‘And when we find difficulties in England?’ I asked.
‘We will overcome them,’ he replied. ‘You have my word, Joelle. My most solemn promise, on everything that I hold sacred.’
‘But the English may not let me stay,’ I said.
‘They will not send you back here,’ he replied. ‘That would be heartless and cruel. There is a war on and there will be many refugees. You will simply become one of thousands.’
I considered his words until Beatrice appeared with tin cups of coffee and a warm smile.
‘So?’ she said in French. ‘What will you do, chérie?’
I looked up at her and smiled in return.
‘I will go to England,’ I told her.
She nodded and held out my cup of coffee.
‘Perhaps that is best,’ she said, her tone tainted with sorrow. ‘I wish it were not so, of course. Yet I imagine being here without your parents will be hard.’
‘You are correct,’ I said. ‘But I cannot thank you enough, for all that you have done. I only wish we could go back to before the war.’
‘Me too,’ she replied. ‘That’s the thing about life, Joelle. We can never go back. The past shapes us. It makes us who we are. It cannot be undone. All we have is what we make of tomorrow.’
I thought on her words for a while.
‘I will return one day,’ I promised. ‘Perhaps I will find you here?’
Beatrice shrugged. Her nose was bright pink with cold.
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘I would like that.’
SEVENTEEN
Later, when Mo finally revealed his plan, he sounded completely insane. Beatrice translated for her uncle, Georges, who simply shook his huge, weathered head.
‘It is suicide!’ he gruffly exclaimed in French. ‘Have you lost your mind?’
Mo seemed to get the point, despite the language difficulties. We were sitting around a battered kitchen table, after a breakfast of bread and jam. Mo cleared his throat.
‘I know it sounds crazy,’ he told us. ‘But there is no other way. Besides, the Germans are looking for enemies on the ground, not in the skies.’
‘But, to steal a German plane?’ I asked. ‘From a German airbase? We’ll be killed.’
Mo shook his head. He seemed fresher that morning, and far happier. His smile had returned alongside the sparkle in his eyes. Perhaps it was the thought of escaping from France, or maybe the thrill of his plan. Only, his plan made me question his sanity.
‘The Germans raid mostly at night,’ Mo continued. ‘They use the darkness as cover, to avoid detection. But they won’t send all of their planes at once. So, we simply sneak on to an airfield, hide until a night raid begins and steal one of the spare planes.’
‘Absolutely out of the question!’ said Beatrice. ‘I cannot believe this is your plan!’
She translated again, and this time Uncle Georges walked off muttering to himself.
‘It will work!’ Mo insisted. ‘That’s the point. It’s so dangerous, they would never even consider it. And we’ll be away before they find out.’
Beatrice munched on a piece of bread and did not reply.
‘If we do try this,’ I said, ‘where is the nearest airfield?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mo admitted. ‘I was hoping Beatrice’s family could help.’
Beatrice finished her mouthful and sighed.
‘I will ask my uncle,’ she told us. ‘But he is more likely to slap you than help you. And he has big hands.’
As Beatrice left, I caught Mo smiling.
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘This is actually your plan?’
He nodded.
‘I thought of it at your friend’s bookshop,’ he told me.
‘Mrs Moreau?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I saw a book about planes on a side table. It won’t be easy, Joelle, but we can try.’
‘Well,’ I said with a grin. ‘We’ve got nothing to lose. Except our lives…’
‘Have you ever flown in a plane before?’ Mo asked.
‘Never,’ I said.
‘It is a wonderful experience,’ he told me. ‘The freedom, the rush of air, the sense of absolute calm…’
‘I must be as insane as you,’ I told him. ‘You’re making it sound like some wonderful adventure.’
‘You like my plan?’
I grinned again.
‘I want to fly,’ I told him. ‘So, yes.’
Uncle Georges remained unimpressed but thanks to Beatrice’s insistence, he decided to help us. He disappeared for a few hours, leaving us the afternoon to get some rest. If Mo’s plan worked, it would be a very long night.
Georges returned at dusk, with an old lady driving a single-horse cart. The bed was packed with hay and it stank.
‘What is this?’ I asked Georges.
‘Transport,’ he replied. ‘If you insist on getting killed, this will take you to your doom, child.’
‘But it stinks!’ I complained.
‘Pah!’ hissed the old woman. ‘Listen to this princess! It is simply horse muck. Nothing to fear!’
The woman was barely five feet tall. Her dark eyes were beady, and grey whiskers sprouted from her chin. She was wrapped up in a crocheted black shawl and smoking a pipe. A swallow tattoo was etched upon her left hand, and I found myself warming to her, despite her manner.
‘I’m no princess,’ I told her.
‘I can see that,’ she replied. ‘You’re covered in dirt and your hair looks worse than my straw. What prince would have you?’
‘Perhaps those whom you’ve yet to turn into frogs, witch?’ I snapped.
Her eyes narrowed, and I thought I’d gone too far, but then she cackled and coughed and slapped Georges’ shoulder.
‘I like this one,’ she told him. ‘Pity she’s about to be killed by those German dogs.’
She winked at me.
‘Don’t worry,’ she added. ‘I’ll give you a decent burial, princess.’
I grinned again.
‘If you live that long,’ I countered.
Beatrice fetched Mo from inside and when he saw the cart, he nodded.
‘We hide in the straw?’ he asked Beatrice.
‘That is the idea,’ she replied. ‘If you’re still doing it.’
‘Yes,’ he said, eyeing the old woman.
‘What is this?’ she asked Georges.
‘Indian,’ Georges replied. ‘A pilot for the British.’
‘He is handsome,’ she said, winking at me. ‘Like the ones that came during the last war. Only they had beards and wore cloth upon their heads.’
I translated, and Mo
