A Dangerous Act of Kindness Read online

  Millie pulled Gyp out of the barn, the dog straining to keep his prey in view. She tied him up outside and went over to fetch Pepper. As she tossed the reins across the pony’s back she stopped.

  What on earth she was doing? She was outside now, both she and Gyp were no longer in any danger. She should ride over to Steadham Farm to fetch Hugh. What was stopping her?

  She imagined Hugh arriving, jumping down from his tractor and grabbing his twelve-bore from the trailer behind. She could see him striding into the barn, hauling the pilot onto his feet, pushing him roughly towards the door, ignoring the man’s cries of pain, taking control, telling her he was in charge, nothing she could do here. He would send her back to Enington, returning the following morning to regale her with an account of his night of adventure.

  That’s why she didn’t want to hand this over to Hugh. She’d done that once before and been sidelined.

  She wasn’t there when they cut Jack down or when they brought his body out of the combe. She was up at Steadham Farm with Hugh’s mother. When Hugh returned, he was bent with a grief and horror that should have been hers.

  She never saw Jack again. At first she had a desperate need to know he was really dead, to understand the terrible mystery that surrounds a life passing; soon it became an agonising guilt that, having failed to make his life worth living, she even failed to say goodbye.

  She couldn’t abandon another person in need, particularly not here.

  Chapter Six

  Millie led Pepper into the barn. The pilot was on his feet, slumped against a beam, hugging his arm to his waist. God, it must be painful. He lifted his head, his face slack and weary and she felt the strangest jolt of recognition, as if she’d known him much longer. She fussed with the pony, leading him over to the bales. It is nothing, she thought, we simply share this extraordinary situation.

  The gun was lying there, dark against the concrete and she bent to pick it up. It was surprisingly heavy. She dropped it into her pocket and he watched her, his head sunk to one side.

  She secured the pony beside a couple of bales, pulling a third on top to form a step. The pilot pushed away from the beam. He was unsteady on his feet, stiff from sitting on the cold concrete. She came forward to help him. He was taller than she expected. He looked down at her, perplexed. Was that suspicion or disbelief? She helped him climb from the lower bale to the higher one.

  The strangest thing, to feel the tough fabric of his flying suit against her palm, the layers of clothing underneath. She took her hand away, hovering to make sure he was steady before going round to the pony’s head, holding him, stroking the velvet of his nose in case a stranger on his back alarmed him.

  The German pressed himself against the flank. She heard him snatch a breath, lean across the pony with a strained sigh, dragging, so slowly, his leg up behind and over the other side. He hunched forward, holding his elbow, panting. She looked up into his face. Sweat glittered his forehead despite the cold.

  ‘Don’t worry about the reins, I’ll lead him,’ she said as she lengthened the stirrup leathers and posted his boots into the irons. When the pony moved, she heard him hiss through his teeth.

  Gyp led the way out of the combe but he was cautious and stayed close. She followed with Pepper, her boots squelching and slithering in the mud as they moved away from the barn.

  Clouds covered the moon and the combe was very dark, a blackness so thick it seemed to press on her eyes. She felt tiny flakes of snow brambling her eyelashes. The only sounds she could hear were the creak of the saddle, the jingle of the snaffle and the laboured breathing of the pilot. She could just see Gyp because of his light coat but as the ground began to rise they passed out of the shadows and onto the snowfields.

  Out in the open, the wind had freshened. Flakes of snow like fine grit came across the fields at an angle, stinging her skin. She looked up at her companion. He’d pulled his collar up but his head was uncovered, his hair spiked wet from the snow.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  Hunched and cradling his arm, he didn’t answer.

  God, they were vulnerable out here. The wind sang in the overhead wires along Sheppington Way, a strange musical song, rising in pitch as the wind strengthened, whipping loose hair around her face, flapping and tugging at the hem of her coat. She stared into the blizzard. Were they visible from the road? Four dark shapes moving across a wilderness of white? How could she explain what she was doing, helping an enemy pilot?

