He worked for three hours. Twice Albertine had come to the kitchen door and looked up the hill. He gave her a cheery wave, before he bent over a neat row of potatoes once more. The second time she gave a small wave back.
It was hot now, for the sun was directly above him. Soon it would be time for dinner, and Henri’s return. The old man never missed a meal. But there was still no sign of anyone on the path. The sun’s rays seemed to be concentrating on this patch of ground. The heat gathered in the earth round him and then struck backwards at him. This was the time when a farmer should have a mug of cider under the coolness of these trees over there, and let himself enjoy a satisfied conscience. He couldn’t have the cider, but he stuck the spade in the earth and walked over to the green shade. It was good to lean his back against the trunk of a tree, to stretch out his legs in the soft cool grass. He yawned, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Still no sign of Henri, blast him He should have been back an hour ago. And he ought to have told Henri to get him some cigarettes in the village—if there were any. He himself couldn’t risk a visit to the village merely for a cigarette. But a smoke was what he wanted right now. He looked at the farm and its orchard and fields, and thought, This would be a good way to live if there wasn’t a war, if the Jerries weren’t sitting on your front doorstep. Just to have a ten minutes’ rest with a cigarette and a mug of cool cider; with this view of your land and your house looking as if it had grown from the earth, so natural was its shape and colour; with Albertine cooking a thumping dinner for you in that enormous kitchen. No, someone younger and prettier and gentler than Albertine, he decided. That would be a good way to live. In the evening you could have books, a radio, a gramophone; you could read, and listen, and think. Corlay could have had all that; and yet he hadn’t known his luck. “I’m not interested in the farm,” he had said. “My mother inherited it from her uncle. I only went to live there when I could find no suitable teaching job. I’m interested in writing.” And again that unemotional voice, “Very fair hair. That’s about all.”
Hearne listened to the drone of bees and yawned once more. And then he was on his feet, his mind and body alert. Something had moved in that tangle of bushes beside the windbreak of trees. It might have been some animal. It might have been. Five steps, and he was past the bushes. Then he stood staring at the man sitting there. The man returned his stare, and then shook his head slowly as he grinned.
“I thought you had gone,” he said. “I watched you working and then I must have fallen asleep. When I awoke just now, I thought you had gone.” The words were fluent enough, but he wasn’t a Frenchman.
“Why were you watching me?” Hearne spoke calmly, and his voice seemed to reassure the man.
He looked at Hearne for a minute, and then said, “To see what you were like. I don’t go near farms now, until I see what the people are like: It’s difficult to tell nowadays who’s a friend or an enemy.”
“Who’s your enemy?” Hearne asked.
“What do you think?”
“It’s difficult to tell nowadays.”
The man laughed silently. His teeth showed very white, and they were all the whiter against his skin, which had been tanned with exposure. His hair would be quite fair once the dust and grime were washed out of it. Determined jaw, noted Hearne, and eyebrows slightly drawn. He smiled a good deal as he talked, but his mouth was firm enough in repose. You would hardly notice the colour of his eyes; it was as if the only other features of his face over shadowed them. He was no fool, this man. He was waiting for Hearne to speak again.
“You want food?”
“Yes.” He wasn’t smiling any more.
Hearne looked at the man’s torn tweed suit. It was filthy now, but once it had been good. No cheap tailor had made that shoulder-line. His eyes travelled to the man’s shoes, still holding to his feet by some miracle. Shoes were a good test. Just as in peacetime, you could generally tell the real down-and-out by the shoes. Fakers generally arranged to have their feet comfortable, at least. The man was watching his survey, but he didn’t speak. He’s exhausted, thought Hearne: he’s so exhausted that he can’t make any further effort to talk: he’s holding tight on to himself at this moment.
“Wait here,” Hearne said. “I’ll come back.”
Albertine was standing over the soup-pot like a guardian angel. “Dinner’s long ready,” she began indignantly. “I went to the door to call you, but you had disappeared.”
