by Shirley Mann
She gave him a squeeze and turned towards the tunnel behind him. Having a real, live brother was going to present its own problems, she thought, ducking her head to avoid the flimsy wood that shored up the passageway. The tunnel smelt freshly dug and was held up with rough wooden struts. There was no room to stand up and Bobby, at five foot eight, found it hard to crawl her way through and constantly banged her head on the roof. She heard scurrying and decided to close her eyes, just feeling her way with her knees rather than seeing what creatures shared this underground escape route with her.
After a few minutes, they emerged behind a barn at the back of the small hamlet. In the moonlight, Bobby looked from right to left. Here there was another street of about ten houses, some showing signs of artillery fire with pitted walls and damaged roofs. One of the men waved his arm to get Bobby and Michel to move quickly from doorway to doorway until they came to one of the houses on the left of the little street. They knocked twice, paused and then knocked again. The door opened a fraction and after the word ‘Artistique’ had been uttered as an obvious password, it was opened fully to let the group in.
As the door closed quietly behind them, Michel fell forward into the arms of an older man in faded blue overalls whose large hands embraced the young man’s thin frame, hugging him and saying over and over again, ‘Mon fils, mon fils.’
Their French was so rapid, Bobby could not follow it but then the older man stood back to scrutinise Michel from head to foot to see if he was in one piece. Then he turned to her, registering for the first time her auburn hair and similar features to Michel.
He stared and as a result, the other men stared too, for the first time, taking in her appearance.
Michel whispered something to his father and he scanned her face carefully.
The older man moved forward.
‘We will speak the English, it is more . . . secure,’ he said, taking in the three bemused French faces in front of him. ‘So, you are the daughter of the Englishman my wife tell me about.’
His face showed little antagonism and Bobby wondered how he could be so calm. His son was not his son and now, here was a girl who was another reminder of a family scandal he surely wanted to forget.
‘We will talk in a moment,’ he said quietly to her.
‘Claudette,’ he called into the kitchen from where a smell of rotting vegetables was emanating.
A girl in a faded print dress came into the room. She was around twenty-two and her dark hair was swept up into a bun. She fiddled with this bun now as she spotted Michel for the first time. A blush crept up her face but Michel showed no reaction, only smiling vaguely at her.
‘Bonsoir, Claudette,’ he said, adding the obvious comment, ‘Je suis revenu.’
She nodded. Yes, he had come back and still he did not love her.
The older man went on. ‘Claudette, le café, si’il te plaît. Et quelquechose à manger pour Michel et notre invitée.’ The girl looked suspiciously at Bobby and then hurried back to the kitchen to prepare something for their guests to eat. The man turned back to face Bobby and he held out his hand to her. ‘Je m’appelle Raoul.’
She took his hand and shook it as firmly as she could to disguise the shaking. It was huge and calloused and engulfed her hand, but it was warm and gentle.
‘Je m’appelle Bobby.’
He repeated the word slowly, trying to pronounce it but putting the accent on the last syllable to make it ‘Bobbee.’
The other men were shuffling backwards, wanting to be away to fade back into the shadows of the woods.
Raoul led Bobby to an old armchair and then took the men out to the kitchen to see them through the back door.
Bobby called, ‘Merci beaucoup,’ to them, not sure how such a normal thank you could offer gratitude to the men who had just risked their lives to bring them to this place.
Michel followed his father and once the door had shut, Bobby heard them talking in the hallway. It was very fast French, but Bobby heard her name several times. She realised Michel was filling his father in on all that had happened since he was scooped up by an English aircraft just a few weeks ago.
Bobby looked around her and sat down on the old, threadbare armchair that was near the fireplace. She found herself relaxing in that room, not because it was warm, it was not, but there was something that made it feel like a haven. It was a narrow room with the remnants of red gingham curtains bordering the black card that had been placed over the windows. The mantlepiece over the stone fireplace held precious items such as a chipped vase and a child’s painting of a tree that was curled at the edges and had yellowed with age. Bobby looked at the ashes in the grate. They showed a tiny glow of red that put out hardly any heat. There were stubs of candles that had been lit, giving a tiny glow of light, but the Kerosene lamps on the walls were dusty and showed no evidence of having been used in ages. She tried to work out what it was that made it feel so safe when, in fact, she was in the worst danger she had ever been in. Sitting in the old, tattered armchair with wings that seemed to envelope her, she decided it was the feeling that the room resounded with echoes of this family with which she had somehow become entwined. They had lived here for generations and the ancestors’ support emanated from the walls as the changing scenes had played out in the room—wars, peace, children, love and even death had all taken place here and because of that, the house had a permanence that gave her comfort. There was one rocking chair, standing like an oak tree in one corner waiting for its owner, equally as solid and rooted, a low stool and several hard-backed chairs around the table which had a torn lace tablecloth on it. The cloth was clean and, in its day, had been a beautiful piece of work but now its edges were frayed. On a small dark wooden table next to the fireplace was a picture of a beautiful woman with dark hair, curled around her face. Bobby knew it was Nicole. She beamed a smile that showed an openness of spirit that would have tempted the heart of any soldier far from home.
