Free Assignment in Brittany by Helen MacInnes Page B

she said.
    Hearne reached Henri at the seventh row of trees in the orchard. The old man was kneeling down under the third tree in that row, fumbling away at the turf. It had already been neatly cut. After that, the digging didn’t take long. The linen-covered rifle and the knotted sock were laid side by side, and covered with the rich black earth. Henri himself replaced the jigsaw puzzle of turf. Watching the gnarled hands fitting each diamond of grass into its proper place, Hearne knew that Henri had been expecting the Germans. So had Madame Corlay. Only Albertine, the most practical and efficient of them all, had been caught surprised. The Germans were at Rennes, they were at Combourg and Dol and Dinan, they had long ago reached Saint-Malo and the coast, they had flooded the whole of Brittany to the very western islands like some powerful, turbulent tide pouring over broken dykes into a flat plain-land. Nothing could stop them once the dykes were down. Yet Albertine had had her own reasons, her own brand of wishful thinking. In Rennes and Dol? But of course: these were important towns. In Saint-Malo? Of course: the ships were there. In the villages down on the plain? Why, that could be understood: the farms there were rich, and there were a lot of things to be bought. Bought? Well, paid for anyway, even if the money was foreign-looking. But up here in Saint- Déodat the farms only kept the people of the district. Kept them comfortably? Well, no one starved, certainly. But then no one was idle. Every one worked, and worked hard, for what they had, and that was only enough for the people of Saint-Déodat. There was nothing left over for anyone else. They were all peaceful, hardworking people on this hillside, owing no man anything. Why should they be disturbed?
    When Hearne got back to the kitchen, Albertine was placing the last thin disk of baked dough into a division of the long wooden rack which had so puzzled him on the morning of his arrival.
    “I’ve sent Henri to the village,” he said.
    “He’s got to dig the west field.” The way she handled the rack told him she was annoyed. She was resentful over the wasted pancake, and she was more scared than she would allow by Henri’s news. The rising note in her voice showed just how she was going to get rid of her anger.
    He cut her short. “Henri can dig for potatoes another day. This morning he is in the village, and he is going to find out for us if the Germans are going to stay there, or if they are just passing through. If the potatoes worry you, I’ll dig them for you. And now you’d better tell my mother about everything. And tell her to keep calm: worrying won’t help us at this stage.” He turned on his heel, and left the kitchen. That certainly stopped the argument he could feel brewing. But what on earth was she staring at?
    As he walked up to the field, he was still wondering.
    Henri had left the spade stuck into a ridge of earth. There was another implement, too. Probably a hoe, or a mattock, Hearne decided. Not that it mattered much: there was no onehere to see his raw technique. He smiled grimly. Once he had done this sort of thing for Saturday pennies in a kitchen-garden behind a Cornish rectory. Now he was doing it partly to keep Albertine quiet, partly to be out in the open with a good view of the path from the village.
    He worked for three hours. Twice Albertine had come to the kitchen door and looked up the hill. He gave her a cheery wave, before he bent over a neat row of potatoes once more. The second time she gave a small wave back.
    It was hot now, for the sun was directly above him. Soon it would be time for dinner, and Henri’s return. The old man never missed a meal. But there was still no sign of anyone on the path. The sun’s rays seemed to be concentrating on this patch of ground. The heat gathered in the earth round him and then struck backwards at him. This was the time when a farmer should have a mug of cider under the coolness