The Lavender Keeper (14 page)

‘It is nothing,’ she whispered at Lisette’s profound thanks.

Lisette hugged her hard before heading off into the darkness once again.

‘We’re going over the hills this way,’ Frelon pointed. ‘On the outskirts of the next village I have a horse and cart waiting for us.’

‘What’s down below?’ Lisette said, looking into the distance where a sprawl of lights were winking at her.

‘That’s Apt. Not a good place right now. Crawling with Germans. Let’s go. Faucille is waiting and I don’t want us seen here.’

They left the pretty village of Saignon and began the long climb up.

Out in the open, Frelon relaxed. ‘Did you manage to sleep,
mademoiselle
?’

‘Please, call me Angeline. I dozed for a couple of hours.’

‘Good. It will be a bit milder today. I’m glad we got going early. Here, let me take the bag for you.’

‘No, please.’

‘I was raised to be polite, Angeline. Besides, the path’s
about to get much harder, and you’ll be grateful to use me as your goat.’

‘If you insist.’

As she handed him her small holdall, a scent of lavender drifted over her and she gave a small gasp. ‘Oh, how beautiful that fragrance is.’

Frelon nodded. ‘It will be even more beautiful when the sun warms the fields. Best in the evening, though.’

‘I come from a big city, where you never smell such things.’

‘So you’re from the city. We try not to ask too much, but it’s horrible to walk in silence.’

She agreed. ‘Are you from around here?’

‘Yes. I know the region well. These lavender fields belonged to a family from this village.’

‘Not any more?’ She frowned.

He shook his head sadly. ‘They were Jewish. Taken away last year. It was dreadful. They were a good family; had lived here all their lives. They were probably sent to the prison camps.’

‘I’m so sorry. We have not been told of this in London.’

‘Your government chooses not to tell its people perhaps.’

She shook her head, shocked. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘We heard through our circuits that more than ten thousand Jewish people – whole families, including newborns – were rounded up by the
milice
obeying Nazi demands. They were held at the Winter Velodrome.’

‘I know that place,’ she admitted, her tone full of sorrow.

He nodded. ‘That building became a prison last year.’

‘I remember a glass roof. It was magnificent.’

‘They’ve painted it over so it doesn’t attract the Allied bombers.’

Lisette suddenly wished she’d never mentioned the lavender. ‘Well, Frelon, I do hope the Jewish family from around here can return to their lavender fields one day,’ she said.

He shot her a dark look. ‘I don’t think so. If the rumours are right, no one is ever coming back from those camps.’

Lisette didn’t want to talk about it any more. ‘Are you married?’ she asked, for want of anything else to say.

‘There was someone but these are not the right days to be thinking too far ahead. Perhaps I should ask you to marry me when it is over. After all, you are the first of our visitors who seems genuinely French.’

Lisette grinned. ‘Are you sure we’re safe to talk like this?’ She looked around, surprised at how high they suddenly were, now that the sky had lightened.

Saignon was a long way down and she could no longer make out Apt; all the effort in clambering almost vertically – or so it felt – had been worth it to climb such a great distance so quickly. In fact, they were about to crest a ridge, along whose natural line various settlements seemed to link up.

‘We are safe. We are now in Maquis territory. Over there is Bonnieux. Down there is Lourmarin.’ Frelon rattled off a few other names that sounded like places she’d like to see one day. ‘But we’re going to follow this track. Are you hungry?’

She lied. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Good, then you can wait until we’re travelling to Bonnieux.’

The transport Frelon had promised was waiting with a man who regarded her from hooded eyes.

‘Most of our horses have been requisitioned by the Germans,’ Frelon explained as she settled herself next to him in the cart. ‘Thank you,’ he called to the man.

Without saying a word the man nodded and left.

‘Forgive his manners. He is fiercely Gaullist. Without people like him the Maquis couldn’t survive.’

As soon as they were on their way, Lisette began digging in her bag for Madam Pascal’s food.

‘They are very courageous these farmers, you know,’ Frelon continued. ‘We hide, we run around in the dark, we do everything in secret, using codenames in whispers. People like him or Madame Pascal have to live in the open, face the
milice
or the Germans if they bang on their doors, and keep a straight face when they lie, knowing it could cost them their lives.’

‘Their lives?’

‘Why, yes. Only a week ago, in a nearby hamlet, a man was shot in front of his family because it was suspected that he had helped some resisters escape.’

