V2 A Novel of World War II - Robert Harris Page 0,56

a pencil produced, and the three Vermeulens – with occasional disagreements in Flemish – put their heads together and drew her a plan of how to get there.

She studied the neatly labelled streets. The route was arrowed. ‘Is it far?’

Arnaud shrugged. ‘A fifteen-minute walk – no more.’

‘Thank you.’ She folded up the map and stowed it in her pocket. ‘And now, I think, as I have to get up early, I should go to bed.’

‘Of course,’ said Dr Vermeulen. ‘Let me show you to your room.’

As she bent to retrieve her coat, she was aware of Arnaud eyeing her.

‘Goodnight,’ she said.

‘Goodnight. Sleep well.’

In the hall, the doctor insisted on picking up her case. She looked around at the high ceiling, the religious artefacts, the big wooden doors. It seemed too formal for an ordinary home. ‘Is this where you see your patients?’

He laughed. ‘Je ne suis pas ce type de docteur!’ He opened the nearest door and turned on the light. She followed him in. It was a large study, of a sort familiar to her from Cambridge – a working library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves so crammed with volumes that they had overflowed into piles on the floor and desk. Heavy black velvet curtains, streaked with dust, were tightly drawn. There was a strong smell of old tobacco. ‘I taught at the University of Antwerp before the war. I am a doctor of philosophy – much use though that is these days.’

‘On the contrary, surely – we need philosophy more than ever.’

‘That’s true!’ He smiled at her – the first proper smile he had given that evening. It changed his face entirely. He was not as old as he first appeared, she realised.

On the desk were a few family photographs in silver frames, dating back to the last century: prosperous, solid citizens in fine clothes. In one, two boys posed on a beach, holding a football. She picked it up. The older she recognised at once by his thick dark hair as Arnaud. He looked about eighteen. His companion was a couple of years younger. The resemblance between the two was striking; even their expressions, squinting into the sun, were the same.

‘You have another son?’

She regretted her curiosity at once. His smile disappeared. He took the photograph from her. ‘That is Guillaume. He was killed in the war.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Thank you.’ He laid the photograph face down on the desk and gestured to the door. ‘Shall we?’

She followed his stooping back up the stairs to the first-floor landing. A second, smaller staircase led into the upper reaches of the house, but instead of climbing further, he led her along a gloomy passage. At the far end he opened a door and turned on an overhead light. The room was large and bare, with a rug, a brass bedstead, a nightstand, a plain chest of drawers, a simple wooden chair and escritoire, and a wardrobe. A pair of heavy velvet curtains, similar to those in the study, were drawn across the window. A crucifix hung above the bed. The pink tasselled lampshade provided a weak light. It felt as if the room had not been used, or even visited, for years.

‘The bathroom is there.’ Vermeulen set down the case and pointed across the passage. ‘I am sorry: there is no hot water. But Amandine can heat a kettle in the kitchen if you like.’

‘Really, there is no need. I am very sorry to put you to this trouble.’

He hesitated and managed a brief smile. ‘Alors – bonne nuit.’

‘Goodnight. Thank you.’

She listened to his slippers shuffling away, along the passage and down the stairs. She closed the door and surveyed the room. It was dry, at least, unlike the hut at Danesfield House, and it was private, but she would have given a lot at that moment to be back in England with the others, gossiping after their shift. A stupid thought! She shook her head to clear it. She could forgive herself any sin except self-pity. She lifted her case up onto the bed, opened it, and began unpacking, transferring her spare uniform to the chest of drawers and wardrobe. She laid out her white cotton nightdress on the counterpane. The slide rule and logarithm tables she placed on the escritoire. She had brought no civilian clothes, no book or photograph to remind her of home. She wound up her travel clock and set the alarm for six thirty, then parted the curtains and cupped her hands to the window. She