by Robert Rigby
“I do wish I could stay,” Paul said. “But I’m not saying it because … it’s impossible. I can’t, even though I’d like to … and…”
They were standing close together, looking into each other’s eyes.
Josette leaned a little closer, and then Paul did. Josette moved closer still. Paul hesitated; this wasn’t meant to happen. But now their faces were just inches apart and Paul saw Josette’s eyes closing, and noticed her beautiful long eyelashes. His own eyes were closing. He felt himself swallow, certain that Josette must have heard the ridiculous sound it made. But it didn’t matter. The next second her lips were brushing against his.
The door to the kitchen opened.
“Josette … oh!”
Odile lifted one hand to her mouth, realizing what she had interrupted.
“What is it, Gra-mere?” Josette said quickly, her face crimson.
“No, nothing, I was going to ask… It doesn’t matter.”
“But I want to help. What can I do?”
“I was only going to ask you to take the cassoulet from the oven while I help Jean-Pierre wash and change.”
“Is he all right?”
“Yes, a little better, but I can manage…”
“I’ll do it,” Josette said, hurrying past her grandmother into the kitchen.
Odile sighed, smiled apologetically at Paul and shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry,” she whispered.
Jean-Pierre had a bit more colour in his cheeks, but he was still only picking at the cassoulet. The heavy stew of sausage, duck and white haricot beans was meant to set them up for the long walk ahead. Paul was also eating sparingly; so was Josette. Odile wondered silently if this was the least successful meal she had ever cooked, when her son, Henri, stuck his head around the kitchen door and beamed at them.
“That smells delicious. Is there enough for two late-comers?”
“More than enough,” Odile said, getting up to fetch plates from a tall wooden cabinet.
Henri and Léon sat down.
“How are you feeling now?” Henri asked Jean-Pierre.
“Much better,” Jean-Pierre said. “And looking forward to my little stroll in the hills with Paul.”
“Good, good,” Henri said encouragingly. But Paul noticed the concerned look that passed between Henri and Léon.
“And Didier,” Henri asked, “how is he?”
“Sleeping,” Paul and Josette said together and then shared an embarrassed smile.
“Good, good,” Henri said again.
“The nurse I spoke to said other people had phoned to ask about him,” Josette added.
“Which people?”
“I didn’t ask. Is it important?”
Henry shook his head. “Perhaps, I’m not sure.”
Odile set down two more plates of steaming cassoulet.
Léon smiled. “The taste of the Languedoc,” he said, picking up his knife and fork. “Marvellous.”
But Henri was unable to switch off his thoughts. “I felt sure we’d be stopped on the way back from Rivel. But there was nothing; no delays, no gendarmes. We saw three cars during the entire journey. It doesn’t make sense, unless…”
“Unless what, Papa?” Josette asked.
“Unless Didier did just fall into the machine,” said Henri, thinking aloud.
“Papa, what do you mean?”
Henri realized he had said more than he’d intended. “Nothing, eat your cassoulet.”
“Papa!”
“I’m sorry, Josette,” Henri said and then decided to voice his fears. “When Gaston didn’t return from Chalabre I was afraid that he had betrayed us. With Didier out of the way he’d know I would continue with the operation, but use the truck instead of the motorbike. It would have been simple then to have the gendarmes arrest us once we’d freed Jean-Pierre from Rivel. Léon and I would have been caught red-handed.”
“But Gaston didn’t know Paul could ride the motorbike,” Josette said quickly.
“Exactly,” her father said. “The point is we weren’t stopped; we saw no one. It seems my suspicions of Gaston are unfounded. According to the guard at Rivel, he’s just sleeping off too much red wine back in Chalabre.”
Paul was following Henri’s reasoning closely. “And Gaston couldn’t have pushed Didier, as he was on the train when it happened. Even if he is involved he would have to have an accomplice at the factory.”
“I’ve considered that too,” Henri said, with a sad shake of the head.
