Night Sky (26 page)

But Julie was already on her feet. ‘
Stay there!
’

She ran down the deck and straight into the wheelhouse. When she opened the door she was almost sick. Two men were lying on the floor: one had a terrible red oozing mass of brains and bloody flesh instead of a face. The other was the skipper. His eyes were staring straight at her, sightless and also quite dead.

She gulped and forced her eyes up to the man at the wheel. He was staring at her, his mouth gaping and his eyes dazed.

Julie said firmly, ‘Turn round! Turn towards the land!’

He stared back, his mouth moving noiselessly.

Julie drew breath and said again, ‘Turn now or we’ll all be dead!’

The buzz of the plane was getting louder again. Julie reached over and started to turn the wheel. The man’s eyes suddenly focused and his hands fumbled at the wheel too.

The boat began to turn, but slowly, so slowly. The noise of the engines was getting much louder again.

Julie sobbed, ‘Oh
please, please
.’

At last the boat was turning more quickly.

The plane roared over. There were no bullets this time.

They were going to be all right.

Julie waited to see that the helmsman was keeping the boat on course, then closed the wheelhouse door and walked quickly back to Peter.

They were going home.

Perhaps, Julie thought, we were never meant to go away at all.

The boat couldn’t get up the river; it was low tide. Instead they picked up a mooring off a small fishing village at the top of the estuary, where it narrows into the Morlaix River. The dead were covered with canvas and left on board, the living were ferried ashore in a small rowing boat.

As they waited their turn for the boat Julie stood at the rail with Peter in her arms, looking at the quiet, golden land and thinking it was like a dream. There in the shelter of the river the air was warm and languid; a perfect summer day. The afternoon sun burned hot on her back, warming her slowly, deliciously. Like a dream. It was hard to imagine that the appalling boat trip belonged to the same day.

At last it was Julie and Peter’s turn to go ashore. They squeezed in the back of the dinghy next to a young man. Julie recognised him: he was the one who had cried ‘
Vive la France Libre!
’ when they set out. Now there was no laughter in his face; he was silent, staring blankly into the distance ahead.

They landed at a stone slipway. When Julie stepped ashore and felt the solid stone beneath her feet she sighed with relief. The young man passed Peter across and Julie hugged him tightly to her. ‘It’s all over, darling. It’s all over.’

The young man carried their baggage as far as the main road, then left. Julie sat Peter down on a grassy bank and stretched out beside him. For a moment she closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. The relief of being on dry land was almost as great as the comfort of knowing they were safe. She reached for Peter’s hand and said, ‘I love you, darling.’

Peter rubbed his eyes. ‘Mummy, I’m hungry and I want to go home.’

‘Of course, sweetheart. We’ll start with some food!’

Julie unpacked the food basket and they ate. She was surprised to find she was ravenous. The two of them consumed a whole section of sausage, a large slice of hard cheese, four chunks of bread, and two apples. It was wonderful to eat in peace and quiet, the land steady beneath one’s feet, the wind no more than a slight breeze rustling in the trees.

While they ate Julie began to think. This village was the wrong side of the river for Tregasnou. To get home they would have to go all the way inland to Morlaix and then double back on the other side of the river. It was a long way. The alternative was to find someone to ferry them across the river. But the river was still very wide at this point. And the country on the other side was pretty remote; she wasn’t sure if they’d be able to find any transport once they got there.

The thought of home was wonderful. More than anything she wanted to return to the safety of the small grey house. Yet the problem of having a British passport remained. Peter would still be at risk. For his sake perhaps it was wrong to give up so easily. Perhaps she should make another attempt to get away. To Brest: that was where the ships were. Perhaps there’d be a place on one of them …

It was so difficult to decide. In her heart she wanted to stay, yet her main responsibility was to Peter.

She would think about what to do on the way to Morlaix, she suddenly decided. Morlaix was the way home
and
the way to Brest. Yes, she would make up her mind there.

One thing was soon clear: if they wanted to get into the town they would have to walk. While they had been eating only one car had come out of the village and, though Julie had stood up and waved, it hadn’t stopped. There was a bus stop, but the next bus wasn’t due for another two hours. If it came at all.

