The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 42)

He drove slowly across the bridge, careful not to give away the fact that he was in a hurry. But as soon as he got to the other side, he revved the engine and swerved through the darkening streets of Sainte-Foy. On the far side of the town, he took a road through the vineyards that twisted and climbed into the hills, the truck swaying and jolting as he accelerated as hard as he could on the narrow country lane. He pulled up alongside a rough wooden cross, carved with a scallop shell, which marked an intersection on the pilgrim way. From a copse of trees nearby, a shadowy figure emerged and ran towards the truck.

‘Sorry it took me so long. I was held up at the roadblock on the bridge,’ Gustave said.

‘You did well, considering,’ Jacques replied as he climbed into the passenger seat. ‘I was worried that you might not make it. We should still have time. But we need to go as fast as possible.’

‘Where to?’ Gustave asked.

‘The railway bridge across the river, just before Le Pont de la Beauze.’

Gustave nodded grimly, put the truck in gear and accelerated along the lane again.

‘Cut through the vineyard here,’ Jacques pointed, and Gustave hauled on the steering wheel, swerving into a rough farm track. They bounced along the tractor-rutted clay, passing between the recently harvested vines, and rejoined the country road on the other side. The river glinted ahead of them as a harvest moon began to rise, impossibly large and honey-gold. Ragged clouds, frayed and ripped by the blustering wind, scudded across its face. It was easy to imagine that the souls of the dead could be abroad tonight.

‘Pull in here.’ Jacques gestured to a partially concealed track that disappeared into the woods at the side of the road.

Gustave killed the engine and the two men leaped from the truck; Jacques then led the way through the trees to where the railway line ran on an embankment as it led up to the brick arches of the bridge that spanned the Dordogne river. At first, the tracks were silent. But then they began to resonate with a faint hum. A train was approaching.

Up ahead, Gustave thought he glimpsed the brief flicker of a torch, which was immediately extinguished. They ran, crashing through the undergrowth, too late for caution now.

Gustave panted behind Jacques, a stitch stabbing at his side; the thought of Eliane and Blanche on the train and Yves beneath the bridge carried his feet onwards in a headlong dash.

A shot rang out. And, almost simultaneously, Jacques shouted something. And then he tripped, falling forward, his momentum carrying him into the arms of Yves, who had emerged from the group of men hiding beneath the arch and begun to run towards them through the trees.

The railway tracks hummed louder now, and the distinct rumble of the train was carried to them on a gust of wind.

‘Stop!’ shouted Gustave, with the last of his breath. ‘Eliane and Blanche – they’re on that train. Stop!’

There seemed to be a flurry of activity beneath the bridge and then he found himself alongside Yves and Jacques on the damp leaf mould of the woodland floor.

He huddled beside them, gasping, as the rumbling of the tracks grew to a roar.

Just then, the clouds parted and the moon’s face shone through, illuminating the train.

The group of men crouching beside the bridge caught a glimpse of a red silk headscarf, fluttering in the wind, and a child’s pale face, pinched with fear and cold. And then, with a furious rush of wind and noise, the train flashed by and rumbled on, across the river towards Bordeaux.

‘Mon Dieu, that was close!’ Gustave turned to Yves and Jacques with relief.

But Yves didn’t look up. He was holding Jacques, leaning over him to undo the buttons of his coat. As he pulled aside the coarse serge, a dark stain spread across the front of Jacques’ shirt.

And where the moonlight shone on it, Gustave could see it was the same vivid scarlet as Eliane’s silk scarf.

At last, the train began to slow as it wound its way across the broad expanse of the Gironde estuary. The city of Bordeaux was dark in the blackout, but the moon shimmered and danced on the wide waters, illuminating the pale façade of the city’s sweep of waterfront buildings as well as the white faces of the group on the flatcar.

‘Nearly there now,’ Eliane called to the others. The rushing wind and deafening noise of the engine obscured her words, but they saw her smile and it gave them the strength they needed to hang on for the last few minutes with their frozen fingers and aching arms.

When the train pulled in to the Gare Saint-Jacques at Bordeaux, the carriage doors opened and German soldiers streamed out on to the platform. They busied themselves unloading wooden crates of ammunition and weapons from the freight cars, piling up the arms and equipment ready for reloading onto waiting army trucks.

