Assignment in Brittany (31 page)

Henri obeyed with unaccustomed willingness.

“What’s happened to your clothes? Where did you get that hat?” Albertine looked at it unbelievingly. “It smells of fish.”

“All of me does,” Hearne said. He felt pleased by their welcome—pleased and yet worried. Had Madame Corlay talked more than he had expected? He watched Albertine as she bustled about the kitchen. She asked so many questions on top of one another, not even waiting for his answers, that he was spared the agony of conversation. Where were his own clothes, was that nice young American safe, how were his feet and the trousers which Albertine had sewn to fit him, had they seen any Boches, were they caught in that rain, why didn’t he get home yesterday? That last question was the key. They had begun to get alarmed. This sudden friendliness was chiefly due to relief. And she still called him Bertrand quite naturally: so if Madame Corlay had told, she still hadn’t told everything. Hearne ate and watched the simple face under its white-starched cap, looking anxiously to see if he enjoyed the food, if it were enough. He judged from the quantity she had placed before him that she had included her own share, and perhaps even Henri’s. Hearne ate the amount he was usually given, and refused the rest, saying that that was all he could eat. By the sudden light in Henri’s eye he knew his guess about the food had been right. He gave the old man a grin, and Albertine a hearty clip round the waist, as he rose and walked over to the fire.

Her severe face relaxed. “You’ll spoil my apron,” she said, but colour had flooded into the patch of red veins on her cheeks. Henri and Hearne both laughed.

“God,” he said, “it’s good to be home,” and stood with his back to the fire.

Old Henri nodded. His fingers were tapping out the rhythm of
Bro Goz Ma Zadou
on the wooden table. The sound drew Albertine’s attention.

“Henri!” she said sharply. “Your work. Jean and Marie will be almost finished.” The old man rose and moved slowly to the door leading into the byre. He gave Hearne a side-look and unmistakable wink. Hearne grinned: in every language it meant the same...anything for a quiet life.

“What is it?” asked Albertine, sensing the conspiracy.

“Good to be back,” repeated Hearne cheerfully. He heard light footsteps coming down the staircase into the hall. Yes, it was good to be back.

The door opened and Anne came in. She had dressed completely, to the last button of the tight-bodiced dress, to the last smooth braid round her head. For a moment, watching the simplicity of her smile, the honesty of her eyes, Hearne wished he really were Corlay. It would be something to have a look like that for one’s own.

She said, “I knew it was you. I was listening and I heard you whistle. I knew you had come back.”

There was the same directness in her speech that had greeted him the first time they had met. Then, she had told him she couldn’t marry him. Now, she looked as if she would marry him tomorrow. It wasn’t, he thought, as he watched the neat wave of plaited hair, it wasn’t that women were fickle. They were completely loyal: either to themselves, like Elise, or to others, like Anne. But when they made their illogical leaps and still managed to balance themselves neatly in reverse, it wasn’t because they had changed. They were still the same: it was only the outside influences which had changed, and by some strange alchemy made them feel like saying “Yes” when they had once said “No.” Madame Corlay had only to say “He has changed”; he had only to prove it; and above all he had only to show his distrust of Elise. That was all—and Anne’s doubts and fears had vanished. The icicles had melted. In some curious way, which he couldn’t manage to analyse, he felt pleased. But it would have made things easier if she had still distrusted him; now he would have warmth and affection to deal with. Thank heaven that Anne was Anne, that complications could be kept as simple as possible. He looked at her. She was unique, in a certain sense. She was shy without affectation and awkwardness: she was innocent without being ignorant, modest without being stupid. He almost laughed at that—modest... It had been a long time since he had thought of that word.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Anne was disturbed, as if she feared she wasn’t pleasing him.

“It’s nice to relax,” he said. It was true: for the last ten minutes he hadn’t even thought of a bloody Nazi.

Albertine said, “Get those clothes off, and I’ll wash them. They are smelling up the whole kitchen,” and then to Anne, who was listening with a smile, “Did you wake Madame when you rushed down here?”

Anne shook her head, and the colour came into her cheeks. Not, decided Hearne, because she might have wakened Madame, but because the rushing had been so obvious. He looked down at his clothes. After the second hour on that boat he must have lost his sense of smell.

