Peter opened his eyes, trying to take in the sight of the gun, perhaps three inches from his face. Above him, someone stood, and as his vision cleared he realised it was a woman.
Woman? Well more like a girl of fourteen, fifteen if she was lucky; neat brown bobbed hair hanging off her face as she stared down at him, finger on the trigger and on the face of it ready to fire.
"Allemand?" she whispered, Peter seeing out of the corner of his eye that his comrades were still asleep deeper into the hayloft; only where he knew where they were. He mustn't give them away and she certainly hadn't found them yet it seemed. Allemand though? That meant 'German'. She must think he was a German.
He shook his head vehemently, trying to sit up without her thinking he was going for her. "No…" Peter replied, keeping his voice as calm and as low as possible for fear of a frightened shot. "Non….erm" he stuttered, trying to think as well. "Angleterre". Sometimes those songs came in useful although his mind was running ten to the dozen trying to think if he had anything in his kit bag, still slung over his body, that might identify him as English.
The girl eyed him suspiciously and roughly pulled some of the hay that had been covering him away, yanking the pistol out of its holder at his waist. He had buried his rifle in the hay too and she gestured with the gun down the ladder so he knew he had to move. He'd seen that look in people's eye before and any false move and that trigger would have been pulled.
"Angleterre?" she replied, looking him up and down as they reached the bottom of the ladder.
"Yes. Oui" Peter responded, turning round as he was backed towards the barn wall. That just about extended him to the entirety of his knowledge of the French language as outside he heard the rumble of an engine and it cut out just outside the door.
"Isobelle?" came another woman's voice. "Isobelle? Où êtes-vous?"
"Ici!" the younger girl replied, pushing Peter in the chest up with the barrel of the gun and he slid down to his haunches. "Dans la grange!"
He saw the small door open and another girl; no a woman, walk in, tall, wearing spectacles and the same brown hair, longer and tied neatly at the neck. Buxom he believed was the word he was looking for and she was perfect. So unlike Jeanie, but she was perfect in every way possible.
"Que faites-vous idiote?!" the older woman exclaimed snapping him out of his haze, Peter hearing the horror in her voice as she snatched the gun away from where it had been pointed at his forehead and his pistol out of the girl's other hand. He breathed a sigh of relief for a moment only to find the pistol, now in the elder's hand, pointing as his temple. "Allemand?" the older woman asked the younger.
"Anglais" she replied.
"Anglais?" came the intrigued response. "What is your name?" she asked.
"Peter" he said pleased that she at least had some words of English and if he complied with whatever she wanted, as he knew that pistol was loaded, he may just get away from here relatively unscathed and back into town if they could get their hands on that motorbike.
"Peter" the older girl considered. She was too young to be the child's mother. Sister, maybe? She whispered something that made the younger girl nod quickly and run from the barn.
"English soldier?" she began in a thick accent, looking him up and down. "It's not many a day you find one of you…."
"You speak English?" Peter asked, knowing it was a stupid question.
"Yes" she replied, fingers still flexing around the gun as she stood over him. "Or does it sound Dutch or Flemish to you?" A sarcastic Frenchwoman carrying a gun; two guns in fact. What more could he want?
"Alone?" she asked. Peter nodded quickly as that pistol was still far too close. "You came from the…." She struggled for the world. "Feu…Fire?"
"Yes" Peter stuttered. "The trucks that were blown up".
"I saw", she said, Peter realising she must have been the one riding the motorbike that he heard stop outside. He could hear sadness in her voice though and he wondered how much death she had seen herself. Most buildings that they had seen were near on ruin and what they saw of the farm house told them it needed repair. "I saw men run".
"A lot of them? Many?" he asked, hoping that they had been more survivors. "Four, perhaps five. Up!" He struggled to his feet feeling her hand under his elbow. Not gentle, but certainly not as rough as the other had been. "You want food?" she asked and he was flummoxed for a second. "English are our friends, no? Beside, I have your gun! Walk..."
She closed the door of the barn behind them, Peter still conscious of the fact he could see the brandished gun over his right shoulder until she opened up the door that led straight into the kitchen. "Sit" she said, gesturing at the table. He could smell freshly baked bread and, as a mug of coffee and a plate full of different breads and cheese was put in front of him, he felt guilty; picking up a roll as she placed a small pat of butter beside the plate, thinking he was about to tuck in when he had two friends, probably asleep but just as hungry as he was. He rested his hand back on the table.
"So you are tell me it's not one of you?" she asked, picking up a cloth as he looked up at her. "How many hiding?"
"Two" Peter replied. "Upstairs in the hayloft"
"'ayloft?" she asked, not understand that. She knew a lot of English words, even though her comprehension and grammar may not necessarily be spot on all the time, but 'hayloft' was new.
"In the…grange…." He replied, pointing out towards the barn and upwards.
