by John Harris
Every eye followed the smoke as it was sucked up by the draught through the manhole cover. Then Reinach snatched the cigarette from Dring’s lips and threw it into the water. Dring stared at it, his eyes angry. ‘You didn’t have to throw it away,’ he hissed. They’re hard to get!’
‘You deserve to lose it,’ Reinach hissed back. ‘You might have got us all killed! You still might have!’
As Klemens’s car approached the bridge, the four old men perched on the parapet watched the blue tendrils of smoke ooze through the grids of the manhole cover, drift away, and stop. The girls with the prams drew a deep breath and let it out together as a sigh of relief. Half-way up the lane the crocodile of children with satchels on their backs was climbing towards the woods, and the old man with the donkey-cart was just passing them. There was nothing to arouse suspicion but on an impulse Klemens decided to make a spot check.
‘Stop the car!’
As Tarnera halted the vehicle, it effectively blocked the road so that the old man with the donkey-cart couldn’t continue. Klemens rose in his seat and stared at him.
The schoolmistress, walking at the back of the crocodile, saw what was happening. She was an inoffensive spinster of thirty-three whose fiancé had gone into the army in 1939 and had vanished as a prisoner to Germany. She had no idea when - or even whether - he would return but she prayed for his homecoming before her crucifix every night. It was a cruel joke round Rolandpoint that when he reappeared she’d be so old he wouldn’t be interested, but she longed to do something to hasten his return and she wasn’t lacking in spirit. As Klemens stared at the old man with the cart, she drew back her arm and, using all her strength, sent one of the older girls flying with a clout at the side of the head.
As the girl spun away, her head cannoned off her next door neighbour’s who staggered back to knock one of the smaller children flat on its back. As it started to yell, its fingers were trampled on by one of the boys as they milled about, and in a moment the whole lot of them seemed to be screeching like a lot of factory sirens.
Klemens’ head turned. The veteran of 1870 had disappeared into a cottage further down the lane. Almost immediately, a woman came out and started to run towards where the schoolmistress, shrieking vituperation at the girl she’d slapped, was clutching one of the younger children. She stopped by Klemens’ car, fat, aggressive and angry.
‘At it again?’ she said. ‘Bullying people! We have to live with you but we don’t have to be knocked about unnecessarily.’
Klemens sighed and signed to Tarnera to continue. As the car jerked and disappeared down the hill, the schoolmistress put down the child she was holding and swept the girl she’d hit into her arms. ‘Please forgive me, Francoise,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m so sorry! You know why I had to do it!’
Through her tears, the girl hugged her back. ‘It’s all right, mademoiselle,’ she wailed. ‘It’s all right! It’s all right!’
As the car vanished, everybody drew a deep breath. The veteran of 1870 reappeared and the stream of bags and brown paper parcels which had been passing over garden walls from near the school, down alleys, through back windows into next-door gardens, and across allotments, began to move again. The old man with the donkey gulped and jabbed at it with his stick. As it trotted off, he tottered after it, almost too scared to walk.
As the sound of the car died away, the glimmer of light from the manhole in the centre of the bridge was obscured. Someone began to whistle ‘Madelon’ and thump on the cover with his walking stick. ‘They’ve gone,’ a hoarse voice came. They’ve gone!’
The donkey clattered on to the bridge, the sound of its hooves echoing in the culvert below, and the flow of weapons began again. Where Neville stood, the sewer had been constructed to descend as a series of shallow steps, and they had to splash backwards and forwards in the foul-smelling black water which was never less than thigh-deep and in places up to their waists. The surface was alive with strange, little creatures and grey spidery insects which darted about, and the slime was noisome with leeches and worms. Occasionally one of the girls gave a stifled shriek of horror as she felt them on her legs, while the mud was so full of broken glass and tins with jagged edges they all had cuts on their hands and ankles.
