The Sea Garden (17 page)

Then she felt a hand on her arm, and heard her name whispered.

“Kenton?”

“It's all right, sweetheart. It's me.”

“I couldn't remember where I was for a moment!”

“It's all right. I'm here—and, good news, so is Scotty!”

Relief flooded through her. “Thank God. How did he find us? Did you go looking for him?”

“I wouldn't leave you, you know that. No, he followed us out of the field last night. He said he thought that if another patrol came down the road, there was less chance we'd be stopped if we looked like a couple instead of a trio. Likewise when we went to the farm, it was safer for us to knock on the door as a pair.”

“Scotty?”

“I'm here.” He rubbed her arm.

Marthe sat up. “We need food and water. I'll have to take a chance on the nearest house,” she said. “I'm going to get a stick to walk with—find me one that's the right length—and when you see anywhere likely, I'm going to beg for some food.”

“I'm coming with you,” said Kenton.

“Me too.”

The boys spoke together.

“No, you mustn't. Best I go alone. We're much more likely to get something.”

 

T
hey waited out the following day in the woods. Marthe's begging brought in a heel of stale potato bread and some plums. Scotty wanted to try to trap for food, but they could not have built a fire to cook it. “Better hungry and safe, than fed and given ourselves away,” said Kenton. They ate the bread and plums and drank from a stream.

“If only the plane hadn't been so heavy, or the damn field had no potatoes and lavender,” said Scotty. Kenton translated.

“I know,” said Marthe gently.

Kenton retorted something in English.

“What did you say?”

“I told him you can't go through life thinking, ‘If only.' ”

“You're right,” said Marthe. “That's what Arlette used to say.”

A terrible pause threatened to overwhelm them.

“Yet most people do,” said Kenton, forcing his voice to stay steady and not entirely succeeding. “Even if just a little, if only regretting a very few paths not taken.”

“I don't want to live like that,” said Marthe. “When something bad has happened, you have to use it to make yourself braver. Once you know that you will manage somehow, whatever happens, you have unlocked the secret of life.”

“I always—”

“Ssh!” said Scotty. “Hear that?”

They listened.

A rustling noise was coming from behind them. It might have been human; it might have been some woodland creature. They froze, but the sound did not get any closer.

For the next few hours they stayed silent. The boys took turns trying to sleep. Marthe closed her eyes too, but could not rest. Her muscles twitched at the faintest sound. The scents drifting on the breeze grew stronger in the gusty heat, then faded. She told herself she had imagined it, but all day the dread rose. There were times when she was sure she could smell burning. Not the summer burning of the fields to stubble, but a vile mix of wood and fabric and perhaps worse.

She might be wrong, though she doubted it. Even so, there was always the possibility she could be wrong about the origin of the smell. The wind might have changed direction, or she might be more disoriented than she thought.

 

F
inally the moon rose.

“How much longer do we wait?” asked Marthe.

“An hour or so. We'll let it get higher in the sky, then I'll go ahead,” said Kenton.

“No, we go together,” said Marthe.

“But what if—”

“We go together like last night,” she insisted. “But before we go, there's something I think you should know.”

All movement stopped. She could feel the power her words had over them.

“What?”

“I've been smelling burning—not all the time, but on and off all day. It may not mean anything . . . but just so that you are prepared, I thought you should know.”

“Burning? You think the Dakota crashed last night?”

“No . . . that didn't occur to me. I was more worried that the Germans had come back. That they were sending us a message in response to what happened last night.”

“Why didn't you say something before?”

“I didn't see what good it would do. I'm not sure that I'm right. What was the point in worrying you when we had no choice but to stay under cover and try to conserve our energy?”

“You should have told us before now,” insisted Kenton.

“I'm sorry, I—”

“Any information—even any
intuition
is valuable! It's all we have, you must understand that. We would have had time to plan properly.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I thought I was acting for the best!” Marthe was close to tears.

When Kenton spoke it was to Scotty, in English. They seemed to be weighing up the information. All she understood was “OK.”

Marthe chewed her fingernails. She hadn't done that since she first arrived in Manosque as a child.

“We have to go, and we have to be even more careful,” announced Kenton eventually. “We have no choice.”

“Plane returns,” added Scotty emphatically. “For us.”

“And Marthe?”

She nodded.

“I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have lost my temper with you.”

 

T
hey walked towards Spitfire. Marthe held herself straight and stiff. Her back prickled with the anticipation of gunfire opening up on them; they were ready at any second to dive down at the side of the road and then run for their lives.

Then, a kilometre or so from the field, Marthe sniffed. “There it is. The remains of a big fire. Still burning, I think. Can you see where it's coming from?”

There was no doubt at all now it was coming from the direction in which they were heading. The air held pockets of warm smoke and ash.

“Can't see anything yet,” said Kenton.

They walked on, hearts sinking as the smell grew stronger. Acrid fumes mingled with the sickly sweetness of still-smouldering wood.

“Farmhouse,” cried Scotty, then spoke rapidly in English.

“It's the place that turned us away last night.”

Every step was further confirmation. The reek of scorched wood and plaster.

“My God . . . it's completely destroyed! Burnt out . . . those poor people!”

“The bastards—the filthy rotten bastards!” cried Marthe. “Those people didn't even help us!” Hot rage called tears to her eyes, but she would not cry. If she started, she feared she would never stop.

“Perhaps they had helped others before.”

“Or perhaps all they did was close their ears to the sound of the plane.”

They hurried on. The time was long past when they could have done anything to help.

 

T
here was no reception committee in the field. Marthe's hopes had soared when she heard the first whispers, but were soon shattered. A couple of other Americans pulled themselves out of the darkness to stand with them in the shadow of a tree.

