The Sea Garden (16 page)

“All right, listen up,” said Musset. “I'm going to tell you what I've been told. Marthe, you'll pass it on to the boys. The German Nineteenth Army Command has its headquarters at Avignon. There's also a detachment at Sault now. Last week some four hundred Germans carried out sporadic attacks on the road north of Apt. The Maquis took them on and sent them packing, but the Germans came back a few days ago, and this time they were too strong for the Maquis. They have control of the road from Apt to Sault, and the situation on the plateau is now more dangerous than it was before.”

“So why are we doing this?” Thierry asked.

“This plane is bringing in a large group of French military and politicians. They want to be on the ground when the Allies come ashore. It's a big plane, bigger than normal. They'll use it to get some of the escapees out.

“The landing field here is called Spitfire. The man in charge is the Engineer, also known as Xavier. He's the best of the best. You just do what he tells you.”

“How will we find him?”

“He'll be waiting under cover at the roadside edge of the field. Don't worry, he'll see you before any of you know he's there. Say nothing until you are spoken to. No names; you are the Actress.”

The truck whined and then bumped viciously as they turned. As Marthe was thrown across M. Musset, she felt the wheel judder. A few more pitches, and they stopped. The engine died.

“What's wrong?”

“This is as far as we go.”

Marthe was helped down from the cab, and stood, feeling disoriented. Her legs were cramped and she felt queasy, though it was hard to tell whether that was nerves or carsickness. She read the noises as the back of the truck was opened. There was a short burst of whispering, and some indeterminate thumps.

The land around her was still and silent.

Then Monsieur's voice, close to her ear. “It's this road here. Just turn left when you get to the top of the track. We'll be here, as though we've pulled in for the night, though it's so far off the main roads it would be unusual for anyone to come along. Marthe, you wait for me in the field afterwards. If it all goes wrong, then find your way to the lavender farm called Les Coulets on the road to Sault and tell them Caspian sent you to wait. Now go.”

They already knew the directions, had gone over them many times in the week since the first message came through.

Two strong arms caught hers, Kenton to the right, Scotty to the left. Whispered thanks and slaps on the back.

“Go!” urged Monsieur. He squeezed her arm to offer encouragement.

The three of them began to pick their way along the path.

“Is it easy to see?” asked Marthe.

“Moonlight,” said Kenton. “Clear as anything. Don't you worry. We have open fields behind a hedge on each side. Then there's a tunnel of trees ahead.”

Armed with a lavender scythe, they advanced.

As they passed along the road, their footfalls were barely audible thanks to the rope-soled shoes Monsieur had insisted they wear. She thought about the way war had transformed her life. For the first time it struck her that there might be no going back, not to the blue curtain of mountains in the Luberon, nor to her family there. But she walked on, padding silently into the darkness.

 

T
he Engineer greeted them gruffly when they announced themselves as the Actress and her party. Marthe found herself bundled into a hollow under a tree and told to remain silent. It would all happen very quickly. They strained to make out the sound of the aircraft. When it finally arrived, men with torches hissed to one another to give the signal. It was returned from the plane. “Light the red lamp on the boundary!” “No, not there—get in line!” “A white light—we need a white light over here!”

When the plane arrived overhead, it seemed to suck up the earth in ripples and press down the air. Marthe could feel the shadows of the great steel wings and the rush of wind. Loud vibrations shook the earth. Engines thrummed and throbbed, and then strained, changing pitch to a wail. The noise was terrifying. The immense bulk of machinery came over them so low it seemed sure to crush them. It shrank the fields and mountains. But the hoarse voices around her were telling a different story. “Why is it not coming in?” “What's wrong?” “Signal, signal—have you given the right signal!”

For a moment it seemed the plane was flying on, but then the noise intensified again. “It's wheeling round—it's coming back!”

“They've put the plane's searchlight on,” said Kenton. He was holding her arm. “It's coming in again.”

The roar intensified.

A voice rose. “It's still not right—the strip's not long enough, it won't stop in time . . .”

“Ssh, keep it down!”

The scream of the engines cut through the night. Surely the whole area would hear it. Marthe tasted bile in her mouth.

“It's a Dakota! Would you believe that?” Kenton's whispered jubilation was reassuring. “It's a huge plane! I never would have believed they could get one of those in here!” He pulled her to her feet.

Gusts of air cooled them as the plane came closer. It had a presence like a living thing. The engines were still running.

Sounds of movement across the grass began immediately. There was a shout from up high, something angry she didn't understand. “That's the pilot. He says he doesn't believe that strip is twelve hundred metres,” said Kenton. “And what the hell was in the field at the end?”

“Potatoes,” said another voice.

Now there were more people rushing forward.

Marthe felt his arms around her, and a kiss on her forehead, “Take care, angel.” Scotty too thanked her with a kiss. Then they were gone. She wrapped her arms around herself. Now she willed the plane to go quickly. How long would it be before the Germans and the Milice arrived? They must have heard it coming down. It would surely be impossible for it to take off again without them arriving.

She wanted to ask the person standing next to her what was happening, but knew she should not alert him to her blindness. If anyone knew that she had joined the operation, they would blame Caspian for compromising it.

The plane's engines spluttered louder, and then intensified into a great roar. Now there were competing noises and pitches, some smooth, some rattling. A bumping sound, the same as the wheels of the truck going over rough ground. Then an almighty vibration seemed to shake the very earth under the tree where she clung for safety, not daring to move. A mechanical squeal rose above the spitting and growling. Marthe's ears hurt.

Something was wrong. The engines were straining too much, like gigantic animals in distress. They couldn't go on like that, surely. There would be an explosion, and the aircraft would fall from the sky in flames.

There was no one to ask what was happening. The smell of burning oil was becoming stronger. The snarling noise gave way to a whine.