As soon as they finished eating Julie stood up. It was six in the evening; they must get to town before dark. The bags were a problem: she hadn’t packed very much, but there was still too much to carry. She took the essential clothes and crammed them into one suitcase, leaving the other by the roadside. She wrapped the remaining food in some paper and put it in her raincoat pocket. Now she had one case, her handbag – and Peter.

She wondered how far a four-year-old could walk before he got tired. One thing was sure: it wouldn’t be as far as Morlaix.

He was very good to begin with, marching well, his little arms swinging back and forth. Then, after twenty minutes, he began to flag. Their pace slowed. After another fifteen minutes Peter said, ‘Mummy, please can we stop? I’m so tired.’

Julie smiled down at him. ‘Of course, darling. We’ll stop for a minute.’ They sat at the roadside. When they started off again, Julie tried to make a game of it, pretending they were soldiers marching off to save Morlaix from ferocious bandits. It worked for a while, then Peter flagged again.

For a while Julie half carried, half pulled him along. Later she put him on her shoulders, though the extra weight made her arms and back shoot with pain, and she often had to stop and catch her breath. Her feet were agony and she cursed herself for wearing unsuitable shoes. But then hiking hadn’t been part of the plan.

In the end it took three hours to do the twelve kilometres. The bus never came; Julie’d had a feeling it wouldn’t.

When finally they arrived in Morlaix it was strangely quiet, the streets empty of people, the shops and restaurants shut and boarded. Only a few bars were open, their customers peering furtively out as if they were expecting the Germans at any second. Perhaps they are, thought Julie. She didn’t honestly care. She sat on a bench near the port, her head back and her legs outstretched, and Peter cuddled against her side. She decided that whatever happened they would go no further tonight.

She thought of going to her employer’s house. He lived on the edge of town, a ten minute walk away. Or there was a girl who worked in her office who had an apartment nearby. Or there was Michel.

Michel would know the best thing to do; she would go to Michel. She knew the building he lived in; it was five minutes away. She looked at Peter: he was asleep. She left him on the bench for a moment and looked for a place to leave the case. In the end she left it under a parked van. If anyone drove the van off, it was too bad.

She took Peter in her arms and walked. The rest on the bench had been a mistake: it had given her feet a chance to swell up and the blisters to weep. She stopped, kicked off her shoes and tucked them into the top of her handbag. It was a great improvement.

When she reached the apartment building the door was locked and a ring on the
concierge
’s bell produced no answer. There were individual bells for each apartment. Beside each bell was a number but no name. She didn’t know which apartment was Michel’s, so she pressed them all. At last a man opened the door. It wasn’t Michel, but he let her in and told her which apartment she wanted.

When she reached the apartment door there was no answer to her knock, so with Peter fast asleep in her arms, she sat outside the door and waited.

He came back at eleven.

When he saw her, he stared.

She smiled stupidly at him and said, ‘Thank you for coming back.’

When she first woke up she couldn’t remember where she was. The room was dark and shuttered and she couldn’t make out its features. Then she remembered and, hugging Peter’s warm body closer to her, closed her eyes and slept again.

Later she was woken by someone opening the shutters. Brilliant sunshine streamed into the room and she screwed up her eyes against the light. She was lying on the sofa where she’d sat on her arrival the night before. She hadn’t had the energy to move, though Michel had offered to take the sofa and give her his bed.

Now he was beside her, holding out a cup of coffee. He was frowning. ‘I found your case all right.’

Julie exclaimed, ‘Oh! I’d forgotten about it!’ Then said hurriedly, ‘Thank you.’

Michel nodded briefly. ‘Now, there isn’t much time, so we’ve got to hurry.’

Julie stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that the Germans are almost here. They’ll arrive some time today. At least that’s my interpretation of the complete black-out on news. There’s nothing on the wireless except people telling us to keep calm. That
must
mean we’re for it!’ He spoke with a bitter smile.