The little group from Coulliac hesitated where they stood on the flatcar, frozen with the combination of their fear, cold and noise-numbed nerves, unsure what to do next.

Amid the shouts and clangs that echoed around the station, the elder of the two brothers asked, ‘Do we have to do the journey in the opposite direction too?’ Silent tears began to roll down Blanche’s chilled, wind-roughened cheeks at the thought of having to repeat the ordeal.

Eliane looked around, rubbing the child’s arms to comfort her and to try to get the circulation going again as she searched for someone she could ask. And then, in the middle of all the chaos and din, she caught sight of a familiar face.

‘Oberleutnant Farber!’ she called.

He picked his way towards them, his eyes fixed on the scarlet beacon of Eliane’s headscarf as he stepped around groups of soldiers and stacks of wooden crates.

He held out his arms to take Blanche from her. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It’s time to take you home.’

He helped the group down from the flatcar and led them out of a side exit to where an army truck, similar to the one that had transported them to Bergerac, stood waiting. The driver hopped down from his cab, grinding his cigarette out on the cobbles with the heel of his boot, and helped lift the children into the back. Once again, it took the assistance of both men for Monsieur Fournier to manage to clamber up, so stiff and painful were his arthritic limbs after the ordeal of the journey. Taking her seat beside him in the back of the truck, his wife tried to warm his gnarled hands, rubbing them between her own to ease his suffering.

He smiled at her and kissed her cheek, saying, ‘We made it, thank God.’

Exhausted, and lulled by the swaying of the truck as they were driven past the vineyards of Bordeaux back towards Coulliac, some members of the group fell asleep. But Eliane sat watching over them, her nerves still too frayed to be able to relax her guard until they were back safely.

At last, the truck jolted to a halt and Oberleutnant Farber opened the canvas flap at the rear of the truck. ‘Eliane, you’re home. We’re at the moulin.’ He smiled at the others, his teeth gleaming faintly in the moonlit darkness. ‘Not long for the rest of you now. We’ll be at Coulliac in a few minutes.’

He took Eliane’s hand to help her descend. She took off her headscarf and stuffed it into the pocket of her coat, shaking her hair free so that it fell in a sheet of pale gold over her shoulders where the moonlight caught it. Then the officer reached for Blanche, lifting the sleeping child down into Eliane’s arms.

They didn’t speak, but he squeezed her arm before he turned to get back into the cab of the truck beside the driver.

She carried Blanche along the track towards the mill house, limping slightly on her aching, stiffened legs. Blanche whimpered in her sleep and Eliane hushed her, saying softly, ‘It’s alright, ma princesse. We’re home now.’

As they approached, a gleam of light escaped from a corner of the blacked-out kitchen window. She’d lost track of the time, but knew it must have been well past midnight, and the tightness of fear that had constricted her heart for the past few hours eased a little at the thought of her parents sitting up, waiting for them to return.

She tried to push open the door but, unusually, it was bolted from the inside. ‘Maman! Papa!’ she called as she knocked. ‘It’s me, Eliane.’

There was a flurry of activity from inside the kitchen and Gustave flung the door open. ‘Eliane! Blanche! Oh, thank God you are both safe.’ He enfolded them in his arms, which were still strong, despite being wasted with hunger, and she allowed herself to relax against the comforting solidity of her father, closing her eyes for a moment as she gave thanks.

But then she sensed that there was something different about the air in the room. Instead of the comforting smells of home-cooking and drying herbs, she breathed in a strange scent: the fug of dried sweat, underlain by the scents of wild thyme and pine needles; and she looked past Gustave to find that the kitchen was filled with people.

It took a moment or two for her to make sense of the scene before her. Three heavily bearded men stood by the range, their clothes ragged and dirty. Three rifles were piled haphazardly on the kitchen table. At the sight of Eliane, one of the men took a step forward, an expression of anguish crumpling his weather-beaten features. He reached out a hand towards her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and his voice cracked. ‘I thought it was the Nazis . . .’ He dropped his hand again and stood, silent, alongside his companions, the three men forming a tableau of sorrow. And then she realised that they were watching another tableau before them on the floor of the kitchen.