Eagle Day - Robert Muchamore Page 0,44
similar to American Jeeps or British Land Rovers.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After six days on the farm the fake family had established a routine. Henderson complained to Vivien and Luc Boyle about the state of the farm, which pressured the couple into action. They arranged for a local handyman to do some repairs on the cottage, donated a goat, some chickens and a third cow.
The land was still a mess, but the cottage was now sealed from the rain, while warm weather and fanatical ventilation were gradually clearing the stench of damp and mildew. The previous tenants had sown a vegetable patch and two fields of potatoes in the spring and, while the crops had been neglected, there were still enough vegetables for a family to get by on.
The chickens gave eggs and Marc had cleaned out the cowshed and got the two adult cows into a regular milking schedule. He felt proud because they were the first things he’d ever been entirely responsible for.
On weekdays Henderson left at seven and rode into Calais, where he worked as a translator at German headquarters. Maxine and the kids did small jobs around the farm each morning, though their lack of expertise meant that they concentrated on tidying up rather than any serious attempt to clear the overgrown land and bring the farm back to full-scale production.
The local schools had closed before the invasion and because there were few pupils and even fewer teachers they showed no signs of reopening. So after making lunch Maxine would set the kids free. Paul liked to wander off on his own, with a large pad and a tin of coloured pencils and pastels that Henderson had bought from a Calais pawnbroker.
Paul had lived in Paris all his life and he was fascinated by the coast. There was a stretch of pebble beach a few minutes’ walk from the farm and a craggy expanse of white stone behind it. He liked to sit alone and draw, but he liked it more when the Germans arrived.
They came in convoys of open trucks, formed lines and did light physical training exercises before stripping to their shorts and heading down to the sea. Paul buried himself behind rocks, and sketched the men.
He’d always thought of the German Army as a mighty force packed with muscle-bound brutes, but stripped of boots and guns they reminded him of a school gym lesson. Confident bodies threw themselves at the waves, while big men with flabby arms looked embarrassed and skinny ones who didn’t like walking on the pebbles hobbled.
Paul drew men quickly, in a few rapid strokes, trying to capture expressions and postures of the sea-front drama. A non-swimmer was dragged out yelling and screaming as his mates on the shore jeered. They yelled phrases that Paul didn’t understand; their bullying tone matched that of boys who’d pushed him around at school in Paris.
Paul found it depressing to think that when he finally escaped from education, he was sure to be conscripted into the military and would have to put up with the same bullying crap all over again. As Paul wallowed in this train of thought he failed to hear the German officer clambering over the white rocks in the blind spot on his left.
The first he knew was when a boot crunched a few metres from his face, sending chalkstone clattering down the shallow cliff-face. The officer was a good-looking man, with a square jaw and spindly fingers.
Fearing a slap or kick, Paul dropped his pad and covered his head.
‘Don’t be scared.’ The officer smiled, speaking in decent French, ‘I see you have the sling off your arm today.’
Paul was shocked. He thought he’d been invisible, but the German had clearly seen him before.
‘Max— Er, my mother took the splints off last night,’ Paul explained warily, as he held out a lower arm with a distinct kink in it. ‘It hasn’t set straight, but luckily I draw with my left hand.’
‘Like me,’ the German said, still smiling. ‘I’m left-handed, but every time I took the pen with my left at school the teacher would rap me on the knuckles.’
‘Same with me.’ Paul nodded, feeling more comfortable now it was clear that he wasn’t in trouble. ‘It’s really stupid. What difference does it make if you write with your left hand?’
‘Beats me.’ The officer shrugged. ‘So what do you think of today’s swimmers?’
Paul sat up on the rocks as he answered. ‘They’re not as good as the ones you had here last week.’
‘That’s an