Chapter 27

It Begins

T he following morning brought the rain. The long, dry spell had finally yielded, and the rain hammered the earth’s crust, ricocheting off the ground. The rich, intoxicating smell of wet earth drifted all around, and a mist hung over the plateau. Three white geese strutted through the farmyard, stepping around muddy puddles and honking in disgust as they waddled toward the shelter of an open barn, picking their way through straw and muck.

I finished dressing and went downstairs, drawn by the delicious smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen. Madame Fournier stood at the stove.

‘Ah, Madame Andrée. Help yourself to coffee and food.’

‘Merci.’ I took a slice of white bread and a little strawberry jam.

A cat lay on a threadbare green rug in front of the stone fireplace. It was a cool, damp May day, and I pulled my emerald cardigan tighter around me as I savoured a mouthful of ersatz coffee.

The outside door swung open, and Fournier walked in, rain dripping from his coat and the brim of his beret, forming small pools on the grey flagstone floor. Madame Fournier immediately admonished him, a scowl forming on her round face as her cheeks reddened. He returned the scowl and told her to be quiet. Removing his coat but keeping his boots on, he tramped across the room, leaving muddy footprints as he sat down at the table. Running a dirty hand through his dark, soaked hair, he turned his gaze to me.

‘What did I tell you would happen as soon as word got out?’ His eyes searched mine, an amused look playing on his face.

What was he blustering on about? I raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me.’

‘I said they would come—the men, from the local villages. Word spreads fast here. Already we have another twenty men and more on the way.’ He chuckled as he poured coffee into an empty cup. Without so much as a twitch, he downed the ersatz in one gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘All we need now is for London to hurry and send us arms. Then we can begin.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll be listening in today for the signal.’ That was the worst of it. Sitting around, waiting, glued to the radio along with Denden. Just as well, he was completely mad and hilarious. He was one of the best radio ops, and he knew everything about radios, inside and out.

Madame Fournier brought over eggs, bacon and sausage for two. She glanced at her husband. ‘Any word from Alain?’

Fournier’s face fell, and his eyes dulled. ‘No. Not yet.’

She turned her gaze to the window, looking blankly out, a look of anguish etched on her face.

‘Merci, Madame.’ I glanced at Fournier. ‘Who’s Alain?’

He sighed. ‘Our son. He is twenty. He went on a raid with another group a week ago. They fled the Germans, went on the run. He will be lying low on the far side of Montlucon. His mother worries.’

I stabbed a sausage and took a bite. The succulent flavour of pork left me wanting more as my stomach gurgled.

‘The war is hard on Alice. I was in the first one and waiting for news of her two brothers and me, was a huge strain. Her brothers never returned. It is a pity Herr Hitler survived when so many good men fell.’ He shook his head, and hatred crept into his face, tightening his mouth, narrowing his eyes. ‘Back then, France felt Fritz’s presence, but they only occupied a small area in the east. They did not have Paris. Now, they have all of it, squeezing us dry.’ He slammed his fist on the table, making me jump.

It was the first time I’d heard him speak like that. And to hear his wife’s name made her appear softer and more feminine than the sullen woman who kept to the shadows, snapping at her husband’s heels incessantly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re right. Alain will be back soon.’ It was a pathetic attempt of reassurance that was not mine to give, nor appropriate, but I felt compelled to say something, anything, and Fournier smiled.

I gazed around the large farmhouse kitchen. The Fournier’s didn’t seem to want for food, but the house was shabby, as were their clothes. As Fournier had said, he’d sunk most of his life savings into funding his small group of Maquis for the best part of one year. He already had hundreds of men of various ages, ranging from seventeen to sixty. Many of them had fled their homes to avoid the Service du Travail Obligatoire—conscription to work in Germany’s industries, fuelling the Axis Forces. The sooner London came through, the better.

* * *

The barn was quiet. Denden sat on an upturned wooden crate, his headset clamped to his ears, listening. I lay on a bed of sweet, golden straw, gazing up at the barn roof, with its pattern of gaps and holes. ‘The rain’s stopped.’ No response. He probably didn’t hear. Fleeting shadows sailed by above as darker clouds gave way to the sun, and flecks of gold filled the gaps in the roof, fingers of light sweeping the barn floor.

Thousands of dust motes danced wildly in the golden hues. I sat up, took out a packet of cigarettes, and offered one to Den, who plucked one with a wink. Lighting up, I strolled around, stretching my legs, savouring a lungful of nicotine as my lower back ached. ‘So, come on. Tell me what you’ve really been up to, Den.’

‘Well, Duckie, as I said before, I was lying low for days. The place was swarming with Germans.’

‘Lying low, eh? I bet you were. Who with, though, that’s what I want to know?’

He threw his codebook at me, and it bounced off my thigh. Laughing, I hurled it right back. A stomp of footsteps out in the yard made me hold my breath for a moment. The sound of men’s voices drifted in through the closed barn doors—French. I crept over to the door and peeped out through a crack in the wood. Three tired-looking men, wearing a week’s worth of stubble stood in the muddied yard talking to Fournier, who slapped one of them on the back jovially and led them towards the house.

‘Looks as if Fournier’s little army is growing. Word is spreading.’

‘Good. Well, nothing is happening here. Oh, Lord, I could murder a drink. Be a darling?’ Den shot me a puppy-dog look.

‘Fine. I’ll go.’

‘And if there’s any grub going, luvvie.’

Madame Fournier was going to love me, asking for food in the middle of the afternoon. I sighed. Leaving my dirty boots by the farmhouse door, I stepped inside. The kitchen was empty, and there was no sign of the men who had just arrived. I stood and listened. Then I heard a man’s laugh. They must be in one of the other rooms. The coffee pot on the stove was still hot, so I grabbed two enamel cups and poured. With sharp eyes, I scanned the kitchen for food—nothing in sight. Then I remembered the chocolate bar in my bag. One left. I ran upstairs and retrieved it. It would have to do. There was no way on earth I was taking food from Madame Fournier’s larder and risking upsetting the formidable Frenchwoman. Besides, it was bad manners.

Back in the barn, I dropped the chocolate in the straw by the radio.

‘Oh, I am being spoiled. Thanks, Gertie.’

‘I take it you’ve heard nothing?’

‘Not a dickie bird, my luv. Not a darn thing.’ He sat down and stretched out his legs, tearing open the chocolate wrapper, biting off a chunk. I sat next to him and sipped my coffee. The only sound was of Denis munching. I wasn’t very good at waiting—doing was more my thing, but right now we were slaves to this radio.

‘You’re quiet.’

‘Just thinking, Den.’

‘Hmm, well it’s best not to dwell too much, whatever it is.’

‘I wonder how Hubert’s getting on.’

‘Famously well, I’m sure.’ He patted the back of my hand. ‘We’re all mad, doing this. Could have been safe and cosy back home.’

It was too late for that. Nowhere was safe. I’d never been afraid except once—the day I left Henri. Suddenly, it seemed as if I’d been running for some considerable time, but I wasn’t running now.

He stared at me for a few seconds. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

I swallowed the lump in my throat. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ I sprang up and wandered across to the barn door, opening it just far enough to glimpse the sunshine. The sky was clearing—milky-blue with hazy white clumps of cumulus drifting slowly east. I rubbed my arms to dispel the icy prickle that flowed over them. I’d never hated anyone in my life before, but I hated the Germans, and I hated Hitler. By God, I’m going to thrash them if it’s the last thing I do.

‘Psst.’ Denden waved his arm, beckoning me over, his headset clamped firmly over his ears, listening intently to the small set down in the straw. ‘We’re on for tonight.’ He grinned.