Authors: K.C. Finn
Tags: #young adult, #historical, #wwii, #historical romance, #ww2, #ya, #europe, #telepathic, #clean teen publishing, #kc finn
The Mind's Eye (34 page)
last of the dishes and sorted myself out, turning just in time for
Ness to bump into my crutch. She rubbed her head for a moment
before she started to smile again, looking up at us with her huge
blue eyes. Mam picked her up, inspecting the place where she’d hit
her head carefully.
“
And what do you think of your sister getting married eh?” she
asked, bouncing Ness in her warm arms.
“
I like Steven,” Ness said with a grin, “He’s going to make me
a house for Dolly.”
“
Is he now?” Mam asked. Something changed in her usually
peaceful face as she studied Ness again.
“
Why you looking at me?” Ness asked, suddenly wriggling to get
away.
all too late that Mam was putting the pieces together, looking at
Ness’s face from every angle, scrutinizing her tawny hair, blonde
at the ends, and her oval eyes the wrong shape for the Price gene
pool. I watched wordlessly, unable to act because I shouldn’t have
known anything, not even that Ness didn’t belong to Mam. The older
woman set the little girl down and straightened out her apron.
“
Look after her a minute Kit,” Mam began, her voice suddenly
low, “I’m just going to have a chat with Steven.”
happened between Mam and Bickerstaff meant that they spent the rest
of the day in separate rooms after their little chat. But the
wedding hadn’t been cancelled and Bickerstaff hadn’t been
strangled, so I thought that was probably about the best that we
could have hoped for given the collection of secrets Blod had been
keeping from her mother for the last five years. I was worried that
Blod and her husband-to-be might have thought that I’d given the
game away, but they were both so temperamental anyway that it was
hard to tell if much had changed. I decided to put them out of my
head the next day, leaving them to their frantic planning whilst I
considered my options for checking on Henri.
His meeting
was somewhere around one o’clock in France which would be twelve at
Ty Gwyn. It was an awkward time for a Saturday, right when I’d be
expected to help prepare and then eat lunch. I came to the
conclusion I would have to beg off with a sore stomach after I’d
eaten something, perhaps catching the end of the secret meeting or
at the very least getting to Henri when it was all fresh in his
mind to tell me what was going on. I had a feeling that everyone
would want to make excuses to get away from the lunch table anyway
today, the memory of the tension at breakfast did not promise a
peaceful meal at midday. When the time came I was right and I was
excused without anyone complaining, clunking up the stairs under
the pretence of lying down in my room. I tried my best not to make
my footfalls sound too eager on the echoing stone steps.
Henri was
alone in a small back room filled with brown cupboards, sitting at
a table where a huge black cat was stalking towards him. It’s
fluffy face and curious eyes filled my vision for a moment as
Henri’s smooth hand went out to tickle the cat under its chin. It
curved its neck; I felt its soft fur pushing against Henri’s wrist
as it came closer for more attention.
“
Hi kitty, kitty,” Henri said.
Hello,
I answered.
out loud, still fussing the cat. “You picked a good time,” he
mused, “if someone comes in at least I can say I was talking to the
cat.”
You’re not in
the cupboard then?
Henri shook
his head. “I’ve been told to wait. Someone’s coming to that window
to take me… I don’t know. Somewhere new.”
As he spoke
of the window he looked up from the cat to show it to me. A large
pane framed in black was ajar, leading out into what appeared to be
a back alley.
No meeting then?
I asked.
“
I think this ‘someone’ is taking me to the meeting,” Henri
explained.
Has my mum been to speak to you?
He
shook his head again. The cat watched him with interest, curling up
under his touch.
“
I stopped hearing from her a couple of days before you found
me again,” he said quietly.
something troubling about the way he felt, like he was trying to
withhold his feelings from me. His heart was beating faster than
usual, but every muscle in his body was straining as if to stay
forcibly calm.
Out with it,
I demanded,
you can’t hide from me Henri Haugen. What’s
wrong?
head and let out a defeated sigh, removing his hands from the cat
to run them through his mess of dark hair. It was then that I felt
the feelings pour out, the nerves running up and down his spine,
the heavy weight dragging down his lungs, making me feel like he
was drawing laboured breaths up from his boots.
“
The Germans shot some people in the square this morning,” he
said solemnly, “they were Resistance collaborators, like the people
who are helping me here.” His throat ran dry at the words as he
tried to go on. “I heard the shots.”
You’ll be out of there soon enough,
I soothed, but I could feel the lump in my own throat choking
my thoughts.
“
If they catch me here, they’ll think I’m a spy,” he said, his
hands starting to tremble. The cat became skittish, slowly backing
away on the table. “Then I’ll go the same way.”
You’re leaving soon, Henri.
I wanted
so desperately to be there, to hold him and give him more comfort
than just my hopeful words.
This person,
the meeting-
“
But that’s just it,” Henri said, growing angrier, “this man
who’s supposed to be on his way to take me. He’s a spy
too.”
“
I’ll thank you not to say that quite so loudly,” said a
whispering voice from behind us.
smooth and definitely English. Henri froze, looking at the window
where he’d been expecting the man to appear. It was wide open; he
had passed by totally unnoticed. I felt the hairs on the back of
Henri’s neck rising up into the cold breeze now streaming in from
the back alley.
