Northern Girl (24 page)

‘Left home? What do you mean, left home?’

‘Run away, Tom! She’s run away!’

‘Oh my God! Where to?’ Tom flopped down on a stool by the fire, and, picking up the poker, he stirred the previous night’s embers as if getting them to flare up was the single most important thing in his life.

‘Here, give me that,’ Hannah said, coming up behind him and taking the poker.

‘Sorry, Madame Hannah. Did we wake you?’ Dominic asked in a daze.

‘Noo, lad, ah was getting up anyway. Ah heard the commotion from the top of the stairs.’

Looking at Tom now, she said, ‘Yer da’s gone ter work, and the bairn and our Rene are still fast asleep.’ Then, glancing back at Dominic, she asked, ‘What yer gonner do, lad?’

‘I have to go straight back to France. My parents are frantic, they want me to find her.’

At which Tom, to both Hannah’s and Dominic’s amazement, and without a second thought, blurted out, ‘I’m coming with you.’

And, as Hannah later told Jack: ‘From the way he jumped up from that stool you’d’a thought he was leaving right then and there.’

Madeleine, unable to get over the news that Dominic had gone to England, immediately thought about running away. She lay on her bed, planning what to do when she left the house. For that’s all it was to her now: a house. She didn’t think of it as a home any more, because both it and her family had become unrecognizable.

She’d thought – obviously mistakenly – that she and her sisters had grown closer since Martine and Simone had told her what had happened in Boulogne. But where had they been when her parents
and
Dominic had planned this visit to England?
Why
had they allowed it to happen? And
why
had Dominic agreed to go without talking to her first? She couldn’t understand why the whole family had taken such a huge decision without involving her.

Yes, she knew they were unhappy, but that wasn’t a
good enough reason for them to make plans behind her back. So she decided that it would be better for everyone if she left.

She couldn’t remember ever, in her whole life, feeling this miserable and this disappointed in herself. She stared in her bed staring at her little brown valise, which was perched on the top of her wardrobe, begging her to get it down.

Finally, she decided to pack the valise and hide it under her bed until night-time. She’d use Dominic’s bike to make her getaway, because he was away, so it wouldn’t be missed. She would hide it in the wild fuchsia bushes at the end of the road, where it would be easy to collect. Then she would ride it to the station in Calais, and catch a train to Boulogne.

Once in Boulogne she would find Nicole, who would surely know someone who could help her to get rid of this … this … she couldn’t even say the word. Even the memory of how it had been made, on that fateful day when she and Tom had loved each other so desperately, couldn’t make what was growing inside her anything more than a burden. A burden that was going to wreck her life.

How could she have feelings for it, when its father was a liar? She knew now that Tom was never going to write the way he’d promised. She guessed that, once home, he’d go back to the old life he’d had before the war. Probably get back together with a girl who had waited patiently for his return. Huh! No doubt he would marry this girl and live happily ever after! Well,
good for you! Madeleine thought fiercely. You just dump this thing into my body, and then go home. Oh, don’t you worry, I’ll be sick in the mornings for you, I’ll take all the shame and humiliation,
and
suffer the pain of childbirth. Just go home and forget all about me, and have a happy life!

But whenever she gave way to negative thoughts like this, they would be accompanied by an unwelcome little tug at her heart, because deep down she knew she was being untrue to her memory of their love affair. There was always that pang that maybe at the time he really had meant every word. Her anger prevented her from trusting her intuition, which sensed that everything between them
had
been sincere.

The last thing she wanted, right now, was to think rationally about Tom. And she certainly wasn’t going to accept that she still cared for the person she blamed for her present misfortune, because her anger was making her strong. Strong enough to run away.

And now, here she was standing in the dark, halfway down the stairs, her heart thumping, holding her valise above her head in case it bumped against the banister and alerted the person she could hear moving around.