  No, these were foolish thoughts. No one came up here after dark, not since petrol rationing and by the morning, fresh snow would have covered their tracks.

  On she trudged, her boots squeaking on the snow before breaking through the ice crust. Her chest was heaving. Condensation billowed out of Pepper’s nostrils and he dropped his head with every step. Even Gyp was tiring, trudging on with his ears back as he pushed into the teeth of the wind, stepping high to clear the snow. Finally, there it was, the farm tucked down in a dip of land.

  * * *

  The roar of the wind dropped to a low moan as the walls of the farmyard disrupted the gale, sending it soughing through gaps and broken windowpanes. It rattled the metal roof of the cowshed and whispered around the byres.

  Millie tied Pepper near to the mounting block and looked around. She was more afraid of discovery now they were here, on her farm.

  In the lee of the buildings, she could see steam rising off the pony – she would have to unsaddle him and put a blanket over him before leaving him in the stables for the night. An eddy of wind lifted a mixture of snow and straw off the concrete, blowing it into her face, making her screw her eyes up. She placed a hand on the pony’s flank and looked up at the rider.

  ‘Can you get off?’ she said. ‘It’s only a short drop onto the block.’

  At first he didn’t move but slowly he leant forward, struggling to bring his leg over the back of the pony. He still clasped his elbow to his body and, with nothing to slow him, flopped off, buckling against the pony, his shoulder catching on Pepper’s flank.

  The pony shot his head up, his hooves clacking on the concrete and, as she reached up to grab the bridle, the German crumpled onto the block with a roar of pain. She wanted to reach out, comfort him, but Pepper was skittish, rolling a whale eye at her and jouncing his head.

  As she struggled with the pony, the German crouched on the block whispering,

  ‘Entschuldigung!’ through clenched teeth.

  Was he apologising? For what? For letting his courage slip or for putting them in danger by crying out? His panting lessened and slowly he turned his head and looked at her, his eyes glistening.

  ‘Kein Problem,’ he said.

  She steadied him, worried that he might tumble off the block as he rose painfully to his feet, helping him down to ground level.

  She guided him across the yard, opened the door into the boot room, lifting the light-break curtain to let him through. Gyp tried to scuttle past but she blocked him with a foot, shooed him back outside and shut the door.

  She helped the German along the corridor and into the comfort of the kitchen. The snow outside reflected a feeble light into the room. She navigated him around the familiar shapes of the furniture, over to the ladder-backed chair by the range. It would be warmer there until the fire got going. She could hear his teeth chattering. He was trembling with cold, or pain maybe. He sank onto the chair with a pant of relief that sounded like a sob.

  She closed the blackout curtains and moved by sense rather than sight through the dark room to the chimney breast that formed the wall between the kitchen and the sitting room, the fireplace open on both sides. She felt around in the darkness until her hand touched the matchbox.

  She struck a match and lit the paper balls in the grate, chucking kindling on top and watching until it began to spit and crack. When she felt the warmth of the flames on her cheeks, she scattered in a shovel of coal and chose three larger logs, tossing them in, sending a shower of glistening sparks
twisting up the chimney. She took a spill and lit the Tilly lamps, the glow filling the room with an apricot light.

  ‘I must put the pony away,’ she said. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘The dog?’

  ‘He won’t come in until I do.’

  She was halfway to the door when a thought struck her and she fetched an earthenware bottle from the dresser. She drew out the old stained cork and poured a large measure of clear liquid into a tumbler before passing it over to him.

  ‘This’ll help,’ she said.

  He looked up and frowned.

  ‘It is what?’

  ‘Potato spirit. Strong.’

  He shifted uneasily before releasing his arm and taking the glass. He held it under his nose and sniffed.

  ‘Schnapps,’ he said.

  ‘If you like.’

