Madame Defarges knitting.

He woke to an intense pain in his leg and, incongruously, an odd clickettyclick noise which he could not place. The sound stopped, and someone bathed his face with lavender-scented water that stung his scorched skin. The darkness came over him again as he heard someone counting quietly, in French. The next time he opened his eyes, he saw her. A woman of about thirty years old, seated by the fireside, knitting by the light of a candle. With a rush of pure joy he realized that she must be a sympathizer - he had not been captured, or at any rate, he had not been captured yet . He tried to move, but the spasm of agony from his leg up to his very skull warned him to lie still. He craned his neck so he could see his right leg, splinted roughly with what looked like two broom handles, his RAF trousers had been slashed away, his flying jacket folded under his head as a makeshift pillow smelled of smoke. Wheres my crew? he asked. His voice came out as a weak croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. The click of the needles stopped as she put her work aside and came beside him. You are awake now? His relief that she spoke English, though with a strong Breton accent, made him smile. Thank you. Did you bring me here? She shook her head. Never mind who. Is it safe here? She shrugged, a typically French gesture. Well, I hope so! Where am I? A farmhouse, my home. Outside a village: you dont need to know where. He absorbed her unsmiling face, her reluctance to tell him anything. Madame, I am grateful to you for saving my life. She nodded as if she did not need thanks, or gratitude. And my crew? She frowned at the strange word. Mes amis? The others in my plane? Are they safe? She nodded her understanding. Ah yes. They are hidden also. In other safe houses. He closed his eyes against a sudden recollection of the crack of the ack-ack guns and the sick yawing of the plane as it was hit, his struggle to bring it down and the tearing noise as they ploughed through a wood. He remembered his shameful panic, fighting to get them all out of the plane before it blew up and then nothing. He had fallen awkwardly, and the pain had knocked him out. He could remember nothing after that, but the quiet sound of knitting. The click of her needles took him through several days. He thought that a man came and helped her to undress him, wash him, and dress him again in rough clothes. They took his uniform away though he tried to cling on to the jacket. If he was not in uniform and the Gestapo came, he feared they would shoot him as a spy. But you will not be caught, she said with a quiet determination. He realized that she had hidden people before, she was part of the resistance movement, helping evaders. She kept him in the cellar of the farmhouse which was equipped with a bed, a bucket, and a couple of tattered English books, lit by one pane of thick green glass which overlooked the farm yard. The window was so dirty

and the glass so distorted that it was like looking through deep water, to an undersea world. He watched her cross the yard dressed in her baggy trousers and rough cotton shirt with a bucket for the pigs, then feeding the hens, fetching the eggs. Through the green of the glass it looked as if she were a fish, swimming to and fro, bringing in the cows for milking, rolling out the churns. He saw no-one else, she seemed to do all the work on her own, her head down with stubborn determination. He was to make no noise. When she brought him the three hearty meals that marked out the day they spoke in whispers, but she never answered his questions. She sat with him for an hour every evening and she knitted, a ridiculous shapeless swathe of wool, something like a scarf of uneven width and unpredictable pattern and many different stitches. What is this you are making, Madame? A scarf, for my knitting club. You have a knitting club? We send warm clothes for the soldiers, she said shortly. He was astounded. You are knitting for German soldiers? For the enemy? So that we can have a knitting club. So that we women are allowed to meet. He would have called her a collaborator, just for that. He sat in offended silence. I dont even know your name, he said. Better that you dont know. Then Ill call you Madame Defarge, he told her. From a novel by the great English writer Charles Dickens, about the French revolution. Shes a Frenchwoman, a knitter. She is a soldier of the revolution? she asked him. He frowned, trying to recall the novel that he had studied at school, in that different world of long ago, before the war, before he had signed up, before his training, before flying the heavy bombers. Shes a citizen of Paris, he remembered. And she knits by the guillotine as the aristos are executed. Shes very wicked. She nodded, as if she had no interest in morals. Does she win?. Oh yes, he said. She is part of the victorious French revolution. Liberty, Equality and Fraternity. For the first time ever, she smiled: You can call me Madame Defarge then, she said. You dont mind the guillotine side of her? For the first time ever, she laughed out loud. Young man, I have a guillotine side myself. As his leg started to heal he became impatient with the confinement of the small cellar room, and more and more fearful of capture. The farm was isolated, he guessed it was somewhere near the east coast of Brittany. He could hear no vehicles, there was no nearby road, and nobody ever came to the farm but the daily milk cart and the Tuesday knitting group. Far from reassuring him, the silence made him more anxious. You must be patient, I am arranging for you to go, she said, carrying in the wooden tray with his usual lunch: a bowl of potage, half a crisp baguette, and a small glass of rough red wine. How will I go? he asked. As usual, she would tell him little. I will take you in the horse and cart. But first you have to have papers, and clothes.

