Flora had many weeks to rue Kit’s dream to rebuild the old farmhouse. The winter of 1940 came early and they were unprepared for the harshness of the wind whistling down from the peaks, lifting tiles, finding the gaps in the doors and windows, piling snowdrifts against the barn. First, in October, came terrible floods, roaring down, turning their stream into a raging torrent, dragging branches and rocks in its race to the valley below. News came of drownings along the river Tech and great loss of life. Flora prayed that the chateau refuge in Elne was spared devastation but what of the camps on the coastline?
They struggled to keep a fire from smoking and the iron stove from belching fumes. Their water supply froze. They were reduced to living and sleeping in one room, with thick curtains to hold back the draughts. They piled on every layer of clothing they could. How Flora longed for her sturdy Scottish tweeds and brogues. Galoshes were impossible to buy. They were reduced to wearing wooden clogs that clattered on the stone-flagged floor.
With the last of the precious wool she had gleaned from a farmer’s wife, she knitted scarves and bonnets on makeshift wooden needles. The wool was rough and scratchy. Kit grew a grizzly red beard, impatient that the storms were hindering his progress. Everything was in short supply: tools, nails, timber. What kindling they foraged from the forest floor was dried to feed their hungry stove.
Flora scavenged in the scrub for berries, nuts and chestnuts to dry off and grind. The chickens were snug in the storage cave under the house, out of harm’s way, and laid well, until the light faded. The nanny goat still had milk, enough to store as soft cheese. There were sliced apples drying in the rafters, salted beans and puréed tomatoes. There was no sugar for jams but they could barter eggs for honey, if there was spare. Kit filled their stewpot with rabbit, but meat was scarce and he eyed the older hens with longing.
Down in Montze, they were known as Monsieur Christophe and Madame Fleur, the strange couple who lived high on the mountain path and sometimes rode down on a bike. If folk were suspicious, they were always polite and formal. When word got round that Madame had been a nurse in the maternity hospital in Elne, a few intrepid mothers climbed the path with reluctant children. A trip to the nearest doctor meant a bus ride. Some were close to their delivery time and asked Flora to check all was well. Their dialect was incomprehensible at times, half French, half Spanish, but somehow she was able to offer herbal tisanes and poultices, and give reassurance where needed. Some were thin to the point of emaciation. The working men and their precious children were always served first. Too many lived on scraps, Flora feared.
Any visitor to the house could see how spartan their conditions now were. One day, a grateful grandfather brought them a thick rug, with a precious jar of hedgerow jam and a pound of fresh butter. For all that it was a region full of rich vegetation, vineyards and good soil, the best produce went to market to pay for extras and clothes. Oil was in short supply, the bus ran on a gasoline contraption, only officials and delivery vans had their own transport. Kit’s bike was their lifeline. Flora hated the long trek back when the tyres were punctured by sharp rocks and she had to drag it uphill for yet more repair. They strapped a wicker basket to the back, but on most visits, it was half full. There was little to glean from the boulangerie or the boucherie, with their meagre ration cards.
Not everyone was friendly to them. Conversations stopped when Flora entered the village store. Madame Arnot nodded, speaking slowly and loudly, as if she was deaf, while Flora struggled to make herself understood. Mostly they were left to themselves, no doubt the object of gossip and suspicion as to why two anglais were hiding in the hills. The scuttling of the French fleet by the British navy had turned many against their allies.
There was one friendly face in the mairie, the girl who renewed their official papers and identity cards. Her fiancé was now a PoW, somewhere in Germany. She spoke a little English and assured them she hated the Boche. She did not query their status and, in fact, she carefully changed their names from Carstairs to Carrier, but one day curiosity got the better of her. ‘You stay here, why?’ she asked.
Kit explained about their hopes of making a rest home to give sick children fresh air and respite.
‘Ah, like the one in Mosset… they have refugees there, but Monsieur Pik and his family are not safe. When they come, les pauvres petites, you will need permits for extra rations. When do they come?’
Flora shrugged. ‘We have to make the old house fit to live in and it’s a slow job.’
‘Then you will need my young brother, Sebastien. He has too much time on his hands, too old for school but too young to join up. He will help you when the spring comes.’
Within weeks the snows melted and a gangling youth with a thin moustache and cheeks covered in acne arrived. Seb was a hard worker, whose first love was the vegetable garden, where he cleared rocks and spread chicken manure to enrich the soil. He seemed to have hollow legs and an appetite for Flora’s soups. Sometimes he brought little gifts from his family: a loaf of bread, honey and precious seedlings.
Flora was embarrassed not to have anything with which to thank his sister, Sandrine, until she remembered a pretty blouse. It was worn out, but the handmade lace collar could be removed to dress up any plain outfit. In these small kindnesses was this friendship cemented.
Suddenly spring erupted with a flush of new leaves, the scent of garrigue shrubs, carpets of wild flowers and the hum of bees. Windows could be opened onto the snow-capped peaks that encircled them. Flora felt her spirits lifting.
At the end of the day, though, she watched Kit sitting by the fire with pale sunken cheeks. Had they taken on too much? Was it realistic for two middle-aged people to create a refuge here? Sam wrote encouraging letters and sent welcome funds for repairs. The refuge would have to be basic: an attic full of bunks, a big table in the kitchen. There were only poor mattresses for bedding, the best she could procure from the market stalls. This was Kit’s dream. She knew she must never discourage him.
