‘This is what happens if you’re caught!’ Kit pointed to a body on the rocks. No one wanted to look at the tortured, mutilated remains of the young fighter; even his eyes had been gouged out. Raoul, still a young boy, was sick at the sight, and Kit put his hand on his shoulder to steady him.
‘War is a terrible thing,’ he whispered, thinking of the bodies he had collected and buried all those years ago, sick to his soul. Over the past weeks, they had wandered ever westward and then northwards to join up with a fighting outfit of the Maquis, a battle-hardened group who hunted down lone guards, ambushed motorcyclists with tripwires, destroyed railway tracks. If captured, this was what they could expect in return.
Now winter was coming but no sign of the usual snows creeping down the mountains. Their tracks were easy to follow, food was scarce and shelter depended on farmers willing to harbour them, at the risk to their own lives. Some of his group had drifted away, back to work on farms, others stayed hidden with villagers. As Kit looked up at the peaks, he knew his own chances of crossing over into Spain were on hold. The boys, toughened as they were, still needed him. They had suffered losses from gunshot wounds going septic, and from fever and desertion. Morale was low and they were now heading into dangerous territory.
Life in the children’s house seemed a far-off idyll. If he was caught, there would be no mercy. He would be shot as a British spy. His hair had turned almost white, but his beard was still foxy red. Although he could not pass as a local, he played his part as a tramp, drawing little attention in the streets as he knocked on doors, begging for food and passing messages to sympathisers. He was usually safe with priests, but no longer with the police. They heard rumours of a new force being recruited. There were spies infiltrating the Maquis camps in order to do untold damage, and it was hard to trust anyone new.
How were they to survive the winter without coming down into the valleys and risking exposure? Kit thought. They must find refuge, but where? There was only one place he could think of, but it was miles away and in the wrong direction. If they could hole up for the winter, though, out of sight and silent, they might live to fight another day.
By night, they crossed the tracks with icy patches, one false slip could send them hurtling down the rocky slopes to certain death. Walking silently in single file, listening for troop movements, was unnerving.
‘Where are we going?’ Raoul asked.
‘Somewhere to hole up until the worst of the storms are over,’ Kit replied, knowing the boy would pass this information along the line.
They were heading south and east on high ridges, avoiding any farmhouses and guard posts, at the mercy of the sharp watching eyes – wolves, bears, foxes – but nothing attacked them as they passed by. Kit could sense the boys were restless, having been separated from the larger Maquis group after the last skirmish. Survival was the name of the game and he prayed his farmhouse was still standing. At worst it would have been searched and ransacked, but that was bearable, so long as Flora was safely in Spain.
As they approached those familiar thick walls, he looked for a spiral of smoke, listened for the bark of a dog, but all was silent. The studded oak door yielded to his hand, while something scuttled across the floor, in protest at their arrival.
‘Where’s this?’ The men paused. ‘It’s someone’s house.’
‘Not sure, but it looks as if it was deserted months ago.’ His band mustn’t know it belonged to him. To them he was just Bruce on the run, an old British veteran from the Great War. ‘Come in… it won’t bite you.’ He laughed at their hesitancy, lighting his torch.
As he feared, the place had been searched, chairs thrown down, pictures broken on the floor. The wall clock and wireless gone. He dreaded to think what they would find upstairs. In the bedrooms, floorboards had been prised open by soldiers in search of cash, looking for loot; it might have been just local ruffians, or another resistance group, but it didn’t matter. The roof was standing. The stove was intact, crockery was smashed, but they had lived rough for so many months that this was luxurious. Damp though it was, it would soon dry out.
‘What a mess they’ve made.’
Kit shrugged. ‘Let’s hope no one will come back again. It will give us time to regroup and rest. No one must ever be visible, and that means no smoke, no lights. I have allies down in the village of Montze, but only I must make contact with them. One false step and we’ll be arrested. You know the rest. Time for some shut-eye; we can straighten the place up in the morning. I saw a stream at the back, so you can wash and bring water, but only when it’s dusk or first light. Remember, no one must know we are here.’
*
Flora stared in wonder at the precious bundle lying in her arms. How could she have given birth to such a miracle? The nuns glided around the room in their starched uniforms, smiling. It was as if she was back on duty in the Swiss maternity hospital in Elne, and yet not. Now Flora lay back, with her son cradled in her arms, while the nun helped the baby to the breast. The past few months had been unreal. The consul had listened to her story and sent her to a small hotel close by, offering light work in their office until her confinement. Nothing was too much trouble and the consul’s wife made sure she was prepared for the big day.
‘It’s not often we get a Scottish lady on the run,’ the consul laughed. ‘You escaped internment by the skin of your teeth. Now we need to get you to Gibraltar and a safe passage home.’
Flora had other ideas. ‘My baby must be British, of course, but I have to wait here for my husband to join me. He’s British, too. I won’t go without him. I must find work here, until he comes to fetch me. Then we can return together.’
‘But your papers say you are a widow?’ the consul quizzed.
‘Yes, for many years, until I met Christopher in the aid camps. We knew each other as schoolchildren, back home. He was my brother’s best friend. The brother who died in that dreadful railway crash at Quintinshill. Now Chris travels on false papers, so our marriage is irregular.’ She found herself blushing. ‘We were sheltering Jewish refugees, but it was time to bring them out of France. Chris had an accident and we had to leave without him, but it can only be a matter of time before he arrives.’ She sighed, more in hope than expectation. Kit could be anywhere in France.
The consul looked out of the window, shaking his head. ‘The borders with France are much tighter now that the Allies are heading through Italy. Germany fears a southern invasion. I fear you may have to wait many months.’
‘Then I will wait.’ Flora was adamant. The long journey to Madrid and on to Gibraltar with a new baby was unthinkable. ‘I do have means to support myself, but I’ll need to contact my family in Scotland in order to release property and assets and I must tell them I’m still alive.’
‘The Red Cross can help with that, I’m sure. Your parents will expect a letter of explanation about your present situation. The letter may be able to go through the diplomatic bag, when the time comes. You’re free to visit around the city, but it’s full of spies and enemy agents, so be wary who you speak to,’ he added.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful, but first, I’d like to find my little charges. They are housed by the Joint, I’m told.’
‘Ah, in Caldes de Malavella, the orphanage… you may find them there. Señor Seguerra and his committee are very thorough in getting sponsors from America to find them safe passage to the States, but Atlantic crossings are still dangerous.’
And now, as she nursed her baby, still exhausted from a long birth and tearful about being alone in a foreign country where she had little of the language, it was time to write home. The letter she had put off for so long. They must have presumed her imprisoned, or worse. She felt guilty keeping her father and sister in the dark about meeting Kit Carlyle and all the lies she had fed them, giving excuses not to return when the war began. How would they react to her deception? It was time to tell the truth, the whole truth. She fondled the baby’s downy head. Already his hair showed signs of redness like his father’s. ‘Christian Fergus, you will be known as Christy,’ she whispered into his ear, kissing him, sniffing that familiar warm toasty odour she had first encountered at Elne. ‘Christy, you and I are going nowhere, until your daddy comes for us.’