That Burning Summer

by Lydia Syson

  A chorus of voices replied, “Turn round and keep walking.”

  Which they then did.

  I mustn’t forget this either, thought Ernest, looking back at the blackboard. Hände hoch, Hände hoch. “Handy Hock, Handy Hock,” he recited under his breath as he marched.

  Most of the volunteers had biked over, but between them they did have two vehicles: Fred’s Austin 7 van and a Hillman Minx belonging to Mr. Gosbee, whose farm was furthest off. They crammed in, pitchforks and all, Ernest kneeling in the back, head stuck through to the front between his uncle and a neighbor, doing his best with the directions.

  They seemed to go on driving for hours, round and round, circling the back lanes, but never spotting the least disturbance. In fact, there were even fewer flights overhead than usual. The men tried to press Ernest about the plane.

  “Was it twin prop or single prop?”

  “See bumps on the wings, did you, sticking out, like?”

  “Any sign of a parachute?”

  Ernest thought hard before he replied. He could feel them waiting.

  “I couldn’t see. No. I don’t think so. I really didn’t see.”

  Uncle Fred sighed, and changed gear without speaking.

  The sun got lower and lower in the sky, and Ernest felt more and more uncomfortable in every way. DO NOT RUSH ABOUT SPREADING VAGUE RUMORS, he repeated to himself unhappily, one fist hammering dispiritedly at his feet, which were numb with pins-and-needles. He couldn’t bear to meet the other passengers’ eyes.

  Conversation dried up.

  Then came a hoot from behind. Mr. Gosbee had pulled up. He was gesturing at the pasture to the right where a circle of young heifers stood, backs to the road, heads lowered, curious.

  “Mmmm,” grunted Fred. “Let’s have a look over there then.”

  The tenant herdsman who farmed this land had spotted the animals from the back of the Hillman. Now he began to lead the way, striding out over the grassland. Ernest hesitated, then folded back the hood of the Austin, unclipped the distributor, and pulled up the rotor arm. Slipping them both into his pocket, he ran after the men.

  “Gaa-r-nn!” The farmer began to shout and shoo away the cattle as he approached. They mooed at him and galloped off, revealing what looked to Ernest something like a giant molehill, half-submerged. You couldn’t even call it a crater. It was more of an earthwork, the land torn up and thrown back, like when you dig a hole in sand and it just fills itself right in again. A scar on the field.

  As he came closer, Ernest noticed jagged fragments of metal and wood scattered on the surface. Two thin wisps of smoke seeped skywards from the earth.

  There was nothing much to say after that. Everyone quickly removed their caps and held them awkwardly in front of their chests. Ernest thought he heard someone mutter the word “goner,” and then Mr. Gosbee led the gathering in a mumbled prayer.

  This wasn’t the first time the Marsh had swallowed an aircraft whole. Last time there had barely been a trace either. It was incredible. How could something so huge just disappear like that, and a person with it, too? Victor had gone with the search party when a plane came down at Brookland. He’d been hoping for a new souvenir, but came back disappointed. “Good thing too,” he’d told everyone the next day at school. That there was nothing to be recovered, he meant. Someone had told him it was a Messerschmitt for sure, and Victor said the only good German was a dead German.

  “Good lad,” said Fred quietly, as they got back into the van. Ernest couldn’t see what was good about what he’d done. He hadn’t exactly saved anyone’s life.

  RULE TWO: DO NOT BELIEVE RUMORS AND DO NOT SPREAD THEM. WHEN YOU RECEIVE AN ORDER, MAKE QUITE SURE THAT IT IS A TRUE ORDER AND NOT A FAKED ORDER. USE YOUR COMMON SENSE.

  7

  Peggy woke in pitch-blackness. For a moment she couldn’t think where she was. Then her fingers touched the cold iron bedstead, and her heart stopped racing. She must have been dreaming of their old house. It had confused her. But everything was fine. Nobody was crying, or shouting or arguing. It was just the fox cubs playing, their strangulated screams sounding for all the world like terrified children. That was a new thing. The foxes had always stayed on the hills till this year. But it didn’t matter. Peggy was safe at the farmhouse, in the very bed that Mum had slept in as a child. She could just hear Ernest’s light breathing across the room.

