The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Actually, no,’ Gaston qualified. ‘I sent the message that we have you.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m trying to help out.’ He looked between Sophie and Charlie as though he was sorry that he took so long to catch on to their reluctance.

  ‘So they do not actually know you’re bringing me, sir?’

  The commandant shook his golden head. ‘They may do if they’ve paid attention to that message but in the scheme of their problems, you are not a priority, no.’

  ‘Captain,’ Louis interjected, frowning. ‘I imagine you would want to return to your regiment as soon as possible. We can all see that the commandant is simply expediting normal procedure.’ The insinuation of malingering was there.

  Charlie refused the bait. ‘But my regiment doesn’t exist, Monsieur Méa, and I suspect I could be more of a problem just turning up.’

  Sophie gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Gaston, I doubt very much that the captain in his present state is considered valuable. More of a burden, wouldn’t you say?’ She glanced at Charlie. ‘I mean no offence.’

  He shook his head to let her know that he had not taken any.

  ‘What do you mean, Sophie?’ Louis asked, as though his opinion mattered in this discussion.

  She kept her voice light. ‘I mean that Captain Nash was brought here to recuperate. It’s obvious he cannot be returned to active duty and that he will likely be repatriated to England.’

  ‘So?’ Louis exaggerated how perplexed he felt by her words. ‘Isn’t that what we’re going to achieve?’

  ‘No, I doubt that. The English may not find it very helpful for a civilian to deliver to them someone who is obviously just another problem to be dealt with. Captain Nash is not a problem here. In fact, I find him rather helpful.’ Gaston suppressed a smile but she continued, ignoring the bristling Louis. ‘He must remain until he’s fit to travel, when that arm is slightly stronger, and then – even through my network – I can ensure through his line of command that he is reunited with the British army. I’m guessing, Gaston, they really don’t want the injured at Étréchy if they’re taking stock and reorganising regiments?’ She didn’t wait for his answer, Charlie noted. ‘I could be wrong, of course, but it strikes me they would far prefer us to deliver someone such as the captain directly to the docks where he can be directly transported home across the Channel. You agree, surely?’

  Charlie wanted to murmur bravo but held his tongue and waited, trying not to look overly interested in the decision.

  ‘Yes, I think you could put it that way . . .’ Gaston agreed carefully.

  ‘I don’t know how else to put it,’ she said in such a friendly way that Charlie wanted to clap.

  Instead he spoke to stop himself appearing smug. ‘That probably is wiser than going via Étréchy.’ He nodded, as if this were a decision they were making together. ‘And I’m not helpless. I’m sure I can get a message to my division along those lines.’

  He glanced at Louis and could swear he was holding the sly gaze of a crocodile: patient, sinister, ancient.

  Sophie smiled briskly. ‘And what is happening with your regiment, Gaston?’ It was said as if the matter were settled. All of Sophie’s side of the conversation had been spoken in a gentle but straightforward way. She was quite the diplomat, Charlie decided, and yet had a spine of steel. That’s what war does to the survivors, he thought.

  ‘Our boys are being moved out,’ Gaston replied.

  ‘Then I hope you’ll stay for dinner before you leave with them?’

  He nodded in pleased agreement.

  ‘Louis, let me see you to your car. I imagine you are keen to find out more on that other business we discussed regarding Jerome.’

  Her brother-in-law’s gaze turned narrow. ‘Very well – if the help is not needed here, I shall be on my way,’ he said, lifting a shoulder in a casual shrug that Charlie felt was anything but. ‘Doesn’t the captain tie up one of your precious beds?’

  For one alarming moment Charlie wondered – hoped – Sophie would say: No, because he will be sharing mine. Instead she beamed a smile at her brother-in-law. ‘No, he’s moving down to the sheds today. You didn’t give me a chance to explain. Our guest, whom you may not realise is a chemist, has some clever ideas on how to improve this year’s vintage, haven’t you, Captain Nash?’

  Charlie swallowed, tried not to bluster in surprise at the fib, and kept his features schooled as he smiled back. ‘Well,’ he began and then smiled, as if embarrassed to admit to his clever ideas, ‘I’m pleased by your faith in me, Madame.’