The bazooka barrels needed two men to carry them and Neville stumbled and fell as he and Dring struggled with one, so that he swallowed some of the water. Spitting and spluttering, he almost vomited, but they managed to pass the steel tube on and saw it disappear down the chain. The cart that bad carried turnips up brought hay down and took it to the other side of the village and round to the bridge by a different route. A woman carried a basket of laundry to the fields and brought down another full of sun-dried linen. Three old men who had decided to go for a stroll in the woods moved off with bulging pockets. A girl with a baby followed them.
‘She has a grenade in its napkin,’ Father Pol said tensely.
Then Dr Mouillet arrived in his car, for which he was allowed petrol by the Germans to attend his patients. Ostensibly he’d come to confer with his colleague in Rolandpoint, but when he left there were the barrels and stocks of two Bren guns under the rear seat of his ancient Citroen. As the car chugged away, Sergeant Dréo’s grandson, Jean-Frederic, and his friends arrived. Young Dréo’s prize possession was a racing bicycle with a three-speed gear, butterfly nuts on the wheel-hubs and thin red Michelin tyres. It was new and distinguishable as such by its wartime lack of chrome, but it was fast and light, with the word ‘Viking’, printed in large letters on the cross-bar. He was intensely proud of it and called it his ‘Spitfire’. In little groups, he and his friends swooped around the village with the Rolandpoint boys, revelling in the joy of speed; but they all had leatherette bags on the handlebars and the bags contained small metal objects. In one horrific moment, as he bounced over a gutter near Hytier’s bar, Jean-Frederic heard his bag tear and was shocked to see the blunt end of a Bren magazine sticking through. Grabbing hurriedly over the handlebars, he stuffed it back and rode on, holding it in place until he could stop with safety and transfer it to a pocket.
The crocodile of children returned at tea-time, their satchels heavy once more, and shortly afterwards a donkey with panniers full of winter logs for the stove arrived at the school to collect what they’d brought down. Outwardly Rolandpoint presented its normal appearance. People moved about in ones and twos. The men were all at work where they could be seen, Klein-Wuttig, eating bread and sausage outside the Bar de la Frontière, watched all the time by the proprietor, noticed nothing unusual.
‘Last ten rifles,’ Ernestine reported to Urquhart. They’re loading a cart full of scrap for Sergeant Dréo and, since it all eventually goes to Germany, the Germans are well aware of it and never query it.’
When the old men on the bridge had lowered the last load and headed one after the other down the hill for Rolandpoint, those under the road splashed their way after it through the dark water. Where the culvert opened into a deep ditch in the wood, they began to emerge, men and women, boys and girls together. As Marie-Claude stumbled, Dring and Neville went to her assistance. She thanked them both, but it was Neville she allowed to put his hand under her behind and push her up the bank into the trees.
Ernouf was the last to appear. He was grinning and carrying a dripping sack. ‘Grenades,’ he said. ‘And a Sten. Twelve oranges and a clarinette.’
Marie-Claude stared at him, a smile spreading across her face. Then she flung her arms round Neville and kissed him joyously. Because he was sulking, she also kissed Lionel Dring and, to make sure no one would complain, Patrice de Frager, Ernouf, Reinach, and a few others.
As they washed off the slime, no one worried about standing naked while youngsters scrubbed at their backs and legs and arms and when they were reasonably clean they changed into the spare clothes they’d brought. Then Moch handed round stone bottles of wine and cigarettes he’d acquired from the black market in Dijon.
Back at the farm, as Neville led the old horse a
way, his face still streaked with mud, Marie-Claude appeared from the house. She had already bathed and put on clean clothes.
‘It’s all in the woods,’ Neville said. ‘Wrapped in tarpaulins and buried. It’s safe until we can hide it properly.’
By the time he’d cleaned himself, Madame Lamy had produced an omelette and there was a bottle of wine on the table. ‘I think we should celebrate,’ she said. ‘Where’s Urk’t?’
Neville grinned. ‘Urquhart’s the last man you need worry about,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he was caught by the curfew and had to stay the night in Rolandpoint’
When Madame Lamy disappeared to bed, Marie-Claude produced a bottle of marc. She seemed pleased and relieved, and as they raised their glasses, she stared at Neville, her brown eyes steady on his face, aware that they were alone and a little frightened by her feelings.
