The moon was about full. Ben rode stooped low over the handlebars, using the shadow in the deep lanes close to their hedges, hugging the wrong side when that was the dark one: he was retracing the route by which he’d come with Vidor eight days ago, having to think hard to remember the twists and turns. Slanting right now where another lane came in from the left: somewhere ahead there, this straight bit, was where that truck had been stopped, the Demorêts’ farm.
Seemingly deserted now. No glimmer of light, except the moon’s on glass. Tall, straight trees like mourners: you’d expect owls, the flutter of bats, that scream… Pedalling on – legs pumping, heart pumping too, breaths harshly audible in his one good ear… Boche patrols were more frequent than they’d been a week ago, Boches thicker on the ground all over this peninsula and its immediate hinterland; Madame Durand had told him that she’d heard they were searching for weapons caches. Perhaps for the one cache which Vidor had decided should be left where it was. So what chances of survival this L’Abervrac’h pinpoint might have, God knew.
And if chances of getting to Grac’h Zu still weren’t good: well, what the hell…
Sweating, in the distinctly cool night air. A wind off the Atlantic being the cooling factor. Sweating internally too, though, over what might have happened to Bright and Farr.
He remembered having wondered a few days ago how things might be without Vidor holding it all together. And that was the situation now: or seemed to be. Germans all over-one team had paid a visit to Durand’s garage, two days ago, had poked around, fortunately not amongst the debris in the yard amongst which Ben had been crouching, hearing their contemptuous remarks and questions to old Durand, addressing him in bad French and the tone you might use to a dog if you didn’t like it – this had been Ben’s first close brush with them, and foremost in his mind had been that in his scarecrow outfit he’d undoubtedly be treated as a spy, however strongly he claimed to be a serving naval officer.
For ‘serving’, he thought, read ‘bloody useless’.
The home team, during Vidor’s absence, had been doing absolutely nothing. Only conversing briefly in whispers when they met, exchanging whatever scraps of gossip or information there might be: who’d been arrested, whose place had been searched yesterday or last night…
A couple of hours ago Durand had told him, his back to him as he climbed down from his breakdown vehicle – ‘There’s bad news and there’s worse. How it goes, these days-eh?’
He’d towed in a broken-down BMW gazo, nose-up on the truck’s hand-operated winch. It looked like scrap, but there were plenty like it on French roads. He’d been to Plouvien to collect it, had intended stopping in Lannilis on his way back, to lend an ear to whatever was being said, if anything. He might have been there for hours, if anyone had offered him a drink, but obviously they hadn’t. Ben had been at the back of the garage, keeping an eye on the wide-open doors – as he knew he had to, had been doing for a bloody week now – and not expecting the little garagiste back before dark.
Which it would be pretty soon now anyway.
He got up on the truck’s tail. ‘Not bad news of Vidor, I hope.’
Vidor had left on Wednesday, escorting the flyers to Bordeaux via Rennes and Nantes; he’d reckoned on two days each way and maybe one day in Bordeaux handing them over. Back Monday evening at the earliest, therefore, and any news of him at this stage might well have been bad: very bad, then, for anyone around here. Everything hung on him: he was the mainspring of it all.
Durand turned his head, and spat. ‘Wouldn’t be word of him yet. Couldn’t be… OK, then, turn her down.’
Ben had the brake off the winch: he began winding it down. Durand told him, ‘First thing is there’re more fucking Boches around – Lannilis and here – than there was even last week. In the café there even – stiff with ’em… OK, that does it.’ Jerking chain loose, to unhook. ‘Other thing is – well, I got this from Luc’s sister—’
Luc being Vidor’s radio operator: they kept their transceiver in an attic over the café, Vidor had mentioned, used it sometimes for chatting to Baker Street even when the café itself was full of Germans. Luc and his sister both worked there, behind the bar.
Durand straightened. ‘Come to think of it, might be a headache for you, this one. She told me – Hélène Vannier did – they raided the Brodards’ farm, see, and—’
‘Brodard’s?’
Where Bright and Farr were still holed up…
‘—he’s dead, poor bugger. They’re calling it – according to Hélène – heart attack. Couldn’t talk more then; like I said, they’re in there thick as fucking cockroaches.’
‘My men are there – she didn’t say—’
‘No. Didn’t.’ The little man was rolling himself a cigarette. ‘I just thought of that, too. Only spoke about ten seconds, mind you—’
‘—how it happened – or whether the daughter’s—’
‘Fuck-all. Like I said—’
‘Look, I’m going. Soon as it’s a bit darker. Christ, should have gone days ago!’