‘Summary executions?’

‘We have heard all sorts of incredible stories. The Germans take reprisals on whole villages if someone from that village offends. It’s why men like me run away from our families, keep ourselves secret, so that our loved ones and neighbours don’t pay the price for our patriotism.’

Suddenly all the dangers that SOE had trained her for felt horribly close. Lisette had plenty to think about as Frelon fell quiet; only the sounds of the pony’s efforts punctuated the silence.

Lisette could finally see the soaring church tower of Bonnieux. The village spilt gently down the hillside to the plain. Her heart told her she was home … even though she had never been south of Paris. This was the rural France of stories and paintings; tumbling stone buildings that looked as though they were carved from the rock, vivid colours, stony hillsides, pinewoods and chequered plains. From this distance life looked peaceful and picturesque, but Frelon told her a different story.

‘We’re on foot from here,’ he warned, ‘and we must be alert. We can trust no one.’

‘What about the pony?’

He leapt down from the cart. ‘Someone will pick up our four-legged friend. We must cross the hillside rather than use this track.’

‘Are there Germans here?’

‘No. Sometimes I’m not sure what’s worse. German soldiers or
milice
. They both want every maquisard dead. But
we don’t know who might be friend or foe within the village.’

‘Then why come here?’

‘The decision was made by Roger.’

‘How long will we stay?’

‘Just one night. Roger will be here too. He never stays longer than a night anywhere if he can help it. But he’s never refused a bed.’

‘Really?’

Frelon winked. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand why soon.’

She laughed, surprised by his implication.

‘Roger is truly admired by the Maquis. You will like him. If we’re stopped, we are brother and sister. My name is Alain and you are Angeline. I am twenty-five. You are …?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘I come from Apt but you have been studying up north.’

‘In Lille,’ she said immediately.

‘You know it?’

She nodded.

‘What have you been doing in Lille?’

‘I studied at the university and worked in Strasbourg. I’m here in the south for a brief visit before going to Paris to start a new job but with the same company as in Strasbourg.’

‘You have all the paperwork? A permit to enter the free zone, all your identity papers …?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Let’s go.’

They skirted the village for an hour before Frelon brought them alongside the low wall that rimmed a stone cottage. Lisette could smell something baking. The aroma drew them through the sprawling, meadowy garden, crammed with herbs outside the back door. Frelon knocked.

‘Who is it?’

‘It is Alain,
madame
. We are here at last.’

He sounded entirely unrehearsed and casual. A small, round woman answered the door. ‘Ah, Alain. Welcome, welcome. And this is your sister. Hello, I’ve heard so much about you.’ She ushered them in and as soon as the door was closed, all pretence was dropped. ‘No problems?’

‘None,’ Frelon replied.

‘I’m Angeline,’ said Lisette. ‘It is very kind of you to have me here.’

Their compact host danced lightly on her feet. ‘Anything to defy them,’ she said. ‘I’m Madame Marchand. You are so young, my dear, and thin.’ She pinched the top of Lisette’s arm. ‘Oh! But strong, eh? It’s good then that I baked, although I made biscuits because it keeps nosy neighbours from wondering …’

‘They smell delicious,’ Lisette admitted.

‘Come,’ the woman said, leading them into her scullery. ‘Sit, please,’ she offered, immediately putting water on to heat. ‘How are you, young man? Are you staying?’

‘I am well, as you can see.’ Frelon smiled. ‘But I cannot stay. Take care of Angeline.’

‘With all my heart,’ Madame Marchand replied.

Late into the evening, dozing in an armchair, Lisette heard the sound of a motorbike. She glanced at her wristwatch – her mother’s. It was French-made and enhanced her cover. It was a few minutes before the ten o’clock curfew. She yawned, stretched and shook the dull feeling from her mind. She wished she could brush her teeth and wake up instantly but she hadn’t been allowed to bring any toiletries. Madame Marchand was
at the back door welcoming new visitors in hushed whispers. All lights had been turned off in favour of a couple of candles, which flickered as a cold draught stirred the room’s peace.

Lisette stood as two men entered the kitchen; both were tall and bent to kiss Madame Marchand once, twice, three times. The tallest of the strangers regarded Lisette with a grin. Even in this low light he possessed the dashingly good looks of a film star; there were strong echoes of Ronald Colman about him. This must be Roger.

