‘She was hit,’ I told him. ‘I am sure of it.’
Mo slung the rifle over his shoulder, and we hurried to find her. But as we entered the treeline on the far side of the clearing, Beatrice stood up.
‘I’m okay,’ she said in French, before switching to English. ‘Good, good!’
I rushed to embrace her.
‘I thought they had killed you!’
Beatrice shook her head.
‘No, no,’ she insisted. ‘I slipped and fell. There was a rabbit hole. My ankle is sprained.’
The three of us turned back towards the road. Beatrice was hobbling, each step causing her to grimace. We made slow progress, but it did not matter now that the soldiers were dead.
‘What shall we do?’ I asked Mo.
‘We push on,’ he said. ‘Once the patrol is missed, the Germans will flood the area. We need to be far away when that happens.’
‘I did not obey you,’ I admitted. ‘I saw everything.’
Mo considered me for a moment before replying.
‘Then,’ he said, ‘we will deal with that later. For now, we must move on.’
I nodded before helping Beatrice back into our truck. She reversed on to the road and we continued on our way. At the roadblock, Mo scavenged what he could from the two jeeps and destroyed the radio. He found a bag of sweets, which he shared with me, and canisters of water that were even more welcome.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘There is no time to lose.’
Behind us lay four dead human beings. And yet I did not feel a thing. It was just another incident. Something else to be endured. There was no horror, no sadness, no feelings of disgust. Just the cold and harsh reality of war. In that respect, my heart had grown as hard as the roads along which we travelled.
SIXTEEN
The remaining miles to Cambrai passed without incident. No one came after us. The further north-east we travelled, the bleaker the landscape became. The smallest villages and hamlets were deserted, and crops lay rotting in the fields, as though we were passing through some dystopian nightmare. A landscape inspired by darkness and destruction, leeched clean of warmth and joy and love and life. Only the major towns were busy, and those we avoided, in order to bypass German patrols.
As dusk gave way to darkness, we arrived at a small town called Bourlon, to the west of Cambrai. There, Beatrice stopped at a farmhouse and a stout man resembling her brother Claude came out to greet us. He was older than Claude had been, with white whiskers and hair, and a rugged and pitted complexion compounded by a bulbous and seemingly scarlet nose.
‘Beatrice, chérie!’ the man exclaimed, as he hugged his niece.
‘Uncle!’ Beatrice sobbed, unable to control her emotions.
Their embrace continued for some moments before Beatrice finally extricated herself and gestured towards us.
‘My friends,’ she said in French. ‘Joelle Breton and Mohinder Singh.’
Beatrice’s uncle nodded and beckoned us. He did not even give Mo a second glance. As though Indians were common in his world.
‘Come, come!’ he said. ‘Eat and rest!’
Mo followed my lead and we entered a warm and inviting house that reeked of roasted garlic and coffee, warm bread and crackling logs. I felt like I had entered heaven, so welcome were those homely aromas.
‘We are safe here,’ Beatrice told me. ‘Rest and then we will discuss your future.’
I thanked her and turned to Mo.
‘I need to sleep,’ I told him.
‘Me too,’ he replied.
His brown skin was grey with dirt and his eyes weary, and his relief at this respite was obvious. I felt the same way, but there was still something playing on my mind.
‘Tell me of your plan,’ I said.
Mo shrugged.
‘That can wait,’ he replied.
‘But…’
‘Joelle,’ he said in his melodic accent, and I relented.
Beatrice showed us to a room towards the rear, where two sparsely furnished beds lay against opposing walls.
‘Sleep now,’ she told me.
‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘For everything.’
Fully rested and almost refreshed, we made our goodbyes the following morning. I had risen at dawn, my head a maelstrom of indecisive thoughts. What would be my decision? Where would I go? What would become of me, either way? I sat on a garden bench, looking out across the frozen farmyard. The cold bit deep but I tried to ignore it. Besides, it focused my mind. I did not hear Mo until he spoke from behind me.
‘Joelle?’
I turned, smiled and made room on the bench.
‘It is not easy,’ I said unnecessarily. ‘I can’t seem to settle on one thing. Each time I think I’ve decided, another doubt creeps in.’
‘Tell me,’ said Mo, taking the space beside me.
‘France is my country,’ I told him. ‘It is my home. But since Maman and Papa, it feels colder. I think of them constantly. I am reminded of them constantly. Every lane and every field. Every smell and every taste. So, a new beginning makes sense.’
Mo nodded.
‘But?’ he asked.
‘But England seems so foreign,’ I admitted. ‘And I worry that I would become a burden to you, or to someone else. How would I survive and live?’
‘You are not a burden,’ he replied. ‘Not for me, nor Beatrice, nor anyone. Never think of yourself that way.’
‘But what happens if you return to India?’ I added. ‘What would I do then?’
Mo shrugged.
‘I have been wondering the same thing,’ he said. ‘However, I do not wish to return. I like England and hope to make it my home. Even if I did have to go, I would happily take you with me.’
‘To India?’
‘If need be,’ he replied.
‘But I know nothing of India,’ I told him. ‘And your family – would they accept some French girl?’
‘I do not care,’ Mo said. ‘However, I know that leaving you here, with Beatrice and her family, will be fine. It is probably the best course to take.’
‘You want to leave me here?’
My tone was emotional and laced with surprise. Mo realised and swiftly shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I accept your decision, whatever that
