It was not the first time that Kit had helped bring in the grape harvest, but this time there were guards with guns, ready to butt any slowcoach. He had been offloaded into a detention camp, guarded by the hated French Milice, ever grateful now for the padre’s intervention that gave him this reprieve.
It was good to have the sun on his back, along with fresh and better grub. If you were caught stealing grapes, a severe beating would follow. News came of the blowing up of Carcassonne prison, with prisoners still alive inside. There was nothing left of it but rubble.
Kit could not believe his good luck in being out of the prison before this happened. Schultz’s words still rang in his ears: What you do there is up to you… Make the most of any chances… At least working on farms provided a chance of better food and conditions. Each week they felt liberation here could not be far away. All the hard graft in the sun strengthened his muscles after his time in prison.
Kit woke one morning to the sound of motor engines roaring into the camp. There was cheering and gunshots. ‘The Allies are here! We are free at last!’ Prisoners raced to greet them, crying, ‘Welcome, welcome!’ A bunch of soldiers in mixed uniforms arrived to force open the gates. There was chaos as the Milice tried to put up a brief defence against the odds. And then Frenchmen were fighting each other; all that pent-up fury exploded over the Milice and few survived their beatings.
Kit turned away from such savagery. He was sick to death of all this violence. Now was his chance for freedom, but he did not want to hand himself over to the rescuers. They might force him north and into a camp for displaced people. In the chaos of that first hour of liberation, Kit just walked out of the compound unchallenged. With his jacket stuffed with a few possessions, he headed south down the first country lane where villagers were waving flags and cheering.
No one turned him away when he asked for water; instead they sat him down to share what meagre rations they had scraped together, as if he was an honoured guest. How could he go far without money? In his release from Carcassonne, all his papers were lost. Once more in his life, he was dependent on the generosity of strangers to shelter him, as he made his way down towards the south-west, towards Montze. He earned his bread picking vegetables or fruit, or whatever labour he could find, which delayed his progress. Yet, no matter what, Kit never lost sight of his determination to return and find Flora.
*
Dear Flo,
Blest was the day when your letter arrived. It was as if you came back from the dead, and with such news of your baby and Kit Carlyle. I read each sentence over and over again to Papa. He had a stroke through overworking. Virginia cares for him so lovingly. I do what I can, but with two children and Sandy’s hours, it’s not as much as I would like. Knowing you will be coming home to us, and bringing another grandson, will hasten his recovery.
Surely it can’t be long before this war will be over and we can begin our lives again. I’ve passed on the good news to your friends, Maudie Wallace and the Murrays. What a story to tell of the good work you two were doing with refugee children.
We can’t wait to meet young master Christian Fergus. To add our lost brother’s name was so touching. All my news can wait until you are safely lodged with us again.
Passage from France should be easier as restrictions ease. What adventures you will have to share with us…
Flora reread Vera’s letter through a mist of tears. It was such a relief to know her irregular life with Kit was no barrier to her return. Vera would not judge her, after all she had endured herself. Now it was time to write another letter, with the sad news that she would be coming home alone. For as much as she loved her house here, without Kit it no longer had any meaning. Hard as it would be to leave all those memories behind, she must look to Christy’s future. He must have the best Scottish education and know his wider family. No one need know the exact details of his birthing. She would just be another war widow.
The train to Paris and on to Calais for a Channel crossing sounded simple in theory, but delays and difficulties must be factored in. Christy would not remember his life in France, but one day she would bring him back to show him how they crossed the mountain peaks together, and to find his father’s grave. There was only Lise who would really miss her in the village. Consuela and Sam would understand this decision to return home.
Sometimes, in the silence of the evening, she heard again the clack of wooden shoes on flagstones, and saw in her mind’s eye the faces of Joseph, Ruth and all the children they had harboured. There were still many displaced orphans needing a safe place, but without Kit she could not face the responsibility of another house full of needy refugees. It was time now to put her own needs first. The prospect of returning to Kildowie was exciting and yet she couldn’t ignore a tinge of guilt for deserting her post.
Funny the series of places her life had spanned: from Glasgow to nursing in France, back to Scotland for her marriage to Ivo and working with Rose in the Glasgow slums, helping Vera and Sandy to settle down, then returning to work in Rivesaltes, finding Kit and building the children’s house together. Then came the flight with Juliette into Spain and back here, only to be returning once more to Scotland. What a circle of places and people she had encountered on this journey, and it was not over yet. They must stay on for Sandrine’s wedding. Even now, Sandrine was helping her with travel permits and all the bureaucracy needed for their journey north. After that joyful event, it would be time to leave Montze for good.
*
‘Come, Christophe, supper is waiting,’ shouted Madame from the farmhouse door. It was over a month since his escape from the camp, a month of foot-slogging from village to town, staying to find food and shelter. Two steps forward and one back, it felt now as if his progress slowed to a halt. Kit did not want to return to Montze as a tramp but respectably clad, clean-shaven, with a pocket full of francs. Until that time, he must earn where he could, and Madame was a generous widow.
‘You’ve worked miracles today,’ she said, smiling, as she passed over the tureen of thick soup. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without your help. It was a blessed day when Our Lady brought you to my door.’
The source of Madame’s generous provisions was a mystery but Kit had never been so well fed and asked no questions.
‘I hope you won’t be offended, but there are a few things you may like to have,’ she continued, pointing to a basket full of clothing. ‘My late husband, bless his soul, always bought the best quality and you are about his size. Do try them on.’
What else could Kit do but strip to his chest to try on a shirt and jacket?
‘Perfect.’ The widow smiled. ‘Now, when we go into town, no one will guess you are my gardener. It is good to see my cooking has not been in vain. You have a fine figure, for a man of your age.’ She was eyeing him with a glint of admiration. Suddenly Kit felt his cheeks flushing with the realisation that Madame had more on her mind for him than clearing out the stables.
‘Thank you, but I can’t accept such a gift,’ he replied.
‘Poof… You have nothing on your back but rags. I have no further use for them, so I insist you take them.’
Perhaps you have another use for me? Kit thought, recalling the time all those years ago, when the pastor in the Cévennes gave him his dead son’s clothing and another young widow offered herself to him. It was time to make a sharp exit. He didn’t want to embarrass the poor woman, but had to admit that a set of decent clothing would be useful, now that everything was so scarce.
Early the next morning, clad in his new outfit, Kit placed a letter of gratitude through the door and resumed his trek west.