She sighed, thumping the washcloth down into the sink. "For you I will not shoot. Yet. Now eat!" Peter took up his cup of sweet coffee and watched her move out of the doorway as he breathed in the smell, warming his hands. Why she found to trust him he would never know. He wouldn't hurt her, he knew that but how did she know?
It was moments later that Jack and George were shoved through the farmhouse door.
"Easy darlin'" Jack said, brushing down his sleeves in disgust at being manhandled and forced down into one of the kitchen chairs. George sat too, still half asleep. "Oh I see it!" Jack continued, seeing Peter dig into the bread, that was in fact slightly warm and just heaven. "What you been up to to get vat? Bin offerin' your favours? Don't tell me it was to vat huge one over there an' not ve pretty one?" He gestured over the other side of the room towards the girl who Peter still did not know what she was called.
"Jack…" Peter spat, spearing a piece of cheese with his fork, knowing she probably would understand most of what was being said about her. "Shut your mouth".
"Fuck off" he replied. "I much prefer the pretty little one that found you first".
"Found me first….?" Peter responded putting his fork down. "You were awake and you let that girl just put a gun to my head?!" Peter held his tongue, seeing his coffee cup get filled up a second time.
"I thought" Jack started, "that if we showed up ven she might just pull vat trigger. She looked mad enough! She looked even more beautiful wiv anger in 'er eyes!"
Peter breathed, still seeing the other girl pottering around, looking like she was preparing them some breakfast too. "Coops?"
"Don't look at me" he replied, scratching his day old beard. "I slept right through it and have just been rudely awoken with a pitchfork". Peter nearly laughed at the image as plates were put down beside his comrades and they were handed tin mugs too.
"So what's she said to you?" Jack asked, watching the woman as she walked around the sparse kitchen, tidying, putting dishes in the water.
"Not a lot" Peter replied, going back to the plate of bread and cheese.
"I still like the look of other one" Jack offered.
"Mate, don't. She's a child" George replied, gnawing his way through a buttered roll, as Jack just huffed and picked up a knife to dig into the food, seeing the younger girl arrive into the kitchen.
"Qu'allons-nous faire avec eux sœur?" Isobelle said, looking suspiciously at all three of them as they ate as though they had not seen food in weeks.
"Leur donner plus de café" she replied, her back to them, "et de leur offrir la salle de bain. Ils sont sales. Bouillir de l'eau et de voir si vous pouvez trouver le nouveau savon".
George was listening intently. "Something about what are we going to do with them, we're filthy, boiling water and soap and the bathroom", he whispered to the others, smiling up at Isobelle who had picked up the kettle and pushing the tin cup towards her. She actually smiled in response. "Starting off with more coffee though".
"How did you understand all of that?" Peter asked.
"My grandmother was French" George replied. "Can't say I'll get it all but…" he shrugged his shoulders and smiled at the girl again. "Merci beaucoup".
"An' you" the older girl replied, pointing between Jack and George, "can 'elp my sister carry the bath an' the water".
The three finished eating and as he heard the dishes going into the sink Peter wondered why she had not asked him to help. "Do you trust them with your sister?" he asked, seeing her turn and smile at him. "That's she's safe?"
"That's why she keeps the pistol and I do not have it? Yes?" she replied. "The rifle has no bullets".
Peter smiled getting up and walking across to where she was standing. She was pretty underneath those glasses; he was quite right. "Do you live here alone?"
"Isobelle. She is my sister. She has heart like fire. Papa. He was shot. Here" she said patting her own heart, shaking water off one of their dishes. "By a Frenchman".
"When?" Peter asked. There was clearly no sign of a mother either and it seemed that these two girls were all alone.
"Janvier. January" she replied, recalling that day far too well, hearing the commotion and finding her father's body in the yard and two men running away. She recognised the uniform and she knew. "The first day, he died."
Peter nodded solemnly. "I don't even know your name".
"Camille" she replied simply as he stood beside her, leaning against a worktop that he was not entirely sure would take his weight.
"Camille" he repeated. "Where did you learn English?" Peter asked.
"From books" she replied quietly. "Not from school. I stopped when I was fourteen. When the War she is over..."
"Is over" he corrected. "When the war is over. It isn't a man or woman".
"When the war is over" she repeated. "I am coming to England".
"Going" he said, again, unable to stop correcting her. English was the only subject at school that he liked and she didn't seem to mind him chipping in.
"Going to England to be teacher or nurse". She had decided after Papa died that she needed to make a life for herself outside this farm, outside this village, otherwise she would be stranded here for life. She wanted to spread her wings and explore and London seemed such an interesting place from the pictures she had seen in magazines.
"What about Isobelle?" Peter asked, thinking she was now playing parent to her younger sister.
"She will be married" she replied matter of factly. There was already a boy in town that she knew had his eye on her sister and he seemed respectful enough that she might allow a liaison.
"Won't you?" he questioned.
She just looked at him and laughed.
