The Collaborator Read Online Free Page B

ragdoll—all her possessions, intimate, lollipop-bright, spewing out all over the grubby stone of the pier. She starts to cry—shuddery, noisy sobs. She’s frightened and cross, and ashamed that she made the things spill.
    ‘Shut up, Millie. You’re such a crybaby,’ says Blanche.
    Millie, outraged, sobs more loudly. There’s a slight cold drizzle of rain.
    I gather up Millie’s things and try to brush the dirt off them. Everyone’s eyes are on me.
    ‘Mum, you can’t do this,’ hisses Blanche, in an intense whisper. She’s torn—desperate to make me listen, yet mortified at being involved in such a public scene. ‘We’ve got to get to England.’
    ‘The boat’s too small. It isn’t safe,’ I say.
    The rain comes on more heavily. Rainwater soaks my hair, runs down my parting, runs down my face like tears. ‘But nothing’s safe any more,’ she says. I have nothing to say to that.
    ‘And I want to go. I want to go to London.’ Her voice is shrill. ‘You
said
we were going to go. You said.’
    I’m trying to gather up Millie’s things.
    ‘Blanche, for God’s sake, just grow up. This isn’t all about you. Can’t you think of somebody else for once?’
    Immediately I’ve said it, I regret it. I shouldn’t have told her off like that. I have snatched her dream away from her: I know she’s upset, and afraid. But the words hang between us, sharp as blades, and I can’t take them back again.
    I straighten up, put my hand on her shoulder. She shakes me off and stands a little aside, as though she is nothing to do with us. Her face is a
papier maché
mask: it’s set and white and looks about to dissolve.
    I usher them back, past the queue of people. I don’t know how to get home, I haven’t thought this through, haven’t thought beyond this moment—just wanting to turn my back on the boat, the journey, the treacherous heave and shine of the sea.
    We walk along the Esplanade, heading away from the pier. I don’t know if there are any buses going to St Pierre du Bois. Maybe all the buses are busy bringing the children here, to the harbour. The mist and rain are blowing in so you can’t see far over the water, the horizon edging nearer, everything closing in, closing down. They’ll have a wet, choppy crossing.
    And then, with a rush of relief, I see a vehicle I recognise: it’s Angie’s brother, Jack Bisson, in his ramshackle van. Jack works as a handyman; like Angie, he’s resourceful, he can fixanything—burst pipes, loose slates, a cow that’s struggling to calve. I wave, and he comes to a stop beside us and winds his window down.
    ‘We were going to go and then we decided not to,’ I say.
    ‘She decided not to,’ Blanche mutters behind me. ‘Not us. Her.’
    Jack has quick dark eyes like a sparrow and Angie’s warm wide smile. His bird-like gaze flits over us. He nods, accepting what I’ve said.
    ‘Mr Bisson—I know it’s an awful lot to ask—but I don’t suppose you’re going our way? You couldn’t give us a lift?’
    ‘Of course I could do that, Mrs de la Mare. Just you hop in,’ he tells us.
    He drops us in the lane just above Le Colombier.

CHAPTER 6
    W e trudge down the lane towards our house. There’s no sound but the rustle of rain on the uncountable leaves of the woods and orchards of the valley. Fat drips spill from the branches above us and soak our hair and our clothes, and I want to wipe the rain from my face, but I’m holding two bags and Millie’s hand and can’t brush the water away. Millie is tugging at me: she says her feet have blisters. All I can think is how much I want to get home.
    We come to the wide five-bar gate that opens into our yard. The gate is unfastened. I must have left it like that—not noticing that I hadn’t fastened it in our rush to leave. But I’m surprised I was so careless.
    I go to the door: it’s half ajar. I feel my pulse skittering off. ‘What’s the matter, Mummy?’ says Millie. ‘I’m not sure. You two can wait out