Home for Christmas (40 page)

‘You mean if I get caught?’

She nodded, took the letters out of her pocket and held them against her chest.

He shook his head. ‘I’m not going to get caught, Miss. I’m going home and nobody, not even the Bosch, can outrun Freddie Fortune. Give ’em ’ere, Miss.’

Heart pounding against her ribs, she handed him the letters.

‘Don’t let anyone know you have them,’ she whispered.

Later she told herself that she’d been selfish to ask such a favour, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. She had to let Robert know that even though she was effectively serving the German armed forces, she still loved him and intended to return to England.

‘I have no allegiance to either side,’ she’d written in one letter. ‘I care only that injured men are treated as human beings.’

December, 1914

The lovely sunset of two nights before was like a dream. Heavy rain lashed against the distorted glass of the windowpanes and clouds rolled like stormy waves across a sullen sky.

Days like this were good for taking her charges from one safe haven to another, from the safe house to one of the farms to the south. Tired fighting men looked much the same as tired farm labourers. The routine consisted of one man leading the horse, another sitting up beside a morose French farmer who cared little for the Germans and even less for good manners.

Today her confidence in wet dark weather was absent. Today was different. Through the pouring rain, she caught sight of a dark figure bent against the rain and wind. Jan was coming for her.

A blast of rain and wind entered with him.

Water dripped from the brim of his hat, his eyebrows and even his nose. Taking the hat off, he proceeded to beat it against the wall to dislodge what excess water he could.

‘So,’ he said, once he had decided that no more water could be dislodged. ‘How is your love affair proceeding?’

Lydia knew he meant had she had any problems absenting herself from the hospital.

‘I am the subject of much speculation. Some want to know if and when I am to marry my lover, but some …’

She laughed and shook her head.

Jan raised a querulous eyebrow. ‘These others?’

She felt a mild blush warming her cheeks.

‘Some nurses are curious to know what Belgian men are like in bed. They have heard rumours about Frenchmen being more passionate than any other men, so are wondering about Belgians.’

Jan tucked in his chin. ‘I trust you told them that Frenchmen are boastful. Belgians are not. Besides I have my reputation to consider.’

Lydia laughed. ‘I blushed demurely and suggested they find out for themselves.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered Jan whilst scrutinising the dank view beyond the window. ‘I wish I could oblige, but alas I am already spoken for. Perhaps if I had sons they would oblige. But I have not.’

Lydia smiled to herself as she buttoned up her dark coat and slid a rough woollen shawl over her head. As before, today she would be Jan’s mother and he would accompany her to confession. Jan was handsome and very sure of himself. At times, she thought he really was fond of her, but when she attempted to acknowledge or tease, he returned to his distant, sarcastic self.

Jan nodded at her. She nodded back. She was ready.

A wet wind blew briefly through the open door as they left. Anyone seeing them in this dull wet weather would assume it was just Jan escorting his mother to confession. No one was likely to enquire further, not with the rain running down their backs.

Candles fluttered in the draught as they entered the church. The interior smelled of beeswax and old things, ancient flags hanging ragged and moth eaten, candle grease and old wood mellowed with age.

A single lone figure sat just before the altar. Nobody was supposed to be here! Her heart rate quickened. She couldn’t go back now. Everything was in place.

Lydia wasn’t sure she recognised who it was but could not linger. She had no wish to have anyone questioning her identity.

She exchanged a quick look with Jan and knew he was thinking the same.

Tugging the shawl more closely around her face, she limped towards the confessional. Jan’s mother had a bad hip. She was also a very pious woman who confessed at least five times a week and attended mass every day. Poor Jan was a busy man as far as his mother was concerned. It amazed Lydia he had time for anything else.

The confessional was dark, only the faintest light coming through the fretwork screen separating her from the priest. Jan had gone outside, to bring his cart of refuse to the side of the church. He would collect more from the priest’s house. Beneath the refuse, a piece of tarpaulin stretched over a frame would cover the British service men hiding beneath it.

‘Lydie?’