Raoul and Michel came back in and Raoul bolted the front door and then sat on the rocking chair opposite her. He seemed to melt into it and Bobby could hardly see where he ended and the wood began. Michel pulled a three-legged stool up from the other side of the room, but before he sat on it, he adjusted the cardboard that had been stuck on the window behind the faded gingham curtains. He seemed nervous and twitchy and his father put out his hand to help steady him onto the stool.
‘There is always danger,’ Raoul explained to Bobby. ‘You need to be prepared. If anyone comes to the door, you must hide. We will show you in a minute.
Raoul glanced towards the kitchen. ‘We will speak in English so that Claudette . . . she is a good girl but it is better for her if she knows only a little.’ The girl’s back could just be seen but she had left the door open and Bobby was sure she was listening. Raoul sat down in the rocking chair that moulded to his large shape.
‘This house is what we call a “maison sûre”, a safe house, it is used by people . . . in need. We change them every month. You will stay in the cellar, you should be safe here. We pretend to work with the Germans.’
‘Michel has told me a little of what has happened to him and how it is you are here. Now I need to know from you both what you have heard about the latest events here.’ He turned to Michel, who looked from his father to Bobby and back again; he was clutching the edge of the stool with his fingers. Raoul stood up and placed a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder, nodding to him in encouragement. Michel sat up straighter. He took a deep breath and spoke, haltingly at first but then his voice gained strength.
‘I have a job to do. I know there have been problems. I have information for the . . .’ he faltered, knowing the word ‘resistance’ was the same in both languages and glanced towards the kitchen door. ‘Friends. There is much to do and I have been given the authority to do it.’
He stopped. He did not want to tell his father anything that would put his life in jeopardy.
‘I will arrange a meeting, but what
do we do about her?’ Raoul sat down again and jerked his head towards Bobby.
‘She needs to hide and stay hidden for one week. There is another plane that will come,’ Michel replied, gaining confidence as the candles flared in the holders. It was as if being on home turf gave him a strength, or maybe it was the calm control of the man opposite them who had brought him up.
Bobby remembered the rice paper and thought now was as good a time as any to make sure there was no doubt about the importance of Michel’s role.
‘Your son,’ she paused, blushing slightly, ‘your . . . er . . . er . . . son . . . has been briefed by the highest authorities to take on this task. It is important for all of us . . . tout le monde,’ she said haltingly, realising the French phrase actually meant all of us and, more literally, the whole world. There was a huge power in those three words. She stopped as Raoul leaned forward to gently put his hand on her shoulder this time. There was one issue this large Frenchman wanted to address and then to never mention again.
‘Yes, Michel is my son. I know there was a man from England, a man who look like you too, I think, but this is my boy. My wife, she thought I was dead. I was missing for a long time. She tell me that when your father hear his son – your twin – die, they both needed comfort. Now Michel is my comfort.’
Bobby was overcome and felt a sudden need to burst into tears and sob on this strong man’s shoulder, but she gulped and took another breath. Raoul’s matter-of-factness over her brother’s death was such a relief after a lifetime of tiptoeing around the subject with her own family. It was never mentioned at home, even Aunt Agnes avoided it and to hear someone talk about it as if it were a naturally tragic event was liberating.
At that moment, Michel almost fell off the stool.
‘I am sorry, Papa. It is all so much . . .’
‘Of course, of course, you must eat and then rest. Bobbee and I will talk later.’
He ushered them both into the kitchen where Claudette had placed two earthenware bowls on the table with two spoons. There were no windows except for a rooflight above that was covered with cardboard like all the windows in the house and a few candles were dotted around to relieve the gloom. There was a tiny piece of black, sticky bread placed next to the bowls and the soup looked thin, but there was a dusty bottle of red wine placed in the middle of the table with three glasses.
Bobby thought back to Mrs Hill’s farmhouse kitchen full of garden vegetables, milk and fresh eggs. She knew that as a farm, they were able to squirrel away produce while the rest of the village were limited to one egg each a week, dried milk and dried potatoes, but this French kitchen was another story. She glanced at the shelves. There was a tin of chicory, three turnips and a few basic ingredients, but little else. She tucked into her soup but then looked up to see Michel push half of his bread across to his father. His father shook his head but Michel insisted. Bobby looked at the piece of bread she was about to put in her mouth and instead passed it back to Claudette, who looked across at Monsieur Bisset for approval. He gave it and she carefully split it in half, putting some in her pinny pocket to take home the following day for her sick brother and then greedily ate the rest. Bobby’s heart sank. This was what occupation was like. She had moaned and groaned at home, but they did not have to expect a knock at the door any minute, have their food taken away from them or live on weak soup. She had a great deal to learn.
