scratch," which was the sort of thing Audley would have said, but which didn't sound right on his own lips—"a graze . . . and it happened hours ago. I'm okay now, really I am."
"So . . ." Boucard frowned at him for a couple of seconds, then turned towards Audley. "You have been prisoners, David? And you have escaped from the Germans?"
It was a sensible conclusion, thought Butler. Whatever they looked like, they could hardly be mistaken for the spearhead of a victorious army pursuing a defeated enemy. And in any case the French in these parts would be expecting the Americans, not the British.
"No, sir. At least, not exactly, that is," Audley floundered.
"What do you mean 'not exactly'?" Boucard's voice was businesslike.
"Well, sir—we're not exactly escaping from . . . the Germans. We haven't seen a German for hours—"
Audley trailed off, obviously remembering suddenly the German he'd left beside the road a couple of hundred yards away. "I mean, the Germans aren't following us. But . . . we aren't alone, sir."
"You have comrades outside?"
"Just nearby, yes," Audley admitted reluctantly.
"How many?"
"Just two, sir. One of them's an American and . . ." Audley broke off nervously. “We won't stay, sir—
that wouldn't be right. What I really want is food and drink—and some information. I think you may be able to give me a line on a place ... a place we must rendezvous with someone. But we won't stay here."
He shook his head. "I was thinking —maybe we could hide for the night in the old mill, down by the stream—"
Butler felt a half-hysterical urge to laugh. This was a new Audley far removed from the obstinate dragoon subaltern; this was "little David" in a soldier's battle dress many sizes too big for him.
Boucard chuckled. "My dear David, kindly don't be ridiculous. Do you really think you are the first escaper to come through Le Chais? My dear boy, the only difference between you and all the others is that you have come on your own initiative, because you knew us. Which is why we weren't expecting Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
you . . . whereas all the others—they have come down the line—British, American, French, Polish . . .
they were expected. But no one is more welcome than you and your friends, believe me!"
There was another scuffle in the shadows.
"Maman—"
Madame Boucard took Butler's arm gently. "Come, Corporal Jack. If you will be so good as to accompany me to the kitchen, my daughter is trained in first aid."
Butler looked questioningly at Audley.
"Go on, man—do what you're told." Audley nodded almost eagerly, as though the task of explaining to Boucard that he was about to add a new nationality to the list of escapers was one he preferred to tackle in private.
Butler followed Madame Boucard past the staircase and down a stone-flagged passage on which his iron-shod boots rang sharply. The sound and the feel of the hard surface under his feet reminded him of something he didn't wish to recall, but couldn't help remembering now —something which the lamplight itself had already stirred in his memory: the friendly kitchen in which he had met the NCOs of Chandos Force just twenty-four hours before, at the beginning of the nightmare.
It didn't seem possible that it was only twenty-four hours since then. Half his life had been lived in those hours—half his life and on four separate times nearly his death also. Perhaps being touched on the shoulder by death so very personally transformed the nature of time, spreading it out unnaturally at each touch and using it up, swallowing it up. ...
There was more warm light behind a glass-panelled door; and when the door opened there was also a warm smell, the heavenly smell of thick, nourishing soup. Until the moment he smelt it Butler knew he would have set exhaustion above hunger, but now he could only think that he couldn't remember when he had last eaten anything which smelt like that soup.
There was a steaming bowl on the table, but the bandages beside it told their own tale: the soup must be in the pan on the great black kitchen range.
"Corporal Jack, this is my daughter, Madeleine," Madame Boucard said graciously. " Ma cherie, Corporal Jack is a friend and comrade of our David, our own David."
It required a prodigious effort to look away from the soup to the daughter, but the effort had to be made.
"Mademoiselle," said Butler.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
Madeleine Boucard was almost as beautiful as the pan of soup, with her little, pale, heart-shaped face framed in hair turned to red-gold by the lamplight.
And Madeleine Boucard was also looking at him with the sam
e mixture of alarm and concern her mother had shown.
