Ormerod's Landing (21 page)

He remembered seeing the poster fixed at the other end of the loft but away from the light. 'What was it?' he said.

She switched on her torch and swung it around. 'There,' she
said as its beam settled on the poster. It was a picture of an

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optimistic French soldier. 'The words beneath say: "France will win because she is strong",' recited Marie-Thérèse. She kept the torch steady. 'It is a bad joke,' she said. 'These were put upon the walls in France. How the Germans must have laughed. The people here have brought it inside this place because they believe that one day it will be true again.' Suddenly she turned the torch on his face, making him blink and raise his hand. 'Perhaps it is difficult for you to understand, Dodo,' she said.
'You
have not been disgraced. Not yet.'

Blackness enveloped them as she switched off the beam. They were lying in two sleeping bags on a rough rug laid across the floor. He heard her lie down, disgruntled, beside him. He knew if he put his hand out he would quickly touch her. All through their days in the forest together they had never made love. After that first time in the chateau she had reverted to her former self and Ormerod thought it would be better to wait until she invited him again. But now, in the dark, before the beginning of another adventure, he reached out and touched her. Her hand must have been lying waiting for him because his fingers found hers immediately.

Clumsily he turned towards her. He felt her turn inwards also. Their faces stared at each other in the dark.

'I wish to talk to you, Dodo,' she said solemnly.

'Oh blimey. I thought we might make love.'

'Yes. That also, I need too. I shall come in with you because it will be easier.'

Ormerod, his heart banging in the darkness of his body, made room for her in the sleeping bag. He could hear her taking her shirt over her head and then she slid in beside him, slim as a young animal.

They held each other as if they were the last pair on earth, her mouth against his neck, open and wet, his hands around her buttocks, pulling her thighs against his. When they coupled she eased herself above him, lying like a swimmer on his wide chest. She shuddered as they climaxed and then lay there as if she had gone to sleep. Ormerod had cramp in his leg. He moved it to ease it.

'In Hemingway,' she said, 'in
For Whom the Bell Tolls,
they made love like this in a sleeping sack.'

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'It's not exactly a double bed,' he said.

He felt her smile. 'And was it good enough now, for us?'

'It was all right, as a matter of fact. Was it all right for you, Dove?'

'It was good,' she replied, still smiling.
'For Whom the Bell Tolls
is very right, also, Dodo. For us.'

"Why's that?'

'Tomorrow we are going to hide under the bells. We are going to escape from this region beneath two bells from the foundry.'

'Jesus. Is that so?'

'It is so. We have to move from here. But all around are the Germans. You want to get to Bagnoles and there is something Jean Le Blanc wants to do there also.'

'Don't tell me he's after Albert Smales?'

'No. Something much bigger. But the roads are still being checked around this area. We need to get further east, to Vire, so that we can move more freely. Tomorrow three bells from the foundry are to be taken from here by horse-pulled cart and then by rail. They are going to Germany. The Boche have stolen them. The plan is for you and I, Dodo, to hide under the bells and be taken to the railway and then to Vire, where we will be released by local men. The bells are set upon bases, pallets, and there are round holes in the pallets, so we shall be able to breathe.'

He listened, astounded. 'It sounds clever,' he admitted. 'But I can't say it appeals to me much. Appeals - bells. That's a joke.'

'It is a joke I do not understand,' she said disconcertingly. 'And now is no time for it. There is to be a procession for the bells. Church people and the Germans - hah! That will be the joke. And another joke is that we will be hiding below the bells.'

'We're sure that someone is going to turn up at Vire and get us out from underneath?' said Ormerod. 'I'd hate to be stuck under there for long.'

'In that matter,' she said slowly in the darkness, I think you will have to trust Jean Le Blanc'

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Even then the thought came to Ormerod that trusting Jean Le Blanc would be a difficult thing.

In post-war years the Blessing of the Bells has become a charming attraction in the town of Villedieu-les-Poeles. When the long and precise process of casting and moulding a new bell or a clarion is complete the beautiful bronze workmanship is brought from the foundry and shown by the proud craftsmen to the townspeople. There is a religious service, children's choirs sing in the modest square, and there is a procession through the deep grey streets of the town.

On that first Sunday of October 1940, many of the townspeople were reluctant to take part in the ceremony because of the participation of the Germans and the fact that the bells were bound for Minden. Others felt that it was necessary to behave as though things were as near normal as possible, not to antagonize the occupying forces, and to keep the foundry working. The children, who in the main could not understand politics, were eager for the ceremony because it was always a special day in their little town.

Before dawn Marie-Thérèse and Ormerod were roused, given a cup of thick, bitter coffee, and taken from the loft of the house near the foundry. The two local men who had been in the loft the previous night conducted them across the courtyard and took them by a small door into the foundry building.

They entered. Ormerod stood immediately within the door, surprised and awed. It was as he imagined Hell might look. A wide, high, hot cavern, brimming with brimstone and shadows, grit and ghostly glowing from the furnaces. A scaffold of thick and ancient wooden beams spanned the building and standing below them, silhouetted in the inferno like a trio of misdirected bishops in their robes, were the three great bells.

They were already placed on a long flat cart which two dray horses would pull along the cobbled streets to the railway station. They stood, as Marie-Thérèse had said they would, each on a thick wooden pallet with cup-sized holes drilled through the wood. These pallets were raised on blocks so there was air beneath them. The two local men moved ahead of Or-

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merod and the girl. They lifted the first bell clear of its base by
means of a suspended chain tackle. Then they motioned Marie-Thérèse
forward and she went, uncertainly at first Ormerod
imagined, then more quickly, towards the first bell clear of its pallet. One of the men nodded
'Voila'
at the woman. She smiled
a thin smile at Ormerod and said: 'See you in Vire, Dodo.'

