‘Not that I saw. But I can use this button at the bottom of the shirt. Just make sure you keep your shirt tucked into your trousers.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said with a mock salute. ‘I suppose I should take this off. Just thought I should warn you, so you’re not shocked this time.’
‘Who said I was shocked?’
There was that small smirk of amusement again, and this time his dark brown eyes danced with a sense of mischief. ‘My mistake.’
‘Yes.’
He looked at me for what seemed like a long second before he spoke. ‘You might want to let go of my shirt so I can take it off.’
I looked down and realised I was still gripping the bottom of the fabric. I pulled my hand away. ‘Hurry up. I haven’t got much time.’ I turned back and went over to the sewing machine, aware my heart was thumping just a little more than it should have.
‘Here, catch!’
The shirt came flying in my direction, landing almost in my face. ‘I don’t think anyone has ever given me their shirt like that before,’ I commented.
He lit another cigarette and went to sit down on the chair Gaston had vacated, but then as I wrinkled up my nose at the smell of the smoke, he stubbed it out on the ground. ‘Didn’t really want it anyway,’ he said.
I wasn’t sure if that was strictly true, but I appreciated the gesture. Within a couple of minutes, I had removed the bottom button and had sewn it onto the collar. I threw the shirt back at him and couldn’t help laughing when it hit the target, landing right in his face.
‘I guess I asked for that,’ he said.
‘Now I need to finish the jacket,’ I said, purposely averting my gaze as he changed.
‘There, I’m decent,’ he announced a few moments later. ‘That’s much better.’
‘Good. I am pleased to hear it. Now let me measure you for the sleeve.’
Without an actual tape measure, I had to hold the sleeve up against Marcel and pin the minor adjustments needed. ‘How come this jacket didn’t have a sleeve in the first place?’
‘Maybe it was damaged,’ suggested Marcel.
I paused mid-pin. ‘You mean ruined?’
‘Possibly. It is an authentic jacket,’ said Marcel. ‘But having it ripped and bloodstained would give the game away.’
I felt a little sick at the thought of another man, albeit a German, wearing this uniform and having his arm injured so badly the sleeve needed replacing. It reminded me of the reality of war. It was easy to forget young men on both sides were injured and killed daily.
It didn’t take me long to fit the sleeve into the jacket and repair the lining. ‘Where did these come from?’ I asked, handing the jacket over to Marcel.
Before he could answer, Gaston and Rachelle returned to the hut.
‘We have to hurry,’ said Rachelle. ‘Are you finished?’
‘Yes. Just this minute. I was waiting for Marcel to try it on.’
We all turned and watched Marcel shrug the jacket on and fasten the buttons. ‘How do I look?’ he asked, standing straight like he was on parade.
‘Perfect,’ I said enthusiastically and then realised my cousins had both looked at me. Rachelle raised an eyebrow. I pretended to study the jacket. ‘It’s a perfect fit. I was just asking Marcel where you got the jacket from.’
‘Need-to-know basis,’ said Gaston. ‘Now, you two had better get back to the farm. It’s nearly midnight. Do you need an escort?’
‘No. It’s fine, we can manage,’ said Rachelle.
‘Thanks for this,’ said Marcel, tugging off the jacket. ‘You’re pretty good at this sewing lark.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘Hope whatever you’re doing goes well.’
