by Nevil Shute
They discussed it in all aspects. Obviously it was impossible to find out how Guinevec was placed; the only thing to do would be to go there and find out. “But if Jenri should have gone away,” the mother said, “there are all the others. One or other of them will help you, when they know that you are friendly with my husband.” She spoke with simple faith.
The girl confirmed this. “One or other of them will help.”
The old man said presently, “It really is most kind of you to suggest this. If you would give me a few addresses, then — I would go to-morrow, with the children.” He hesitated. “It will be better to go soon,” he said. “Later, the Germans may become more vigilant.”
“That we can do,” said Madame.
Presently, as it was getting late, she got up and went out of the room. After a few minutes the girl followed her; from the salon Howard could hear the mutter of their voices in the kitchen, talking in low tones. He could not hear what they were saying, nor did he try. He was deeply grateful for the help and the encouragement that he had had from them. Since he had parted from the two Air Force men he had rather lost heart; now he felt again that there was a good prospect that he would get through to England. True, he had still to get to Brittany. That might be difficult in itself; he had no papers of identification other than a British passport, and none of the children had anything at all. If he were stopped and questioned by the Germans the game would be up, but so far he had not been stopped. So long as nobody became suspicious of him, he might be all right.
Nicole came back alone from the kitchen. “Maman has gone to bed,” she said. “She gets up so early in the morning. She has asked me to wish you a very good night, on her behalf.”
He said something conventionally polite. “I think I should be better in bed, myself,” he said. “These last days have been tiring for a man as old as I am.”
She said, “I know, monsieur.” She hesitated, and then said a little awkwardly, “I have been talking with my mother. We both think that it would be better that I should come with you to Brittany, Monsieur Howard.”
There was a momentary silence; the old man was taken by surprise. “That is a very kind offer,” he said. “Most generous of you, mademoiselle. But I do not think I should accept it.”
He smiled at her. “You must understand,” he said, “I may get into trouble with the Germans. I should not like to think that I had involved you in my difficulties.”
She said, “I thought you might feel that, monsieur. But I assure you, I have discussed the matter with maman, and it is better that I should go with you. It is quite decided.”
He said, “I cannot deny that you would be an enormous help to me, mademoiselle. But one does not decide a point like that all in one moment. One weighs it carefully, and one sleeps upon it.”
It was growing dusk. In the half light of the salon it seemed to him that her eyes were very bright, and that she was blinking a little. “Do not refuse me, Monsieur Howard,” she said at last. “I want so very much to help you.”
He was touched. “I was only thinking of your safety, mademoiselle,” he said gently. “You have done a very great deal for me already. Why should you do any more?”
She said, “Because of our old friendship.”
He made one last effort to dissuade her. “But, mademoiselle,” he said, “that friendship which I value was never more than a slight thing — a mere hotel acquaintance. You have already done more for me than I could have hoped for.”
She said, “Perhaps you did not know, monsieur. Your son and I . . . John . . . we were good friends.” There was an awkward pause.
“So it is quite decided,” she said, turning away. “We are quite of one mind, my mother and I. Now, monsieur, I will show you your room.”
She took him down the corridor and showed him the room. Her mother had been before her, and had laid out upon the bed a long, linen nightgown, the slumberwear of Monsieur le Colonel. On the dressing-table she had put his cut-throat razor, and a strop, and his much-squeezed tube of shaving paste, and a bottle of scent called Fleurs des Alpes.
The girl looked round. “I think that there is everything you will want,” she said. “If there is anything we have forgotten, I am close by. You will call?”
He said, “Mademoiselle, I shall be most comfortable.”
“In the morning,” she said, “do not hurry. There are arrangements to be made before we can start for Brittany, and one must make enquiries — on the quiet, you will understand, monsieur. That we can best do alone, my mother and I. So it will be better if you stay in bed, and rest.”
He said, “Oh, but there are the children. I shall have to see to them.”
She smiled, “In England, do the men look after children when there are two women in the house?”
“Er — well,” he said. “I mean, I didn’t want to bother you with them.”
She smiled again. “Stay in bed,” she said. “I will bring coffee to you at about eight o’clock.”
She went out and closed the door behind her; he remained for a time staring thoughtfully after her. She was, he thought, a very peculiar young woman. He could not understand her at all. At Cidoton, as he remembered her, she had been an athletic young creature, very shy and reserved as most middle class French girls are. He remembered her chiefly for the incongruity of her close-curled, carefully tended head, her daintily trimmed eyebrows and her carefully manicured hands, in contrast with the terrific speed with which she took the steepest slopes when sliding on a pair of skis. John, who himself was a fine skier, had told his father that he had his work cut out to keep ahead of her upon a run. She took things straight that he made traverse upon and never seemed to come to any harm. But she had a poor eye for ground, and frequently ran slowly on a piece of flat while he went sailing on ahead of her.