‘Do you think I am attractive, Neville?’ she asked abruptly.
He gazed back at her for a moment, his eyes holding hers. She wasn’t beautiful in the accepted way and he knew she didn’t expect him to tell her so. But she had the sort of face a man could live with, the sort of face that grew on you, awkwardly angled but with pale perfect skin and a cloud of chestnut hair, and those desolate grey eyes behind the humour that made him feel sobered and drained of excitement without knowing why.
‘Yes,’ he said and, putting down his glass, he leased forward to kiss her full on the lips.
She studied him silently, a curious exhilaration running up and down her body. ‘Kiss me again, Neville,’ she said.
This time he took a little longer and made more of a job of it, and she responded with a painful intensity that surprised hum. As he released her, she drew her breath luxuriously and stared at him with shining eyes. Then she moved away and stood with her back to him. He took a step forward and put his arms round her. She lifted his hands to her breasts and stood with her fingers over his, and they remained like that for a long time until he felt her give a deep shuddering sigh. She turned in the circle of his arms to face him, her eyes moist, and as he pulled her closer her arms went round him and she was crying softly and he was kissing her tears away. Her words surprised him.
‘I wonder what it’s like in Rolandpoint,’ she said.
When Urquhart arrived at the Bar de la Frontiére with Father Pol and Father Xavier, Klein-Wuttig had long since decided it was safe to leave and was on his way back to Néry to change into uniform. Brisson arrived with his helpers ,soon afterwards, looking hot and dusty but relieved.
‘All gone,’ he announced as he sank a demi-blonde at a gulp. ‘There’s nothing they can find. Not a thing. Not a single round. Where are you putting it ?’
‘Never mind where we’re putting it,’ Urquhart said. The less you know, the less you can tell if they ask.’
Brisson shrugged. ‘All right. When do we get it back?’
‘When do you want it back?’
Brisson mopped his face and grinned. ‘We’re in no hurry,’ he said.
They were celebrating quietly, with Ernestine Bona paying freely, when a German scout car appeared in the street. A sergeant stood up in the back and raised a loud hailer.
‘Curfew has been advanced by one hour,’ he announced. ‘Get to your homes! It starts immediately!’
Brisson shot a worried glance at Urquhart but Ernestine gestured. ‘Stop worrying. They can’t possibly know what happened!’
Father Xavier pulled at Father Pol’s arm. ‘I can find you a bed,’ he said. ‘And my housekeeper’s been given a rabbit. If Monsieur Urk’t -’
‘Monsieur Urk’t can come to my place,’ Ernestine said quickly. ‘No one’s got enough food for two extra.’
Urquhart followed her from the bar, wheeling Marie-Claude’s bicycle. Inside the house, she dug out a bottle of brandy. ‘Help yourself,’ she said. ‘You did us a good turn today.’
The ravages of the day repaired with a fresh application of pungent perfume and so much eye make-up her eyelashes kept sticking together, she produced a meal of pork, vegetables, potatoes in oil, and lettuce. She was free with her wine and produced more brandy with the coffee; for a change it wasn’t made of acorns, wheat seed and chicory but from real beans which, like the tight purple dress she wore, had been bought on the black market.
When her father-in-law had gone to bed, exhausted, she beamed at Urquhart. ‘The Germans don’t get me down,’ she said. ‘And if it causes my death I shan’t complain. In Paris hard-working men collect potato peelings from dustbins and the city’s lost its personality. There are no tripes in Les Halles these days, no onion soup, and no terrifying porters breathing garlic - just women searching for cabbage and turnip tops. It’s astonishing - and terrible - what women will do for chocolate.’ She laughed. ‘You speak French well, Urk’t. Where did you learn it?’
‘In the north in 1940.’
‘When the British abandoned the French.’
To Urquhart it had seemed to be the other way round. ‘I walked from Brussels,’ he said. ‘Bombed every bit of the way. They picked on us to support the artillery of the rearguard and I was one of the last out. Nine of us pushed a boat into the water and rigged a sail. We were picked up by a destroyer next day.’
‘Then you became a flier?’
