No. It couldn’t be true, not Judith, lovely, lively Judith who seemed to be in motion even when she was sitting still. He had a mental picture of her, arms flapping in a birdy movement, hopping from foot to foot on Vernon Station. He cleared his throat. ‘When will you know?’
‘We are calling in a specialist from Paris.’
‘So it isn’t confirmed yet? Not a hundred percent?’
The young man shrugged. ‘Not a hundred percent.’ He drew a sheet of paper towards him and uncapped a fountain pen.’ I understand Mademoiselle Goldstein is American. Do you have any contact details for her family?’
‘Why no, but the Hotel Baudy will surely have her address. She was due to sail for New York in a couple of weeks to be married, I believe. ’
‘So how long has she been on vacation in Normandy?’
‘Nearly four months.’
Dr Brown raised an eyebrow. ‘Four months! This young lady must have wealth.’
Robert sniffed. ‘What is the good of money if you are reduced to this?’
‘Exactly. Poor young lady.’
In silence they both considered this.
Robert asked: ‘Have you told her?’
The doctor put the cap back on his pen. ‘Not yet, we don’t want to alarm her until we know for certain.’
Judith’s bed was in a side bay. The nurse drew the curtain and stood back to allow Robert to step in. ‘Someone to see you,’ she spoke softly, as if to a child.
‘Hello Judith,’ Robert said brightly.
There were dark smudges under her eyes but otherwise she looked her old self. She had put on lipstick and her hair was combed. She gave him a rueful grin. It was impossible to believe that she couldn’t swing her legs off the bed and say ‘Come on then, what are we waiting for?’
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Okay, just a few bruises.’ She held up her arm and Robert saw the purpling mark spread over her forearm. ‘A bit of a headache, the doctor told me it was slight concussion, nothing to worry about.’ She looked puzzled. ‘It’s just my legs, the muscles feel so weak, see I can’t lift them. And they won’t let me get out of bed.’
He stared at the blanket-covered mound in the bed. He remembered her silk stockings, those long legs swung so effortlessly from his car, strong legs made for movement, for dancing. The image returned to his mind again, the movement of her legs as she hopped from foot to foot. He said nothing.
‘Robert?’
‘It’s because of the accident, Judith,’ he replied. ‘Your body’s had a trauma and is reacting like this. It’s to be expected.’ He met her eyes.
‘So it’s normal,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be able to take my passage.’
‘Of course you will.’
Judith sighed. ‘That’s good. After all this, I’m ready to go.’
Robert felt tears coming into his eyes. He closed them momentarily, trying to blink them away. He thought: take me back these few hours, play that scene again, let me slow down when I see that bright light at the end of the forest, let it be a few minutes later when the tractor has passed by. Don’t let this be true.
‘Hey, Robert,’ Judith had reached over to pat his arm. ‘It’s okay. We didn’t die, did we?’
‘No.’ He swallowed and pulled out his handkerchief. ‘We didn’t die.’
‘Then don’t cry. There’s nothing to cry about.’
But there was: the fragility of human beings, our petty misunderstandings of each other. Blind destiny. Being born is a fate, but knowing how to live is a choice. Maybe he wasn’t good at making choices.
‘You were right about what you said, Judith, I am afraid of living.’
– FORTY-SIX –
BLANCHE
I
t turned out that Lilli was related to the nurse who was looking after Judith in Vernon hospital.
‘Louise is a true chatterbox, madame,’ she told Blanche. ‘She couldn’t wait to tell me all about the accident.’
Blanche, who was folding some of her father’s newly ironed shirts, froze. ‘Accident?’
‘The day before yesterday, madame, I thought you knew, that young American lady and a gentleman, also, Louise says.’
Blanche closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. ‘And where was this?’
Lilli shrugged. ‘I don’t know exactly, somewhere on the road to Honfleur, I believe.’
