The room was at the back of a tall, dingy house in the Rue St Vincent. It cost him a few francs a week, so that, after meals and clothes, he could save about one hundred a week. When he had a job.
The idea was to save enough for a lease on a club premises. By any calculations it should take twenty years to buy even the most modest property. Even assuming he had a job. He grimaced: it was pathetic, laughable.
Wearily he climbed the dirty narrow stairs and opened the door of the room. It was dark inside. He felt his way across the window and opened the shutters. Even then there wasn’t much light: the window gave onto a narrow opening between tall buildings.
The room was a mess. High-heeled shoes lay scattered on the floor and piles of skirts and dresses were draped over the two chairs. I’ll have to get rid of her, Vasson thought. She was a brainless little country girl named Yvette, and she was cluttering up his life. It had been her idea to move in, not his. He should have kicked her out straight away.
He threw some cheap magazines off the bed and lay down. His head ached and his kidney was still hurting badly. He wondered if the damage was serious. Perhaps he should go and see a doctor, except that doctors cost money and he begrudged paying them.
He lit a cigarette and began to think.
No job. No prospects. He’d been through it before. There’d been four, maybe five jobs in the last four years. The story was always the same: they wanted him to work like hell, but they offered him nothing in return. No real share of the action. No opportunity to change or improve things. And then – then came the disagreements. They always blamed him – him! – though the problems were their own stupid faults.
He felt cheated. Frustrated. Bitter.
Like he did now. Especially now. Because he hadn’t managed to control himself and he’d half killed a man and that frightened him.
But it was the fault of the system. It was the system which was killing him. The fat kings ran the system and they had it sewn up. You didn’t have a chance without weight and influence – and that meant money. And you couldn’t get the money without the influence.
The system stank.
Christ, he thought, I just go round in bloody circles. And the circle always comes back to money.
Suddenly he was tired. He stubbed out his cigarette and closed his eyes. He liked sleep. He liked the blackness and the peace of it and the way it passed so much of the time.
The dream, when it came, was vivid. He was back in Marseilles, in the Algerian’s car. His arms were bound and he was lying on the floor. The Algerian was discussing how he would kill him. But Vasson didn’t care because he had the money on the floor next to him. He had the money. He knew he’d be all right.
But then he was slipping, down the floor of the car, on to the road. Someone had opened the door. It was his mother. As he fell past her he called to her, but she looked past him at the Algerian and smiled.
There was darkness. He was in the cupboard again. He shouted and yelled, but the door was made of steel and so thick that no-one could hear. Finally, after time which seemed to have lasted for ever, the door was opened. He did not want to come out. But it was one of the priests and refusal was not allowed.
He asked for his mother.
‘Your mother is a long way away, Paul.’
‘But I want her.’
‘Paul, your mother has not yet found the way to the true God. She is – searching for Him. While she searches, she cannot come to you.’
‘Searching? Why is she searching?’
‘Paul, your mother is a long way away …’
No, she was near, he knew she was near. Why did they lie to him? Why did they keep her away?
Maman, maman—
He awoke. Someone was there, in the room.
It was Yvette.
‘You all right?’ She teetered across to the bed on her high heels and put her heavily made-up face close to his. He closed his eyes in disgust.
‘You were muttering away. I thought you were awake, talking to yourself! Sorry, did I actually wake you up?’ She was using the little-girl-lost voice she usually kept for fat rich men. It annoyed him.
He said irritably, ‘Get out. I want to sleep.’
‘Oh, well, don’t mind about me. I’ll stay quiet as a mouse. You won’t even know I’m here.’ She began to stroke his forehead.
He brushed her hand away and reached for a cigarette.
‘Let me get you a cold drink, eh?’ she persisted.
‘No. And I’ve something to tell you. I’m going away.’
She stared at him and then nodded. She wasn’t surprised. ‘Can I come too?’ She knew it was risky to ask, he might fly off the handle like he sometimes did. But she wanted to go with him. She wanted to look after him.
He said, ‘No.’
She kicked off her shoes and lay on the bed beside him. She knew exactly how far she could go before he got angry. She put an arm across his waist and moved her head against his.