'With bells on,' he answered grimly.

She crawled below the mouth of the cloche and squatted, like
a pixie, while the casting was lowered over her. One of the men
crouched and looked below the pallet supported on the blocks.
A slim finger appeared through one of the holes, the sign that she was all right.

One of the men now glanced at Ormerod as if sizing him up,
before he moved forward to the second, larger bell. There in the dim half-light he had a strange memory of once, in the course of his duties, being present at an exhumation. Waiting
for them to lift the bell was something like waiting for the tomb to open. Except that this was
his
tomb. If Jean Le Blanc chose,
they need not lift the bell at Vire and the bells might take weeks
to go to Minden and be unloaded. What comment the curled
up body of a London policeman would cause in that town in
Germany!

The men moved the chain tackle along its gallery high over
head and attached the hook to the top of the bell. The chain rattled and the casting eased its way an inch at a time clear of its pallet. When there was a three foot space the men both nodded at Ormerod and he gave them a little salute. Doubtfully looking at the great bronze mouth hung above him he
climbed onto the pallet and crossed his legs, endeavouring to
form himself into a pyramid. He heard the chain creak and
bit by bit even the dim light disappeared. The bell descended
carefully and at last sat properly upon its pallet. Ormerod
pushed his finger through one of the holes to show he had no
serious complaints. But he did not like it in there and the thought of spending several hours like that did not appeal at
all. He looked around the close-walled darkness. 'Fucking ding-
dong,' he muttered.

At eleven o'clock on that October Sunday morning a booted

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and helmeted German band with glockenspiel and sun-reflect
ing souzaphone stomped melodiously into the modest town. Some of the people had come out in their best clothes to see the ceremony of the bells, not as many as usual but sufficient to crowd the main square. Germans or no Germans, the bells
had been made there in Villedieu and must be properly blessed
and sent on their way. A platoon of infantry marched after the
band and drilled noisily on the cobbles, forming a rectangle around the three
cloches
standing on their cart. The crowd
waited for the priest and the German General Wolfgang Groemann
.

At a window overlooking the square, like a disgruntled portrait in a frame, sat Jean Le Blanc, his domed head hidden beneath a trilby. He watched cynically as the despised Germans paraded. From the edge of his mouth, but without ceas
ing his watching, he spoke to a Frenchman stationed within the
room. 'One day,' he said casually, 'I think I would like to blow up a German band.' The souzaphone was yawning almost below the window. He took a last draw at his cigarette and dropped the stub into the mouth of the instrument. A thin finger of smoke curled from it.

Beneath the shell of his bell Ormerod listened to the muffled
music and tapped out time with his finger. It was very hot
inside the bell and he was sweating heavily. He rested his fore
head against the metal. He heard the boots of the soldiers striding on the cobbles and then the orders as they halted and stamped around into their ceremonial formation. He was, he reflected unhappily, surrounded.

General Wolfgang Groemann, the burgher of Minden, delighted with his bargain purchase of the bells, arrived smiling in an open staff car. Jean Le Blanc, observing from his win
dow, could easily have shot him through his medals. But there
was time for that and very soon. The general acknowledged the
salutes of his soldiers, did the statutory
Heil Hitler,
although he did not much care for the slogan, particularly in the middle
of a conquered town, and stepped down to be greeted by the
mayor.

The religious procession followed, the priest and the ecclesi
astical officials with the decorated cross, and a bobbing line of

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surpliced choirboys. The German beamed when he saw them. He began to think that the occupation might, after all, be peaceful and a success. Jean Le Blanc watched him, seething within like a cat unable to touch a fat canary. He consoled himself with the promise of what was to follow.

The priest had a troubled conscience about the ceremony, but he argued inwardly that the Germans had so far behaved themselves in the district. And the town needed to sell bells. He had given permission for the church to take part as normal, after consultation with his bishop, but he had personally baulked at the ringing of his own church bells. They remained silent. He told the general that the belfry was discovered to be unsafe.

While Ormerod and Marie-Thérèse sweated under their respective bronze covers, the ceremony proceeded. They were grateful that it was not protracted. The prayers and responses came to an end while the sweat ran into Ormerod's eyes. Then the band played
'La Marseillaise,'
followed more loudly by
'Deutschland, Deutschland, Uber Alles\
and the hidden couple felt the cart shudder beneath them as the decorated dray horses were hitched. Then the muffled band began a rousing tune and the bells began to move. As the wheels began to grind on the cobbles, the general, feeling pleased with the day, the bells and the ceremony, stepped forward and gave each one a small tap with his knuckle. 'Good,' he nodded. 'Off you go - home to Minden.'

Ormerod rested his head against the casing, fatigue and relief consuming him. He wondered how Marie-Thérèse was feeling. The people were wordless as the three domes moved from town. Usually this was a signal for rejoicing, but today it was not the same. The crowd dispersed with bleak expressions and bowed heads. Only the children made any sounds as the Germans marched away.

The priest and his procession returned to the church, bright colours and silent faces, and with the band in front and the platoon of infantrymen behind, the bells were borne to the railway station.

General Wolfgang Groemann went home to lunch, well satisfied with the sunny morning. He had rarely felt so much at

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peace in a conquered land. On his desk was the memorandum confirming that the following Thursday morning he would be
visiting the wounded in the hospitals in the Red Cross town of
Bagnoles de l'Orne. From that visit he would not return.

At Villedieu the three bronze bells on their pallets were hoisted
aboard a special truck on a goods train that left the same afternoon for the east. It made its unscheduled stop at
Vire, twenty-eight kilometres towards Paris, in the early even
ing. It was becoming dark when six men arrived at the goods yard adjoining the station and climbed onto the wagon carry
ing the bells. Jean Le Blanc watched from a bicycle propped
against the quiet wall of the station.