‘Angeline?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, unsure whether to shake hands. She was relieved when he took the lead.

‘Let’s keep it French,’ he said amiably and kissed her in the same manner as he had Madame Marchand. ‘I’m Roger.’ He had to be six-foot four at least, she thought, as he bent low to greet her. She felt his moustache graze gently against her cheek.

‘Welcome to Provence,’ Roger said. ‘This is the Luberon, a mountain that runs from east to west and is cleft in two. The region is flanked by two valleys and their rivers. I’m telling you this for two reasons – firstly, we are relatively safe up here, and secondly, so that you understand it will be a challenging journey ahead. I hope you’re up to walking rough terrain.’ He smiled kindly. ‘Paris is a long way from here.’

‘You learnt your French in Belgium, Roger?’ Lisette asked.

He grinned. ‘My grandfather is Belgian, although I spent a lot of time in France. You’ll have to tell me what gave me away. Now, let me introduce you to my friend. He prefers simply to be known as Faucille.’

Sickle
, Lisette repeated in her mind. Appropriate, given the dark look he cut her. ‘
Monsieur
,’ she said. ‘Angeline.’

He did not kiss her but simply nodded from where he seemed to brood in the shadows. ‘Angeline,’ he repeated.

His voice was low but far smoother than Lisette expected, given his glare. As he pushed away from the sink and turned to face her square on, she realised with a jolt how handsome he was. His yellow-blonde hair and penetrating, light gaze was uncommon in this part of the world.

‘I hope you have some other clothes,’ he added.

‘Blunt as ever,’ Roger said.

The smile she’d given Faucille faltered. His French was perfect, southern, perhaps, although she heard none of the singsong giveaway of the south. His accent could pass for Parisian. ‘My clothes?’

‘They’re not appropriate,’ he said to Roger, ignoring her.

‘But they’re French,’ she argued, dismayed.

He looked back at her, unmoved. Lisette was irritated now, but couldn’t help herself from noticing his strong build and the two small lines either side of his mouth that hinted at laughter in his life. ‘They are too expensive,’ he said dismissively. ‘You can risk your life,
mademoiselle
, but not mine.’

This was the man Madame Pascal had spoken so highly of? A brute. ‘They’re years old,’ she pressed.

He shook his head, his gaze narrowing. ‘They look new and too chic for this part of France. No doubt you might get away with them in Paris, but here they will win you the wrong sort of attention. Besides, we’re going across the mountains. They will not do, especially those heels. You will not pass for a country girl, and unless you want to freeze, they are not warm enough.’

His arrogance! ‘I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, Faucille, but—’

‘It is not your wellbeing I am concerned about. I do not
wish to carry you across the mountains because you have frostbite. And I do not want a bullet in the back of my head because your clothes gave us away.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Change them or find a new
passeur
.’

She looked open-mouthed at Roger, who returned her glance with a wry laugh. ‘He’s so much fun, isn’t he?’ he said.

Lisette watched Madame Marchand touch Roger’s arm gently. ‘Roger, you are welcome for as many nights as you like. You know that.’

‘I know,
madame
, but one night is more than enough.’

Madame Marchand glanced at Lisette. ‘We call him big feet – he hangs over the ends of our beds.’

Lisette found a smile for this kind woman who took such risk, but she was still seething inside about Facille; the man she knew she would have to spend time with from tomorrow. She refused to look at him, but every one of her senses was attuned to him. The smell of lavender he had brought in with him, the way the candlelight lit the light growth of his beard, his voice. Even now, without looking at him directly, she was aware of how he stood relaxed, large hands plunged into his pockets, staring openly at her. Her cheeks were burning and she was very glad of the low light.

‘You must be exhausted, Roger,’ said Madame Marchand. ‘Come, let me feed you, men. Sit down, sit down.’ She poked Faucille on the chest. ‘Sit!’

‘No,
madame
. You are taking too much risk, I fear, with so many.’

She made a harsh tutting sound. ‘I’m old enough to be your mother. Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do.’

Lisette saw Faucille steal a glance at her again but she looked away.

‘Come, Angeline,’ Madame Marchard said. ‘I insist you eat something.’

A cold supper was laid out and while Lisette went through the motions, she tasted little of it, struck instead by the presence of these two men who were now in control of her future.

