‘It’s no big deal.’ He dropped his empty coffee cup into the bin beside the bench before checking the time on his watch. His very expensive-looking watch, Darcie noted. He gave her an apologetic look. ‘Sorry, but I’ve got to head off now. Thank you for letting me take your picture.’
Darcie was undeniably disappointed Matt was leaving, but she thanked him again and stayed sitting on the bench as he headed off down the hill.
Chapter 9
Nathalie
My heart was thumping in my chest. Were these the people we were meeting or had we been caught by someone else? They wore peaked caps, pulled low and shielding their eyes. One had a moustache and the other two had varying degrees of stubble.
‘It’s all right, it’s Rachelle Grandis,’ said the man, standing to the left.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ said Rachelle.
I noted a hint of annoyance in her voice, as if she was put out they were even questioning her being there.
‘Who is that?’ The first man waved his gun in my direction, and I felt my knees wobble for a moment.
‘That’s my cousin. Nathalie Leroux,’ replied Rachelle. ‘Now, are you going to let us through?’
‘You can come, but she can’t,’ replied the man.
‘Well, she can’t stay here on her own,’ said Rachelle. She reached back and took my hand. ‘Besides, if my brother finds out you’ve left our cousin alone in the forest, then he won’t be very happy.’
It was the mention of Rachelle’s brother that made me realise what we were doing. We had come to the forest to see Gaston.
‘Just let her through,’ said the man who had spoken the second time.
‘You’re not supposed to turn up with uninvited guests,’ said the first man.
‘Then my brother will tell me so when he sees me.’ Rachelle returned the glare of the man but eventually he relented, albeit with a huff, and set off further into the forest. Rachelle followed, with me in tow.
It wasn’t long before we encountered another sentry. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Don’t ask. She’s Gaston’s cousin,’ replied the first man, and he carried on walking, ducking down under a low-hanging branch.
We rounded the corner where the path opened out into a clearing. I was amazed at what I saw. It looked like a small village. There was a fire in the centre, with a kettle hanging over it by a tripod of three sticks. Several men were sitting around it, smoking and talking. On the other side were several huts made of sticks, moss, and leaves. Sacking hung at the openings.
The chattering among the men at the campfire stopped when they saw us, or should I say, when they saw me. A stranger to them. They got to their feet.
The first man– whose name I still didn’t know– called out to them. ‘It’s all right. Gaston’s cousin, apparently. Someone get him.’
A younger lad, probably about my age, jumped to his feet and jogged over to one cabin. I could hear him talking in low tones, although I couldn’t make out what he was saying. The next moment, the cloth door was flung open and my dear cousin Gaston appeared in the opening.
He was pulling his shirt over his head and then smoothing down his hair. ‘Nathalie!’ He cried in surprise and delight.
He strode over, kissing a greeting to his sister, and then after kissing me, he pulled me into a big hug, just like he always did. He held me at arm’s length and grinned at me. ‘Well, this is a surprise.’
I could almost hear the audible sigh of relief from the men in the camp. It seemed Gaston had some sort of influence here, and his enthusiastic greeting to me had reassured them. They went back to whatever they had been chatting about before.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked Rachelle. ‘I didn’t know you were coming tonight.’
‘I have a message,’ replied Rachelle.
I looked at my cousin in surprise as I realised Rachelle, too, had a part in the Resistance. It wasn’t just her brother. I wondered if Clarice knew. I waited for Rachelle to speak.
‘I was in the village today and I saw Monsieur Abreo. There’s a supply train leaving the Ploërmel station tomorrow at midnight.’
‘Did he say what they were moving?’ the voice of another man interrupted us. One I hadn’t heard before. It had a faint accent to it, British or possibly American. I looked beyond Gaston as the man approached. He was wearing traditional French clothes, but even in the dim light of the lantern Gaston was holding, I could see they didn’t fit him that well. The trousers were a little on the short side, and the man must be six feet tall at least.