Who is making them? I have arranged it. How? Do you have a radio? She pointed to the candle. You know we dont even have electricity. So how? Who knows I am here? Silently, she shook her head. So where do I go? he demanded. You go by sea, was all she would say. We go to a port? A British ship comes for me? He could feel hope beating in his throat. I can walk. You know I can manage if I have a crutch. But what about my crew? You cant walk far, she disagreed. I shall take you to a fishing port and you will take a boat out to sea. Your Royal Navy will meet you out at sea. You are with the Free French? he asked hopefully. Or Special Ops? Will they send the ship for me? Or even will they send a sub? She shook her head against his barrage of questions in her usual, infuriating way. How would I know? I just drive the cart. But how do I get my orders? How do they contact you? You must have orders for me and yet you never go anywhere or meet anyone. I do go, she objected. I go to the village on market day. I have my knitting circle. Knitting circle! he raised his voice in frustration, and at once she laid her fingers over his lips. Sshh, she said fiercely. He was silenced at once, not just by her tone of command; but because of the sudden shock of her touch. She froze too, his lips under her fingers were warm. Slowly, reluctantly, she took her hand away. Anyway she said inconclusively and as she turned away from him he saw her ears were burning pink. END OF PART ONE She brought him a second-hand suit of poor material, and identity papers that declared that he was a salesman of agricultural feedstuffs. If anyone asks, we will say that you fell down the ladder while you were buying hay in my hayloft, she said. And that I am taking you to the hospital at LOrient. The place is full of Germans, its their submarine base! he protested. I know that, she said coolly. But its also a fishing port. The boats go out every night. Youll be on one. There will be others going with you. My crew? She nodded as if she would not even trust him with the word yes. Why wont you tell me anything? he demanded. It is in case you are caught, she said levelly. If you know nothing, you can say nothing. I would never betray you. She turned her face away. We ask only that you say nothing for the first day and night. You dont know what they do everyone tells in the end. But I know absolutely nothing, he protested. I dont know your name, I dont even know if you are married.

She considered him for a moment. But still she did not answer him. Why ask me that? I could as well ask you: are you married? Oh, why would you want to know? he parried, and saw the quick rise of her colour. I dont want to know, she lied. It was an example of a question. So do you have a husband? No, she said. It is my own farm. My parents left it to me. She picked up his tray and turned to go. Whats the name of the farm? She shook her head. When the war is over how will I find you again? he asked her quietly. How will I find you if I dont know where you are? Silently, stubbornly, she turned away. Im not married, he suddenly volunteered. And I dont have a girl. Because you are too young, she said crushingly. Youre just a boy. At dawn she woke him, helped him to dress, and gave him a roughly made crutch. She helped him climb onto the bench seat of the cart, tied an ugly woolen headscarf over her tousled brown hair, clicked to the horse, and set off down the dark lanes. As they came to LOrient, dawn was breaking and he could see the checkpoint on the road ahead, and the cold morning light glinting on the soldiers helmets. He shifted on the bench seat, but she did not look or speak to him. She halted the horse and handed down her papers and his, she pulled the scarf off her head to shake out her hair, and glanced sideways, smiling at the soldier. He felt a flare of irritation but he did not know why. Mamselle Christianne Cerise, the soldier read. And this is? She passed the forged papers. M. Herbert Charles, I am taking him to the hospital. He is your boyfriend? She giggled. He could see that she had the scarf in her hands and was twisting it into a single knotty rope, as if she was ready to wrap it around the sentrys neck and pull it tight. Go, go, before you break my heart, the sentry said to her, and she released the scarf, clicked to the horse and went on through the streets. Were you going to kill him? he asked shocked. If I had to. Did you have to smile at him? he asked irritably under his voice. Giggle like a schoolgirl? She shot one dark reproachful look at him. Fool, she said briefly. He subsided into silence, furious with her, furious with his own fear as they wound through the dark cobbled streets downhill towards the port. A fishing boat was bobbing at the quayside, waiting for them, with lamps shining yellow on prow and stern, one man held a rope, ready to cast off. There was no time to say goodbye, there was no time to say thank you. He got down from the cart and someone took his arm at once, helped him to the gangway. He heard her light footsteps behind him, he turned as she threw the scarf gently around his neck. For you, she said. For when the war is over. They landed him in Portsmouth, they set his leg at Haslar Naval Hospital, they debriefed him; but nobody would tell him who she was. He went to London

and stayed with a couple of friends on a joyful bender of drink and gambling when he lost all his pay and many of his ration coupons but he never took off the scarf. Every morning, he woke filled with a longing to see her, and to tell her that he was not too young to have a girl. The owner of the flat, a woman who worked at Bletchley on codes, came to London for the weekend and turned them out of the bedroom. Go and sleep on the sofa, you wastrels. You all think you are heroes. I am a hero, he told her firmly. Then you should have better clothes, she replied. What is that abomination round your neck? Owlishly, still half drunk, he unwound it and showed it to her. My scarf. My lucky scarf. Who made it for you? she asked, amused. Madame Defarge, he answered. He would never use her real name, not even to a women whose security clearance was better than Churchills. And what did she write in the scarf? What? he asked, sober at once. What do you mean? Madame Defarge, in the novel A Tale of Two Cities used her knitting to pass information about the aristos - her enemies. Dyou not remember? Slowly he unwound the scarf and laid it out before her. Id forgotten, he said. She called me a fool and she was right. Thats how my Madame Defarge passed the information. They swapped scarves at the knitting circles. They got their orders back in the knitted scarves. Someone must have had a radio, someone must have passed on news. But all the Germans saw was a knitting circle: a bunch of women. He paused. So if this was a code, what would it say? It took them less than a week to break the code, it was a simple alphabet code, but only a knitter could have translated it: 27 stitches and the letter was indicated by a purl stitch, but all around the purl stitch was wound a pattern of others, like camoflage. Together they counted stitches, and noted the changes of stitch down the long length of the scarf. Painstakingly she noted the letters and then silently pushed it across to him. He saw an I and then the alphabet started again. The next letter was L then O then V then E. He gripped the soft wool. She had knitted I LOVE and given it to him. A new alphabet started again. It said, as he breathlessly hoped: Y and then O and then U. He touched the misshapen scarf with a finger that slightly trembled. She had written CHRISTIANNE and then one word: the name of her farm. So that when the war was over he could find her. THE END