by Isabel Wolff
Suddenly I saw a movement behind the shutters – just a fleeting shadow, nothing more, but for some reason I felt the hairs on my neck raise themselves up. I hesitated for a moment then returned to the car, my pulse racing.
I sat in the driver’s seat, looking back at the house in the driving mirror; then, hands trembling, I drove away.
Now, as I found the village centre again, I felt my heartbeat slow. I was glad that Chance had brought me to Rochemare, but it was time to leave. As I tried to find the road out I turned left down a narrow little street. At the end of it I stopped, then lowered the window. Placed there with an almost casual lack of ceremony was a war memorial. Aux Morts Glorieux it affirmed in black lettering on the slender column of white marble. There were names carved on it from the First and Second World Wars, names I’d heard before – Caron, Didier, Marigny and Paget. Then with a jolt, as though I’d known him myself, I saw: 1954. Indochine. J-L Aumage.
Mrs Bell would presumably know that, I reflected on Tuesday as I put some of her clothes out in the shop. She must have been back to Rochemare at least a few times, I thought as I hung up her Pierre Cardin houndstooth suit. As I gave it a brush I wondered what she’d felt when she’d found out.
Next I wanted to put out Mrs Bell’s evening wear, but then I remembered that most of it was still at Val’s. And I was just wondering when I could go and collect it when the bell over the door rang and two schoolgirls walked in for a lunchtime browse. While they looked through the rails I put a Jean Muir green suede coat of Mrs Bell’s on a mannequin. As I buttoned it I glanced up at the last cupcake dress hanging on the wall and wondered who would buy it.
‘Excuse me.’ I turned round. The two girls were standing at the counter. They were Roxy’s age – perhaps a little younger.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Well …’ The first girl, who had shoulder-length dark hair and an almost Mediterranean complexion, was holding up a snakeskin wallet that had been in the basket with the other wallets and purses. ‘I’ve just been looking at this.’
‘It’s from the late sixties,’ I explained. ‘I think it’s £8.’
‘Yes. That’s what the ticket says. But the thing is …’ She’s going to start haggling, I thought wearily. ‘It’s got this secret compartment.’ I looked at her. ‘Here –’ She pulled back a flap of leather to reveal a concealed zip. ‘I don’t think you knew that, did you?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ I said quietly. I’d bought the wallets at auction and had just given them a quick wipe before putting them in the basket.
The girl unzipped it. ‘Look.’ Inside was a wad of bank notes. She handed the wallet to me and I pulled them out.
‘Eighty pounds,’ I said wonderingly. Into my mind flashed Ginny Jones at Radio London asking me if I’d ever found cash in any of the things I sold. I felt like ringing her to say that I had.
‘I thought I should tell you,’ the girl said.
I looked at her. ‘That’s incredibly honest of you.’ I separated two of the twenty-pound notes and handed them to her. ‘Here.’
The girl blushed. ‘I didn’t mean …’
‘I know you didn’t, but please – it’s the least I can do.’
‘Well, thanks,’ the girl said happily. She took it. ‘Here, Sarah …’ She offered one of the notes to her friend, a girl of similar height but with short fair hair.
Sarah shook her head. ‘You found it, Katie – not me. Anyway, we’d better hurry – we don’t have long.’
‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ I asked them.
They explained that they were looking for special dresses to wear for a ball in aid of the Teenage Leukaemia Trust.
‘It’s at the Natural History Museum,’ said Katie. So it was the same event that Roxy was going to. ‘There’ll be a thousand of us there, so we’ll all be desperately trying to stand out from the crowd. I’m afraid we don’t have a huge budget,’ she added apologetically.
‘Well … just have a good browse. There are some very eye-catching fifties dresses – like this one.’ I unhooked a sleeveless glazed cotton dress with a vibrant, semi-abstract print of cubes and circles. ‘That’s £80.’
‘It’s very unusual,’ Sarah said.
‘It’s by Horrocks – they made wonderful cotton dresses in the late forties and fifties. This print was designed by Eduardo Paolozzi.’ The girls nodded then I saw Katie’s eyes stray to the yellow cupcake dress.
‘How much is that one?’ I told her the price. ‘Oh – too expensive. For me, I mean,’ she added hastily. ‘But I’m sure someone will pay that because it’s just …’ She sighed. ‘Fantastic.’