‘Father Anton.’

The whole screen from ceiling to floor slid back without making a sound. Lydia followed the priest through another aperture at the rear of the confessional, turning sideways because the gap was narrow.

She closed the fretwork screen behind her using both hands. The screen slid quietly into place.

The aperture led into a passageway and a spiral staircase, so narrow that her shoulders brushed against the walls on each side. A draft of cold musty air came up to meet them. The stairs led down into the crypt, dominated by the tombs of Knights Templar and ancient crusaders.

The air smelled of old bones and rotten rags overladen now with the smell of living men, mud, sweat and weariness.

The three figures huddled like gargoyles between the tombs looked up at the sound of their approach. They no longer wore uniforms but the kind of poor-quality clothing afforded by farm labourers, disguises necessary for their escape.

Lydia held her breath. She saw only one man amongst the three, a face that stopped her in her tracks, that same strong face she’d dreamed of seeing so many times, feeling great elation, and then woken to find his presence had been nothing more than a dream.

The dancing blueness of his eyes, the strong face that looked so tired, though brightening when his eyes met hers.

He was here. Robert was here!

The tiredness accumulated by days of dodging the enemy fell from his face. Robert got to his feet.

‘Lydia! I can’t believe this! It’s a miracle. A bloody, wonderful, marvellous miracle!’ His voice crackled with disbelief. His eyes were moist. ‘You’re here!’

He reached out one arm then the other. She swayed, the gloomy surroundings swimming around her as she forced herself to take one careful step after another just in case – just in case – it really was only a dream.

‘You’re alive!’

He didn’t smell good, but when she squeezed her eyes shut, savouring the taste of him, the sweetness of the moment, he might just as well have been smelling of roses.

Her eyes filled with tears when she looked up at him. He frowned as he regarded her. ‘Something’s changed about you. I cannot think what it is, but I will. I’m sure I will.’

The two of them moved into the shadows whilst Robert’s colleagues were given food and drink. For the moment at least, he had no need of either.

Lydia shook her head. ‘Never mind me. Did you get my letter?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Mind you, anything – letters or parcels – takes an age getting through.’

‘I knew that, so Agnes took it to Siggy. I – we thought it was the only chance of getting in touch.’

He shook his head. ‘As you say, it’s not easy, though …’ He frowned. ‘It should have come through eventually.’

Lydia grew angry when she realised the truth. ‘He didn’t send it! That pig of a cousin of yours didn’t send it.’

He hugged her close and kissed her again. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m here. You’re here. Better than any letter. Did you get my letters?’

She shook her head. ‘None.’ She paused, thinking back and wondering. ‘Being the daughter of a German was no problem before the war, but now …’

He placed a finger against her lips. ‘It’s still of no consequence to me. I would still have married you.’

‘You could have been disinherited.’

‘I could have stood that. I would still have had a pilot’s pay.’

Despite their circumstances, she threw back her head and laughed. ‘I wish …’

She stopped herself from saying how she wished she could turn the clock back, but this was no time for remorse. If she had been pregnant, it hadn’t stayed inside her for long. Besides, she didn’t want Robert to dwell on what might have been. The future was all that really mattered.

‘You’re leaving today.’ She said it abruptly, at the same time swallowing the lump in her throat. ‘You’re going home.’

Surprised by her tone, his expression changed.

‘I can’t leave you now that I’ve found you. I can’t just go home as though there was nothing ever between us. Good God, Lydia, you’re behind enemy lines. Do you know what the Germans will do to you if they find out you’re helping prisoners escape?’

‘I know very well. But it has to be done. And I’m in a position to do it. You’ll be home for Christmas. Who knows? I might get back to England too before very long. The war can’t go on forever.’

‘No. You have to come with me.’

She shook her head vehemently. ‘No. My absence would be noticed, and besides, you and your colleagues are to travel as farm labourers, men looking for work. Having a woman with you would be hard to explain and would put both the lives of your colleagues and those assisting you to escape in danger. No, Robert. You have to leave and I must stay.’