“Is there no one but us here?” asked Marthe faintly.

“No.” Kenton put a protective arm around her and pulled her into him so she could speak into his ear.

“But the plane will come.”

“It might. But we only have one torch, and without the official reception on the ground, we have no idea what the code letter is to signal that this is the landing place.”

“Perhaps they are late—or we are early.”

“I hope you're right.”

They all knew it was hopeless, but they waited anyway. Conversation petered out as they sat on the ground with the two additional Americans. These escapees had spent the intervening day in a rocky cave in a cliff to the north. They too had smelled the burning. No one had any knowledge of what had happened to the missing four who should have been picked up when the plane returned.

Hours later the big Dakota rumbled across the sky and flew on, oblivious to the distress signal flashed with the single torch by the Americans.

Low groans of frustration were countered by the possibility that the plane might be turning to come back, as it did before. They waited, listening intently.

The sound of the aircraft's engines faded into the night.

All around, the calm of loss.

Then the emptiness filled with furious voices arguing in English. Marthe could only presume what was being said. The prospect of another night in the woods and no food made her feel weak.

There was more urgent discussion, this time with someone speaking in French. Where had he come from—and the man who was replying?

“We're assuming these people can be trusted,” said the first.

“Our Americans say they're definitely Americans who were here last night.”

“Who's the girl? I don't think she's all there.”

“Simple but evidently trustworthy,” said the second. “How else would these men have got themselves this far?”

“You never know who's playing which game these days. I trust no one. And if anyone recognises the van we'll be in trouble. . . .”

“You have to help us,” said Marthe, breaking into the exchange, willing herself to sound as determined as she could. “The van . . . is there room for the three of us in the back?”

“Oh, so you do speak . . . who are you?”

“We came with Caspian last night.”

It was clearly the best reply she could have made. “All right. Where are you trying to get to?” replied someone.

“It's a lavender farm called Les Coulets on the Sault road. Do you know it?”

“I know it.”

“They're expecting us, if anything went wrong.”

“All right, this way. Get yourselves inside. Quickly!”

 

T
hey were pushed in like animals crammed into a pen. In the back Marthe found herself sitting on iron rods that rolled and trapped her fingers as she tried to stop herself moving with the vehicle. In the confined space they all stank of sweat and dirt.

The driver had a lead foot. They were thrown from side to side as the vehicle scaled the bends of the mountain road. When the men behind the driver cursed, he shouted at them, “Count your blessings—you're alive, aren't you?”

“What's been going on?” asked Kenton.

“Ah—at least you speak French. They told us the Boches were marking time in Sault; that they weren't coming out of their hole. Couldn't have been more wrong, could they? They've been all through these roads, killing as they go. Want to leave their calling cards before they all get flushed out when your lot finally get here.”

“What happened to the reception committee tonight?”

“Some got it in the neck last night. Too dangerous for the rest.”

“So why did you come?”

The man gave a humourless laugh. “Me? Perhaps I don't like being told what to do. Perhaps I thought the guy flying the Dakota might just be crazy or brave enough to keep to his word and come back.”

“You kept the two men here safe all day too.”

“So send me the medal when you're chief of staff.”

A high-pitched whistle was followed by a loud metal ping at the side of the van.

“Shit!” said the driver.

“Hold on tight,” shouted the other Frenchman. “That was a bullet.”

Marthe was sent sprawling across knees and feet. The van swayed; they seemed to have veered off onto bumpy ground, still travelling at speed. She rubbed her head where it had hit something hard.

Kenton hauled her back into a sitting position, and kept hold of her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. What can you see?” she whispered.

“Nothing. There are no windows here in the back. I can just about see through the windscreen between the driver and his mate. It's still dark, looks like we're back in the woods.”

The van pitched onwards. Another metallic ping.

Marthe gripped Kenton's hand. She thought of her family on the Luberon farmstead, her sister Bénédicte and brother Pierre. She prayed they would be safe where they were, that there would be a way to reassure them that she had died as part of something important and honourable. She would be brave, as brave as she could be.

Without warning, an urgent change of direction slammed them all against one side of the vehicle. When they landed, the bottom of the van scraped against the ground. Then they stopped.

“Quiet!” shouted the driver. “Listen!”

Nothing.

A light wind in some trees.

Then the choking growl of another engine. It grew louder. There was a collective shudder as it passed and then went away.

“If they're still looking for us, they'll come back,” said the driver.

“I'm not so sure,” replied the other. “That wasn't a serious chase. Those shots were all for show. Most of them want to get out of this alive as much as we do.”

They waited in near silence for some time. All Marthe could hear was breathing. After what could have been fifteen minutes, could have been an hour, the driver started the motor again and, carefully this time, edged them out of their place of sanctuary and back onto the road.

Then they drove as if the mistral was raging behind them.

 

T
hey were dropped off at the end of a track and given directions. They were shaken, thirsty. Beyond hunger. When they began to walk again, it was on blistered feet that had swollen in their shoes. Lost in the maze of foreign paths and slopes, they stumbled upwards.

Praying they were heading towards the hamlet of Les Coulets, Marthe found herself quietly singing the old shepherds' songs. Songs of the fight to survive. A vision crystallized in her mind, almost as if she were hallucinating: a carpet of caper flowers. White flowers with unearthly profusions of stamens like shooting stars. There had once been such a carpet at a property she had visited as a small child. She had seen the dust of dead stars there, or so she had thought, until she realised the glitter was broken glass and heard the flap of bird wings caught in the eaves of an empty barn. She was so tired she had to pinch herself back into the present.