Hardly daring to breathe, she listened: a familiar sigh came from her parents’ room, followed by a loud yawn.
Merde!
It’s Papa! He’s woken up! Alarm bells rang in her head as she glanced upstairs in panic, not knowing whether to run back up or continue down. But she couldn’t move. She was so scared of being caught that
she simply froze to the spot, her suitcase poised mid-air. She closed her eyes tightly, waiting for Papa to come out and find her standing there like a statue.

She heard him drag the
petite po
from under the bed, before, to her embarrassment, peeing into it noisily. Still holding her breath, she prayed that he wouldn’t come out of the room to empty it. She was so relieved to hear him push it back under the bed, that, unable to hold her breath any longer, she sighed. Luckily, Papa didn’t hear it. He yawned loudly and climbed back into his creaky bed, and she silently thanked God for it. Then, still gripping her valise tightly, she crept downstairs in the dark.

At the bottom of the stairs was the heavy oak front door Papa had made. It was Papa’s job to bolt the doors at night, after everyone had gone to bed. But, earlier that evening, as he’d been doing his rounds, Madeleine pretended she needed the toilet. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll lock the door when I come back,’ she’d called out to him. Since the back garden was completely enclosed there was only one bolt on the door leading to it, unlike the front one, which had
three
. And Papa had continued bolting the front door, responding only with a nod.

After he’d gone upstairs she’d rattled the back door, making a pretence of going out, before rushing to the front of the house, where she’d stared at the ceiling, listening. Finally, she’d heard the rattle of the washstand as Maman poured water from the jugs into two enamel bowls, ready for the nightly toilette. Madeleine had
hoped the clattering of jugs and bowls would cover the sound of her wrenching open the three bolts on the front door. Luckily, they had, and she’d crept back upstairs to her bedroom to wait until everyone was asleep. Only, of course, she hadn’t planned on Papa getting up to use his
po
in the dark.

She had decided to leave tonight, because Martine was staying with her friend Sophie at Dunkirk, making one less person to worry about. Simone could have been a problem, but she’d gone to her room early with Dominic’s wireless, which she was using while he was away. Normally Madeleine would have warned Simone against doing that, knowing how much Dominic treasured it. But, on this occasion, her sister’s thoughtlessness was a blessing, because Madeleine knew that once Simone had tuned into the BBC Home Service she would be blissfully unaware of anything else for hours.

Dominic had secretly listened to the BBC all through the occupation, finding it much more accurate than French radio. But no matter how much his older sisters had plagued him about it on their visits home from Boulogne, he’d always refused to let them use it. He’d hidden it away, frightened that otherwise they’d be tempted to tune in when he wasn’t around. Heaven knew what might have happened – not just to him but to the whole family – if they’d done that, because even owning a wireless back then had been forbidden.

However, once the war was over, he’d shown all three girls how to work his precious radio, as long as they
promised to ask before using it. Simone, in particular, had been hooked ever since. Madeleine knew she’d be dancing around her room right now to the music of Glenn Miller, or pretending to be Marlene Dietrich or Vera Lynn. She was brilliant at impersonating both. Madeleine smiled at the memory, even as she opened the door and prepared to leave her family for ever.

She prayed, eyes squeezed tight, that the hinges wouldn’t creak too loudly. Then she opened the door just wide enough to edge through sideways. She picked up her valise and passed it through the opening, trembling so much that she could hardly place it upright on the step outside. Fear nearly overwhelmed her. Then, her knees shaking, and tears filling her eyes, she squeezed through the gap.

She carefully pressed the door shut, her shoulders tensing at the sound of the latch clicking. And then she leaned against it, her heart beating wildly. She couldn’t believe she was actually doing this. Maybe it was just a dream, a nightmare. Apart from anything else, she didn’t have the courage to be so reckless.

But there was no mistaking the feel of solid wood against her back. The cold night air on her face reminded her, too, that this was not a dream. So she turned and looked up at the house for one last time, feeling that her heart would break. Each intake of breath was a silent sob, hurting her chest. But she fought back the tears. After all, hadn’t she cried enough in the last few days to last a lifetime?

