Fair Stood the Wind for France

by H. E. Bates

  Because he could not explain this to the girl he put his one hand on her neck, quietly kissing her face. ‘Please don’t cry,’ he said. ‘We will do whatever you think is best.’ He knew it was better that way.

  ‘Don’t be impatient,’ she said.

  ‘I won’t be.’

  ‘If you like we will row a little farther and then it will only be a short way into the town.’

  ‘We will do whatever you think,’ he said.

  ‘You should have more faith,’ she said. Her eyes were calm and clear now, the pupils very bright after the tears. ‘If you have faith anything will happen. Look what has happened to you now. You have been very ill, but after all you didn’t die.’

  ‘Die?’ he said. It was the first time they had discussed it. ‘Did I nearly die?’

  ‘There was a night after we had been gathering grapes,’ she said.

  ‘Grapes?’ he said. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You were very ill all through the grape-harvest. Very ill. But I had faith about you. It began by being a small faith, and then it got bigger with every bunch of grapes until it was really quite a big faith. The biggest I ever had.’

  ‘There must be much wine from the grapes of such faith,’ he said.

  She smiled and he tried to think back to the time when he had nearly died. He did not remember the grape-harvest; he did not remember any particular night of terror. It seemed clear that there were many things that would never come back.

  ‘I think we should get the food now,’ the girl said. ‘It will be safe to row. And I can get in early at the queue at the bread shop.’

  She undid the catches of the attaché case and lifted up the lid. ‘Do you want to shave now?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I will shave when you have gone. It will pass the time.’

  ‘I’ll wash my face,’ she said.

  She took a towel out of the attaché case and went down to the river. He saw her wet the end of the towel and dab it over her face. She had left the lid of the attaché case open, and he saw in it her nightdress and comb, another pair of shoes, some stockings, and a hat. He saw, too, where she had stencilled her name on the inner side of the lid, and he knew that she must have put it there as a young girl. The black stencilling was uneven, and after her name and the name of the mill, and the name of the town, and the department, she had stencilled FRANCE, THE WORLD, and then after that THE UNIVERSE, SPACE. He was still looking at it when she came back from the river, drying her face with the towel.

  ‘Now you know,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to look.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I did it when I was a little girl. My mother gave me the case.’

  ‘It is a very nice case,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You can put your things into it, too, if you want to. It will be better than the paper parcel.’

  ‘All right,’ he said.

  From the brown paper parcel she took his few belongings and packed them beside her own in the case. He watched her close the lid, with its black-stencilled THE WORLD, UNIVERSE, SPACE, and, remembering how he had many times written the same things in his books as a child, felt a moment of new and great intimacy between them.

  ‘Now you know I won’t leave you,’ she said.

  ‘Now I know,’ he said.

  ‘Do you mind because I am coming to England?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want you to come. More than anything I want you to come.’

  ‘Will they like me in England?’

  ‘They will like you very much.’

  ‘Is it true that the English don’t like the French?’

  ‘It is true of some of the English and some of the French. For instance, O’Connor.’

  ‘Who is O’Connor?’

  ‘He was the older one of the crew,’ he said. ‘He thinks there is nothing on earth like England, and that there should be nothing on earth but Englishmen.’

  ‘I wonder if he got free?’ she said.

  Franklin wondered, too. He picked up the attaché case and gave it to the girl to hold while he rolled up the tarpaulin. Good old O’Connor, he thought. Nothing would hold him down. He was the invincible, impossible Union-Jack-in-the-box popping up anywhere, for ever. To think of him was like the pain of remembering England.

  He hitched the tarpaulin under his arm and walked down to the river. The sky, so like an English sky in October, was still unbroken. Little paths of waves were scuttling darkly across the stream. Up and down, as far as he could see, the river was empty.

  The girl sat in the boat, holding both oars.

  ‘I can row,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I will row. It will rest your hand.’

  He got into the boat with deep humiliation, not speaking. It had never once occurred to him that she might notice his hand.

  They rowed upstream to within two miles of the town, and pulled the boat into the bank, under a clump of alders. He stayed there and shaved himself and ate a few grapes while the girl went into the town. He did not know quite what to expect that morning. He still did not share the sublime enormity of her faith, and once the terror of losing her hit him like one of the dark waves of cold wind that shivered the grey light on the river. But after about an hour and a half she came back, bringing three loaves, some more apples, and a lump of brown meat paste, and he could have cried at the sight of her carrying these very simple things. He noticed that the bread was greyer and heavier-looking than the bread they had been eating, and the girl apologized for the meat paste. It was the best she could get. she said, but you could eat it if you were hungry.

  ‘Was it difficult?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s a poor town. Consequently there aren’t many Germans. And there is no bridge.’

