‘Shouldn’t I go and bring the cows in first, Miss Jean? They’re that full of milk they’ll burst.’
‘No, no, Alec. No, I tell you what, pull me up.’ She sat up. ‘I don’t think I have broken my ankle, just twisted it, but the suddenness of the fall, it has—’
Alec nodded. He knew a bit about childbirth, knew what to expect. He looked away discreetly as he pulled Miss Jean to her feet.
‘You got nuffin to fear, Miss Jean,’ he told her quietly. ‘Nuffin at all. Truly.’ He remembered old Nana Stanton saying that to his mother when Tommy was being born, so now he repeated it. ‘You just lean on me, now.’ He bent down a little because he was considerably taller than Jean, and carefully placed one of her arms across his shoulders. ‘There now, we can go along like this, and we’ll be back at the Hall before we can say knife, or butter, for that matter.’
Poor Alec could not help casting a glance at the immense udders on the cows that they were passing, wondering if he would ever be able to get back to them before it was dark. Wondering if any of them could be got in before night-time came and the blackout came into force.
‘We should never have let them out, not in this weather, but with everything as it is, and the top fields clearing under the sun this morning, I thought it would continue fine. It was only at midday that the weather turned, didn’t it, Alec?’
Jean stopped to gasp as another pain hit her.
‘Yup. It was only at midday. This morning, it were cold, but it were sunny, and you could see the grass all right,’ Alec agreed. ‘It’s that kind of winter, though, in’t it, Miss Jean? Difficult to tell whevver it will be anything but hard ground and no fodder, or we keep them in and find ourselves running out of winter feed. That’s the kind of winter it’s gonna be, I reckon.’
‘Ouch!’
‘Lambing will be late, I should have thought, very late this spring,’ he went on conversationally. ‘And then there’ll be the crops to sow. There was a good harvest this year despite everything, though, weren’t there, now?’
Jean stopped suddenly, and started to laugh instead, which was a great relief to both of them.
‘To hear you talk, Alec, you would honestly think that you had lived in the country all your young life. You sound so country it makes me think that you’ve been here since you were born!’
Alec smiled his shy smile. He was only really repeating what he heard Branscombe and the rest saying so often when they were in the kitchen and he came in for his tea. And Miss Maude, of course, she always did like to hear what was happening on the farm, so he always did have a mind to go and tell her whatever was happening.
‘Thought you might like to hear me going on, take your mind off of it,’ he told Jean in a calm and gentle voice. ‘I know our mum used to like to hear talk when she was as you are now.’
Jean stared at him, suddenly realising what he meant. Of course! Alec had brothers, he came from the East End, he would know all about babies and such like, it was natural to him. No going off to hospital for the likes of his mother, it would be a bed in the front room and kettles boiling every ten minutes, and, just like in Twistleton, doubtless a bevy of women hovering on the doorstep waiting to know the size of the baby, and what ‘make’ – as her father used to say, never tiring of his joke.
‘Thank the Lord, it’s not a girl,’ Alec remembered the women on the doorstep always murmuring as each of the boys arrived in turn. ‘Can’t bring trouble home. A boy brings money in, a girl will bring another mouth to feed long before she’s old enough to read.’
All this came back to Alec as they, eventually, far too eventually, he thought, reached the Hall. Jean limping, both of them stopping when Jean gasped as another pain hit her, Alec praying all the time that the baby would not arrive before they reached the comforting sight of the old grey stone house.
‘Nearly there, Miss Jean, nearly there,’ he kept saying, and finally they were there, and his hand was reaching out to the back door that led to the kitchen, and the door was opening, and he could feel a little warmth from the mix of kitchen fires and old ranges, not much mind, but enough to boil kettles, he was sure. He was about to call out, quickly and urgently, when he realised it was useless, because from the inside was coming an unfamiliar sound of a girl sobbing.
‘You lean against that wall, Miss Jean, and I’ll just spy out the land, and then go for a doctor, or a nurse, or a—’ He didn’t complete his words, but walked hurriedly ahead of Jean into the boot room, and from there through the drying room, until he eventually reached the kitchens.
