“How the Mighty” Chapter 11 — Carrie

Lost in France

Avoiding commitment

“You don’t remember the way, do you?”

The veteran shook his head. “I was trying to avoid getting my head shot off. It’s been seventy-five years, and we hiked all the way to Germany. I can’t remember every bit of France.”

He looked around at the peaceful countryside. “It wasn’t like this. There were bomb craters everywhere, and a machine-gun behind every god-damned hedgerow. Excuse my French.”

Carrie followed the satnav directions. The coast road might have been gazetted as a highway, but in places it shrank down to country lane size, squeezing between buildings of ancient grey stone. In five minutes they had arrived at a village: a church, a tiny square, a few cafe tables, a grey tabby.

“This place sells amazing pastries,” Carrie said. “Coffee, not so much.”

She considered and turned the car toward the sea. “I think it was down this lane.”

The old soldier was looking about with keen interest.

“Yes. There was a staff car came along here. We shot the driver and the officers sprang out and ran like rabbits. They burrowed into the hedge and vanished.”

“Can’t say I blame them,” Carrie said. “Should be just round the corner now.”

“It was strange. On the beach, it was like a slaughterhouse. Here, there were farmers and cows and horses, just you know, living their lives. They were glad to see us.”

“What, all of them?” Carrie asked, slowing the car down to walking pace when a farm dog came running out to bark at them.

“Maybe not the cows. A few of them got bombs dropped on them, legs blown off, things like that. We had one country boy took pity and put them out of their misery if they were still alive.”

“Uh-oh. You hear that?” Carrie tilted her head towards a new sound, an insistent shrieking warble.

“Maybe you should take your foot off the gas,” the veteran said. “You’ll get a ticket.”

Carrie burst out laughing. “You reckon? Let’s just hide in here for a bit.”

She turned off the lane into a farmyard, nearly clipping the corner of a solid grey stone barn. The black and white dog, still barking, bounced ahead of them.

And there it was. The chimney, the big black metal shape holding the stone wall, the satellite dish from Carrie’s photograph.

The veteran looked at the farmhouse, eyes alight, his hand clutched to his chest.

Carrie parked the car beside an elderly tractor, and opened her door.

“Come on, Sergeant. We’re not leaving without a photo.”

She helped him out. He was standing tall, she realised, and he left his walking stick in the car.

There was a light in his face, his eyes roaming over the farmyard, and Carrie felt a shiver run up her spine as she realised that she was holding the arm of a man who was seeing the past, 75 years ago.

Behind those wrinkles, he was young, his heart was beating, he was part of a great crusade, he was brilliantly alive.

Take your time, Carrie, let him savour each moment. He’s finding those memories, filling out the story.

She let go his arm — he didn’t notice — raised her camera and began photographing the old veteran as he looked around the old stones. He smiled when he saw what she was doing, and that made it even better.

There was someone looking through a curtain at them. Carrie caught a glimpse of silver hair and a feminine face. It was all coming together.

She went to the door and tugged at the knocker. There was a burst of French from inside, and she turned to watch the old soldier’s face as the door opened.

Expectant, hopeful, excited, and finally puzzled.

Oh no.

“It’s not her,” he said.

It was an old lady. Carrie put her French into gear.

“Bonjour, Madame! Nous cherchons Madame…” She looked for help. “Do you remember her name?”

He smiled. He hadn’t forgotten. “Osmont.”

“Oui, je suis Madame Osmont,” the old lady replied. Yes, I am her. Now they were all puzzled.

The old man searched deeper. “Arthéme?”

“Ma belle-mère. Elle n’est pas là.” My mother-in-law. Not here.

Nearly at the end of my stored chapters. I have one more after this, and then it’s all fresh material, including the thousand words or so I wrote today, which we will get to in two or three days, even though it is formatted up and all I need do is hit the “publish” button. Sorry that this one is barely a taste, but there it is. When it comes time to publish this as a book, I’ll do some reorganisation, polish up the bland bits, and adjust the pacing.

But we’re getting into the home stretch now. Two weeks at most, and all the loose ends will be tied up.

Britni

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