14

We strode out across the fields, towards the woods, Frankie reluctantly leading, nervously juggling a battered old cricket ball. Me following. Elizabeth dawdling behind.

‘I told them I’d keep it a secret,’ Frankie said, turning back to me.

‘We’re going for an evening walk,’ I said. ‘You haven’t said anything to betray your confidence.’

‘We should have brought a weapon,’ Elizabeth said, -quietly.

‘I don’t need a weapon on my own land,’ I said. But I felt foolish. She was right. Things were changing.

Frankie dropped back as we reached the woods. I went first, stepping across the drainage ditch at the edge of the field, and gingerly climbing through the barbed-wire fence. The woods were old, hardwoods, a mix of oak, birch and chestnut, and in the June heat the green canopy was a shield against the evening sky. Centuries of leaf mould made the going springy underfoot.

I looked to Frankie for directions, and he pointed, but stayed behind me, Elizabeth behind him.

I moved quietly, carefully, each footfall on leaves, avoiding any sticks that might snap and announce my presence. A young birch blocked my way, and I gently held back a branch of quivering leaves as I stepped past. I smelt woodsmoke, and heard voices.

Three men had made camp. Two lay on the ground, one sat on a log, tending to a small fire. A tin kettle hung over the fire and the man on the log held an enamelled mug. The mug was filthy and dented, like it had been through a lot. The man looked worse. His eyes were hollows. His hands shook and he watched the flames of the small fire as if he was looking for answers.

‘Bad camp security, sergeant,’ I snapped. The man glanced up at me, then returned his gaze to the fire. His companions squinted up at me. One of them sat up. None of them seemed concerned by my arrival.

‘You should have someone on perimeter,’ I said. ‘Otherwise any Tom, Dick or Harry could walk in and finish you off.’

‘They’re welcome to it, mate,’ the man who’d sat up said. He looked past me, where Frankie was peering around the birch tree.

‘All right lad. Got any grub?’

‘Come back to the house,’ I said. ‘We can give you a proper meal and you can clean up, before you’re on your way.’

‘Tell them to go away,’ the man still lying on the ground groaned, keeping his eyes closed. ‘This is the best kip I’ve had for three months.’ His voice had a thick accent. He was wearing an English uniform, but he sounded Polish.

‘You can’t stay here,’ I said.

‘Says who?’ the Polish soldier asked.

‘I do.’

‘You and whose army?’ said the man by the fire, the sergeant, his eyes not leaving the flames. The way he spoke, he was clearly the leader. There was a menace in his voice. It would have worked, if I’d been a farmer, intimidated by three battle-hardened soldiers, fresh from the front. But it didn’t work, because the last time I’d been intimidated by three soldiers, all three of them had been pointing rifles at me, and I was three miles behind their lines, in the mountains overlooking the Khyber Pass. That situation had ended in my favour. So standing over three unarmed men on my own land wasn’t going to raise my pulse much, no matter how much menace any of them put into their voices.

‘We can fight, or we can eat,’ I said. ‘I’ve eaten already, so I’m easy either way. But it looks like you boys could do with a meal.’

The sergeant tore his eyes away from the fire. He stared at me, thinking. I let him look. Looking never hurt anyone. Better than fighting.

‘Let’s get the fucking food,’ the Polish soldier said. ‘We kill him after.’