smelled revolting.
‘Come on then, George, I thought you were taking me for a walk,’ Violet said. George responded with alacrity, putting down his unfinished drink and trying to wipe the grimace of disgust from his face at the taste.
‘See you later then.’ Violet grasped George’s arm, winked at Hari and then they were gone, leaving Hari sitting alone in a cold, empty and unfriendly house.
She had the fire glowing in the grate and a pile of toast and jam ready when Jessie came bustling into the house with Father in tow.
‘Something smells good.’ She beamed at Hari. ‘How did you know what time we’d be back?’
‘I made a guess,’ Hari said dryly. ‘Actually I consulted the paper and read what time the show was ending.’
‘
Hari saw Jessie glance at Father with a look of affection and felt a wash of something very much like envy. Everyone had someone to care for except her. She made a fresh pot of tea and then went up to her bedroom. She washed in cold water and climbed into bed and hugged herself, feeling lonely and unloved.
The Sunday bells were ringing when she woke. The sun was shining into the bedroom and with renewed energy Hari got up to face the day and dressed quickly. After breakfast she would take her bike and ride to Bridgend and watch the prison camp. Some of the German prisoners went to St Mary’s church for Sunday worship and if Michael was alive he would most certainly go with them.
It was a fine day, the autumn sun warming her back as she rode towards Bridgend. Questions reeled through her head: could Michael have survived? Was it another pilot who bore a resemblance to him? But no, it was Michael she’d seen, she was sure of it, but he’d looked at her without recognition. Had he lost his memory when his plane crashed on to Welsh soil? She wished all her questions could be answered. But today she would make sure she saw Michael even if she had to question every guard in Island Farm.
When she arrived at Bridgend she parked her bike and waited outside the church, glad to sit down on the warm stone wall. Her legs ached and her head ached through tension. And then it began to rain.
Hari unpacked her cape from the saddlebag and draped it around her shoulders. Soon her red hair curled into damp tendrils but, doggedly, she waited until the church bells rang out at the end of the service.
The Germans came filtering out of the church, the senior officers first and then a few non-commissioned men. There was one pilot at the rear of the trail of men and behind him a British guard. Hari recognized him.
‘Morning, James, been to morning worship I see?’ He stopped, but the pilot walked on without looking at her. ‘Is that the man who came down in the German plane?’ she asked.
‘Aye, that’s the bastard who came to bomb us trying to send the munitions and the whole of Bridgend up in flames, pardon my French.’ He stared at her bedraggled appearance. ‘What you doin’ here, work on a Sunday do you?’
Hari improvised. ‘No, but it was a lovely morning when I started out, I thought I needed some exercise and fresh air after being cooped up in an office all week and then it started to rain on me.’ She pushed back her wet hair.
‘Anyway, I can see the prisoners are allowed to attend church, that’s very good.’
‘Aye, more than they’d do for us I dare say.’
Hari ignored James’s hostility. ‘How did that pilot survive the crash? I surveyed the site of the crash—no one could have got out of that.’
‘He baled out, what do you think? Cowards all of them. But at least he’d got rid of his bombs before he came down. We’re just lucky they fell before they got to us.’
Hari’s eyes followed the party of prisoners and, as if Michael sensed her gaze, he turned briefly and looked at her. His hand moved in a small gesture and she felt a rush of joy, her heart began to race. He
Sixty-Seven
I heard the chanting in the early morning and woke up with my heart thumping. For a minute I thought I was back in Ravensbruck prison camp—the cell I was in was just as small—and then I listened to the monks praying in song and knew I was safe. I ran my hands over the small swell of my stomach. The baby kicked and I smiled.
‘We’re going home,’ I whispered in English. ‘I’m taking you to Carmarthen. On the farm that will be your land, we’ll remember your father and your grandfather and I will tell you all about the bravery of the men whose name you will carry.’
I cried a little and then one of the monks brought me a breakfast of warm, thick brown bread. ‘Today they will come, the resistance men from Belgium, they will take you to the coast and put you on a ship to Ireland.’
I felt a dip of disappointment; somehow I’d imagined I’d be flown straight to Britain but I could see it would be a long time before I was home again. I thanked the good man and slowly ate the fresh bread. There was a scraping of home-made butter on it melting into the warmth and nothing had ever tasted so good.
I was ready when the brother came for me. I had no possessions, only the papers Father-in-law had given me, my marriage certificate and a fake passport in the name of Katherine O’Brien.
He had told me that if the Belgians were caught taking me out of the country I was to show my marriage certificate and make up a story I’d been taken hostage. ‘You’re good at that sort of thing,’ he’d said, with a smile. I bit my lip but the tears welled in my eyes anyway. Biting lips was supposed to bring control but for me it only hurt without any benefit at all so I immediately stopped digging my teeth into my lip and continued to cry.
We went down a long passageway towards the back of the monastery where the kitchens were situated. There sat four men eating breakfast, one of them was Fritz.
‘Hello, in trouble again,’ he sighed heavily. ‘I’ll be glad to be rid of you, young lady.’
That remark did more than any biting of lips to stiffen my shoulders. ‘Trust you to be the one to come to my rescue—’ my tone was full of sarcasm—‘you nearly got me killed last time you “helped me”. I’m perfectly capable on my own, you know.’
Fritz bit into his brown bread and a dribble of butter ran down into his beard, only the beard didn’t look grey now it looked black. His disguise as a tramp had been a good one but now he was just a young man, albeit a brave young man.
‘We’ll be making a move in half an hour,’ he said, his mouth full of bread. He ate as if he was ravenous and I suppose he was.
The others, Belgians, smiled at me once, all of them taking in my round belly and the wedding ring on my finger, and looked away giving attention to their breakfast. I watched them masticate slowly, mentally urging them to hurry up. I wanted to be on my way home as soon as possible.
At last, Fritz wiped his mouth indelicately with the back of his hand. He saw me looking and spoke defensively. ‘We don’t often get fed and when we do it’s always on the run so forgive our lack of napkins and dinner table manners.’
‘I never said a word.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘You’re good for me, you stop me feeling afraid and vulnerable,’ I said. He shook his head.
‘You, vulnerable? Don’t make me laugh.’ He got up and thanked the brother who had served the food. Fritz was fluent in several languages, obviously, and under my breath I said, ‘Clever clogs’. He heard me but made no reply.
The brother led the way along a winding passage towards the rear, through some unused rooms and to a small door in the thick back wall. He opened it with difficulty as if it was seldom used, but it was a ploy to fool the Germans. I knew prisoners escaped from Germany this way practically every month or so.
We were out in the fields then and I looked round: this then was Belgium, land of the free except that it wasn’t; the country was awash with Germans and we filed away into the nearby trees in silence.
I noticed that the men, all four of them including Fritz, wore rucksacks; I was spared, so I thought, until Fritz
