Assignment in Brittany (45 page)

“Saint-Lunaire. East bay,” Le Trapu said, pointing. Hearne looked, but there was nothing but blackness, perhaps at the
most a faint smudge of grey where the sand of the bay swept out to the sharp teeth of the rocky peninsula. There was no doubt about that spine of rock. Its cliff rose darkly up in a savage line against the sky, as if to protect the town sheltering back in the mainland.

Le Trapu’s man was bringing the boat in a wide sweep round the headland now, into the second bay. Le Trapu was working swiftly and furiously with the sails. Their speed slackened. They drifted towards the long grey curve of sand, growing greyer and wider. Behind it was a stretch of soft darkness. Golf courses, Hearne remembered from his map. Miles of them. This was the place.

Their speed slackened still more, they were almost drifting in.

Le Trapu was beside him again. “Can’t risk any farther. Can you swim?”

“Yes.”

“Good. It’s very shallow. Stay in the dunes all day. Don’t leave them. They’re safe.”

Afterwards Hearne remembered the insistence of the Breton’s voice. But at the time he only nodded, and slipped over the edge of the boat, holding his gun in his right hand. Only the left arm was good for swimming, anyhow. He hung on to the side of the boat for a moment, Le Trapu bending over to hold the left hand secure.

“Bonne chance alors. Au revoir,”
he said, and released his grip on Hearne’s hand. Hearne drew his knees up to his chest, his feet against the side of the boat. He shoved against it, and felt himself glide out into the water free of the boat. He paddled softly with his left arm, as he felt for the sand and touched nothing. Six strokes later, he felt again and touched bottom. He waded slowly in over the long stretch of shallow water, keeping only his head and his right hand above water until he was forced to change to crawling on his knees. At the water’s edge, he came in with a curling breaker, and rolled flat on the sand. The wave’s last flow licked his face as he turned his head to watch the boat. He could see it only because he knew it was there. Already it was swinging out. Soon it would be just another fishing-boat crossing the bay.

He gathered breath, and started the long, slow crawl over the cold sand. When he got back to England, he could start thinking about the pain which gripped his right shoulder, about the spasm which dragged at his back muscles. He lay over on his left side and wrung the water out of his jacket pocket and slipped the gun back into it. He needed his right hand free— such as it was. Then, with his face muscles set in an ugly grin which had nothing to do with amusement, he pulled his body over the shore.

It was heavy going, for the dripping clothes and swamped boots had the weight of lead; and he was weaker than he had thought. In spite of the constant effort and movement, he was deathly cold and shivering uncontrollably by the time he reached the first curving bank of sand. He rested there. Then he pulled himself up over its soft face towards the waving spikes of grasses. Twice he slipped, and dug in with his knees and elbows to stop himself from sliding back to the shore. But at last he had his left hand round the toughness of the grasses. They cut into his flesh as they took the weight of his body, but he was over the last lip of the dune and he let himself roll gently down its grass side until he rested at the bottom of its hollow. There were bushes near. He crawled over to the largest
clump. Gorse-bushes. Painful, he thought, but at least safe. He groaned to himself, and looked for the easiest entrance to the sweet-scented tangle.

And then he heard a step. A careful step, as if someone had halted uncertainly.

Oh, God, he thought despairingly. He forced his right hand into his pocket. He rolled over quickly on his side, aiming at the half-crouching figure. It moved forward as he steadied himself.

The whispered words were like the touch of the wind on the tall grasses round him.

“I was watching for you.”

That was all; but his heart leaped, and he forgot the throbbing shoulder and the coldness and the numbing sickness.

“Anne,” he whispered.

And then she had slipped, as quietly as she had come, down to where he lay. “Anne,” he said, and gripped her so that he felt her bones yielding under the pressure of his arm and heard the short gasp as the breath left her body.

“Anne,” he whispered again, and kissed her.

