Assignment in Brittany

  “He may be here for a day or two,” Hearne said at last. This was, he had decided, a diversion rather than a complication. The stranger had already pushed Hearne into second place as far as the women’s interest was concerned. And he was an intelligent man: if he were a newspaper man, then he was also a practised observer. It would be nice to know just what he had seen as he had travelled through that very interesting piece of countryside in the last few weeks. If he would talk, it would be useful. If he would talk.

  Albertine said, “He can hide in the straw in the shed.”

  “That’s the first place the Germans would look.” Hearne had helped Myles on to the nearest chest and was now trying to ease the shoes off the American’s feet. It was slow work. He added, as Albertine stood unbelieving, “Any place with livestock is a sure place for them to look.”

  Albertine didn’t like that idea: it troubled her.

  “Well, then, in the store-room upstairs?” she suggested with an effort.

  “Store-rooms are equally dangerous. Food may be kept there.”

  “Then where?” Albertine was alarmed. Good, thought Hearne: it was only alarm which forced Albertine’s type of humanity out of its neat, orderly groove. Fear ended complacency; fear spurred on the imaginatively lazy.

  “Here.”

  “What?” Both Madame Corlay and Albertine had raised their voices in shocked protest.

  Hearne pointed to the draped beds. “There’s nothing wrong with the idea. It’s a good old Breton custom. And this is one place where the Germans will not look unless they are really suspicious, and in that case no place would be safe for him at all. This is the bedroom of Madame Corlay, who is an invalid. That’s the safest place for this man.”

  “He couldn’t stay here all the time.”

  “No.” Hearne repressed a smile. “Not all the time. He can use my room or the store-room all day. But if anyone strange appears, or at the first sign of a German, then he’d better slip into that spare bed.”

  “And at night?” Madame Corlay’s voice was cold.

  “Here,” Hearne said decidedly. It had to be here: his plans for these night journeys must not be interfered with. He looked earnestly at Madame Corlay; his voice didn’t weaken. “Then we won’t be caught unaware if someone awakens us in a hurry. And if the Germans seem suspicious and demand to search your room, then he can escape by that window over there. This is the safest place in the house for him.” His tone was final.

  The second shoe was at last removed. Myles had screwed up his face, but he wasn’t letting any sound escape. Albertine was watching in dismay.

  “It’s all right, Albertine. They’ve stopped bleeding now. The floor won’t be marked.” And then as he saw her expression change, he added more gently, “Better get a bath ready for him.” She nodded and left the room.

  “He’ll look much better when we clean him up,” Hearne said cheerfully. “The trouble will be clothes. He’s taller than I am.”

  Madame Corlay looked at Hearne, as if surprised. “Yes, he is tall,” she said thoughtfully.

  “And he’s killed a lot of Germans. You must get him to tell you the story tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” The questioning eyebrows were her last protest.

  “Or the next day.”

  Madame Corlay was looking at him speculatively. Hearne wondered just what that look meant: it was kind enough, but he didn’t like it somehow. She might be almost about to smile. Blast Corlay, he thought, for refusing at the last moment to give a letter or a message for his mother. As soon as they had told him of the proposed impersonation, he had shut up as tight as an oyster. Fortunately for their plans, they hadn’t told him until the last day, and by that time all the information they needed was already gathered and tabulated. If Corlay hadn’t been so unwilling at the last minute, then Hearne wouldn’t now be going through this miming act. It would have make things easier all round. And it would have made things pleasanter, too.

  Madame Corlay reached suddenly towards the table beside her. She fumbled, and then lifted a pair of spectacles. At that moment, Hearne bent over to help Myles to his feet.

  “Better get that bath,” he said, his face turned away from Madame Corlay. “I’ll bring him back later to you. His story will interest you.”

  He helped Myles towards the landing, and closed the door of Madame Corlay’s room in relief. That last minute had been really embarrassing. Blast Corlay, he thought again.

  But two things he had found out. Madame Corlay didn’t like to wear glasses: and without these glasses Madame Corlay didn’t see so well as she pretended.

