Assignment in Brittany

by Helen Macinnes

  But at the edge of the wood Kerénor was waiting. He gave one of his old smiles as he saw Hearne, and then he was half running, half hobbling, by his side. Behind them, on the other side of the wood, the alarm had sounded in the camp. Hearne made for the first tree in the field. At least, they were free of the wood. It would soon be surrounded. But once they were far enough away from it, it would be a help to them. There was plenty of searching to be done there. They hurried through the night, black peace in front of them, danger behind them. Kerénor’s numbness had given way to grim fatalism. He was keeping up the pace he had set himself, pausing, halting, running, crouching as Hearne did, across the sloping, curving fields with their scattered trees and rambling hedges.

  At last they had circled round the village and climbed the steep fields on its west side. Below them was Saint-Déodat, and Guézennec’s house lying at the end of a row of black shadows.

  “Waste no time. Get indoors and stay there,” Hearne said between the heavy breaths which tore his lungs.

  Kerénor nodded. He was breathing with difficulty, too: drops of sweat clung to his eyebrows.

  “Au revoir.”

  “Au revoir.”

  There was a fumbling handclasp, and then Kerénor was following the path down towards the road.

  Hearne climbed higher on the hill. The clouds were piling up, hiding the quarter moon. When he turned to watch Kerénor he couldn’t see him, but he knew the Frenchman was making his way along the backs of the buildings to reach the house of Guézennec. Hearne listened. There was no sound from the roadway or from that row of houses. Kerénor must be safe.

  He looked towards the meadows beyond the church. After the first alarm the Germans had been quiet enough. First, they would encircle the wood, for the sentries in the camp would identify it as the place from where the sound of a shot had come. And then they’d have to start searching carefully, working inwards from the edge of the trees. If they did it as throughly as he expected, then they would probably now be finding the bodies. There would be something of a scandal, too. The men who found Elise would have something to talk about for the next few weeks. Hearne’s lips tightened. Well, she had earned it, and there was a kind of poetic justice in the fact that the body she had loved so much had earned it for her. He was beginning to believe that Kerénor had still clung to the futile hope that, in some way, she might be innocent, that she had been misled by Corlay. Kerénor had held to his wishful thinking, until tonight. And then there had been no doubt left.

  Hearne paused as he reached the crest of the hill, and looked back at Saint-Déodat. It was a group of vague black shadows clustering under the proud towers of the church. This was the way it had been when he first crossed this hill four weeks ago. Then he had believed it incapable of change. It still looked the same, but the changes were there, as deep and powerful as they were invisible.

  The clouds had spread into a dull grey coating over the sky, and the first fine needle-spray of rain stung his cheeks.

  He left Saint-Déodat and crossed over the hill.

  28

  FISHERMEN’S REST

  The greater part of the town of Dinan stands securely within its walls, high on the edge of an escarpment above the gorge of the River Rance. But outside the walls, down at the water’s level where the boats trading from the coast come to anchor at the small wharves, there are old houses beside the Gothic bridge, and expensive restaurants placed to catch the superb view. Marguerite’s café did not belong to that class. It was one of the smallest and oldest houses, whose front room served as an informal club for the men who worked on the boats.

  So the barge-woman had said, pointing to the quay. It wasn’t far: just across the cobbled wharf. There were one or two men loitering there already, waiting either to load or to unload some boat. If he hurried now he wouldn’t be noticed in this light. The men, he saw, wore old army jackets to shield them from the rawness of the cold drawn. This added to his confidence. He chose his moment, stepped quickly on to the wet paving-stones from the barge, and moved boldly towards Marguerite’s house.

