by Mary Nichols
‘True, but it doesn’t matter, I’d just as soon have you for an escort. You aren’t in any hurry to go somewhere, are you?’
‘Only to the shelter.’
‘Oh, I can’t be bothered with that. It’s dreadful with everyone sitting about eating, drinking and knitting and trying to organise sing-songs to drown out the noise of the bombs. And they smell disgusting. I’d rather be out in the fresh air.’
‘We can’t stay on the streets, Belinda. I didn’t come through the Battle of Britain to be killed by a bomb.’
‘No, I suppose not. I’m staying at Daddy’s pied-à-terre. There’s a shelter in the basement for the residents. Let’s go there. It’s only round the corner.’ She took his hand and began to run as the drone of aeroplanes could be heard approaching. Everyone else was running. He went, willy-nilly.
They dived into the block of flats just as the first bombs began to fall. ‘Down here,’ she said, leading the way to the boiler room in the basement, where two or three people were already making themselves comfortable and were bringing out hip flasks of spirits and thermos flasks of tea. Jack and Belinda sat side by side on an old sofa which the caretaker had brought down along with some armchairs and a coffee table or two. There were magazines scattered about and a few books. It was unlike any public shelter he had been in.
‘Well now, tell me what you’ve been up to?’ she said in a low voice so the others could not listen in, though they didn’t appear interested. ‘What are you flying?’
‘How do you know I’m a flyer? I might be ground crew.’
‘Not you, my sweet, you’d never stay on the ground if there was a little adventure to be had in the air.’
He grinned ruefully. ‘You know me so well.’
‘Of course I do. We’ve known each other all our lives. Played together as children, didn’t we, you, Amy and Lizzie and me and James. How are they all? How are your parents?’
‘Ma and Pa are well, still at Nayton Manor of course …’
‘Ah, Nayton Manor, lovely old house, that. I don’t suppose they have to put up with this.’ She jerked her head towards the ceiling. Above them there was a deafening noise, screeching whistles and earth-moving thuds. They flinched now and again, but then relaxed as they realised that one wasn’t for them.
‘No. It’s fairly quiet there, apart from nearby aerodromes, that is.’
‘You’re not stationed at one of those?’
‘No, Biggin Hill.’
‘That took a pasting, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, pretty bad. But not as bad as London. The change of target let us off the hook.’
‘And Lizzie and Amy, what are they doing?’
‘Amy’s training to be a nurse at the Norfolk and Norwich. She was home for Christmas. Lizzie’s in France, staying with our grandparents.’
‘Good heavens, what’s she doing there?’
‘She was on holiday there when war broke out and couldn’t get home.’
‘That’s rotten luck.’
‘Yes. What about you?’
‘Me? Oh, I’m surviving the best I can. My parents are both busy helping the war effort in their own way and James is in the army. I’ve just been to register for war work.’
‘You?’ He laughed at the idea of Belinda Davenport doing work of any kind, let alone war work, but all women between the ages of twenty and twenty-one had been instructed to register.
‘Yes, me, and it’s not funny. Seems I have to go into one of the services, the land army or a factory. I think I fancy the Wrens. Nice uniform and all those handsome sailors to look after.’
‘You’d enhance any uniform.’
‘Thank you, kind sir.’
The raid didn’t seem to be easing at all. The noise outside was enough to drown any conversation and they gave up talking. She kicked off her shoes and pulled her legs up on the sofa beside her before snuggling down and putting her head on his shoulder. His arm went about her and thus they sat for hours, listening and wondering how much longer the raid would go on and if they would be lucky enough to survive it. Some of the bombs were dropping very close, making the ground shake.
He must have dozed because he woke when she sat up and began putting on her shoes. ‘All-clear’s gone,’ she said. ‘I’m going upstairs to make a cup of coffee. Coming?’
He straightened his tie and stood up to sling his haversack over his shoulder. ‘Thanks. I could do with a drink.’
They climbed the stairs to the third floor because the lift wasn’t working and she let them into the flat. The blackout hadn’t been drawn and the drawing room was lit up like day. They both crossed to the window. The whole of London seemed to be on fire. The red glow in the sky was like a vast red sunset, flickering and glowing in the smoke-laden air, outlining the stark ruins of buildings. Below them, in the street, fire appliances and ambulances rushed to the scene, bells clanging loudly. People emerging from the shelters stood about staring at it, as if unable to believe what their eyes were telling them.
‘My God!’ Jack said. ‘Talk about the Great Fire of London, it couldn’t have been any worse than this. If it wasn’t so terrible, it would be awesome, don’t you think?’
‘Yes.’ She drew the heavy curtains and went to switch on the light. Nothing happened. ‘Damn! The electricity is off again.’ She flung the curtains back again so they could see by the light from outside. ‘Can’t make that coffee, I’m afraid.’
‘Never mind, it doesn’t matter.’
‘There’s some whisky somewhere.’
‘Better still.’
They sat side by side on the sofa drinking her father’s whisky. ‘This damn war is upsetting everyone’s lives, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Everything is changing: death and destruction everywhere, shortages of everything, people being bombed out, women doing hard manual work, the lives we used to live, gone for ever.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, when it’s all over, we’ll go back to normal.’
