A Dangerous Act of Kindness Read online

  ‘I’ve got to go outside,’ she said. He didn’t move.

  She pulled her boots back on and ran out into the snowstorm. The wind plucked and shook her as she hurried across the yard.

  By the time she reached the milking shed, the snow was sticking to her cardigan and melting through to the thick cotton shirt underneath. She darted into the shed, navigated in the dark over to the feed bins and grabbed the weight. She felt it pull on her own shoulder, imagined the slippery globe of his joint sliding back into its socket.

  She hurried back, her hands freezing on the handle. Slithering on the snowy paving stones in front of the porch, she put the weight down and held onto the doorjamb, stamping the snow off her boots, rubbing her hands across the top of her head to flick the moisture away.

  She shut the door on the storm and turned the key.

  Gyp gave a questioning bark from the boot room.

  ‘Hush,’ she said through the door.

  She tumbled into the kitchen.

  Gosh, it was peaceful in here after the howl of the gale. All she could hear was the clock on the chimneypiece and the clicking of the coal in the grate, and there, lying on her kitchen table, was a German pilot. It was a most extraordinary night.

  She carried the weight over and squatted down in front of him.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ she said.

  His eyes flickered opened, the irises glistening like two silver coins. He twisted his head to peer down.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice hardly more than a murmur.

  She was so close, she could smell the fresh alcohol on his breath but it didn’t have that morning-after tang, that smell she hated, when Jack said of course he hadn’t been drinking. This was a clean smell, an astringent smell.

  ‘What shall I do?’ she said.

  ‘Put the handle for my hand.’

  She pressed his fingers around the handle until it was firmly in his grip.

  ‘Let it go,’ he whispered.

  Slowly she began to release the weight, her gaze flicking from his face and back to make sure his fingers weren’t slipping. As she let him take more of the weight he began pant, his face pinched with pain, but gradually his breathing became more even and she thought he was falling asleep.

  There was a strange pop, a snap almost and the weight crashed to the floor, striking her hand away, throwing her off balance and onto the ground with a bump.

  Looking up she saw that he hadn’t moved, his arm still hung over the edge of the table, his head still rested on the cushion, but he was gazing at her, his face beautiful in the firelight. His eyes, instead of being filled with pain, glowed with an intensity that took her breath away. Slowly he began to smile at her, his expression full of wonder and relief, and she saw him gently move his injured arm before pushing himself slowly up into a sitting position.

  ‘It is done,’ he said.

  Chapter Nine

  The noise was sickening but the relief so intense, it was as if he’d downed a handful of Pervitin. He was washed by a wave of explosive happiness, soothed by an inner balm of complete peace and contentment. All his pain, his fears, his worries lifted away. He opened his eyes and this girl looked up at him from the floor. No, not a girl but a young woman with a fragility in her eyes that squeezed his heart. She sat like a dropped marionette, her legs spread out in front of her, hands palm up. Quite unbidden, he felt his face relax into a huge smile, saw her expression lighten in concord.

  ‘It is done,’ he said.

  She tucked her legs up and got to her feet. He pushed himself upright, unable to take his eyes off her.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness!’ she said and the emotion in her voice made his eyes prick. He sat on the edge of the table, his legs swinging free, and carefully moved his arm, rotating the hand a little, looking across at her, full of awed happiness.

  ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’ she said.

  It did. Not as much as before but that intense relief was wearing off and he could feel a low, pulsating ache returning, spreading out from deep inside the socket, dull and hot, almost pleasurable after his hours of agony, like pressing a thumb into a tender muscle.

  ‘Yes – but not so much, not now,’ and he gave a puff of relief.

  An understanding seemed to leap between them, all the more thrilling because they both knew he should not be here but then she swayed and took a step back, leaning on the bar that ran along the front of the range and gave him a tired little smile. Perhaps he’d been wrong.

  He pushed himself off the table, extending a hand towards her. She placed her fingers tentatively on his palm. He bowed at the waist, touching his lips on the back of her hand, then straightening up with a small click of his heels.