  The barge, too old and too decrepit to have been commandeered by the Nazis, rested quietly and innocently at its mooring-place. Already it had forgotten it had carried him four miles down the River Rance to the Dinan quay. The woman who had helped him to cross the river was still standing on the deck of the barge, waiting for the restaurant-keepers to come down to buy her small stock of produce. For the smart restaurants now had their clientele of German officers, and the vegetables and butter had to be fresh every day for them. Hearne turned as he reached the narrow little house which the barge-owner had pointed out, and looked back. The woman moved as if to let him know she had seen him. He pulled his cap farther down on his head. But neither of them waved. He wished she had taken the few francs Kerénor had given him; heaven knew she needed it, working that old tub by herself, with her husband dead and three children to feed. Her husband had been killed, she had said simply. In the war, Hearne had guessed, for when she saw his stained tunic and battered cap she had given him shelter at once. Another barge was slipping into its place beside the woman’s. It would have helped him too, she had said, as if to explain why he mustn’t pay her. The barge-owners were now so accustomed to picking up stray men wandering near the locks on the canal that they kept a watch for them. It seemed as if many of the escaping men struck naturally towards the Rance, knowing that its waters would lead them to Dinan, and then from there by wooded river-banks to the coast.

  Over the door of the house were slanting, fading letters, but they still spelled Marguerite. Hearne turned down his jacket collar, wiped his face with his sleeve, and pulled the door quickly shut behind him. The square room was small and dimly lighted. It smelled of stale tobacco smoke and vinegar. Two men were sleeping slumped across one of the half-dozen small tables which had been jammed into the available floor space. A bar faced the door. Behind it were empty shelves, a fly-spotted mirror, a vase of large yellow paper daisies. On its left there was another door. On its right, a staircase.

  One of the men half raised his head from his arms, his eyes scarcely open, and then slumped back across the table. The other still choked and snored alternately.

  The door beside the bar opened, and a woman stood there. This must be rising time for her: she was still fastening her dress. Her black hair was plaited into two thin pigtails falling over each shoulder. She fastened the last button, twisted the meagre plaits of hair into a knot behind her head, and jammed them into place with the large hair-pins which she had been holding in her lips. That let her talk, anyhow.

  “No food for an hour,” she announced. “You can sleep at one of the tables.” She pointed a square hand to the two men.

  Hearne made his way past the crowding tables and stood in front of her. She was a short, broad-shouldered woman, almost as square in shape as her brother. She had his blue eyes, too, and the black hair without any greyness showing, although she must have been fifty at least. She even had the same laugh-wrinkles round her eyes and mouth, grooved deeply into the coarse, tanned skin. She waited for him to speak, her hands on the place where her hips might once have been.

  “Marguerite?” Hearne asked.

  She nodded, watching him closely. She couldn’t quite place him, but she would certainly know him again.

  “Le Trapu told me to come to his sister if I needed a place to rest.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “Sailed with him two weeks ago from the Bay of Mont Saint-Michel.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “I know. But he will be here tonight.”

  Her eyes flickered towards the table with the two sleeping men.

  “Did you come here for breakfast?”

  Hearne shook his head.

  She nodded over her shoulder, and he followed her through the door into the small room, which was a mixture of kitchen, bedroom, and sitting-room. It was surprisingly clean and neat, but the faint smell of vinegar still persi
sted.

  Hearne sat down on the wooden bench at the side of the fire-place. He looked at his filthy boots, the stained corduroy trousers.

  “Are you waiting for him to arrive?”

  Hearne shook his head again. “Not exactly. Tonight I must travel again, and I wondered if I could stay here.”

  “This isn’t a hotel.”

  “Your brother said—”

  “Him!” she snorted. “The trouble he gives me!” But her voice was less annoyed than her words.

  “He said you could beat trouble any day,” Hearne said with a smile.

  “That man!” The tone was amiably contemptuous. “He’s a sailor, and as stupid as they are made. He wouldn’t know trouble if he was to meet it.”

  “He’s a very good sailor.”

  “Him!” Her sisterly admiration was amusing enough, Hearne thought, but he hadn’t come here to be amused. He said, suddenly serious, “I sent a message to Le Trapu. It should have reached him here yesterday morning before he sailed.”

  “You did?” The voice was non-committal, but the clever eyes were watching him curiously.

