When the Sky Fell Apart (41 page)

‘You'll do no such thing. Now, up!'

‘You don't know what he's capable of. He could torch the whole island and everyone on it and he'd think it a fine joke.'

She stared at the others. Claudine's face was pale; she looked set to cry, and Edith was about to tell her not to worry, they'd think of something, they'd move him somehow, even if they had to carry him down to the sea, when Gregor pushed past and pressed his gun against Carter's skull.

‘You move. Now.'

Edith gasped and tried to wrench his hand away. ‘Gregor! Stop!'

‘Gregor, no!' Claudine said.

Gregor didn't shift his eyes from the point where the gleaming metal of the gun rested against Carter's head. His hand didn't tremble; his voice was cold, clear.

‘He must move or he will kill us.'

Edith's hands fluttered to pull Gregor's arm away, but she knew he was right: Carter had to move or they would all die. And yet the poor man looked broken, his face twisted in pain and fear.

The gun clicked as Gregor pulled back the hammer. His next movement would kill Carter.

Carter groaned, heaved himself upright and stumbled onwards. The rest of them followed, shakily. Strange, the sensation of your heart hammering inside the roof of your mouth, Edith thought as she swallowed. A chill hush over everything, apart from their footsteps and Carter's sobs.

The sea was still. A thousand memories of the sand beneath her feet at night. The beach had swallowed the gnawing cold from the air and the sea. It took Edith's breath away every time, the bite of it.

She closed her eyes for a moment: every step was like trawling through mud, as though the land had tangled the fine thread of a fishing twine around her soul and was tugging her back. It set an ache in her insides, but she pushed on.

The others crunched behind her. She held up a hand. The faint sound of something scraping over the sand over by the rocks.

They followed the noise, tripping over sand and stones and stinking
vraic
until they found the cave where Maurice's boat was hidden.

Maurice had settled Marthe in the bottom of the boat. She was sleeping; her hair was frowzy and the poor love had sand on her cheek.

Edith whispered, ‘Well, no sense in hanging about.'

Maurice and Gregor pushed and heaved, but they couldn't shift the boat over the hillock of sand made by the tide. They kept on shoving until Maurice fell, and before Edith could hush them, both men were sniggering like schoolboys.

‘Shhhhhh!' she hissed. ‘Buffoons, the lot of you. Go on, Doctor, don't just stand there! Help them, or we'll be here until the morning patrols come.'

Carter pushed, but he was as weak as a kitten and he tumbled over too. Giggled right along with them.

‘Oh, for heaven's sake!' Edith started pushing on the boat. ‘Lend a hand, Claudine, love.'

The three men were holding on to each other, laughing: that silent laughter that makes no noise except the sucking of more air into the lungs. Edith couldn't help smiling.

But this wasn't getting them anywhere. So she hurried them along to unload the boat and lay everything on the sand: Marthe, the engine, the petrol, the food and drink. They all pushed as hard as they could and then, like a cork from a bottle, the boat shot forwards and up over the little sand-hummock and splashed down into the sea, leaving Edith flat on her face with a mouthful of sand.

The men lifted her to her feet, apologising, but now Edith couldn't help it—the laughter pealed out of her in waves and the sound bounced out across the water. For a moment, the days and years stretched out ahead of her and she could see all of them in England, happy and safe and together. No hunger. No bloody soldiers. Except Gregor.

Edith clutched his hand. He kissed her palm, her fingers, one by one, his mouth warm and alive.

They waded out into the sea. The icy undertow tugged at their clothes like a greedy mouth. Edith clasped Claudine's arm tight. There was no going back now and, for a moment, Edith feared that Claudine might try to stay, might sit on the sand, bawling for her maman and Francis.

But the girl fairly flew into the boat. The glimmer of water on her back in the near dark; she put Edith in mind of a dolphin, leaping free for the joy of it. Then Gregor lifted the bags of food and water in.

Maurice said, ‘
Danke schön.'

‘You're welcome,' Gregor replied.

Maurice lifted Marthe, ever so gently, from Gregor's arms and Claudine laid one of the bags beneath her head. A kind child. She would survive; she would flourish, Edith was sure of it.

Edith turned to Carter. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? A marching band?'

‘Well, I was rather hoping…'

They shared a grin. Then Carter waded out and tried to pull himself up into the boat, but he kept slipping back into the water. It was too loud, the constant splashing and grunting, and Edith felt that cold, clutching dread from earlier. How long before a patrol heard them? She cringed at the memory of her loud laugh.

‘Hurry!' she hissed.

All around Edith, the land was inky black. The sea was black too, and breathless. No light, except for the pitiless, unblinking stars, but that didn't mean there weren't eyes out there, watching.

‘I find kicking helps,' Maurice offered.

Carter jumped and kicked. He almost managed it, but then he slipped and splashed back into the water. His head went under and he came up spluttering.

Maurice and Edith hissed, ‘Shhhhh!' at the same time.

‘Well, would you rather I choked to death?' Carter's voice was squeaky with trying not to cough. He flailed his legs and jumped, then Gregor gave him a good shove on his backside and he tumbled into the boat.

Edith waded out and readied herself to leave.