‘You’ll have to win the lottery,’ said Sarah, looking at it. ‘Or get yourself a Saturday job that pays better.’
‘I wish,’ said Katie. ‘I only clear £45 a day at Costcutters, so I’d need to work for what… two months to buy that dress, by which time the ball would be long over.’
‘Well, you’ve got £40 there,’ said Sarah, ‘so you’ve only got to find another £235.’ Katie rolled her eyes. ‘Try it on,’ her friend urged her.
Katie shook her head. ‘What’s the point?’
‘The point is that I think it will suit you.’
‘I couldn’t afford it, even if it does.’
‘Do try it on,’ I said. ‘Just for fun – plus I love seeing the clothes on my customers.’
Katie looked at the dress again. ‘Okay.’
I got it down and hung it in the changing room. Katie went in and emerged a couple of minutes later.
‘You look like … a sunflower,’ said Sarah, smiling.
‘It is lovely on you,’ I agreed as Katie gazed at herself in the mirror. ‘Yellow’s hard to carry off, but you’ve got the warm complexion for it.’
‘But you’ll need to stuff your bra,’ said Sarah judiciously as Katie adjusted the bodice. ‘You could get some of those chicken-fillet things.’
Katie turned to her wearily. ‘You’re talking as though I’m going to be buying this dress – I’m not.’
‘Can’t your mum help?’ Sarah asked.
Katie shook her head. ‘She’s a bit credit-crunched. Maybe I could get an evening job,’ she mused as she put her hands on her waist then turned this way and that, the petticoats rustling.
‘You could babysit,’ Sarah suggested. ‘I get five quid an hour to sit my neighbours’ kids. Once I’ve got them into bed, I do my homework.’
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Katie mused as she stood on tiptoe looking at herself sideways. ‘I could put a card up in the toy shop – or in Costcutters’ window come to that. Anyway, it’s been great just seeing the dress on.’ She gazed at her reflection for a few moments, as if trying to fix in her mind the image of herself looking so lovely. Then, with a regretful sigh, she drew the curtain.
‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ Sarah called out cheerfully.
‘Yes,’ Katie replied. ‘But by the time I’d have saved up enough, sod’s law someone else would have bought it.’ A minute later she came out of the changing room and looked down mournfully at her grey school blazer and skirt. ‘I feel like Cinderella after the ball.’
‘I’ll keep my eyes peeled for a fairy godmother,’ said Sarah. ‘How long can you reserve things for?’ she asked me.
‘Usually not more than a week. I’d love to keep it for longer, but …’
‘Oh, you can’t,’ said Katie as she picked up her backpack. ‘For all you know, I might never come back for it.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s a quarter to two. We’d better scoot.’ She looked at Sarah. ‘Miss Doyle goes berserk if we’re late, doesn’t she? Anyway’ – she smiled at me – ‘thanks.’
As the girls left, Annie returned. ‘They looked nice,’ she said.
‘They were lovely.’ I told Annie about Katie’s honesty over the wallet.
‘I’m impressed.’
‘She’s fallen for the yellow cupcake,’ I explained. ‘I’d like to keep it for her in
case she saves enough to buy it, but …’
‘That’s a risk,’ Annie said judiciously. ‘You could lose a sale.’
‘True … but how did your audition go?’ I asked anxiously.
She took off her jacket. ‘Hopeless. The world and his wife were there.’
‘Well … fingers crossed,’ I said disingenuously. ‘But can’t your agent get you more work?’
Annie ran her fingers through her short blonde hair. ‘I don’t have one. My last agent was useless, so I sacked him, and I can’t get a new one because I’m not in anything for them to see. So I just keep sending off my CV and occasionally I get an audition.’ She began wiping the counter. ‘What I hate about acting is the lack of control. I can’t stand the idea that at my age I’m sitting around waiting for a director to phone me. What I really need is to write my own material.’
‘You said you like writing.’
‘I do. I’d like to find a story that I could turn into a one-woman show. Then I could write it, act in it and set up the performances – I’d be in charge.’ Into my mind flashed Mrs Bell’s story, but even if I could tell it to Annie, the problem was that the ending was too sad.
