What Was Rescued

by Jane Bailey

  ‘I can’t give up the study. I’m halfway through my book. I work too, you know. It’s not just you.’

  ‘Well, she’ll have to think of something else. She has four weeks.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t. The letter arrived three and a half weeks ago, and she didn’t read it. She just put it in a pile with bills – for occasional reading.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘You’ll just have to lend her your room. It’ll only be for a few weeks – just until she finds somewhere a little more in keeping with her needs.’

  ‘And I will sleep . . . ?’

  ‘There’s a perfectly comfortable sofa that you’re sitting on right now. I dozed on it quite a few times when I was expecting Felicity.’

  And so she came. And stayed.

  Well, it wasn’t quite that simple. She had three days to get out, but also, it seemed, three days to clear the house of all her belongings. I naively thought she could manage that on her own. It wasn’t as if she had to move furniture or anything. But I was wrong. Moving Cynthia out was a major operation, and one that she put me squarely in charge of.

  Fortunately we had a weekend to work with. Pippa and I went up to Gloucestershire and set about putting things in boxes – some to be thrown out, the rest to be delivered to our house and stored in the attic for as long as it took Cynthia to find something ‘suitable’. We had our work cut out: it was a vast house, and Cynthia seemed to own most of the fripperies and the rubbish. Pippa seemed to find an awful lot to do in the kitchen, mostly sitting down and drinking tea with her mother. I took each room in turn, tackling the mounds of objects that Cynthia had flung in the corners as ‘keep’ or ‘throw’.

  I couldn’t help noticing the number of small paintings in the piles of objects to be kept. Rectangles of unfaded wallpaper – some of them quite sizeable – graced the walls in many rooms, and I wondered if she had a right to take so many paintings with her. Some of the larger ones that were still hanging looked very old indeed, as did some of the smaller ones she was planning on taking with her. I was no judge of antiques, but I could bet a fair few of them were priceless. I hoped they were insured.

  Suddenly I remembered the young Pippa I first met on the seavacuee train, beguiling the young me with those green eyes. She had spoken then of insurance. I hope you have it insured – that’s what she’d said to Seamus about his concertina, and then she’d spoken of her mother’s stolen paintings. Christ, I thought. Old Cynthia sold them! She sold some of her ex-husband’s family paintings and pretended they were stolen.

  And perhaps it was because I was thinking about this that I recognized the strange object. It was in a pile to be thrown out, and ordinarily I don’t think I would have given it a second glance, and even if I had, I don’t think I would have worked out what it was. It was stuffed in an open shoebox and was glittering between some old stockings. I picked it up. How strange it was. A hexagon of wood with a handle on it. Around the edge it was studded with fake diamonds, most of which had fallen out from their grey sockets. On the reverse of this once-splendid concertina-end, the bellows had been crudely cut away, and all that was left were some tufts of heavy material. I turned it over and over in my hands. I recognized it straight away, but I couldn’t imagine how it had come to be here. I imagined Pippa must have found it floating on the waves and had grabbed hold of it. Surely not. No one cared about anything but keeping their head above water. And hadn’t she been in the boat with me all along? Perhaps she saw it floating by. That could’ve been it. Fancy keeping it all these years.

  Sunday evening, and Pippa was still tapping away upstairs. Beryl had put Felicity to bed and had the rest of the evening off. Just me and Cynthia and some tedious television.

  I had an idea to divert Pippa’s interest.

  I went upstairs and knocked gently on her door. She didn’t answer, but I went in anyway.

  ‘Sorry to disturb, but it may have a bearing on what you’re writing.’

  She didn’t turn round or even stop typing.

  ‘You’ll never guess what I found. Look.’

  Now she turned with a protracted sigh.

  What a face! She looked so startled, and recoiled so quickly, I might as well have been holding a poisonous snake.

  ‘What . . . what on earth is that?’

  ‘Don’t you recognize it?’

  ‘Recognize it? Why should I recognize it?’

  I offered it to her, expecting to provoke a bittersweet memory of us all in the train carriage, but she drew back in disgust.

