Page 31 of V2

‘Oui, angina – of course, from the Latin. And my son is also not in good health. But, as you say, here you are, and we must make the best of it. Perhaps it will not be for long.’ He gestured. ‘Your coat, please. Sit. Be warm.’

She took off her coat and handed it to him, then perched on one of the chairs and held out her hands to the stove. So he could speak English after all, she thought, and quite well by the sound of it. She wondered why he had pretended otherwise.

There was a loud tapping behind her. She turned and let out a cry of surprise. At the window of the back door a man’s distorted face was pressed close to the frosted glass.

‘Do not be alarmed,’ said Vermeulen. ‘It is only my son.’

He unlocked the door. A young man limped in carrying a small sack. He dumped it on the table, turned immediately to Kay and took off his cap, releasing a mop of thick dark hair, cut short at the sides but long on the top.

Vermeulen said, ‘This is Arnaud.’ He said something quietly to him in Flemish.

The man bowed to her, took her hand and kissed it. He was about her own age, middle twenties, very pale but good-looking. His face was wet from the rain. Hunger had given him sharp features, she thought. His eyes were dark and full of life. In a thick accent he said in English, ‘A pleasure to meet you.’ He rummaged through the sack and held up four potatoes still covered in wet soil. He winked and smiled in triumph: ‘Voilà!’

Kay smiled back. He has stolen those from someone’s garden, she thought.

At the prospect of food, the Vermeulens became almost merry. Arnaud took off his wet jacket, sat and started tugging off his boots. Mrs Vermeulen washed the potatoes at the sink, put them in a saucepan and set it on the stove. She opened the can of meat stew and tipped it into a second saucepan. The doctor went next door into what looked to be a freezing, darkened parlour and returned with a bottle of advocaat. He poured four tiny glasses and handed them round. He proposed a toast – ‘À l’amitié!’ – and Kay clinked her glass with each of theirs. The sweet and eggy drink reminded her of custard, and therefore for some reason of Christmas, which made her briefly maudlin.

They sat around the stove and watched the potatoes boil. Vermeulen said bitterly, ‘The Nazis took all our potatoes before they left – as if they don’t have potatoes in Germany!’

Mrs Vermeulen served the stew and potatoes. The doctor poured another thimbleful of advocaat. They ate in hungry silence, Arnaud with his head down over his plate. When he had finished, his mother gave him what was left of her own meal and he wolfed that down as well. Once or twice Kay looked wistfully at the rest of the food she’d brought, but it seemed the Vermeulens wished to keep it for another day. At this rate of consumption, it would last them for a week. She reproached herself for even thinking about it: she could always find something at the officers’ mess tomorrow. When they were finished, Mrs Vermeulen cleared the plates, then cut them each a square of the hard and milkless British army chocolate.

Arnaud said, in French, ‘Why are you in Mechelen, may I ask, mademoiselle?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not allowed to say.’

‘But you are based somewhere close to here?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know where it is. I’m supposed to be on duty at eight tomorrow morning and I’m not even sure how to get there.’

‘Why, then we can draw you a map! What is the name of the street – can you tell us that?’ He grinned at her. ‘Or is it also secret?’

‘I believe it’s called Koningin Astridlaan.’

‘But we know it, of course! The main road in the south. That’s where the Boche had their headquarters.’

‘They’re our headquarters now.’

A sheet of paper was fetched, 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.’