Léon looked up from his cassoulet. “We’ve often said that it’s difficult to know who to trust these days.”
“It’s true,” Henri agreed. “But I’ve always thought of Gaston as a true patriot.”
“Henri,” Odile said quietly, “remember that there are many ways of expressing patriotism. And not all patriots think as we do.”
Henri nodded. “You’re right, Maman,” he said with a smile. “As always. I know in my heart that Didier was pushed. And I know it was because of his involvement in the operation.”
They continued the meal in a thoughtful silence. When it was finished Odile got up from the table and began to clear away the dishes.
“I’ve packed food and bottles of water,” she said to Henri. “The food should last for some time.” She looked at Jean-Pierre. “When you get high up, there are plenty of mountain springs. Drink as much as you can.”
He nodded.
Henri checked his watch and pushed back his chair. “We must leave. We’re due to meet the mountain team in an hour and a half.”
“I’ll lead in my car,” Léon said, as he too stood. “You follow with Paul and Jean-Pierre.”
Jean-Pierre got unsteadily to his feet, and Odile moved quickly to his side. “I’ll walk out with you,” she said, leading him by the arm to the doorway. She turned back to Josette. “Make sure Paul has all the food and drink safely with him before you two come out.”
Josette stared at her grandmother. Odile was giving them the chance of a few moments together. For a last farewell.
The door closed and they stood facing each other, hesitating, uncertain. They had only seconds but both seemed unable to move.
Tentatively, Paul reached out and took Josette’s hands in his. He gently pulled her towards him and this time they did kiss. Not for long, but for long enough.
Then Josette took a tiny backwards step, her eyes moist with tears.
“I’ll never forget you, Paul,” she whispered.
THIRTY-FIVE
The two cars ploughed through the deep black of the early morning hours, Henri peering studiously through the windscreen as the tail-lights of Léon’s car continually disappeared and then reappeared as they took one tight bend after another.
They were heading for a rendezvous point on the southern side of Saint-Girons, a town about the same size as Lavelanet. It sat close to where a number of trails headed into the mountains towards Spain.
Paul could see just enough to notice that the ever-changing landscape had altered yet again. They were no longer in a terrain of hills and wide valleys. Now they were in the mountains, with twisting roads winding constantly upward, and towering peaks looming ever nearer.
Jean-Pierre was asleep in the rear seat, with Paul in the front, next to Henri. Paul couldn’t sleep, although it was already three o’clock. His thoughts kept returning to Josette and the knowledge that he would never see her again.
He spoke quietly with Henri, partly to keep his mind off Josette, and partly to help Henri stay alert as he negotiated hairpin corners where terrifying descents lurked dangerously close to the roadside.
They spoke of Belgium, and then Henri asked Paul about his earlier life in England. Paul remembered it fondly, talking about his school and former friends. But even as he spoke he felt that his time in England had been like another life, almost another world.
And he knew, too, that he didn’t want to return there. Perhaps that would change later, but for now he didn’t want to go back. There was nothing and
no one for him in England. No family, not even a distant relative.
As he stared ahead, seeing the lights of Léon’s car come into view again, he realized that the people he felt closest to were the ones he’d been living and working for during these past couple of weeks. And he was desperately worried about all of them.
He had to voice his fears. “If there are traitors in Lavelanet it means that even after Jean-Pierre and I have gone, you and Didier will still be in danger. And possibly Josette too.”
Henri negotiated the next hairpin bend and then nodded. “We’re at war, Paul. In wartime everyone is in danger in some way or another.”
They passed through Saint-Girons and then turned towards the smaller town of Seix.
The two vehicles climbed steadily higher and Jean-Pierre sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I feel better for a sleep,” he said, yawning. The yawn quickly changed to a barking cough.
Henri glanced at Jean-Pierre’s face reflected in the rear-view mirror, seeing at once that he still looked pale and drawn.
