Charlotte Gray

Name: Charlotte Gray
Brand: Faulks, Sebastian
SKU: PR-9780099394310
Price: 3.56 EUR
Availability: OutOfStock
Rating: 3.6 (17 reviews)

3.6

(17)

Le Pitch

Présentation de l'éditeur A remarkable story of a Scottish woman in Occupied France pursuing a perilous mission of her own FROM THE AUTHOR OF THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER BIRDSONGIn 1942, Charlotte Gray, a young Scottish woman, heads for Occupied France on a dual mission - officially, to run an apparently simple errand for a British special operations group and unofficially, to search for her lover, an English airman missing in action. She travels to the village of Lavaurette, dyeing her hair and changing her name to conceal her identity. As the people in the small town prepare to meet their terrible destiny, Charlotte must come face-to-face with the harrowing truth of what took place in Europe’s darkest years, and confront a terrifying secret that threatens to cast its shadow over the remainder of her days. ‘There is no shortage of dramatic tension, excitement or persuasive detail... Faulks is a prodigiously talented writer’ New York Times----Also available by Sebastian Faulks as part of the French trilogy series: Girl at The Lion d’Or Birdsong Extrait Part One Early 1942 Peter Gregory kicked the door of the dispersal hut closed behind him with the heel of his boot. He sensed the iciness of the air outside but was too well wrapped to feel it on his skin. He looked up and saw a big moon hanging still, while ragged clouds flew past and broke up like smoke in the darkness. He began to waddle across the grass, each step won from the limits of movement permitted by the parachute that hung down behind as he bucked and tossed his way forward. He heard the clank of the corporal fitter's bicycle where it juddered over the ground to his right. The chain needed oiling, he noted; the man was in the wrong gear and a metal mudguard was catching on the tyre with a rhythmic slur as the wheel turned. He could see the bulk of his plane ahead, large in the night, with the three-bladed propeller stopped at a poised diagonal, the convex sweep of the upper fuselage looking sleeker in the darkness than by day. The fitter dropped his bicycle to the ground. He made his way over in the light of a feeble torch which he gripped between his teeth as he helped, with both hands braced against his parachute, to push Gregory up on to the wing. Then he clambered up himself as Gregory hoisted a leg over the side of the cockpit and slithered down inside. 'God, it's cold,' said the fitter. 'My hands can't feel a thing. This north wind.' Gregory switched on the instrument lighting and settled on to the sculpted metal seat, trying to make himself comfortable on his parachute. The fitter was talking as Gregory's eyes went over the lit dials. 'My boy's got this cough. I don't know what I can do about it, stuck down here. Oxygen?' The engine was started and the man was off the wing. He bobbed about underneath, then stood clear as Gregory ran up the engine before signalling him to pull out the chocks that held the plane against the wind. Gregory saw him hold up the torch when at last he straightened and picked up his fallen bicycle; he gave him a minute to pedal his way back to the fug of the blacked-out mess, to sweet tea and cigarettes. Then he opened the throttle and let the little plane creep forward across the grass, bouncing on plump wheels. When he had taxied to the end of the strip, he turned the plane into the wind and waited. He shivered. With his bare fingers he was able to check the fixture of the oxygen and radio-transmitter leads in his headset. He inhaled the intoxicating smell of rotting rubber from his mask, then pulled the glove back on to his hand and grasped the stick between his knees. The R/T barked in his ear—someone impatient to get to the barrel of beer he had seen being wheeled in that afternoon. The wind veered a little, due north, between the lines of hooded lamps on either side of the strip; it was making the plane toss like a small boat at anchor. Gregory checked the propeller was in fine pitch and opened the t Afficher moinsAfficher plus

Charlotte Gray

3.6

(17)

Indisponible

Le Pitch

Présentation de l'éditeur A remarkable story of a Scottish woman in Occupied France pursuing a perilous mission of her own FROM THE AUTHOR OF THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER BIRDSONGIn 1942, Charlotte Gray, a young Scottish woman, heads for Occupied France on a dual mission - officially, to run an apparently simple errand for a British special operations group and unofficially, to search for her lover, an English airman missing in action. She travels to the village of Lavaurette, dyeing her hair and changing her name to conceal her identity. As the people in the small town prepare to meet their terrible destiny, Charlotte must come face-to-face with the harrowing truth of what took place in Europe’s darkest years, and confront a terrifying secret that threatens to cast its shadow over the remainder of her days. ‘There is no shortage of dramatic tension, excitement or persuasive detail... Faulks is a prodigiously talented writer’ New York Times----Also available by Sebastian Faulks as part of the French trilogy series: Girl at The Lion d’Or Birdsong Extrait Part One Early 1942 Peter Gregory kicked the door of the dispersal hut closed behind him with the heel of his boot. He sensed the iciness of the air outside but was too well wrapped to feel it on his skin. He looked up and saw a big moon hanging still, while ragged clouds flew past and broke up like smoke in the darkness. He began to waddle across the grass, each step won from the limits of movement permitted by the parachute that hung down behind as he bucked and tossed his way forward. He heard the clank of the corporal fitter's bicycle where it juddered over the ground to his right. The chain needed oiling, he noted; the man was in the wrong gear and a metal mudguard was catching on the tyre with a rhythmic slur as the wheel turned. He could see the bulk of his plane ahead, large in the night, with the three-bladed propeller stopped at a poised diagonal, the convex sweep of the upper fuselage looking sleeker in the darkness than by day. The fitter dropped his bicycle to the ground. He made his way over in the light of a feeble torch which he gripped between his teeth as he helped, with both hands braced against his parachute, to push Gregory up on to the wing. Then he clambered up himself as Gregory hoisted a leg over the side of the cockpit and slithered down inside. 'God, it's cold,' said the fitter. 'My hands can't feel a thing. This north wind.' Gregory switched on the instrument lighting and settled on to the sculpted metal seat, trying to make himself comfortable on his parachute. The fitter was talking as Gregory's eyes went over the lit dials. 'My boy's got this cough. I don't know what I can do about it, stuck down here. Oxygen?' The engine was started and the man was off the wing. He bobbed about underneath, then stood clear as Gregory ran up the engine before signalling him to pull out the chocks that held the plane against the wind. Gregory saw him hold up the torch when at last he straightened and picked up his fallen bicycle; he gave him a minute to pedal his way back to the fug of the blacked-out mess, to sweet tea and cigarettes. Then he opened the throttle and let the little plane creep forward across the grass, bouncing on plump wheels. When he had taxied to the end of the strip, he turned the plane into the wind and waited. He shivered. With his bare fingers he was able to check the fixture of the oxygen and radio-transmitter leads in his headset. He inhaled the intoxicating smell of rotting rubber from his mask, then pulled the glove back on to his hand and grasped the stick between his knees. The R/T barked in his ear—someone impatient to get to the barrel of beer he had seen being wheeled in that afternoon. The wind veered a little, due north, between the lines of hooded lamps on either side of the strip; it was making the plane toss like a small boat at anchor. Gregory checked the propeller was in fine pitch and opened the t Afficher moinsAfficher plus