Roger was every bit as charismatic as his looks hinted at, but she also recognised a fierce intelligence. After sharing stories of training in Scotland, Lisette noticed the circuit leader effortlessly shift the conversation. Roger never once asked her about her personal life, her mission, or indeed any of the details of her cover. And she understood that he did not expect to be questioned either.

‘We live in the moment, Angeline,’ he said, quietly. ‘And my job is to ensure that you get away safely and can head north.’

Their hostess was pouring out slugs of alcohol, likely made with potato skins, to go with the barley coffee that was brewing.

‘I understand.’

‘And you must promise me that you will put your faith in Faucille here. He knows this region like the back of his hand, and he will keep you safe.’

Lisette glanced at her compatriot. If he would only lose his scowl, she could imagine him breaking hearts all over Provence; there was something utterly compelling about him. She decided that it was his silence that made him interesting – he had refused to reveal anything at all about himself. It was more than the necessary secrecy – he simply remained remote. She’d caught him looking at her on a couple of occasions and each time, there was a flash of something in those blue eyes. But she noted that he paid infinite respect to Madame Marchand, and she wondered if behind that gruff façade lived a man of gentle heart.

‘If Faucille says you are to take a certain route, don’t question it. Just do it,’ Roger said.

‘Of course. And Faucille will take me as far as … where?’

‘You may ask me directly if you wish,’ Faucille suddenly piped up.

Lisette had provoked a reaction. Good. So he did have emotions. His accent was Marseillaise, definitely, but there were overtones of other influences. And it was only now, really looking at him, that she realised what had been nagging at her from his arrival. He had the type of honeyed complexion that darkened easily beneath the sun, his eyes were a bright blue, and his hair was clearly golden. Surely he had some Saxon blood in him.

‘
Haben sie deutscher Blut
?’ she asked suddenly, softly.

A distinct chill descended in the room. Roger and Madame Marchard sat back and shared a glance of concern.

‘Yes, I am German,’ Faucille replied in French, holding her gaze without so much as blinking.

‘Forgive me,
monsieur
,’ Lisette said.

Roger laid a hand on her arm. ‘You have nothing to fear from Faucille. Actions speak louder than words, and he has proven himself to be a French patriot.’

‘How well do you speak German?’ Faucille asked and she detected a trace of fascination in his tone.

‘Fluently.’

‘That could be helpful,’ he said softly to himself. He took up the conversation. It seemed she’d finally thawed him. ‘Initially London asked me to take you through to Paris. I can do that,
mademoiselle
, but things are heating up in the south; the Gestapo is suddenly a lot more active and I may be an encumbrance once you are on that train headed north. You may travel with greater security alone, but we shall make that decision when the time comes.’

‘Right,’ Roger said. ‘I shall leave you in Faucille’s care, Angeline. And I wish you every success. Be safe. I’ll be heading off before first light.’

‘We will too,’ Faucille said.

The conversation shifted to the journey. Lisette suddenly felt tired; she wasn’t relishing long days ahead spent in the company of the prickly maquisard, with his secrets and scowls and few words.

‘Through Gordes?’ she heard Roger ask in response to Faucille.

‘At the abbey we can find a sympathetic ear.’

The low drone of the men’s voices and the physical toll of the last couple of days began to show. Lisette shook her head free of the blurriness that was taking over and forced herself to stand and begin removing dishes. Madame Marchand fussed but Lisette preferred to be busy. She cleared the table, leaning across Faucille once to take his glass. He barely moved to allow her access. As she wiped down the crumbs, the men stood. Faucille kissed his host, and began making excuses.

Roger said to Lisette, ‘He has an errand to run.’

‘Oh,’ Lisette said. ‘I thought we were all here this evening.’

‘We were,
mademoiselle
, until I saw your clothes,’ said Faucille. ‘I know someone who can lend me some for you.’

Feeling stung for the second time, Lisette couldn’t help but retaliate. ‘Perhaps you could stay there?’ she said.

He regarded her with a sardonic smile but the scorn passing between them was unmistakable. She had barely been on French soil for just over twenty-four hours and here she was, ruffling the feathers of the one person who could now keep her safe.

‘Thanks, Faucille,’ Roger said, slapping him on the back. ‘If I don’t see you tomorrow, good luck. Be safe.’

Faucille nodded at Roger. ‘Our paths will cross again soon. You too, stay safe. Don’t go too fast on that motorbike down the hill, eh?’