‘Then you’d’ve been bagged too. Time to gimme a hand with this, have you?’
There was going to be a damn great moon in any case. But he should have joined them long before this, would have if Vidor hadn’t advised against it: and being an intruder here, a liability to them in the first place, he’d felt obliged to cooperate. Durand had even warned him again now – his little eyes beady as a lizard’s flicking over him – ‘Do better to stay put. I tell you, the sods are all over…’
Damn right, they were. He’d just heard them – petrol engine, and the rumble of its tyres on the rough road: glancing back, swerving out into the middle of the lane as he did so and then correcting so quickly that he’d almost come off…
Talk about bloody fools. Right in the middle then, in full moonlight – only for a couple of seconds, but the driver’d have to be stone blind not to have seen him.
Had seen him. Shifting gear, revving… Ben in an edging of black shadow about five feet wide pedalling flat out. Uselessly – putting every ounce of his weight into it but also knowing it was pointless effort, they’d overtake him anyway and couldn’t be anything but German – this time of night, and a petrol-engined vehicle – one of their damn patrols… Teeth clenched, the old bike rattly under him, engine-noise louder every second. Oh, Jesus…
A swathe of moonlight lay right across the road ahead, too. He’d be floodlit again… He realized then, though – there’d be a gap in the hedge, gateway: faint hope, therefore – coming up now… He swung into it, into the brilliant moonlight, off the bike then and carrying it with him, trotting: it wasn’t actually a gate, but an old bedstead filling the gap. He lifted the bike, flung it over into the field, and followed. The bedstead had barbed wire on it, which in other circumstances might have been painful. He picked up the bike and pushed it into the hedge – not exactly hidden but not in plain sight either – hearing the truck braking, wheels locking, ploughing up loose stones: he was running by then, back the way he’d come, in the field – the field side of the hedge, its moonlit side. It might have been instinctive to have gone on the way one had been going: he hoped – vaguely, although mainly acting on impulse, having to choose one way or the other – they might more naturally search that other way. Or into the field, directly away from the lane. A small field, triangular, with trees in it – fruit trees, he guessed. They might think he’d have gone that way – across it, directly away from the road, using the trees’ shadow for cover from this bloody moon.
Most people would have, he supposed.
Should have, probably. He flung himself down flat and lay still, virtually in the hedge. Hearing shouts in German: and the truck backing up… Germans were already in the field, though – they’d have jumped down as the thing braked, come running back… More shouting then, and he guessed they’d found the bike.
Should have gone straight over, using those trees’ cover. Lying flat in lush, deep grass close to the hedge’s roots, he saw more soldiers climbing over, the moon bright as a searchlight on them. Torches, too: with which to probe into hedgerows, no doubt. Any minute now. Telling himself caustically another triumph for Benjamin bloody Quarry. Probably his last, at that. What to do – jump up and run, and get shot in the back, or stand up and surrender, get shot or hanged a bit later?
Hang on, though…
Fanning out, into the field. Torch-beams fingering in the shadows, and the rest all floodlit anyway. Sudden racket of beating wings as a roosting pigeon broke out: torch-beam shining up there, into that tree. Might have climbed up into a tree, he thought: except it would have been such a bloody obvious thing to do. Scaring the birds too, dead giveaway. But seeing a climbable tree with no moonlight penetrating, one might have.
Be feeling bloody stupid now if you had, old chum. Not having thought of them having torches… He turned his face down, into the grass, in case the moonlight might catch its comparative pallor where beard didn’t cover it. Thinking then, So far, so good, not so fucking stupid. This far, anyway. Only this far: things might change dramatically when they finished messing among the trees. Unless there were easy exits from the field on that other side, in which case they might extend the search in that direction. It was probably what he’d do, he thought, in their jackboots… On the other hand they might not be so dim-witted as not to consider the possibility that the fugitive had come this way. A few might be detached from the main party, on the off-chance…
More shouts. He’d never liked the sound of that language. Not in men’s voices, anyway. He turned his head the other way, towards the hedge, and woke up to the fact that he was looking through it. That background of brilliance was the moon’s illumination of the lane’s centre and left-hand side.
Hedge therefore penetrable?