  The bedsprings creaked as she rolled over, but he didn’t stir. She pulled the sheet over her shoulder, nestled her head back into the pillow and waited for sleep to drift back. Nothing happened. The very opposite, in fact. The noises of the night seemed to intensify and she felt more awake than ever.

  Straining her ears, lying as still as she could, Peggy analyzed each sound she heard in turn. Soft scuttling on the ceiling above. She used to think it was rats, but since Ernest had shown her the starling’s entrance hole under the eaves, she hadn’t minded the scrabbling footsteps. Much further off, like a distant summer storm gathering strength, a low boom rumbled across the Channel and right over the Marsh from France. Last month the guns had been much louder, especially in those horrid days when they were evacuating the British Expeditionary Force. Everyone from round here, anyone with any kind of boat at all had set off as soon as the call came. When they came back, they said Dunkirk was just like Camber. Sand into sea. Big boats couldn’t get close. They said they were picking up soldiers from the water, half-drowned, or worse. And there was Ernest, thinking all the while that one of them might even be Dad. But Mum had kept silent and looked away, as if there was even half a chance he could have got to France in that time, as if not saying wasn’t just as bad as lying. It didn’t give Peggy much choice.

  Paris had fallen weeks ago, but that hadn’t brought an end to the thunder from across the sea. What were the Germans doing there now? Peggy wondered. Mucking the place up completely? Her anger at the unfairness of everything began to well up again. She was quite desperate to go to Paris. She longed to sit at a café under a parasol, sipping black coffee at a table on the pavement, a Garbo hat adding beautifully to her mystery. From under its floppy brim, she’d safely stare at the ladies tripping past with their elegant shoes and little dogs in coats. Who is this English rose? Parisians would whisper as they went by. She has such … such an unexpected beauty.

  Well, that was one way of putting it. Not that it would ever happen. There’d be nothing left of Paris by the time she finally made it there. Ruined forever before she’d even set eyes on the city.

  A tide of guilt made her sit up in bed. Her mother had been so cross last time she’d begun a sentence with the usual “What if I never …” She should think herself lucky, stop feeling so sorry for herself, think of other people, etc. etc … Grow up. It was childish. But at this rate she’d go straight from being a child to being an old lady, without a single one of the fun bits in between, and surely nobody deserved that. A Miss Winterbourne.

  She was wide-awake now, and thoroughly on edge. Perhaps she should just go and check the henhouse door. After all, it was Ernest who’d closed it last. And if he had forgotten to push the latch right in, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about. She threw back the sheet and flapped her nightie to tempt a cool breeze up her body. If there was a moon, she might be able to see if the door was swinging open from the landing window.

  As she tiptoed across the wooden floor, Ernest moved and muttered something in his sleep. Then he spoke again, more clearly. He sounded indignant. “I’m not a looter. I tell you I’m not a looter.”

  Checking that no light could escape from behind her, Peggy unsnapped the heavy blackout curtain, and peered into the night. Pairs of searchlights streaked up into the sky from Rye, systematically sweeping the heavens. Little else was visible: the Marsh looked as empty as an ocean.

  Except for one thing, Peggy noticed. Somewhere between here and there, a tiny orange glow appeared. She watched it carefully, moving unevenly up and down, coming and going. A distant looker’s lantern, she decided:
checking on lambs. But it was too late for lambs, and the lookers over that way were no longer needed, were they? Anyway, seeing in the dark was said to be one of their skills. And you could be fined for attracting bombers. She didn’t think even a cigarette was allowed outside at night during blackout.

  A hoarse bark reminded her of her task. She grabbed a pair of socks from her drawer and sat on the stairs to pull them on. Uncle Fred’s snoring continued to whistle softly through the house. A last look, but the light was gone, so she tied back the drapes. Then she felt her way down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the scullery to find her boots.