  * * *

  That afternoon Hearne worked in the field. The American, washed and fed, rested in the house. He had asked for paper and pencil, and had settled himself in the one comfortable chair in Hearne’s room. “To get my thoughts licked into shape while the memory is still hot,” he explained with a smile which had become broader and easier.

  “They will make interesting reading,” Hearne said politely.

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Sit near the open window. I’ll give a whistle if any Nazis arrive. You know where to go?”

  “If it isn’t going to worry your mother.”

  “The war hasn’t finished for her. This is one of the few ways she has of fighting on. And tell her that story of yours.”

  “I gather she has no love for the Nazis.”

  “She hates them passionately.”

  The two men exchanged smiles. Then Hearne had gone out to the field.

  He worked where he could have a clear view of the path which led from the farm past the round-towered pigeonnier, past the Pinot lands, down to the belt of trees hiding Saint-Déodat. But no Germans appeared, and no Henri. Once he thought he saw Anne’s smooth, fair hair; once an old, slow-moving peasant woman crossed the fields to the east, and then disappeared in the direction of the Pinot farm. Behind him the trees surrounding the ruined castle seemed silent and safe enough. On his first job he used to imagine an enemy behind every bush, but now he was past that stage. There weren’t enough Germans to surround and spy on every lonely little farm throughout occupied France. Danger would come only when suspicions were aroused. At present, he was just another peasant working in his field.

  By five o’clock he was no longer annoyed with Henri: he was worried. He carried the spade and the two other tools carefully down to the house. Albertine was working in the small vegetable and herb garden.

  “Henri?” he asked.

  Albertine was worried, too. “I’ll go and find him, the old fool,” she said slowly.

  Hearne thought about that. “No,” he said, “you stay here. You’ve plenty to do. I’ll go before it’s dark, if he isn’t back by that time.” The Germans might be patrolling after dark: then the fields, and not the road to the village, would be the safer place. And he couldn’t tell Albertine the kind of thing he wanted to know. He would have a better chance of finding, out just what had happened to Henri—not that he could help the old boy if he were in trouble. That would be a dangerous complication. But he had to know what was going on in the village, and to discover, if it were possible, whether the Germans intended to stay. Perhaps they weren’t even there now; perhaps Henri’s report that morning had been only a temporary alarm. He had to know.

  He walked quickly down to the village. It was strange to think how long the: path had seemed on that morning when he arrived. Now he was rested, and no longer hungry, and the way was quite short. Almost too short if the Germans were going to leave some men in the village.

  At the bridge on the road a young man sat on the low wall, staring at the shallow water beneath. He looked up as Hearne’s footsteps neared him.

  “Well,” he said,” so you’re back.” Light-haired, freckled, a nose which wasn’t quite straight, high cheek-bones, blue eyes, a twisted smile.

  Hearne said, “Yes,” and walked moodily on.

  The young man slid off the wall and hurried after him. He limped badly.
So this was, Kerénor, Jean-Christophe Kerénor, the “foreign” schoolteacher from Lorient.

  “How’s the writing?” he asked with the same twisted smile.

  “I’m looking for Henri,” Hearne said briefly.

  “He’s at the hotel. He’s had a busy day.” There was only the inflexion of a Breton accent in the man’s speech, but the voice held the same mocking quality as the smile. Hearne said nothing. He turned into the market-place. On his left was the long, low hotel. And in front of it were two large cars. He saw the Nazi flags, the soldiers on guard, and halted involuntarily.

  “We have guests,” smiled Kerénor, watching Hearne from the corner of his eyes. “Not so very many, but seemingly important.” His arm swept to the large black-letter notices pasted along the blankness of the hotel wall.

  “Henri?” asked Hearne. Kerénor had said Henri was in the hotel. And it was obvious that the hotel was the chosen headquarters for the visiting Germans.

  “He’s all right. He’s in the bar.”