‘The eternal optimist, aren’t you? That’s what I remember most about you, you were always so cheerful, even when you broke your arm falling out of that tree, do you remember?’
He laughed. ‘Yes. Damned painful it was too.’
‘But you didn’t let on.’
‘No point, it wouldn’t have mended any quicker if I’d made a fuss.’
‘Do you never get afraid?’
‘Course I do. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t. You?’
‘While I’m at home in Devon it’s not so bad, but here, in London … Yes, I’m terrified.’
‘Why did you come up?’
‘James had a spot of leave and I fancied some shopping, so we had a couple of days together before he went back to his unit. Besides, I wanted to see what it’s really like. I couldn’t believe it was as bad as they say.’ She shuddered. ‘If anything, it’s worse.’
‘So you’re going back home?’
‘Tomorrow.’ She laughed. ‘Unless I can persuade you to stay.’
‘Sorry, I’ve got to report for duty in the morning.’
‘Then we’ve got the rest of tonight together. Let’s make the most of it, shall we?’ She put her glass on a table, took his from him and set it beside the other, then turned and, taking his face in both her hands, put her lips to his. ‘You will stay, won’t you?’ she murmured.
He chuckled. ‘I’d have to be made of stone to resist an invitation like that.’
‘And you’re not made of stone.’
‘No; flesh and blood and all five senses which, at this moment, are reeling.’ He gathered her in his arms and kissed her back and then he began slowly to undress her and then himself while the fires of London lit their bodies in a rosy glow.
Elizabeth came out of the farmhouse and looked up at the mountains, white with snow, wondering how long it would be before it disappeared. They might be living in the unoccupied zone, but you would never know it because German soldiers on leave came for the skiing and had as good as taken over the hotels. She could
see them now, going up in the ski lift and hurtling down the slopes, shouting and laughing and enjoying themselves. Some of them were arrogant and noisy, others were no more than boys drafted into the army to serve their Fuehrer. She avoided them when she could, but it served her purpose to be seen on the slopes herself occasionally, enjoying the exercise after doing her chores on the farm, and sometimes she was obliged to speak to them.
The heavy snow made it difficult to guide people over the border as they had done with Max and several men afterwards. Justine had sent them down to her. Apparently there was a network of people in the know and they brought the men to Justine to be sent on. They were not all Englishmen either; there were Canadians, Poles and French. Some were airmen who had been shot down and been helped by sympathetic French families, a few had escaped from prisoner of war camps, some were Frenchmen eager to join the Free French under General de Gaulle in Algeria.
Justine did not always come herself because the story of the boyfriend could not be used too often and she had to think of other reasons for travelling with the men, especially if they could not speak French. And she had to maintain her job as a teacher. Sometimes she dressed as a nurse, saying she was escorting the men to a hospital in the Zone Libre, but she still had to be very careful. Elizabeth would hide the escapees at the farm with the full connivance of her grandparents who liked the idea of pulling the wool over the eyes of the Vichy authorities.
When the snow came, the crossing had become too difficult on foot, and in any case, the tracks they made were too obvious from the air. The route had to be abandoned until the snow melted. Justine was trying to find an alternative via Marseilles and the Pyrenees into Spain, but it was a long haul and needed several safe houses on the way. In the meantime, Allied airmen were being looked after in sympathetic houses all over the region, which was marginally safer than the occupied zone. Pierre had two, Alphonse Montbaun had three hiding in his slaughterhouse and Elizabeth was looking after one, trying to keep him from going out and being seen by the German skiers and those French people sympathetic to the new regime. He had been with her for some time and was growing impatient.
It was also difficult feeding them. They obviously had no ration cards and were dependent on the local inhabitants to share what food they had, which was difficult with rations being as skimpy as they were; the bread ration had recently been cut to three hundred grams a day. Philippe and Henri had burgled the maire’s office from where the ration cards were distributed each month and stolen a whole batch of them. There had been a hue and cry over it, but they hadn’t been caught and now the cards were being used judicially with false names on them. Every time Elizabeth used one, usually in Annecy but sometimes in other places where she wasn’t known, she was a mass of nerves, expecting a heavy hand on her shoulder at any minute. And what worried her more than being caught using a stolen card, was that she might be forced into telling where she had obtained it. So far, she had been lucky.
She turned from the slopes and made her way into the cowshed where the animals were housed for the winter. Even feeding them had become difficult and fodder was rationed for them as food was for humans. What galled her more than anything was that much of the milk, butter and cheese they produced went to feed the German army.
Flight Lieutenant John Sandford emerged from a pile of straw when he saw her. He used his hands to brush down the rough clothes of a French farm worker he had been given. ‘Any news?’ he asked. He was young, no older than she was, touchingly grateful for what she did for him. But that didn’t stop him being impatient.
‘No, sorry.’
‘I’ve been thinking I might make a run for it.’
‘If you do, I shall shoot you myself.’
He looked shocked. ‘You wouldn’t?’