‘I’ll miss you terribly.’
‘Like hell.’
‘I know I don’t suit you … I mean I’m not attractive to you, and all that. But I’d look after you, you know that.’
Vasson sighed. The sex thing again. It was her only level of understanding. Everything began and ended with sex. She couldn’t understand how repulsive she was to him, how he couldn’t bear her to touch him.
He sat up suddenly and, pushing past her, stood up. ‘I’m off tomorrow, so you’d better find somewhere else.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What about this war then?’
He glanced at her impatiently. ‘What about it?’
‘Well, that might offer some opportunities, I mean for the two of us.’ She was always trying to think of money-making ideas. They were always pathetic, just like her.
He didn’t answer, but began to pack his suitcase.
She fluttered valiantly on. ‘There’ll be shortages, right? And a black-market. Bound to be. That’s where the money’ll be. In buying things up cheap. You’ve got enough saved to make a start. It’ll be a real money-spinner, you’ll see!’
Vasson paused and looked at her. ‘And what do you think people will be short of?’ he asked.
She thought for a moment, her pencilled eyebrows puckered in concentration. At last she said, ‘Oh, stockings, make-up, clothes, things like that … Oh and food, I suppose. And I could think of lots more, I’m sure I could—’
Vasson stared out of the window. The silly girl might actually have something. Perhaps there would be a war, perhaps it would go on for some time, perhaps there would be plenty of money to be made.
He pushed the last few things into his suitcase. He said abruptly, ‘I’m off then.’
‘Oh, please …!’ She started towards him, a pleading expression on her face.
He glanced at her, thinking again how repulsive she was, and turned away to open the door.
She yelled, ‘You shit!’ But he walked quickly down the stairs and by the time he reached the street he couldn’t hear her any more.
He walked rapidly, needing to get away quickly. He thought: It’s good to be free again. He would get another room, alone. He would start again.
He stopped for a coffee and a cigarette in a place he hadn’t been to before. He thought about the girl’s idea. There definitely might be something in it. Luxuries, food, what else had she said – stockings. Yes, and cigarettes would be short too.
A war might be rather a good thing after all.
Chapter 5
THE COAST IS wild and rugged and utterly beautiful. From its border with Normandy to the point where the land turns to face the open Atlantic the North Brittany coast measures little more than a hundred miles as the crow flies. But this means nothing. It is so indented with bays and deep estuaries that its true length is at least twice that distance. Most of this length is impenetrable to anything but the smallest craft – and then only in good weather – for
the land is defended by a great barrier of natural hazards.
A thousand storms have shaped the jagged cliffs and eaten into the soft rock, leaving a dense fabric of reefs, islands and islets to seaward. Some of the dangers stand proud and high in the water: great stacks of rock rising like dragon’s teeth, or larger islands which lie cowed and barren before the wind. But most of the perils lie near the surface: sharp reefs marked only by breaking water, or islets so low that they are almost invisible. These dangers reach out four, five, sometimes twelve miles from the land.
Then there are the tidal streams. They run very strong along these shores, ripping across rocks and reefs, tearing through the deep channels, and swinging into bays and inlets, making accurate landfall difficult even for the most careful of navigators.
The strongest winds come in winter, blowing storm force from the Atlantic. They send before them armies of waves which curve in towards the shore, gathering speed until they break on the myriad of rocks and islets in a cauldron of white foaming surf, then advance, still snapping and roaring, on to the fragile mainland itself.
This coast is no friend to the sailor. Only those familiar with its dangers dare approach it with impunity; strangers must rely on good charts and blind faith. At night the dangers are marked by the powerful lights of tall lighthouses; with the help of leading lights and channel buoys it is even possible for small fishing craft to navigate one or two of the estuaries in darkness. But for the most part this coast does not invite visitors; the great lighthouses serve to warn rather than welcome.
The wind blows the fine salt mist several miles inland, so that only the hardiest vegetation can grow there. There is gorse and heather and thin coarse grass, and the pastures, such as they are, support only a small number of cattle. Further inland there are market gardens and fields of wheat and richer pastures, but even here the land gives grudgingly and there is none of the lush abundance of Normandy or Picardy.
