Читать книгу The Collaborators - Reginald Hill - Страница 15

‘Hey kid, what’s your name?’

Pauli looked up at the man who’d just appeared in the doorway of the little courtyard behind the baker’s. He was a big man with long red hair, a longer beard and a strong curved nose. He looked as if he’d been living rough and as he moved nearer, Pauli realized he smelt that way too.

‘Pauli,’ he said. ‘Well, Jean-Paul, really. But maman calls me Pauli.’

‘Pauli, eh? Maman, you say? Would that be Janine?’

‘Yes, that’s maman’s name,’ said the boy.

‘Well, I’ll be blowed. And look at the size of you! Little Janine’s boy! Well, I’m your Uncle Miche, Pauli. Not really your uncle, more your half-cousin, but uncle will do nicely till I’ve stood out in the rain long enough to shrink to your size.’

This reversal of the usual adult clichés about growing up into a big boy amused and reassured Pauli. He stood his ground as the big man moved forward and rested a hand on his head. He noticed with interest that this new and fascinating uncle did indeed seem to have been standing out in the rain. His shapeless grey trousers and black workman’s jacket were damp with the moisture which the morning sun was just beginning to suck up from the high roofs. Here in the confined yard, it was still shadowy and chill. Michel Boucher shivered but with a controlled shiver like an animal vibrating its flesh for warmth.

‘Why don’t we go inside and surprise Uncle Claude?’ he said. ‘I bet it’s nice and warm in the bakehouse!’

It was. There were two huge ovens, one down either side of the vaulted ochre-bricked building and both were going full blast. Claude Crozier was removing a trayful of loaves from one of them to add to the morning’s bake already cooling on the long central table. Boucher looked at the regiments of bread with covetous eyes and said, ‘Morning, Uncle Claude. How’s it been with you? Christ, there’s a grand smell in here!’

The baker almost dropped his tray in surprise.

‘Who’s that? Michel, is that you? What the blazes are you doing here?’

‘Just passing, uncle, and I thought I’d pay my respects.’

‘Kind of you, but just keep on passing, eh? Before your aunt sees you.’

Crozier was not a hard man but his nephew was an old battle, long since lost. The baker had been more than generous in the help he gave his widowed sister to bring up her two children. But when within the space of a year, their mother had died of TB, Mireille had married a farmer on holiday and gone to live in the Ain region, and Miche had got two years’ juvenile detention for aggravated burglary, Louise broke her disapproving silence and said, ‘Enough’s enough. Not a penny more of our hard-earned money goes to that ne’er-do-well. He’ll never be more than a crook, you’ll see.’

Now here he was again.

‘You can’t stay,’ said Crozier urgently.

‘Oh I won’t stay, uncle,’ said Boucher. ‘Just long enough for a bite of breakfast, eh?’

The baker’s consternation at this prospect changed to terror as the door to the shop opened and his wife came in.

She stopped dead at the sight of Boucher.

‘Morning, Auntie Lou,’ he called cheerfully. ‘Just dropped in to pay my respects. And have a bite of breakfast.’

He took a couple of steps nearer the tray of new-baked bread as he spoke.

‘My God!’ cried the woman, peering closely at him. ‘You’re wet! You’re dirty! You’re unshaven! And you smell!’

Her tone was triumphant as well as indignant. There were few pleasures dearer to her bourgeois heart than being justified in a fit of moral indignation.

‘Yes, well, I’ve been down on my luck a bit,’ said Boucher.

Suddenly Pauli moved forward to the table, picked up a roll and presented it to the man.

‘Thanks, kid,’ he said, already shedding crumbs with the second syllable.

‘Pauli, what are you doing! How dare you?’ thundered Louise.

‘Maman, what’s going on? Why’re you shouting at Pauli?’

Janine, attracted by her mother’s bellow, had appeared in the doorway. She looked at Boucher without recognition.

‘I just gave Uncle Miche a roll,’ explained the little boy tearfully.

‘Hello, Cousin Janine. This is a good lad you’ve got here,’ said Boucher. He stuffed the rest of the roll into his mouth. ‘Delicious! Well, I’ll be on my way. Don’t want to outstay such a generous welcome. Cheers, kid.’

He patted Pauli on the head again, gave a mock military salute and left.

Pauli ran to his mother and said, ‘Maman, he was all wet. He says he stands out in the rain to shrink.’

‘You’ll have to do something about that boy,’ said Louise, annoyed at feeling in the wrong. ‘The sooner he gets off to school, the better.’

Janine glared at her mother, then turned and ran back into the shop. A moment later they heard the shop door open and shut.

She met her cousin as he came out of the passage which led into the rear yard.

‘Here,’ she said, stuffing a note into his hand. ‘It’s not much, but I haven’t got much.’

He looked at the money, making little effort to hide his surprise.

‘Thanks, cousin,’ he said. ‘Things have changed, eh?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Last time we met, you were still at school, I think. You told me you weren’t permitted to speak to degenerates. Exact words!’

Janine flushed, then laughed as she saw Boucher was laughing at her.

‘People grow up,’ she said.

‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Not if I can help it.’

‘What are you doing, Miche?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I thought somehow, when this lot started, I’d be fighting the Boche, slate wiped clean sort of thing. But the first flic who recognized me came charging after me waving his cuffs! So I’ve had to keep my head down. It’s been a bit rough, but it’ll get sorted sooner or later I don’t doubt.’

‘Haven’t you got anywhere to stay?’ asked Janine sympathetically.

‘No. Well, I was all right at first. I shacked up…I mean lodged with an old friend. Arlette la Blonde, stage name, does an exotic dance at the Golden Gate, I don’t expect you know her. Well, that was all right, only a few days back, they opened up again and well, late hours and that, it wasn’t convenient, you know these show people…’

He tailed off as he realized that this time she was laughing at him.

‘You mean she brings friends back for the night and they don’t care to find your head on the pillow already!’

‘Yeah, that’s it,’ he said grinning. Then he stopped grinning.

‘I could have hung on there, slept days. Only I found she was bringing back Krauts! That really got up my nose! So I slung my hook.’

‘You won’t have to be so choosy, Miche. Not now they’re our friends.’

‘Friends? What do you mean?’

‘Haven’t you heard? It was on the radio this morning. An armistice was signed yesterday.’

‘Armistice? Signed by who? Not by the Marshal! He’d not sign an armistice with these bastards. Not the Marshal.’

‘Yes,’ said Janine. ‘Pétain signed it. At Compiègne. In the same railway carriage.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Boucher shaking his head in bewilderment.

‘Janine!’ called her mother’s voice from inside.

‘I’d better go.’

‘Yeah. Sure. Thanks, cousin. We’ll keep in touch, eh?’

She smiled, pecked his cheek and went inside.

Boucher turned and walked away, not paying much attention to direction. Despite his experiences, he’d still gone on hoping that somewhere in this mess there was going to be a chance for a sort of patriotic redemption. But now it was over before it had really begun and he was back to being a full-time wanted man.

He paused to take stock of his surroundings. He’d almost reached the Boulevard Raspail. There was a car coming towards him. It didn’t look particularly official, but any car you saw on the streets nowadays was likely to be official. He coughed in his hand, covering his face, just in case.

But the car was slowing. It pulled into the kerb just in front of him. His head still lowered, he increased his pace as he went by. A door suddenly opened. His legs tensed themselves to break into a run.

‘Miche? Miche Boucher? It is you!’

He paused, glanced back, turned.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Pajou.’