29

END OF A MISSION

The spreading gorse-bush grew at the foot of a short, steep bank, bearded with tall, waving grasses. Its heavy branches. swept to the ground at its front and sides; at its back, they clutched the top of the bank and trailed beyond. They formed a perfect, but painful, screen, Hearne thought, as he forced the stubborn branches apart and held them that way until Anne, her hair protected by her rough woollen jacket, could reach the free space of ground between the roots and the bank. Then he entered the thorny tangle, letting the branches fall to the earth again behind him. They had torn his hands and lashed his shoulders, but the shelter they offered was safe. Anne was lying on the sparse, stubby grass which forced its way up through the sand. He stretched himself carefully beside her. It was too dark to see her face, but the arm which he had thrown round her measured her heart-beats. His left hand pulled the jacket back from her hair. It was no longer tightly braided; its soft, loose silk covered his fingers.

“I can’t even see it,” he said bitterly. “And I can’t see your face properly. There’s only a black outline which is you. And we’ll have to talk in whispers, and we dare hardly move in case we lose an eye.” He looked up at the dark mass of branches sweeping arc-wise above their heads to reach the steep bank behind them. “Hell of a lover I am, bringing you into a place like this.”

She laughed softly. “I like it,” she said. “I feel safe here. And I feel so happy.” Suddenly the laughter in her voice stifled, and he knew she was crying.

“Anne darling,” he said. “Anne!”

“I’m just so happy,” she repeated. “I thought Le Trapu was never coming, that he had missed you after all, that you had both been caught. And then the light was so bad, and the clouds made so many shadows on the bay that there might have been fifty fishing-boats there or none at all. Then the clouds thickened and a mist moved in from the sea. Even at the very end, I wasn’t sure it was you. By the time I left the dune where I was lying, and hurried along to where I thought I had seen you go, I began to imagine that I had been dreaming. And then, I found you.”

Hearne, his lips touching the smooth cheek, didn’t answer. He was thinking of the danger Anne had been in, of the risks she had taken. At last he said, his voice now normal, “How long did you wait?”

“I came this afternoon. There were others walking on the sands of the bay, so it was quite safe. Near the rocks beside the town there were German soldiers.” A hint of laughter entered her voice. “They were trying to learn to swim. I watched them from the dunes, as some other people were doing. I just sat down
there, and the tall grasses were higher than my head, and no one noticed me. After an hour, I moved farther back into the grasses, and I lay there in the sunshine, waiting for the darkness.”

“Any other Germans?”

“Some on leave from the town were walking along the sand. They kept looking at the sea.”

“What about the golf course?”

“Some Boches were playing there. Madame Chevel said they were staying in the big hotels, and in the villas the Parisians used to own. The Casino is filled with them every night. People believe something is going to be started here very soon, because a lot of boats have been bringing loads to the small quays on the other bay. Some say it’s ammunition, and some say building material. But every one seems to think the Germans’ holiday will soon be over, and that there’s going to be work here for them. There are a lot of soldiers in the town, and on the beach in the other bay in front of the Casino.”

“Who is Madame Chevel?”

“I stayed with her last night. When I arrived in Saint-Lunaire, I was hungry, so I joined a queue outside a baker’s shop. There was a woman like Albertine standing beside me. That was Madame Chevel.”

“You’ve only to smile and wrinkle this nose of yours, Anne” —he kissed it and won a little laugh—“and even the Albertines offer you shelter.”

“It wasn’t my smile; it was what I said to her when three soldiers marched past the length of the queue, went into the shop, and came out eating the last pies.”

Hearne laughed, too, and ran his hand over the soft hair lying so close to him. “And where is Madame Chevel now?”

“Asleep in her little house. And I am on my way to my aunt at Saint-Brieuc.”

Hearne was silent. He was wondering if all women were naturally adept at this kind of game. First, there had been Elise, and now here was Anne, who, for a different cause but with much the same skill, had managed to plan her way to the coast. Plan his way too: he owed much to her cleverness and foresight.

“What’s wrong?” Anne was asking. She stretched her free arm across his shoulders. “Oh,” she said, “you are cold, so cold. And you’ve let your bandage slip out of place.” The concern in her voice pleased him.

“I’m warmer than I was. I’m feeling better every minute.” He tightened his grip on her waist. “Darling, why did you come here?”