“Don’t worry, Henri, I’ll be OK,” Jean-Pierre said, when the coughing had stopped. “I’ll keep drinking water, that’s what your mother told me.” He laughed. “We’re going to England, eh, Paul? Maybe they’ll allow me a little holiday before I join General de Gaulle. Perhaps you’ll have time to show me the Tower of London.”
“I hope so,” Paul answered. It was the second time the London landmark had been mentioned since the start of his flight to freedom. The Tower of London appeared to hold the same fascination for the French as the Eiffel Tower in Paris did for the English. Paul had never seen either.
Léon’s car began to slow and then pulled off the road, coming to a halt on the edge of a small hamlet. Henri stopped his own vehicle directly behind and they climbed quietly out into the night.
They were outside a small café with a faded sign above the door. Its windows were shuttered; the place appeared to be in total darkness.
“We have to go around to the back,” Léon whispered.
Stepping carefully past crates of empty bottles, they trooped to the back of the building, where a light burned behind closed curtains. Léon tapped gently on the door and they heard a chair scrape across a tiled floor.
The door opened slightly and a small, balding man peered through the gap.
“Ah, Léon,” he said, “you’ve arrived. Come in, come in.”
One by one they filed silently into the kitchen.
The café owner was called Jacques. Léon quickly made the introductions.
“A slight change of plan,” Jacques said, after shaking hands with everyone. He spotted the anxious looks on the faces of the newcomers. “No, nothing for you to worry about. One of the original team has been hurt. A hunting accident. It seems a cartridge from his shotgun blew back in his face. No one can understand how it happened. Poor fellow might lose his sight. So we have a different team; they offered to take over.”
“Do you know them?” Léon asked.
Jacques gave a shrug. “No, I don’t know them personally. But they know the man who was hurt; one of them was with him when the accident happened. And they obviously know what they’re doing. Proper mountain men – told me they’ve made the crossing many times, by the Eagle Trail and others.”
Léon turned to Henri. “Is this all right with you?”
It wasn’t all right; it was another hitch. But Henri had coped with many hitches during that long day and this one didn’t appear to threaten the operation.
“They know the financial arrangement?” he asked Jacques.
“Yes, they know the deal; half the money now and half when your friends are in Spain. They told me they’d give some to the man who was hurt, so they must be all right. They’re all prepared, but they won’t leave until after first light, when it’s safe.”
Henri hesitated for a moment longer before nodding. “I’m sure it will be fine,” he said to Paul and Jean-Pierre.
“They’re in the bar,” the café owner said. “You’d better come through and meet them.” He paused. “Oh, by the way, they’re a quiet lot; don’t say very much. And you won’t find them easy to understand. They’re Andorrans.”
THIRTY-SIX
It was almost five o’clock when Henri’s car crested the hill on the approach to Lavelanet. The first streaks of daylight were appearing, like small rips in the black sky.
Henri had passed tiredness. His mind was racing, his thoughts tumbling and he was unable to shake off the powerful sense of unease he’d felt since encountering the three Andorrans.
They were a quiet lot, as the café owner had said. But from the moment he set eyes on them, Henri felt there was more to it than that. They were brooding and surly, particularly their leader, who was hard-faced and short-necked, and built like a bull.
When Henri and the others had walked through to the café bar, the Andorrans didn’t get to their feet but remained seated around a table, nursing small glasses of spirit and smoking foul-smelling cigarettes, their shotguns resting against the nearby wall.
The leader managed a nod when Jacques introduced Léon and Henri, but he appeared more interested in weighing up Paul and Jean-Pierre once he heard they were the two he was about to escort to Spain.
“What’s wrong with him?” he growled to Henri in fractured French as he watched Jean-Pierre slump into a chair at another table.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Jean-Pierre answered before Henri could reply. “A bit of stomach trouble, that’s all. Nothing that need hold us up.”
The Andorran grunted, shrugged his shoulders and muttered something to his friends in what sounded to Henri like a mixture of Catalan, Spanish and French.