I heard my phone bleep and looked at the screen. I felt my face flush with pleasure – it was Miles asking me to the theatre on Saturday. I texted him back then told Annie I was going up to The Paragon.
‘Are you seeing Mrs Bell again?’
‘I’m just going to have a quick cup of tea with her.’
‘She’s your new best friend,’ said Annie genially. ‘I hope I’ll have some nice young woman to visit me when I’m old.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me inviting myself over,’ I said to Mrs Bell twenty minutes later.
‘Mind?’ she repeated as she ushered me inside. ‘I’m delighted to see you.’
‘Are you okay, Mrs Bell?’ She looked thinner than when I’d seen her the week before, her face a little more shrunken.
‘I’m … fine, thank you. Well, not really fine, of course …’ Her voice trailed away. ‘But I like to sit and read or just look out of the window. I have one or two friends who come. My help, Paola, is here two mornings a week, and my niece arrives on Thursday – she is staying with me for three days. How I wish I’d had children,’ Mrs Bell said as I followed her to the kitchen. ‘But I was very unfortunate – the stork refused to visit me. Women today can get help,’ she sighed as she opened a cupboard. They can, I reflected, but it doesn’t always work – I thought of the woman who’d bought the pink prom dress. ‘Sadly, the only thing my ovaries have ever given me is cancer,’ Mrs Bell added as she got down the milk jug. ‘Awfully mean of them. Now, if you could carry the tray…’
‘I’ve just returned from Avignon,’ I said as I poured the tea a few minutes later.
Mrs Bell nodded thoughtfully. ‘And was it a successful trip?’
‘In the sense that I bought some lovely stock, yes.’ I handed her her cup. ‘I also went to Châteauneuf-du-Pape.’ Now I told her about Miles.
She sipped her tea, supporting the cup with both hands. ‘That sounds very romantic.’
‘Well… not in every way.’ I mentioned Roxanne’s behaviour.
‘So you were in Châteauneuf-du-Papa.’
I smiled. ‘It did feel like that. Roxanne’s very demanding, to put it mildly.’
‘That will be tricky,’ said Mrs Bell judiciously.
‘I think it will be.’ I thought of Roxy’s hostility. ‘But Miles seems to … like me.’
‘He would be quite insane if he didn’t.’
‘Thanks … But the reason why I’m telling you this is that on the way back to Avignon I got lost – and found myself in Rochemare.’
Mrs Bell shifted on her seat. ‘Ah.’
‘You didn’t tell me the name of your village.’
‘No. I preferred not to – and there was no need for you to know.’
‘I understand. But I recognised it from your description. And I saw this old man sitting at the bar in the square and I even got it into my head that he could be Jean-Luc Aumage –’
‘No,’ Mrs Bell interjected. She put down her cup. ‘No, no.’ She was shaking her head. ‘Jean-Luc died in Indochina.’
‘Then I saw the war memorial.’
‘He was killed at the battle of Dien Bien Phu. Apparently while trying to help a Vietnamese woman to safety.’ I stared at Mrs Bell. ‘It’s strange to think of it,’ she observed quietly. ‘And I have sometimes wondered whether that gallant action of his might perhaps have been prompted by guilt over what he had done a decade before.’ She held up her hands. ‘Who knows?’ Mrs Bell looked towards the window. ‘Who knows …?’ she repeated quietly. Suddenly she pushed herself out of her chair, grimacing slightly as she straightened up. ‘Excuse me, Phoebe. There is something I’d like to show you.’
She left the room and crossed the corridor into her bedroom where I heard a drawer being opened. In a minute or two she returned with a large brown envelope, the edges of which were faded to ochre. She sat down, opened it and slid out a large photo, which she looked at, searchingly, for a few seconds before beckoning me to her. I pulled up a chair by her side.
In the black-and-white image were a hundred or so girls and boys, eagerly standing to attention in their rows, or looking bored with their heads cocked to one side, or with their eyes half closed against the sunlight, the older children standing stiffly at the back, the youngest sitting cross-legged in front, the boys’ hair rigidly parted, the girls’ hair tamed with ribbons and combs.
‘This was taken in May 1942,’ said Mrs Bell. ‘There were around a hundred and twenty of us in the school at that time.’
I scanned the sea of faces. ‘And where are you?’