  Stepping out of the back door, where farmyard smells took over from coal smells, her eyes and ears seemed to work better. Must be all those carrots I ate, Peggy thought, heading for the henhouse. Her boots flapped loudly against her bare legs. There was a dull thud of wood on wood, and a terrified squawking erupted into the stillness. Peggy began to run.

  8

  Too startled to work out where the bolt might be, Henryk leaned against the wooden door and cursed the birds. The shock of their sudden racket had set his legs shaking again, and jangled up his mind completely. He should have stayed away. He should never have risked this. All he’d wanted was a little food and shelter, while he worked out what to do. He didn’t know how to calm Polish chickens, let alone English ones. When he tried to make soothing noises, all that came out was a strangled kind of whimper that wouldn’t quieten anything or anyone.

  At the sound of running feet, Henryk looked up quickly. Thwack, thwack. Thwack, thwack. Closer and closer. And a cloud of white approaching, like a ghost coming out of the night. A ghost or an angel. He tried to move and the white-draped figure crashed right into him, hard head forcing a grunt from his chest. Henryk’s arms instinctively enfolded the shocked body in front of him, and what English he had deserted him entirely.

  With his face in this girl’s hair, for a moment he could think of nothing but home. He began to sob, silently and uncontrollably, his whole body heaving.

  “Ah, Gizela,” he groaned. “Gizela, Gizela. Przykro mi. Przepraszam.”

  Stiff furious arms fought their way out of his grip, boots kicked at his shins, and a voice hissed at him.

  “Let me go or I’ll scream.”

  Henryk released her immediately. He was horrified at his own loss of control. This was no way to behave. How could he have done such a thing? Standing there in his filthy flying suit and soaking wet socks, rank with chicken muck and mud and marsh ooze, he felt a burning pain wrench at one ankle. But he knew what he had to do next. He pulled himself up as straight as he could manage and attempted to click his heels together. It was agony. He clenched his jaw and stepped forward. Taking the girl’s pale hand, Henryk bowed low over it, and kissed it very neatly and precisely.

  French, he thought. She must understand French.

  “Enchanté!” he whispered.

  She pulled her hand away, tucking it under the other arm as if it had been burned. He could just about see her face now. Her mouth had fallen open, and she was staring at him, completely bewildered. She was the same age as Gizela, more or less, he thought. No, probably a little younger, a little shorter. Less angular. But probably no less spiky, to judge from his bruised shins.

  The fox barked again, far away now. With a few disapproving clucks and a rustle of feathers, the chickens settled back to roost.

  What was this girl going to do now? She was staring at him. He felt her stare. Couldn’t really see it, but he could feel it.

  Henryk’s thoughts sped away from him again, but he forced himself to concentrate. He tried to anchor himself in England. The Island of Last Hope, they called it. Good afternoon. How do you do? How do you do. But it wasn’t the afternoon. And then suddenly he remembered the right words. He whispered them slowly and carefully:

  “Hello, old bean. Think I must get weaving. All teased out, I’m afraid.”

  That was it. He’d heard his FO say exactly that, only three nights ago, after a particularly difficult operation.

  Holding his breath, Henryk tried to sidle away from the girl. Just disappear. Just disappear. That was it. He needed another pill, really. He’d give anything for another pill. Waves of exhaustion kept swamping him. He shook his head, convinced now that if he just slipped quietly away into the night, she’d forget about him. She’d think she had been dreaming. Perhaps he actually would disappear. Best to stop breathing. People didn’t breathe in dreams. If he breathed she was more likely to scream, or call for help. Lamps would be lit behind the blacked-out windows of the farmhouse. There would be more voices, and footsteps, and shouting perhaps. Alarm. He would have to explain and then they would take him in.

  For a moment the idea seemed incredibly appealing: warmth, and dry clothes, and kindness. Henryk thought about a soft bed, sheets, blankets, and a fire, and he began to shiver, though it was far from cold. He teetered on the edge of temptation. Perhaps he should stop resisting. Perhaps he’d be able to manage, after all. Finish what he’d started. Do what he’d come to this island for. Nobody need know he’d tried to run away. He wasn’t a deserter yet. Just another lost, bailed-out airman, trying to make his way back.

