Swim Until You Can't See Land (21 page)

He nodded, spat in his hand and held it out. She hesitated, then did the same, the saliva slippery between their palms as they shook hands.

Mama held her hand as they walked from the station towards home.

‘And see, they got this too,’ Mama said as they passed the debris of yet another German bombing raid.

‘This was very close,’ Mama shook her head. ‘Madame King had her windows blown in from the blast.’

Marièle squeezed Mama’s hand, grateful that the bomb had not been closer to home. She’d been so worried about Mama receiving a telegram, but what if it happened the other way around?

‘The boys are always playing there, collecting shrapnel,’ Mama said, ‘I wish George had been a few years younger. He might have enjoyed the war.’

‘What are you playing?’ Sabine asked as Kalinowski dealt the cards to Piotr and Aleksy.

‘Rummy. You play?’ He replied.

‘Yes, of course, deal me in.’

Piotr moved and Sabine joined them around the upturned crate. Kalinowski continued to deal, added her to the game. Aleksy moved as if to play.

‘Now hang on a second,’ Sabine stopped him. ‘I believe I go first, left of the dealer, or do you have different rules in Poland?’

Aleksy laughed, held out a hand to indicate she should play, ‘Captain has his own rules.’

They played a few hands before she realised Aleksy was right. She was sure Kalinowski was cheating. They played for cigarettes though, so she didn’t mind if she lost.

Despite what you may think, very few village girls in France smoke, or can afford to smoke. Smoking in a public place will arouse suspicion and bring the Boche down on you quicker than you can exhale.

They’d given her French cigarettes for the men in the circuit and to use to barter with, but she’d already decided to leave them on board for Kalinowski and his crew. 

‘Come on, your turn,’ Kalinowski nodded to Aleksy. Aleksy looked at his hand, then the cards discarded on the crate. She could see him working something out in his head. Piotr rolled his eyes at Sabine.

‘Show me your cards,’ Aleksy demanded.

‘
Nie
, what’s your problem?’

‘Cheat.’

‘How dare you accuse me of cheating.’

Both men got to their feet. Piotr shook his head as Aleksy kicked the crate over, sending cards and cigarettes all over the deck. Sabine began to pick them up as they floated around her feet.

Aleksy made a hand gesture at the captain, ‘You are a crook.’

‘
Dupek
.’

‘What does that mean?’ Sabine asked Piotr.

‘I cannot say,’ he replied.

  up and      up and     up and    up and

     down        down        down         down

Just at that moment the felucca hit a wave, knocking them all off their feet. The Seafox rode the wave, rose with the undulation before sinking so low that foamy spray rushed in over the sides. Sabine felt the cold seep through her clothes, her woollen jumper heavy, weighing her to the deck.

‘Are you alright?’ Piotr asked as he helped her to her feet.

‘Yes, are you?’ Her teeth chattered and she could barely speak.

‘Bail,’ said Kalinowski, handing her a tin can.

The salt water stung at her fingers, her cracked knuckles. As she emptied a can of water over the edge of the felucca, she watched a handful of playing cards and a few cigarettes drifting out to sea.

The table was set when they arrived home. Bread, jam, tea, scones, all lying on plates underneath a fly sheet.

‘Mama, where did you get all this?’

‘Oh now,
ce n’est rien
. If I can’t give my only daughter a decent welcome home, then I am not fit to be a mother. Besides, look at you, you’re not eating properly.’

‘But, there’s so much, and jam, how did you get jam?’

‘I’ve been saving my coupons and Cath was very helpful when I went in to the shop.’

‘Mama, I’m shocked. I go away for a short time and you and Cath are on the black market.’

‘Oh, don’t give me any of your nonsense.
Assieds-toi
and tuck in. Father said he would be home early but we’ll just start. Make sure you leave him a scone though.’

As Mama poured their tea, Marièle heard the front door open.

‘Father.’

He held out his arms and kissed her on the cheek before pulling her into a hug. As he let go, she saw his eyes fill with tears. He turned away, coughed into his handkerchief, then faced her again.

‘What the devil have you done to your hair?’

Sabine sat opposite Kalinowski, an upturned box between them. Piotr lay asleep on the wooden bench, which ran the length of the deck, a tarpaulin draped over him. The wind had died down and it was the calmest sea they’d had since setting off.

‘It’s almost pleasant out here now,’ Sabine said.

‘The sea is beautiful on days like this, but you can never trust it,’ Kalinowski replied, swigging from a hip flask.

‘That’s why we only have half a deck of cards left and we’re stuck making conversation to amuse ourselves.’

‘Exactly.’ 

Sabine sipped the cold dregs from the bottom of her Thermos. The tea was on the turn and she could taste the milky sourness. The remains of the meat paste sandwiches lay on the box between them. They were still edible, although the bread had gone stale; they’d picked off some mould around the edges. Sabine had finally found her sea stomach. She laughed to think how green she’d been just a few days ago.

‘We’re not far away now. The next part’s the tricky bit,’ Kalinowski said. ‘We have to be careful as we navigate our way in. The coast is well monitored.’

As they’d got closer to France, Sabine had repeated her story again and again in her head.

My name is Sabine Valois.

J’ai vingt-et-un ans.

I have been ill. Rheumatic fever.

The doctor sent me to the country to recuperate.

I have been staying with my aunt. My parents and younger sister live in Paris.

Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.

Je m’appelle Sabine Valois.

