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The officer lifted his chin, studied their faces. She dared not look at Stanislaus. Her armpits were wet. She began to sweat behind her knees and in the palms of her hands.
The guard said nothing, waved them through with a flick of the wrist, summoned the next in line, a large family with five children.
Walked through, just like that. The strain had made her dizzy, but she was almost disappointed too. No one had given her the chance to say the words she’d practised over and over in her head. Stanislaus wouldn’t know how clever she could be.
‘We made it,’ he said.
They were in Belgium.
The relief brought with it exhaustion. Her legs ached, her back hurt, another blister had formed on her heel. She wanted this to be over. She wanted to go home, to open the door, Hello, Mum, it’s me. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to walk another yard, and she had no idea where they were.
‘Are we far from the sea?’ she said.
‘Sea?’ He laughed. ‘We’re a long way from the sea.’
‘Where do we go?’
‘Namur.’
‘Why?’
‘No more,’ he said, winking. ‘Get it?’
‘Where is it? Is it on the way?’
The family that had been behind them in the queue jostled forward, scratching her legs with the buckle of a suitcase, pushing her closer to Stanislaus. She leant towards him.
‘I want to go home,’ she said. ‘To England. Can’t we go back now?’
‘Maybe.’ His voice was distant. ‘Maybe. But first Namur.’
‘Why? I want to go home.’ She wanted to say, this minute. Stamp her feet, like a child.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Namur.’
‘Why Namur?’
‘Business, Ada,’ he said. She couldn’t imagine what business could be taking them there.
‘Promise me.’ There was panic in her voice. ‘After. We go home.’
He lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles. ‘I promise.’
They hitched a lift to Mons and caught a crowded train to Namur that stopped at every station and red light. It was evening by the time they arrived. The baguette was all Ada had eaten since they’d left Paris eighteen hours ago and she felt faint and weak. Stanislaus took her by the elbow, guided her away from the station, down the side streets. She had no idea where they were going, or whether Stanislaus knew the way but they stopped by a small café above which was a painted sign, ‘Pension’.
‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll organize it.’
She sat at a table and chair outside. This side of the street was in the shade but she was too tired to walk to the other side, where the last of the May sun was shining. Stanislaus came out.
‘Everything,’ he said, ‘is organized. Madame will give us a simple meal, and while we’re eating her daughter will arrange the room.’ As he spoke, Madame appeared with two glasses of beer which she placed in front of them.
Stanislaus picked up his glass. ‘To you, Ada Vaughan. Namur.’
She touched her handbag with the teddy bear, and held the glass so it chinked with his and smiled at him. Lucky.
Paté and bread, sausage. The beer was cloudy and sweet, and she drank two long glasses. It made her light-headed, and she was glad for it. She hadn’t been tipsy since before the war. The early days with Stanislaus seemed like another age now, at the Café Royal, a Martini or two, with a cherry on a stick. Content and flushed with love, they’d sashayed down Piccadilly to the number 12, where he’d kiss her under the lamp-post, tender lips to hers. She’d suck peppermints on the way home so her breath didn’t smell. It was like that just now. Stanislaus’s mood had evaporated, his worries – their worries – over. Namur. No more. No more temper or brooding silences. He was in good heart again, but he swung so quickly from light to dark. It worried her. His moods made her change too. When he was sunny so was she, nimble toes and bubbling breath. But when his mood turned cold it choked her like a fog.
They went upstairs after dinner. She was unsteady on her feet, could smell herself tart and musty from the day, her hair sticky with dust and sweat. Madame had left a jug of water and a wash bowl on the table and had laid out a towel and a flannel.
‘I must,’ her words slurred, ‘wash.’
Stanislaus nodded and walked to the window, looked out over the street with his back to her. Ada wet the flannel and rubbed. She heard her mother in her head, saw herself as a child standing by the sink in the kitchen at home. Up as far as you can go, down as far as you can go. She giggled into the cloth, and found herself crying, a lunge of homesickness and fear, as if she was tumbling deep into a canyon and couldn’t stop herself.
She was aware of Stanislaus catching her as she fell, laying her on the bed and fumbling with the buttons on his flies. Her head was spinning, her eyes heavy. She just wanted to sleep. She felt him open her legs, enter her with an impatient thrust, sharp rips of pain that made her cry out. He lifted himself off her and lay by her side. Her legs were wet. He’d kept his shirt on, she could see, even through the blur of beer.
It was dark when she woke. Then she heard it. The distant blast of an explosion, the boom of heavy guns. The curtains had been left open and through the window the night sky streaked white and vermilion.