  “Yes. And I wondered if the message reached him.”

  “My God, how should I know? He never tells me anything.” She turned abruptly and began to fuss with a coffeepot.

  “Perhaps you know if the girl bringing the message arrived safely?”

  “A girl? What are you worrying about that for? You look to me as if the only thing you should worry about is the Boche. You’re as bad as—”

  “Him,” Hearne finished quickly. “But did this girl arrive? And has she gone?”

  “You’re all the same, you men. A girl’s a girl. There’s a dozen of them hanging round here every day. Can’t get the place cleared of them. How should I know what girl?”

  “She should have arrived in the early morning.” Hearne’s voice was worried. Anne hadn’t got here; he was almost sure of that now.

  “They often do.”

  “She has fair hair...blue-grey eyes...a short nose with freckles: seven freckles.” He stopped short in embarrassment. God, he thought, such abject foolishness. What had happened to him? Blithering here like an idiot to this old pot, who wasn’t even bothering to listen to him.

  She finished cutting the small loaf of bread and dropped the slices into a shallow basket. “Sounds as if that might be the same girl,” she said casually, but there was a gleam of laughter in her wrinkled eyes.

  Hearne sat quite still. He felt hollow inside. Some day, he thought, as he looked towards the solemn Marguerite, some day someone who needs sleep and food and information is not going to appreciate your sense of humour. Some day someone will— He restrained himself, and played her game. At least, Anne was safe so far.

  “Here’s all the money I have,” he said with excessive calm. “Will it buy me something to eat, and a place to rest until the night comes? And while I eat, would you tell me what you know?”

  Marguerite looked at the money thrown on the table, and then looked at his white face. The calmness of his voice stung her into remorse.

  “I don’t need your money,” she mumbled. “You’ll need it yourself before you reach the coast.” And then she grew angry. “What’s her name, you who come into my house and ask me questions and try to make me tell you things I’ll tell no one?”

  “Anne,” said Hearne, and he was smiling now. “Anne.” “And what is yours?”

  “She didn’t know my real name.”

  Marguerite had recovered her humour. “That’s what she told me. Strange thing, I told her, to go gallivanting over the countryside for a man whose name she didn’t even know.” But her voice was kindly, and her eyes laughed at Hearne’s expression. “Cheer up,” she said, “I don’t blame you for getting angry with me. You don’t know my little ways. Take your money before I change my mind! And here’s something to eat. You need it, I’m thinking.”

  “How did you know I was going to the coast?” Hearne rose stiffly and went over to the table.

  “Well, she’s gone there.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “Yes. Where did you think she was? Hiding under the bed?”

  Hearne looked at her bleakly. “Please tell me,” he said, “just what happened when she came here. Was she all right, why did she leave so quickly, where did she go? Did she see your brother?”

  Marguerite relented and forgot her little ways. “I just had to know whether you were the man she told me about. I didn’t want to give the right information to the wrong man. You’ve got to be careful these days. Now here’s what happened...” She cut him a thin slice of sour cheese and poured some brown liquid into his cup; then she began the story—it was long, but neatly told.

  Anne had arrived, had seen Le Trapu and talked alone with him in this room. Then she had rested and changed her clothes, for her dress was covered with mud and dirt. She had left that dress here, and Marguerite’s niece had given her a blouse and skirt and wool jacket in exchange, for the dress was good rich cloth, and not the kind of material you could buy nowadays. Then, with some food wrapped inside her shawl, she had insisted on setting out again. It was all right to travel in daylight, she had said, for she had a travel permit and money enough. She had even insisted on leaving money to pay for the food she had had. She wanted to go away at once, it seemed, because otherwise she couldn’t reach the coast in time.

  Hearne rose, and walked across to the fire-place. “Just where, at the coast?” he asked. He thought, Saint-Brieuc, no doubt: where else?

  “She didn’t tell me that. You can talk with him about it—she discussed a lot of things with him in the hour before he sailed. He always had a soft spot for blue eyes and fair hair.”