He pushed the kitchen door gently open and stared in. Branscombe was standing by the large old kettle, which he had placed on the range, as if he had known all along that Alec was going to come in with Miss Jean, and that she would already be in labour. His face was very grave. At the kitchen table, which looked vast, since there was only one person seated at it, was Miss Freddie. She had her head in her hands and was sobbing her heart out.
Alec stood and stared at her. He had never seen a woman crying before. He had heard them crying, all right. When his father came home drunk and took his belt off to his mother, and of course when the cat was run over by the brewery van. Mum hadn’t been too good about that, but he had never ever seen a member of the opposite sex crying, not in real life. With no sisters, he wouldn’t, would he?
‘Best if you make yourself scarce, young Alec,’ Branscombe told him in a low voice. ‘Bad news, very bad news, I’m afraid.’
Alec went to say something, but since he didn’t move, Branscombe pushed him a little.
‘You heard what I said! Best if you make yourself scarce. We have bad news, indeed.’
Alec still held back, so Branscombe continued to push the young man’s seemingly immovable body out of the kitchen, and closed the door behind them both.
‘Miss Freddie, she’s in a bad way. Not surprising.’ He paused, clearing his throat a little. ‘Factory where Miss Jessica and Miss Blossom worked, it took a direct hit. Nothing left. Bombed to extinction. They’re targeting the factories all the time now. No. There’s nothing left of anything or anyone,’ Branscombe repeated. ‘Nothing.’
Alec didn’t know what to say. Why would he? Shy at the best of times, he found he was wordless now.
‘I, er – I, er—’ He pointed helplessly at the scullery door. ‘I got Miss Jean in there, Mr Branscombe, and she’s in a bad way.’
Branscombe stared at him.
‘Have you been in a fight?’ he asked, as the light caught Alec’s blood-streaked face.
‘No, Mr Branscombe, I fell. Nothing to it. No, it’s Miss Jean, she’s hurt herself. Fell in the field – ground so hard, all of a sudden. Cows shouldn’t have gone out. They’re still out. And I heard her, and ran, and I fell. No fight, no fight, but the baby – it’s coming out, I think.’
Branscombe brushed past him impatiently.
‘The baby is coming out?’
Alec nodded.
‘We’ll need hot water, and—’
Branscombe took one look at Jean and saw that she was clutching at the lower part of her body. They were going to need more than hot water. Beyond them, beneath the outside archway, through the half-glassed door, the older man could see something. Alec carefully draped Jean’s arm around his shoulders and they started to walk very, very slowly towards the kitchen and the still-insistent sound of Freddie sobbing. Branscombe, walking ahead, inevitably was the first to see just what none of them wanted to see at that moment – snow.
As the torchlight hit Aurelia’s face, she was sure that every inch of colour that might have been there had now fled, which was hardly surprising since she was well aware that she must now have had it. Someone must have blown her cover, someone must have known that there was to be a drop at that very place that night, or else why the welcoming party?
She put her hand up to her eyes, and said in French, and in as calm a voice as possible, ‘Good evening, sirs, may I be of any help? Or will you be of help to me?’
>
A hand descended on her shoulder, a heavy hand. It smelt slightly of oil and petrol. Aurelia frowned up into the face that held the torch.
‘Welcome to France, Mademoiselle Charbonne,’ the voice said, and as Aurelia stared up into that round, friendly, reddened face, she knew that somehow, or other, heaven only knew how, considering the awful landing she had made, she had managed to fall into a friendly field. ‘Come to the farm. We must switch off our torches now we have found you. There are others, too, but you are the first!’
The hand turned her round, and the stout, short farmer walked ahead of her, while two others, their torches also extinguished, walked behind.
The farmhouse was unlit, until you went inside, and then there were discreetly placed candles. There was only one other woman there, and she was silent, placing some wine on the table for Aurelia, and nodding to her to drink it, while carving her a piece of baguette, which she pushed towards Aurelia together with some cheese.
