Night Sky (36 page)

He thought back to the last trip … It had gone wrong from the start. They’d gone to the Scillies as usual, to their secret anchorage, and turned the boat from a grey MFV into a Concarnean trawler, complete with bright orange paint and a few fancy patterns on the transom. But as soon as they’d left, the weather had turned bad and they’d had an uncomfortable trip. When they eventually got to the Bay it had taken far too long to make contact with the fleet, and a
Raumboot
had got suspicious and almost put a landing party aboard. Finally, on the way back, they’d been caught. Good and proper. In his mind’s eye he saw it all again: everyone reaching for weapons, the low-flying plane, the bullets tearing into Jean-Pierre’s body … He shuddered.

Perhaps he was losing his nerve. He took out another cigarette and lit it. He looked at the hand holding the cigarette: its fingers were bright yellow with nicotine and shook slightly. Too many cigarettes. Too much booze. Definitely time for a change.

A tern called overhead and he looked up. He followed it as it soared towards the river mouth and the open sea. Any time now it would be flying south to its winter quarters on some Atlantic island. This summer there had been thousands of terns on Scilly.

The islands: that was the one thing he would miss.

Whenever they’d sailed to the secret anchorage in the north of the islands, to paint the fishing boat, he’d been happy.

The secret anchorage lay between two islands – Tresco and Bryher – in the small inlet known as New Grimsby Harbour. He had remembered coming there before the war – when was it?—’35? Some time then. The narrow inlet had been empty then, not a fishing boat or islanders’ gig to be seen. He had anchored
Dancer
in the centre of the basin, and rowed across to Bryher and made a camp on the shore, and walked round the island and watched the incredible surf in Hell Bay and wondered what it would be like to be shipwrecked. In the evening he had made a fire and cooked a couple of mackerel and slept under a tarpaulin in the shelter of a rock. The dawn had been still and yellow and he had watched a cormorant diving into the cool depths of the secret harbour. Later an oyster-catcher had appeared, its long yellow beak probing the stones uncovered by the falling tide. He had sat for a long time, quite motionless, not wanting anything to change, hoping it would be like that for ever.

He’d been twenty-one then, fresh out of Dartmouth, and greedy for everything, preferably all at once. Strange how everyone told you there was no going back, that the simplicity of your youth could never be recaptured; strange how right they were. But one day, when the world was sane again, he’d go back. One day, when there were no grey ships of war to ruin the quiet of that marvellous place, only
Dancer
tugging gently at her chain …

In the meantime he would miss the place.

He rubbed his eyes. His head ached terribly. He got wearily to his feet. He found himself reaching automatically for a cigarette and stopped in mid air. He must get fit. Soon he’d be running a proper ship again, crewed by the lads in blue. He was rather looking forward to it.

J
ULIE DREW THE
curtains over the tiny window and took a last look at the child in the bed. Peter was already fast asleep, his mouth slightly open, his breathing slow and steady. She pulled the covers up round his neck and kissed him softly on the cheek. He was such a big boy now, five and a half, and tall, oh so tall. She could hardly believe it – the time had gone so quickly. It seemed only yesterday that he was a baby.

She took a last look at him, then, picking up the flickering oil lamp, went down the steep staircase to her room. She paused and listened carefully. There was quite a wind; it was blowing round the house in long sighs. Outside, one of the cattle moved noisily against the side of the barn. Somewhere down in the village a dog was barking. Then, from almost overhead, a creaking noise. Julie stiffened, then relaxed as she recognised the sound of Peter settling more comfortably in his bed.

It was a habit now, listening. And not just for Peter – that was instinctive – but for other human sounds. The sounds of people arriving with messages or sometimes even ‘parcels’: foreign airmen with pale, frightened faces who were taken off into the night to some other more welcoming farmhouse. The comings and goings went on all the time now that autumn had come. She dreaded them; they made her horribly nervous. Yet – she had an awful urge to
know
. It was like being punished: the sooner you knew what was in store the easier it was to cope with.

And now she heard something. The sound of the back door opening. Someone had come then. Her heart sank. She opened the bedroom door and went quietly through into the kitchen. The figure of her uncle was leaning against the open doorway talking quietly and urgently to someone outside in the darkness.

Julie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was eight o’clock.

They must have forgotten the time. They must have! She hovered uncertainly, wondering whether she should interrupt.

Now the person outside was speaking. The voice was louder, less secretive. Julie recognised it: the voice of the stranger, the
leader
, as he was meant to be. He was making no attempt to be discreet; he never did. But at this time of the evening Julie could hardly believe it. The man was mad … or stupid! Worse, from the way he was talking, Julie had a feeling he wasn’t going to stop.

The voice was saying, ‘… No, no, there is no problem there. I have Gaston from Plouga in charge. I have given him orders to bring the ten parcels from Madame Lelouche’s place. It is all organised, I assure you …’

Julie sighed with frustration. Surely Jean must realise the time and how dangerous it was … She looked at the clock again. It was two minutes past eight. She could bear it no longer. She came up beside her uncle and looked worriedly at the leader, waiting for a break in the conversation. But he continued to speak and Julie suddenly realised that he was doing it to impress her, to show her how important he was. She bit her lip with the effort of staying silent. Eventually the man said, ‘Ah, Madame! Good evening. I am sorry to disturb the household …’

‘Monsieur, … please, the soldiers will be back soon. You … your visits here put us in danger! Wouldn’t it be possible to come back later? Please!’

The stranger smiled thinly. ‘Madame, our business has to be properly planned! You obviously don’t understand what is involved … And I assure you that there is no danger.’

Julie thought: This man is impossible, like a brick wall. ‘Monsieur, surely the planning could be less – public!’