“I was behind the trees. There’s a man there, and he’s starving. Get that soup into a bowl and tie a cloth round it, Albertine. And bread, too.”
“But there’s only enough for us, and scarcely that.”
“Well, he can have mine.” Albertine didn’t move. He picked up a bowl and ladled the hot soup into it.
“Who is it?” she demanded. “Some beggar? You can’t give to all of them.” He took a large hunk of bread, and cut a thick slice of ham. He could hear Albertine flinch:
“Someone trying to reach the coast. He’s either British or American. He’s all in.” Hearne pulled the small checked cloth off the end of the table, and folded it to tie round and over the bowl.
“But the Germans—”
“To hell with them.” He finished the last knot carefully. “Don’t worry, Albertine. I’ll throw food to him behind some bushes as if he were a dog. I won’t touch him, so I won’t get leprosy. I won’t give him a bed, or a wash, or any clothes, so that every one in this house can go on living peacefully and happily.” The savage bitterness in his voice struck Albertine like a bucket of cold water. She was still half worried, half angry, but for once she didn’t have an answer, not even as much as a gesture, ready. He left her just standing there.
The man had been keeping watch for him. Hearne noted the expression on his face.
“Did you expect me to bring back a gun and a dog?” he asked.
The man smiled wryly. “It has happened, once or twice,” he said. He seized the bowl which Hearne had unwrapped for him. “Hot!” He was incredulous. “Hot! The first hot food in days.”
Hearne sat down beside the man and waited. When the food was eaten to the last crumb and the last shred of vegetable, he said, “What are you? English?”
“American.”
Hearne imitated Corlay’s English accent. “I speak English.”
“You do?” It was an American voice all right, deep and comfortable. And the man was probably genuine, too. The more Hearne looked at those feet, the surer he was. It had taken a lot of walking to produce feet like that. And there had been a kind of heartfelt relief in the upsurge of his voice as he had said, “You do?”
“A little.”
“You’re the first farmer I’ve met who did.”
“I’m not a farmer. I live here with my mother, when I can’t find a job as a schoolteacher.”
“I thought you looked queer on that potato patch.”
Hearne smiled sourly. “It’s probably my job from now on.”
“You speak English well.”
“Thank you. I studied English once. “Hearne looked sidewise at the man, and then added, “I used to see a lot of American movies. That gave me some idiotisms.”
“Idioms,” corrected the American. “Something quite different.”
“Oh, yes. Idioms. That’s the word,” Hearne acknowledged gravely. “‘Honey,’ and ‘nuts,’ and ‘sugar,’ and ‘you can’t do this to me.’ You know the sort of idioms. At first it was very difficult.”
The American was smiling. “I guess it was. You can’t do this to me. Doesn’t mean much now, does it?” He looked at his torn feet. Hearne looked at the potato patch.
“Nothing at all.” Hearne paused. He had given the man enough time to become accustomed to him. Perhaps he could risk a roundabout question.
“But why do you have to hide if you are an American? Your country isn’t at war.”
There was a short laugh. “But I am. I’d just as soon not meet a German or start any questioning. Just as soon.”
Hearne said nothing, but he looked interested. If this man felt like talking, he’d talk. If he didn’t want to, then nothing that Hearne could say would change his mind. So Hearne was silent, but just kept on looking interested. If this man felt like talking, he’d begin in another minute. He did.
“Do you know Paris?”
“Once I was there,” Hearne said.
“Do you know the Ritz?”
Hearne shook his head.
“Well, that’s where I began all this.” The American pointed to his clothes and shoes. Hearne smiled politely, incredulously.