Peter was waking up, rubbing his eyes and looking round at the strange room.

Julie said, ‘Then – should we go to Brest? Get on a ship?’

Michel laughed. ‘Hah! There is nothing but good French chaos there.’ He shook his head. ‘A friend has just come back. He told me all about it. Evidently there are thousands of people at the port all trying to get on ships that do not exist. The military got away all right, then they started to let civilians on the few remaining ships. Some got away, but one large ship had a collision with a naval boat and sank. Right there, just outside Brest.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Now? Well, there are no ships left, apparently. Just people trying to hide, running round in circles because there’s nowhere to go. They also say that it’s as black as night all day long. The fuel dumps at Maison Blanche were set on fire. It sounds like Dante’s
Inferno
!’

Julie shivered. Thank God she hadn’t gone there. She was frightened by crowds and disorder. That’s what she’d hated most on the boat, the hysteria, the loss of control when the plane had fired on them.

She said calmly, ‘Then I shall go home.’

‘Yes. But first we have work to do—’ He indicated that she should get to her feet. ‘Comb your hair, change your dress. We’re going out.’

He was so firm, so definite, that it never occurred to her to question him. Instead she looked at herself. She
did
look dreadful. Quickly she washed, tidied her hair and put on a clean dress. She changed Peter’s shirt and trousers, gave him a
tartine
of bread and jam to chew on, and came back into the living room. ‘We’re ready.’

Michel stuffed his wallet into the back pocket of his trousers and led the way out. She followed, pulling Peter along with her. Michel walked fast and Julie had to pick Peter up and half-run to keep up with him. She was too breathless to ask where they were going.

They turned a corner, then another, until they came to some double doors set in a high stone wall. Michel took out a key and, unlocking the padlock, swung open one of the doors. He brought out a
vélo.

He locked the door again and said, ‘Hop on.’

The little motor coughed into life and they were off, Michel bicycling furiously to get up speed and Peter giggling with delight on Julie’s lap.

In contrast to the night before, the streets were busy this morning, people hurrying everywhere with baskets and bags in their hands. There were long queues outside the
boulangeries
and the
charcuteries
again. After a few minutes they came into a square and stopped. Michel got off. He jerked his head in the direction of a large building and said briefly, ‘We’re going in there.’ Julie recognised it immediately: it was the
Sous-Préfecture.

She followed Michel in. Inside there was chaos: people were milling around, rushing from office to office, shouting, looking harassed. All the doors were open, showing empty desks and stacks of papers. Two women were going towards the main door carrying boxes. One said to Julie in amazement, ‘These are all to be burnt! I ask you – burnt!’ Michel lifted Peter into his arms and took Julie’s hand. He led her up the stairs and along a corridor with numerous doors leading off it. He looked at the labels on the doors and finally said, ‘Ha, here we are!’

The office was empty. Michel gave Peter to Julie, went straight in and started searching the drawers and filing cabinets. Julie stared in astonishment. ‘Michel!’ she exclaimed. ‘Stop! Stop! What are you
doing?
Someone might come!’

There was an old safe sitting on the floor in the corner. Michel tried the handle. It was locked. He told Julie to wait and left the room. Julie sat down and tried to work out what was happening. Why had Michel brought her here? What was all this to do with her? In a moment Michel was back. With him was a woman. The woman went to the safe and opened it with a key from a large ring hanging on her belt. She nodded at Michel, said, ‘It’s a pleasure,’ and left. She didn’t even look at Julie.

Whatever was going on, the woman was in on it too. Julie took Peter off her knee and stood up. ‘Michel, please tell me what’s going on!’

Michel grunted, ‘Here we are!’ He took two cards off the top of a pile and passed them to Julie. ‘Start to fill one in, will you? The second’s just a spare. I must go and make sure your name vanishes from the Aliens Registration and appears on all the voting lists.’

Julie stared at the cards. They were identity cards. They were blank.

Michel was disappearing down the passage. Julie ran and called after him, ‘Michel, I may be down under the name of Howard as well as Lescaux!’

He waved an acknowledgement and vanished into another doorway.