‘In 1941 they said people in the army could volunteer. I was nearly killed in the rush.’
They were still sitting at the table at midnight when they heard the faint squeal of a vehicle braking carefully to a stop outside and Ernestine gestured.
‘Upstairs!’ she said. ‘My bedroom. It’s opposite the stairs. Get moving. Get into bed. Without clothes. My father-in-law will answer the door.’
Urquhart flew up the stairs. Ernestine was right behind him, her nose to the shutters as she tore at the buttons of her dress. There were Germans in the street below. One truck was already visible and, as they watched, another rolled silently to a stop, its motor off, the driver treading gently on his brakes. From the back, steel-helmeted soldiers jumped down. Among them there were a few Milice who were joined by a group of gendarmes. A machine-gun was set up along the street, a grey figure squatting tensely behind it. A car ghosted to a stop nearby and an officer climbed out and spoke quietly to the man behind the gun. It was impossible to hear his voice and there was something sinister about the silence.
There’s a squad near Brisson’s garage.’ Ernestine whispered. ‘And more down the street. Let’s hope we get a gendarme.’
The Germans began to split up into groups and were joined by Feldgendarmerie. the metal gorgets of their trade catching the faint glow of the lights. Two of them approached a door on the opposite side of the street and they saw them hit their rifles. The banging was loud in the stillness.
They’ll be here in a minute,’ Ernestine said.
As the hammering started downstairs, she leaped for the bed and grabbed at Urquhart. ‘Hold me,’ she said. ‘For the love of God, you know what we’re supposed to be doing, don’t you?’
Despite the situation, Urquhart was becoming very much aware of what they were supposed to be doing. Ernestine was well-rounded and naked, and she was clutching him tightly.
‘Behave as though you’re interested,’ she said. ‘Men usually are. with me.’
They heard her father-in-law clump down the stairs, and the door open, and harsh voices below. As Urquhart’s head lifted, Ernestine’s hand went up and pulled it down again to her bosom. Boots thumped on the stairs, and Ernestine shot bolt upright, pushing Urquhart’s face into the pillows. As she headed for the door, grabbing her nightdress from the end of the bed as she went, a police brigadier appeared, accompanied by a Wehrmacht corporal.
‘Hello, Ernestine,’ he said, grinning. ‘We want to see everyone in the house.’
‘There’s only me and my father-in-law.’
‘Nobody else?’
‘Well -’ she paused,’ - my boy friend.’
The sergeant grinned. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disturb your nesting, Ernestine, but we’ve g
ot orders to search.’
She tore him off a string of abuse. ‘Well, go and search. You’ll find nothing here.’
The sergeant glanced past her towards the shadowy outline of the bed then he turned and eyed her admiringly. ‘How about me some time, Ernestine?’ he suggested. ‘My wife would never find out.’
Her eyes flared. ‘Go and do your searching! You’ll not find much! Perhaps a little black market pork and a bottle of brandy, that’s all.’ She leaned closer. ‘If you don’t bother to count things too carefully, you might even find a bottle for yourselves.’
The sergeant winked and strode to the bed to drag back the sheets. Urquhart sat up slowly, his heart pounding.
‘You pick ‘em big, Ernestine,’ the policeman said. ‘Is he well-built all over?’
‘Better than you, you miserable worm. Where does your wife go for satisfaction?’
The policeman glanced at the papers Urquhart offered. ‘Jacques Urquaert,’ he said. ‘Belgian. What are you doing in Rolandpoint?’
Ernestine lifted her arms in a gesture of disgust. The nightdress went with them. ‘What do you think he’s doing, you oaf?’ she said.
The sergeant handed the papers back and jerked his head to the door. ‘Come on, Ernestine. Let’s search the house. You needn’t put your clothes on, if you don’t wish to. We don’t mind.’
The two men went out, grinning. At the door, Ernestine turned and signed to Urquhart to stay where he was. On edge, he began to dress, listening to the sergeant’s gruff voice downstairs, old Bora’s whines, and Ernestine’s shrill vituperation. After a while, he heard the front door slam and a vehicle drawing away. Then Ernestine appeared in the room once more.
