The House at Mermaid's Cove(75)
I didn’t know whether I’d encounter another checkpoint before I reached the farmhouse where the handover of equipment was due to take place. The road took me uphill for a while, and I began to overheat under the layers of cloth on my head and body. I stopped when I reached the brow of the hill. I had no water, but I reached for one of the apples in the basket, thinking that would be better than nothing. I could see a village in the valley below. The sun glinted on the slate roofs of cottages nestled around a church with a spire of honey-colored stone. I knew it must be Kermaria, and that the farmhouse was somewhere to the left of the road I was on, about half a mile short of the village itself. I could see a few lone buildings dotted around. The only clue I had to finding the right one was that it was approached down a lane opposite a field with a timeworn stone obelisk in the middle of it.
The rush of air as I coasted down the hill was a welcome relief. I slowed down when the road leveled out. The hedges were too overgrown to give any view of the fields beyond. The only way I was going to find the obelisk was to dismount and stop at every farm gate until I spotted it.
I’d been walking for about ten minutes when I caught sight of something glistening in the middle of a field of pale golden barley. The sun was lighting up the surface of a jagged slab of pinkish-gray stone that rose above the rippling stalks like a hunchbacked giant. I looked over my shoulder. There was a pathway on the other side of the road—more of a track than a lane. But it had to be the way to the farmhouse the Resistance was using.
I’d only gone a few yards off the road when I heard the crunch of tires behind me. Instinctively I pressed myself into the hedge, pulling the bike against my body. It was useless, of course: the track was too narrow for me to hide from anyone who passed by. My heart hammered as the sound grew louder. I didn’t catch sight of the vehicle until it came around the bend. To my utter relief it was a van with the words “Boulangerie Auffret de Kermaria” painted on the side—the local bakery’s delivery truck. I waited until it had disappeared around another bend, then followed behind.
As I approached the gates of the farmhouse, I heard the van’s engine splutter and die. I crouched behind the stone pillar on one side of the gates, cautious about going any farther. Through the gap between the pillar and the hedge, I saw the back door of the van swing open. And then a woman, her hair flying out behind her as she jumped to the ground. My hand went to my mouth. I’d last seen that face grinning up at me from the belly of the dinghy before a tarpaulin covered it over. It was Miranda.
Chapter 22
I wanted to call out to her, but I bit my tongue. Someone else was getting out of the van. A man. He was tall and well built, olive skinned, with a bushy black mustache. He wore a pale blue shirt and loose-fitting corduroy trousers. Was he from the Resistance? The man I was supposed to be meeting? He was in the right place. But why had he brought Miranda here?
He stood by the van, looking around as if he were trying to spot something or someone. It had to be me he was looking for; he must have seen me when he drove past. There was a coded greeting I was supposed to give when I reached the farmhouse. But I was suddenly afraid to reveal myself—no longer sure who to trust.
Suddenly he called out: “Où êtes-vous? Tante Marie vous attend!” Where are you? Aunt Marie is waiting!
I clutched the pillar as I raised myself up, trembling with relief. “Comment va Tante Marie? J’ai apporté quelque chose pour son mal de tête.” How is Aunt Marie? I’ve brought something for her headache.
He strode toward me, beaming. “Come inside,” he said, still speaking in French. He took my bicycle and wheeled it to the front of the farmhouse, propping it against the whitewashed wall. He held the door open for me. Miranda was sitting at a rustic wooden table, tearing at a hunk of bread as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks. She looked much thinner than when I’d last seen her. Her skin was very pale—almost translucent—and there were dark smudges under her eyes. She paused between bites, coughing. It was a cough I’d heard many times in the mission hospital: the harbinger of tuberculosis.
“What happened to you?” I sank down in the chair opposite hers.
She looked at me, still chewing, her face blank at first. Then her eyes lit up in recognition. She dropped the bread on the table. The chair scraped the floor as she pulled herself up. “My God! Ariel!” She came around the table and hugged me. “Oh, it’s good to see you!”
“We were so worried . . . we thought . . .”
“That I was dead?” She held me at arm’s length, her eyes wide as they traveled over my face. “I almost was—but I got away.” She nodded at the man, who was pouring something from a jug into three glasses. “Josef found me this morning, hiding in the shed where he keeps his flour.”
“She was lucky I got there first.” He spoke in English this time, with a strong accent. “The Germans were on their way to take a sack of it for their camp. We had to lock her in the cellar until they’d gone.” He put a glass down in front of me.
“What’s this?” I lifted it to my mouth.
“Good Breton cider.” He smiled. “It’s very strong. Before you drink too much, I’d better take what you’ve brought for me.”
There was so much I wanted to ask Miranda: so many questions about what had happened and how she’d survived. But I knew Josef was right. The priority was handing over what I’d smuggled past the Germans under my robe. And it would be a huge relief to shed the rolls of explosives chafing my skin.