Chapter 17
The candle was getting low in the holder by the time the wine had been drunk. Raoul explained to Bobby that she would sleep in the cellar where there was a mattress. The table was moved to one side, a trapdoor was opened and Claudette disappeared down some steps with a rough blanket and a candle and some matches. Bobby wondered if all the houses in France had hidden cellars and hidden holes in walls. Claudette came back and fetched a porcelain chamber pot. At this point she told Bobby to follow her so she could show her to her ‘bedroom’. The pot she placed on the floor, next to the mattress, and then put the matches next to the candle on the other side. She shyly left a nightshirt that Bobby suspected belonged to Michel on the top of the blanket, lovingly patting it as she spread it out. Bobby smiled to herself, thanked her and followed the young girl back into the living room. She thought longingly of the overnight bag she had left on the aircraft and it suddenly occurred to her that Gus would have been devastated once he realised he had abandoned her behind enemy lines. She wondered whether he would get into trouble.
Raoul was telling Claudette to go to bed. ‘Tu peux aller te coucher maintenant, Claudette. A demain.’
Claudette nodded goodnight to them all, resting her gaze for a moment on Michel, as if he were a miracle who had returned from the dead and then she climbed the stairs to her attic room. Raoul signalled to Michel that he should also go to bed and the young man wearily dragged his exhausted body up the wooden stairs to his own room.
Raoul settled back into his rocking chair to light his pipe.
‘I have just enough tobacco for one pipe a day. It is my luxury,’ he smiled at her. Bobby experienced a tingling feeling of being enveloped by his warm welcome.
‘How do you speak such good English? It’s better than my French,’ Bobby asked, curling up in the armchair opposite him.
‘I learn it when I am on, as you call it, the run? I was in the armée. I fought at Marne – you remember, the allies won that battle, but I was left on the battlefield, almost dead. A bayonet wound in my head, a bullet in my groin, it was only because some Belgian soldier heard me moan, he picks me up and takes me to a doctor in the village nearby. I am very ill with infection for many weeks. I receive treatment from a doctor in the village and, at last, I am a little better but by then, you see, I was a deserter. I could not go home or back to my unit and it was too dangerous to send a letter home – for me and the doctor’s family. I hid in his loft. I learned medicine and English from him. He teach me many things and peut-être, also some names for the Germans that a lady should not hear.’
Bobby started to laugh but Raoul butted in, suddenly very pleased with himself.
‘I think you should be my daughter. I am so used to the red hair for a child, it seems you are part of us here. I am glad you came, even though my son should not have made it happen for you. You are now in such danger.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Bobby reassured him with a confidence she did not feel. ‘I am used to being frightened. I am a pilot for the Air Transport Auxiliary,’ she added with a blush of pride.
And with a third of a bottle of wine warming her stomach, there was a comfortable silence between them. Raoul puffed away on his pipe as he took in this information and she watched the flickering of the candle. He did not seem surprised but then again, Bobby reasoned, there were women in France doing much more dangerous things.
‘Alors, ma petite, tell me about why you fly,’ Raoul finally said.
‘I have to,’ she replied simply. ‘It is the only time I am . . . free.’
Bobby started by explaining to him about how she learned to fly so as to be able to spray crops on the farm and how, once the war came, the chance to join the ATA seemed like a dream come true for her. But once she began to talk about how it gave her a chance to show she was as good as any boy, she admitted she had actually done it to prove she could compete with a ghost – her own brother – and maybe earn the respect, if not the love, of her father.
Raoul lit another candle as Bobby realised that once she had started, she could not stop. She told him about Michael, her mother’s nervous frailty and her father’s remoteness. It seemed nothing could shock this rock of a man. He listened intently as she drifted between French and English and encouraged her with questions and understanding. He wanted to know all about her life in England and the farm where she was brought up. She talked about Agnes and Archie, the animals on the farm and Harriet and Gus. She described the little plot next to the barn and the moment she had shared with Michel there. She even told him about Boy, something she had
never told anyone outside the family.
‘You see, when I first saw a shadow, I felt something so strong I couldn’t put a name to it, but it was as if my twin was there next to me. I was half a person but when I created Boy I felt whole again – as if it were not really my fault that Michael had died and I had lived. And then when Michel came to our house,’ her eyes suddenly lit up, ‘it’s not quite the same, but somehow, I feel a part of my Michael has come back to life, just like my mother does. I have found a brother.
‘And now,’ she added shyly, looking over at his encouraging, sympathetic face, ‘I don’t know why, but I feel, I have found you too.’
To her embarrassment, she realised she had started to cry and then the tears flowed, her shoulders shook and it seemed that the guilt she had carried for years, the grief of the family and the responsibility for always being the strong one, slowly ebbed out to be absorbed by the man sitting opposite her, into the bare wooden floors, the peeling wallpaper and away up the cold chimney into the starlit night in the north of France. She felt liberated.
Raoul reached over and put his hand over hers. He got up, put his pipe down and said, ‘You see, I was right, we are your family too. Eh bien, ma petite. You are so tired, you should rest.’
He picked up a candle and led her towards the wooden steps to the cellar. ‘Call me when you are ready and I will bring down another candle,’ Raoul said.
Bobby put on the nightshirt and flapped her arms up and down. She giggled at the absurdity of her situation. That wine must have gone to my head, she thought. She should have been back at base, maybe having a cosy drink with Gus in the local pub but instead she was in the north of France, an enemy-occupied country, being harboured by a key figure in the Resistance. It all seemed somewhat ludicrous and yet, she had to admit, exciting.