  * * *

  ‘I think I could do with a bit of that poteen,’ Millie said, her eyes darting around, unable to look at him. The instant he stood before her, cured and able-bodied, she was filled with anxiety. It was as if she’d flung petrol onto a fire and realised a split second before disaster that she was standing too close to the flames. She felt an urgent need to hide her fear from him in case her weakness encouraged attack.

  She snatched up his tumbler, turning her back on him to take another from the shelf. If she filled both and showed him another kindness, his gratitude would keep her safe for a little longer.

  The neck of the bottle rattled on the edge of the glass and she steadied it with her hand. She was horrified at her own recklessness. She hadn’t imagined what would happen when he was no longer helpless. She was now utterly at his mercy.

  * * *

  Lukas watched her, saw how her hand trembled as she poured the spirits. She had every reason to be afraid; he knew what people did to collaborators.

  He was eight years old when the French left the Rhur. Women who collaborated with the enemy were beaten, their heads shaved, paraded through the streets like convicts. With a kind of thrilled horror, he’d pawed his way through the picture papers lying around the house, and images like that, they stay in a young boy’s head.

  He began to feel exceptionally hot, panicked even by the thought. His flying overalls were designed for the icy cockpit, not a room with a hot range and now blazing fire. He plucked at the zip but it stuck halfway down. In a frenzy of claustrophobia he tried to work an arm free but a grunt of effort escaped and she turned.

  ‘It does not move,’ he said.

  She hesitated, indecision creasing her brow. She chewed at the side of her cheek and he pulled feebly at the zip before giving her another pleading look.

  She gave a small, tight sigh before approaching him and taking the toggle. As she struggled, she moved nearer, close enough for him to hear her breathing, smell the scent of wood smoke in her hair, something lemony rising from her skin. He gazed at the top of her head, her hair piled up in thick bundles, black as the wing of an alpine chough, the tip of a hairpin nestling in the mounds. If he bent his head, ever so slightly, he could catch it in his teeth, pull it free and see if her hair tumbled down across her shoulders.

  He twitched his gaze away, aware that such thoughts had no place here. She took a step back, her hands on her hips.

  ‘It’s no good,’ she said. ‘The metal’s bent. We may be able to get it over your shoulder. Here, sit down – the bad arm first.’

  Obediently he went to the chair in front of the fire, still supporting his elbow. His shoulder didn’t feel entirely stable, his body thrumming with the memory of the trauma. He had to let her try, wanted to let her try, but as she began to pull the overalls behind his shoulder, the tension of the fabric drew his arm towards his ribs and he winced.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ she said stepping back and pushing aside a twist of hair that had fallen into her eyes, her black brows puckering with frustration.

  ‘Cut it,’ he said.

  She was staring at the jacket under his overalls. He glanced down at the Junker badge pinned on his Fliegerbluse, the eagle flying through a laurel wreath, a swastika in its claws. This was surely too power
ful a symbol for her to ignore.

  He narrowed his eyes, still as a cat, waiting for her to realise her folly. She should be hurrying him out into the snow, barring her door against him until daybreak when she could report him, not helping him to cool down in the hot room.

  She lifted her gaze but the focus of her eyes seemed to change as if she was seeing something beyond him. Was she considering the consequences? Helping a fellow human in pain is one thing but now… He started to get to his feet.

  ‘I go,’ he said.

  She shook her head, held her hand up and he sank back into the chair.

  She went over to her sewing box and snatched up a ferocious pair of shears, the type that could take off a finger. As she approached, he felt himself recoiling ever so slightly until the teeth of the shears began to crunch through the tough fabric, cutting an opening parallel to the zip.

  Instead of gazing at her as she worked, he stared into the fire over there, trying to make out the room on the other side as the flames flickered across the low beams. He thought it must be a good room, tucked away but still connected to the kitchen. He wondered why no one else was here. Did she have a father or brothers who were fighting, or did she have a husband…? A chill clamped his heart. He stole a glance at her hand.

