Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (83 page)

‘I think,’ she said, ‘I think perhaps I would like Jay to come now.’

So she knew.

‘Of course. It may take a few days. But – hopefully no longer.’

‘Good. Very good.’

And then she had drifted away again. It was frightening; each time he feared she would not come back.

The raid had gone well; Jay and his companions, the five of them, had successfully demolished a stretch of crucial railway line near Valognes and had safely made their rendezvous with two Resistance workers, who had driven them to the coast and dropped them in a small cove near St Vaast; their patrol boat was promised in an hour. The whole operation had taken just thirty-six hours.

‘Piece of cake,’ said Jay cheerfully, settling down on a rock, pulling his combat smock round him. ‘Be home by breakfast. Could do with a bacon butty. Expect you chaps could too.’

They agreed that they could.

Celia came into the drawing room looking exhausted; Venetia and Oliver were reading.

‘That was Gordon. He says – ’ she paused, dreading the bleak, dead expression on Oliver’s face, knowing she must be the cause of it ‘ – he says we should think in terms of going down there tomorrow. The day after at the latest. The doctor says she’s sinking fast. Such an extraordinary expression that, I always think,’ she added with a quick, bright smile. And then sat down next to Oliver and took his hand.

He gripped it tightly, looked away; she knew why, he hated to be seen in tears, was embarrassed by it. There was a silence.

‘Of course,’ said Venetia, taking over the conversation, ‘can we manage any petrol?’

‘There’s enough in my car,’ said Celia, ‘but that means we can’t take your wheelchair, Oliver.’

‘Doesn’t matter. There’s the old one at Ashingham.’

‘Right.’ Venetia stood up. ‘Well, I’m going to try and get hold of Barty. And Sebastian, of course, we must take him—’

‘If we’re not careful,’ said Celia, misery making her irritable, ‘this is going to turn into a grand opera. It’s the last thing LM would want.’

‘Celia,’ said Oliver, and his voice was suddenly very strong, ‘there will be no question of a grand opera as you call it. Rather the reverse I would say.’

‘Bloody long hour,’ said Jay. ‘Bloody long. It’s cold too. Hell of a wind out there. Where is the wretched thing?’

It was a rhetorical question: nobody had the faintest idea. In any case the boats were often delayed. This was the hardest part of the whole thing; the adrenalin stopped pumping, they were tired, hungry, often cold, and beginning to get edgy.

‘Can’t be much longer,’ said Mike Driffield, his second-in-command, ‘bloody well hope not, anyway, it’ll be getting light in an hour. Don’t fancy a day here.’

‘We won’t be spending the day here,’ said Jay confidently.

‘Hope not. Jerry’ll be looking for us soon. They’re not going to be terribly pleased about our night’s work.’

It was half-light now; still no sign of their boat.

‘I reckon it’s the weather,’ said Jay, ‘big sea getting up. Look out there, waves are bloody enormous.’

‘Oh great,’ said Mike, who was a bad sailor. ‘Can’t wait.’

‘You’re going to have to. They’ve obviously been delayed. And then they’ll need to send in a dinghy for us. Shit. This could get quite uncomfortable, chaps. One way or another.’

The Lytton contingent arrived at Ashingham at midday. Lady Beckenham came out to greet them. She looked tired and pale.

‘Good to see you. Come along in, Oliver, Beckenham’s coming round with your bath chair.’

The bath chair was something of a joke; one hundred years old, complete with klaxon horn. The twins had used it in the First World War as a cart until Lord Beckenham forbade them.

‘That thing’s an antique. Not to be played with.’

Oliver rather liked it; it had a stately, almost throne-like quality and Lord Beckenham usually enjoyed pushing him about in it. But today neither of them had much spirit for it.

‘Bad business,’ said Lord Beckenham sadly, helping Oliver settle himself. ‘Hate to see the young ’uns go.’

Even in his distress Oliver was faintly amused by LM being one of the ‘young ’uns’.

‘What news of Jay?’ said Celia to Gordon quietly, as they sat in what was known as the parlour of the Dovecot.