“
Turn around then boy; let’s take a look at what the Gaullists
have sent me.”
rose from his chair, the cat making a dash for freedom out of the
open window. It felt like Henri wanted to follow it; he fought to
keep his legs from shaking as he turned around. The man who stood
before him was tall and slim, his dark brown hair swept into a
wave. He was suited all in black with a French moustache curling
above his smiling lip. I let out a gasp. When Henri’s eyes found
the smiling man’s face an explosion of emotions filled his chest.
We both stared at the figure in shock for a few moments before
Henri rushed forward, throwing himself into the fellow’s arms.
“
Mr Bavistock?” he cried in disbelief, thumping the back of
his old teacher as he wrapped an arm around his waist.
Henri,
I murmured, my heart hardly
beating.
His name isn’t
Bavistock.
back from the man’s embrace, taking him in again, listening hard to
my strained, panicked voice.
That’s my
father.
Dad looked
thinner and older than when I had seen him last, but the sparkle in
his brown eyes was the same as ever. He smiled at Henri a while
longer, but soon raised a brow. He looked funny got up as a
Frenchman, under different circumstances I might have laughed at
his fancy collar and curly moustache.
“
Who were you talking to just now?” Dad asked, “I don’t think
it was Gail?”
past were slowly starting to come together. Dad had been posing as
a tutor in Norway, perhaps for a long time before the war had even
started. He and Mum were both working for the government, and she
had led Henri to him. Who better to help him escape than a British
spy? I couldn’t quite get my head around the idea of my mild
mannered parents doing all this despite the overwhelming evidence
now staring me in the face.
Answer him,
I told Henri,
tell him I’m here.
swallowed dryly. “It’s your daughter, Mr… Cavendish. I was talking
to Kit.”
My father
smiled, his shoulders dropping a little. “Is she still there?”
Henri
nodded.
“
In that case her mother did a damn fine job of keeping her
out of the war, eh?”
Charming,
I said to Henri,
considering being so deeply involved in the war
seems like a family tradition I’ve been missing out on.
“
Pardon me sir,” Henri said, his heart recovering slowly from
the shock of everything, “but your daughter is a smart girl,
capable and resourceful.”
closer to Henri and clapped a hand on his shoulder warmly. “I
always liked teaching you, Henri,” he mused, “you’re a respectful
boy. I once thought you’d be a good match for Kit, actually. I
suppose that’s where the phrase ‘be careful what you wish for’
comes from.”
He was
certainly the man I remembered, no matter how strange he looked in
foreign clothes. Dad was always rattling off old proverbs to Leigh
and me whilst we rolled our eyes at each other or pretended to
yawn. It was odd to see him speaking that way to Henri. They had a
whole history I didn’t even know about, but I supposed that it was
fortunate that they already knew and liked each other a great deal.
I could feel his familiar hand on Henri’s shoulder like it was
resting on my own, and no matter how bitter I’d once been about him
leaving us all, I had missed him so much.
“
We’d best be moving off,” Dad said, retuning with a cat-like
grace to the window. He stuck his head out and had a look around.
“Kit, you can stay if you don’t distract Henri. I need him to
focus, ready to do whatever I say if we get into a
crisis.”
“
She agrees,” Henri said before I could even reply.
streets of the little French village was like watching a scene
unfold at the cinema. There were a few Germans in uniform gathered
on the street, my father doffed his hat to them and said something
in faultless French as he and Henri passed them by. The bright grey
stones were wet with tiny snowflakes that were falling and
dissolving the moment they touched the ground. I noticed as we
walked that Henri’s ragged trousers had been replaced for a smart
suit and polished shoes. He looked as though he was some sort of
junior version of Dad, trailing behind him a little as he suddenly
weaved a path down a side street through some market sellers
braving the icy winter air.
Eventually we
reached a canvas truck that reminded me of the first time the
Germans had arrived in Oslo. In the front was what looked like a
German officer, but when my father brought Henri up to the window
of the truck, the uniformed man put his window down and spoke with
a Yorkshire accent.
“
This the one George?” he whispered, looking from my father to
Henri. He gave us all a kind smile.
“Let’s get to the meeting place, Cliff.”
“
Ja mein Herr,” Cliff replied with a chuckle.
Henri looked around, checking the deserted little street before
scurrying into the back of the canvas van. It was dark and murky,
but Henri found a bench to sit on as Dad opened a flap that let in
some light as well as Cliff’s voice.
“
Home James,” he joked.
“
Yes milord,” Cliff answered.
“
Are you still there Kit?” Dad asked, turning back to Henri in
the semi-darkness. He nodded for both of us. “I might as well fill
you in on the way. You’re going to help us with a little operation
we’ve got going to free some other chaps, then we’ll pack you all
off back to Blighty in a submarine. Sound good?”
“
Getting back to Britain sounds good sir,” Henri answered. I
could feel inside his body that he wasn’t so keen on the rest of
the plan.
“
We’ve been organising a big breakout in the POW camp a little
north of here,” Dad explained, “so when the boys come out I’ll need
you to help direct them into hiding until we meet the rendezvous
for the submarine.”
Are we near Toulouse?
I asked. Henri
repeated my question to my father.
“
Yes,” he said slowly, “What have you been up to Kit? What do
you know?”
about Ieuan Price and the Wing Commander and everything I could
remember from sitting in on their meeting. Henri repeated it as
best he could, though I seemed to be thinking the words a lot
faster than he could say them. Dad listened to his stunted ramble
carefully for the important bits.