Problem being that if it proved not to be, or to be penetrable only with great difficulty – it certainly wouldn’t be easy – one might make enough noise and disturbance to draw the bastards’ attention. But – shrugging, mentally – might do that just lying there, too: so what the hell… Then – as he started worming round, to try his luck – second hazard: if one or more of them had been left behind, to watch the lane…
Good chance they hadn’t, he thought. Once in this field a searcher might well look around, see this long hedgerow and decide Best take a shufti along there, lads, but just off the cuff he’d hardly expect his quarry to double back into the lane… He was still hearing shouts from somewhere out there in the field or on its far side, but the sounds of his own laboriously slow progress were louder, in his one good ear. Head-first, worming, thrusting a way through, aware that the tunnel he was making would be visible – at close range anyway – to any searcher.
Unless they attributed it to foxes or badgers…
Nearly through. He’d be emerging into the shadowed side of the lane, fortunately. Stay in it, turn and creep back to the left, the direction from which one had come?
Might get away with it…
At least, if another patrol didn’t come along too soon.
But they’d still be between him and where he had to get to. A detour might be a possibility, but not knowing the country at all well – only the way he’d come with Vidor, and even that without much certainty – mightn’t be all that simple.
Across the lane, through the other hedge into the field that side?
He was through now, anyway. Crouching close to the hedge, well inside the band of moonshadow and watching to his right for movement around the troop-transport – which was what it looked like. Tail lights glowing like red eyes.
Glow of a cigarette, beyond them – on the roadside, this verge.
Bloody hell…
If one moved out into the moonlight, even if that Kraut was facing the other way – into the field, where the action was – and one made the smallest sound, sent one stone skittering – well, he’d be looking this way, and the next thing would be a bullet.
Sit tight, wait for them to go away?
A shout – from mid-field, by the sound of it – and the one with the cigarette was moving. Into moonlight, showing himself – the truck had hidden him until now – he was there for a few seconds, motionless as he drew hard on the cigarette then dropped it and put his foot on it: a soldier, slim-bodied under his helmet, which in the moonlight and a streak of shadow gave him the look of some kind of mushroom: then he’d moved again, vanished into the recess of the gateway.
So – move. Baboon-like, stooped double so his fingers brushed the ground: into the moonlight without pausing or anticipating – either a shout or shots – then diving flat again, still floodlit but against this other hedge: and in nettles. Lying still for a moment – facing into the hedge, listening hard, his own heart’s thuds astonishingly loud…
Snatches of distant German exchanges, despondent or angry-sounding.
Giving up?
If so, they’d all be thronging back, to that gateway and their transport: might as an afterthought make a recce along that hedge and find the hole… Really, might well… He began to fight and wriggle his way into this hedge: discovering immediately that what it had over the other one was brambles. Wondering again what might have happened to Farr and Bright: who were in whatever hole they were in through nothing but his own cock-up – and whom he should have rejoined days ago…
Through. In a shallow ditch, with multiple lacerations and more nettles. Clothes, such as they were, doubtless in ribbons. Bright and Farr had at least been wearing uniform, he remembered; if they’d been arrested they couldn’t legitimately be shot or hanged as spies. Not legitimately, they couldn’t… He began to crawl – in the band of moonshade, up this side of the hedge towards the truck. To get on that side of them, en route to the Brodard place: having no idea how long they might hang around here. Might be about to leave, might not, might only be regrouping to search in another direction.
Why go to such effort, though – for one bloody cyclist?
Looking for some individual, perhaps – Vidor for instance – and reckoning this might be him? Or if they were here to find munition caches – which was the generally accepted theory, certainly Durand’s and his wife’s, in various conversations with friends who’d dropped by to swap gossip and guesses – they might reckon any peasant on the road after dark might be connected with such activities, would therefore be worth slapping around a bit, for information?
Might be, too. This peasant, for one. Could lead them to a cache, too – that tomb where the skeletons lay grinning.
Extraordinary business… Be hard to find anyone in Brisbane who’d believe it. He froze, listening: a German had shouted, was answered by another at roughly the same distance. Several others then, in chorus. Could be calling it off, could be changing direction. Back to the road, boys, search the hedgerows, both fucking sides …
From the other direction – his left – a vixen screamed. And much closer – really very close – the German driver hawked and spat – so close-sounding you could imagine you’d felt the spray of it – then yelled some question into the night. Could have been something like Got him, have you?
Crawling on. Having considered staying put, and decided against it. Toss-up, either way, but there was relief in movement. Remembering – quite inconsequentially – Durand telling him that an acquaintance of his had been beaten to death by miliciens in Brest. Then one of the truck’s doors slammed, and a second later its engine started: he changed his mind, stopped and let himself down flat again. If they were leaving – he crossed fingers on both hands, lay still, patient…
Would Rosie believe this, even?