‘I saw a picture just a few months ago,’ Cath said. ‘It made me think of you.
Millions Like Us
, it was called, girls driving trucks and ambulances. It looked so glamorous.’

‘I’m sorry I’ve been so secretive in my letters to you.’

‘That’s alright,’ Cath pointed to a poster on the inside of a shop window, ‘careless talk and all that.’

BE LIKE DAD – KEEP MUM
!

‘
I know, but still,’ she squeezed Cath’s arm.

‘You look so tricky in your uniform.’

‘I feel like an old frump. Look what they did to my hair.’

‘Why did they make you dye it? What does it matter?’

‘Oh I don’t know, another one of the many regulations I suppose. All part of being Ensign
F
43
A
sir!’ Marièle saluted and Cath laughed, dimples showing in her cheeks. Marièle had always loved those dimples.

‘Oh, stop it, what will I tell my grandchildren? That I worked in a Grocer’s shop?’

‘Don’t be daft. People need to eat, don’t they? Besides, Mama told me you helped her out with some jam.’

‘Sshh, she was meant to keep that quiet,’ Cath blushed.

‘When has Mama ever been discreet? I think they wrote that poster back there just for her.’

Oh, those dimples, they made her ache.

- .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

Marièle used to imagine the children Cath and George would have, her nieces and nephews. Dimpled cheeks and deep brown eyes.

What was worse? Cath with George, or Cath with someone else?

‘What is a young girl like you going to France for anyway?’ asked Kalinowski.

‘Well, Captain…’

‘
Nie, nie
, enough with this Captain nonsense, my name is Marek.’

‘Well, Marek, the same reason as all your previous passengers,
I suppose.’ Marek nodded, took a drink from his hipflask.

They’d taken the sail down and turned off the engine. Sabine missed the constant hum of it, the chug chug chug as it broke down yet again. The swearing and hammering as the crew forced it to splutter back to life.

She could just about make out land in the distance.

France.

It made her homesick, but she wasn’t sure what for.

‘You know I take you people over, but I’m never sent to bring you back,’ said Marek.

The average lifespan between arrival and capture for a
W/T
operator in France is six weeks
.

‘Girls, girls, wait a moment.’

‘It’s only one of those street photographers, ignore him.’ Marièle said.

‘Let’s see what he wants.’ Cath tugged Marièle back towards him.

‘I got a lovely photograph of you both. Something to remember your day out together.’

W
hat if this was their last one? The way he said ‘something to remember,’ it was almost as if he knew Marièle would be gone soon. He’d done nothing wrong but she was suddenly angry at him. His words made her aware of how fast the time passed, how the day would soon be over. How precious her time at home was.

- .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

‘How much?’ Cath asked.

‘For you, one shilling.’

‘Okay, I’ll take it,’ Cath replied and handed over the money. The man took her name and address, gave her a receipt.

‘You’ll never hear from him again,’ Marièle said as they walked away.

Sabine swallowed more cold tea, felt it thick in her mouth.

‘My brother was killed during the evacuation of Dunkirk. Going to France is small compared to that.’

Marek looked at her, held eye contact as he took a bite of sandwich, swallowed it down with another mouthful from his hipflask.

‘Why are you doing this, Marek? It can’t be easy, making this crossing time and time again.’

‘I cannot go home while the Germans are in Poland,’ he replied, and spat.

Piotr stirred in his sleep, muttered something.

‘I’m sorry,’ she replied. ‘We think it’s bad back home, but we forget what happened to you.’

He waved a hand, lit a cigarette.

‘Don’t apologise, you did not march into my home.’

Sabine took a bite of sandwich, could taste salt. It got everywhere, like sand. George trying to get home. Sand in his hair, in his eyes, in his mouth. Or was he in so much pain that he didn’t notice the irritation?

What colour did sand go when it mixed with blood? What colour were the beaches in France?

‘I’ve got it, ye of little faith,’ Cath waved something at Marièle.

‘What?’

‘This,’ Cath sat down, handed a small, square photo to Marièle. ‘I was hoping to get it before you left.’

Marièle looked at the photograph of her and Cath. Neither of them aware of the photographer, no self-conscious smiles, no embarrassment. They both looked relaxed, natural.

Happy?

Mid-walk, arm in arm, Cath smiling, dimples puckering her cheeks. Marièle turned slightly inward, leaning towards Cath. He’d captured her thinking of the nieces and nephews she’d never meet, she could tell by the way she looked at Cath.

- .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

‘I take it all back, it’s a lovely photo.’

‘It’s yours, I want you to have it.’

Marièle wouldn’t be able to take it to France, they’d never allow it.

‘I couldn’t. You paid for it.’

‘No, I insist.’

‘Well, keep it for me, keep it safe till I get back.’

Cath’s father used to tell them stories about the trenches, about how he would scrape a fingernail up the pleat of his kilt and it would be crawling with lice. How the wet hem hung heavy against his bare legs, cutting and chafing his skin.

She’d be in danger in France, but was it any more than George, than Cath’s father, than father himself had gone through?

There was a splash at the side of the boat. Piotr opened his eyes as Marek and Sabine stood. Sabine ssshhed him back to sleep. A seal’s head stuck out of the water. It looked at them then dived back under, only to resurface again a few metres away.

‘He looks like my dog,’ said Marek. ‘He has the same eyes.’

They stood and watched as the seal’s head bobbed on the surface of the water.

‘I came home from work one day and my dog was gone, the garden gate was open.’ He reached inside his jumper, pulled out a photograph. ‘Here,’ he handed it to Sabine.