  “I wonder if your brother will be here before I leave?”

  “He told me to keep you here until he came. He thought you would be here.”

  Hearne looked up at that. “He did, did he?”

  “He did.” She watched him curiously. “Better come and finish your breakfast. Then you can sleep upstairs.”

  Hearne came back to the table. There was still one important thing to ask. “Have you had any visits from the Boches?”

  Marguerite allowed herself another half-cup of the tasteless coffee. “Patrols look into the bar every now and again to check up on the men they find there, but they haven’t found anyone yet who couldn’t be accounted for. The Boches don’t come as customers, not after the first week. Our drinks didn’t agree with them. The other restaurants are bigger and smarter, and they get good food there. Here they have to eat what we’ve got to eat, and they don’t seem to enjoy it.” She suddenly laughed, and plunged into a long story of what had happened that first week when some soldiers had bought drinks at the bar. She had mixed them herself. The soldiers gulped almost half the drink before they realised how bad it was. Then they swore she was trying to poison them.

  “Me!” Marguerite said, and picked up the last crumb of a crust with her wet forefingers. “Me!” She looked so outraged, so indignant, that Hearne grinned.

  “What then?” he asked.

  “Things looked bad. Yes,” Marguerite admitted thoughtfully, “it was as dangerous as facing a herd of mad pigs in an orchard. Especially when a sergeant was called in. He took a swill, and then his face puffed up till it looked as ugly as his other end. It was hard to tell the difference: you couldn’t tell whether he was coming or going.” She shook her head slowly, smiling broadly as she enjoyed the memory.

  “And then?” prompted Hearne again. This was one story he was going to hear the end of, anyway.

  Marguerite shrugged her broad shoulders. “Well, I pick up their glasses, one by one. And I empty them slowly into three clean glasses, see? Then I hand two of them to Jacques Hémar and Yves Andhouard who are standing there at the bar watching everything. And I take the third glass myself. And I say, ‘Jacques and Yves, show them how Bretons can drink!’ And, before their very eyes, the three of us swallowed the stuff down to the last dreg.” />
  “Yes?”

  Marguerite looked at him quizzically. “The Boches went away.”

  Hearne’s disappointment was her reward. She loved it. She cracked with laughter, smacking her hands in delight against her thick thighs. When she had quietened, and wiped the tears from her eyes, she said in a casual voice, “But you should have seen Hémar and Andhouard and me standing in the kitchen ten minutes later, spewing our guts out.” She paused, and admired the effect on Hearne. “Sh! Not so loud,” she warned. “But God knows you look as if you needed a good laugh. And sleep, too. Here, get upstairs before these men outside waken and start shouting for something to eat.”

  Hearne followed her quietly upstairs. The small square room showed by the grey light from its narrow window a welter of acquisitiveness and thrift. He picked his way through the empty boxes, bicycle parts, wine bottles, piles of newspapers, and broken ornaments; and looked carefully out of the window. Back yard, he decided.

  “If you leave by the window, there’s a vine to help. But don’t go upsetting my hydrangea pots on the ground,” Marguerite said, and opened a panel in the wall, to reveal a concealed bed.

  “You should be as safe here as the others,” she said. “Come on, get in. I’ve no time to waste.”

  Hearne looked doubtfully at the box bed, in spite of its cleanness, but climbed in obediently. He put out his left arm instinctively as she shut the door.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “You can open it from the inside. You can breathe, too. See?” She pointed to the decorations across the top of the panel, carefully carved to make the ventilation holes look artistic.

  Her voice came through the panel. “I’ll lock the room door, and I’ll make a holy row on the staircase if anyone who shouldn’t tries to come up here. All you’ve got to worry about is the fleas the last man left behind him.”

  But if there were any, he didn’t notice them. He thought, sleep is impossible here, lying like a sardine in its tin. Yet it seemed only ten minutes later when Marguerite’s large-knuckled hand was shaking him impatiently to rouse him.