V2 A Novel of World War II - Robert Harris Page 0,55
them up carefully as if they were pieces of treasure. She opened the egg box to reveal three small white eggs and showed them wordlessly to her husband.
‘It isn’t much,’ said Kay. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Vous êtes très gentil,’ said Dr Vermeulen. He looked forlorn. ‘Forgive us,’ he said suddenly in English. ‘We told them we would prefer not to take you. My wife has – how do you say it?’ He tapped his heart. ‘Angine.’
‘Angina?’
‘Oui, angina – of course, from the Latin. And my son is also not in good health. But, as you say, here you are, and we must make the best of it. Perhaps it will not be for long.’ He gestured. ‘Your coat, please. Sit. Be warm.’
She took off her coat and handed it to him, then perched on one of the chairs and held out her hands to the stove. So he could speak English after all, she thought, and quite well by the sound of it. She wondered why he had pretended otherwise.
There was a loud tapping behind her. She turned and let out a cry of surprise. At the window of the back door a man’s distorted face was pressed close to the frosted glass.
‘Do not be alarmed,’ said Vermeulen. ‘It is only my son.’
He unlocked the door. A young man limped in carrying a small sack. He dumped it on the table, turned immediately to Kay and took off his cap, releasing a mop of thick dark hair, cut short at the sides but long on the top.
Vermeulen said, ‘This is Arnaud.’ He said something quietly to him in Flemish.
The man bowed to her, took her hand and kissed it. He was about her own age, middle twenties, very pale but good-looking. His face was wet from the rain. Hunger had given him sharp features, she thought. His eyes were dark and full of life. In a thick accent he said in English, ‘A pleasure to meet you.’ He rummaged through the sack and held up four potatoes still covered in wet soil. He winked and smiled in triumph: ‘Voilà!’
Kay smiled back. He has stolen those from someone’s garden, she thought.
At the prospect of food, the Vermeulens became almost merry. Arnaud took off his wet jacket, sat and started tugging off his boots. Mrs Vermeulen washed the potatoes at the sink, put them in a saucepan and set it on the stove. She opened the can of meat stew and tipped it into a second saucepan. The doctor went next door into what looked to be a freezing, darkened parlour and returned with a bottle of advocaat. He poured four tiny glasses and handed them round. He proposed a toast – ‘À l’amitié!’ – and Kay clinked her glass with each of theirs. The sweet and eggy drink reminded her of custard, and therefore for some reason of Christmas, which made her briefly maudlin.
They sat around the stove and watched the potatoes boil. Vermeulen said bitterly, ‘The Nazis took all our potatoes before they left – as if they don’t have potatoes in Germany!’
Mrs Vermeulen served the stew and potatoes. The doctor poured another thimbleful of advocaat. They ate in hungry silence, Arnaud with his head down over his plate. When he had finished, his mother gave him what was left of her own meal and he wolfed that down as well. Once or twice Kay looked wistfully at the rest of the food she’d brought, but it seemed the Vermeulens wished to keep it for another day. At this rate of consumption, it would last them for a week. She reproached herself for even thinking about it: she could always find something at the officers’ mess tomorrow. When they were finished, Mrs Vermeulen cleared the plates, then cut them each a square of the hard and milkless British army chocolate.
Arnaud said, in French, ‘Why are you in Mechelen, may I ask, mademoiselle?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not allowed to say.’
‘But you are based somewhere close to here?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know where it is. I’m supposed to be on duty at eight tomorrow morning and I’m not even sure how to get there.’
‘Why, then we can draw you a map! What is the name of the street – can you tell us that?’ He grinned at her. ‘Or is it also secret?’
‘I believe it’s called Koningin Astridlaan.’
‘But we know it, of course! The main road in the south. That’s where the Boche had their headquarters.’