Getting to the Brodard farm took another hour – keeping off the roads, following them on the field sides of their hedges. Only one vehicle had passed in all that time – coming back this way, the Landeda direction, might have been the same truck coming back.
Vixens were up and about and vocal, by this time. He’d heard owls too.
The gate at the start of the track up to the farm seemed too dangerous an approach, when for all he knew there might be Germans around. He ducked under wire instead, followed the track up on the dark side of a thorn hedge. An odour of pig: the sties were off to his right, up-wind. Not that there was a lot of wind. The Brodards’ goats would be in the barn. Geese were another matter: if they weren’t shut up he knew they could be a bloody menace. If they were anything like Australian geese, they could.
The old man was supposed to have died of a heart attack, Durand had said. So there hadn’t necessarily been any shooting, or other mayhem, and presumably the daughter – Solange – and the mentally-retarded boy, Alain – would be around.
Please God. And Bright and Farr – please…
Hope for the best. Nothing else one could do. But if the Krauts had been here and found those two they’d surely have arrested the others as well, for sheltering them. The girl, anyway, – mightn’t bother with Alain. But thinking of the bastards taking Solange – who was very young and rather pretty, with those green eyes and the little shy smile – gave him the same sort of queasy feeling that he got whenever he’d thought about Rosie and what she might be facing. You had to take off your hat to anyone in that line of work, male and female, but the girls were so terrifyingly vulnerable, he thought.
This place might well be deserted. Not a glimmer of light anywhere. Well, there wouldn’t be, they wouldn’t be wasting oil or candles at this time of night… The turf was rock-hard underfoot, and the moon halfway down, throwing long shadows. He had the barn in black silhouette against it: that was where the lads would be, if they were here at all. Although the closer he got to this, the less hope he had that they could still be here.
Germans might have taken possession? Knock on the door, have it opened by some Kraut with a Luger pointing at your head?
No transport in the yard, anyway. That was a good sign. If there’d been Germans here there would have been, surely. Couldn’t be under cover, either – the main barn’s lower floor was full of hay and stuff, and the other one was where they put the goats at night.
Try the house first, then the barn…
The dog began to bark: and immediately the geese were in full cry. They had an enclosure behind the goat barn. The dog was an Alsatian cross, name of – he got it, Marco. It should present no problem – beyond sounding the alarm, as it was doing now – since they kept it chained. The racket was still bloody alarming, though: knowing how far sound carried in the surrounding peace and quiet. It would be somewhere near the house: he wasn’t sure, had only heard it barking and whining when he and Vidor had set off from the barn: this time it must have heard him climbing the gate, where the hedge ended. The paddock was now behind him, orchard at its top end – pig-sties and the small barn up there too – the bigger barn to his left and the house some way to the right of it. Marco – Ben could see him now, flinging himself against his chain and barking blue murder – close to the front door, you’d never get to that door if he didn’t want you to.
‘Marco. Hey, Marco. We’re old pals, Marco – remember?’
Seemed he didn’t.
Glimmer of light, though: at an upstairs window. Just a flicker, then it had gone: but the window was being opened… ‘Marco!’ Girl’s voice. Solange… ‘Quiet, Marco!’ Then – as the dog obeyed, more or less – ‘Who’s there?’
‘I’m Ben Quarry, Solange. Ben. Royal Navy – the Australian?’
‘L’Australien?’
‘Right! I went with Vidor, remember?’ Ben started walking towards the house. ‘He’s away somewhere, he left me with the Durands – the garagiste at Lannilis. I just heard you’ve had trouble – Boches here, and your father—’
‘Wait. I’ll come down.’
Seconds later, he saw the glow of an oil lamp in the open door: a yellowish pool of light on this shaded side of the house, her figure bulky-looking, hunched, as she unhooked the dog’s chain and moved it to another tethering-post. He’d been moving closer meanwhile, towards the door: seeing at shorter range that the shapelessness was due to an old coat she’d thrown on over her nightgown. Hair wild, her face under the light white as paper, eyes like dark holes in it.
She could have been old, in that moment…
‘Solange!’
‘Are you hurt?’
Holding the lamp high, to throw light on his face. He told her no, only scratches, brambles and so forth. ‘But you, Solange—’
‘Your face is all blood!’
‘Never mind that. I’m so sorry – your father—’
‘Oh. You heard.’ A breath like a gasp… ‘But Alain also—’
‘They killed Alain?’
‘Yes. Come inside – Monsieur Ben… Is that right – Ben?’
He followed her in, and she put her lamp down on the table. This was the kitchen. Pushing the door shut… ‘Solange – what about my two seamen?’