Butler passed his hand across his stubbly chin, uncertain as to how to react to that look, which made him feel a fraud, because of his red silk bandage.
"Mademoiselle . . . I'm really quite okay," he managed to stammer. "But... if you've got anything to eat.
Like a little soup, maybe?"
Mother and daughter exchanged looks, then Madame Boucard stepped towards the dresser. For a moment Butler hoped she was going to get him a soup-plate, but to his disappointment she offered him only a small tray.
He accepted the tray automatically. "Madame?"
" Regardez, Corporal Jack—look, please."
Butler glanced down at the tray. He saw that it was not a tray at all, but a mirror.
"Look, please," repeated Madame Boucard.
Butler raised the mirror, and then almost dropped it with shock.
The face under the commando cap and the red silk handkerchief was a mask of dried blood and grime from which two white eyes goggled at him. In some places the blood and the dirt had mingled, and runnels of sweat had scoured the mixture; in others the blood had already blackened and cracked where the skin had creased. The mask was the more frightening and unrecognisable for being his own.
"Sit down, if you please," said Madeleine briskly.
Butler sat down.
"There now . . ." She removed the cap and began to untie the handkerchief. "You know, I did not recognise him—David—it is so dark and he is so big, so grown upwards as Maman says. But then it is six years past since he was living with us . . . it is very tight— le noeud— how do you say in English?"
"The knot?"
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
"The knot—yes, the knot—knot," the girl repeated the word to herself. "I remember it now."
"You speak very good English—and your mother and father too, mademoiselle. I mean really perfect English," said Butler shyly.
"Myself . . . not perfect, though it is kind of you to say so ... eh bien! It is untied at last. . . my mother and my father, yes. But then so they should. My mother is half English by birth, and my father, he was educated at an English school . . . now, I am going to wash these wounds of yours with the warm water ... at a most famous and expensive school, where he learnt to play rugby football. Do you play rugby football?"
Butler held his head very still. She was talking to him to take his mind off what she was doing, that was an old nursing trick. And no matter what, it was the least he could do to pretend that she'd succeeded.
"No, mademoiselle. I played soccer, but not very well. My game was cricket."
It wasn't difficult really: her hands were as soft as thistledown— ouch! That was the dressing coming off.
"There now—that's done. Now, if you will move your head a little towards the light ... so! That's good. . . . Was this a bullet?"
"I don't honestly know, mademoiselle. It may have been a grenade fragment."
"Mmm . . . ?" She was finding it difficult now to concentrate on her work and make conversation in a foreign language. "Cricket ... a little more to the side please . . ."
Butler found himself gazing directly down the front of her dress at two small but perfect breasts six inches from his face.
"Am I hurting you?" She drew back suddenly.
Butler closed his eyes. "No, mademoiselle," he said.
The soft hands continued cleaning him up again. Cautiously he opened his eyes and discovered to his great joy that the breasts were still in view.
"My father played at cricket when he was in England, but it is not played in France . . ."
Butler held his breath, trying to imprint the vision on his memory. He had never seen anything like this before, except in pictures and photographs. Other men, even other boys at school, had managed to see it all and do it all; but he had somehow never had the opportunity . . . or the inclination or the time or the Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
courage—or whatever it was . . . and now he regretted it bitterly. He had passed his exams and learnt German instead, but now those didn't seem such clever things to have done.
"But for the war I would have gone to school in England too—to a school in Chelt-en-ham. Do you know Chelt-en-ham?"
"No, mademoiselle," Butler croaked. "But . . . you speak English so well no one would . . . know that you hadn't been educated there."
"Oh, that is because Maman has this rule—nothing but English at meals." She drew back to survey her handiwork, and he lifted his eyes just in time to meet hers. She smiled at him. "In fact, the only times I have spoken French at meals was when David lived with us. Then it was only French—poor David, I was sorry for him . . . well, a little sorry. He was very clever. His accent was not good, but he learnt everything so quickly."
She sounded almost as though she hadn't much liked Audley, Butler thought. But then at twelve and thirteen boys and girls generally didn't much like each other, even when they spoke the same language, so far as he could remember.