Jean shuffled uneasily and the stranger began to look annoyed. Julie couldn’t help feeling glad; at least she was getting through to them. The stranger said coldly, ‘Madame, you would do better to keep out of matters that do not concern you!’

Julie felt a surge of anger. ‘Monsieur, they concern me directly – which you seem to forget at your convenience!’

Jean put a hand on Julie’s shoulder and said gently, ‘It’s all right, he’s just going. Really.’

‘Not a moment too soon!’ She turned and strode over to the stove. She began to stir the soup too quickly and immediately slopped some of the liquid over the side of the pan. There was a spitting and hissing as the soup hit the hotplate. Julie reached impatiently for a cloth and dabbed the remaining liquid off the stove. She was shaking with anger. She hated losing her temper. She knew she should try to calm down but while this dreadful man was still at the door she just couldn’t. A pity Tante Marie was looking after Madame Gillet for the evening: she would have given him short shrift.

The burning soup was hissing loudly; Julie missed the sound of the front door opening and the steps crossing the front parlour. The rap on the parlour door made her jump so much that she jerked at the spoon and hot liquid spattered over her apron. She stared in horror as the door opened and the two familiar uniforms appeared. The two soldiers smiled politely at her as they always did, then looked curiously past her to where her uncle and the leader stood at the open back door.

For a moment they were all frozen, like a tableau: Julie at the stove, the soldiers in the doorway and the two men at the open back door. Then Jean gave the Germans a slight nod, turned his back on them and said to the man, ‘Well, I’ll deliver that grain in the morning, then. But I’ve only four kilos to spare – and I’ll have to charge you a good price for it!’

The man smiled. ‘Fair enough. I know how it is – we must be commercial about this! Oh, and you won’t forget the other matter?’

Julie realised with dismay that the leader was enjoying the scene. He was going to play it out! He thought he was being so clever. Julie thought: What conceit! And she had the feeling he was fooling no-one: the two soldiers looked distinctly suspicious. Julie clattered some plates and said rather too loudly, ‘The soup is ready. Please go and sit down.’

The soldiers looked surprised: normally Julie never spoke to them. They shuffled back into the parlour and as soon as she heard them drawing up their chairs, she took in a tray with two bowls of soup and some bread on it. As she put the bowls on the table she heard the distant sound of the back door closing. The horrid man had gone. At last!

One of the soldiers started to speak to her, something about what a cold day it was. She ignored him as she usually did and he fell silent. Good. One might have to provide accommodation and two meals a day for them, but there was no law that said one had to speak to them. Julie left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

Her uncle was standing by the stove. He made a wide expansive gesture with his hands, as if to say, What could I do?

Julie slumped into a chair and her uncle drew up another close beside her. They sat in silence until, finally, they heard the sound of chairs being scraped back in the parlour and the front door opening and closing again. The Germans had gone out for their customary drink. After a few minutes Julie spoke.

‘That man …’ She shook her head. ‘He is a
danger
. I know it – everyone knows it.’

‘Yes, but … Julie, please realise, we have to put up with him. He’s the only contact we have, the only hope of getting all the parcels away.’

‘Yes, but at what cost?’

The old man sighed. ‘I know, I know. But you must understand that there are no fewer than thirty parcels waiting to be sent away. If we can’t make contact with the British and have boats sent over, we’ll be stuck with them. The longer these parcels are here, the greater the risk for those hiding them. And there are more arriving every day! We must, we
must
, keep that contact, otherwise what are we to do? Give them over to the Germans, eh? Wait until our houses are bulging with British airmen and pretend they’re really French. Eh?’

Julie nodded wearily. She had to acknowledge the difficulty of passing the British off as local people. Quite apart from the language difference, they
looked
so alien. She said with a sigh, ‘I do see the problem. But I can’t understand why you should have to put up with that – that person. Surely the line could be run just with local people and perhaps one outside wireless operator. Surely!’

‘Ah, but that’s the problem. The only wireless operator is far away – in Paris, I think. And this fellow, he is the only person with contact. The British sent him over. What can we do?’

‘Make him be quiet for a start!’ Julie found herself getting angry again. ‘Even I, a person who tries
not
to hear anything, even I know exactly who’s in the organisation. I could give you a list right now! And if I know, then the whole village knows, not to mention the whole of the Côtes du Nord!’

‘But who would talk? No Breton! Never!’

Julie laughed bitterly. ‘I wish I had your faith in human nature!’

Then she sighed and patted her uncle’s hand. He looked so old and worried that she hated to depress him.

The old man said softly, ‘But we have to do something, don’t we? We can’t stand aside and just watch, can we?’

‘I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if all these terrible risks are worthwhile.’ She looked at her uncle and said simply, ‘Anyway, look at me. I do nothing and
my
conscience is clear.’ She looked away and patted his hand again. ‘But I can see that you must do what you must. I don’t blame you for that. Just …
do
try to keep it away from us, Jean, please. I worry so much about Peter …’

Jean nodded, and said thoughtfully, ‘But Juliette, we don’t hide parcels here. We agreed that. For
your
sake, and Peter’s. So there is really very little risk for you. For me – ah, well, that doesn’t matter. I’m an old man.’

Julie said heavily, ‘Even then, they take hostages, don’t they? And shoot them? Innocent women and children. Oh, the children!’ She could hardly bear to think of it. There had been an incident in Morlaix, after a German had been shot. They had taken twenty women and children, lined them up and mown them down. Julie had heard the shots from her office. She had cried out and wept with rage and uselessness.

Jean said impatiently, ‘That was the communists! Stupid fools. They just kill Germans and never think of the consequences.
They
’re the real dangers! I’ll never help that lot of anarchists, never! And—’ he wagged a finger ‘– I will never have another one of them in my house again. And that includes Michel—’