  ‘Ugh! Please, get that thing out of here!’

  ‘But it’s the concertina – you remember? Seamus’ concertina. Seamus? From the ship? Don’t you remember how we all admired the diamonds?’

  She blew air up her face and then rolled her eyes in an exaggerated way.

  ‘Really, Arthur. How would that get here? That thing there is just an old piece of junk.’

  I couldn’t make her out. I’d thought she would be pleased.

  ‘Please, just take it away and throw it out.’

  She turned back to her typewriter and carried on as if I were merely a minor irritant.

  I went downstairs and left it by the back door, ready to be taken out to the dustbin in the morning. Cynthia came in and started opening cupboards, looking for glasses.

  ‘Would you like some cocoa?’ I asked her. ‘I’m having some.’

  ‘Well . . . if there was something a bit stronger—’

  ‘There isn’t. Only coffee.’

  ‘Oh, all right. If you’re making it.’ She sighed dramatically, then stopped when she spotted the object by the back door. ‘What on earth is that doing here?’

  ‘Oh, that. I thought it was something from the ship . . . you know. Something that might interest Pippa, now that she’s writing about it.’

  Cynthia had moved to the door and picked it up, holding it a little away from herself, but smiling.

  ‘Good Lord! You wouldn’t believe it! Pippa had this in her big patch pocket when she got back from that shipwreck! Eight days in the mid-Atlantic and she clings on to this old thing.’

  I stopped pouring milk into a pan.

  ‘And do you know why?’ she chuckled. ‘This’ll make you laugh. She thought they were real diamonds! She actually thought she had made us a fortune! Can you imagine? Well, she was only young, I suppose. But real diamonds! Oh dear me!’

  She dropped it by the back door, still amused at her daughter’s folly. I continued to make the cocoa, smiling also, trying to digest this new information and wondering exactly what it was I had learnt.

  Pippa had lied: she had lied about her inheritance, and now, for some reason, she had lied about this. I concluded that she was embarrassed by her childish assumption that the diamonds would make her rich. I was moved by her embarrassment. After all, it wasn’t often that I caught her showing any weakness. I went to my cold bed feeling quite touched.

  46

  DORA

  I continued to see Marius whenever I could get out early enough. There were still no letters from home, although I did write one, and he promised to post it for me. In it, I said that I would be home as soon as I could, that I had made a mistake, and that I was sorry for letting them down.

  One morning a few days later, Marius had handed the letters over to me and was sitting beside me, chewing on a piece of grass. I saw that there were no letters for me, but there was one very interesting letter for Ralph. I opened it without a qualm. The address was in my mother’s handwriting.

  Dear Mr Rowanwood,

  I’m sorry to hear that Dora is no longer at this address, but could you tell me where she is? Please even if you have only the slightest idea we are beside ourselves. Her father is very ill indeed and I wouldn’t bother you otherwise.

  I enclose a postal order to pay for the postage.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mrs Powell

  Well, I needn’t tell you how angry I was. I was practically gasping for air and sobbi
ng at the same time. This gave Marius an excuse to put his arm around me, and I sank into him, relieved to have his comfort and complicity. I told him I would need to escape very soon, that I had to find my passport first and get hold of some money, but I told him it would be this week. I couldn’t wait any longer: my father was in danger. I was in danger. Marius rose to the occasion. We could go to his village, Richerenches, and from there he would get me to a train station. It would have to be Orange, I said, because Ralph would follow me to Montélimar station. He wiped away my tears and said he would be there each day. Whenever I was ready, he would take me with him.

  Easier said than done, of course. I still did not have my passport, and I had no money. I lay in bed at night – sometimes alone, sometimes with Claudine – and I pondered all the possibilities. Perhaps I could steal a bit of the housekeeping from the tin in the kitchen? It would have to be over several weeks, which would delay things, otherwise it would be noticed straight away. I couldn’t risk getting the others into trouble. It would take too long. Perhaps I could make little cushions or patchworks and sell them at the market? Patsy could take them for me. Too long. And even then, where would I hide the money? Ralph would be sure to find any money I was saving up. And that didn’t solve the problem of the passport. Was there somewhere I could go to ask for a new passport? The town hall? Paris? I cursed myself for my lack of knowledge about these things. And I cursed Ralph. How I cursed him. My anger was a giant knot inside me. I wanted to unravel it and take it away from my gently growing baby.