  At the thought of returning to the airfield, his whole body began to shake and tremble again. He had to use every last bit of remaining energy to force his limbs into stillness. And as soon as he stopped thinking about keeping them still, the idea of climbing up into the cockpit of a Hurricane returned in full force, and the shaking started up again. If he let himself go now, if he gave himself up to warmth and kindness, he’d be lost. He couldn’t do it. It simply wouldn’t be worth it. Because then he would have to start all over again. And he didn’t think he could do that. Not again.

  “Toodlepip, then.”

  9

  “Stop!” Peggy hissed. “Right away!”

  The stranger was already vanishing into the darkness. She couldn’t just let him go. How would that look? There were enough rumors flying round about her father as it was. If anyone found out she’d let an invading German disappear, just like that, without so much as a word, the Fisher name would be worse than dirt.

  “Don’t turn around,” she added.

  Silence. Had he stopped? He must have stopped. You can’t run away without making some kind of noise.

  Stay put, she silently mouthed, and, edging along the path by the henhouse, she began to cast about for a weapon. At last her fingers knocked against a long wooden handle, which she caught just before it fell. She sensed the chickens stir and resettle their feathers. It turned out to be a stiff broom, rather than the rake she’d hoped for, but better than nothing. Keep it up, high above the shoulder, all the weight above and ready to come crashing down, and then he won’t hear the giveaway rustle of bristle rather than steel on stone.

  “You can’t escape,” she said firmly, wondering at the clarity of her thoughts. Her voice sounded thin in the night air, and feeble even to her ears. “If that’s what you’re planning.”

  Still no reply. The solitary invader must be lurking just around the corner of the chicken shed, perhaps as frozen by fear as she was. Waiting for reinforcements to arrive. Peggy’s eyes were stiff with staring into darkness, and both her thoughts and her breathing sounded unbelievably loud. In fact, everything seemed rather unbelievable. Still just as terrified, she started to feel like a heroine in one of May’s thrillers. It didn’t seem possible that she could be in the story herself, actually taking part. Clutching her nightdress to stop it flapping, she took a quiet step forward and listened again.

  Suddenly the stillness was broken by a quiet gasping sound. Be quick, calm, and exact, she told herself firmly, suddenly grateful for Ernest’s endless recitations. The ordinary man and woman must be on the watch.

  It was no good running off to get help. The stranger could be miles away by the time she got anyone out of bed and into the farmyard, and nobody any the wiser as to where he’d gone. Or, worse still, the farm could be surrounded e
ven now. Try to check your facts. That light she had seen earlier … was it just his cigarette?

  There’s nothing harder to walk in quietly than gumboots. With ridiculous, exaggeratedly high steps to avoid the sideways slap of rubber against her calves, Peggy began to creep around the henhouse. Her chest felt tight and bursting. Fingers on the edge of the wood, she leaned forward, breathing in the smell of creosote. Another smell hit her nostrils too. She’d caught a whiff of it earlier as she struggled to escape from the stranger’s arms. A peculiar sweet and chemical smell she didn’t recognize. Oh God. He must be closer than she’d realized.

  She wanted to scream now, loudly, and the tightness rose in her throat, but she was too paralyzed to make a sound. Shifting just a fraction, she felt her nightie snag on the splintery wood at her back. The clouds had cleared and the starlight was much brighter. She took another step forward and made herself look, then leapt back in fright.

  A huge pair of eyes glinted up from a crumpled heap on the ground. Then she realized that they weren’t eyes at all, but goggles, pushed to the back of the man’s head, over his leather headgear, so that as he buried his face in his knees, they stared glassily up at her. He was curled up like a child playing hide-and-seek, as if by making himself as small as possible and not looking back at her, he might become invisible. Even disappear.

  Impossible in that light-colored flying suit, of course. He couldn’t have stood out more. Peggy squatted down beside him, pulling her nightgown over her knees. He curled himself up tighter still, tucking his head in more firmly. She could see the tension in his outstretched neck. Taut tendons and the beginning of dark, cropped hair. Nothing on his feet except sodden filthy socks, unraveling in places where jagged holes revealed dirty bare skin.