Page 26 of The Berlin Agent (John Cook #2)

The Polish soldier was sitting on the wall, in front of my house. Bees buzzed lazily amongst the lavender. A picture of English country life, apart from the white lines drawn on the blue sky by our boys flying non-stop sorties over the Channel.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked. I had a bowl of strawberries from Eric, and I set them down on the wall, feeling the warmth radiating from the sandstone.

‘Waiting for you,’ he said. ‘Your mum said you were out. Said I could have dinner.’

He looked over his shoulder. Elizabeth was at the window, watching us, face blank.

‘What’s up with the girl?’ he asked. ‘All through dinner, looked like she was deciding whether to run away or stick me with a knife.’

‘Why were you looking for me?’ I asked.

‘You’re not so friendly,’ he said. ‘What have you got to be so miserable about? Nice farm. Nice family. No Germans.’

‘I’m sure they’re on their way.’

‘We thought you were coming,’ he said. ‘After your Prime Minister made the treaty with us. Promising to come to our aid if Germans invaded. Day one, they crossed our borders, everyone said, “the English will come”. Even when their Luftwaffe destroyed our cities, and their soldiers raped our wives and daughters, people were saying “the English will come”. But the English didn’t come.’

He finished his cigarette and ground it into the mud.

‘You’ll get us a black mark with the War Ag,’ I said. ‘They don’t like litter. Corrupts the food chain.’

He lit a new cigarette and took a long drag.

‘I think you English like your rules more than you like fighting.’

‘I think you like talking,’ I said.

He shrugged.

‘You heard the news?’ he asked. ‘Italy declared war. Now it’s you lot against all of Europe.’

‘They’ll be wanting to claim a piece of France,’ I said. ‘Like neighbours when a farm goes under. All wanting their own corner.’

‘I came to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Been waiting all fucking day it feels like. So you want to hear what I got to say?’

‘What is it?’

‘I was at the pub in town last night. Looking for any more Poles. No Poles, but I heard something interesting. A man was drunk. Big deal, everyone’s drunk. But he was too drunk. Sloppy. Too much talk. Talking about some people who needed killing.’

‘People are allowed to talk in a pub,’ I said.

‘He said your name. Something about sticking your nose in.’

‘Was he a Tommy?’

‘Not Tommy,’ he said. ‘Civvy. With other civvies. Not a farmer. Looked like he worked in a ... what’s the word ... shop where you sell furniture.’

‘Was his arm in a cast?’ I asked.

‘You’re not so dumb, for a farmer,’ he said.

‘Which pub?’

‘I don’t know the name, by the station.’

‘The Fireman’s Arms?’

‘If you say.’

It wasn’t a pub I usually frequented.

‘I’ll drop in this evening,’ I said. ‘Buy you a pint if you and your mates are there.’

‘Bob’s gone,’ the Pole said. ‘I think military police got him last night. Got a whole bunch of the English boys. Rounded them up and sent them on their way, like sheep.’

‘But you got away?’

‘English MPs aren’t interested in me,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’m not sheep.’