‘I would. I couldn’t risk you being picked up and talking. There are dozens, no hundreds, of people risking their lives to help people like you escape and one man recaptured means everyone connected with him is in danger.’ She had to sound as if she meant it in order to drive her point home, and saw him struggling with himself. She smiled. ‘I’ll get you away as soon as I can. Believe me, I don’t want you here any longer than can be helped.’
‘I’m a risk.’
‘You are a bigger one on the loose.’
‘Point taken. Can I help with the milking?’
‘Do you know how?’
‘Yes, I was brought up on a farm.’
‘Then I’ll be glad of your help. There’s a pail over there.’ She nodded towards it.
He picked it up, found a stool and settled down beside one of the cows.
‘Have you got a family?’ she asked him, watching his deft fingers extracting the milk.
‘Mother, father, two sisters and a young brother. They probably don’t even know I’m alive. I can’t think what they are going through.’
‘No, it’s hard to be separated from loved ones.’ She fetched another stool and began on the cow next in line. There wasn’t anything like as much milk as the animal should have produced, but it was hardly surprising given they, like the civilian population, didn’t have enough to eat.
‘Are you? Separated from a loved one, I mean.’
She hesitated. The less the escapees knew about the people who helped them the better. ‘He’s in the army,’ she said without specifying which army. ‘I haven’t heard from him for ages.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. We all have to learn to cope, don’t we?’
When the milking was done she took him across the yard to the kitchen to share the family breakfast, after which he would try and occupy himself about the farmyard, always alert for unexpected visitors when he would disappear into the straw of the barn again. He did this when they heard the sound of a pony and trap coming up the road towards them. Elizabeth went to the gate to forestall anyone from coming in. But she need not have worried; it was Justine.
‘Alphonse lent me his trap,’ she said, jumping down and hugging Elizabeth. ‘I’ve come to take your airman away.’
‘Good, he’s getting impatient.’
Justine left the pony and trap with John to look after, then followed Elizabeth into the kitchen where her arrival set both her parents smiling and her mother busying herself finding her something to eat and drink. ‘How is it in Paris?’ she asked her.
‘If you ignore the German troops, the swastikas on all the buildings and German notices everywhere, Paris is the same as ever,’ Justine said guardedly.
‘Do you get enough to eat?’
‘Yes, Maman, I eat well.’
‘And the Boche do not trouble you?’
‘No, Maman, I am left to get on with my work at the school.’
‘Good.’
It was only when she and Elizabeth were alone, that she told her the true state of affairs. ‘Shortages of food are taking their toll, especially among the poor. Some of my pupils are becoming truly undernourished and I can’t do much to help them, I’m hungry myself. The rich are thriving on the black market, of course. There are long queues outside all the shops the minute they open but most of the time they have very little to sell. And what there is the Boche take and they don’t queue. It’s not only those who are billeted in Paris, but others come and spend their leave there, filling the cafés and theatres. I have to bite my tongue not to tell them what I think.’
‘It’s the same here. They’ve as good as taken over the hotels for the skiing. It’s why I’ve been on hot coals over Lieutenant Sandford. He’s been threatening to go off alone.’
‘I’ll take him off your hands tomorrow.’
‘How did you get leave?’
‘I discovered that my headmaster, Monsieur Chalfont, is a resistant. He allows an undercover newspaper to be duplicated on the office Roneo. I saw someone doing it one evening when I stayed late marking books; it’s called France Vivra. He’d be in real trouble if the police found out, but now he knows what I’m doing, we can help each other. I drop copies in s
hops and cafés and into people’s shopping bags. We have to counteract the lies Vichy puts out about the war. Giles covers for me while I’m away. The story this time is that I have to visit my sick parents.’
‘How risky is it?’
‘You have to be careful, of course, and can be asked for your identity papers at any time, so it’s not a good idea to be seen out and about with our men on the run, especially after curfew. But I’m becoming adept at knowing if I’m being followed and I always ask the men to follow a few yards behind when I’m leading them anywhere, then if either of us is stopped, it doesn’t implicate the other. They understand that. At the station I buy the tickets but I don’t keep them on me but hand each man his own, then it’s up to them how they deal with a search. Remember that, Lizzie, if you ever have to escort anyone. Having more than one ticket is asking to be arrested.’
‘I will, but we don’t need tickets to take them over the mountain and, so far, that’s all I’ve done. Can’t even do that until the snow melts.’
‘I know, but I’m going to take the lieutenant to a safe house in Lyon. Someone else will take him on to Marseilles and he’ll be passed on from there over the border into Spain. Spain’s not the best way out because so many there are pro-German, but it’s better than staying in France.’
‘The longer the line the more danger there is of being caught.’
‘I know, but each section is run separately and, apart from the organisers who are responsible for communications, they don’t know the people in the next one.’
‘You do?’
‘I’ve helped organise it, but I’m not going to tell you how. Best not to know.’
‘I understand, but things are not so bad in the Zone Libre unless some busybody decides to spill the beans. Vichy are nothing but lapdogs of the Germans and delight in following up information and throwing their own countrymen in jail.’
‘How many people know you are not Pierre’s daughter?’
‘Almost everybody in Dransville, I expect, but unless they are asked the specific question, I’m safe enough.’