‘Gone. Luc took them.’ She was up close, examining his face, then getting him to show her his hands – which if anything were worse. Shaking her head as she turned away. ‘I’ll draw some water.’ Luc, he was thinking – Vidor’s man. Thank God for him… Relief was huge – even if it was only partial. He asked Solange as she worked the pump, ‘When did Luc come for them?’
‘Oh – the day before… There’s hot water on the stove, don’t worry, I’m going to mix it.’
‘That’s about the last thing I’d—’
‘They shot Alain in his head. He rushed to attack one who – oh, he was – you know, twisting my arms, and – to make my father tell them things – and another had brought in Alain, he went for this one who was hurting me, and the man shot him. There. And my father died in that chair – that one. He had his eyes on me and his mouth open – trying to speak but as if he’d swallowed his tongue – and he just fell forward’ – pointing with her head again, twisting round from the iron stove – ‘there.’
‘I’ll do that.’ The enamel bowl – lifting it, transferring it to the table. In this poor light you’d barely have known that her hair was red. And she looked as if she hadn’t slept for a week. Tattered old tweed coat hiding the figure which he remembered had had Tommo Farr’s eyes out on stalks… ‘Let me do this myself, Solange. Only scratches. Fuss about nothing. Really.’
‘Sit down, eh?’
Where her father had sat. He obeyed her, for some reason, and she started work on him, using a sponge and frowning with concentration while she dabbed and wiped and the water turned pink then red. ‘Your French has improved, Monsieur Ben.’
‘Glad you think so. Been getting a lot of practice… Not Monsieur Ben, please, just Ben. You know, I think you’re marvellous?’
‘For what?’ A shrug. ‘Life must go on.’ Her expression tightened. ‘For some of us.’
‘Running the farm all on your own.’
She shrugged again. ‘Not everything gets done that should.’
‘I’ll help, anyway, now I’m here. Just tell me what and when, and—’
‘I think you should stay inside. They could come again. They’re searching, still. I think they were satisfied we have no weapons here, but – one can’t be sure, there seems to be no system one can comprehend.’
‘What makes them think there might be weapons cached around here?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe someone said something. Mostly what they ask about is explosive. But – it’s what’s happening, that’s all… Will your boat come in again?’
‘God knows. Up to Vidor to fix it with London, one way or the other. I’d guess not, though.’
‘He’d move you to some other place along the coast.’
‘I suppose… D’you know where Luc took those two?’
‘I think to Lannilis – the café where he works.’
‘Patronized by Boche soldiers?’
‘Yes. I don’t know. Better not to know, Ben… You look better now. If you want to finish for yourself, take off your clothes and – you know, the rest of you—’
‘Yeah. Please. You’re astonishing. To think about me and my silly little scratches, when—’
‘I feed the goats too, eh?’
A laugh. He laughed with her. ‘Well – OK—’
‘I’ll draw some clean water.’
‘No. I will.’ She’d been patting him with a scrap of towelling: he took it from her. ‘Forgive me asking, Solange, but what’s happened with your father’s body, and Alain’s? Only thinking that if there’s anything I could help with—’
‘They came for them. I ran to our neighbours, the Faubiers, and they came, and Jacques Faubier went to Landeda on his bicycle. So then the doctor, and Marcel Legrand – for the pompe funèbre - and the cure, also our own police, two of them, they’re not bad fellows… And I’ve sent word to my sister – I hope she’ll come—’
‘You have a sister.’
‘Yes – Lucinde. She’s married, lives near Plouermel. Oh, I do hope she’ll come!’
‘I’m sure she will. But now, look here.’ He was on his feet: she had her hands on the bowl, about to take it, to empty it. He put one of his on her forearm: ‘Leave this to me, now. I’ll stay down here tonight – if I may, if you’d give me a blanket or something – and move to the loft tomorrow – if that’s a good idea. But you get some sleep now. You’re a fantastic girl, Solange, you really are… And – look, must be a nightmare – but it won’t be for ever. You know? Maybe this sister of yours’ll—’
She was in his arms, suddenly. He’d seen the tears coming, the breakup – break down she must have been holding off. Her face was hidden against his shoulder now: arms locked round his neck: pressed against him, shivering inside the shabby old coat: sobs like gasps, like fighting for breath… He heard himself murmuring while he held her – patting her, like calming a frightened horse – ‘Solange… Solange, honey – nightmare now, but it’ll come all right, you’ll see. Listen – Solange, listen – if the gunboat does come, how about we take you to England with us?’
A child, in misery. Anything, to comfort her.