  There were other people in the market-place. Some grouped under the trees and talked. Others walked slowly, their heads bent. All looked subdued and anxious. The fact that other men were in the street decided Hearne. He was one of them—just another beaten Frenchman.

  He started towards the hotel. Kerénor limped along beside him. At first Hearne wondered; for Kerénor had obviously never liked Bertrand Corlay. And then he remembered. Kerénor lived here, lodging in the hotel which the other “foreigner”, Madame Perro, owned.

  The Nazis standing so proudly on guard didn’t even seem to glance at them. There were so few of them, Hearne thought; so few, and yet so sure of their own safety. And why not, if you knew planes were only fifteen minutes’ flying time away planes which could level this village to a pile of rubble in even less time than that; why not if you knew that the people in this village knew it too? Blackmail with planes...only the Germans had thought of that and planned accordingly. Here was a community of perhaps some four hundred people in all, and it was occupied and controlled by a handful of self-assured men. Four hundred would do what twenty, or less, would tell them.

  Kerénor followed him into the bar. As he limped, he put his hand on his right thigh as if by leaning on it he could keep up with Hearne’s stride.

  “Elise will be delighted,” he said suddenly.

  “Elise?” Hearne stared at the bitter smile. He was strangely uncomfortable at the naked look in the other man’s eyes.

  “Elise.” Kerénor lingered over the name. He was hurting himself purposely, thought Hearne. His eyes showed it: they didn’t smile, but the twist on his lips seemed to have frozen there. “Yes, Elise. She’s back too.” And then he was gone.

  Who the devil was Elise, Hearne was wondering. Better get Henri. Better get out of this place before any other riddles were put to him. He looked round the room with its small stone-topped tables. In the large alcove at the curtained window there was a group of men. Old men. They sat staring at the glasses before them. Henri, his chin sunk in his gnarled fists, was motionless. No one talked. No one moved, as Hearne went over to the table.

  He’s drunk, solidly drunk, Hearne thought. He said quietly, “Henri. Come.”

  Henri raised his eyes slowly, and looked at Hearne from under his lowered brows.

  “Ni zo Bretoned, tud kaled,” he said.

  “Yes,” Hearne answered, remembering the little of Breton which he had once known. “Yes. But Albertine wants you.”

  The old man rose slowly and left the table. None of the others spoke. Henri didn’t look at them; he was walking with a visible effort towards the door, unnaturally erect, looking neither to right nor to left. Hearne followed. At least, he was congratulating himself, the old chap looked as if he could make it under his own steam. One thing he must remember about these Bretons: they were powerful drinkers. In one way, it was funny to think how worried he had been all this afternoon when Henri was missing, and all the time Henri had been just drowning his sorrows. It was so funny that Hearne didn’t even feel angry. It was funny, and pathetic. “Ni zo Bretoned,” Henri had quoted: “We are the Bretons, a hard race...” There they were, not one of them under seventy, just sitting and drinking and thinking of the national songs, as if to cling on to some pride, as if to keep themselves from drowning in a sea of Celtic despair. Hearne looked back at the group of men. They hadn’t moved. Henri had already passed through the doorway with its tightly gathered yellow curtains. He was literally walking straight home.

  And then, as Hearne reached the yellow curtains, the door behind him, which led from the bar into the restaurant of the hotel, swung open. He turned at the grating noise of the hinges. He could see a tablecloth in the background, and an officer’s cap lying on its whiteness. But his eyes came back to the girl standing in the open doorway.

  “God!” he said to himself.

  And then she came forward. Only a girl with the face of an angel could move like that. He suddenly realised that the lips were parted in a breathless smile, that the large eyes were fixed on his.

  “Bertrand!” And then she had caught both his hands in hers. Cool hands, soft hands.

  “Bertrand.” The dark eyelashes flickered. She shook her head slowly, unbelievingly. “I’ve just come back. No one told me you were back until Kerénor came two minutes ago...” Hearne felt the blood high in his face.

  “Most touching,” said Kerénor. He was standing at the counter of the bar, watching them with that same look in his eyes which had embarrassed Hearne before. Elise turned her face towards Kerénor.