  Yes, there it was, a simple gold band.

  He shut his eyes momentarily and prayed, dear God, let her not be a widow. Let him not be one of those poor souls we strafed and bombed on the French beaches.

  His first mission was over Dunkirk but the weather was bad. A foul cloud of smoke and fog rose up into the clouds like the plume from a giant volcano and as they neared, they saw British fighters attacking their Stukas and escorts.

  His Gruppe had been waiting for months. Their commander made them hold back only allowing an engagement when the odds were in their favour. At first he had to content himself strafing military convoys and lines of soldiers beneath him as they waited in the water for boats. He longed to test himself, to claim a victory in the air but it was hard to engage with the British, so determined were they to bring down the bombers.

  The weather began to deteriorate and they were ordered back to base. As he skirted round the ominous clouds billowing up from the burning oil tanks thousands of feet below, a Spitfire burst out ahead of him, flying in the same direction. To his astonishment, the undercarriage was down.

  For a split second he thought the pilot was preparing to land. Instead, the plane began a slow dive beneath him, levelled out and flew low over the water, the wheels almost clipping the waveless swell of the ocean. Had his undercarriage stuck? Whatever the reason, the plane was heading home.

  Lukas craned around in his seat, looking for the rest of the British formation. The Spitfire was on it’s own. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  His heart began to drum in his chest as he made a steep turn, full throttle, the stick hard against his leg. He swooped down on the other plane, squeezing the firing button. The cannons rattled. Neat balls of fire hammered out in front of him, snaking towards the Spitfire. It reared up, banking hard to escape. A white plume of glycol trailed behind it as it turned towards him. Lukas climbed steeply to avoid the guns.

  He banked and looked down. The Spitfire started a cumbersome climb. It was giving chase. The pilot was mad. He couldn’t possibly outmaneuver Lukas in this dogfight, not with the undercarriage down.

  The white plume blackened. The plane was on fire.

  ‘Eject,’ Lukas growled in his throat.

  Seconds later, the cockpit of the Spitfire glowed orange with flame.

  In that moment, Lukas lost the thrill of the fight. He felt the other pilot’s panic. He held his breath. The cockpit flew open and the flames torched higher. The plane dropped like a stone. The small black body seemed to hang above it, motionless for a few seconds before accelerating towards the ocean.

  ‘Open your ’chute,’ he muttered through gritted teeth, unable to tear his eyes away from the tumbling figure.

  It opened, flicking the figure back and forth like a rag doll. Lukas felt a wave of relief. As the Spitfire plummeted towards the sea in a ball of flame, he turned for home, his emotions in turmoil. His first kill but it hadn’t been a fair fight.

  His return to base was a shambles, the weather closing in behind him like a grey door, the strained voices of his fellow pilots in his earpiece, desperately trying to find their way back to base. Instead they ditched in fields across Belgium and Holland, flopping down on their bellies, nothing official said afterward.

  Lukas didn’t register the kill.

  * * *

  She’d cut down as far as his waist and paused, standing up and stepping back. He eased the sleeve off and began to push the overalls down, past the trousers of his uniform, until they pooled over the top his boots. He knew he looked ludicrous with them piled at his ankles, as if he was relieving himself and he fought to get his feet free.

  ‘My boots,’ he said.

  He looked up at her. Her mouth twitched, she cleared her throat and bent down to help. Was she laughing at him? She pulled one boot off, then the other. He lifted out of the chair, stepping first on one leg then the other until she pulled the jumpsuit clear and he was free.

  The room was heating up and the effort was making him hot. She was pulling her cardigan off too and he saw she was wearing a man’s shirt, thick and checked, tucked into her corduroy trousers, accentuating her waist.

  ‘And the Fliegerbluse,’ he indicated the grey jacket he wore underneath.