Though her heart was breaking, she forced herself to sound cheerful. She had to lie. She had to get him out of there.

She felt a shiver run down her when his fingers brushed her cheek.

‘Promise me you will get home. Promise me we’ll still get married.’

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. Who knows what the future might bring?’ she said, still maintaining her cheerful facade.

‘You’re not fooling me,’ he said softly. ‘Our future is together. You still feel the same about me. I know you do.’

‘I’ll be fine. Now just you take care of yourself and don’t get caught. You’re out of uniform. We don’t want you shot as a spy.’

He managed a nervous laugh, wetness from the corners of his eyes lifting the dirt from his face.

‘I understand. I’m a farm labourer. I look like a farm labourer. I shall sound like a farm labourer. Luckily my French isn’t bad. Just wish I could have been a married farm labourer and we could have gone home together.’

‘Good. We understand each other. And when you get back to England you can dine out on your little adventure … Just think of it … I still have work to do here,’ she said bravely. ‘And you too have work to do. As soon as you’re back in England they’ll have you up in a plane again.’

‘I’ll refuse.’

‘No you won’t. You love flying.’

‘I love you too,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘I love you too, Lydia.’

She smiled through threatening tears. ‘I know. And I love you. That’s why I want you to go home. Go home and kiss those we love. Go home for Christmas and wish Agnes the greetings of the season for me. I presume she’s still in England, or at least you can write to her. Will you do that? Promise?’

He nodded. ‘Promise.’

‘Now come along. We’ve no time for regrets or reminiscences.’

It was hard to read what he was thinking, but there was a hurt look in his eyes. She had no intention of revoking her sharp words. She had to be firm. He had to go. They had to say goodbye.

‘I see. How far will you be going with us?’

‘Only to the farm. Jan’s mother often accompanies him to the farm. The refuse goes to feed the pigs.’

Robert forced a chuckle. ‘Oh well. A second-class ride is better than a first-class walk.’

The sight of her remained before Robert’s eyes as the cart carrying the pigswill bumped along the rutted surface of the country road. He’d definitely detected something different about her; she was still a sight for sore eyes, but more voluptuous, plumper than he remembered. Not that it mattered. She was still the woman whose presence tickled at his heart.

Agnes. Christmas Eve, 1914

Agnes brushed at her eyes. The young man had broken bones – too many to count and only half of his face was recognisable, the other half burned and hardly distinguishable as human flesh at all.

‘Can you …?’

He gestured for her to light him a cigarette. She obliged of course, her hand trembling as she did so. She had recognised the insignia of the Royal Flying Corps and the fact that this young man was a navigator, the map-reader who sat behind the pilot. They had sustained damage over enemy lines, but the pilot had managed to land it.

‘Major Ravening got out. I’m sure of that. But it’s disorientating out there. We were separated. He might just be in enemy hands. I was found by a group of people helping downed fliers and others to escape. I was lucky. I came across a downed plane in a field complete with pilot. I helped him back into the air. Weight was critical so I had to leave a lot of my gear behind. Shame, but nothing important.’

‘So Major Ravening got out? I know him you see.’

He flinched as she lunged forward, her expression intense. She couldn’t help herself. She had to know.

He confirmed that he had and went on to describe what had happened in more detail, including the fact that the pilot and aeroplane he’d found in the field had limped back to the Allied lines, finally crashing just yards short of a safe landing where it had burst into flames.

Agnes sat there silently, frozen by fear but crazily thinking she would look for him, find him, and bring him out. To do so she would have to get close to the enemy lines.

Just over the border into Flanders, the navigator had said. Not far from Ypres.

They had moved up into that area in order to help with the carnage still raging in that sector.

The opportunity would arise to get close to the front line. She knew it would, and once it did, she would grab it with both hands.

From the very first, Agnes had acquired a reputation in the service for being outspoken and disobedient. Not only did she help carry the injured into the makeshift tents and shattered buildings that served as hospitals, she was also in the habit of checking on their progress – only those she particularly liked of course.