She knew it was only a start, but there was no turning
back now. This was the only way she could think of to save her family, and herself, from a life of shame and heartache. She also knew that if she didn’t act now she never would. Holding on to that thought, she quickly walked away from the house, heading towards the place she’d hidden the bike earlier.

She walked as quietly as possible, and although the houses around her were shrouded in darkness she didn’t feel particularly afraid. She’d been much more scared by the blackout in the war. At least tonight there was no chance she’d be confronted by drunken Germans or flying bombs. As she left the last house behind she strained her eyes to see the bushes on the wasteland. She hadn’t bargained for it being quite this dark. With a shiver she felt her way along the road, but her sense of direction let her down. She was soon totally disorientated, and couldn’t find the fuchsia bushes. Every small sound startled her and she kept turning round anxiously.

Merde alors!
she thought. What do I do now? Placing her valise on the ground, she sat on it in despair. She guessed she must have walked too far, because she knew the bushes were near the end of her street. Feeling annoyed with herself now, especially when she felt tears welling up, she told herself not to be so ridiculous. Suddenly, she heard a rumble in the distance, and kept very still, listening carefully. Recognizing the sound as a car, and seeing approaching lights, she crouched down low. The vehicle headed in her direction, and she flattened herself on the ground beside her valise. Then
she saw, only a few metres away, glowing in the headlights, the patch of wild fuchsia bushes.

As the car turned the corner she jumped up and grabbed her valise, almost falling over in her eagerness to get to the bushes before all the light disappeared. She felt around in the bushes, but couldn’t find the bike at once, and began to panic. What if the bike had been stolen!
Mon Dieu!
she thought, as she searched the bushes, which were once again enveloped in darkness. Maybe hiding the bike here had been a really bad idea! She’d been in a quandary at the time, anyway.

That afternoon had been unusually sunny for December, and as she’d pushed the bike towards the bushes she’d felt a burst of happiness. How lovely it is here, she’d thought, looking round at the greenery, before remembering what she’d come to do. What if the local children went there to play? she’d suddenly thought. They’d see the bike. But she hadn’t been able to think of a better hiding place, so she’d taken the risk, pushing the bike in as far as possible.

She felt her way further into the bushes now, trying not to visualize all the insects that could fall into her hair. She held her valise in front of her like a shield, and there, at last, it was. She felt the back mudguard against her leg, and leaned forward to grasp the handlebars. She’d pushed the bike in so far that it had got wedged in a bush, so she decided to push it out the other side rather than pull it out. Determined not to be defeated, she jammed her valise into the basket on the front, and then shoved the bike with all her might.

Eyes closed tight against the foliage that was brushing against her, and, more than likely, releasing creepy-crawlies on to her head and coat, she forced her way through and out into the open. Itching and shivering with revulsion at what might be running over her, she dropped the bike and danced around in a frenzy, slapping at her clothes and ruffling her hair. Stopping as quickly as she’d started, she prayed that throwing the bike down wouldn’t have affected the dynamo, because she wouldn’t get anywhere without lights.

She felt for the bike in the darkness, picked it up, and wedged her valise back into the basket. Then, leaning over towards the front wheel, she turned the dynamo until it touched the tyre. Tentatively, she mounted the bike, and pedalled off into the dark, bouncing over the rough terrain, and to her relief the lights flickered on.

Although she was a good rider, she found it difficult to keep the handlebars straight. With a grimace of exasperation, she realized that in her hurry she’d wedged the valise into the basket unevenly. I’ll have to stop, she thought. But I’d better wait until I’m further away from home. At this rate, the whole family will be up before I even get to Calais.

But at that moment, she was caught in the headlights of a car approaching from a side street. She rode into a pothole that made the bike judder from side to side, lost control and toppled over. The bike went one way and Madeleine the other. ‘
Merde alors!
’ she whispered, hearing the car stop behind her, and wondering what else would go wrong. She brushed the dirt from her knees
and her coat sleeves. Fortunately the grazes on her knees weren’t bleeding much, and she was about to rearrange the valise in the basket when the driver called out, ‘Are you hurt, Mademoiselle?’