  “Go away, Jean,” she said, but the laugh in her voice took the sting out of the words; the long look from her eyes softened the frown. Hearne watched her profile incredulously.

  Kerénor bowed, and wheeling abruptly on his heel he limped out of the door. Masochist, thought Hearne, and then as the girl in the clinging flowered dress turned her face once more towards him, he forgot Kerénor.

  “You look as if you could scarcely believe your eyes,” she teased in her low voice.

  “I—I didn’t know—”

  “Of course not. I was in Paris after Strasbourg was evacuated. Now it is more—well, suitable”—her eyes emphasised the word—“that I should come back here.”

  Hearne stood without speaking. Who on earth was this girl? Corlay had told him of Anne, of Albertine, of his mother; of everything, it now seemed, except a goddess with green eyes and a warm smile, with smooth white skin and sculptured bones.

  She interpreted his silence in her own way. “You were worried about me? And I was for you. I thought you were either dead or taken by the English and I wouldn’t see you perhaps ever again. But now we needn’t worry any more. I may be here for a month, two months.” She paused.

  “When can we meet? Tonight? The usual place?”

  Hearne was taken aback. He hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?” the girl asked.

  “Would it be safe?” he hedged.

  “Why not?” The large eyes were still larger. “I’ve so much to tell you. I must see you.” It was a command.

  “Of course,” Hearne said.” Of course.”

  “Is that all you can say?” There was a frown shadowing the smooth brow.

  “You are so beautiful.”

  She laughed, as if to herself. “That is better... So you still love me?”

  “Yes, I love you.”

  “More than ever?”

  Then the grating of the restaurant door interrupted them. A large woman, tightly encased in black silk, her hair flagrantly dyed and tortured into rigid waves, had entered the bar-room.

  “Elise,” she said, and motioned with her head towards the restaurant.

  “Yes, Aunt Marie. Coming.”

  “Be quick, then.” The large woman nodded again. She looked at Hearne and pursed her lips; and then the door screeched once more.

  Hearne stiffened. “Who are your friends in there?”

  “Bertrand!” The girl was delighted.
“I’ve told you before you mustn’t be jealous. Business is merely business.” She looked contemptuously round the empty room, at the desolate tables, at the small group of men sitting so silently in the window alcove. “We have still a lot of work to do,” she added. “You will be needed more than ever. I’ll tell you when I see you. Tonight...” She hesitated and glanced towards the restaurant door. “Well, perhaps tomorrow night would be better. Tomorrow night at ten o’clock?”

  “Yes,” said Hearne. There was nothing else he could say. “Tomorrow night at ten. At the—?”

  “Yes, at the usual place.” She gave him a last long look, a warm smile, a pressure of her cool, slender hand. The protesting door was held open long enough for a glance over her shoulder and a last smile; for his eyes to see the tables beyond, empty except for one where three uniformed men had risen to their feet.

  Hearne took a deep breath. He needed it.

  He had left the Hôtel Perro and the market-place behind him before his thoughts began to take, shape. He felt like a man who had been caught in a strong river current and had managed, somehow, to pull himself out on to the bank. He passed some men, but he kept his eyes fixed moodily on the road. Someone said in a strong Breton voice, “It’s Corlay.” But Hearne only raised a hand in greeting, and kept his eyes lowered. He had had just about enough for one night; just about. And then he remembered, that tonight he’d have to try a first journey. He’d have to test that front door. Sometime before supper he’d have to examine that lock, perhaps grease it. Sometime when Albertine was feeding the hens or even looking after the cows; for Henri wouldn’t be much use this evening.

  He quickened his pace. The fields were empty, the woods were silent. In the autumn, when the late evening sun rested on the rich brown leaves, the trees would match that girl’s hair. But he wouldn’t be here to see. By the beginning of September his job would—must be finished. No, he wouldn’t be here to see. “All right, then,” he said to himself savagely. “You won’t be here in September. You’ll be lucky if you are anywhere in September.”