Practical considerations still worried him. 'I'll take it out,' he said. I can, provided I give myself enough time.'
'Take it out and I'll kill you,' she promised. 'Leave it.'
'But... what if...?'
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'Leave it,' she sighed. 'And stop talking. We are making love.'
She left his bed sometime in the night but he did not know. He slept like a hedgehog, buried beneath the blankets, with the Normandy night wind battering around the chimneys and corners of the house. When he awoke there was no sign of her or that she had ever come to him, and he lay on his back thinking about the occurrence and wondering.
Jacques appeared at nine o'clock accompanied by the athletic deer-hound Honore, which gave a small moan of pleasure when he recognized Ormerod in the bed. Ormerod patted him paternally. Jacques had brought a pot of coffee borne on nothing less than a silver tray. 'The service in this house is the best, monsieur,' he joked. He paused. 'Madame has gone out on business. She will return this afternoon.' Ormerod thanked him and drank his coffee. Later he went downstairs and saw in daylight the amazing store-house commodities that were packed into one large room. Crates and boxes were piled with such density around that it appeared like some unloading quay. There were garden implements standing alongside valuable paintings and tin saucepans stacked against silver jugs and coffee pots. 'How long do you think you'll be sitting on this lot?' asked Ormerod.
Jacques shrugged. 'Until the war is finished and my employers come back. I would like to be able to show them that everything is here and safe. I have made a complete list. Or until the Germans come around and shoot me before they loot the place. That is more likely I suppose. It will be many years before France is free again.'
'You believe that?' said Ormerod. He thought about it and nodded. 'I suppose you're right. If we don't kid ourselves, we ought to believe that.'
'I listen to the radio,' sniffed the Frenchman. 'It is like a game. The French radio and Laval and. Petain and all those comics. Petain. Our old hero.
Travail, famille, patrie
- what a fairy tale. So many politicians - all with stories to tell. Fine words.'
'So you think we're cooked?' said Ormerod.
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'What else is it possible to think? The only people who can defeat the Germans, my friend, are the Germans themselves. They have already made a bad mistake. They should have chased the English when they ran away at Dunkirk. The Germans should not have waited. The terrier does not give the rat time to dig a hole.'
He walked through an old arched door into the garden. It was dismal with neglect. I suppose the estate bailiff should be doing better things,' he said reflectively. 'But I can't find the heart. I am in an ideal position of laziness. The only trouble is I shall have to wait until after the war before I get paid.' He returned to his theme. 'The only way the Germans can lose is by foolishness, by suicide. They still fear Russia. From Russia - from the other band of villains - may come our salvation.'
'What about the underground? The resistance?' asked Ormerod.
The question brought a snort from Jacques. 'A game. Another fairy tale,' he said caustically. 'Madame will discover it. So will you. This is nineteen-forty - the people in this country do not want to fight. They have no fight left. They still have their wounds, monsieur, and the most that is wounded is their pride. But it will have to heal when it can. Maybe later they will resist, but only a fanatic is going to fight for France just now. Or a madman.'
'It all went wrong at Granville,' said Ormerod. 'It needs experience to be a saboteur.' He felt like a tell-tale.
But Jacques knew. 'What do you expect?' he shrugged. 'In French the word
saboteur
also means a blunderer.'
He said he had to be about his duties and left Ormerod wondering what they could possibly be. The Englishman went into the fresh, empty morning. The elegant countryside spread out from the house, which was built on a small plateau where the views were long and green. The loping deerhound, with the strange transfer of faithfulness that animals sometimes develop, followed Ormerod as he walked. It was almost as if the dog were showing him around. They stopped by some vacant stables and again by a large deserted pen. Ormerod guessed that was where they had kept the rest of the pack. His mind was occupied with Marie-Thérèse. He could still feel her slight
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body against his chest and his legs. He wondered what she would say when they next met.
There was a patchy orchard at the bottom of the initial slope of land from the house. Ormerod selected a ready-looking apple and sat on the fence to eat it. The late season sun was pleasant enough on his face. The dog crouched and put its chin to the ground. Behind him he heard a shout from the house and turned to see Jacques calling with his arms.