‘Stanislaus.’ She groped for him next to her. The bed was empty, the sheets cold and smooth. She sat up, awake, panic gripping her body, short of breath.
‘Stanislaus.’ His name echoed round the empty room. Something was wrong, she knew. She fumbled for her clothes, pulled them on, please God let him come back. There were steps outside. It must be him. Just went out for a cigarette. She opened the door but it was Madame who was walking up the stairs, her way lit by a small oil lamp.
‘Mademoiselle,’ she was panting from the climb. ‘The Germans are here. You must come, to the basement.’
‘My husband,’ Ada said. ‘Where is my husband?’
‘Follow me,’ Madame said, lighting the way for them both. She held up the long skirt of her nightdress with her free hand.
‘But my husband.’ Dread clamoured, a shrill, persistent klaxon. ‘My husband. He’s not here.’
They had entered the café now. The room was dark. Ada could make out the tables and chairs, the glisten of bottles behind the bar. Madame opened a trap door and began to lower herself down.
‘Come,’ she said.
Ada looked for Stanislaus in the gloom, listened for his breathing, smelled the air for his scent, but her nostrils filled with the tang of stale beer and burnt sugar.
‘Mademoiselle. Now. You must come now. We are in danger.’ A hand tugged at her ankle. Stanislaus wasn’t in the room. He was out there, in the night, by himself, in danger. A boom thundered in the distance. The hand tugged again at her foot so Ada lost her balance and had to steady herself on a chair.
‘I’m coming,’ she said.
She looked for the glow of his cigarette in the cellar, his shadow in the vaults. You took your time, Ada. Madame closed the trap door, and switched on a single bulb which shed a dim light through the darkness. The cellar was full of barrels stacked five high, and a pair of porters’ trolleys. The earth floor smelled of mushrooms. Madame had brought down a sheet of linoleum and two hard-backed chairs. There was a hamper next to one, with bread and cheese. She had prepared for this day, knew that war was coming. Ada should have known too.
‘My husband,’ Ada began to whimper. ‘He’s not here.’
‘Your husband?’
‘Yes. Where is he?’
‘Your husband?’
‘Yes. Mon mari.’ Ada wondered if Madame was deaf, or simple. ‘The man who was with me last night. Moustache, glasses. My husband.’
‘Yes, yes,’ the woman said. ‘I know who he is. He left yesterday evening.’
Ada limped to the chair and sat down, blood thundering through her head. ‘He left?’ Her voice was frail.
‘Oui,’ Madame said. ‘He went to meet his wife. They were going to Ostend, for the ferry, to England. I said I thought he’d be lucky, the transport’s not what it was. Can’t get the fuel, see? But he insisted.’
‘No,’ Ada said. ‘There’s some mistake.’
‘No,’ the woman sounded almost cheery. ‘He was adamant. Said he had to get back to England.’
Stanislaus had left? To meet his wife? England, where he’d face jail? It made no sense.
‘But what about me?’ Ada said.
‘He said you had other plans. You would know what to do.’
The strength left her body, flesh slumped and numb. This had to be some other person Madame was talking about. In the morning, when it was light, she’d go and look for him. He was out there, lost. Perhaps he was hurt. She’d find him. The German guns were still far away, although they sounded near enough.
*
The road ran above the cellar. She could hear cars rolling by, footsteps clipping the cobbles, the squeak of a barrow and the brisk bell of a bicycle. There was a wooden trap door to the street through which the delivery men lowered the barrels. Ada could see daylight through the joins.
‘You must not go out,’ Madame said. ‘The last war … the Germans. Such horrors.’ She held her down, gnarled hand on Ada’s arm, corrugated fingers round her wrist.
Ada shook her off. ‘He may be waiting,’ she said. ‘Outside. We have to let him in.’
‘He has gone.’ Madame was shaking her head. She doesn’t know Stanislaus, Ada thought. Or she misunderstood him. He spoke terrible French.
She could hear voices, muffled, urgent speech which she couldn’t quite catch. The town was awake and alive and Stanislaus was part of it.
She freed herself from Madame’s hold, grabbed her handbag, climbed the stepladder and pushed open the trap from the cellar into the café. The morning light flooded in, motes of dust dancing in the sunlight. Ada glanced back at Madame standing by the chair, holding a cloth napkin across her lap.
‘Vous êtes folle!’ Madame said, shaking her head.
Ada pulled the bolts on the street door and slipped outside. The light was fresh and the sun glowed low and warm. On this side of the house the street was silent and empty, as if an army of ghouls had passed through and cleared the souls away. There was a smell in the air, a sweet balsam from a tree which overhung the road with newborn foliage. She thought of Stanislaus, so long ago, the smell of trees making love. Her blister still hurt, and she plucked some leaves and shoved them into the heel of her shoe, clip-clopped round the corner with a limp.