Anyway, relaxing was over for the day. Albertine was in charge.

His room had been scoured and polished; otherwise it was untouched. The bookcase still held its secrets. The books were in the same order, even to that upside-down volume which he had left to test any curious fingers.

It seemed strange not to have the American next door to his room. In the short time he had been there he had become a part of this house. Strange not to hear the limping step, or the deep voice talking its own variation of French. As Hearne washed and changed the disreputable blue shirt and corduroy trousers for something cleaner but less comfortable, he wondered how van Cortlandt was liking Matthews. Van Cortlandt...why had he called himself Myles? Probably some psychological impulse
when he was forced into the danger of giving his real name, some impulse rooted in that story he had promised to tell later. Here I am, Myles from home, he would think. Well, that made two stories Hearne owed himself when he got back to Britain. When... Myles’s—no, van Cortlandt’s; and Sam’s. That would be a fair do, that would. And they would make it a night, lad. His attempt at Yorkshire was more than the razor could bear. He sighed, and patiently washed the streaming blood off his chin. By the time the flow had become an ooze, and the last slow drop had hardened into a clot, he had next week’s plans fixed, with the help of his map. A week was all he could depend on now. Elise was due back from her trip to “Paris” on the twentieth of July. Ten days, she had said. That gave him just seven days more of this kind of thing. He might even have to work in daylight to get all the information he wanted. For when these seven days were over, he might find little time free for himself and his work. Then he would simply have to seize any chance he could: for with Elise’s unexpected demands there would be an end to systematic observation.

When he went downstairs, Anne was alone in the kitchen.

“Albertine’s gone to Mass,” she began, and then she was looking at his chin.

“What about you?” His voice was half teasing.

“I wanted to see you alone. Look, I must get you something for that cut.” She didn’t wait for an answer, but ran lightly, into the store-room. She brought back a bottle of colourless liquid.

“Please don’t trouble,” Hearne said, but inside he felt rather pleased at her solicitude. She dabbed the liquid lightly over the
cut. She was so absorbed in everything she did, he thought, as he watched her eyes fixed so intently on his chin. The cut stung into life again, and he grinned as he saw the look of dismay on Anne’s face when the blood trickled over his chin once more.

He jammed a handkerchief hard against it, saying, “Thank you. That will cure it, I’m sure,” and wondering if Adam’s rib had been better left in place. But it was difficult to feel irritated with Anne: not when she was still trying to look dismayed, when she was trying so hard to keep from laughing.

“You wanted to see me alone?” he suggested.

She nodded, and put the offending bottle down on the table.

“Yes. I went down to the village yesterday, and—” He touched her arm and silenced her. He pointed towards the thin wooden partition which separated the outbuildings from the kitchen. She lowered her voice. “Only old Jean and Henri are there,” she said in surprise. “Marie has gone with Albertine.”

“They’ll soon be in here for breakfast. I’d like to walk in the high field. Would it be too cold for you?”

She shook her head and lifted a black shawl from the back of a chair. In silence she walked up the hill beside him, her arms crossed under her breast to hold the shawl tightly in place, her smooth head slightly bowed, her full skirts billowing out like a black umbrella in the morning wind.

When they reached the high field, and walked on open ground with no bushes or trees near them, Anne halted.

With a smile, she said, “May I talk now?”

Hearne laughed, and nodded. “Let’s keep near the cabbage patch,” he answered. “We ought to have a good excuse to be up here, even at this hour.”

“Excuses for everything,” Anne said with surprising
bitterness. “Excuses for just being on our own land, or for standing in our own market-place, or—”

Hearne interrupted. “It isn’t ours at the moment. Anne. They are the men in possession, whether they call it protection or occupation, or conquest. All we can do is wait, and live our own secret lives and make our own plans. They haven’t possessed our minds; and they won’t, unless we let ourselves be deluded. How is it in the village?”