His failure to understand only increased his sense of unease. The feeling didn’t diminish as he handed over half the fee, nor when he watched the man slowly count each note, nor when he reminded him that Paul would give him the second half once they crossed the border into Spain.
He saw the man’s eyes flick greedily onto Paul and linger there before sliding down to the small case in which the money was locked.
The Andorran pocketed the cash and went back to his drink, his cigarette and his friends, disinterested in anything further Henri had to say. The deal was done; business was concluded.
With a nagging feeling of doubt, Henri said his goodbyes, first to Jean-Pierre and then Paul, embracing them both, trying to summon up brave, encouraging words to speed them on their way. But the heroic sentiments would not come and in the end he could manage nothing more stirring than, “Goodbye, my young friends, and good luck.”
In response, Jean-Pierre said, “Goodbye, Henri, and you, Léon. I’ll return with the General.”
Paul had said quite a few goodbyes over the past three weeks and this one was almost as difficult as his farewell to Josette. He solemnly shook hands with Léon and then turned to Henri. There was so much to say but finally Paul, too, was lost for adequate words.
“Thank you, Henri,” he murmured, gripping his hand tightly. “Thank you. I’ll be back one day too.”
Henri nodded, looking as though he had more to say, but then hurried away, saying nothing.
For the entire return journey, through Saint-Girons and towards Foix, where he waved goodbye to Léon, and then dropping down into Lavelanet, Henri’s feeling of unease increased. Leaving Paul and Jean-Pierre with the Andorrans just hadn’t felt right, but there was nothing more he could do.
Josette had remained at her grandmother’s, so instead of going straight home, Henri drove to Odile’s cottage to collect her. As he drew up he saw Didier’s motorbike still parked outside and made a mental note to do something about getting it moved in the morning.
He climbed wearily from the driver’s seat and stood in the road stretching, his body stiff from the journey. He rolled his head all the way around his shoulders in one direction and then the other, groaning as the tiny bones in his neck clicked and shifted into place.
With a long sigh, he too
k out the key to his mother’s house he had always kept. He unlocked the door as quietly as possible, thinking that Odile and Josette would both be asleep.
As soon as he stepped inside he heard voices coming from the kitchen. They were speaking quietly, as though trying not to disturb the stillness of the early morning. But even so, from the low pitch, Henri was certain that one of the speakers was a man. His thoughts instantly turned to Gaston Rouzard. He must have returned from Chalabre after all.
There was much Henri wanted to say to Gaston and even more he wanted to hear.
He strode to the kitchen, pushed open the door and then stared in surprise.
Didier, bandaged, bruised and battered, was sitting at the table with Odile and Josette.
“Hello, Henri,” he said with the slightest of smiles. “I have to talk to you.”
“Didier,” Henri gasped.
“I’m all right,” Didier said, “I discharged myself. They didn’t want me to leave but I had to tell you what I’ve remembered.”
“But what about your head?”
“A bit of concussion, that’s all.”
“And your arm and—”
“Papa!” Josette said impatiently. “You must listen to Didier!”
“Sit down, Henri,” Odile said. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
“Thank you,” Henri said, sinking onto a chair and nodding to Didier to continue.
“First of all,” Didier said, “you must know that I was pushed. I couldn’t remember when I first came around; I couldn’t remember anything. Then I was asleep and it all came back to me. At first I didn’t know if I was awake or asleep; if what I was seeing really happened. But now I’m sure. I remember everything.”
“I knew it was no accident,” Henri said. “Who did it?”
“The one person in the factory who knows the machines almost as well as I do.”
“You mean Marcel?”
Didier shook his head. “No, not Marcel. Yvette.”
Henri gasped.
“I saw her,” Didier continued. “I turned slightly as I fell. She was glaring at me with a look in her eyes I’d never seen before. Not hatred, it was as though she was … possessed; as though she had to do it.”