The buildings were tall, redbrick walls with roofs that soared and curled. Ada turned and walked down another street. Empty. There was no sign of the Germans anywhere. A man on a bicycle was coming towards her and for a moment Ada was sure it was Stanislaus. He cycled by, a fair-haired man with a leer, turning round as he passed to stare. Ada clutched at her collar. She had buttoned it askew in her rush last night, the top gaped open, her slip showed. Dressed in a hurry. Woman of the night. She waited until the man had passed, re-organized her dress, began to run in case he returned, her blister rubbing raw as her shoe jolted on the cobblestones.
The street opened into a large square filled with hundreds of people. Ada stopped, drew her hands to her face, covered her nose. The smell of fear she first learned in Paris filled this square too, its dread tasted sour on her tongue, its keening echoed round her ears. Faces cast with determination, eyes fixed ahead, elbows out, dragging suitcases and children. They shouted and cried, pushed bicycles or prams laden with possessions. There was an old lady in a wheelbarrow, her hair straight and white, her face gaunt and drawn, tears draining down her hollow cheeks, bony knuckles clutching the sides as her son struggled to keep the barrow steady. Cars honked in irritation as they tried to push through the crowds. A dray horse breathed in the terror, straining on the creaking shafts of the cart. Tempers were short all round. She’d seen it before, in London, in Paris. Only now it was real. The Germans were coming. Belgium should have been safe.
She’d never find Stanislaus in this crowd. Perhaps he did get away or perhaps he had been caught, shot, his body already festering behind enemy lines. She shut her eyes and tried to rid herself of the thought, tried to make sense of everything, of him. How could he have a wife? They had spent every day together since they left London. He always came home, however late it was. Ada would have known. Madame was wrong. But why else leave Paris so fast? Why come to Belgium, why Namur? Why here?
The crowd pushed against her. She recognized where they were, close to the train station. The people must be heading there. She wanted to be free of them, to think. She tried to turn and stand against the force. No one noticed her, no one cared. She was alone in the middle of a thousand frightened, fleeing people. There was no Stanislaus. She had no idea where to go, or what to do. She had no one to turn to. She let the crowd carry her with them. Perhaps they knew where they were going. Perhaps they knew where it was safe.
Paris. She could go back to Paris. Monsieur Lafitte, Madame Breton. They would take care of her. She’d explain why she left without warning. Bit of bother that Stanislaus got himself into. They thought he was a German.
And then a truth smacked her hard across the face. What if Stanislaus was German? What if Mrs B. had been right all along? He was a spy, and she his alibi. She tried to turn again but the pressure of the crowd was too strong. Move to the side, she thought, to the side, forward and to the side. The crowds were thinner there.
A man trod on her toe and she yelped.
‘Excusez moi, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Excusez moi.’ He didn’t linger, his eyes hard focused on the space ahead.
Ada reached the edge of the square and stood beneath an arcade away from the crowd. What had he been doing in London? She never asked. Took her to Paris. Said there’d be no war, said he couldn’t go back to England. She promised him she’d stay. They were a nice young couple and she was his cover. Where did he get his money from? What sort of business was he in? Did he love her?
She had been a fool. Taken in. And then Belgium, Namur. No more. Of course. He knew the Germans were coming, he must have. That was who he went to join, not his wife, he had no wife. That was a codeword. Spies used them. Of course she’d never seen his passport, he couldn’t show it to her. He’d give himself away. You do the talking, Ada, when we get to the border. Left her here, discarded her, after he was done with her. Purpose served, mission complete.
An aircraft overhead emitted a steady rhythmic drone, like a giant wasp. It flew low enough that Ada could make out a swastika on its tail, the cross on its side, and the ghostly shape of its pilot in the cockpit. Moments later there was an explosion, close enough to make the ground shudder. The crowd screamed and scattered. She heard the frightened whinnies of the horses, the cries of children, could see people falling, trampled on the ground. She stood at the edge of the square, frozen. Another aircraft came into view and Ada realized that it had spotted the crowds, was lining up to attack them. She pushed her way through the arcade, into a side street. Ran and ran as another bomb hurtled down, closer this time, its force rocking the ground so she tripped and fell. Get up, get up. She knew she had to run, get out of the open streets and find protection. She heard a heavy rumble. Ahead of her a building was crumbling down, a giant with shattered knees, falling in a thick fog of grit. She must go back to Madame, to the cellar, shelter.
