Read Online Violins of Autumn by Amy McAuley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amy McAuley
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dusting.”
No matter his age, his ability to fly impresses the heck out of me. He might not be winning any points with Denise, but he sure is with the girl who grew up admiring Amelia Earhart.
“Ever dream of soaring through the air like a bird? Does flying a plane feel like that? Is it ultimate freedom?”
“Sometimes.”
“Who was Bessie Lou, anyway?” I ask. “You said they killed her.”
“My plane.”
“You named your plane
Bessie Lou
?” I start to laugh. “
Bessie Lou
. It’s an unusual name for a plane, don’t you think? It isn’t very jazzy.”
“It’s my mother’s name.”
“Oh.” I stop laughing.
“You love your mum enough to paint her name on a plane,” Denise says, “but then you left her to run off and play war. Do you have any idea how she would feel if she never saw you again? Do you know how devastated she would be? You’re just a child.”
Trapped between their glares, I slowly wheel my bike forward out of the line of fire.
Denise isn’t much older than I am. I didn’t consider that my age might be an issue with her. If she finds out the truth, will she refuse to work with me? Will she turn me in to SOE headquarters?
I feel bad for the pilot. If not for him, it could be me on the receiving end of Denise’s anger.
Madame LaRoche warned us that her brother’s farm has become run down in the five years since his wife’s death, but that didn’t prepare me for what I see when we reach the end of his stone laneway. Curtains hang askew behind cracked windows, a graveyard of rusted metal litters the property, and a scrawny goat has free range of the yard, which is wildly overgrown in some places, chewed to the nub in others.
Denise says, “My mum would throw a wobbly if she saw the state of this place.”
“Bonjour!” The voice booms out of thin air, like the Wizard’s in Emerald City. I certainly feel as if a twister whisked me out of Kansas and deposited me in Oz.
We glance around, searching for the speaker’s hiding place.
“There he is, in the loft,” I say, with a triumphant smirk.
Denise snaps her fingers in defeat, putting her whole arm into it, the way my friend Sylvie used to, especially when I scored higher than her on a test.
We follow a worn path through the tall grass to the barn.
Madame LaRoche’s brother calls from above, “Who has sent you here?”
I crane my neck and stare straight up at the bulbous belly hanging over his pants. “Your sister, Claire.”
He leans forward to peer down at me, surprisingly steady with all that weight thrust out in front. He and his sister share a code phrase, and I forgot to give it to him.
“She said to tell you that the orchards are beautiful in bloom,” I say.
“That they are.” He reclines against the wooden frame. “I am Louis. I bid you welcome. You must be in need of food and rest.”
Denise and I peek at each other, apparently spooked by the same thought. We’ve heard nearly identical words before, spoken by Dracula in one of the most spine-chilling films of all time. The sun is sinking ever closer to the horizon, and we have to spend the night at the home of this chubby man who speaks like a blood-sucking, undead Count.
“Park those bicycles in the barn. Rat is around somewhere; he will help you with your things.” The rounded belly contracts and Louis bellows, “
Rat, où es-tu?
”
From around the corner of the barn, a wisp of a boy appears, silent and light on his feet, like a feather carried on a breeze. He must have been standing out of sight listening, the little sneak. A boy after my own heart.
“There you are, Rat. All is secure, I take it?”
Rat gives a vigorous little nod.
“Rat is from town,” Louis explains. “I pay him to watch for those German bastards. The boy is a damn fine warning system.”
Rat grins and blinks at us excessively.
“Bring your things up. Rat will help. He’s stronger than he looks.”
We enter the barn and I nearly keel over from the stench
No matter his age, his ability to fly impresses the heck out of me. He might not be winning any points with Denise, but he sure is with the girl who grew up admiring Amelia Earhart.
“Ever dream of soaring through the air like a bird? Does flying a plane feel like that? Is it ultimate freedom?”
“Sometimes.”
“Who was Bessie Lou, anyway?” I ask. “You said they killed her.”
“My plane.”
“You named your plane
Bessie Lou
?” I start to laugh. “
Bessie Lou
. It’s an unusual name for a plane, don’t you think? It isn’t very jazzy.”
“It’s my mother’s name.”
“Oh.” I stop laughing.
“You love your mum enough to paint her name on a plane,” Denise says, “but then you left her to run off and play war. Do you have any idea how she would feel if she never saw you again? Do you know how devastated she would be? You’re just a child.”
Trapped between their glares, I slowly wheel my bike forward out of the line of fire.
Denise isn’t much older than I am. I didn’t consider that my age might be an issue with her. If she finds out the truth, will she refuse to work with me? Will she turn me in to SOE headquarters?
I feel bad for the pilot. If not for him, it could be me on the receiving end of Denise’s anger.
Madame LaRoche warned us that her brother’s farm has become run down in the five years since his wife’s death, but that didn’t prepare me for what I see when we reach the end of his stone laneway. Curtains hang askew behind cracked windows, a graveyard of rusted metal litters the property, and a scrawny goat has free range of the yard, which is wildly overgrown in some places, chewed to the nub in others.
Denise says, “My mum would throw a wobbly if she saw the state of this place.”
“Bonjour!” The voice booms out of thin air, like the Wizard’s in Emerald City. I certainly feel as if a twister whisked me out of Kansas and deposited me in Oz.
We glance around, searching for the speaker’s hiding place.
“There he is, in the loft,” I say, with a triumphant smirk.
Denise snaps her fingers in defeat, putting her whole arm into it, the way my friend Sylvie used to, especially when I scored higher than her on a test.
We follow a worn path through the tall grass to the barn.
Madame LaRoche’s brother calls from above, “Who has sent you here?”
I crane my neck and stare straight up at the bulbous belly hanging over his pants. “Your sister, Claire.”
He leans forward to peer down at me, surprisingly steady with all that weight thrust out in front. He and his sister share a code phrase, and I forgot to give it to him.
“She said to tell you that the orchards are beautiful in bloom,” I say.
“That they are.” He reclines against the wooden frame. “I am Louis. I bid you welcome. You must be in need of food and rest.”
Denise and I peek at each other, apparently spooked by the same thought. We’ve heard nearly identical words before, spoken by Dracula in one of the most spine-chilling films of all time. The sun is sinking ever closer to the horizon, and we have to spend the night at the home of this chubby man who speaks like a blood-sucking, undead Count.
“Park those bicycles in the barn. Rat is around somewhere; he will help you with your things.” The rounded belly contracts and Louis bellows, “
Rat, où es-tu?
”
From around the corner of the barn, a wisp of a boy appears, silent and light on his feet, like a feather carried on a breeze. He must have been standing out of sight listening, the little sneak. A boy after my own heart.
“There you are, Rat. All is secure, I take it?”
Rat gives a vigorous little nod.
“Rat is from town,” Louis explains. “I pay him to watch for those German bastards. The boy is a damn fine warning system.”
Rat grins and blinks at us excessively.
“Bring your things up. Rat will help. He’s stronger than he looks.”
We enter the barn and I nearly keel over from the stench
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