by H. E. Bates
He was still eating the peach when he saw Pierre coming across the square with the cart. As it stopped by them the girl said again, ‘How is your arm?’ and he said, ‘I’d forgotten it,’ telling the lie quickly because he did not want the complication of more questions. She looked at him swiftly: her eyes an odd mixture of doubt and pity and amused tenderness, as if she knew quite well what he felt and why he was saying it.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘We will go now. You sit between us, where your arm isn’t noticed. As you did when we came.’
He got up into the cart, and then the girl after him. Pierre looked at him and grinned, but did not speak. Then as the cart moved forward Franklin remembered something.
‘What town is this?’ he said. If he had the name of the town he could orientate his position from the map. With Sandy doing the navigation the rest would be easy.
‘There is no need for you to know,’ the girl said.
‘I would like to know.’
‘It would be better if you didn’t know.’
‘It is important for me to know,’ he said.
‘It is very important for us that you shouldn’t know,’ she said.
Suddenly he felt cheap and small and humiliated. It was as if he had been given food in a strange house and had said, ‘I must know how much it costs. I can’t eat it otherwise,’ and he felt sick and bitter through his own stupidity.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Please forgive me.’ He put his good hand on her two hands which lay crossed in her lap. He felt the intimacy of touching her and he knew that she felt it too. She did not move her hands and did not speak, but he knew that her silence and her motionlessness were signs that she understood what he felt.
They drove on in silence, in the hot sun, out of the town and across the flat land, the way they had come, towards the ridge below which the mill lay on the river. All the time the sun beat down on his head with the same bright aching power he had first noticed in the street behind the square. As they came near the end of the journey he felt as if a knife had been laid edgewise across his skull and that every motion of the cart bounced it jaggedly up and down.
When they came to the mill-yard and he got down from the cart, the force of his feet striking the ground seemed to rock his head from side to side on his shoulders.
‘Go straight up,’ the girl said. ‘We will bring you something to eat.’
‘And to drink,’ he said. ‘I must drink a great deal.’
‘Yes. But go up,’ she said.
Climbing slowly up the wooden stairs inside the mill, the shadow cool on his eyes after the pain of the sun, he heard the sergeants’ voices long before he opened the door of the room. They were all very excited, and the voices burst together at him as he opened the door.
‘God, Frankie, thank Christ you’re back. We were scared to hell about you, Frankie boy, we thought it was all over.’
‘All over?’ he said. ‘What happened?’
He stood in the middle of the room, swaying slightly on his feet, looking vaguely at the excited, scared faces of the four sergeants.
‘The Jerries were here,’ O’Connor said. ‘That’s what. The Jerries were here.’
CHAPTER 7
HE could not eat the soup and bread brought up by the old woman half an hour later, but there was milk to drink and he half-lay in a corner of the room, sipping it, eyes almost closed, while the sergeants ate and told him what had happened.
‘After you’d gone,’ O’Connor said, ‘we decided to keep watch. In relays. Half an hour each. I took the first, Goddy took the second. Goddy and Sandy were just changing over when Goddy says, ‘Hell, I haven’t seen him before,’ and we all rushed to the window and there was a Jerry, walking up towards the grapevines.’
‘Alone?’
‘No: with the old man. The girl’s father.’
‘What did they do?’
‘They walked up to the grape-vines, stopped, had a bit of a conflab, and then went into the grape-vines.’
‘It might be nothing,’ he said.
‘They were in the grape-vines bloody near half an hour,’ O’Connor said. ‘When they came out again the old man was grim as hell. You can guess how we felt, watching them came down that path. That wasn’t funny.’
‘What else?’
‘That’s the damn funny thing,’ O’Connor said, ‘nothing else. They stood downstairs another twenty minutes, talking. We could hear them. Then the Jerry went. Walking. Walking, mind you. That means he couldn’t have come from far away.’
‘It might,’ Franklin said.
He set the glass of milk on the bare floor and thoughtfully held it with his hand, staring at it. He tried to think calmly, but all he had ever heard about treachery in France began to break in on his calmness, complicating it. With his head beating heavily as if someone were striking the wall with immense blows behind him, it was difficult to take his thoughts one by one and piece them together into a convincing pattern of sense. He wanted no more hasty conclusions.
‘Sandy,’ he said, ‘what do you think?’
‘I think we should start walking,’ Sandy said. He was very quiet.
‘You’re telling me,’ O’Connor said. ‘I could start walking now.’
Godwin and Taylor laughed and said ‘Yes,’ looking at O’Connor. Franklin knew suddenly that all four of them had talked it out, that all four of them were thinking the same way.
‘Let’s take the thing calmly,’ he said.
‘Never mind about calmly,’ O’Connor said. ‘Let’s get going. It isn’t healthy.’
‘What sort of town was it?’ Sandy said. ‘Did you find out the name of it?’
‘No.’
‘If you could find out I could get our position,’ Sandy said. ‘The rest would be simple. We’ve got all the maps.’
‘Did you ask the girl?’ O’Connor said.