  Méa turned to him. He didn’t look convinced. ‘And you can assist with champagne?’

  ‘Er, yes, I was going to brief Madame Delancré on those ideas this week. They’re just some early thoughts that arose as she was showing me around today. I think I can help House Delancré with its production, if I dare be so bold?’ Where was he getting this from? Even Sophie looked impressed, and she’d set the lie in motion. He was sure she wanted to laugh. He thought he might too if this continued.

  ‘I see. And this is because you’re a chemist when you’re not a captain of the British army?’

  ‘That’s right. We chemists have our uses.’

  ‘Beyond designing poison gas, you mean?’

  Gaston raised his eyebrows at the barb, and Sophie gave a sound of disgust. ‘Really, Louis, is that necessary, given what happened to your own brother?’

  ‘It’s because of people like this and that German Haber fellow that killing gas exists.’

  ‘Captain Nash joined the army to escape being coerced into researching poison gas,’ she said, sounding astonished at Louis’s attack.

  ‘Well, you seem to know a lot about his life and work, my dear, but I fail to see how an English soldier who used to work in a laboratory – and has probably never tasted champagne – can know that much about yours. It’s highly specialised.’

  She’d fought for him, so now Charlie would fight for her against this bully. ‘I won’t bore you with my ideas, Monsieur, but one is how to assist the fermentation process in its balance.’ He had not thought about this with any sincerity but now that he’d aired the notion, he realised maybe innovations had been quietly developing in the back of his mind. Ideas rarely announced themselves loudly; they gathered momentum like a steam train gradually hits its full power. He was going to mention this metaphor but thought better of it. Instead, he added: ‘I really don’t know how to thank you for all your help, Commandant, not the least of which was saving my life, but I will take all the necessary steps – and responsibility – to get myself back to my own army, sir. As Madame suggests, they likely will insist, for expedience, that I travel straight to the coast from here, rather than going via Étréchy. I will remember you to our general for your men’s generosity and bravery, Commandant de Saint Just.’ He saluted.

  ‘You’re welcome, Captain.’ He responded with a salute of his own.

  ‘With your permission, I think I’ll start moving my gear into the sheds, Madame Delancré.’

  ‘The others will show you where,’ she said, deliberately casually. ‘Gaston, would you care to refresh yourself?’

  He nodded, smiled and fell in alongside Nash. Before they peeled off in different directions they heard Sophie say: ‘I’ll walk you out, Louis.’

  Outside, following him down the steps to where a car and driver awaited him, Sophie knew she needed to appease Louis.

  He punctured her thoughts by suddenly swivelling around. ‘Did you deliberately wish to humiliate me back there?’

  ‘Heavens, no,’ she said, feigning innocence and astonishment. ‘I thought you were kind to offer to drive the captain to Étréchy.’

  ‘You didn’t sound it, my dear. Truth is, you sounded rather subversive.’

  ‘Louis, the plan made no sense. Besides, he really does have some cunning ideas that can help my operation.’

  ‘The Americans have entered the war, Sophie. You won’t have him long.’

  ‘I doubt the Germans see it
that way.’

  ‘They will. Their push for Paris has sputtered to a halt, especially because of what has happened here recently.’

  ‘Well, when the guns finally stop, I’ll believe the war is over.’

  He blinked, irritated by what he presumably considered her indifference. ‘We had a bargain.’

  ‘I would call it a loose understanding,’ she said, ‘but nothing is proven.’ Sophie knew she was walking a tightrope.

  ‘You asked for something that proves he’s gone. I think this comes as close as we possibly can. I had wished to shield you from this information but let me give it all to you, Sophie, so you’re in no doubt about what my brother succumbed to. I was told this by the man from the Red Cross – a doctor. The gas attacks the respiratory system. It is our understanding that many of the soldiers attacked by the gas claw at their throats, and some pull off their clothes in an effort to breathe.’ He gave a small cough. ‘Forgive me for that vivid description. But this is likely why there is only his tunic.’

  She refused to be baited, knowing he was being deliberately cruel. ‘And where is Jerome, do you think?’ she asked evenly.

