‘Tell her that I have tinned meat for her this time, from the Americans; butter and cigarettes. I’ll get them from the car shortly.’
I did. She looked curiously downcast, almost ashamed. I told her that we appreciated her accommodating us, and that we wished to put her out as little as possible. I also spoke directly to the boy, and told him that I wouldn’t harm his mother.
The woman smiled at last, and murmured, ‘Grandmère.’ At least I’d said something right.
That night I slept on a soft mattress between stiff, clean sheets, in a room that I could lock from the inside. It was as I did that, that I realized I was the only one without a weapon of some sort. I slept with the curtain open, hoping to let in the starlight, but cloud had blown south-westerly along the Channel in the evening, obscuring them. You could never have it all.
In the morning Les produced enough bacon sarnies for the five of us. The makings had been in the boot of the Humber, scattered among spare parts. That accounted for the vague whiff of petrol as I bit into one. The boy smiled shyly at me. I gave him a bobby-dazzler in return. When he took my hand he said nothing except, ‘Monsieur,’ but made it plain that he wanted to take me somewhere.
In the full light I could see that the building was timber, framed in narrow red bricks: probably medieval. It had steep roofs and tall gables. On one gable end was a faded painted advertisement for Citroën cars, which included a legionnaire and a distant tricolore. It was even more distant now, because at some time since it was painted it had received a burst of small-arms gunfire. There was a large, partly cared for garden behind the house, with unfamiliar vegetables in hopeful rows . . . and an unkempt apple orchard, in a corner of which was an unmistakable something the shape of an adult’s grave.
The boy said nothing. He stood in front of the mound with his hands crossed; his head bent, praying. I copied him. Then he took my hand again, and led me back inside. Les, Jimmy and the woman were washing the sarnies down with clear, home-made cider – the family’s only contribution to the meal. They’d saved a share of it for me. As we left Les gave her some dollars, a small tin of coffee beans, a pair of stockings, and a small raincoat that would fit the boy. These were parting gifts. It was as he passed her the last item that she started to cry; silently. The boy put his arm around her waist and leaned in closer.
England muttered, ‘I hate this bloody war. Absolutely.’
After an hour the gloom had lifted. Les whistled ‘Lili Marleen’ again, and drove with his elbow out of the car window. I worked through my logic for them.
‘The boy . . .’
‘Mathieu: Matt . . .’ Les told me.
‘. . . Matt. He was scared that I was going to attack the old lady. That means he’s probably seen someone else attack a lady. His mother perhaps. That’s her grave in the orchard.’
England gave a wry little chuckle. Les told me, ‘No. That’s all right as far as it goes, but almost completely bloody wrong. You would never make a good tec, would you?’
‘Where did I go wrong?’
‘Almost everywhere.’
‘I’ll tell him.’ James England took over. He was James or Jimmy, again.
‘The Jerry took Demain’s son, Matt’s father, away to work in 1941. He didn’t come back. Someone told her that he was some sort of trustee at the camp at Natzweiler: there are mainly women there, so your average Frenchman will probably feel quite at home. After that, nothing. Now old Matt’s not too bright . . .’
‘I noticed that.’
‘About six months later he saw what he thought was a man attacking his mother in the orchard. Only the chappy wasn’t attacking her. They were having the horizontal meeting of parts.’
‘I see.’
‘I think that maybe you do, this time.’
‘What happened?’
‘Matt brained him. Gave him one over the napper with a ruddy great sledgehammer they kept for killing the pig. Every orchard had its own pig before the war.’
‘Was it some Jerry?’
‘Good Lord, no! It was his father’s brother. His uncle. The old lady’s second son. They buried him in the orchard to save fuss, and soon after that his mother left them.’
‘How did you find all this out, if you don’t speak the language?’
‘We know someone who knows someone who does. It’s how this business works.’
‘What business?’
‘Spying, of course. What else did you think Cliff does?’
Oh, I see, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.
‘That reminds me.’ It was Les this time. ‘I need to stop for a slash. Anyone else?’
We stopped overnight at another grass airfield: Beauvais. Goering had watched the Battle of Britain from there, until he got bored with not winning. A squadron of Typhoons had arrived before us, and there seemed to be a lot of grumbling about nothing going on. There were no permanent messing facilities, but they offered us a big tent with a kerosene heater, Tilley lights, camp beds and blankets. There were eateries in the village. I looked over England’s shoulder at the map, and couldn’t help myself.
‘Beauvais. Look, Croydon was almost as close to Paris as this!’
‘Paris tomorrow, Charlie. Les knows what he’s doing. We piddle around these bloody side roads because the main roads have either been blown up by your lot, or are blocked to buggery by priority traffic. Trust him.’
Les chose where we ate. From the outside it was the least promising eating house in the town. There were chairs and tables on the paving outside some of the others, with drinkers and diners spilling out on them. Mainly servicemen accompanied by young women. I say mainly, because I saw one large elderly officer in German field grey, with all the silver buttons, dining at