“It’s the truth. There I was in the Ritz Bar about five o’clock in the evening, and in came a friend of mine. He was an ambulance driver. I’m a newspaper man, myself. Well, in he came, and he said, ‘We’re leaving.’ I said, ‘You are?’ and I finished my drink and I went round to the depot where his bus was stationed and got hold of him before he left. I wasn’t going to ask him questions in front of the crowd of newspaper men at the bar. He didn’t know what had happened, or if anything was going to happen, but they had been ordered to stand by. And when he left that night I jumped a ride with him. For two months I had been waiting for something to happen. Now it was happening. And I was going to find out for myself all about it. Well, I found plenty. Plenty. In fact, so much happened that we got sore. There we were with a Red Cross plastered all over us and some bandages and a stretcher and a portable typewriter. And there were the Stukas diving at us and hedge-hoppers spraying us with bullets as if we were an armoured train. We covered over the Red Cross, and that way we managed to reach the fronts or whatever you could call it. We loaded up with wounded, and by that time we were worse than sore. The man I was with didn’t like the responsibility of carrying back wounded without a Red Cross sign, so like God-damned fools we uncovered it. We never got farther than six kilometres. The whole bus went up in flames. It just went up like a torch as we were racing round to the door. Couldn’t do a thing for them inside. So then we found a machine-gun, and I played around with it. By this time this was my war, too. The fellow with me kept worrying about his badge and some oath he had taken, but being an angel of mercy didn’t make much sense at that time. I left him trying to patch up some refugees, swearing his heart out, and I never saw him again. Thought I wouldn’t make his conscience feel too bad about me. I was doing all right, too, when I was taken prisoner. Then I cooled down when they were checking up on me. I remembered a lot of unfinished business left over from an Austrian incident in the summer of 1939. I had a hunch that the Nazis would be gladder to see me than I was to see them. So when it got dark. I walked out on them before they finished checking up. I just waited for my chance and then beat it. I’ve been beating it ever since.”
“So I see,” Hearne said, and looked pointedly at the American’s feet.
“They were a nice pair of shoes once.” He paused and then added, “You know, it’s strange. Whenever I met someone friendly, someone who gave me food or shelter, they always piled on the questions until I was as tight-lipped as any Englishman. You’re the first who hasn’t asked questions—only what nationality I was, and that’s fair enough—and look at the last five minutes.”
“I didn’t ask questions because I get tired answering them myself. I’ve been walking like you, but not so far. I got home this week.”
There was a silence, which Hearne felt compelled to end. He went on, “You are probably wondering why we are sitting here. Actually, it is as safe as any place in the district. The Germans arrived this morning in the village. I’ve sent old Henri down to see what’s happened, and I am waiting here until he returns.”
“I see. I was wondering why you were watching that path. But why didn’t you go to the village yourself? After all, there’s an armistice, a big, beautiful armistice.”
Hearne exchanged a sour smile with the American. “If the Boches see young men without work to do, they will find work for them,” he said. “If they see me digging potatoes, they may let me go on digging potatoes so that they can get them.”
“There’s someone on the path now,” the American interrupted.
But it was Albertine, walking quickly up the hill towards them. She stood before them, regaining her breath for a moment. The annoyed look had left her face. Her voice was almost friendly. “Your mother says that if the man is ill he is to come down to the house.” She gathered up the bowl and cloth. “Now; at once,” she added over her shoulder, and marched off downhill, her white cap bobbing with each decided step.
Hearne was unexpectedly moved by the look of hope in the American’s eyes. “I didn’t ask you before,” he began awkwardly, “because my mother is—” He hesitated. “How do you say it? Difficult? She’s very upset by the armistice. She thinks I didn’t fight very well.”
The American nodded understandingly. “ It’s her farm, isn’t it?” he said. “But do you think we can risk it?”
“It seems quiet enough just now, and the sooner we get your feet attended to, the better for them, I think. Anyway, orders are orders.”
The American rose stumblingly. Hearne steadied him, and then, as he felt the man’s weight slump so heavily on his shoulder, helped him towards the house. Their pace was surprisingly quick: the American must have been making a terrific effort.
“I am Bertrand Corlay. Corlay,” said Hearne slowly, as they neared the kitchen door.