It had to be about Marie-Thérèse. He threw the apple down and ran heavily up the slope towards the overgrown terrace. Jacques was standing calmly. He waited until Ormerod got there. 'There's trouble,' he said. 'Marie-Thérèse has been picked up.'
'Oh Jesus, where?'
'Le Mesnil. It is a village ten kilometres from here. At the moment it is only the police, the French police you understand, and not the Germans. They are asking about her papers. It is not dangerous now but it will be very soon - when they bring in the Germans.'
'The police? Will they ... ?'
'Tell the Germans? I don't know. But I think so.'
'French
police?'
'This is Occupied France,' pointed out Jacques. 'Which means they are probably working for the Germans. One thing is certain, if you want to get her out it will have to be now -before the Germans get their hands on her. After that, monsieur, it will be difficult, very difficult.'
Ormerod pulled in a deep breath. 'Let's go then. It's got to be quick.'
Jacques looked down at the ground. I cannot do this,' he said. He looked around him. I have to look after the house.' His watery eyes returned to Ormerod. 'Also I am afraid,' he said simply.
'So am I,' said Ormerod forcefully. 'But she's got to be got out. She's ...'
'Can you ride a motorcycle?'
'Yes. Just about.'
'You can have that.'
'You won't come with me?'
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'No. I shall join the resistance on the last day of the war. It will be safer then.'
'Bugger you,' said Ormerod. 'All right. Where's the motorbike?'
'It is the machine in the room. With all the other things.'
'That! Does it still work?'
'Of course. I keep it in order.'
Ormerod moved towards the house, hurrying his steps. Jacques followed apologetically. 'If you are caught,' he said, 'you must say that you stole the machine from here. Please. I do not want trouble with the Germans. I have duties to perform.'
Le Mesnil des Champs is one of a group of villages, Le Mesnil -Amand, Le Mesnil Bonant, Le Mesnil-Hue, Le Mesnil Gamier and Le Mesnil Villeman, situated within the triangle formed by the road connecting Villedieu-les-Poëles, Gavreay and the crossroads near Beauchamps. It is an area of small agriculture crossed by a web of minor roads. Le Mesnil des Champs lies almost at the centre of the triangle.
Between the two of them Ormerod and the bailiff pushed the decrepit motorcycle from the main room of the house.
I think I can manage it,' said Ormerod, once they had wheeled it into the sunshine.
'You must,' said Jacques. 'There is no other way.' He pointed out over the landscape, giving Ormerod directions. 'There is a small square at the centre of the village,' he said. 'The police station is there. Go now.'
Ormerod started the machine. It coughed blindly and choked, then coughed again. But it started at the third attempt. He felt it wanting to go. 'Right, I'm off,' he said. 'Thanks for this anyway.'
'It is nothing,' replied Jacques.
'Au revoir.
After this moment, I do not know you.'
He gave a half salute and the deerhound howled as Ormerod departed.
He set off uncomfortably down the overgrown and rutted drive. The machine was awkward but by the time he reached
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the lane outside the walls of the estate he had come at least partly to terms with it.
The lanes were sunny and empty. He rattled along, afraid that at every bend he might be confronted with a farm cart or, much worse, a German armoured car. But nothing interrupted his progress and within fifteen minutes he was astride the stationary machine looking down from a steep hill onto the village of Le Mesnil des Champs. The valley was brimming with sunshine but the roofs of the village were indistinct and smoky. He eased the motorcycle forward and free-wheeled down the steep, sunny road. It was easy on the incline and within two minutes he was among the lanes and gardens on the fringe of the settlement. He dismounted and left the machine against a wall. Children played in the flowers and on the banks of the stream which descended invitingly from the hill he had just left.
He walked cautiously, but not too cautiously, through the tight cottages until they gave out onto an open space in the middle of the village. The stone houses with their vivid window-boxes and flower troughs were arranged placidly around and in the middle of the square were some young men playing football. As he went closer he realized they were German soldiers.
