The Silent Forest Read online

  Meanwhile Nora, Mary and the red-haired Bridget talked together on the other side of the yard. They were looking at him and giggling.

  ‘Merde,’ said Raoul, ‘I hate this shitty war.’ He, too, liked to rail against the Vichy government back home but only because he was a Bolshevik. As such, he could be political and dangerous.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ replied Thibaut, grimly.

  ‘If our generals hadn’t relied so heavily on the Maginot Line we wouldn’t be here now and my brother might still be alive.’

  ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’

  ‘They owe us.’

  ‘I don’t even want to think about it.’

  ‘We should have been better prepared.’

  ‘Nobody expected Hitler to Blitzkrieg us via Belgium.’

  ‘Only the Russians can save Europe now, you mark my words. Only they have a big enough army.’

  ‘Doesn’t exactly help you and me here.’

  ‘Okay, but watch what you do with that degreasing tank. It’s very dangerous.’

  ‘You know this how?’

  ‘It can catch fire. It’s definitely illegal. You shouldn’t apply heat directly to trichloroethane. They say it’s not inflammable but that’s not altogether true. Devaney is buying reconstituted liquid on the cheap. It isn’t right, I tell you, there’ll be a disaster. And by the way, in case you haven’t noticed, that Irish mademoiselle is sweet on you.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  *

  Back in the factory Thibaut did his best to learn the names of the chemicals that set his trachea on fire – sulphuric, nitric and hydrochloric acids. To walk back to his bench was to move through their bluish fog. He was scared and confused, not only by the filthy conditions in which he worked, but by the rash on the lower part of his arm; the skin prickled bright red. It was like a thousand stinging nettles. This was no ordinary rash due to heat – more often than not the workshop was extremely cold – but a more worrying inflammation. He suspected dermatitis.

  So quickly did he have to work, dipping jewellery in and out of different tanks full of evil-looking liquids, that it was all too easy to splash his hands and face without even noticing. His nails were perpetually black because there was only one small washbasin in one tiny toilet that served all the workers.

  Now his fingers craved to scratch the back of his wrists. Today a million itch mites were burrowing into his skin. His flesh was already scabby; he really had to work hard to ignore the constant distraction of his body. Scabies couldn’t have been much worse.

  Nora scratched herself, too. Because one of her jobs was to heat the vats of chromic acid every morning and polarize the lead anodes, she breathed in a lot of fumes whenever she stirred the hot, steamy liquid. The fine droplets of chromate salts collected in her nostrils where they had begun to burn her septum. Co-worker Mary, who had toiled in the factory for much longer, had already suffered a hole from one nostril to the other.

  Thibaut grew increasingly aware of Nora’s presence at the bench beside him. It was disturbing but somehow challenging. When he at last summoned the courage to smile at her he knew only one thing – he did for a second or two escape the hellish predicament in which they both found themselves. But it wasn’t that simple. Any momentary reprieve was immediately shattered by the arrival of a flatbed lorry loaded with brass, copper and steel billets at the front entrance of the factory.

  Devaney was all derogatory shouts suddenly.

  ‘What’s up, Frenchman? You daydreaming again? Go help unload the truck at once. Or you’ll be working nights again.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Devaney.’

  To disobey was to lose pay.

  ‘That a problem?’

  ‘No, Mr Devaney.’

  ‘Because if you ever lay a finger on Nora you’ll be in trouble. She’s mine.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself.’

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘You’re the boss, Mr Devaney.’

  ‘Because you do like her, don’t you?’

  ‘Want me to go, or not?’

  ‘Should I worry?’

  ‘Please let me pass, Mr Devaney.’

  But the foreman eyeballed him with a sense of simmering grievance that could only be said to be downright vicious.

  ‘Don’t step out of line, Frenchman. You remember that, or you could meet with an accident. All it takes is one word to the boss and you’re finished here.’

  Thibaut walked, head bowed, to the waiting lorry. There he climbed aboard a forklift truck and began to unload billets of metal on their wooden pallets. He’d never had any training in driving the clumsy vehicle apart from a few lessons from Devaney. No one had. They were expected to get on and do it. No wonder terrible accidents had occurred.

  It was then that Nora’s words came back into his head. They burned in his mind like all those acids in his throat. She was right: they had to look out for each other. For the foreseeable future they could be certain that no one would rescue them.

  Which meant seizing the initiative. They had to come up with a plan before this place killed them both. It mustn’t be too long. For now, though, he could only rack his brains as to how, not when, escape might happen. Nora should let him talk it over at once with Raoul.

  Monday 2 December 1940

  This is the first time I have ever held an incendiary bomb in my hands. It’s definitely a dud but I still finger it with care.

  It can’t weigh more than a bag of sugar.

  Frankly, it has to be insignificant next to a massive Satan bomb that can flatten a whole row of houses in seconds.

  This finned metal tube is no more than a very large firework.

  I couldn’t be more wrong.

  It was an incendiary bomb just like this that began the fire that burned Jack and Emmy to death. The Imperial Eagle on the side is a nice touch. It gives the stamp of officialdom to the business of killing innocent people.

  As if the dead care.

