Page 39 of The French Wife

‘We have plenty of aspirin,’ Amélie said.

‘Good.’ Henri took the part-used syrette from the pack and showed her how to inject the morphine. ‘It is very simple,’ he said.

‘How will I know when she needs more?’ Amélie asked.

Henri nodded gravely. ‘She will let you know when the pain comes back.’

Raoul’s hand landed on her shoulder. ‘Merci, madame,’ he said. ‘We are very grateful for your help.’

FOURTEEN

When the men had gone, Amélie gently removed the young woman’s torn and bloodied jacket, shirt and trousers, and examined her injuries. There were cuts and bruises all over her torso, but most worrying of all were two long, open wounds, one running all the way down her right arm and shoulder, and another down her right thigh and calf, where the branches of a tree must have ripped through her flesh when she landed. The skin had peeled back almost to the bone in places. Amélie fetched water from the bathroom and bathed the wounds. They were full of dirt and minute particles of tree bark, which she had to pick out with tweezers. After applying antiseptic cream and bandaging the injuries, she brought a glass of water and made the girl drink some, ensured she was as comfortable as possible, then fetched a chair and a blanket from her own bedroom, as well as a candle so she could switch off the electric light and let the girl sleep.

She decided the safest thing to do was to sit beside the girl’s bed all night. She seemed to have suffered some sort of concussion and Amélie wanted to make sure she didn’t slip into unconsciousness.

She didn’t often come into this room. It held too many memories. She’d had it decorated as a nursery when she first became pregnant, a couple of years into her marriage. She’d had no idea if the baby would be a boy or a girl, so she’d chosen a baby-blue wallpaper decorated with pink cherubs, ribbons and bows, so it would work for either. Looking at the faded wallpaper more than ten years later, she recalled how excited she’d been ordering a crib from a carpenter in St Marie, but by the time it was finished, complete with its silk, padded lining, and a gliding rocking mechanism, she’d lost the baby.

She’d stayed in bed for days afterwards, physically drained and mentally hollow. She’d thought she’d been as low as she could get, but the day they took delivery of the crib had been one of the hardest days of her life. She vividly recalled standing at the bedroom window and watching the carpenter arrive in his van, Bruno rushing out to help him unload it. She was still standing in the same spot when they brought it into the room. She’d felt numb – too numb to move – and the lump constricting her throat meant she couldn’t speak. The man was clearly too uncomfortable to even look at her and once the crib was installed, he’d shuffled off without a word.

‘We’ll try again,’ Bruno had said, stroking her face. He could be tender in those days.

They’d tried again, and again, but each time had been the same. However much care she took of herself, however much rest, healthy food and fresh air she got, at around four months she’d felt that same cramping feeling in her abdomen and with creeping dread had known what it meant.

She shook herself now. It wasn’t meant to be. She mustn’t think about it. She was here to look after this girl, not to dwell on the past.

Peering down at the sleeping face by the flickering light of the candle, Amélie wondered what had brought this English girl here to this remote, but dangerous, part of France. She didn’t look like a hardened partisan. On the contrary, she had soft hands and delicate skin and looked as though she’d led a fairly pampered life. Her pretty features, with blue eyes and a pale complexion, contrasting with her dark, curly hair, marked her out as an English rose. She was young, probably in her early twenties, Amélie guessed.

At some point late in the evening, the girl blinked awake and gave Amélie an unfocused sort of smile, but she didn’t speak, only staying awake long enough to drink more water. As the hours ticked by, Amélie drifted in and out of sleep herself, and in between those interludes, she checked the girl’s breathing and her pulse. Towards the morning, as the weak light of dawn crept between the gaps in the shutters, Ivy seemed to be rallying. She began to mutter incoherently in English, then she tried to sit up.

‘Where am I?’ she asked in French, looking around her in confusion, only the faintest trace of an English accent in her voice.

‘You’re in France. At a farm in the Languedoc,’ Amélie replied. ‘You were parachuted in last night. You must have been injured when you landed.’

The girl passed a hand over her face. ‘I remember now. It was dark when we jumped. I had no idea we’d been dropped on the edge of a forest. My parachute must have strayed off course.’

‘You have some nasty cuts on your right arm and down your leg. I’ve tried to clean them up, but you’ll need to rest for a few days to let them heal.’

‘A few days?’ The girl sat up quickly, then gasped and winced in pain.

‘You need more morphine,’ Amélie said, ‘please, lie still.’

Ivy did as she was asked as Amélie, with trembling fingers, held the syrette at a shallow angle, pushed the needle into the girl’s stomach and emptied the tube.

‘There,’ she said, ‘that will soon dull the pain.’

‘Thanks,’ Ivy said, ‘but I must get up. There is work to do.’

Amélie shook her head. ‘Like I said, you will need a few days’ rest to heal. It is lucky you didn’t break any bones.’

‘That isn’t possible,’ Ivy said. ‘I’ve been sent here to take part in a mission.’

Amélie’s scalp prickled. This mission must have been ordered by London as a direct result of the information she’d typed out for Hauptmann Bauer and had given Raoul. It struck her forcefully that lives were already being risked because of what she’d done. This young girl and her companion could have died. Others probably would die in the coming days. How could she possibly live with the responsibility of deaths on her conscience?

Trying to banish those thoughts, she went to the window and pushed the shutters open, flooding the room with light. ‘It’s morning now. I’ll bring you something to eat and drink,’ she said. ‘And I’ll find you some fresh clothes.’

‘Where are Henri and Raoul?’ the girl asked. ‘I need to talk to them.’

‘I’ll ask them to come to you,’ Amélie said, leaving the room. She went downstairs to make breakfast for the girl, uneasy as she thought about what she’d unleashed.