Franklin hesitated. He knew that it was going to be difficult to explain this. In his absence he felt that the interdependence of the crew, as far as he was concerned, had broken. They had made up their minds together, seeing everything as a simple black and white picture of danger and treachery. He himself, after the two journeys with the girl, the few moments in the church and the talk with the doctor, was some experiences ahead of them. There were some things it would be better not to try to explain.
‘They would rather we didn’t know the name of the town,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Thinking of themselves,’ O’Connor said. ‘Just like the bloody French. Thinking of themselves.’
‘And what the hell are we doing?’ Franklin said. His anger broke in his head like a painful echo of thunder. ‘Have some sense. Nobody is going to cut your bloody head off if you’re caught. Or set you up against a wall and shoot you. But that’s the risk they run. For you.’
‘If they don’t sell us out! ’ O’Connor said.
‘We’ll never get anywhere if we don’t trust them,’ Franklin said. ‘That’s certain.’
‘Well, I don’t trust them,’ O’Connor said. ‘I saw the French in ‘40, and I don’t trust them. Not again.’
‘All right, you don’t trust them!’ Franklin said with new anger. ‘All right! But perhaps you can trust me?’
O’Connor did not speak again, and there was a short awkward silence, during which Franklin lifted the glass of milk and drank a little and then set it down hard on the floor. His anger thumped viciously in his head as he sat in silence watching the smoky film of milk clear smoothly from the sides of the glass.
It was Taylor who spoke at last.
‘Does the name of the town matter?’ he said. ‘We got here without the names of any towns.’
That’s the first sensible remark I’ve heard since I came back,’ Franklin said. ‘If we have to get out of here alone we can. If we have help it may mean waiting a couple of days. But with help we can do it twice as quickly. Now are you satisfied?’
He waited for a second for someone to answer him and then g
ot up.
‘All right,’ he said. He felt his anger flatten into hostility. He was very tired, and the milk, cool at first but clammy after the first drink or two, seemed to lie heavy and curdled in his throat. ‘All right. Just to satisfy you I’ll go down and find out what this Jerry business was all about. That’s the simplest way.’
He went out of the room without another word and downstairs and straight across the yard. His anger was still thumping painfully in his forehead when he came to the threshold of the kitchen and saw the girl.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t come down here.’
She came and shut the door quickly behind him, and he was out of the sunlight and in the shadow, the shock of the change rippling in dark and light before his eyes.
‘There was someone here,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A German.’
‘Is it all right?’
‘Quite all right,’ she said. She stood straight up. young and clear and rather defiant, her back against the kitchen table where the men had breakfasted. ‘Quite all right’
‘We wondered —’
Before he could finish speaking the girl’s father came into the room. It seemed to Franklin that he looked tired and rather strained. The craggy taut lines of his neck were tightened as he raised his head.
‘Something the matter?’
‘No, no,’ Franklin said.
‘The German,’ the girl said.
‘He was here about the vines,’ the father said. ‘Only about the vines. That’s all. Don’t worry.’
‘You think he suspected anything?’ Franklin said.
‘Impossible to say. I don’t think so. He is too interested in the grape-crop. He was here to assess the grape-crop. That’s all. You have no need to worry.’
‘I am not worried,’ Franklin said. He tried again to be natural and polite. ‘The presence of the German was disconcerting to the others. That’s all.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Have you any idea when we might go? We are very anxious to go. We do not underestimate the risk for you.’
‘There is no risk. Except the risk brought about by impatience.’
‘That is my feeling.’
‘The first five days are very dangerous,’ the father said. ‘Also, you must have papers. It is very necessary to have papers. They must be prepared. It takes time.’
‘I understand,’ Franklin said. ‘Please forgive my impatience.’
‘It is very natural.’
Franklin leaned against the table. He noticed for the first time that the girl had drawn slightly away from them. She stood by the big kitchen dresser, upright, her brown hand flat on her thighs, watching him but not speaking. It struck him that she was remembering his promise to trust her. He looked at her and looked away again.
‘How is your arm?’ the father said.
‘Much better,’ he said. He remembered the doctor. ‘The doctor sent his remembrances to you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘He talked about your son. I understand how you feel,’ Franklin said.
‘Thank you,’ the father said. ‘Thank you.’ He looked quickly at the floor and then raised his face again. Franklin could see that his eyes were wet with tears, and he knew that from that moment, for him, no matter what the rest might feel, there would be no more doubt
‘I will go back now.’ He looked swiftly round at the girl, who stood in the same attitude, watchful and, he thought, half doubtful of him. ‘You think it better if we don’t come down?’
He addressed the remark partly to the girl, hoping she would answer, but she did not answer. ‘Yes, it is better,’ the father said. ‘By day at least. By night it will not much matter so much. One of you may come down at a time.’
‘Thank you,’ Franklin said. He stood by the door, ready to open it, hoping the girl would break the long silence of her stare at him, but she did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on him brightly, but now, he thought, with a kind of critical passion, and when finally he wrenched open the door and went out, the sunlight hitting once again too brightly after the shadow, she was still standing there, erect and immobile, not having spoken another word.
