Page 29 of The French Wife

She cleared her throat. ‘Raoul?’ she said. She didn’t know his surname. Raoul was unlikely to be his real name either, but it was the only one she knew.

He started and looked round at her. ‘Yes?’ he snapped, making it quite plain her intrusion was far from welcome.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have something here I thought might interest you.’

He turned round in his chair and looked up at her without smiling. He shrugged and she saw impatience in his dark eyes.

‘You know I work in the mairie, don’t you?’ she asked.

He frowned. ‘No, your husband didn’t mention that.’

It didn’t surprise her. Bruno had such low regard for her work he would probably not have thought of the possibilities presented by her working for the Germans.

‘Yes, and today I was given a document to type up. It’s in German, but I know it’s about troop movements.’

Raoul’s eyebrows shot up and his whole body stiffened. He stood and leaned against the desk opposite her and folded his arms. Now he was giving her his full attention. ‘That’s very interesting indeed,’ he said. ‘I would like to see that.’

Amélie fished her makeup bag out of her handbag, took out the powder compact, and extracted the folded papers from inside. They were covered in flesh coloured face powder. She shook off the worst of it and handed them to Raoul. He took them eagerly, unfolded them and stared down at the pages. He read them quickly, then looked up at her, for the first time a smile spreading slowly across his face.

‘This is incredible. We’ve been trying to get information like this for months. We can certainly use this to plan our future missions in the area. Thank you. Thank you very much, camarade.’

Amélie was surprised he’d used that term. Although she’d been helping with operations since Bruno had started taking in members of the Resistance early in the war, she’d always felt herself to be in the background, never worthy of being called a true camarade before.

‘It’s no problem,’ she said. ‘And now, I must go and prepare supper for everyone.’

She left him and headed for the steps, the gravity of what she’d done slowly dawning on her. People could die because of what was written on those pieces of paper; Germans and French alike. They would die because of her, because of what she’d done that day. The enormity of responsibility for that decision suddenly descended on her like a lead weight.

ELEVEN

EMMA

2010

Emma was making her way through the backstreets of St Marie-des-Champs. It was mid-morning, two days after she, Gaston and Pierre had discovered the cache of weapons in the cellar at Le Châtaignier. She’d received a text message from Paul Brodin, the detective, to say that his grandmother was at home that morning and expecting her, if she wanted to visit. So she’d said a quiet goodbye to Eliza, and left Gaston hard at work in the kitchen, sanding down the oak cupboards, and set off for the town.

Her mind was still going over and over the unsettling encounter on Monday evening with the strange old man in the far barn. She couldn’t get the image of his terrified, pale face out of her mind. He’d seemed petrified, his eyes wide, as if he’d seen a ghost. When he’d called her Amélie, shivers had gone through her, and she’d realised from the vacant look in his eyes that he must be living in the past, that his memory must have been playing tricks on him.

‘I’m not Amélie, I’m Emma,’ she’d said gently, her heartbeat slowing down. There was nothing for her to be afraid of. The old man was very confused, that was all.

‘Amélie is gone,’ he’d said, lifting his eyes to Emma’s face.

‘That’s right,’ Emma had said. ‘I live here now. I’ve just moved into the farm. Are you alright? Do you need a lift anywhere?’

There were no houses within several kilometres of the farm, so he would definitely have a long walk ahead of him.

‘No,’ he said, picking up the bucket. ‘I need to go now.’

‘What is your name?’ she asked. Perhaps Gaston would know something about this old man and could explain why he was hanging around the farm.

‘Étienne,’ he said. ‘Étienne Moreau. I work here.’

She smiled and stood aside for him as he barged past her and out of the stall, holding the bucket which clanked against his legs.

‘She won’t be coming back, Amélie. Not ever.’ Then he’d disappeared out of the barn and turned left, away from the house.

Her scalp prickling at the strange words Étienne had said, Emma had followed him at a discreet distance. As the last remnants of daylight faded from the sky, she watched him disappear into the forest on the path she’d followed a few days beforehand. She’d been relieved in a way. The figure she’d seen heading for the forest on her first evening at the farm was definitely Étienne Moreau. Knowing that settled her mind. She had nothing to fear from a confused old man.

In the morning, when Gaston returned, she’d asked him if he knew anything about Étienne Moreau.