Kit drew the truck up the long drive to the O’Keeffes’ farmhouse. In the back he had ten children, squashed together, but they did not speak much, staring out, wide eyed, numbed by the strangeness of their surroundings. His Spanish was improving but it wasn’t good enough to explain just where he was taking them.
At the sound of his rackety entrance, Consuela came to the door. ‘At last, les pauvres enfants,’ she said, greeting Kit with kisses on his cheeks. ‘Who have we got here?’ She spoke in Spanish as he brought them out, one by one, to meet her. ‘I am Consuela… what are your names?’ Her gentle voice seemed to relax them.
‘This is Juan and Maria, Ignazio, Marcos…’ Kit announced the first ones. To be truthful he had forgotten the other names. ‘It’s been another long journey. I hope you can find room for them.’
Consuela sighed, ‘There are others here, but we will manage. First to the kitchen, to wash hands.’ She whispered, ‘Have they any clean clothes?’
Kit shook his head. ‘Nothing but the rags they stand up in and none too clean, many with sores. We think these children have no parents. Sorry to dump them on you at such short notice. After nights in makeshift shelters, and a trek through the mountains, they’re done in. Sam will need to check them over.’
‘He’s out somewhere visiting a patient, but won’t be long. I have made a bean stew and we’ve bread and apples. We’ll try to fatten them up.’ She looked across at the children huddled together. ‘Look at their eyes, they have seen the unspeakable.’
‘I can’t thank you enough. We were at our wits’ end not knowing how to find them safety. My friend, Father Antoine, will do his best to find them homes, but it’s not easy. There are just too many climbing over the border under cover of darkness; women, babies, wounded men.’
‘Is it that bad? We can keep them here for a while, but there are plans to ship children abroad, Sam heard.’ Consuela ushered the children into the big kitchen, giving them each an apple to chew while she boiled kettles on the stove. Then she proceeded to dunk their hands into the cooled water, examining each one carefully, shaking her head at the state of their arms. ‘Scabies, ringworm and dirt. You have a look round and see what progress we’ve made, while I see to these. They must be so hungry.’
Kit wandered around the field, where there was a large vegetable plot and two young boys busy weeding through the crops. ‘Hola!’ he shouted. The boys looked up briefly and carried on as he passed by.
There was a swing tied with sturdy rope to an oak tree and a worn path down to a stream, perfect for bathing and swimming. There were two donkeys in a paddock, goats for milk and a hen coop. Here were supplies for fruit, vegetables and eggs. He felt humbled by their response to his plea for help. Playing here might give these children time to heal from their ordeals. Their futures were uncertain, but hope lived in this children’s house. It was a refuge from war and suffering.
The sickest children had been too ill to journey here. They were farmed out to hospitals in Perpignan. Kit stood silent for a moment, thinking how his life had changed since those first days in Collioure. Driving trucks along the coast, delivering children to safe houses, bringing in supplies from aid societies: the Red Cross, Society of Friends, Swiss Aid and the ever growing band of volunteers arriving daily. It was not a moment too soon. Thousands more would flee into France and preparations were inadequate, if rumours were to be believed.
Later he stood in the kitchen, watching the older children hanging back to let the new arrivals wolf down their soupy stew.
‘Eat slowly,’ Consuela said, ‘or you will be sick.’ She cut chunks of bread and the young ones dunked them into the stew, looking around at the strangers as if their hosts might steal their food. Some were shaking. When they had finished, they stood up to let the others sit down and fill their bowls.
‘Now it’s rest time.’ Consuela led them out to the bunk beds, but not before examining them for infections and lice, stripping those infected and bandaging any sores and finding replacement underwear from a large blanket box.
‘We’ve had a collection in the village, so generous… but our supplies are dwindling. Tonight, we can try to bathe them.’
An hour later Sam arrived, looking weary and stooped. ‘Good to see you, old chum. Great work you’re doing.’
Kit shook his hand warmly. ‘Not as much as you’re doing here.’
‘How’s that chest of yours? I’ll check it over later.’
‘I’m fine, never felt better, but too many gaspers at times,’ he confessed. ‘How can I thank you for taking this lot in? It’s getting worse. I don’t know how it will end.’
‘This war might end soon, but there’s another on the horizon,’ Sam replied. ‘Herr Hitler has plans to take us all over. Still, we’re safe enough down here. I’ve got an Irish passport and Consuela a Spanish one. How about you?’
‘Registered as an alien, as the law demands, but I’m not thinking about another war.’ Kit wanted to change the subject. ‘I can always marry a French girl, but who would want an old soak like me?’ He laughed.
‘Why not? You’re not getting any younger. A wife and a baby is what you need.’ Sam smiled.
‘Far too busy to tie myself down. With a false name and no proof of identity, that’s the last thing on my mind.’
Since Antibes and the episode with Sylvie, Kit had steered clear of any romantic entanglement. He wanted time to paint and wander around on his bicycle to the ports and harbours to paint seascapes. His money was running out, so a pile of saleable canvases was useful. The Rose Villa stayed covered in his room. Occasionally he took it out, recalling those never-to-be-forgotten days, making sure it was dry and safe, then put it away.
Tonight he would kip down in the farm, in front of the log fire with a nip of brandy and a cigarette. He was tired, the old lorry was on its last legs and the roads leading to Sam’s place were little more than dirt tracks.
This friendship renewed was one of the anchors in his nomadic life. There was time to sit and share, reminisce about times long past. How could there be another war, when the last one was supposed to end all conflict? It was like a dark cloud building up to a storm.
As he drifted off to sleep, Kit relaxed. Perhaps it was all just a rumour and would come to nothing. The Germans would not dare to trample over French fields, not after their last humiliating defeat.