‘You might know someone who can help us?’ Kit leaned forward towards Maurice. They were sipping a heady wine in his farmhouse kitchen. ‘How much will they want?’
‘Do not insult him, Christophe. Albert is a man of honour. He will do it for France and to help win the war. There are others who will demand hundreds of francs but Albert is not one of them.’ The old man sucked on his pipe, shaking his head.
‘Pardon, monsieur, but it’s such a dangerous occupation. If the authorities catch wind of this, surely there will be punishment?’
‘Not round here,’ said the old man. ‘Our policemen are honest… what the eye doesn’t see. How many parcels need delivering?’
‘Three big ones and four small… no, five now,’ Kit replied, almost forgetting the baby.
‘You may have to join another group. It will be a night journey.’ Maurice paused, looking up at his guest. ‘We will be sorry to see you go. You and your wife have brought life back to the old place.’ He dragged on his pipe. ‘And I will miss my supplies of these.’ They both laughed as he gestured towards his tobacco hoard. ‘When will you leave?’
‘When we are instructed by the guide.’
‘You will need stronger shoes than those straw things, if the snow comes early.’
‘There’s nothing I can do about that,’ said Kit, looking down at his battered espadrilles. ‘Don’t tell Sebastien, until we are gone. He was upset that I let him go.’
‘You don’t know, then, that Sebastien left me? He’s joined the other boys, to work in the forest. They’re all eager for adventure, away from the threat of forced labour. His mother will be distraught.’
‘So who will help you now?’ Kit knew that Maurice was no longer agile.
‘Don’t worry, I have a cousin who has a son. He will be kept occupied on the farm. Don’t worry about me, it’s you who must be ready to leave at the midnight knock on the door. We are living on borrowed time, I fear. There are whispers that our occupiers are making their way south. The Spanish border will be guarded on both sides, so any lookout posts must be avoided at all costs.’
Kit knocked back his drink. ‘Thanks for that stomach warmer. I must go and make sure our little band of travellers have supplies at hand, should the time come sooner than we think. First, though, find me an axe and I will chop up those branches. It’s the least I can do.’
‘I’m not an invalid yet.’ But Maurice did not protest too strongly. ‘When you finish, take a look in that old chest by the door.’
Kit set to his task with gusto. They had a plan, a safe route to the border with a trusted passeur. The weather was fine enough. After that, they must trust their escape to Albert’s skill and knowledge. He felt his spirits lift; All shall be well, all manner of things shall be well, he prayed, almost forgetting to open the wooden chest. Perhaps Maurice had a store of honey or apples. But inside was something more precious than gold. Here were three pairs of leather shoes, too small for his own feet. He lifted them out. The old man smiled, pointing to a faded picture in a frame. ‘My wife, Louise, and the little one, Céline. I could never part with them after they went to live with the angels.’ His voice croaked with emotion.
Kit stared at the little girl with ringlets, smiling, in her confirmation bridal dress and veil. ‘I can’t take these.’
‘You must. What good will they do mouldering there, when they can carry some poor child over the mountain? Perhaps they’ve been waiting for just such a purpose. I don’t need shoes to remind me of them. They live in my heart. Now off you go.’
‘How can I thank you?’
‘Just get across to Spain to freedom, before winter comes. Perhaps one day we will meet again.’
*
‘We can only take what we can carry on our backs,’ Flora tried to explain, as she sat with Juliette who had her leather case crammed with her baby’s things.
‘If I am going to America, I cannot go without my lace,’ the girl protested, fingering some fine pieces. How she had managed to preserve the Brussels lace from the salt, sand and thieves in the camp was a mystery. ‘This is all I have left of home. Tomas would not want us to go empty-handed to my relatives.’
Sometimes Flora wondered if Juliette lived in another universe, oblivious to the reality of her predicament. She must be brought down to earth. With a baby on her back, she would struggle to carry much more than a little sack. They were making the last of the blankets into capes and shoe wrappings, for the children to wear over their espadrilles
The pair of child’s shoes only fitted Carlotta, but Juliette had squeezed herself into Maurice’s wife’s leather lace-ups. This left one pair no one could fit yet, but they would come in useful for bartering, Flora thought.
As September drifted into October, they waited each night for the rap on the door, but it never came. Perhaps there had been a change of plan. Kit climbed up to see Maurice but there was no further news on offer.
‘We have to go before the snows come. This waiting is getting on my nerves,’ Flora moaned.
They had told the children nothing and tried to act as if the autumn harvesting would go on as normal; foraging for kindling, finding nuts. Maurice promised to see to their animals when they left, but Flora feared they would all go into the pot. Kit cut long poles to act as walking staves. Everything was ready, as ready as they could make it, and the warmth of the season still held.
One Monday, Kit decided to make another of his weekly trips down into the village to collect supplies and to speak to Father Xavier. It was a decent morning, and he sped down on his bike looking like a workman, in his faded dungarees and beret, carrying a battered knapsack in which to bring home supplies.
Juliette was in one of her tearful moods and went about her chores, sighing and staring up at the mountain. ‘We’ll never climb over those hills. Oh, why did I come? It was better to stay down in the camp. I’ll never see Tomas again. What will become of my baby?’
Flora bit her lip and went outside to calm herself. If Juliette was like this now, what would she be like, struggling up there? Kit would have to cajole her out of this mood. He had a way of teasing people in a patient, pastoral manner. In some ways, he’d never lost his calling. What a good padre he must have been, far more patient than she ever was.
By the time she’d prepared the meagre supper, Flora realised Kit had been gone for hours. Surely, he had found some rations, but perhaps he’d got waylaid by Jean-Baptiste in the café. It was not like him to be late. Flora felt a flutter of fear gripping her. It was getting dark and her hands started to shake as they cleared away the cracked plates. Juliette saw her anxiety. ‘You know what men are like,’ she offered. ‘One drink leads to another… He’ll have to push his bike uphill.’
Keep busy, Flora urged herself. It was time for bed and prayers and stories, but her mind was racing ahead. Something was wrong, very wrong. She felt sick, biting on a dry crust of bread to steady her nerves, throwing another log into the stove, before sitting huddled over its meagre warmth, wrapped in a blanket. She dozed a while, waking up chilled, with the knowledge that Kit had not yet returned.