  Chapter Seven

  It took Millie nearly half an hour to settle the pony. Before leaving the stable, she ran her hands along his neck, picking at a piece of dried mud caught in his coat. She watched him tugging at the hay net and thought, there’s an enemy airman in my kitchen. What the hell am I doing?

  Sighing heavily she rested her head on Pepper, the sound of him chewing and the smell of the hay, oddly comforting. She knew she’d gone too far to stop now. Was it so terrible to help this poor man? If the plan worked, his pain would be instantly relieved and that would be the end of the story. He would be on his way.

  He may not make it back to German-occupied France; he would probably get picked up somewhere between here and the coast and besides, what difference would one airman make to the war effort? Would it really turn the tide of the war?

  Of course not, and if they couldn’t cure his shoulder, she’d hand him over to Hugh the following day, say she’d found him in an outhouse on the farm but at least she’d have given him a chance. The British prided themselves on their humanity towards their enemies. Surely that was all she was doing?

  With another deep sigh, she pushed herself away from Pepper. As she leaned on the stable door to push it shut, the pocket of her coat swung and hit the wood with a dull thump – she was still carrying the gun. Should she hang onto it, keep it on her for protection, just in case she’d misread the whole thing? Christ, she’d been married to Jack for three years, thought she knew him, never saw that coming. If she got Jack so wrong…

  No, it was pointless taking the gun in with her. She wouldn’t be able to fire it to protect herself; she couldn’t kill another man. She slipped back into the stables. She must hide it, get rid of it later. She climbed the ladder to the open loft and pushed it into a gap between the joists and the rafters.

  Outside the snow was falling steadily. She shielded the baffled lantern and looked around the yard, searching the silhouette of the buildings to make sure no lights were showing. The last thing she needed was a visit from the ARP warden.

  Gyp ran ahead and jumped at the door. It was way past his suppertime, poor chap. She let him into the boot room, broke up the hard pieces of bread she kept for his biscuits and washed them with some milk that had turned. He would find himself a rabbit tomorrow, no doubt.

  Jack had rescued Gyp from the pet cull in Coltenham the year war broke out, when the fear of bombing was at its height – one life saved, he’d said. Shame he didn’t value his own life as highly.

  As Gyp tucked into his pauce supper, Millie watched him for a few moments. She was delaying her return to the kitchen and could feel her heart bumping against her ribs. Did she fear the pilot? Or was it something more – anticipation, excitement even?

  Giving the dog a pat, she peeled away the heavy coat, pulled off her boots and slipped her feet into her shoes before shutting Gyp in the boot room. She stood in the corridor for a moment, listening for any sound of movement on the other side of the door but, hearing none, let herself in.

  The German was where she’d left him, in the chair by the range, his eyes closed, the empty glass resting on his lap. She thought he was asleep, the warmth and the alcohol relaxing his face. In the flickering light coming from the fire he looked more youthful. Twenty-three, twenty-four? About the same age as her.

  As she watched, he stirred and opened his eyes, a moment of anxiety fluttering across them as if he’d briefly forgotten where he was.

  He pushed himself higher in the seat.

  ‘We begin,’ he said.

  She reached out for the glass.

  ‘Do you need some more?’

  He nodded.

  She poured him another glass which he drained in a single gulp, staring down into the empty tumbler.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she said, already beginning to feel her insides curling at the thought of the pain he was going to have to face.

  He gave her the glass and said, ‘Help me on the table. I lie on it and my arm hangs.’

  She felt herself wincing, saw in his eyes an answering reluctance but then he pressed his lips together and gave her a curt nod of reassurance.

  ‘When the muscles are soft, the arm goes back.’

  She went over to the table and began to clear away those mundane, everyday bits of her life – old newspapers, a piece of mending half pinned, her sewing box and basket of unravelled wools, balancing them on other worktops where they toppled, threatening to bring down the rest of the clutter.

  He leant forward, his body twitching as he prepared to stand. Carefully, he got to his feet and came over, hitching himself up until he was sitting on the table. She stood back, waiting to see what he did next.