  I knew there had been tension recently between Sophie and Ralph. A couple of days after he had taken me to Orange, I was having my usual fitful night’s sleep when I became aware of strange noises. They seemed to be coming from Ralph’s room.

  I put on my dressing gown and padded out on to the landing. The shutters were all closed, so it was pitch black and I was like a blind person, touching the walls carefully. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed a meagre light coming from under Ralph’s bedroom door. There was a muffled cry. Ralph’s angry voice. I tiptoed towards the door, straining to hear as much as possible, but all I caught was something like, ‘Don’t you dare . . .’ and ‘If you think for a moment . . .’ and another muffled sound, and a thump on the floor. I knew he would walk out now, so I turned on my heel and slunk into the nearest door, which was Ralph’s study. Unsure where he might be heading, I stood behind the door, heart pounding, hoping I had closed it completely enough for him not to notice the glow from a quarter moon which came in through the unclosed shutters. His footsteps went past.

  I could see his desk, his untidy papers, his row of unused books. I kept asking myself where he could have hidden it, my passport. I had searched this room so many times.

  I opened drawers and felt in every corner. I found a key in one and used it to open a drawer that was locked. Nothing but some financial paperwork and . . . there was a passport. I closed my eyes as I opened it, hardly daring to look. I squinted. I tilted it at the moon: it was his. I kept on rummaging. I even unhooked a picture on the wall. It wasn’t there.

  A sudden noise made me freeze. I could hear someone flush the toilet in the bathroom. I stood, listening to the blood pumping in my head. I didn’t have time to get out and go back to my room. I sunk to my knees and crawled under the desk, pulling the padded velvet chair quietly in front of me, but it may have scraped the floor a little. Another noise. Bathroom door. Silence. Footsteps down the stone staircase. Silence. Then footsteps again. Someone was coming back up the stairs.

  The door swung open. Torchlight daubed the walls. Back and forth it went, up and down. I remained as still as I could. I didn’t breathe. I thought he would hear my heart. The door was gently closed. I waited. I waited for over fifteen minutes, not moving an inch.

  At length I relaxed my shoulders and raised my chin. As I moved my head, I felt something catch at my hair. I was shaken, fearing for a moment that Ralph was in there with me. I reached up and found that there was something sticky underneath the desk. It was adhesive tape. I reached up. A brown paper bag, stuck to the underside of the desk with tape. No sooner had I felt the ecstasy of finding my passport than I shuddered. Or did I? Am I just saying that now? No, I think I had a real sense of dismay and terror. How long had it been here? How long had I loved him while he knew he had me trapped?

  The first bird was already singing. I knew Ralph would stay up now, so I couldn’t risk seeing Marius that morning. I would have to wait at least another twenty-four hours before I could plan my escape.

  The first thing I had to do was hide the passport somewhere safe. I couldn’t do anything unusual in case Ralph suspected, so I went to the little downstairs room used for sewing and started to cut out one of my new dresses. This is what he would expect me to be doing today. I was behaving in an ordinary way.

  Every so often, Patsy popped her head around the door or came and sat opposite me for a chat. Even Ralph put his head around the door and seemed pleased to see me at work. I was afraid in case he had checked under his desk this morning, but he looked relaxed.

  The shopkeeper in Orange had wrapped the material in brown paper, but the thread I had put straight into my handbag. I opened it now and rummaged for the thread. My passport was there, but it was too obvious a place to keep it. As I pulled out the two reels of cotton, I knew where its new hiding place must be. Carefully, I snipped at the lining of my bag. The base was solid, so the passport was unnoticeable once I had slipped it on top of it under the lining. I hand-stitched the lining back up with trembling fingers, pulling the thread along the inside of the material so that each stitch was invisible. I was so pleased with it that I was tempted to show it to Patsy, but my fear was great enough not to risk even that. I took a deep breath and tucked the bag behind my chair. I was still shaking, and I continued to feel jittery all day. If Ralph went in there looking for my passport, he would never find it.