The men sat down, and they too drank some red wine, but, perhaps because they had eaten earlier, they did not share the bread and cheese, or perhaps they were holding back out of good manners? Aurelia indicated the food, silently offering to share it with them, but they smiled and shook their heads, watching her all the time.
Eventually the man whose house, Aurelia imagined, they were sitting in spoke to her in a measured way.
‘You are better than the others, Mademoiselle,’ he told her. ‘Truly much better. The others they sent to us—’ He shrugged. ‘They did not even know how to eat, how to drink. They were soon—’ He drew a finger across his throat, and then shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have better hope for you.’
Aurelia nodded, her expression serious. She had papers she had to pass on. She had to get them into the right hands. She knew she could trust these people. She looked from one goodly farmer’s face to another. She knew she could trust them, she said aloud, slowly, looking from one face to another. She did not add that she knew she had to trust them, because there was nothing else she could do. As far as she was aware, it had not been the plan for her to be picked up only minutes after she landed, so her insides were still trembling from fear that her cover might be blown before she had accomplished her mission. Perhaps her feelings showed in her eyes, because her host leaned forward and started to talk.
There had been reprisals the night before, many dead. All plans cancelled, a double agent. They knew who he was. They would wait for him. They had been told to wait for him. He was done for, as far as they were concerned. An Englishman, they said, with some relish, but by the time they had finished with him he wouldn’t know what he was. His wife had been shot, some time ago, but he had escaped, alas! Never mind. They knew where he was. He thought they didn’t know where he was, but they did. He was good, though, you had to give him credit: spoke perfect French, perfect German. Strange to think that an Englishman should be betraying his own like that. In Normandy such a man would not be tolerated. In Paris perhaps he would, in Paris they had heard that many had turned out to welcome the invaders, but not in Normandy.
This was not getting Aurelia very far, but she was too well-versed in French country ways to try to hurry things along, and she continued to listen, while all the while wondering, over and over again, if she would ever make contact with the relevant agent, and whether he would recognise her, given the chaos that was obviously rife beyond the farmhouse building. All of a sudden England did not seem far away, it seemed a world away, and she a very small figure in a lonely place. Until she heard Miss Valentyne’s voice, from what seemed like another century, but was actually only a few years before, saying, ‘If you’re ever in a tight spot, always remember two things. Charm is not just an aid, but a tool to helping you. And you can never thank enough. Those two assets will help you out of any tight corner. That, and appreciating the flowers. “Aren’t the flowers lovely?” always goes down well.’
Of course that advice had been given to help all of them out of a tight social spot. And looking around the simple farmhouse kitchen, the round, red faces, the serious expression of Madame, now seated at the top of her table, Aurelia was quite sure that appreciating the non-existent flowers would not get her very far, on the other hand, charm might be just what was wanted.
‘It is such a beautiful thing to be back in Normandy,’ she began. ‘The place where I have my happiest memories.’
At that moment there was a thundering on the stout oak front door. Aurelia half-rose from her seat. The three men and Madame remained still and seated, and then their host leaned forward.
‘Take off your shoes, Mademoiselle, and follow me.’
Aurelia did as she was told, and he led her through a door to an anteroom, quickly followed by the other two men. The three of them then shifted what appeared to be a flagstone of immense proportions, and pointed to Aurelia to climb down the steps to the hay store below.
‘Hide well behind the hay,’ one of them whispered, as she clambered down into the darkness, even as they quickly stripped off to their underwear, and Madame likewise, and hoofed up the stairs to the rooms above, where they lay down, Madame having whisked the glasses off the table, and tidied away every suggestion of a repast.
There was more hammering on the door, and eventually one of the top windows in the farmhouse opened and a voice called down.
‘What is it, at this time of night? I have a gun, if you are a robber, I have a gun.’
Aurelia had always suffered from claustrophobia, but never more than at the moment when they pulled the stone into place above her, and she had to fight her way through what seemed like a sea of hay to the back of the cellar. She lay underneath it, frightened to death, her heart beating so fast that she felt that it must very soon explode.