  They stayed there all that day and then, in the twilight, with the wind cold and rainless and still fairly high and flapping like a wet flag on the heavy sides of the boat, they began to row again. They rowed as they had done the previous night, each taking an oar, but this time the girl knotted his handkerchief across the palm of his hand, so that now it was cool and easy for him to row. They rowed in the late twilight past the town and from the far bank he could see the black outline of warehouses and a church against the cold western light, and then, lower down, by the water’s edge, the shape of a boat or two rocking up and down in the wind. They rowed quietly past the town and beyond the last of the lightless houses until there was nothing about them again but flat open country with low lines of willows and, finally, nothing but the night shaped into its degrees of solid darkness. He could hear the rainless wind all that night sweeping through the trees of the river-side and bringing the low and whistling sound across the water like a gathering wave. They rested twice, rocking in mid-stream, eating a little bread and drinking some of the wine. He was never really tired, and after the second rest, either because of a bend in the stream or because the wind had turned, they seemed to be able to pull the boat along in longer and smoother strokes. He felt the wind in his face for all the rest of the night, blowing cool in his hair that was slightly wet with the sweat of exertion, and cold and solid, like a mouthful of cool food, whenever he opened his mouth for breath. And as he rowed, looking at the girl in front of him, he felt that they were closer than two people had ever been, and that they were close because of a series of little things: because of the little difference of the morning, because she had bandaged his hand, because of their few belongings together in the attaché case. They were close because, as he had felt once or twice before, they were both very young, living their lives on the sharp, thin edge of the world.

  They rowed for about four hours, pulling into the bank in the very early morning, while it was still dark. They lay on the bank as they had done the night before, under her coat and the tarpaulin, but this time she did not cry, and he knew that there was no regret or difference or distrust to keep them apart. He lay very close
to her, his own shape clear against her, quite tired now but not exhausted.

  The wind was dying when he woke and the sun was white on the water. He could see the red tops of houses above yellow autumn trees diagonally across the river, about a mile upstream, and beyond them in the distance a grey line of hills. The girl was awake, too, and was standing behind a clump of alders, watching something across the water. He got up and stood by the alders with her and saw what it was.

  It was a boat. It was rowed by a man with a grey check suit and a big puffy grey cap, and he was keeping close to the bank on the north side. He was rowing steadily, with caution, and as he rowed he kept looking over his shoulder. Franklin was aware after a few moments that he knew they were there.

  ‘If he comes don’t say anything,’ the girl said. ‘Don’t talk.’

  Franklin was watching the man. He was now about fifty yards away. He was a man of about forty-five, rather swarthy, with a black moustache. The back of his pale grey cap cut a clear half-circle across his black hair.

  ‘He’s coming in,’ Franklin said. ‘He’s probably reported us already.’

  ‘Don’t talk,’ the girl said. ‘Whatever you do, don’t talk.’

  He stood on the bank and watched the man pulling the boat round. As the boat made its angle towards the shore he raised the oars and rested on them. The boat came in close and the man looked over his shoulder and gave a final pull or two, bringing the boat broadside on to the shore.

  ‘Going very far?’ the man said.

  ‘No,’ the girl said.

  ‘You want to get over to the other side?’

  ‘No,’ the girl said.

  ‘If you do I can help.’

  ‘We are all right,’ the girl said. ‘We are taking a holiday.’

  ‘A funny place to take a holiday,’ the man said. He pulled the boat several yards nearer the shore. He looked at their own boat, keeping about an oar’s length away. ‘The Vichy border.’

  The girl did not say anything.

  ‘I am your friend,’ the man said. He looked up and down the river, and then at the girl. ‘I am your friend. It’s all right.’

  ‘How do I know that?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have bothered to come if I were not your friend.’

  The girl did not answer. The man looked at Franklin. ‘Wouldn’t that be so, m’sieu?’

  ‘He doesn’t talk,’ the girl said.

  ‘How? – he doesn’t talk?’

  ‘He is the victim of an industrial accident,’ the girl said. ‘He lost his arm, and the shock of losing the arm deprived him of speech.’

  The man looked at Franklin, and Franklin looked back. It seemed clear to Franklin that he did not believe a word.

  ‘You are going over to the south,’ the man said.

  It was a statement. As if quite aware of it the girl said: ‘Yes.’

  ‘You propose to go in the boat?’

  ‘There is no reason why we shouldn’t,’ the girl said.

  ‘Except that you cannot carry the boat on your backs,’ the man said. ‘You will not need the boat once you are across there.’ He pointed across the river.

  ‘Once we are across?’

  ‘You speak as if it were impossible to get across. It is not impossible.’ He looked up and down the river again, and then across it. On the far bank Franklin could see the white smoke of a train. ‘Given the facilities it is not impossible.’

  ‘What do the facilities cost?’ the girl said.

  ‘Oh, little or nothing! Little or nothing! ‘

  She stood very calm, slightly ironical.

  ‘Which do you mean? Nothing or little?’

  ‘Two hundred francs,’ the man said. ‘For the two of you. I will do it cheap because you are very young.’

  ‘We are very young, but we are not very idiotic,’ the girl said.

  ‘You are very idiotic if you think of staying here long. They search the bank every forty-eight hours. And over there every twenty-four hours.’ He looked up and down the river again. ’They have machine-guns farther up, covering the river.’

  ‘We haven’t got the two hundred francs,’ the girl said.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will take the boat.’