‘Nothing yet. His CO was expecting him back today at first light. But I don’t know the details. He’s been delayed, I believe.’

‘How – how long?’

‘No idea, I’m afraid. Could be a couple more days, apparently.’

‘And—’ Celia nodded in the direction of the bedroom.

‘It’s impossible to say. Last night we were very fearful, today she seems a little stronger. She wants to see Jay now, very much. She keeps asking when he’s coming.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Celia.

They had been picked up: by a farmer, quite an old man, taciturn and almost surly, in a large farm vehicle, and taken two at a time to his house down the road.

‘It’s not good. They’re looking for you. We heard on the radio the sea was very bad. They turned us over yesterday, God knows why, so we should be all right today. We can keep you just until tonight, then you’ll have to go, they’re bound to get here. So, pray for calm weather.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jay, ‘sorry.’

‘It’s our choice.’ He spat out of the window. ‘Two of you can stay in the house, and the rest in the hayloft.’

The farm was about two miles out of St Vaast, a turning inland off a long straight Normandy road. It seemed a long way to have to travel: and travel back again. Mike said as much; their rescuer shrugged.

‘Unfortunately, we don’t have a farmhouse nearer the sea. It’s this or the cave. You can take your choice.’

‘It’s extremely good of you. Thank you,’ said Jay.

The farmer glared at Mike. ‘Better get those things off. In case we’re stopped. In the back are some overalls. One at a time, change.’

The two farm labourers sitting on the back of the truck wearing blue overalls, with
Gauloises
hanging out of their mouths, gazed morosely at the German jeep which sat behind them hooting; it was Lucky Lytton who grinned cheekily at the driver when they finally pulled over so that the jeep could pass. And Lucky Lytton who got a good-natured grin back.

Barty arrived at tea time, distressed at a long delay on the road behind some tanks, fearful she was too late.

‘It’s all right,’ said Celia, who had gone out to greet her, ‘she’s doing better today. She’s asleep now, but Gordon and the nurse both feel she’s had enough visitors for a while. She seems to know us all, we’ve each had a little while with her. She was asking for you, earlier.’

‘Was she?’ Barty half smiled. ‘Well, perhaps in a little while.’

There had been no further news of Jay; Gordon was wretched with anxiety and remorse.

‘If only I’d called him home earlier,’ he said to Lady Beckenham, ‘but she wouldn’t let me, it would have alarmed her so much—’

‘Of course. You’re quite right to trust her judgment. Something about being close to death makes people very – sure. Oh, I’m not a believer in the afterlife, all that stuff about heaven and harps, very boring, and besides—’ she stopped, grinned at him rather shamefacedly.

‘Go on,’ he said, smiling back.

‘I’ve always thought one might find oneself with some rather unsuitable companions.’

‘Absolutely. Anyway, you’re right. She’s been so confused until today and now she’s absolutely on the button. I just pray she can hang on. It will be so dreadful for both of them if she can’t.’

Lady Beckenham looked at him.

‘If there is a heaven, Gordon,’ she said slightly gruffly, ‘you certainly should have a place in it.’

‘Dear me,’ he said. ‘I hope not. I rather agree with you about it. Very boring. Unless of course there was a really good train layout running somewhere between the clouds.’

‘There’s a message about your boat.’ The farmer had come into the kitchen; it was dusk. He glared at them; he really didn’t seem to like them at all. ‘You’re to be there by midnight.’

‘How’s the weather?’ asked Jay.

He shrugged. ‘All right.’

‘Good.’

‘You have to make your own way. Farm vehicles out in the lanes at night, it’s asking for trouble.’

‘Of course. Look, we’ll go now, or the minute it’s dark, get off your premises.’

Another shrug. Then, ‘Best wait a while longer. Till it’s really dark.’

‘OK. If that’s all right.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘Mr Robinson—’ The doctor hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m afraid she may not last the night. She’s very weak.’

‘I see.’

‘There’s no news of the son?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘She’s waiting for him. But—’

‘Waiting?’