What was Judith doing there? And who was the man? Robert Harrison! An image came into her mind of that birthday picnic when he had introduced her to Judith. They had seemed very friendly so it could have been him.
‘And they survived, thank God.’
‘Well, yes, madame. Oh, it’s created quite a stir in the hospital, I can tell you: to have such a wealthy young lady on the wards. The rumour is going about she is an heiress. Louise said she’d never seen underwear like it, pale peach silk and such expensive lace. As for her outer clothes, the last word in chic, Louise saw a Chanel label. Such a pity about those oil marks though, she says they’ll be ever so difficult to get off. I suggested hartshorn but she was afraid to try it on such an expensive outfit. I know what she meant, it sometimes leaves a mark. Then I said what about…’
‘Lilli, please tell me the nature of their injuries,’ Blanche could not help interrupting. ‘Are they serious?’
‘As far as Louise could tell me, the gentleman escaped almost without hurt. But the young lady,’ a sly expression crept into her eyes. ‘Well, that’s a different kettle of fish.’
Blanche felt her heart skip a beat. She abandoned any pretence of folding the linen and sank into a chair. ‘What do you mean, Lilli? Please be more precise.’
It was obvious Lilli was relishing this moment, basking in the withheld information perhaps or, Blanche guessed, triumphant that her perceived rival was defeated. Slowly, the girl folded and refolded a tablecloth, smiling to herself. Blanche swallowed, she felt sick. Lilli took up another tablecloth and began to fold it.
Blanche’s voice was stern. ‘Tell me at once, please.’
The expression on the other’s face became solemn. ‘It’s very sad, madame, I’m sorry to say. The doctor called a specialist from Paris, at the expense of Mademoiselle Goldstein, of course. There’ve been dozens of telegrams from America, from her parents to say that money is no object. So they called the very best doctor they could find.’
‘And?’ Blanche prompted. ‘And?’
Now Lilli appeared genuinely upset. ‘He said her legs were paralysed. It is not likely she’ll walk again. Ever so brave she was, Louise said. People like us would have been screaming the house down. I suppose that’s breeding for you. It seems she cried for a bit and then she said, ‘well, Charlie won’t want me now.’ no-one knows who Charlie is, but there are rumours he is her fiancé.’
‘That’s right,’ said Blanche. ‘She told me she had a fiancé waiting in America.’ Oh my God, she thought, dearest God, forgive me for whatever I said to her. How unkind I was, this is too much.
‘Which brings me to my news, madame,’ Lilli was speaking. ‘Michel has proposed and I have accepted. We are betrothed.’
She continued to describe her parents’ delight, the plans for the wedding, of how, in spite of earlier difficulties, everything was ending ‘like a fairy tale.’
Blanche scarcely listened. Into her mind came the image of that letter, of Judith’s familiar hand apologising, asking to be forgiven and her request for a last visit before she left. I should have replied, she told herself, I should have allowed her to say goodbye to Papa. What harm could there have been in that? I was wrong. Then she thought, maybe if I had, things would have been different. She might have stayed in Giverny and this wouldn’t have happened.
‘Madame?’ Lilli was gazing at her expectantly, ‘If you would, I should be so grateful.’
Blanche could sit still no longer. She rose and crossed to the window, s
tood gazing over the garden. She noticed how, almost over night it seemed, the colours had changed to richer tones: dahlias, asters and rudbeckia, heralding the change of the season.
‘What is it you want, Lilli?’ she asked
‘You were so kind with your help when I first walked out with Michel. You dressed my hair and lent me your shawl. Would you please advise and help me to choose my wedding dress? My mother has no idea of style and would have me wear her old dress. But I want this to be the most important day of my life and I want to look as beautiful as I can for it.’ Lilli stopped. It was clear Blanche was not listening.
