The shadows were long and a chill wind had grown from out of the north, by the time Sandrine returned back to her ruined home. She looked at the tumbledown terrace from the street and shivered, not through cold but through apprehension for the night to come. The small amount of food she had taken to the clan would do little to appease their hunger. It was like crumbs to birds. Their appreciation of the gift had been great, but, once the moon rose above the skyline, the hunger and the rage would still be terrible.
Confusion and fear racked her. She was caught in a maddening place, between trying to save her liberators and trying to stave off her clan’s hunger. She took solace from the fact that soon, perhaps, maybe, she hoped, all would be over. She would pray, but it was prayer which had first delivered her and the clan into such peril and suffering.
Henry jumped when Sandrine pushed open the door to the house.
“You are not much of a soldier,” she said, “jumping when a woman enters the house!”
“Wasn’t expecting you,” Henry smiled, recovering and unconsciously straightening his hair into some semblance of style.
“Have you made the house safe?” she asked, like an officer to one of his juniors. “It’s soon dark.” Henry couldn’t help but laugh.
“What is this? I have two Majors ordering me about now, do I?”
But Sandrine ignored him and repeated the question again, even more seriously.
“Yes. Well, I’ve patched up the door. Boarded up the window. You look tired.”
Sandrine was. Exhausted. She rubbed a hand across her face, as if trying to brush the weariness away from her.
“I can make tea,” Henry said, in a tone which made him sound proud of the fact. “Here, take a seat.” He wiped down the chair, from which he had been writing, with a hand and set it before Sandrine.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Please do call me Henry.”
“Thank you, Henry. Do you have anything stronger? Feel like I could do with a proper drink.”
“Ah,” replied Henry, bowing his head so that his chin was on his chest. “I don’t think I –”
“I think the Germans would have taken all of my spirit. Let me look …” Sandrine began, levering herself up from the chair.
“No, no, let me,” Henry insisted, raising his hands as a sign he could do whatever was asked of him.
“You are very kind. In the pantry, at the back under the little window, there’s a tile in the wall.” Henry wandered his way through to the room. “Is it untouched? Should be some bottles inside.”
Henry reappeared moments later at the door.
“Empty, I’m afraid,” he said, pulling a face. Sandrine looked crestfallen. “Sorry about that.”
“There you go again,” retorted Sandrine, although there was a lightness in her voice. “Apologising! You English! You are sorry for everything.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right, bit of a national pastime of ours. Can I make you tea?”
“Tea! The other great British pastime. Is there no coffee?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Henry, rummaging through his stores. “I might be able to find you some from –”
“No, don’t worry,” said Sandrine, wearily. “I will take tea.”
He headed off to the kitchen where he had set up a stove.
Sandrine listened to the sound of his knocking and tinkering as she leaned forward, resting her head into her hands, her eyes closed, enjoying the swirl of her tired mind slowing to a halt.
“I’ve tidied up a bit,” Henry called into the room. “Don’t know if you’d noticed.”
Sandrine hadn’t. She sat up and looked about herself.
“All I care about is whether the doors and windows are safe,” she answered. But then she felt unkind and said, “But it looks much better. Thank you.” It still looked a mess, but she could see the Tommy had made an effort, of sorts, a British and male effort at tidying up, which involved moving everything to the side of the room and hiding the worst of the mess where he thought it was out of sight.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Henry said, appearing at the door and pulling a face of guilt.
“What, securing the house?”
“No, I mean …” He shrugged awkwardly. “Cohabiting.”
“My dear Henry, you English are so sweet. If you are that uncomfortable about it, you can leave anytime you like.”
“No,” replied Henry, quicker than someone would have if they thought it a bad idea. His response rather shocked him. “No,” he said, slightly less passionately, “no, it’s fine, it’s just not army protocol to share residences with residents like this, especially a single female resident. Are you single?” he asked again, a little more pointedly than he was expecting.
“Single? Yes, I have no husband or boyfriend, if that is what you mean,” Sandrine answered flatly, as if replying to a mundane question, but there was a mischievous light in her eyes. She looked up through her dark eyelashes and smirked. “Goodness me, Henry,” she said, allowing the smile to take root on her face, “are you blushing?” She stole forward from the chair and grabbed him from turning to hide his embarrassment. “You are!” she cried, and she laughed and ran her hands through his hair. “You are blushing!”
“All right!” replied Henry, a little hotly at the teasing. Privately he adored the feel of her on him.
“You are blushing, Henry!” Sandrine laughed and she stood back and shook her head. “You are a quite remarkable man, Henry.”
He swiped at his hair to smooth out any ruffles and coughed uneasily. “Stop teasing,” he said.
“I’m not. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before.”
“Don’t say that. I’m sure you have.” He picked up his pencil and played with it absently in his fingers.
“All the men I’ve known, they had, how do you say in English? A head that is too big?”
“Arrogant?” he suggested.
“Arrogant!” Sandrine cried. “But you?” She came forward again and placed her hands on his jawbone, looking hard into his face to see if there was anything to suggest her thoughts where wrong. “You are a beautiful man. Do you know that?”
“Ah, right. Good,” Henry replied falteringly, easing himself back and thrusting a fist into a palm, as was his way. “Well, anyway, like I was saying,” he continued, and then suddenly rushed back to his stove to take the boiling water from the flame, cursing when he burnt his fingers.
“So,” Sandrine said, sitting on his chair and crossing her legs, watching him closely, this small and correct Englishman, the flicker of emotion catching inside her. She swept her hair over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “You are happy to stay here then? With me?”
“It’s just, I’m sure my superiors would have something to say about it, but that’s okay.” He noticed a line of dirt on the inside of one of the mugs and smudged it away with his thumb. “Do you like your tea strong?”
Sandrine ignored the question. “Talking of your superiors, what did they say when you passed on my message?”
Henry appeared at the door, playing sheepishly with its wooden surround. “I …”
“You haven’t!” she snapped, leaping at once to her feet.
Henry stole forward, his hands out to try and pacify her. The way she could flash to scalding hot from cold terrified him. “I told them there was perhaps more behind the attacks than simply the British advance!”
Sandrine hand was on the door handle. “Bloody English!” she cried. “Who is your officer?”
“Major Pewter. But –”
“And where is this Pewter?”
“At the main hall. But –”
“Then if you won’t tell him, I will go and tell him myself!” She threw the door open and thrust herself outside.
“But your tea!” Henry called after her, hurrying back to the kitchen to collect it from the hob. But Sandrine was already down the street and away into the heart of the village.