Mrs Bell pointed to the left-hand side of the third row, to a girl with a high forehead and a wide mouth and mid-brown shoulder-length hair that framed her face in soft waves. Then her finger moved to the girl standing on her immediate left – a girl with shiny black hair cut in a bob, high cheekbones, and dark eyes that stared out with a friendly, but somehow watchful gaze. ‘And that is Monique.’
‘There’s a wariness in her expression.’
‘Yes. You can see her anxiety – her fear of exposure.’ Mrs Bell sighed. ‘Poor girl.’
‘And where is he?’ Mrs Bell now pointed to the boy in the middle of the back row whose head formed the apex of the photo’s composition. It was easy to understand Mrs Bell’s teenage infatuation with him as I stared at his fine features and wheat-blond hair.
‘It’s funny,’ she murmured, ‘but whenever I thought about Jean-Luc after the war, I used to think, bitterly, of how he would no doubt live to a ripe old age and die peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by his children and grandchildren. In fact, Jean-Luc was twenty-six when he was killed, far from home, in the chaos of battle, bravely helping a stranger. The citation – Marcel sent me the cutting – said that he had gone back to help the Vietnamese woman, who survived, and who described him as “a hero”. Which to her, at least, he was.’
Mrs Bell lowered the photo. ‘I have often wondered why Jean-Luc did what he did to Monique. He was very young, of course – though that is no excuse. He hero-worshipped his father – though unfortunately René Aumage was no hero. And he may have been partly motivated by a sense of personal rejection – Monique had kept her distance from him, with good reason.’
‘But Jean-Luc could have had no idea what Monique’s true fate was likely to be,’ I said quietly.
‘No, he could not have known, because no one knew, until afterwards. And those who did know and were in a position to tell were simply not believed – people said they must be mad. If only …’ Mrs Bell murmured, shaking her head. ‘But the fact remains that Jean-Luc behaved horribly, as so many people did at that time: and many behaved heroically,’ she added. ‘Like the Antignac family, who it turned out had been sheltering in their home four other children, who all survived the war.’ She looked at me. ‘There were many brave people like the A
ntignacs and these are the people I think about.’ She slid the photo back into the envelope.
‘Mrs Bell,’ I said gently, ‘I also found Monique’s house.’ At that she flinched. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. But I recognised it because of the well – and the lion’s head over the front door.’
‘It is sixty-five years since I last saw that house,’ she said quietly. ‘I have been back to Rochemare, of course, but I never once returned to Monique’s home – I could not bear to. And after my parents died in the 1970s Marcel moved to Lyon and my association with the village ended.’
I stirred my tea. ‘It was strange for me, Mrs Bell, because when I was standing there, I saw a movement behind the shutters; it was just a fleeting shadow, but somehow it gave me a … shock. It made me feel …’
Mrs Bell bristled. ‘Feel what?’
I stared at her. ‘I’m not quite sure – it was something that I can’t explain, except to say that it was as much as I could do not to go up to the front door and knock on it and ask …’
‘Ask what?’ said Mrs Bell sharply. Her tone had taken me aback. ‘What could you ask?’ she demanded.
‘Well …’
‘What could you possibly find out, Phoebe, that I do not know myself?’ Mrs Bell’s pale blue eyes were blazing. ‘Monique and her family perished in 1943.’
I returned her gaze, struggling to remain calm. ‘But do you know that for sure?’
Mrs Bell lowered her cup. I could hear it rattling slightly in the saucer. ‘When the war ended, I searched for information about them, dreading what I might find out. I looked for them under both their French and German names through the tracing service of the International Red Cross. The records that they un covered – and this took more than two years – showed that Monique’s mother and brothers were sent to Dachau in June 1943; their names were on the transportation lists. But there is no record of them after that because those who did not survive selection were not registered – and women with young children did not survive that process.’ Mrs Bell’s voice caught. ‘But the Red Cross did find a record there for Monique’s father. He was selected for forced labour, but died there six months later. As for Monique …’ Mrs Bell’s mouth was quivering. ‘The Red Cross could find no trace of her after the war. They knew that she had spent three months in Drancy before being sent to Auschwitz. Her camp record – the Nazis kept meticulous files – showed that she had arrived there on August 5th, 1943. The fact that she had a record means that she survived selection. But she is believed to have been killed there, or to have died there at some date unknown.’