‘Yes. It’s amazing how they can. Sheer willpower.’

‘Yes, I see.’

He went back into the room, sat down, took LM’s hand. ‘Hallo.’

The eyelids flickered; a half-smile. ‘Jay here?’

‘Not yet.’

‘He’s a long time.’

‘He’s coming as fast as he can. It’s not like just driving down from London, you know.’

‘No.’ She sighed. ‘So tired. So tired, Gordon.’

‘Rest, my dear. Just rest. I’ll be here.’

‘And bring Jay—’

‘The minute he arrives.’

A long silence. Then, ‘I love you, Gordon.’

‘I love you, too, LM.’

‘Right. Go. You’re lucky, no moon. You’re sure of the way?’

‘Quite. Thanks. Thanks for everything.’

‘Good luck.’

They went out at the back of the farm, then had to follow a footpath round the huge fields to a lane which ran parallel to the road. It was very quiet; owls hooted through the darkness, there was an occasional rustle in the hedges from foxes. Or badgers maybe. They were still in their blue overalls; it had seemed safer. It was very, very dark: no moon at all, and the sky was overcast.

‘Doesn’t look too good,’ said Jay, pointing to the wildly waving trees. ‘Still pretty windy, I’m afraid.’

‘Great,’ said Mike Driffield.

‘Right. Let’s get a move on.’

They moved silently round the field, keeping low; found the lane, began to run along it.

And then suddenly, they came: a convoy of trucks – three, four, all heading down the road towards the farm.

‘Down,’ said Jay, and they hurled themselves into a ditch, lay there, breathing heavily. The trucks passed them by, drove, headlights blazing, into the farmyard.

‘Just in time,’ Jay’s voice was awestruck. ‘Another five minutes and—’

‘We’re not out of it yet.’

‘I know. But we’d have been like rats in a trap there. Poor devils, I hope to God they don’t—’

They could hear a lot of shouting, searchlights everywhere, on the buildings, the barns. The horse, frightened, was whinnying wildly, the dogs barking, the cows mooing. It was like an absurd film, a comedy: only it wasn’t funny. Then there was the sound of shooting.

‘Christ,’ said Mike, ‘not them, please not.’

And then absolute stillness; they lay in the ditch for over half an hour, drenched in mud, envisaging questioning, torture . . .

‘I’ve told John I would like to marry him,’ said Barty gently to LM. She thought at first LM had not heard her, but after a few moments she managed a smile.

‘I’m glad. He sounds – ’ a long silence, then ‘ – right for you.’

‘I know he is,’ said Barty. Even at this moment, wondering about it.

‘I want you to be happy,’ said LM, ‘you – deserve it.’

‘I hope so.’

There was a long silence; Barty watched her. Thinking of the vivid, forceful woman she had been: thinking how sad that she had left them. And then thinking she was still there, that woman, she lived on, in Jay of course, but also in everything she had done, all that she had been. While they remembered her, she would be there; for all of them.

The trucks had swung round now and were facing the field, their headlights roaming it; ‘Christ, they’re coming for us,’ said Jay.

‘Do we move?’

‘No, they’ll see us. We’ll wait. And pray.’

They watched; could see the lights coming at them, straight at them, it seemed, could hear shouting, laughing and then shots, over and over again, shooting wildly in every direction.

‘What are they doing?’ said Mike.

And then suddenly Jay knew: knew absolutely. And looked at Mike and started to laugh, a great grin of relief on his face.

‘They’re shooting rabbits,’ he said, ‘that’s all. Best fun in the world, at night.’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ said Mike.

Finally the Germans went; driving off, shouting and singing, without stopping to collect their kill.

They waited until they had vanished absolutely, until not even a pinprick of light could be seen – and then ran. Ran and ran, along the lane, across the road, through the village, down to the sea.

‘Christ, I hope we haven’t missed them,’ said Jay, throwing himself down on to the sand, fighting for breath.

‘Course we won’t have missed them. Not with you around, you lucky bastard. How many members of His Majesty’s forces have heard enemy gunfire and then found it aimed at rabbits?’