“I wanted to see you.” Anne, so direct, so honest. No hedging. Just “I wanted to see you.” There was a pause, and then the whispered voice was so low that he could hardly hear it. “I had to see you leave safely. If I had gone to my aunt’s house, I should never have known that you had even reached here. I should never have known what had happened to you.”

“And what happens to me...does it mean so much?”

Anne was silent.

“Does it mean so much?” he repeated.

“I kissed you,” she said, in a very small voice.

His left arm, encircling her waist, pulled her closer. “Darling,” was all he said.

And then, later, “If kisses show how much, then you know now how much it means to me, too.” He kissed her once more. “I couldn’t be sure, Anne. I’m a jealous kind of chap. I worried about you being engaged to Corlay. You aren’t the kind of a
girl to let herself get engaged to a man without having liked him enough at one time. Then I thought you had been kind to me because you were sorry for me, or because you hated the Boches so much, or both. It wasn’t until I saw you out there among the dunes that I let myself think of anything more. Even yet, I can’t quite believe that you love me; you’ll have to say it, to make me believe it.”

“Why do you want to believe it?” Her cheek was warm with the hot blood under the fine, smooth skin. Her heart was again pounding against his arm, her voice was half laughing, half serious.

“Because,” he said simply, “I am coming back here after the war ends. And if I’m coming back, I want to know you’ll be here.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I’ll be here. I’ll stay at Saint-Brieuc and watch for you coming from England. After the war...” This time the tears which came could not be controlled or explained away. She caught him convulsively and buried her face in his shoulder. It was his right shoulder, and it hurt like hell, but Hearne found a fierce pleasure in the pain.

“After the war,” he said firmly, “I’ll be here even if I have to swim across.” His voice was calm, determined.

Anne had stopped crying. “Your arm!” she said, suddenly remembering. “Your shoulder!” Her hands were gently feeling for the bandage, gently arranging it to make his shoulder more comfortable.

“I’d rather have your head than a bandage,” he said. “Leave it, Anne. There’s still one question I’d like to know the answer to. It keeps haunting me. Were you ever in love with Bertrand Corlay?”

Anne’s words were clear and direct. “I wanted to fall in love
with him, at one time. I thought I could. But I didn’t.”

“Why did you want to fall in love with him?”

She bent over suddenly to kiss his cheek. “Because I was young, and he was so very good-looking.”

“What? Corlay? He’s as ugly as—well—” He halted in embarrassment.

“Then only you think so.” She kissed him again. “You are the strangest man.”

“Why?”

“You keep silent when I want you to talk. And when you do talk, you ask questions.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“But I’ve so much to find out about you. There’s so much I want to know. First tell me how much you love me, then tell me about you...everything you can remember, little things, anything.”

“First, you must tell me how much you love me. You will teach me how to say it. That will give me courage.”

He said seriously and gently, “Do you ever need courage, Anne?”

“Sometimes.”

He kissed her. “I don’t think words are very adequate for this moment.”

“No?” She was half laughing.

“No.” He was half serious.

Later, she said, “And I can’t even say your name. You’ve never told me it.” It wasn’t an indirect question: it was a simple statement, tinged with surprise and melancholy.

“Martin,” he answered. “Martin—” He halted. “The other name you will know later, Anne. Later, when it is safe for you
to know it. Now I must just be Martin.”

“Martin,” she repeated, giving it the French pronunciation. “Martin.” Her finger traced a line across his forehead and down the side of his cheek.

Hearne stiffened suddenly. He laid a finger across her lips. They lay in silence, straining to catch any sound. At last Hearne relaxed. “Thought I heard feet crumpling shells on the shore,” he explained. They listened again.

At last Hearne spoke softly. “You didn’t know my name, you still only know half of it; you don’t know what kind of job I have, or how much money I make or don’t make; you have scarcely seen me except when I was worried, or tired, or smelling of fish, or all bloodied up. And now I’ve chosen a gorse-bush to drag you into, and my wet clothes are leaving a damp trail of sea-water over you, and the sand is still sticking to a week’s growth of beard, and yet you say you’ll marry me. God, however did I have the luck to find you?” His eyes, now accustomed to the blackness round them, tried to see her face more clearly. His lips touched her eyes and hair.