The Tunnel by Eric Williams Read Free Book Online

were.
    ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Good!’ And he patted his stomach. He was rewarded with the ghost of a smile, that made him wonder whether he had eaten their evening meal.
    He finished the food and rose to his feet. The woman backed towards the door. He noticed that she was younger than he had thought, but pale and very thin. When she smiled she was almost beautiful. He wanted to make her smile again. The only way to make contact was to ask for something.
    ‘Shave,’ he said, ‘Razor,’ and went through the pantomime of shaving the five days’ stubble from his face. The act must have been good, for she smiled again and ran to the inner room. She came back carrying an old-fashioned cut-throat razor, a shaving brush and a cake of soap. She put these down on the table and brought a bowl of hot water, a mirror and a towel.
    He looked at his face in the mirror. His dark hair was thickly matted, and the lower part of his face was covered in black stubble. There were pouches under his eyes, and the eyes themselves were bloodshot. No wonder the child had been afraid. He grinned a reassurance into the mirror and was surprised to see how white his teeth appeared against the darkness of his face.
    He had not removed his clothes since the night before he had been shot down and, stripping to the waist, he washed thoroughly and began to shave. The cut-throat razor was difficult to handle, but the half-unconscious routine of scraping the familiar jaw was comforting.
    He wiped the residue of soap from his chin and tried to ask the woman for civilian clothes. When he pointed to his uniform and made what he thought were the appropriate signs she merely nodded and smiled, as though he had asked her to admire his appearance. He gave it up and decided to ask the farmer when he arrived home – if indeed it were the farmer and not the police the girl had gone to fetch.
    In the meantime he sat on a stiff wooden chair by the peat fire drying the legs of his trousers. His battledress blouse was steaming on the hearth. I’ve ruined my boots, he thought. Most of the polish had been washed off, leaving the leather white and dry-looking. Moved my some impulse of caution he took the small brass compass belonging to the escape kit from his pocket, and slitting the sheepskin lining of the left boot with a penknife he slipped the compass between the sheepskin and the outside leather. It would be safer there.
    He sat in the warmth and security of the kitchen, conscious of the busy movements of the woman in the next room, wondering whom the girl had gone to fetch. The woman had seemed friendly enough, but had she really understood? Was it possible that she thought he was German? He made a movement as though to call to her, but the language difficulty was too great. His head fell forward on to his chest and he slumped down into the chair, too tired to worry any more.
    When he awoke there was a man in the kitchen; a middle-aged man who stood in front of his chair, holding a grey felt hat in his hands and peering at him through steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘I am the schoolmaster,’ the man said, ‘I speak a little English.’
    Peter stood, and they shook hands.
    ‘Where have you come from?’ the schoolmaster asked.
    ‘My aircraft was shot down in Gemany. I have walked from there.’
    ‘Has anyone seen you?’
    ‘The Germans caught me on the border, but I got away.’
    ‘No one saw you come here?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘When were you shot down?’
    ‘Last Friday night.’ He thought, as he said it, how long ago it seemed.
    ‘Ah, that was the big raid.’ The schoolmaster looked relieved. ‘An aircraft crashed not many miles from here. It was burning in the air, I saw it come down like a burning torch.’
    ‘What time was that?’
    ‘A few minutes after midnight.’
    It may have been ours, Peter thought. ‘What sort of aircraft was it?’
    The schoolmaster was vague. ‘A bomber,’ he said. ‘A big aircraft. The pilot was fortunate. He was alone