They were a work party taking time off from a hole in the side of the square. He passed close to the excavation and saw they had been working on some electricity cables. Their small truck and their equipment were parked nearby. They were all young soldiers, half a dozen of them, and they had taken their tunics off to play their game. One man was in goal and behind the goal Ormerod could see the entrance to the police station with the French flag and the German swastika hanging together above the main archway. That was where she was.
Attempting to look like an idler he walked around the fringe of the square, watching the impromptu footballers and carefully observing the entrance to the police station. Outside was parked a police patrol car and near this, his back to the wall, was an armed French policeman. He was watching the football too. There had obviously as yet been no particular alarm connected with the detention of Marie-Thérèse. Ormerod
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looked at the gateway. It was wide and completely open,
a good-sized stone arch. First he had to get past the policeman.
Ormerod loitered on the edge of the football game. The
guarding policeman called to him once to get out of the way because he couldn't see the play. Ormerod, hands in pockets,
shuffled yards and waited. The ball was kicked about. The
young men were good at it and enjoying it. Ormerod waited his
chance and then trotted into the middle of the random pitch. The ball was just flying from one wing to the other. He had
been a good footballer. Had he not played against the German
police? As he brought the ball down he shouted one of the German words he had learnt for fun.
'Fusstritt!'
The soldiers, surprised at first at his intervention, laughed loudly at the friendly Frenchman who could play football and shouted a
familiar word. Ormerod brought the ball down expertly, balan
ced it with his toe for a moment, flicked it forward and kicked it from fifteen yards past the goalkeeper.
'Tor!'
he shouted.
The young Germans were astonished and delighted at his obvious skill. The goalkeeper retrieved the ball and gladly
threw it out once more to Ormerod. He trapped it easily and pushed it into the path of one of the players who had begun to run. The soldier struck it hard but the goalkeeper got his hands
to the effort and pushed it out. It ran to Ormerod, he flicked the
ball in an arc to the man on the extreme left and then waited for it to be sent back. The running winger shouted and obli
gingly curved the ball over. Ormerod had been watching the
arched entrance of the police station. He turned to the ball now
and caught it well with his head, sending it curling away and
bouncing into the stone archway.
'Nein, stein,'
he shouted jovi
ally. They all laughed, including the French policeman. Ormerod loped briskly after the ball. The guarding policeman nodded good-naturedly at the Englishman as he trotted into the courtyard. He obviously approved of fraternization. Or
merod flicked the ball with his foot as if to play it against the
interior stone walls, but he allowed it to bounce through the doorway at a right angle and into a flagged corridor, so that to retrieve it he was for a moment out of their sight.
As soon as they could not see him he ran into the building,
closing and locking a heavy door behind him. Quickly he went
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across a corridor and at once into a small office.
A junior German officer was sitting at a desk. A German sergeant and a French policeman were standing near the back wall and Marie-Thérèse was sitting in a chair opposite the German. Her face looked stiff. The officer's hand was on the telephone.
All four turned when he came into the room, gun in hand. Marie-Thérèse jumped from the chair. 'Shoot them!' she screamed.
To his own amazement Ormerod did. Twice he fired his pistol and the explosions filled the small room. The officer pitched forward onto the desk, his fingers gripping the telephone receiver; the sergeant was pinned against the wall by the bullet and slid stupidly down to the floor. Ormerod was not going to shoot the policeman. The Frenchman, horror nailed to his face, tried to raise his pasty hands in surrender. Marie-Thérèse did not hesitate. Rushing forward she pulled the officer's gun from its holster and shot her trembling fellow countryman. He slipped sideways on top of the German sergeant.
Ormerod was horrified. But there was no time for it. Marie-Thérèse picked up a bunch of keys from the desk and ran to the door. She turned the opposite way along the corridor to the way Ormerod had entered. The French policeman who had been outside was banging on the stout inner door Ormerod had locked behind him.