  ‘I cannot say accurately but the collective opinion is that Jerome is buried in the mud of Ypres along with thousands of his compatriots.’

  Even though this echoed Charlie’s counsel, Sophie refused to crumple, astonishing herself with her composure. ‘So we shall never fully know?’

  He cleared this throat. ‘In terms of his remains? No, not unless we start digging up kilometres of mud and are ready for the tens of thousands buried with him.’

  ‘I need more, Louis.’ She tried to sound apologetic.

  ‘Be careful, Sophie.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘You know very well. He’s dangerous ground for you.’

  ‘Louis, you’re not making sense,’ she said, smiling and leading him to his waiting subordinate, who saluted at his approach.

  ‘And you’re being deliberately obtuse.’

  ‘Am I?’

  He held her with his gaze. ‘I can see what is occurring.’

  ‘Then I am blind, because I cannot.’

  He took a step closer, waving away his driver. ‘He’s in love with you. That man has no place in your life, no place here . . . no place in the hearts of the people of Épernay. If you allow this to go further, you will break their hearts.’

  ‘That’s rather boorish of you, Louis. I think the folk of Épernay are grateful to all the Allies.’

  He squeezed her arm. ‘Don’t insult me.’

  She shook off his hand, careful not to display rancour, even though her following words cut with a keen edge. ‘And don’t lecture me or presume upon me. I will run my life as I choose and as my conscience and instincts alone will guide me. And please do not forget I live alone as a widow and answer to no man.’

  ‘And don’t you forget our agreement. As we speak, both the French army and the Red Cross are finding out more about the uniform. I feel confident I shall have the proof you demand that my brother is dead, although it will be up to the courts to confirm that. I might add, I can get you the sugar you need. It’s ready and waiting for transport to Épernay.’

  It landed precisely as he’d intended: like a blade cutting into her flesh to where it could inflict the most damage. ‘Enjoy the summer and the harvest without threat. But if you decide you do want to make champagne, you know how to reach me. But it’s going to cost you and you know what my price is. Farewell, Sophie.’ He kissed her hand rather than her cheeks. She wiped the back of her hand as soon as he turned away.

  Louis clambered into the car and he didn’t look back as it turned the corner and left the avenue.

  It was summertime but Sophie had never felt colder.

  21

  SWITZERLAND

  June 1918

  Taking a train bound for the border was the most exhilarating experience since Sophie had said yes to marrying him. What a different lifetime that was. Memories were returning to Jerome like the Paris flood that had brought her into his life. Each recollection, no matter how small, was a gift. He could remember his vineyards – down to the very detail of how the soil smelled in any season. He could taste his grapes, pick out the flavours of the terroir in their juices. He could remember the summer sky over Avize, but most of all the sight of that summer sun throwing glints of gold off the hair of the most beautiful woman in his world, and what her skin tasted like when he kissed it as they made love. Sophie Delancré. He could hear her voice once again in his mind; he recalled her touch, her lips. He could bring together a perfect image of her face, which had eluded him throughout his incarceration.

  What had been happening to Sophie while his mind was imprisoned by amnesia? If the poison gas was going to take his life soon – if he was to succumb to the lung scarring that others had – he needed to see her once more, kiss her once more, lie with her one final time. He had to hold her close and explain that he never meant her to be hurt by this cruel absence. He wanted her to know that although he’d gone off to war to fight for her, he’d been fighting his way back to her ever since . . . she just didn’t know it. Jerome pulled the window down to breathe out his fury at being lost for so long, walking around as someone else. He had pleaded with everyone in authority at the prison before departing for Switzerland, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears; no one cared that he was not the man stated on the paperwork.

  ‘Prove it!’ one of the most senior prison administrators had scoffed. He’d tapped a file. ‘You yourself said you were Jacques Bouchon. Be careful you are not court-martialled for lying if you are this Jerome Méa.’ He sneered at him. ‘You can do what you want when you’re in Switzerland, but you leave here as Jacques Bouchon, which is how you arrived. All the paperwork is done.’