“And I’m—” The American hesitated as if for a breathing space. “My name is Myles.”
“Tell my mother the story you told me. She may adopt you.”
The American smiled, and stepped heavily across the doorway.
But, as it turned out, that piece of advice, unlike most pieces of advice in the world, had good results.
8
ELISE
Madame Corlay wished to see them. That was the command which Albertine had been instructed to give. Hearne exchanged looks with the American and shrugged his shoulders. The American who called himself Myles looked at the staircase and shook his head.
“You’ve got to,” Hearne said in French.
Albertine nodded vigorously. Together they helped the fumbling man up the treacherous stairs.
“I’ll never get down, not this trip,” he said when they stuck half-way, which was something of a prophecy.
Madame Corlay was sitting with her back to a window. The door was open, and she was sitting there waiting for them to appear in the doorway, her hands resting on the stick which she held in front of her. She said nothing, but Hearne had the idea that her glance softened as the slow procession halted inside the room. She wasn’t so angry with him as she had been, he realised suddenly. He must have done something to please her at last.
He was very formal, responding unconsciously to the exact figure, to the composed hands. “This is my mother, Madame Corlay. Monsieur Myles, an American who is escaping.”
Madame Corlay bowed. The complete duchess, Hearne thought, and glanced casually round the room. Similar in size and shape to the kitchen downstairs: more windows, though. Here the east wall had no cow-shed behind it. It was an end wall up here. Two beds, draped; three chests; dresser; desk; two small tables; two chairs; and, strange among these heavy carved furnishings, a ramshackle upright piano. That would be a relic from Rennes, where Madame Corlay had taught elementary music to the tradespeople’s children in order to give her son a good education. That was when her uncle had lived here and she had refused his charity, still bitter over his quarrel with her husband. Even after her husband had been killed in 1917 and she had been left alone in Rennes, even after the uncle had forgotten his anger, she had refused any reconciliation. And only when the old man had died did she come back to the farm where she had lived as a girl. But by that time she was half crippled and unable to enjoy it. By that time the son for whom she had worked was the qualified schoolmaster she had wanted him to be, but a schoolmaster without any pupils to teach. It would have been better for them all, even for the short years of peace which had
been theirs before this war began, reflected Hearne as he walked slowly over to the east window, if Madame Corlay had swallowed pride and ambition and taught her son to be a farmer.
Behind him Madame Corlay was being dignified and polite. In front of him the roof of the outbuilding came just below the window. Useful, he decided, really very useful. He went on admiring the view.
Madame Corlay had finished her gracious speech of welcome. The American had begun to reply. Then there was a crash, and Hearne turned quickly to see Myles sprawling across the rug at Madame Corlay’s feet. What else could she expect, Hearne wondered savagely, as he bruised himself against a heavy table and almost upset a chair in his quick journey towards the American. But then Madame Corlay and Albertine had never been hounded over open country for three weeks.
“What did you propose to do?” he asked Madame Corlay after he had unloosened the American’s belt, and had sent Albertine running for water.
“The man is really filthy,” Madame Corlay said, shaking her head incredulously.
“What did you propose to do?”
“We must feed him, and let him rest here today. Tonight he can continue his journey to the coast.” To the coast... So Albertine must have reported the argument he had had with her in the kitchen, and something which he had said to Albertine must have pleased Madame Corlay enough to thaw some of the icicles in her eyes.
“He couldn’t go on tonight,” Hearne said. “He will have to stay here.”
“Stay here?”
“Stay here?” echoed Albertine, reappearing in the doorway. “But the Boches—”
That word was sufficient for Madame Corlay.
“He stays here,” she said, rapping her stick defiantly on the ground. She was watching Hearne thoughtfully. “War seems to have improved you, Bertrand,” she observed with a peculiar smile. Hearne shrugged his shoulders and went on with his job. Myles was recovering.
Assignment in Brittany Page 7