That was, literally, about all the old man could remember of her. He turned from the door, and began slowly to undress. She had changed very much, it seemed to him. It had been nice of her to tell him in her queer, French way that she had been good friends with John; his heart warmed to her for that. Both she and her mother were being infinitely kind to him, and this proposal that Nicole should come with him to Brittany was so kind as to verge on the quixotic. He could not refuse the offer; already he had come near to giving pain by doing so. He would not press a refusal any more; to have her help might make the whole difference to his success in getting the children to England.
He put on the long nightgown and got into bed; the soft mattress and the smooth sheets were infinitely soothing after two nights spent in hay lofts. He had not slept properly in a bed since leaving Cidoton.
She had changed very much, that girl. She still had the carefully tended curly head; the trimmed eyebrows and the manicured hands were just the same. But her whole expression was different. She looked ten years older; the dark shadows beneath her eyes matched the black scarf she wore about her neck. Quite suddenly the thought came into his mind that she looked like a widow. She was a young, unmarried girl, but that was what she reminded him of, a young widow. He wondered if she had lost a fiancé in the war. He must ask her mother, delicately, before he left the flat; it would be as well to know in order that he might avoid any topic that was painful to her.
With all that, she seemed very odd to him. He did not understand her at all. But presently the tired limbs relaxed, his active mind moved more slowly, and he drifted into sleep.
He slept all through the night, an unusual feat for a man of his age. He was still sleeping when she came in with his coffee and rolls on a tray at about a quarter past eight. He woke easily and sat up in bed, and thanked her.
She was fully dressed. Beyond her, in the corridor, the children stood, dressed and washed, peeping in at the door. Pierre ventured in a little way.
“Good morning, Pierre,” said the old man gravely. The little boy placed his hand upon his stomach and bowed to him from the waist. “Bonjour, M’sieur Howard.”
The girl laughed, and ran her hand throug
h his hair. “It is a little boy bien élevé, this one,” she said. “Not like the other ones that you have collected.”
He said a little anxiously, “I do hope that they have not been a trouble to you, mademoiselle.”
She said, “Children will never trouble me, monsieur.”
He thought again, a very odd young woman with a very odd way of expressing herself.
She told him that her mother was already out marketing in the town, and making certain enquiries. She would be back in half an hour or so; then they would make their plans.
The girl brought him the grey suit of her father’s, rather worn and shabby, with a pair of old brown canvas shoes, a horrible violet shirt, a celluloid collar rather yellow with age, and an unpleasant tie. “These clothes are not very chic,” she said apologetically. “But it will be better for you to wear them, Monsieur Howard, because then you will appear like one of the little bourgeoisie. I assure you, we will keep your own clothes for you very carefully. My mother will put them in the cedar chest with the blankets, because of the moths, you understand.”
Three quarters of an hour later he was up and dressed, and standing in the salon while the girl viewed him critically. “You should not have shaved again so soon,” she said. “It makes the wrong effect, that.”
He said that he was sorry. Then he took note of her appearance. “You have made yourself look shabby to come with me, mademoiselle,” he said. “That is a very kind thing to have done.”
She said, “Marie, the servant, lent me this dress.”
She wore a very plain black dress to her ankles, without adornment of any kind. Upon her feet she wore low-heeled, clumsy shoes and coarse black stockings.
Madame Rougeron came in, and put down her basket on the table in the salon. “There is a train for Rennes at noon,” she said unemotionally. “There is a German soldier at the guichet who asks why you must travel, but they do not look at papers. They are very courteous and correct.” She paused. “But there is another thing.”
She took from the pocket of her gown a folded handbill. “A German soldier left this paper with the concierge this morning. There was one for each apartment.”
They spread it out upon the table. It was in French, and it read,
CITIZENS OF THE REPUBLIC!
The treacherous English, who have forced this unnecessary war upon us, have been driven in disorderly flight from our country. Now is the time to rise, and root out these plutocratic warmongers wherever they may be hiding, before they have time to plot fresh trouble for France.
These scoundrels who are roaming the country and living in secret in our homes like disgusting parasites, will commit acts of sabotage and espionage and make trouble for all of us with the Germans, who are only anxious to build up a peaceful régime in our country. If these cowardly fugitives should commit such acts, the Germans will keep our fathers, our husbands, and our sons in long captivity. Help to bring back your men by driving out these pests!
It is your duty if you know of an Englishman in hiding to tell the gendarmerie, or tell the nearest German soldier. This is a simple thing that any one can do, which will bring peace and freedom to our beloved land.
Severe penalties await those who shield these rats.
VIVE LA FRANCE!
Howard read it through quietly twice. Then he said, “It seems that I am one of the rats, madame. After this, I think it would be better that I should go alone, with the children.”
She said that it was not to be thought of. And then she said Nicole would never agree.
The girl said, “That is very true. It would be impossible for you to go alone, as things are now. I do not think you would get very far before the Germans found that you were not a Frenchman, even in those clothes.” She flipped the paper with disgust. “This is a German thing,” she said. “You must not think that French people talk like this, Monsieur Howard.”
“It is very nearly the truth,” he said ruefully.
“It is an enormous lie,” she said.
She went out of the room. The old man, grasping the opportunity, turned to her mother. “Your daughter has changed greatly since we were at Cidoton, madame,” he said.