“As you would expect. You remember I went down with you to the village on the afternoon before you left with Monsieur Myles? I didn’t want to make people think I was looking for Kerénor. I walked about and visited different friends. I couldn’t find him. I went to see Monsieur le Curé, but I couldn’t find him either. Then when I came home, you were upstairs in your room with Monsieur Myles, and Albertine said you were both too busy. I waited, but you didn’t come down; and then I had to go upstairs to read to Madame Corlay before bedtime. And then we went to bed, and I never saw you before you left. It really was such a disappointing day: nothing had come right, and I was very angry with myself.”

Hearne nodded. “Too bad it happened on your first try, but don’t blame yourself. It’s often like that.”

“But I went down to the village yesterday afternoon.” Anne was smiling now, so the disappointment couldn’t have been repeated. “And this time I did see Kerénor. He was sitting on the stone bridge, alone with old Monsieur Guézennec and young Picrel. He said, ‘What are you doing here? Don’t you know the Boches are arriving, and no one is going to be in the streets to welcome them? I’m taking you straight home.’ You see, he and the others were turning back anyone from entering the village at
that end. And he had men at the other end of the road to stop people coming from the farms on that side. And there
was
no one in the streets, not a soul to be seen. Even the older children had been taken care of. You know how children run out to see motorcars and soldiers? Well, Monsieur le Curé had taken them all for a picnic to the ruined castle, and he wasn’t going to bring them back until the early evening; and then he was going to march them straight home—no playing on the pavement or in the market-place. That’s why I couldn’t find Monsieur le Curé or Kerénor the day before: they were arranging all this.”

Anne was excited over her story. She paused to see its effect on Hearne. But he was chiefly interested in the last sentence. “Monsieur le Curé and Kerénor—were they always friendly?”

“No, not at all.”

“What is Monsieur le Curé like?”

“He’s not very big. He’s sort of fat. He has a deep laugh. And he’s kind. Every one likes him. Even Kerénor used to say that, as a man, he wasn’t bad.”

Hearne, rather impatiently, said, “Yes. But what does he feel about the Boches?”

Anne looked at him in surprise. “Why, he feels as we do.”

Hearne was thoughtful. The Breton priests had the reputation of being brave. Few of them were given to equivocation and appeasement. They belonged with the people; but he wanted to be quite sure. He asked, “What did he say in his last sermon, for instance? Were you there?”

“Oh, yes, every one was there. Even Kerénor. Strangely enough, Monsieur le Curé said something very like what you told me.”

“I told you? When?”

“Just five minutes ago...you know, about not letting them conquer our minds. He said we must help each other to keep our minds free from lies against ourselves and our true friends: that as long as our minds were free and we had courage and faith, there was hope. ‘He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity: he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword.’ And then we sang our hymn—the one you were whistling as you crossed the courtyard this morning. When we got to the refrain, many men couldn’t sing any more, and the women were crying quietly.” Anne’s voice trembled, and she turned to look at the trees which sheltered the back of the village.

Hearne kept silent. “As long as the sea is its rampart, may my country hold its head high in freedom,” he remembered. Now the sea was no longer the rampart of Brittany’s freedom; now it was the only road to freedom.

At last he said, “What about Kerénor?”

Anne was looking at the ground, digging the toe of her black leather shoe gently into the rich earth, watching it fall in thick, moist lumps from the leather as she tilted her foot.

Hearne tried again. “What did Kerénor say about my message?”

She faced him so suddenly that he knew she had been trying to find courage to tell him. “He wouldn’t believe me.”

“Wouldn’t believe you?”

“No. He said you were a Fascist; that you would do as the Germans told you, and enjoy it.”

Hearne said to himself, “The damned fool, the bloody idiot.” And then he remembered that, if he had really been Corlay, Kerénor would have been right. He met Anne’s grey-blue eyes,
anxious, worried, apologetic. “ I see,” he said calmly.

“Of course he doesn’t know—” Anne began, and then halted.

“Know what?” he asked quickly, almost sharply. Anne’s eyes flickered.

“Know that you’ve changed,” she said in a low voice.

He looked at her searchingly. Did
she
know? Had Madame Corlay told her everything? He could read nothing in the calm, gentle face except trust and loyalty and—he shook himself free from these thoughts. Now
he
was being the damned fool: what on earth had almost made him say “admiration”? How could she find any admiration for a Corlay who had treated her and his own country so abominably?