Chapter Thirteen
McBride felt the sweat trickle down his chest under his shirt. The man with the shotgun stood unmoving against the light. His face was in darkness so that it was impossible to see his expression. The sun glinted on the double barrels of the gun. McBride thought they had been in this impasse for about five minutes, but it was probably less.
The farmer suddenly lowered the gun and gestured with it. A universal signal which said come out of there. McBride reached back, clutched at Ben’s sleeve to hold him up as they edged out between the hay bales. The farmer backed away, still ready to bring the gun up for firing. He was twitchy and this worried McBride. A lot of guns get fired accidentally, but accidents still kill people.
They were out in the sun standing in the yard, blinking at the daylight, Ben leaning heavily on McBride to keep his foot off the ground. The farmer eyed them, maybe working out that the lame one couldn’t walk without support. He waved his gun again, in the direction of the farmhouse, and McBride and Ben started to stumble in that direction.
McBride could understand the farmer’s reluctance to shoot them in the barn, spattering the hay with blood and entrails. Cows were strict vegetarians, and all the hay would have gone to waste. Out here no such restrictions applied, so he was becoming optimistic on the chances of staying alive in the short term. He was still trying to work out why the farmer wanted them in the house. Was there a price on their heads? Could be, he didn’t know the customs of this strange country. When he was in the army, all that was taken care of. They were issued with maps, attended lectures on customs, even being given phrase books in the local language. Whatever country they were being posted to. But Russia was never on the list.
They reached the door of the farm. The man stood well back, still pointing the shotgun. He mimed using the door-knocker. The door was bright red, and in the centre was a brass hinged knocker. Looking back at the farmer, McBride reached for the knocker, and gave three loud knocks. The farmer nodded.
Sounds of footsteps on a bare wooden floor from inside and then the door opened slowly to reveal a stocky woman with fair hair, not pretty but pleasant looking. She quickly took in the scene, shouted something at the farmer, in Russian. The farmer replied.
The woman then looked at McBride: “English, le francais -- ?”
“English,” replied McBride. The woman’s face lit up and she gave him a smile.
“Welcome to our house, please come in.” It was spoken in immaculate English.
She shouted over McBride’s shoulder something in Russian to the man, who put the safety catch on the gun, and put it butt down beside him, holding it gently by the barrels.
McBride led the way into the house behind the woman closely followed by Ben who put his hand against the wall of the hallway to support himself. The man followed last and shut the door behind him.
The woman led them into a large kitchen, with a table in the middle. It smelled of bread-making, and McBride felt extremely hungry. There was a huge stove standing in an alcove, giving out heat. Standing by it was a range, solid fuel by the looks of it. The woman pulled round two of the dining chairs to face the stove and indicated that they should sit. The man took the seat to the left of the fire, obviously his normal position, with the woman sitting at the other side of the stove.
“I am so pleased to meet you,” she said, “Because I don’t have many chances to speak your language. I used to be a teacher of English in Moscow before we turned to farming. My husband cannot speak the language, you see.” The husband suddenly spoke to his wife.
“My husband wants to know why you were in the hay barn?”
Ben looked at McBride to reply. “We were resting. As you can see, my friend has twisted his ankle and has difficulty walking.”
The woman looked down at Ben’s ankle, roughly bound in a vest, smeared with mud. The man spoke again.
“Now my husband wants to know where you are coming from, and also going to when you leave?”
McBride quickly ran through some options mentally, and then decided. Shit or bust.
“We are trying to get to St Petersburg. We hope we are going in the right direction. We have been detained in a prison camp, and we broke out. We only want to go home to England.”
“You don’t look dangerous.” She eyed them up. “Dirty perhaps, but not dangerous. Dangerous is how you are being described by the police.”
McBride breathed a mental sigh of relief. He had guessed right. Honesty was the best policy.
She spoke to her husband, presumably updating him and he, in turn, spoke to her. She spoke again to him, shaking her head.
“My husband asks why you were in a prison camp. What had you done wrong?”
“We were captured in our own country by Russians. It is a long story, but they transported us on a container ship to St Petersburg, and then to the prison camp. We were never tortured or ill-treated, but just detained. This is Ben, and I am John. I should have introduced myself sooner. Ben’s sister asked me to find her brother, Ben. So I did, and now I am trying to get him home.”
“I am Olga, and my husband Andrei. I believe your story. Our president has been good for our people, and our lives have improved immensely since he came to power. But I also know that he can do rather odd things amongst our neighbours.
“But now you must be hungry. I can get you a late breakfast, and after that if you are tired, I will make up a spare bed in the attic. The rooms were used by our sons before they grew up and left home.” She beamed at them.