The woman looked at him. “She has suffered a great deal, monsieur.”
He said, “I am most sorry to hear that. If you could tell me something about it — perhaps I could avoid hurting her in conversation.”
She stared at him. “You do not know, then?”
“How should I know anything about her trouble, madame?” he said gently. “It is something that has happened since we met at Cidoton.”
She hesitated for a minute. Then she said, “She was in love with a young man. We did not arrange the affair, and she tells me nothing.”
“All young people are like that,” he said quietly. “My son was the same. The young man is a prisoner in German hands, perhaps?”
Madame said, “No, monsieur. He is dead.”
Nicole came bustling into the room, a little fibre case in her hand. “This we will carry in your perambulator,” she said. “Now, monsieur, I am ready to go.”
There was no time for any more conversation with Madame Rougeron, but Howard felt he had the gist of it; indeed, it was just what he had expected. It was hard on the girl, terribly hard; perhaps this journey, dangerous though it might be, would not be altogether a bad thing for her. It might distract her mind, serve as an anodyne.
There was a great bustle of getting under way. They all went downstairs; Madame Rougeron had many bundles of food which they put in the perambulator. The children clustered round them and impeded them.
Ronnie said, “Will we be going where there are tanks, Mr. Howard?” He spoke in English. “You said that I might go with the Germans for a ride.”
Howard said in French, “Not to-day. Try and talk French while Mademoiselle Rougeron is with us, Ronnie; it is not very nice to say what other people cannot understand.”
Rose said, “That is very true, m’sieur. Often I have told Ronnie that it was not polite to speak in English.”
Madame Rougeron said to her daughter in a low tone, “It is clever, that.” The girl nodded.
Pierre said suddenly, “I do not speak English, M’sieur.”
“No, Pierre,” the old man said. “You are always polite.”
Sheila said, “Is Willem polite, too?” She spoke in French.
Nicole said, “All of you are polite, all très bien élevés. Now we are quite ready.” She turned and kissed her mother.
“Do not fret,” she said gently. “Five days — perhaps a week, and I will be home again. Be happy for me, maman.”
The old woman stood trembling, suddenly aged. “Prenez bien garde,” she said tremulously. “These Germans — they are wicked, cruel people.”
The girl said gently, “Be tranquil. I shall come to no harm.” She turned to Howard. “En route, donc, Monsieur Howard,” she said. “It is time for us to go.”
They left the apartment and started down the street, Howard pushing the loaded pram and Nicole shepherding the children. She had produced a rather shabby black Homburg hat for the old man, and this with his grey suit and brown canvas shoes made him look very French. They went slowly for the sake of the children; the girl strolled beside him with a shawl over her shoulders.
Presently she said, “Give me the pram, monsieur. That is more fitting for a woman to push, in the class that we represent.”
He surrendered it to her; they must play up to their disguise. “When we come to the station,” she said, “say nothing at all. I will do all the talking. Do you think you could behave as a much older man? As one who could hardly talk at all?”
He said, “I would do my best. You want me to behave as a very old man indeed?”
She nodded. “We have come from Arras,” she said. “You are my uncle, you understand? Our house in Arras was destroyed by the British. You have a brother, my other uncle, who lives in Landerneau.”
“Landerneau,” he said. “Wher
e is that, mademoiselle?”
She said, “It is a little country town twenty kilometres this side of Brest, monsieur. If we can get there we can then walk to the coast. And it is inland, forty kilometres from the sea. I think they may allow us to go there, when it would be impossible for us to travel directly to the coast.”
They approached the station. “Stay with the children,” she said quietly. “If any one asks you anything, be very stupid.”
The approach to the station was crowded with German transport lorries; German officers and soldiers thronged around. It was clear that a considerable detachment of troops had just arrived by train; apart from them the station was crowded with refugees. Nicole pushed the pram through into the booking hall, followed by Howard and the children. The old man, mindful of his part, walked with a shambling tread; his mouth hung open a little, and his head shook rhythmically.
Nicole shot a glance at him. “It is good, that,” she said. “Be careful you do not forget your rôle.”
She left the pram with him and pressed forward to the booking office. A German Feldwebel, smart and efficient in his grey-green uniform, stopped her and asked a question. Howard, peering through the throng with sagging head and half-closed eyes, saw her launch out in to a long, rambling peasant explanation.
She motioned towards him and the children. The Feldwebel glanced over them, shabby and inoffensive, their only luggage in an ancient pram. Then he cut short the current of her talk and motioned her to the booking office. Another woman claimed his attention.
Nicole came back to Howard and the children with the tickets. “Only as far as Rennes,” she said, in coarse peasant tones. “That is as far as this train goes.”
The old man said “Eh?” and wagged his sagging head.
She shouted in his ear, “Only to Rennes.”
He mumbled thickly, “We do not want to go to Rennes.”
She made a gesture of irritation, and pushed him ahead of her to the barrier. A German soldier stood by the ticket puncher; the old man checked and turned back to the girl in senile bewilderment. She said something cross, and pushed him through.