MAURICE rowed steadily. Claudine searched the blank face of the land and tried to imagine where Francis would be. Asleep in bed, she hoped. Was he crying for her? Edith had told her earlier that small children were
tough little things
.
He won't fret for long
, she'd said. Claudine wanted to be reassured by that, but her own aching grief swelled like a sickness with every pull on the oars.

She wished Maman was with her. The old Maman, before Hans. Before she started trying to make everything better by doing the wrong things. Then, perhaps Claudine could sleep, curled in her lap, and when she woke up time would have changed and healed everything.

But Maman could never have come with them because Hans might have found out—and, of course, it would have been too dangerous to take Francis.

Dr Carter's voice cut across her reverie: ‘Do you need a hand with those oars then, Maurice? Must be hard work, rowing all of us. I'm happy to help—did a fair bit of rowing, you see, back in the day. London rowing club and all.'

‘No, thank you, Doctor. I'll row until we're out of earshot of the bay. Then I can set the motor up.'

‘Righty-oh. I'll dig out the petrol canister for you.'

‘Under those blankets.'

But Carter couldn't find the canister. He looked everywhere. They all searched around their feet and under the rest of the bags. No petrol anywhere. Claudine could see the same terror and disbelief on all of their faces. She felt it too: a sinking sensation, like cold water draining out of a bottle.

‘I don't believe it,' Maurice said. ‘It was
there
, I put it in the boat yesterday—'

‘I don't remember seeing it,' Edith said. ‘We took everything out when we pushed the boat down to the sea and I didn't see a canister.'

‘Someone must've taken it,' Maurice said, savagely. ‘Some bastard wants to see us shot—'

‘That can't be right.' Edith laid a hand on Maurice's arm. ‘No one knows we're leaving.'

‘Someone has found out somehow and they're setting us up, I tell you.'

Claudine's stomach jolted. Surely the Hacquoils wouldn't have done this? They wouldn't have had time, would they? Unless… She imagined a small, dark shape. A girl, only a little younger than Claudine, running barefoot through the night, heaving a petrol canister home to her waiting parents.

Mary Hacquoil.

Claudine closed her eyes and shook her head to dispel the image. The Hacquoils wouldn't do such a thing. Maurice must have forgotten the petrol, somehow.

‘Can you row all the way?' she whispered.

Maurice laughed. Fierce and raw. ‘No.'

The waves slapped against the boat, as if the sea itself were telling them
hurry hurry hurry
.

‘We'll take turns to row,' Edith said. ‘Give you a rest. We can do shifts. We're in this together. Even Claudine can do a spot of rowing, can't you, love?'

Maurice shook his head. His mouth wobbled, as though he might cry, even though Claudine knew grown men didn't cry.

‘Think about when the sun comes up.'

There was a silent moment as they all pictured it: the little boat, bobbing on the vast sea. Claudine wondered how many German planes and warships travelled across the channel every day.

‘Perhaps we could go back,' Edith said. ‘Try again another night?'

‘We were lucky enough not to be caught on the way down to the boat,' Maurice said. ‘It would be a miracle if we made it back unseen.'

‘Let us hope for some crisis on the island that keeps the patrols off the water,' said Carter.

Maurice started pulling on the oars again.

When Claudine looked back, Jersey was like a shadow in a dream or a bank of storm clouds, where thunder was brewing.

A cold wind picked up. She wrapped her arms around herself. She knew they were all imagining the alternatives, as she was: captured by a German patrol or rescued by the British. Or somehow, evading all the patrols and landing safely on allied shores. The very idea was make believe; she knew it.

SUDDENLY Maurice's stomach alarmed to a far-off sound. He stopped rowing and put his finger against his lips.

They were all silent—the only noise was the splashing of the water as the sea gulped around the boat.

He watched their faces in the darkness, and he could see each of them registering the sound, the horror creeping into their eyes. Quite distinct now, the hum of a boat's motor, far away, like bees swarming in the distance, but growing louder.

Maurice hissed at Gregor, ‘You said there would be no patrols on the sea tonight.'

Gregor's face was pale, panicked. ‘I do not know—'

‘And where are the bloody French?' Maurice growled. ‘They're supposed to be keeping an eye out, drawing any German boats away.'

Christ!

Maurice started pulling on the oars as hard as he could. He could hear his own breath, coming out like a whistle, but the sensation he had was of remaining still in the water, or of going backwards even. Yet the harder he rowed, the louder the roar of the engines grew, until it pulsed alongside his blood.

‘Perhaps it's someone fishing?' Claudine said. ‘From Jersey? Or one of the French fishermen? Someone who will help us. Perhaps they will give us a motor?'

Maurice gasped, ‘The French don't…use motors. Too… noisy.'

Maurice rowed harder, his breath escaping in sobbing gasps. A darkness had started to creep in at the edges of his vision.

Where was Marthe? Perhaps he could cover her in a blanket? He could hide with her? The Germans might not see them. Even as the thought flickered through his mind, he was aware of how ridiculous it was, how desperate. Yet he couldn't let them take her. He'd given up everything to keep her safe. The wretchedness of being captured now, of watching them take her away, it was unbearable.

He pulled harder on the oars. His back was aflame but it wasn't enough; it could never be enough.

‘Maurice, dear.' Edith's voice was quiet but firm. ‘Stop.' She put her hand on his back.

He shook her off and shouted, ‘No! No!
Fuck!
' The wind whipped his words away and they mingled with the growing growl of the engines.