When the Sky Fell Apart (40 page)

THEY had planned for Maurice to leave first, to make sure that the way was clear of patrols. Claudine was to follow with Edith, Dr Carter and Gregor.

Claudine wished, once again, that she had Francis's warm hand in hers. But it would have been too dangerous. She wondered if he would remember her if they met again, if the war was ever over. She wondered if Maman would forgive her for leaving.

Maurice set off. The rest of them waited, watching the flickering flame of Edith's oil lamp. No sound except the creak of the house as the wind from the sea rubbed against it.

In the quiet, Claudine couldn't help thinking of Maman and what she might believe tomorrow when Claudine didn't visit her.

Will she cry? How long will she search for me? I should have written a letter, telling her not to worry.

Claudine tried not to think of Hans's red-faced rage: when he was angry, his hands seemed larger, his fingers harder, his mouth bigger and wetter, his breath hotter.

Poor Maman.
Claudine stifled a sob.

Her throat was still raw from running, her mouth acrid with the tang of blood. The gun had banged against her hip with every step to Monsieur Hacquoil's. The pain had made her run faster, like a flogged horse.

She had knocked quietly because of the curfew. When there was no answer, she had tapped on the window with a pebble. At last, Monsieur Hacquoil had opened the door. He scowled.

Breathless, Claudine gabbled, ‘Edith needs bullets. For this gun.'

She put the gun on the doorstep and pressed the ring and woollen booties into his hand. She tried not to touch the skin where the fire had melted it and made it pink and shiny. The ring and the booties looked tiny in his crab-claw hand.

When Clement frowned, Claudine's stomach somersaulted: perhaps he meant to give them back?

But his mouth stretched wider; she supposed he was trying to smile.

‘Come out of the cold, will you, child? Sit down.'

Her insides were vibrating with the need to leave, but she did as she was told. She tried to sit still. Tried not to think of everybody waiting for her.

‘It is after curfew. I must—'

‘Yes. You shouldn't be out and about. What if they catch you, eh? And looking for bullets. For a German gun? I've seen all sorts, but a
child
asking me for bullets for a soldier's gun? Now that's a first.'

There was something light in his voice, almost like laughter, but it was difficult to tell. He gave Claudine a glass of water and then he sat down opposite her and rubbed his melted face with his hands.

‘So, little Claudine, what exactly are you lot up to then?'

It had become hard to breathe.

‘Can I have…what I came for, please?'

‘But
bullets?
Why does Edith need bullets? And why is she sending you out after curfew to fetch them? Hoping for a night in prison, are you? Or worse?'

She traced the whorls of the wood on the table. ‘I don't know.'

Clement leant forward and put his pink, shiny hand on top of hers. She tried to pull away, but he kept hold. His skin felt smooth and hot and hard, reminding her of Hans.

She said, fast and low, ‘
Please
let me go.'

He shouted, ‘Joan!' and Claudine jumped. She pulled her hand free and rubbed away the sensation of his fingers from around her wrists.

Madame Hacquoil came into the kitchen. Her face was puckered, as if she was chewing on a mouthful of sand.

‘Joan, you know Claudine. The Duret girl?'

‘Of course.' Her smile was all teeth; it didn't touch her eyes.

‘Claudine has come for
bullets
. For this gun. For Edith. And I thought you might like a word or two?'

They stared at each other for a moment, time stretching like elastic—the promise of stinging pain when it snapped back together.

Finally Joan nodded, her smile stretching wider. ‘Of
course
.'

Clement patted her on the shoulder and went through to the shop.

‘A cup of tea for you, dear?' asked Joan.

Claudine shook her head.

‘Come now, don't be like that. Hasn't your maman taught you your manners?'

Claudine's voice was faint, barely more than a breath. ‘All right. Yes, please.'

‘That's better.' Joan boiled the pan of water. Then she found the heel of cabbage loaf and a little pat of butter and set them down in front of Claudine.

Hunger unfroze Claudine's limbs and she grasped the piece of bread. She didn't want to gobble her food because that was rude, but she couldn't stop. She tore at it with her teeth. The bread felt warm in her stomach, even though it was days old and hard as a stone.

Joan sat down next to Claudine. ‘Do you know,' she said, ‘I remember when you were nothing but a babe in arms, such a good child. The sweetest, quietest baby a mother could wish for. I used to see your maman often.'

Mouth crammed with bread, Claudine nodded again to show that she was listening.

‘We laughed a lot—we were great friends.'

Claudine swallowed. ‘Did Maman laugh?'

‘Yes, your maman was quite the entertainer, back then. Quite the life and soul, she was. But children are hard work—don't let anyone tell you different. Then, of course, there is rationing. It's difficult to feed a hungry family, let me tell you that.'

‘Oh.'

Claudine realised it must be true. Maman used to be happy, but the war and looking after children had stolen that. She laughed with Hans, but it was a tight laugh, like Madame Hacquoil's smile.

Claudine stopped chewing the bread, her vision suddenly blurred. She blinked.

Joan put her hand on Claudine's shoulder. ‘You mustn't blame yourself: children can't help but be burdensome. Come, wipe those eyes. But she's taken up with that soldier now, your maman?'

Claudine nodded. ‘Hans. I
hate
him.'

‘Of course you do. But you've heard what people say, haven't you? About women who take up with soldiers?'

Claudine wiped her eyes. More tears kept on coming, even when she dug her nails into her hands so hard that she broke the skin.

‘People talk, Claudine, I'm afraid. An important thing, your reputation. And once it's ruined… Well, it's like throwing blood over white sheets. You can scrub them as much as you like, but that stain won't budge.'