‘Mademoiselle Judith Goldstein,’ Robert had introduced and the young woman had proffered her hand in such a gracious way, murmuring, ‘enchanté.’ Bobbed hair, model dress the epitome of summer with its simple collar, the blue and white birds eye spot silk cravat. Every eye had been drawn to this freshness, this youthfulness… to beauty, Blanche told herself. No doubt about that with her skin, those eyes, the whole essence of Judith. Now she was crippled. What good would her looks do her now? I did not answer her letter, she told herself, I didn’t allow her to say goodbye. She was young and had the capacity for happiness. I was jealous of her. I denied her because Monet took my happiness away.
1891
The train ran through lush rolling country as they travelled north; Normandy’s pastoral, peaceful landscape with its fields and hedgerows. It was like gazing out over a living painting, Blanche thought, recalling Monet’s remark that the source of his inspiration was always nature.
‘I’ve never done anything like this before,’ she said.
‘Neither have I,’ John Leslie replied.
We mean not you and I together and soon to be parted, she thought. They smiled at one another, knowing this was a journey they would always remember.
When they stepped out of the station at Dieppe the air was different, fresh and breezy, filled with the cry of gulls.
Blanche seized his hand. ‘Let’s go and look at the sea.’
People strolled along the promenade, children bowled their hoops and nursemaids pushed prams. The atmosphere was clear and luminous, impressionist light. Blanche took a deep breath and closed her eyes, intoxicated by the tangy air. The tide was on the turn and they scrunched over the pinkish grey pebbles, down towards a strip of glittering sand. Once, Blanche glanced back to see the imprint of their shoes and thought how soon the returning sea would wash them away. Tomorrow they would have been here and gone away. Enjoy every moment, every smallest detail. The gentle splash of waves breaking on the shore was a background to her thoughts. Remember when this day is over and it is time to say goodbye, always remember this. She met his gaze.
‘I know,’ he said.
They stopped still and remained looking at each other, conscious of the time remaining to them.
‘Let’s explore the town,’ she said.
‘Okay. First stop coffee at the Café des Tribunaux.’
He seemed to know the way and she followed him through the streets to a picturesque junction. A well stood in front of a half timbered building where John Leslie pointed out its small belfry. Inside the café’s cavernous depths, they were met by the buzz of voices, French but also English, and saw that many of the tables were occupied. As they found a vacant one and took their seats, they caught snatches of conversation and realised they were in the company of writers and artists.
‘Think of it, Renoir drank here, Pissarro, Flaubert and Maupassant,’ John Leslie murmured.
Neither of them mentioned Monet although they knew he too had been there.
They talked. They spoke again of small things about themselves and of the past before they had met and more recently, of moments they had shared. They seemed to be completing their story before they each took another path. They didn’t mention the future.
Later they climbed up onto the old fortress and walked round its ramparts, then stood to gaze out over the view of town and sea. He put his arm around her shoulders and turned her to face him, gazing into her eyes.
‘Oh, Blanche.’
She thought, I can’t bear this, I can’t.
They ate lunch on the old quay, surrounded by families and to the cry of the fish vendor. There was sole cooked à la Dieppoise with mushrooms and cream, and with it they drank cider. Blanche was surprised at how hungry she was, that she could relish the food so much. The Calvados took the edge off things.
‘And now?’ she asked. ‘Where shall we go? I don’t want to be among all these people, any more, I want to be alone with you.’
He nodded. ‘I know what we’ll do, go to the old fishing quarter, le Pollet.’
It was a perfect choice with its silent winding lanes, narrow flights of steps, walking between brick and flint fishermen’s cottages, silent now like children who don’t want the day to end. She knew she would remember every step of that walk forever, the terracotta of the brick, the grey of flint. They struck upward and came to a little chapel perched on the cliffs and pushed open the door. The silence within was tangible, dust motes floating in a beam of light that came through the altar window. They peered into its side chapels and admired models of small boats that decorated the walls. Blanche read some of the marble slabs.
‘It is a memorial for those who died at sea, all those fishermen who never returned.’ She thought of rough seas and storms, of boats lost beneath the waves and these men’s souls that had finally come to haven here.
