David.'
'My dear boy!' Monsieur Boucard's English was not merely perfect!, it was decidedly upper-class. 'My dear boy!'
'It's good to see you again, sir ... Maman, allow me to present my friend Corporal Jack Butler—
Corporal, Madame Boucard, my godmother, and M'sieur Boucard, one of my father's oldest friends.'
Butler just had time to wipe his sweaty hand before accepting Madame Boucard's.
'Corporal Jack, I am so pleased to meet you—' Madame Boucard peered up at him. 'Turn up the lamp, if you please, Georges.'
The lamp flared into brightness, shooting great shadows all around. For a moment Butler registered only the substantial remains of what must once have been marvellous beauty, but then her expression changed to one of alarm and concern.
'Oh—
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
There came a scuffling from the back of the hallway, from the darkness on the far side of the great bare staircase which rose up ahead of them.
Butler blinked stupidly from the darkness back to Madame Boucard. 'It's quite all right, madame. It's only a'— he shied away from the word 'scratch,' which was the sort of thing Audley would have said, but which didn't sound right on his own lips—'a graze . . . and it happened hours ago. I'm okay now, really I am.'
'So . . .' Boucard frowned at him for a couple of seconds, then turned towards Audley. 'You have been prisoners, David? And you have escaped from the Germans?'
It was a sensible conclusion, thought Butler. Whatever they looked like, they could hardly be mistaken for the spearhead of a victorious army pursuing a defeated enemy. And in any case the French in these parts would be expecting the Americans, not the British.
'No, sir. At least, not exactly, that is,' Audley floundered.
'What do you mean 'not exactly'?' Boucard's voice was businesslike.
'Well, sir—we're not exactly escaping from . . . the Germans. We haven't seen a German for hours—'
Audley trailed off, obviously remembering suddenly the German he'd left beside the road a couple of hundred yards away. 'I mean, the Germans aren't following us. But . . . we aren't alone, sir.'
'You have comrades outside?'
'Just nearby, yes,' Audley admitted reluctantly.
'How many?'
'Just two, sir. One of them's an American and . . .' Audley broke off nervously. “We won't stay, sir—
that wouldn't be right. What I really want is food and drink—and some information. I think you may be able to give me a line on a place ... a place we must rendezvous with someone. But we won't stay here.'
He shook his head. 'I was thinking —maybe we could hide for the night in the old mill, down by the stream —'
Butler felt a half-hysterical urge to laugh. This was a new Audley far removed from the obstinate dragoon subaltern; this was 'little David' in a soldier's battle dress many sizes too big for him.
Boucard chuckled. 'My dear David, kindly don't be ridiculous. Do you really think you are the first escaper to come through Le Chais? My dear boy, the only difference between you and all the others is that you have come on your own initiative, because you knew us. Which is why we weren't expecting Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
you . . . whereas all the others—they have come down the line—British, American, French, Polish . . .
they were expected. But no one is more welcome than you and your friends, believe me!'
There was another scuffle in the shadows.
'Maman—'
Madame Boucard took Butler's arm gently. 'Come, Corporal Jack. If you will be so good as to accompany me to the kitchen, my daughter is trained in first aid.'
Butler looked questioningly at Audley.
'Go on, man—do what you're told.' Audley nodded almost eagerly, as though the task of explaining to Boucard that he was about to add a new nationality to the list of escapers was one he preferred to tackle in private.
Butler followed Madame Boucard past the staircase and down a stone-flagged passage on which his iron-shod boots rang sharply. The sound and the feel of the hard surface under his feet reminded him of something he didn't wish to recall, but couldn't help remembering now —something which the lamplight itself had already stirred in his memory: the friendly kitchen in which he had met the NCOs of Chandos Force just twenty-four hours before, at the beginning of the nightmare.
It didn't seem possible that it was only twenty-four hours since then. Half his life had been lived in those hours—half his life and on four separate times nearly his death also. Perhaps being touched on the shoulder by death so very personally transformed the nature of time, spreading it out unnaturally at each touch and using it up, swallowing it up. ...
There was more warm light behind a glass-panelled door; and when the door opened there was also a warm smell, the heavenly smell of thick, nourishing soup. Until the moment he smelt it Butler knew he would have set exhaustion above hunger, but now he could only think that he couldn't remember when he had last eaten anything which smelt like that soup.