  He sat down again and struggled with his right hand to undo the placket. She came forward, her fingers searching for the concealed buttons. He worked the jacket over his shoulder and looked up at her for help, turning in the chair so that she could free his arm, leaning forward to let her pass the jacket behind his back.

  She was undressing him and the thought was so beguiling, it made him tremble. He imagined her sliding the braces over his shoulders, undoing the buttons of his shirt and slipping her hand…

  ‘I do it,’ he said, abruptly standing and letting the jacket drop to the floor. She stooped and gathered up the clothes, holding his gaze for a moment longer than he expected. It was as if she could read his thoughts and he felt a glow of embarrassment creep across his face.

  She took the bundle and laid it on the ladder-backed chair. Had he been too abrupt? He saw her trace her finger along the edge of the badge, unpin it and study it. She cranked her mouth to the left, chewing the inside of her lip, and he moved towards her, holding out his hand.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘My Junker badge is important.’

  ‘You need a sling,’ she said, flicking the badge with a fingernail and handing it to him. ‘Wait here,’ and she disappeared down the corridor.

  He pushed the badge into the pocket of his trousers and waited, his head hanging.

  This was madness. He was deep behind enemy lines. This girl had shown him incredible compassion but now his intense distress was over, how long would it be before she turned against him and reported him to the authorities?

  He must leave, tonight – but when she walked into the kitchen carrying a short roller towel to use as a sling, his resolve peeled away.

  Chapter Ten

  Lukas winced as he lifted his arm away from his body but as soon as he’d slid his hand through the towel and let it take the weight of his forearm, the sense of relief comforted him. At that moment his stomach gave an undignified grumble. He pressed his hand against his midriff in a forlorn attempt to calm it and she smiled.

  ‘When did you last eat?’ she said.

  ‘I do not remember. In France.’

  ‘You must eat. I didn’t think to ask you. I’m sorry.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You are very kind but I ask you please, never say, “I am sorry.”’

  She didn’t reply – instead she picked up a lamp and went over to a door at the back of the kitchen. She disappeared into another room and he heard the scrape of a dish on slate, caught
the smell of stored apples seeping into the room.

  She reappeared with a white enamelled dish and put it on the table. It had potatoes in it, interleaved with slices of a bright pink, mottled meat he couldn’t identify. He didn’t care. As he watched her scoop a few spoonfuls onto a plate, his mouth filled with saliva. She went over to the bread bin, took out half a loaf and cut a thick slice.

  ‘I have no butter,’ she said.

  ‘Bread is good.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  He took the slice she’d cut and used it to push the meat onto his fork. He wanted to cram it into his mouth but he controlled himself, forced himself not to eat greedily. The meat was soft with fat and very salty.

  The dog gave a bark from the other room, not the savage noise he’d made in the barn but a softer sound. Lukas knew that bark. The dog had smelt food and was reminding them he was still there.

  ‘I must let Gyp back in,’ she said. ‘He’ll go on barking if I don’t.’

  Lukas shrugged. He was less helpless now and willing to risk it.

  She went through to the outer room and reappeared, grasping the dog by the collar, leading him directly into the darkness of the sitting room next door and he heard her telling him to sit.

  ‘It is all right,’ Lukas said from the kitchen, ‘he needs to see who is here.’

  She appeared out of the darkness, patting her hand on her thigh, whispering to the dog to stay close. The dog watched Lukas but didn’t growl. Lukas looked away and held his hand out, letting it come across and sniff him. He heard it prowling around the back of the chair, its claws clicking on the stone floor. Lukas held up a piece of meat and looked at the girl for permission.

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  He offered the meat to the dog who sidled round the chair, thrusting its muzzle towards the morsel before taking it with a well-trained caution, backing away and sniffing around the flagstones in case a few crumbs had fallen.

  ‘We are friends now. Yes?’ Lukas said to the dog. It sat and watched him eat, silver threads of saliva stretching down from its jowls. The girl also watched him and eventually said, ‘Where did you learn to speak English?’