“It's coming back!” she heard someone shout.

“Too heavy. They'll have to let some of them off.”

“It's a risk—every extra minute the plane's on the ground—”

More ear-piercing engine noise and a rush of wind. The ground shook again, and men were running on either side of her.

Then Kenton was back by her side.

“What happened?”

“The plane was carrying too much weight. They tried to put too many of us on it, and we snagged on the band of lavender.”

“Just you and Scotty got off?”

“Eight men—all Americans. So close and yet so far,” he said. “Everyone's been quite good-humoured about it.”

A Frenchman cursed at him and ordered him to keep his voice down.

“What now?” she whispered.

“They're coming back tomorrow night.”

Marthe groaned. She had no idea what they would do until then. But Kenton was upbeat. “Think of it as good news. When it comes back for us, they can maybe get some more out too. It was close, though. We almost managed to get airborne.”

Then she could hear no more against the engines. The noise intensified and moved away. Kenton tensed. “There they go again—it's bouncing around but picking up speed. Through the strip of lavender—Jesus . . . nose-up position . . . It's not going to make it!”

All Marthe could think was that she was relieved Kenton and Scotty would not be in the crash.

“No . . . wait a minute . . . it's going through! The nose has gone up with the tail wheel still sticking in the damn potatoes—she's up!”

“Now that was a close call,” said Kenton as the engine noise grew fainter.

 

T
hey had no choice but to return to Musset and the truck. Marthe's heart was beating fast as a machine gun. “Monsieur will be coming to get me anyway,” she said. “We'll meet him on his way here.”

They had hardly made it onto the road when shots echoed down the valley. A German patrol. More shots, closer now, and motors. Marthe was pulled into the undergrowth. “Keep down,” hissed Kenton, shielding her head below his shoulder.

Minutes passed. “Wait here,” said Kenton.

Marthe obeyed. She tried to orient herself by the sound of voices, but all had gone quiet. Then there was another volley of shots. They seemed to ricochet off the mountains. Then nothing but the sound of blood rushing in her ears. After a while she raised her head tentatively and listened. When she thought she heard whispering, she crawled towards the sounds.

She hit her leg against a sharp object, a rock perhaps. Involuntarily she let out the start of a cry before she managed to swallow it. Cursing her stupidity, she reached out her right hand and felt her way into the space.

Her foot struck something hard—it was the root of a tree. She followed its sinews and found a hollow. She curled herself inside, and listened.

When she heard voices, they were none she recognised.

“Where's Xavier?”

“Gone already. They'll be on the road to the Armature.”

“Should we try to get there, to the area commander?”

“It's a hard mountain road—”

Marthe was about to speak, then stopped. The men were speaking French, certainly. But were they partisans or Milice? What if the Milice knew all about Xavier? She put her head down and pulled herself tighter into the tree trunk.

 

M
arthe!”

It was Kenton. He pulled her up onto her feet and put his arm around her waist. “There's a farmhouse ahead. I think we should make our way there.”

“We need to go back the way we came, back to the truck.”

“Not possible. That's the direction the Germans moved off.”

Marthe swallowed. What of M. Musset and Thierry? “Where's Scotty, is he with you?”

“No. We got separated. Perhaps he's already on his way towards the farm up there. We have to go.”

Scotty. She couldn't bear it if anything had happened to him while he was supposed to be under her protection. “We have to stay together.”

“We'll find him,” said Kenton grimly.

They set off at an urgent pace, ready at any moment to take cover in the ditch separating the road from the field. The possibility that Scotty might be dead or wounded, and would not be coming with them, was left unspoken.

“OK, it's not far to the house. Let's hope he's ahead of us.”

They covered the ground in silence.

“Almost there,” whispered Kenton at last.

“Tell me what the farm looks like.”

“Four buildings around a yard. There's a stone drinking trough. No lights on.”

“Does it look inhabited?”

“I can't tell. They're probably asleep inside.”

“There are no animal noises or smells. Any other signs of life?”

“No vehicles. Nothing.”

“Is there a barn? We could try hiding there.”

They walked on, as quietly as they could, up to the barn. No dogs barked; all was silent. The barn was locked. There was no sign of Scotty.

“We have to risk it and go to the door. If there is anyone there, I will speak to them,” said Marthe. The pitter-patter of water from the fountain feeding the trough matched the beat of her heart. She gripped his arm a little tighter. But this was why she had come with them in the first place. She was playing her part, as she had insisted. “If when they open the door, anything doesn't seem right, then pinch my arm and I'll say what I can to get us out of there as quickly as we can. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

They approached the door, braced for whatever would follow. Kenton knocked loudly. No one came. Knocked again, more urgently. Then there was scuffling inside the house.

“Who is it?”

“We were told there might be sanctuary here. We are farmers too, from Manosque.”

“Go away.”

“Please! Just for tonight—”

“Don't involve us—we don't want to be involved. I have a sick wife!”

“But we—”

“Go, just go!”

They had no choice but to walk on. They debated whether to head for the woods and wait out the night there or continue on into the village. They reached the outskirts of Saint-Christol before they decided to turn back. It would be harder to find safety in the narrow winding streets and close-packed houses, not knowing who might open the door only to denounce them. Just walking the alleys would be suspicious at this late hour.

“There's no chance of finding directions to Les Coulets tonight. We'll only draw attention to ourselves,” whispered Marthe.

They found a ditch in a wood nearby and tried to sleep for the few hours remaining until dawn.

 

T
he first warmth in the air brought Marthe round from her fretful half slumber. She was floating in a deep black sea. The anxious feeling of being suspended in the unknown returned. For a moment she was falling down the stairs at school, half astonished at her own daring and the anger that had propelled her forward. What would Maman say if she could see what had become of her now?