  My fingers pass from hole to hole in the bomb’s side. These let out the gas when the detonator begins to burn.

  So I’ve seen.

  Now I’m a Fire Guard, I know that these incendiaries have a weakness – they can be extinguished.

  6.30 p.m. It’s been nine days since the first raid on Castle Street. The bombers are back, which is why I’m standing on the roof of St Mary Redcliffe Church with Canon Sidney Swan and his trusty team of fire watchers – we’re all busting a gut to stop the roof catching fire and melting the lead. I have the tools and training. All I need now is the will to fight back.

  That’s not to say I don’t feel awfully exposed up here as fire rains down all around us. Together, we’re frantically priming our stirrup pumps. These bombs burn like mad for about a minute, but after that we can get in close enough to douse the flames with water and sand from our buckets.

  Tonight we’re going to fight like fury against ‘Firebomb Fritz’ to save a little bit of Bristol.

  THIRTEEN

  It never rained but it poured, thought Jo. First there was that queer business of Sam at Sarah Smith’s funeral, then the delusional Bruno with his accusations of murder and now here she was about to give herself a dreadful chill, to be sure. At least there was, by the sound of it, a happy and convivial atmosphere coming from Victoria House at 136 Barton Street, even if the pub’s windows were all painted black for the blackout.

  Why should she not believe it?

  All was obviously right with the world.

  What’s more, it was her night off from fire duty.

  Yes, but she did worry.

  Time to leave Bella round the corner in Victoria Street.

  ‘You watch over the motorcycle. Understood?’

  Bella curled a lip and immediately joined her on the pavement.

  ‘Just asking,’ said Jo, and threw her cap, goggles and gloves into the sidecar. Her gas mask she kept slung over her left shoulder.
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  Every roof and chimney glittered and glistened with frost. What’s more, the total absence of streetlights magnified the glorious, star-lit sky in a way not seen before the war. But she wasn’t here to wonder at the beauty of night-time Gloucester, she was hoping to solve a bit of a mystery.

  She gripped her No. 8 pocket torch. If she hesitated to shine it for long at the inky pavement, it was because replacement batteries were so damned hard to come by! Besides, given the obligatory piece of tissue pasted over its glass to dim its beam, it was next to useless, not least because she was forbidden by law to point it anywhere but directly at her feet, even when flashing it twice to hail a bus. That’s why so many pedestrians had taken to wearing reflective buttons, so that fewer people like her bumped into them.

  Many a male head turned the instant she entered the pub. She did not so much feel cold as chilled – one was less explicable than the other. Hers was an unfamiliar face in otherwise familial surroundings.

  It wasn’t just the sight of her shrivelled ear which she did nothing to hide.

  Not that anyone looked at her disfigurement for more than a second or two.

  One embarrassed, horrified glance at her ‘badge of shame’ proved sufficient, usually.

  Everyone soon resumed their drinking.

  Never said a word.

  She called for a stout at the bar. Some days she liked to drink until she could no longer stand; sometimes she lay on the ground in a drunken stupor while Bella sat like an incubus on her chest, keeping guard.

  Tonight could turn into one of those nights, if she decided to ‘let go’.

  Wouldn’t be the first.

  Wouldn’t be the last.

  Admit it, not much else dulled the pain that screamed silently inside her. The outbreak of war had brought some advantages, though. At least now she could visit a pub all by herself without being called a whore.

  ‘Hey there, you seen Noah lately?’

  The long-chinned barman wiped a glass with a rag.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I’m Mrs Jo Wheeler. Victoria House is his regular.’

  ‘Then know this, Mrs Wheeler, we don’t much care for the likes of you in here.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean him any harm. I’m a Fire Guard at the cathedral. I’m not here to cause any trouble.’

  ‘Those oilskins you’re wearing say different.’

  She had spoken too soon, it seemed. Not every publican thought lone women deserved a drink in wartime, not everyone thought she should ride a motorcycle, especially.

  ‘Listen, chum, I’m a friend of Noah’s. I’m worried about him, that’s all. I can’t find him anywhere on the streets any more.’

  The barman went on polishing the same glass with slow deliberate hands until it shone.

  ‘You asking me to rat on him?’

  ‘As I said, this is where he likes to come for a drink.’

  ‘Noah didn’t turn up to play skittles last Sunday.’

  ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘Never known him miss his eight o’clock game before.’

  ‘Can you think why?’

  ‘I’ve already said too much.’

  The barman shifted sideways to serve another customer. In that moment he might as well have been a mile away.

  With no clear strategy in mind Jo drank her stout and took a walk from one crowded room to another. An over-sized toucan with its comical red and yellow bill beamed at her from a Guinness advertisement, while the picture of a silver Grand Prix racing car hurtled across a wall. She started asking around but no one would say when they had last seen Noah. Not that they knew of. Not that they cared.

  That left the drunk, brawny man who sucked on his black Bakelite pipe and blew smoke in her face. He had a swarthy skin and a crooked nose, while his unmistakeably mean look was accentuated by an old burn above one eye whose lid drooped heavily. He tried to pat Bella’s head and cooed baby noises at her as she dodged his exceptionally large feet on the floor’s spongy sawdust.

