The '44 Vintage

had somehow ceased to be of any real importance. It was the doing, not the objective, that mattered.

'Okay, Lieutenant.' Winston conceded the point doubtfully. 'But then I do what I want—right?'

'Okay. Just so long as the chateau isn't full of Panzer Grenadiers—' Audley caught the words.

'Hauptmann . . .'

The vines stirred. 'Lieutenant?'

'We're going to have a look at the chateau, the corporal and I—you understand?'

'I understand. You have my word.'

'But I want you to understand something else, Hauptmann. We are not fighting your chaps now.'

'I understand. You are escaping.'

'No. For Christ's sake—' Audley stopped short, suddenly at a loss. 'Oh, damn it, Sergeant, you tell him ... if you can. I'm past caring almost. . . come on, Corporal—'

The muscles in Butler's legs were double-knotted, he could feel them twist with each step.

'I'm absolutely buggered, you know, Jack,' said Audley conversationally. 'It is Jack—isn't it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Yes . . .' Audley nodded to himself. 'I thought that was it. Is that short for John or James, I never have worked out which?'

'John, sir.' Butler wanted to say more, but couldn't think of anything to say.

'John, is that it?' Audley nodded again. 'You know, the first time I walked down this road—or Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

whatever you'd call it—I was nine years old. And there are forty-eight trees in this road, from the main road to the chateau—twenty-four each side.'

'Yes, sir?'

'Twenty-four each side. The first time I made it forty-nine, and the second time forty-seven. But there are actually forty-eight. Would you I have guessed as many as that?'

'I don't rightly know, sir.'

'Well, of course, you can't really see in the dark.' Audley pointed towards the house. 'I had a room up there, near the tower. I had a feather bolster instead of a pillow—I never could get used to it. That, and not having porridge for breakfast.'

They came off the compacted surface of the roadway onto a side square of loose gravel in front of the house— gravel which crunched noisily under their boots, much more loudly than the scatters of small stones on the roadway.

There was the rattle of a chain, faint but sharp in the dark ahead of them, and a dog began to bark inside the house, each bark echoing and re-echoing as the animal roared against itself furiously.

Butler cocked his Sten automatically and set his back on one side of the doorway as Audley reached up to bang on the door with the side of his fist. The dull thump— thump-thump-thump— drove the dog inside frantic with rage: Butler could hear its paws scrape and skid on the floor as it strained against its chain.

Audley banged on the door again. Suddenly the barking subsided into a continuous growl. ' Qui est il?'

Audley pressed his face to the edge of the door. 'M'sieur Boucard?'

'Qui est il?'

' M'sieur Boucard, c'est David Audley . . . David Audley, le fils de Walter Audley, de Steeple Horley, en Angleterre.'

The growling continued.

'C'est David Audley, M'sieur Boucard—tu ne me remets pas?'

There were other sounds behind the door now; someone even hushed the watchdog into silence.

A man's voice and a woman's voice . . . but Butler couldn't catch any of the words.

Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

Audley placed both palms against the door and leant forward on them. 'M'sieur Boucard—'

'C'est toi, David?'

' Oui, maman, c'est moi— what's left of me,' said Audley wearily.

17. How Corporal Butler made a promise to a lady

The lamp on the hall table was turned down so low that Butler couldn't make out the woman's features even after she had stopped hugging Audley, but more particularly because most of his attention was on the shotgun which the man of the house was pointing at him.

'Oh . . . my little David—but you have grown so much! You are so big!' The woman held Audley at arm's length.

'And so smelly, maman . . . I'm afraid I didn't wash behind the ears this morning, as you always taught me to,' said Audley carefully, as though he was pronouncing a password.

The shotgun stopped pointing at Butler: perhaps it really was a password at that, thought Butler—an old shared memory which Audley had deliberately produced to prove that he was indeed that long-lost 'little