  Still clinging to his arm, he tried to lie down. She could see he was strong but by the time he’d leant sideways and got his weight onto the other elbow, he was grunting with the effort and curled up with pain. She couldn’t bear it, standing by as he struggled.

  She slid her hand under his side, pressing the other against his chest to help him roll. As he let his weight settle against her, a feeling scraped the inside of her spine, a memory of another man’s weight; Jack’s legs stiff and lifeless in her arms as she pushed up, up, hoping for what? That he would jerk into life, that his hands would fly to the rope biting into the skin of his neck and pull it free?

  This body was warm, the muscles moving underneath her hands as he lifted his legs, oh, so slowly, up onto the table, his chin tucked down against his chest. She looked on his struggle with a sort of awe, a wonder that this man had fallen from the sky and yet life still pumped through him, courage still drove him on. His instinct to survive was so strong it overwhelmed the agony of that dislocated limb, muscles torn and screaming, the smooth ball of the shoulder scraping against a bone it should never touch.

  He was at the point when he must release his arm, turn onto his front and let it drop over the side. She slid her hand out from underneath – this was something he was going to have to do on his own.

  He started to turn, pulling his chin further towards his chest and her hands came up to her ears to block out the growl he was making, deep in his throat.

  He paused, like a man about to leap to his death, and flung himself onto his front, roaring with animal pain as his arm dropped over the edge, his forehead crashing onto the wood.

  Gyp barked. Her hand flew to mouth. Someone was outside.

  Chapter Eight

  Millie moved swiftly along the corridor. As she pushed around the light-break curtain, she realised she hadn’t bolted the door and a sense of despair overwhelmed her. Had she been careless enough to leave a light showing too?

  The latch rattled in her hand as she peered out into the yard, searching the blizzard for a shape, a vehicle – anything that could have made the dog bark. It took a few moments before the weakness of relief crept into her chest.

  There was nothing to see except the driving snow, nothing to hear except the wind whining round the outhouses. She closed the door on the storm and locked it. Gyp was quiet again.

  It must have been the man’s cry that made him bark, nothing more.

  She went back into the kitch
en and gazed down on the pilot, heard the rasp of his breath, saw the tremors of pain still running through him. She had to do something.

  She hurried across to the sofa, fetched a cushion and stood with it clutched to her chest, desperate to slide it under his head but not sure if she should, not sure if it would help. She watched his back rising and falling in sharp pants and when they lessened, she stepped forward and lifted his head, heavy in her hands. She felt the rough nap of his cropped hair on her palm, his skin hot underneath.

  She pushed the cushion in, rested his head back down and then an extraordinary urge gripped her. Before taking her hand away, she moved his hair from where it clung, damp against his forehead. Her instinct to soothe was immediately followed by a pang that she’d been too familiar, too intimate but his breath stopped hissing through his teeth and she felt no need, or desire, to take her hand away.

  A log shifted in the grate and the flames brightened, the light flickering around the room. She could hear the wind bumping in the chimney and every now and then it pushed a puff of smoke out into the room.

  The clock on the chimneypiece ticked the minutes away. She heard the whirr of the cogs, preparing to strike the hour – twelve strokes – it was midnight.

  He moved his head, very slightly and spoke. She didn’t catch what he said. She squatted down by side of the table.

  ‘Have you a heavy thing?’ he said, his voice faint.

  ‘A weight?’

  ‘I need to hold a heavy thing.’

  ‘How heavy?’

  He didn’t answer.

  Millie looked around the kitchen. The kettle? Was that heavy enough? She could fill it with water. Then it might be too heavy and if he dropped it, it would spill everywhere. The big weight from the scales? The biggest was only a couple pounds and difficult to grip – but hang on, she thought, there’s an old shop weight out in the milking shed, used to stop the rats lifting the lid off the feed bin. It was perfect, four pounds of brass with a handle.