Windflower Wedding

‘Recognition signal R-Roger. Dit-dah-dit.’

‘Got it. Reply with H-Harry.’

‘All set, then?’ The submarine commander turned to Keth. ‘Climb over. I’ll pass your case to you. And the leading seaman is in command of the dinghy. Take your orders from him and don’t try to pull rank.’

‘I will – and I won’t. Thanks a lot, skipper.’ Keth offered a hand which was shaken firmly. ‘Best press on …’

His throat was dry as he arranged himself in the bows of the dinghy, his case wedged between his knees, arms clutching the bag of precious spares. He felt nothing; neither hope nor fear. He only knew his mouth made little clicking sounds as he pulled his tongue round his lips and his heart beat too quickly. He could feel its insistent thuds in his throat, his ears and behind his nose.

The leading seaman waited, paddle poised, on the port side of the fat, bouncing craft; a second seaman took his place beside him. From the conning tower came the hoarse whisper, ‘Good luck!’

Keth raised his hand in acknowledgement. The dinghy bucked as, at the push of a paddle, it left the submarine’s side.

Carefully, strokes matching, the paddles cut into the water with hardly a sound, a splash. Keth fixed his gaze on the submarine. He had felt acute discomfort so closely confined on board; now, as the vastness of sea and skyline opened up, he wanted nothing more than to be back in its claustrophobic safeness.

The paddles picked up speed, racing for the shadow on the far side of the headland. Keth sucked in a deep breath, then let it go in little huffs. The seamen knew what they were about.

They reached the shelter of the headland just as the cloud drifted away from the moon and the sea was again lit with silver. The two men breathed evenly, paddles lifting, slicing. The blur that had been France was sharper, darker, now. Keth wanted to cough and swallowed hard on it.

The paddling ceased and they floated in on the breakers to a scraping stop. The younger seaman jumped out, heaving the dinghy onto firm, wet sand, holding tightly to the mooring rope. The elder man reached for the battered case, leaning over to pass it out. Paper bag in hand, Keth swivelled round, then stepped ashore.

‘Thanks,’ he whispered.

‘We’ll wait,’ came the brief reply.

They stood unmoving, eyes ranging the dark of the landmass.

‘That’s it!’ The leading seaman pointed to a briefly flashing light.

Keth reached for his torch. His hand was shaking. He pressed four times on the switch.

‘Right, sir. They’re over there. Stay here, close to the rocks. The beach could be mined. They’ll know the way through if it is. They’ll fetch you. Good luck, Captain.’

Hands grasped his, then he was alone. The seamen dipped their paddles deep, straining against the incoming tide. Soon, they would be back on board Selene; back to the stifling, protecting closeness. Soon, the commanding officer would give the order to start engines and they would make for deeper, safer water – and home.

Keth stood very still, holding his breath then letting it go in a little hiss. Soon someone would take him to a safe house, and soon a signal would go out that Hibou had arrived and the whole thing would be set in motion. It might only take days, or a week, two weeks, but for Keth Purvis, the messenger, the risk was small compared to that of the men of the secret, hidden army of partisans.

Close ahead of him a light flashed briefly and he heard slow, measured footfalls on the sand. Then, to his left, from the shadow of a rock, a voice whispered, ‘Hibou?’

‘Oui. Hirondelle?’

‘You’ve brought them?’ The man picked up the carrier bag.

‘Spares.’

‘Good. Follow behind me.’

Keth walked unspeaking, case in hand, frowning because he had expected a Frenchman and not someone with the unmistakable accent of an English public school. He matched his steps to those of his companion, walking where he had walked, glancing left and right, wondering what next.

‘That’s better.’ Hirondelle stopped, listening, in the shelter of bushes that grew thickly on the edges of a wood. ‘We’ll wait,’ he said, squatting on the springy turf. ‘For your contact,’ he added, almost as an afterthought.

Keth nodded, taking his cue from the other man, speaking as little as possible, pushing his case beneath a low bush though he had no idea why.

They did not wait long. Keth saw the figure, walking quickly and without sound at the side of the path. Despite the darkness, he knew it was a woman.

He watched as she stopped, listening. Hirondelle reached for a twig, then snapped it. The woman began to walk again, eyes ranging the bushes.

‘Hirondelle?’ She stopped and Keth could see she wore short dark socks, and a dark skirt and jumper.

‘Natasha?’

He rose to his feet. Keth did the same, wondering in a surge of panic why they had sent someone so young; sent a girl of no more than fourteen to do the work of a man.

Keth held out his hand; hesitantly the girl took it.

‘I’ll leave you, then,’ Hirondelle said in French, picking up the carrier bag. ‘You know what to do?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered as the man crossed the path then slipped silently into the deeps of the wood.

‘One minute,’ she said softly, ‘then we go.’

‘Right.’ This was stupid. A slip of a girl sent to collect him! What were they about?

‘Sorry,’ she said as if she could read his mind. ‘The patrol went past ten minutes ago. They’ll not be back for an hour. Moonlit nights are not good …’

‘No.’ Keth wondered if Natasha was her real name or her codename. ‘Is it far?’

‘Half a mile inland. We’ll be all right,’ she urged.

‘Yes.’ All at once, Keth recalled a fourteen-year-old Daisy, and felt a sudden longing to protect the girl called Natasha. ‘We’ll be fine.’

‘Come,’ she ordered, still speaking in French. ‘We go to the village.’

She beckoned with her hand and Keth felt shame for his lack of trust, accepting the risk she was taking.

‘Okay. I’m with you,’ he smiled, and hearing that smile on his voice she turned, returning it tremulously.

They walked quickly across a clearing where recently trees had been felled, making for the denser cover of the woodland. Natasha did not speak but turned often to check he was following or to indicate that he walk on the grassy edge of the narrow path.

‘That is the village ahead,’ she said softly. ‘We can’t walk through the streets; someone might see us and there is a curfew in force.’

‘And they would tell?’

‘They would all tell,’ she shrugged, ‘or we must presume so. But some – just some – might inform. That is why we trust no one. We’ll go across the fields, away from the houses. Dogs might bark, you see …’

They did not cross the fields directly, walking instead in the cover of hedge shadows. Keth marked her fragility as a sudden slant of moonlight held her for a second; a child who should be at home with her mother.

‘This is it.’ She opened a gate and set dogs barking. ‘Sssh!’ She clicked her tongue to silence them. ‘They know me,’ she said briefly, beckoning him to follow her into the shelter of a shed. ‘We’ll wait a moment. You are to stay here with Madame Piccard – Tante Clara. She is a widow, and old. I live with her now.’