  ‘My wife, my family have no —’

  ‘Please – stop trying to make me care. I don’t. Take him away,’ he said, already moving from behind his desk to pour himself a cool drink from the jug on the sideboard. ‘And get me a better fan!’ he snapped at his aide, pointing at one that wheezed from the corner of his room, Jerome already forgotten.

  ‘Make your request to your humanitarian jailers,’ one of the guards jeered as he was led off to the van, still helplessly arguing for someone to telephone Paris.

  So now here he was, standing in the train’s corridor, where another soldier was smoking. They’d exchanged the briefest of salutations and then fallen quiet; he suspected the man was equally disbelieving to be on this train. He doubted his companion was on the tuberculosis list – more like shellshock, given the way he paced, the restless movement of his gaze, and the way he seemed to startle at any noise. Jerome wasn’t interested in making a new friend or explaining his war, so he turned away and allowed the warm summer air to force his eyes closed and rush through his hair, as he absorbed the notion that he was free in spirit, if not officially. He’d been briefed that the Swiss military would be taking charge of him but to be assured that he was still considered a prisoner of Germany.

  ‘On paper only,’ the gentleman recording his details had said, winking.

  The man was not in any position of authority, Jerome gauged, so he didn’t waste his breath claiming his real identity. The problem was proving it – he knew that now – so he’d need to think on that before he reached Lausanne and people who might be able to help. How on earth to prove he was a man who had gone missing in April 1915? He had no identification papers as Jerome Méa. He didn’t even have his uniform tunic to confirm his status, his division . . . he had only his returning memory to convince someone in authority that he was not this fellow whose name he had been labelled with for years through misadventure.

  ‘So I won’t be sent back?’

  The man had smiled kindly. ‘Certainly not. That is the last you’ll see of Germany, Lieutenant Bouchon.’

  Which was the single reason that Jerome was privately smiling with a mixture of relief and a genuine sense of freedom.

 
‘You’ve done your country proud, Lieutenant. Switzerland is glad to grant you her safety.’

  He was blessed. He reassured himself that from Switzerland he would get help to contact Sophie. So many lost years. She would be frantic; knowing his Sophie, she would have tried everything within her power to find news of him. But she would have drawn blanks everywhere because Jerome Méa had disappeared somewhere between Ypres and Munich: lost in his mind, lost to his army, lost to France.

  And now a new enemy invaded his thoughts, just as he was savouring the notion of starting life again: had his beautiful wife beaten him to it? In her ignorance had she accepted his loss, put away her grief and accepted a new suitor? She might already be remarried; it had been more than three years and no doubt all the authorities had impressed upon her that Jerome Méa was dead. Even if she hadn’t taken the step of remarriage, had she discovered a new love? It hurt him like a fresh wound to think it but he couldn’t blame her if she had. Instead, he would pray that no one had discovered her. Louis wouldn’t let it happen, he reassured himself – his brother would not have given up hope of Jerome being found even if there was no confirmation of death. He would keep Sophie’s hopes alive too.

  Feeling better for this reassurance, Jerome opened his eyes and gazed upon the scenery. What he noticed most was how green it was. Such lushness had been missing in his life for so long he’d forgotten how uplifting a wildflower meadow with drifts of happy blooms could be. Such a simple sight. He’d taken it for granted all of his life. Now it was as if he’d been granted a glimpse of heaven.

  The steam train had left Konstanz in southern Germany, a city that had grown up around its lake, close to the Swiss border. He’d lost count of how many hours he’d been on trains since he began his journey from the castle in Heidelberg; they’d changed at various stations, none whose names he recalled, but always connecting with longer trains carrying fortunate prisoners like him. He knew he’d been following the Rhine River Valley south. At one point he could swear he heard in the far distance the familiar sounds of trench warfare, bullets and bombs, but that too had disappeared – as had Germany, to his gratitude. When the train stopped at Montreux it was greeted by a horde of smiling Swiss and a band of musicians. Cheering people lined the tracks as the train moved on to an alpine village where many were offloaded. He and his fellow soldiers were astonished by the rousing welcome. He hoped the crowds would forgive their slack looks of shock.