Before he reached the wood, he crossed a very exposed field with no bushes or hedges on either side, and I had to stay at the bottom until he was virtually in the trees. It was there, as I was hiding in a rather prickly bush, that he turned to scrutinize the scene, and I felt that his eyes may have lingered on me for a split second before he vanished into the trees. I didn’t think that he saw me. Surely he would have come and got me if he had? But that brief moment made me draw breath. I had to be more careful.
I sprinted up the narrow path and plunged into the wood. I hadn’t been in Peasepotter Wood for years, and yet I still remembered all the tracks, the path to the Pixie Ring. Alastair was heading into the Chestnut Patch, the place Kitty and I used to play as children, their broad, barrel-like trunks as old and sturdy as the whole of England. I thought about her, and how we’d been friends, so long ago.
Alastair suddenly stopped in a clearing, so I darted behind one of the larger chestnuts, peeking my head around the side where I could watch through the shrubbery.
Then I spotted a man up ahead approaching him. He was stocky and powerful, built like a gladiator and dressed in an old suit that was obviously not his as it was too short in the legs and arms.
They spoke for a while in low voices, and I stared at the stranger. He must be a criminal in hiding, living rough, perhaps in the wood itself.
He was furious about something, that was for certain, and I was suddenly afraid for Alastair, afraid for our little village, and utterly petrified of what might happen if he found me there.
Alastair was calmly engaging with him, his hands gesticulating as if trying to pacify him. He took a small packet from his inside pocket and handed it over, and the stranger took it cautiously and went to put it in his pocket, but then changed his mind and wrenched it open, examining the contents. For some reason I’d expected it to be a wad of money, but it wasn’t. There were two little black booklets, and as he turned them over in his hands, I recognized first a ration book and then a passport. Alastair was helping this man to escape the country.
The stranger was getting more heated, flinging the booklets back in the packet and shoving it into his pocket, and as his voice became louder, snarling through the bracken, a flash of frozen horror shot through me as I realized that he wasn’t speaking English. The language he was using, without any doubt, was German.
What was he doing here? Was he a spy? How did he get here? Had he parachuted in? Why was he wearing odd clothes? Was he going to kill us all? We’ve been told to keep a lookout for the enemy, but I never imagined I’d actually see one.
Or that he’d be meeting with Alastair.
Straining my ears to listen for Alastair’s reply, I almost retched when I heard German words come out of his mouth, so alien from his normal English tones. I abruptly grasped the full weight of the situation. How little I really knew him.
After a few final enraged words, the man strode off into the wood, thankfully in the opposite direction to me. Alastair stood watching him leave for a minute, and then turned and, to my complete dismay, headed straight toward the place where I was hiding.
I sprang behind the tree and held my breath, pinning my back and arms to the sheltering trunk, listening to the rustle of his footsteps through the undergrowth as they came closer and closer. I didn’t have a clue whether he’d seen me, whether he was heading back out of the wood or coming in my direction to root me out. What would he do to me? I swallowed hard, fighting back a growing panic.
It was when he stopped next to the tree, on the other side of me, that I became certain that he knew I was there. I heard him again quietly treading around the tree, and saw him slowly appear, his finger on his lips. He eased his way around until he was beside me, his back next to mine against the broad trunk, and as we both stood there, his fingers moved over and found my fingers, and interlaced them softly between his. I felt heat surge up through my hand and arm and into my head. What is wrong with me, Angie? I was terrified he’d pull me against him and slit my throat, and yet I longed for him so badly I could hardly breathe.
He did neither. He just turned his head to look at me, and I could see a different look in his eyes, a melancholy I’d never seen in him before.
After a few minutes he broke his gaze, then pulled away and glanced around the side of the tree, and then, just like that, off he went, grasping my hand and pulling me after him, darting through the trees as fast as we could go. I almost stumbled a few times, but the tug of his hand dragged me onward. I was petrified and exhausted. What did he intend to do with me?
All of a sudden, we tumbled into a clearing, the golden morning sunshine tunneling through the gap in the treetops; it was as if the world had survived after all, glorious and resplendent in the pale early-morning glow.
“Which way?” he whispered, panting in the warm air.