All that afternoon he lay upstairs in the mill, on the bare floor, feeling as if all the heavy old-fashioned mechanism of the mill had been set to work beneath him, beating the water into a thundering cataract just below his head. At intervals he felt himself go off into a daze, more stupor than sleep, from which he would emerge to see one of the four sergeants standing at the window. The rest were lying on the floor, and not another word, except of his own explanation of the German and the vines, had yet been spoken about their leaving. He could still detect the slight hostility of the four men against him, but it did not trouble him now. All that worried him was the face of the girl as he had last seen it: hostile, too, he thought, but troubled as if he had hurt her very much by seeming to take away the trust he had put in her. And as he lay there, hot and stupid with the pain of his arm that in turn pumped the recurrent feverish pain into his head, he was surprised that in one day his feelings about a person could become so sharp, so perplexing and sometimes so painful themselves. No matter what he thought that afternoon, or how much pain became confused with thought, the face of the girl, beautifully trustful and simple with only the one black cherry of her eye visible in the church, doubtful and troubled in the kitchen, would rise up in his mind and reproach him. He knew that somehow he had to talk to her again.
Late in the afternoon he went to sleep and yet remained aware, in a dream-conscious way, of where he was. His head seemed very large and hollow, and not tightly connected with his shoulders. He did not wake till about seven o’clock. He rolled over and lay on his back and looked at the brown wooden rafters above him and tried to gauge the angle of the sun. The pain had now slipped down between his eyes, and he was very thirsty. When a shadow moved across the room he looked up and saw that it was Sandy, whose face, held sideways and above him, seemed troubled.
‘All right?’ Sandy said.
‘It’s hot in here.’ He did not want to talk much.
‘The old lady came up with some food about five,’ Sandy said. ‘But we didn’t wake you.’
‘That’s all right. I don’t want to eat. I’m thirsty, though.’
‘There was some milk left.’
‘I don’t want it. It makes me thirstier.’
‘The choice was wine or milk,’ Sandy said. ‘I thought the wine would pump up your temperature.’
‘What temperature?’
‘Your temperature. I took it while you were asleep. We’ve got a thermometer - just another of those things O’Connor carries.’
‘What was it?’
‘It’s O.K.,’ Sandy said. ‘A degree and a half above normal.’
Franklin looked at Sandy sharply, not knowing whether to believe him or not, and then suddenly realized that the room, except for themselves, was empty. He felt alarmed and angry again.
‘Where the hell are the others?’
‘It’s all right. Upstairs. They found there was another floor above. The old lady said it was safe, so they went up to keep a better look-out. They can talk up there without disturbing you. And walk about a bit.’
‘Is that what keeps bumping?’ he said.
‘Nothing’s bumping,’ Sandy said. ‘You can hardly hear the water up here.’
Franklin lay back and did not speak. He could see the sky, blue and hot and without cloud, beyond the windows. There was nothing by which he could judge the wind, and there was, as Sandy said, no sound. It all seemed confused and odd.
‘Sandy,’ he said, ‘did I fly off the handle too much this morning?’
‘You flew off the handle, but not too much.’
‘We can’t go yet. You see that, don’t you?’
‘Well —’
‘We’ve got to trust them, Sandy. Having got into it, we’ve got to act as they think best.’
‘I know.
You’ve got to convince O’Connor of that.’
‘O’Connor is just an insular bloody Englishman. He’s got an Irish name and he’s pigheaded like the worst English and hotheaded like the worst Irish. Then he lumps the whole French nation together and says they’re rotten right through. That’s just silly.’
‘I shouldn’t worry about it,’ Sandy said. ‘You’re the skipper, anyway. You can always order him to shut up.’
‘I never ordered this crew to do anything,’ he said. ‘You know that.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Sandy said. ‘Take it easy and rest. Will you drink some of the milk if I put some rum in it?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
He propped himself up against the wall, his eyes blacking out with sickening heaviness for a moment until his body recovered from the movement.
Sandy brought the rum and milk in a glass.
‘Thanks,’ Franklin said. He took the glass and drank a little, feeling the sweet rum taste with his tongue below the smooth cool milk. For the first time he realized how thick his tongue was, the milk furring on it like crust.
‘You remember Davies of 7 Squadron?’ he said. ‘He waited a month in a farmhouse just a bit south of Paris before he could get away.’
‘It’s been done in three days, too,’ Sandy said.
‘Three days or three months,’ he said, ‘the thing is to do it’
‘Yes,’ Sandy said.
‘I’m glad you see it my way.’
He drank a little more of the rum and milk, his tongue thickening again, so that suddenly he no longer wanted to talk. ‘What’s the time?’ he said. He gave the glass to Sandy and slipped his body flat on the floor again.
‘About seven. She said there’d be food about half-past’
‘I think I’ll get some sleep again.’
‘Shall I wake you when it comes?’