She must have slept long hours, for she finally woke to the sound of an unusually educated voice speaking French. Either that, or the thin streak of light coming from the tiny window half-buried in the ground must have penetrated her covering of hay, because she found herself moving towards the tiny inset glass and staring up at the dawning scene above her.
The men were in the farmyard, and they were laughing and smoking with a tall man, well-dressed, too well-dressed for the countryside. His outfit stood out strangely against the coarse clothes of the farmers. The educated voice belonged to the man, but it wasn’t that which froze Aurelia’s blood, it was the fact that she knew his face, but where she knew it from, she could not at first say. And then it came to her exactly where she had last seen that slightly florid, self-satisfied, handsome – but finally unattractive – face. It had been at Twistleton Court.
The owner of the face had come down to visit Laura. Aurelia remembered him now, only too well, because he had felt her bottom in a beastly way, and had he not been Laura’s father, she would have kicked him in the whatsits, or slapped him across his horridly handsome face.
Aurelia leaned back. She knew now that she had had it. She was sure of this because she had already known that the Hambletons were traitors, known it from being in Special Operations Executive, but never thought to come across them in Normandy, of all places. They were meant to be in the South of France. Meant to be – what did meant to be mean when there was a war on? What was meant to be when it was at home?
And the worst of it was, she rapidly realised, the worst of it was that her farmer friends were his friends, so quite briefly, and not to put too fine a point on it – she had actually had it, and little grey matter though she might have, even she could recognise that she was done for.
She started to slip her hand down to the place where she had hidden her pill, when something stopped her.
One of the farmers had taken out a gun, and was pointing it at Arthur Hambleton, and not in a nice way. (Come to think of it, could you point a gun at someone in a nice way?) And the others were still smiling at him, but they were leading him towards an old van, and stuffing him into it.
Aurelia stared. The van started, and as it was the oldest-looking van you
had ever seen, that was something of a miracle. One of the farmers climbed in the back after Hambleton, leaving another to drive off, while her host, the one she had imagined to be her friend – and who still could be – walked slowly back towards the house, smiling.
Freddie stopped sobbing, and looked up briefly at Branscombe.
‘Stiff upper lip, Miss Freddie, stiff upper lip,’ the face above her with its eyepatch and sad expression said. ‘It’s the only way we’ll get through this – stiff upper lip.’
Freddie mopped her eyes with a tea towel.
‘My upper lip has gone soggy, Branscombe. Nothing to be done, I know there isn’t, just nothing to be done—’
A long forceful, silent shudder ran through her young body, and her normally buoyant expression seemed to have fled, so much so that her grief seemed forever set to stay.
‘Something has to be done, Miss Freddie. Miss Jean’s having her – ahem – I think the ahem is on its way into this world, and it’s snowing, hard. We’ll never get through to the hospital at this rate, really we won’t, unless we act fast, and pretty fast at that.’
Freddie frowned up at Branscombe. What was he saying? Aunt Jessie and Blossom had been wiped out, and he was muttering about Jean. What was it he was saying? At that moment Jean gave an involuntary gasp, and Freddie looked round to see Alec leading the poor girl to the old kitchen armchair with its squashy faded Liberty-print cushions, and its air of always waiting to receive someone.
She stood up. She had to pull herself together, get into uniform, go back into the fray. No time to cry, no time to do anything except get on with whatever her life dictated she should get on with. She moved over to the chair where Jean was now seated. Freddie’s eyes were sore, and her lips were still trembling with the effort not to go on crying. She felt ashamed at breaking down, and at the same time ashamed that she was ashamed. Why shouldn’t she cry for Aunt Jessie and darling old Blossom? What was it about war that meant you were not allowed to cry? And yet. And yet she knew it was just not done. Crying took up too much time, took up too much energy. If she saw her, Aunt Jessie would turn away, embarrassed, and if Blossom saw her, she would look appalled. She would say something like, ‘Not snivelling, are you, Freddie dear? Mustn’t snivel. Bad for the troops.’
The Daisy Club Page 26