  ‘Here poochy, poochy. Who’s a lovely doggy, then?’

  The presence of a canine reduced some people to simpletons, it seemed.

  You had to hear it to believe it.

  Did these people not know how to engage a miniature bull terrier in meaningful conversation?

  Had they no self-respect?

  Not that she could tell.

  Jo came to a stop before a dartboard. It might mean nothing. She could not honestly say, but her eyes stared hard at the wall. All she could tell was that they did not lie.

  A large blackboard hung behind the target on which someone had chalked lists of players and their scores. One particular name read 180 in blurred white dust.

  Back at the bar she signalled the barman for another bottle of stout.

  ‘You lied to me just now about Noah.’

  The barman’s look was both churlish and rude. His whole inconsiderateness had to be a little cynical.

  ‘I’m just not sure there’s any more to say.’

  ‘Noah played darts recently. His name and score are still chalked up on the blackboard over there.’

  ‘So he’s gone now.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Why would I tell you?’

  ‘You don’t seem very bothered about a vulnerable ex-RAF pilot whose lungs suffer in weather this cold.’

  ‘And naturally you are?’

  Jo left her bottle half drunk on the bar. It tasted too sour. Or she was about to lose her temper.

  ‘The slightest chest infection can soon end in pneumonia. If you see Noah in the next few days, tell him that Jo Wheeler misses their little chats every morning.’

  No sooner had she turned to go than the barman called after her.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Last I heard, our friend got himself a job. That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Seriously, you don’t want to know.’

  *

  The blacked out street struck her as doubly bleak and icy as Jo pulled on cap, goggles and gloves. Things were not much better on the motorcycle as she did her best to kick-start it into action with a hard thrust of her instep on the reluctant pedal. She had to wait for the 1096 cc, side-valve V-twin engines to burst into life with a great roar.

  Suddenly someone came striding round the corner. She might not have seen him at all in the night, had it not been for the cherry red glow of his pipe. At first she assumed that he stopped to take heed of the poster on the wall whose boss-eyed, black cat stared straight at him with the slogan: UNTIL YOUR EYES GET USED TO THE DARKNESS. TAKE IT EASY. But no, he paused only to tap his pipe on the brickwork, emptied its hot ash and began to refill its bowl. Sure enough, he was soon unscrewing the disk-shaped, Bakelite lid on some Fine Shag in his ‘baccyflap’.

  To her horror she saw him strike a match. Blackout had begun hours ago and no one was meant to show even a cigarette’s meagre glow.

  Suddenly he looked up and made a beeline for her motorcycle and sidecar. One hand was tucked inside his black donkey jacket as he fixed his eyes on its canine passenger and rider. He could have been carrying a knife or gun.

  He appeared intent on noting everything about them.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ said Jo out loud.

  She recognised the heavily built man who had called Bella ‘poochy’ in the pub. His steel-capped boots glinted in the dimmed light from the sidecar’s own, masked spotlight. The hard, lumpy mass of scar tissue weighed upon his eyelid which gave him a perpetually lopsided look, especially as his untidy hair fell across one temple.

  Without speaking, he walked all round the Brough Superior Combination with great interest. Okay, that was rude but forgivable, thought Jo. After all, you didn’t see the ‘Rolls-Royce of Motorcycles’ very often. Not even the famous T.E. Lawrence could buy one of these any more, had he still
been alive, not since their factory on Haydn Road in Nottingham had been turned over to making crankshafts for Rolls Royce Merlin engines for the war. Their observer said nothing, however, only stopped beside the sidecar.

  Bella bared her teeth. Went wild. The man’s breath reeked of beer and stale tobacco as it misted the air. His clothes smelt the same. His one good, unobscured eye was unblinking.

  Jo wasted no time. She had little reason to trust the intense, manic look on this person’s face – she could have been about to go head to head with a murderer. No woman felt safe after blackout. But she was not a coward.

  ‘Say what you want, or else. I’m serious.’

  At that, he took a step back. He no longer lodged one hand inside his jacket in a strangely threatening manner, but neither did he cease to study the motorcycle in detail.

  ‘Damn you,’ cried Jo and opened the throttle.

  She’d got this. She should just go. This drunkard couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her.

  It had to be a case of mistaken identity, or what?

  You’d think he’d say.

  Still Bella snarled, frothed and barked her hardest from the sidecar. As Jo rode past Barton Street’s bombed-out houses her odd encounter seemed unclear and unremarkable, as having happened in seconds and for no very good reason. Blackout meant she was limited to twenty miles per hour and she was obliged to navigate by the white lines painted down the middle of the road and along the kerbside – it was confusing, frightening and occasionally downright dangerous.

  Next moment she blew hot and cold. Her heart roared like that Grand Prix racing car she had seen pictured on the pub wall – she felt her guts twist like an octopus inside her.

  The thought was not madness but seemed to float straight down from the cold, frosty roofs of the city itself.

  ‘Of course, Bella! He’s the brute in those photographs that Bruno showed us at Sarah Smith’s funeral. He’s one of the timber thieves that she encountered shortly before she met her death in that car crash in the Forest of Dean.’