She then spoke with her husband, a fairly long conversation, and at the end, she was asking him for some favour, McBride was sure. She looked back at McBride.
“Andrei takes organic food to the market in St Petersburg. We can get very good prices there, so it is worth the trip. Fuel is very cheap in Russia, and I can run the farm whilst Andrei is away. It takes about four hours, so he can be there and back in one day, if he gets up early. We have what you call it, a pick-up truck, yes. He can hide you amongst the sacks, and drop you off in the city outskirts. So you can stay here until the day after tomorrow, get some rest, and I will dress your friend’s ankle.” She then got up and bustled round the stove.
McBride beamed at the pleasant woman and her still suspicious husband, pleased with the outcome and relaxed in his chair. “Is there anything we can do to help you?” he said.
“Just rest there, your meal will be ready in short time. It is just some soup and bread. And we have some of our home-grown pears.”
The meal was put on the table a huge tureen of thick soup with the obligatory beetroot added. Olga ladled the soup into bowls for them both. They had big chunks of bread, baked that very morning.
“If you want some more soup, please help yourself.”
They both ate ravenously; each had second helpings of soup. Olga cut some more bread for them. Andrei disappeared, presumably to do some farm work. Olga fussed around them like a mother hen.
“Now you will be wanting to have a bath, and after that perhaps a sleep. Come with me, and I will show you the bedroom and bathroom.
They followed her up the narrow staircase to the next storey, and then up an even narrower set of stairs to the attic. She opened a door on the left, to reveal a bedroom with two single beds and a dormer window overlooking the farm yard. She went over to a cupboard, pulling out a pile of crisp white sheets and blankets and made the beds, the two men helping her.
“There you are. It is soon done. The bathroom for you is straight across the passage. There is plenty of hot water, because we have oil central heating. When you have had a rest come down to the kitchen.” She left them; McBride could hear her heavy tread on the stairs.
“Well, looks as though we’ve fallen on our feet again,” he said.
“I was surprised you told her the truth.”
“It was touch and go. But the right thing, since the police had already called. Since you are about to have a bath, get the dressing off your leg, and I’ll have another
look at it.”
Ben sat down on what he obviously chosen as his bed, and unwrapped the dirty vest round his ankle. The skin underneath was also mud stained, but not so swollen as before.
“That is good, the swelling going down. By tomorrow, or the day after, you will be able to walk on it. You use the bath first.”
When Ben had gone, McBride went over to the window and looked down over the farm yard. He could only see the far edge, due to the overhanging eaves. There were chickens roaming free, and ducks, too. A short gravel lane led maybe a hundred yards to the asphalt road. Only one vehicle passed along the road while McBride watched. He could only see one other building, and that must be two or three miles away. If the police came back, they should get some warning. He tested the window, which opened outward, a single pane, the window perhaps three feet square. The window opened easily, and McBride leaned out into the cold air. Above was unbroken cloud cover. He looked at the surrounding roof. Not a big pitch, one could step out and lie on the roof higher up. They would be out of sight from the farmyard, but not from the road. Unless they climbed over the ridge.
His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening, and Ben entering in his underwear, carrying his other clothes.
Meanwhile McBride took his turn in the bath. When he returned in thirty minutes, he was clean-shaven. But Ben was asleep on his bed. McBride had been looking forward to his comments. He felt better without the stubble which since he left the prison had become a fairly wild beard. He could understand the farmer’s actions confronted by a wild man. He lay down on his bed, and fell asleep immediately.
Ben was shaking him. At first he didn’t know where he was.
“Hey, it’s way past lunchtime.”
McBride sat up in bed, surveyed the room, the white walls and patterned curtains. Even an icon on one of the walls. “I suppose we ought to go down to the kitchen,” he conceded.
When the men walked into the kitchen, Olga was cooking. She looked up and smiled.
“What a difference, you look civilised. And John, you have lost your beard. Ben, I have some crepe bandage to dress your ankle. Will you sit down and put your foot on this chair here?” She patted the seat, reached over the table for the bandage and set to work. Just as she put the last safety pin into the dressing, a phone rang. The mobile that sat on the shelf over the stove. She stepped across to answer it. She listened without speaking and switched the phone off.
“That was my husband, the police are returning, he is working up the road in our fields. Quick, quick, go to your room, hide everything in the cupboard, make sure the beds are made. As soon as the police car turns into the yard, get out of the window, and up the roof. Don’t forget to close the window. You have about one minute.”
Almost before she had stopped talking they were on their way racing up the stairs.