‘How peaceful it would be to end your days here,’ John Leslie said, as always reading her thoughts. ‘I wish we could stay.’ He moved closer and took her hands. ‘Never go back.’
I can’t bear it, she thought again. How can this be happening?
The afternoon was ending, with a last look around the chapel they went out. A wind had got up and battered them as they stood for a moment gazing down to the harbour, then began the walk to the railway station.
The pain was so sharp now; they still clasped hands, but life beyond this place was prising them apart. The current of the journey took them up and rushed them along. At Vernon, the platform was crowded; they walked to the other end. They would part here and return to Giverny separately. Tomorrow he was leaving and she would never see him again. For a long moment they clung to one another then moved apart.
There were tears in John Leslie’s eyes. ‘Remember I love you, remember all we have said and done together and keep it in your heart.’
Blanche nodded. ‘I will.’
She sat in the trap, blinking back tears. She asked the driver to set her down a little distance from the house and completed the rest on foot. When she arrived, she paused for a moment to gaze at the closed door before she opened it and went inside. For a moment it seemed as if the house were empty, then from the dining room she heard voices and laughter. She hesitated, wondering if she would go straight to her room, then with determination turned towards the dining room. As she entered, the family fell silent and all eyes turned onto her. Blanche saw their gaze was uncertain as if they didn’t know what to expect of her.
She heard her mother’s voice, ‘Here she is, safe and sound.’
But it was only Monet she could look at now. His gaze was fixed on her as if he were trying to decide what she had done.
Then Maman rose and held out her arms to her, ‘Blanche.’
She leant her face against her mother’s shoulder and closed her eyes, feeling her long familiar form. ‘Here I am, Maman.’
She heard her say: ‘We’ve been waiting for you, darling.’
Monet rose and held her chair out for her to sit, then everyone followed suit, offering her this plate and that, filling her glass. Marthe gave her a swift kiss on the cheek. The circle was complete again.
She noticed that only Suzanne remained apart from the reunion, as if she did not want to be infected by this defeat. As she met her sister’s eye, Blanche understood that while she had lost, Suzanne would win.
Sh
e turned back to the kitchen, to Lilli, who now looked anxious. It wasn’t the girl’s fault. Why should she begrudge her some happiness?
‘Of course I’ll help you, Lilli. You shall be the most beautiful bride.’
Blanche roamed the garden, she felt she could not keep still. She came upon Michel near the greenhouses with trays of plants, loading them onto his wheelbarrow.
‘I hear I must congratulate you, Michel.’
He looked at her shyly. ‘Thank you, madame.’
‘I hope you will be very happy.’
‘Thank you.’
She did not know what else to say so made to move on, but he stopped her. ‘A moment, madame. It is said that Mademoiselle Goldstein has been injured, is that true?’
Blanche found herself reading the same guilt in his eyes as she had felt on hearing the news.
‘It is true.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘So am I, Michel, so am I. Listen, I shall visit Mademoiselle Goldstein tomorrow. Can you prepare a pretty bouquet for me to take her?’
Judith scarcely looked at the flowers, a magnificent selection including a few late roses. ‘Thank you,’ she said, sniffed them then called a nurse to put them into water.
Blanche had found her sitting up in bed in a charming bed jacket. She wore scarlet lipstick. She had been reading a fashion magazine and seemed her usual self, but Blanche could not help glancing at the blanket-covered legs.
‘Yes that’s me,’ Judith remarked, catching her glance. ‘Kaput. No more Turkey Trot, that’s for sure.’
‘You mustn’t say that.’ Blanche found she was trembling.
‘Why not? It’s the truth.’
‘You’re young, medical science is making advances all the time. Who knows, there may be something they can do.’
Judith gave a scornful laugh. ‘Know something? I keep on remembering that conversation you and I had once, when you accused me of being a romantic. “You know what happens to romantics?” you said. How right you were.’
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