The House at Mermaid's Cove(77)

“It’s a good plan,” he said. “She’s right—you need to get back to England. You’re a liability to us here.” He sounded harsh, but it was what she needed to hear. Clearly she was too dedicated to put her own health first, but she wouldn’t want to jeopardize the lives of others.

Miranda blew out a breath. “Okay.” She turned back to me. “What about clothes? Mine are filthy and there’s no time to wash them. You can’t go traipsing across the countryside in your underwear.”

“Go back upstairs and see what my wife has,” Josef said. “She won’t mind—as long as you don’t take her Sunday best.” He picked up the cloth bag that contained the explosives and transmitters I’d handed over. “I need to go now.” He came and shook my hand, then Miranda’s. “Bonne chance.”

“Merci,” Miranda replied. Under her breath she murmured: “We’re going to need it.”



We locked the door when Josef had gone, and ran upstairs. If I was going to walk back to Lannion, there was no time to lose. Miranda started searching through a chest of drawers by the window, looking for something suitable for me to wear. I sat down at the dressing table to unpin my veil. I’d only just started when she let out a cry of alarm.

“The Germans are coming!”

I ran to the window. A truck, like the one I’d seen at the checkpoint, was making its way down the track toward the farmhouse.

“Quick,” I said. “Get into bed and lie absolutely still.” I grabbed a clean white handkerchief that was lying on top of one of the open drawers.

“What are you going to do?” There was panic in her eyes.

“I’ll tell them I’m nursing a TB case and if they come in, they’ll catch it. Go on!” I shooed her toward the bed.

I took the stairs two at a time, almost tripping over my robe. I glanced around the kitchen, searching for something sharp. There was a knife hanging from a hook by the sink. I reached for it, my hands shaking. Then I pressed the point of it into the fleshy part of my left ring finger, just hard enough to draw blood. I caught the drops on the handkerchief as they oozed out.

I heard the truck roll into the yard and doors slam as the men jumped out. Then someone hammered on the door. God help me. I crossed myself as I went to unlock it. I opened it just a little—enough for the Nazi soldier to see my headdress and the crucifix hanging round my neck.

“Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” What do you want? I hoped they wouldn’t catch the tremor in my voice.

He didn’t answer. Just shoved his foot against the door, forcing me back into the kitchen.

“Vous ne pouvez pas entrer.” You can’t come in. I waved the bloody handkerchief in his face. “C’est trop dangereux.” Too dangerous. I cocked my head at the stairs. “Un cas de tuberculose.” I mimed coughing and clutched my chest in case he didn’t understand.

He took a step back, turning to the other man, muttering words I didn’t know. I thought how young they both looked. So clean-cut. But men like these had raped Miranda.

When he turned back to me, he said, “Un homme ou une femme?” A man or a woman? His French was better than I’d anticipated.

“Une jeune fille,” I replied. “La fille du boulanger.” A young girl. The baker’s daughter. “Peut-être les avez-vous croisés sur la route. Lui et sa femme se sont installés à Kermaria.” Perhaps you passed him on the road—he and his wife have gone to stay in Kermaria.

“Nous cherchons une femme.” We’re looking for a woman. His eyes searched my face. Clear blue, piercing, like ice on the surface of a lake. “Si vous voyez quelqu’un, vous êtes obligés de nous le dire.” If you see anyone you must tell us.

“Oui, bien s?r.” I nodded. I shook out the bloodied handkerchief and said that I must go and see to my patient. The breeze caught it, blowing it within an inch of the man nearest to me. He recoiled, uttering a single word in German: “Scheisse.” I didn’t know what it meant, and I didn’t care—all that mattered was that they were leaving.

I waited in the kitchen until the sound of the engine faded away. Then I ran upstairs. Miranda was by the window, watching the truck disappear. She gasped when I showed her the handkerchief.

“You’re brilliant! I would never have thought of anything like that.”

“You would if you’d worked in a hospital.” I smiled with relief at our small victory.



Half an hour later she was ready to go. She looked so different. Almost unrecognizable. The black scapular emphasized the pallor of her skin. But the veil concealed the shadows under her eyes, which was a good thing. In addition to the wooden cross and the rosary beads, I’d given her the sleeve gun to wear beneath the robe. Her foot was on the pedal of the bicycle when I remembered the ring.

“You’d better have this, too.” I twisted it off my finger and handed it to her.

“Isn’t this a wedding ring?” She looked at me, bewildered. She must have thought it was my own ring, that I was married or a widow.

“Sort of,” I replied. “It’s what a nun receives when she takes her vows: it makes her a bride of Christ.”

“You’re very knowledgeable,” she said, as she slipped it on.