  I sewed all day, and Patsy helped me with cutting out the dress patterns.

  ‘You know I have to leave here,’ I said, unpinning a sleeve from its flimsy paper blueprint. ‘And when I go, there will be no goodbyes. I’ll have to just slip away.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll explain it better to Claudine this time. We’re thinking of leaving ourselves.’

  ‘Really? Where will you go?’

  ‘It’s all talk at the moment. Denis is too lazy to find anywhere else. You know how he is. A bit of cheese, a bit of wine, and he’s full of ideas. A bit more wine, and he loses the will to see anything through.’ She looked up at me from the sea of blue material on the floor and smiled. ‘Hmm. But I love him. He has hidden strengths.’

  I finished the blue, flowery dress before our evening meal, and I gave a little catwalk display in order to deflect any suspicion of my terror at being under that roof. Everyone clapped. I beamed, but all I was thinking was: handbag, thick cardigan, sensible shoes, tomorrow.

  He was already there the next morning, waiting for me. He offered me his cigarette, but when I said I didn’t like them he threw it on the road and trod on it, as if he would never smoke again. He took a letter from his bag. I put my hands together and closed my eyes in delight, but when I opened them he was shaking his head.

  ‘Non, pas pour toi.’ Before I had time to feel disappointed, he held up his forefinger as if he had something to point out to me. ‘Mais’ – he wagged the envelope back and forth – ‘il y a de l’argent dedans! Monnay!’

  Money!

  With great ceremony he handed me the letter. It was addressed to Ralph, and it was postmarked ‘Paris’. I looked at Marius for guidance.

  ‘Vas-y! You have!’

  I opened it. Five thousand francs in notes. I put my hand over my mouth. Could I take it? What if Denis or Patsy or Marius were accused of stealing it? But even as I thought these things, I knew I was going to take it.

  ‘Have!’ commanded Marius. ‘Have monnay!’

  I would write to Aunty Bee. I would pay her back one day. I would.


  Marius pointed out an olive tree further down the road. Tomorrow, he said, I should wait for him there. His brother had a van. He worked in Orange on Thursdays. He could take me to the station. Six-thirty. I had to be by the olive tree at six-thirty. No suitcase. I didn’t argue.

  I was beside myself. I hugged him. I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow, but tomorrow was the brother with the van. I would have to wait twenty-four more hours. They were the longest of my life.

  No one stirred in the house. It was still dark. Claudine had come in to sleep with me, and I wasn’t sure whether to wake her and explain what was going on or to risk her waking up without me and asking where I was. I decided to leave her sleeping. It was still only five o’clock, but I couldn’t sleep, and it seemed a good time to avoid Ralph.

  I saw the olive tree in the distance and made my way along the road towards it. I was ridiculously early. I knew I would not be hidden by the slim trunk of the tree, so I sat down by the road. Ralph would be sure to check the mailbox today, because he would be on the lookout for his aunt’s money. I had to hope he didn’t get there before six-thirty, because if he looked up the road, he would see me in my blue dress. With any luck, he would only look down the road, in the direction of Marius’ bicycle. That was where I looked now, alert as a rabbit.

  I don’t know how I passed the time. At first it was too shadowy to see my wristwatch, but as the sun came out I checked it every few minutes and the hands never seemed to move much at all. It was colder than I’d expected, and I was pleased when the sun warmed the sleeves of my cardigan. I hoped no cars would go by. It was a quiet road, but if a car did pass it was likely to be someone who knew Ralph or someone at the house, and I was certain to be spotted, crouching on the cold grass in my billowing summer dress.

  At last it was six-thirty. There was no sign of a van and no sign of Marius.

  Then I saw him. Marius did not stop at Les Amandiers, either because he had no letters or because he had more important things on his mind. He came riding straight towards me.