All the same he felt himself envying Audley desperately all the advantages he had had. He, Butler, had a lot of ground to make up, and very little time.
Perhaps no time at all.
Here and now especially no time at all.
"You have known David long?"
"David?" Butler stared at her stupidly, then looked quickly round the kitchen. The mother had gone—
from the moment he had sat down he had forgotten about her. But she had gone, anyway.
"You have known him long?" she repeated the question.
"No." He swallowed. "You are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," he heard himself say.
"Oh . . ." She looked at him in surprise, only half-smiling. "My father once said . . . that is what the soldiers will say . . . but you are the first, the very first."
"You are the very first girl I've said it to." It was like hearing someone else speaking, but somehow that made it easier.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
"Perhaps you have not seen many girls. You have been too busy fighting, perhaps," she said lightly. "But you will see other girls. Then you will say it to them also."
"I'll never see any other girls, I shall only see you."
She looked at him seriously, no longer even half-smiling. " Vous ne perdez pas de temps."
Butler struggled with the French words, although their meaning was plain enough. He had been thinking the very same thing only half a minute before, after all.
"I have not lost any time, mademoiselle. I don't have any time to lose. In an hour or so from now, we shall have gone—David . . . and I. We have a job to finish. Then we will return to our regiments—
somehow."
"But—"
Butler raised his hand. "No. I don't want you to say anything, or promise anything. I will make the promise."
"But Corporal Jack—"
Corporal Jack . . .
Well, that was just part of the promise, he decided. Half his brain had been telling him that he was crazy
—that she was beautiful and he was lightheaded with hunger and tiredness, and that anything which happened so quickly had to be shallow-rooted in those facts.
But the other half had already promised him that nothing he wanted badly enough was out of his reach.
Not Corporal Butler, but Second Lieutenant Butler.
Captain Butler.
Colonel Butler.
Colonel and Mrs. Butler.
Mrs. Madeleine Butler.
With his red hair and her red hair—red-gold hair—they would have red-headed sons and daughters for sure.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
"I will come back to this house after the war," said Butler. "And I won't be just a corporal either—I shall be an officer. And . . ." Suddenly he felt himself run out of steam. "And . . ."
She regarded him gravely.
He had to say som
ething, but now for the life of him he couldn't think of anything to say. All his new-found eloquence had deserted him without warning.
"And then we shall see," said Madeleine Boucard gently. "Very well, C— . . . very well, Jack. When you come back to me we shall see—you have promised that, then."
Butler nodded.
"Good. And now I will bandage your head, if you will permit me."
She smiled at him, and touched his cheek lightly with her hand. "And you know what?"
He shook his head dumbly.
"I think I will hold you to that promise," she said.
18. How Madame Boucard guessed right—and wrong
"Another glass of wine—allow me to fill your glass, Jack," said Monsieur Boucard politely.
"No, sir—thanking you kindly, sir." Butler stopped his hand just in time from covering his wineglass.
Such vulgar actions were obviously out of place in this company, and he was as desperately keen not to be caught out by them as he was determined not to be trapped again by the deceptively gentle wine of Touraine.
But there too was a dilemma, for this was not just any old wine, but the produce of Le Chais d'Auray itself, as Audley had carefully explained. So it was essential to qualify his refusal in some way.
"Not that it isn't a beautiful wine—" He caught his tongue before he could add "sir"; there had been one
"sir" too many in the previous sentence as it was, and that was another thing to watch.
In fact, there were altogether too many things to watch—even though the food had driven back his fatigue and put fresh heart into him— when all he wanted to do was to watch the lamplight on Madeleine Boucard's hair.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
But that also was forbidden—and forbidden not only by the "don't stare" rule Dad had clouted into him long ago, but also by another of Rifleman Callaghan's sovereign remedies which sprang to mind now as gratuitously as when Callaghan had once offered it to the whole barrack room, flushed with beer and conquest: Happen you fancy t' daughter, lads—then just smile sweet at t' mother first!
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