  The girl did not answer. The man made a pretence of enormous surprise, taking off his hat and swinging it about

  ‘You wouldn’t get more than three hundred francs for the boat anywhere,’ the man said. ‘For the boat I will get you out and throw in the papers and enough food for the journey.’

  ‘We have the food and we have the papers.’

  The man put on his cap; it was like a gesture of pity for them.

  ‘Papers? What kind of papers? There are papers and papers.’

  ‘These papers are all right,’ the girl said.

  ‘You think they are all right.’ He made a pretence of looking very tired. ‘What way are you travelling when you get over the other side?’

  ‘Train.’

  There you are,’ he said. ‘You have papers. You think they are good papers. You get on the train and the gendarmes arrest you. That’s the sort of papers you’ve got.’

  Franklin looked at the girl. She did not move. It seemed to him that she was not sure. Looking at the man in the boat, he was far from sure himself. He was only sure that he did not want to be arrested by gendarmes.

  ‘Why travel by train?’ the man said.

  ‘We want the quickest way.’

  ‘What is a day or two?’ the man said. ‘You go a quick way and don’t get there. You go a slow way and you arrive.’ He looked up and down the river again, and then pulled the boat a stroke nearer shore. ‘If you come up to my house I have a proposition.’

  The girl hesitated.

  ‘It won’t cost you anything.’

  ‘What about our boat?’

  ‘I will send my boy to look after the boat. He is a good boy.’ He pointed up the river. ‘I have an estaminet. It is about five minutes.’

  The girl hesitated, and then made up her mind. ‘All right,’ she said.

  ‘You can have some breakfast there.’ The man pulled the boat close in shore until it grounded on the tiny gravel beach under the alders. Franklin picked up the attaché case.

  ‘How does he know we are going?’ the man said.

  ‘He is not deaf,’ the girl said. ‘It is only his speech. He can hear.’

  She picked up the bag of food. It seemed to Franklin that she distrusted the whole business, and yet was not sure. As he took up the attaché case and followed her into the boat he felt extraordinarily stupid and defenceless.

  ‘I have an estaminet and you can have hot coffee. Real coffee.’ The man kept repeating this as he rowed them up the river. The sun was warm now, and over on the far bank, beyond the autumn trees, the puffs of train smoke were again white in the clear air.

  They rowed about half a mile upstream, keeping close to the bank all the time. When finally the boat grounded Franklin saw a road about a hundred yards back through broken woodland, and along it a line of telegraph wires. He followed the man and the girl up through the trees. The man kept turning round and saying, ‘Don’t worry. Don’t worry. The boy is a very good boy. He will look after the boat. Don’t worry.’

  ‘We are not worried,’ the girl said.

  Like hell, Franklin thought. Suddenly he saw the estaminet ahead of them. It was a one-storeyed house on the roadside. Once it had been painted blue. But the sun had burnt off the cheap blue plaster in large flakes, and now the plaster lay on the earth, washed by the recent rain and padded down by hens that pecked under the fruit trees. A few small round iron tables stood under the trees and under the eaves of the house brown bunches of beans were harvesting in the sun.

  The man walked up the cracked concrete path under the fruit trees. Franklin could smell the sour odour of hens, of dust washed by rain and now warmed again by sun.

  ‘It is all right. It is all right,’ the man said. He held open the door of the house.

&nbs
p; The door opened straight into a small room in which there were two tables and a counter and half a dozen chairs. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ the man said. ‘It is all right. I will tell the boy.’ He went out through the back door of the room.

  The girl sat staring at Franklin, eyes calm and brilliant. ‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ she said.

  He kept silent.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I said it to annoy you. I wanted to see if you would speak. It will be better if you don’t speak at all.’

  He grinned, aware of the tenseness, the silence, and the beauty of the moment. He wondered if she was afraid. She did not look afraid. She laid her hands on the table and he smoothed her arms tenderly with his hand. She looked at him very tenderly in reply, and he felt that all their complications were refined in the clear simple moment.

  Presently the man came back. He went to the door and opened it and looked out. ‘The boy is going now,’ he said. He came to the table and sat down.

  ‘You can have hot water to shave with,’ he said to Franklin.

  Franklin shook his head.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ the girl said.

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ the man said. ‘The water is heating for the coffee. You have plenty of time. You won’t go to-day, anyway.’

  ‘Not to-day?’

  ‘It is essential to work with the system,’ the man said. ‘The Germans do everything at fixed times. Every forty-eight hours it is dangerous. You have plenty of time.’

  ‘When could we go?’

  ‘To-morrow night.’ He took off his cap and laid it on the table. ‘You can trust me. I am your friend.’

  ‘No one said you weren’t.’

  ‘No. But it is natural to be suspicious,’ he said. ‘Especially on an empty stomach. Where are you making for?’

  ‘Marseilles,’ she said. ‘He has to go to hospital there.’

  ‘It is a curious way of going to hospital,’ he said. ‘In a boat.’

  ‘It is the way we like,’ she said.

  ‘Just so, just so,’ he said. ‘Exactly.’

  The door opened a moment later, and a young woman of twenty-four or -five came in, carrying a tray. On the tray a big coffee-pot stood among cups and saucers, and Franklin could smell the deep strong aroma of the fresh coffee.