*
One afternoon, much to Kit’s surprise, Sam O’Keeffe arrived on foot, carrying a box.
‘How are things going? Trust it to be the worst winter for years.’ He surveyed the vegetable garden and the swing already waiting, roped to a sturdy chestnut tree, for Marisa and other children to play on.
‘To what do we owe this unexpected honour?’ It was good to see his old friend. ‘Flora is down in the village.’
Kit felt relieved that thanks to Seb’s strong arms, most of the obvious repairs had been completed. Sam must have made the long and torturous journey by train and bus for a reason. What was so important that it could not be sent in a letter?
‘Let’s take a wander up the track. The mountains look splendid from here.’ Sam pointed to the old stony path away from the farmhouse, into the hills.
Kit paused to get his breath as he followed behind, resting to admire the view. Above them a raptor soared on the slipstream. His eyes strained to watch its flight.
‘You’ve done well, old chap. It couldn’t have been easy, but there’s been a slight change of plan,’ Sam said. ‘I thought I’d better tell you in person.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kit felt the first stab of alarm. ‘I know the house isn’t ready yet.’ He felt protective of all they had achieved so far and against the odds.
‘No, no, don’t get me wrong. It’ll be fine for our purposes… it’s just that…’ Sam hesitated.
‘Spit it out.’ Kit was impatient.
‘I don’t suppose you hear much news about the occupied quarter?’
Kit shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing we can believe or trust, just rumours in the market. I know it’s all over for France, but we are safe enough here in the mountains.’
‘I’ve brought you a wireless, old but reliable. I left it on the table. We are still in the unoccupied zone, still under Pétain and Vichy, but laws are changing all the time, and not for the better. My Irish credentials still hold but you should not be here. I am relieved that you’re only a five-hour walk into Spain, should the worst happen.’
Kit sat down on a rock and looked up at Sam. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’
‘I’ve been studying the map. The path to Spain is tough from here, but doable. It’s just that there are people we’re anxious to get across the border… people who might be more useful back home, if you catch my drift…’
‘You mean escapees,’ Kit replied. Trust Sam to be involved in rescuing army stragglers.
Sam nodded. ‘Airmen, soldiers, politicians. People like that need our support. We want to make a route, with safe houses, where shepherd guides can collect their parcels. The border is hardly guarded at the moment. Now is the time to take our chance.’
Where was all this leading? This was not what Kit was expecting. How had Sam got involved in such dangerous work? Kit was no fool. He had heard rumours of smugglers and shepherds guiding strangers in the dead of night, on treks across the mountains. Some returned with pockets of cash to spend. He recalled one day, when the ice had melted, finding a suitcase nestling in a gully, its lock broken and half-rotten books scattered around. No one in their right mind would ever lug heavy cases up the steep rocky wilderness. ‘I thought we were taking in sick children.’
‘And you will. You must when the time comes but we also need you to take in a few kids who are in danger because of their race. These are children whose parents have been shipped off in cattle trucks from the camps at Gurs and Rivesaltes. These are children who France no longer wants to protect. You’ve seen conditions there and now they are even worse. Many aid workers have been expelled, leaving just a few doing the work of ten. I’m asking you to stay on up here and guide whoever comes to your door, shelter them, ask no names, no pack drill, just send them with whoever calls for them. Could I ask this of you?’ Sam paused, taking in a deep breath. ‘Flora must be sent into Spain at the first sign of danger. Let me assure you, we don’t trust everyone who offers to help. There have been betrayals and false go-betweens they call passeurs. It’s only for a short while until one of the other compromised routes is repaired.’
Kit sat silent, winded by Sam’s explanation.
‘There are funds supporting us. It is vital work. Can I count on you?’
‘Stop right there… Flora must know. She must know the score. If the worst happened…’ He felt sick. How could he ask his wife to risk her life?
‘Of course, but this is a remote spot, off the beaten track. You have decent cover and will be safe. Your children must become a familiar part of the village even though some will have false names and papers. We can go into all this later.’
Kit turned back down the track, thinking aloud. ‘How long has this been a plan? Did you bring me up here all those months ago, with this in mind?’
It was Sam’s turn to fall silent. ‘Only when France had truly fallen and stranded soldiers were being passed around. You were so keen to create another Magret. I sensed there were possibilities here.’
‘Now I feel we’re here under false pretences. I did hope you’d bring little Marisa to join us. This is a whole new enterprise. I’m not sure I can involve Flora.’
‘Then keep her in the dark, say nothing. The less she knows the better. If things get risky, she won’t be compromised.’
‘And Consuela?’
‘Oh, she is deeply involved. Someone has to prepare the children for the journey, get permits to travel, tickets and escort them to a pick-up point.’
‘I see,’ Kit replied, with a curtness he couldn’t help. This was too much to take in now. Sam had been devious for all the good reasons. He was protecting the lives of innocent children, just as he had once protected Kit when close to death. Sam had brought him back to life, and thus he had found Flora once again. He owed his friend so much. How could he deny him this request?
To keep Flora in the dark was another matter. If silence kept her safe, then so be it, but it would not be easy. Suddenly Kit felt as if their dream idyll was over. They were in the grip of forces over which they were no longer in control.