The Happy Foreigner | Page 5

you up a parcel of food?"
"Only be quick."
"Will you wait in the car? Promise to wait!"
"Yes. Be quick. Look sharp."
She put down her bucket and stretched up her hand for the bottle and
the box. He held them above her a second, hesitating, then put them
into her hand. She turned from him and went back into the yard. As she
approached the door of the room where the men sat eating she looked
round and saw that he was watching her intently. She waved once,
soothingly, then slipped into the long room filled with the hum of

voices and the smell of gravy.
"There is a poor madman in the yard," she whispered to the man
nearest her. The others looked up.
"They've lost a man from the asylum. I heard in the town this morning,"
said one. "We must keep him here till we telephone. Have you told the
brigadier, mademoiselle?"
"You tell him. I'll go back and talk to the man. Ask the brigadier to
telephone."
"I'll come with you, mademoiselle," said another. "Where is he?"
"In the old limousine by the water tap. He is quiet. Don't frighten him
by coming all together." Chairs and benches were pushed back, and the
men stood up in groups.
"We will go round by the gate in case he makes a run for it. Better not
use force if one can help it...."
Fanny and her companion went out to the car. "Where is my food and
wine?" called the man.
"It's coming," answered Fanny, "they are doing it up in the kitchen."
"Well, I can't wait. I must go without it. I can't keep the King waiting."
And he opened the door of the limousine. As he stood on the step he
held a bundle of rusty weapons.
"What's that you've got?"
"Bosche daggers," he said. "See!" He held one towards her, without
letting it go from his hand.
"Where did you find those?"
"On the battlefields." He climbed down the steps.

"Stay a moment," said Fanny. "I'm in a difficulty. Will you help me?"
"What's that? But I've no time...."
"Do you know about cars?"
"I was in the trade," he nodded his head.
"I have trouble ... I cannot tell what to do. Will you come and see?"
"If it's a matter of a moment. But I must be away."
"If you leave all those things in the car you could fetch them as you
go," suggested Fanny, eyeing the daggers.
The man whistled and screwed up one eye. "When one believes in
Freedom one must go armed," he said. "Show me the car."
Going with her to the car-shed he looked at the spark-plugs of the car,
at her suggestion unscrewing three from their seatings. At the fourth he
grew tired, and said fretfully: "Now I must be off. You know I must.
The King expects me."
He walked to the gate of the yard, and she saw the men behind the gate
about to close on him. "You're not wearing your decorations!" she
called after him. He stopped, looked down, looked a little troubled.
She took the gilt safety pin from her tie, the safety pin that held her
collar to her blouse at the back, and another from the back of her skirt,
and pinned them along his poor coat. An ambulance drove quickly into
the yard, and three men, descending from it, hurried towards them. At
sight of them the poor madman grew frantic, and turning upon Fanny
he cried: "You are against me!" then ran across the yard. She shut her
eyes that she might not see them hunt the lover of freedom, and only
opened them when a man cried in triumph: "We'll take you to the
King!"
"Pauvre malheureux!" muttered the drivers in the yard.

Day followed day and there was plenty of work. Officers had to be
driven upon rounds of two hundred kilometres a day--interviewing
mayors of ruined villages, listening to claims, assessing damage caused
by French troops in billets. Others inspected distant motor parks.
Others made offers to purchase old iron among the villages in order to
prove thefts from the battlefields.
The early start at dawn, the flying miles, the winter dusk, the long
hours of travel by the faint light of the acetylene lamps filled day after
day; the unsavoury meal eaten alone by the stove, the book read alone
in the cubicle, the fitful sleep upon the stretcher, filled night after night.
A loneliness beyond anything she had ever known settled upon Fanny.
She found comfort in a look, a cry, a whistle. The smiles of strange
men upon the road whom she would never see again became her social
intercourse. The lost smiles of kind Americans, the lost, mocking
whistles of