She pushed herself onto her feet and looked round. The sky was filled with dust, sticky, grey grouts that clogged her nose and fell like ash on her hands and in her mouth. She tried to push them out but they coated her tongue and sat like blotting paper, mopping up her spittle. She had no idea where the pension was or what it was called or which street it was on. She had lost her bearings. Her foot was sticky. She had cut her knee when she fell and blood was trickling down her calf and into the side of her shoe. Her blister throbbed. She pulled off her shoes. Have to run. Get away. Perhaps the pension was to the right. She had cut across the square. Up the road, first on the right, but the street veered back on itself and twisted round again. She was going round in circles.
The crowds had fled for shelter. Another plane droned off in the distance and there was a sharp crack of gunfire. The plane came into view and Ada watched, transfixed, as the long, black bomb fell behind a row of houses nearby. The ground juddered. She heard the tinkle of shattered windows, felt a shard of glass brush her arm, watched a cloud of thick, black smoke billow from a neighbouring street. There were more planes now, and more bombs, coming faster and faster. Nowhere was safe. There was broken glass all round and her feet were bare. She slipped her shoes back on, wincing at her blisters, and ran away from the blast, down another street she didn’t recognize, away and away, her mind racing in time with her legs, praying for the first time for months. Please God, please God …
Round a corner. Two of them. Standing there, in full view, staring at her.
Les Soeurs de la Bienveillance. Heavy black cloaks and white starched wimples. She recognized the habit. It was the same order that her Auntie Vi had joined fifteen years ago.
‘Please,’ she said. She could feel the words tumbling out, pushing for space, begging to be heard over the roar of the bombers. ‘Please. Help me. Aidez moi. My name is Ada. My aunt is a Sister, one of you, Sister Bernadette of Lourdes, perhaps you know her? She served her novitiate here, in Belgium.’ Or was it France? Ada couldn’t remember. She was only little at the time. ‘I’m lost. My husband—’ What could she say? ‘I’m alone.’
‘Your husband?’ One of the nuns said.
She had to stick with her lie. ‘Yes,’ she spoke quickly. The gunfire and explosions had stopped. Smoke and dust clung like a shroud, and the smell of broken masonry and burning filled the air. This might be her only chance. ‘I’ve lost my husband.’
She felt sick, and her head began to spin. When she came to, she was sitting on the ground, her head held down between her knees.
‘Madame,’ one of the sisters was saying. ‘Madame, you cannot stay here. It isn’t safe.’
‘Help me,’ Ada said. Her voice was far away, a distant rap in her head. ‘I have nowhere to go.’
The nuns lifted her to her feet, one on each side, a firm grip on her elbows. ‘Come with us.’
She leant on them for support, legs moving, one before the other, but her bones had turned to sponge and she had no strength left.
She was aware of an eerie quiet, clouds of rising smoke in the clear blue sky, a river gleaming in the sunlight, and a castle high on the hill. She was aware, too, of uneven cobbles and broken glass and, beyond, an archway with wrought iron writing, La Résidence de Saint-Joseph. The nuns led her inside, into a large hall with a marble chequerboard floor and a life-size statue of St Joseph standing in the centre. He balanced a lily in the crook of an arm and held the other up in a blessing. One nun went off down a corridor and the other led her to a long wooden settle.
‘Asseyez-vous,’ she said. ‘Attendez.’
Ada sat. She was still dizzy and faint. The noise of the bombs and the falling debris echoed in her head. She hadn’t had a proper meal for days, not a meal with meat and potatoes; nor had she had a good night’s sleep. She eased off the first shoe, and then the second. Her feet were filthy, bloodied and black from the road. She clutched her handbag close to her. It was scuffed and dusty and bulging from the teddy bear stuffed inside. The bear was bringing her luck, had kept her alive so far. She fished inside for her compact and lipstick. Must look a fright.
She heard the rattle of beads, the swish of heavy skirts, and smelled the bland talcum of nuns. One from this morning was carrying a tray. Another nun, tall and thin, walked with an air of authority. She must be the head. What did Auntie Vi say they were called? Reverend? Mother? Good Mother. There was an older nun behind her with a stern, red face and round, horn-rimmed glasses. The nun who rescued her this morning placed the tray beside her on the settle. There was a glass of water and some bread. The tall nun approached Ada, her arms outstretched in greeting.
‘Je suis la Bonne Mère,’ she said. Ada tried to stand but her knees buckled. The Good Mother sat next to her, pointed to the tray. Mangez. Ada drank the water, felt it soothe her throat. She broke off a piece of bread and stuffed it into her mouth.
‘You are English,’ Good Mother said. ‘You have lost your husband.’
Ada nodded.
‘Your name?’