Claudine gulped. ‘So will people always think badly of Maman?'

‘I'm afraid they just might. Now,
we
know the truth, don't we? We both know that your maman is keeping you and your brother safe and warm. Keeping your bellies full. But people can be cruel, and memories are long.'

Claudine sobbed. ‘I don't
want
them talking about her forever simply because…' And then she realised it was all her fault that Maman had brought Hans into the house. If Claudine hadn't been so
hungry
all the time. She ate far more than Francis. ‘I've tried…'

‘You're a good girl,
I
know that. And you couldn't help it; children never
mean
to be selfish. But you can make things better now. Do you think you might like to help your maman?'

Claudine nodded.

‘
I
don't think she's bad,' Joan said, with a sideways glance at Claudine. She placed her hand over her heart, as if the words she was speaking pained her. ‘I'm simply saying what others will think. But do you know,
you
can stop them?
You
can change what they're saying.'

Claudine sniffed. The handkerchief was sodden; she wiped her nose on the back of her hand.

‘How?'

‘Well, you must remember that I'm only trying to
help
people. You know that now, don't you?' She pressed her hand against her chest again. ‘Good. I want people to stop getting themselves in trouble, and I've a feeling you might know some more people who could be doing something silly. Something that could cause trouble. Yes?'

Claudine sat with her hands in her lap, twisting the handkerchief around her fingers. There were four little bloody half-moons on her skin.

‘I thought we were talking about Maman.'

‘We
are
.' Joan's eyes were wide and sincere. ‘We're talking about how you can help her, and also how you can help your friends. You don't want your friends to be in danger, do you?'

Claudine shook her head.

‘And we can help. Clement and I. We like to help people to stay safe. Your maman—we can look after her. We can look after your friends too. Anything they need.'

Claudine kept staring at her hands. The wounds looked like broken little mouths now, dribbling blood. Right and wrong were like that: one minute the truth was one thing, the next minute it was something else. The Germans had done that when they arrived, turning everything upside down.

Joan's voice was soft, crooning. ‘Imagine it: bread and butter for your maman and your little brother. And your friends. But you must tell us
every
thing.'

‘That's all you want?' Claudine asked, quietly. ‘So you can help? You won't tell the Germans anything?'

‘Goodness,
no
, the very idea!'

Claudine remembered how she had trusted Gregor. He had been good and honest, even though he was a German soldier. And they really
needed
the bullets. Claudine also needed to know Maman would be safe and her reputation wouldn't be ruined. Madame Hacquoil was in charge of people's reputations: Claudine knew that.

So she told her everything.

About Maurice's boat and how Gregor was helping them to escape. How they were all going to escape to England and be happy. How she was scared to leave Maman with Hans and how she wanted her to have extra help because Claudine would miss her and Francis so.

Joan listened. Sometimes she nodded. When Claudine had finished, Joan smiled her smile full of teeth and embraced Claudine, gripping her hard.

‘Thank you for telling me, Claudine. That's very brave of you. You're a very good girl, you really are.'

‘You won't tell, will you?'

‘No! Of course not.'

‘You'll look after Maman for me? So that she doesn't have to do…bad things?'

‘Yes.' Joan squeezed her arm. Her fingers were cold and bony. ‘You've done the right thing.' Then she stood and clapped her hands. ‘Now, you must be off, sharpish, young lady, or you'll miss the tide.'

As Claudine stood, she pressed a small sack into her hands. But before the butcher's wife could move away, Claudine gave her a quick kiss on her cheek, which held the bitter smell of blood.

‘Thank you. For looking after Maman. And for not telling.'

Claudine ran all the way home, her heart rattling to the staccato clatter of five bullets in a tin.

CLAUDINE was safe and they had bullets for the gun.

Edith tried to keep her thoughts on that and pay no mind to the fist of fear compressing her chest. She fixed her eyes on the blue-black sky and its uncountable stars. Maurice had chosen a night when the moon was but a thin paring of silver, so they had to pick out their path from memory. But Edith could have walked the whole route blindfolded: she knew the shape of the land as she would have known her own child's skin.

Maurice had gone ahead, carrying Marthe. He would be the slowest, he'd said, and he didn't want the others captured because of his noise.

He'd taken a route that had only one patrol near it. At the tramp of German boots, they all crouched behind a bush. Edith glared for quiet. The patrol was too noisy to hear anything but their own voices anyway: great lumbering louts, chattering and laughing. They trampled by without stopping and the group stood up again.

Edith had only taken two steps when she heard Claudine's voice, shrill with panic.

‘Edith! Something is wrong with Dr Carter!'

And, impossible to credit as it was, the man was lying down, pressing his face into the soil, as though he'd been shot.

What on earth is he doing, risking everything like this, and with the patrol still so near?

‘Come on now,' she snapped. ‘Up you get.'

‘Oh Christ, I can't do this,' he groaned.

Edith felt a stab of fury. ‘Oh for goodness sake,
up
! Of course you can do it, pull yourself together.'

He didn't shift a muscle. ‘I'm not moving, I tell you. It's madness. They'll catch us, and that'll be it.'

‘Well, they will if you stay sat here.'

‘You don't understand. The Commandant has informants everywhere. And it's not only me he'll punish. Good God, the hospital. He'll incinerate the place. Or he'll have Hacquoil shot. What was I thinking? Trying to save my own skin and putting everybody else in danger. It'll be disaster for all of you too, if you're caught with me. He'll show no mercy. I
must
go back and turn myself in.'

Edith crouched next to him and dug her fingers into his arm. Her voice was a rattle of rage.