Page 38 of V2

At the door, he pulled out his wallet and counted out two hundred marks.

She shook her head. ‘Pay Ilse.’

‘No, this is for you.’

‘I haven’t done anything.’ She opened the door.

He stood, uncertain. ‘Well, then. Good luck.’

He put the money back in his wallet and went downstairs.

12

THE THING TO BE SAID for Kay’s alarm clock, which she had been given by her mother on the day she was called up to the WAAF, was that it had never failed to wake her, however deeply she was asleep. It had a piercing percussive ring, as if a drill had been inserted into her ear. She flung her hand across the unfamiliar surfaces, fumbling to turn it off. In the blessed silence that followed, she brought the luminous dial up close to her face. Six thirty.

She flopped back on her thin pillows. The room was utterly dark. It took her a moment to remember she wasn’t in England about to start her shift, but in Belgium – and at war! She eased her way out from under the blanket and felt around the wall for the light switch. The sudden brightness made her wince. She slipped her greatcoat over her nightdress and picked up her sponge bag. Cautiously she opened the door and listened. The house was silent. She scampered on tiptoe across the icy corridor to the bathroom.

She was too anxious to avoid being late to linger over her usual morning rituals. Besides, it was too chilly. She splashed her face in the freezing water, and cleaned her teeth, and dragged her brush so savagely through her tangled hair it felt as though her scalp was bleeding. Back in her room, her clothes were stiff, as if they had been starched by the cold, her fingers were numb and clumsy as she tried to fasten her buttons and knot her tie. Finally, when she was fully dressed, she remade the bed and studied the map beneath the lampshade. A route that had looked complicated when the Vermeulens had sketched it out the previous night appeared now quite indecipherable. How would she find her way through the blacked-out streets when she didn’t even have a torch?

She made her way along the corridor, hands outstretched like a sleepwalker. On the landing, to her relief, there was a faint gleam rising from below that enabled her to descend the stairs, and when she reached the hall, she saw a crack of light from the kitchen.

Arnaud was at the stove. A kettle was heating. He was dressed in the same outdoor clothes as the night before. He straightened as she came in and turned, smiling. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. Voudriez-vous du thé que vous nous avez donné?’

Somehow she managed to dredge up sufficient French to reply. ‘Thank you, but I’m afraid I have no time for tea. Could you point me in the right direction for this street I have to reach?’

‘I can do better than that – I can take you there myself.’

She hesitated. At Medmenham they had been taught to be wary of showing people where they worked. But it was hard to see the harm in it, and she doubted she would be able to find the way on her own. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I insist. There’s a curfew, but no one will stop us, not with your uniform. Really, you have plenty of time for tea.’

‘Even so, I would prefer to leave now, if you don’t mind.’

He shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ He lifted the kettle off the stove and unlocked the back door.

A brick path, slippery with frost, ran down the side of the house. There was some moonlight, and a few stars – sufficient to show the outline of the garden wall and her breath flickering in the cold. He limped ahead and opened the gate. Beyond it, the cobbled street gleamed faintly. He closed the gate behind them and gestured to the left. ‘We go this way.’

Mechelen was silent, medieval in the darkness, foreign to her in a way it was hard to define – some slight smell in the air that was different to England, an unfamiliarity in the twisting streets and in the shapes of the tall terraced buildings. She tried to memorise the route so that she could find her way alone in future. Left, right, left, they zigzagged their way through the sleeping town.

She said, ‘Are you normally up this early?’ She wasn’t interested in the answer; it felt rude to say nothing.

‘Yes, quite often.’

‘Do you work?’

‘Of course.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Oh, various places. Sometimes in the furniture factory. Sometimes in the brewery, when they have the malt and the hops. Sometimes unloading barges. They are short of labour. Most men of my age were forced to go to Germany to work. My leg got me out of it.’ He glanced at her. ‘Ma bénédiction est ma malédiction.’ He put it in English for her, as if he was proud of the poetry of the phrase. ‘My blessing is my curse.’

‘Were you injured, do you mind my asking?’

‘Not at all. I had polio when I was a baby. “Crippled from birth”, as they say.’

‘I’m sorry. That’s bad luck.’ Once again she had the feeling she had been tactless. Even so, she added, ‘I was sorry to hear about your brother.’

‘Why be sorry? There really is no need to apologise for things that are not your fault.’