Like all wild, windswept places the land is rich with romantic legend. Except that in Brittany fact and fable are closely intertwined. The people who have inhabited this land for centuries are quite alien to their neighbours in the rest of France. Brittany is French by nationality, but not by race, language or culture. The proud, tough Bretons are not Gauls but Celts, and their closest links are with Cornwall, Wales, and Ireland, whence they came centuries ago. The Breton language sounds harsh to the French ear and the names of the rocks and headlands are easier spoken by a Cornishman than a Frenchman: Beg an Fry, Mean Nevez, L’Aberwrac’h, Lizen Ven, Pen Ven. You would even be forgiven for thinking you were in Scotland when you hear their music, for they play not the accordion, but the plaintive, mournful bagpipes.
To the great nation of France, Brittany is something of a backwater, not sufficiently fertile or industrially developed to demand a great deal of attention. For the Bretons, proudly nationalistic and stubbornly independent, their subjugation to the mother country is tolerated with equanimity, and the benefits, if any, absorbed. The idea of freedom has long been forgotten – the land has been fought over often enough as it is – but the people remain independent in spirit.
The land is poor and in places infertile, but the Bretons find it sufficient for their needs; the way of life is simple and austere and not to the taste of the sophisticated French, but for the Bretons this is the only life they know. Many of them live off the sea, and the sea is the harshest life there is.
It was a pleasant day in August and the coast looked almost benign.
The sun had penetrated the morning mist at midday and now in the late afternoon the ragged headlands and narrow estuaries were lit in firm bold colours. The greeny purple of the sparse vegetation showed clearly against the grey and terracotta of the jagged rock formations. The sea itself was a pale grey-blue and unusually calm. There had been no gales for some days and only a slight swell washed around the walls of rock and on to the narrow pebble beaches.
Julie lifted her head and let the soft salt wind caress her face. For a few moments she stood quite still, listening to the gentle murmur of the surf far below, watching the waves ripple across the wideness of the sea. The cries of seabirds echoed faintly on the wind; occasionally one would fly high into the air and she followed it as it glided motionless on the breeze.
Julie closed her eyes, thinking: It’s so beautiful and I love it all.
She opened her eyes and looked again. She loved it partly because it was beautiful and partly because she was happy here. She loved the peace and the loneliness of it; on a day like this you could walk for hours and never see a living soul. At first the remoteness had seemed strange and unsettling after the close warmth of the city. But slowly she began to appreciate the austerity and rugged beauty of the landscape. Now it seemed so familiar that she might have lived here all her life.
Standing on the headland it was difficult to believe that Plymouth and England lay just a hundred miles across the Channel. It seemed like a thousand. The small house in Radley Terrace belonged to another life, another person. That’s what she had been then – another person.
Suddenly she remembered she should have counted to twenty by now. Peter must have been hiding for ages. She yelled, ‘Twenty! I’m coming!’
She knew exactly where he would be. There were few places to hide on the windswept headland. The heather and gorse grew low and sparse, clinging to the stony soil around the rocky outcrops, and there were no trees. The only object capable of concealing a small boy was a large boulder which stood round and grey against the skyline. There was also a slight dip in the ground where someone could lie still and remain unseen, but Peter preferred a really solid hiding place, so it had to be the boulder.
But it was important to make a proper show of searching. She said in a loud voice, ‘My, my! Where can he be?’ then called, ‘Peter, Peter, where are you?’ At this point he often gave the game away by calling, ‘Whoo-hoo!’, a funny cry that always made her laugh. But he had got much cannier recently and had finally realised that keeping quiet was the smart thing to do.
Julie approached the boulder and waited. Sometimes Peter couldn’t bear the suspense any longer and jumped out with a loud ‘Boo!’, but he was being patient today.
For a moment she thought she was mistaken and he wasn’t there after all, but then she heard a small giggle. She crept silently up to the boulder and, running quickly round it, pounced on the small person crouching behind. With a shriek he tried to run away but her arms went round the little body and the two of them rolled on to the ground, yelling and giggling.
They wrestled and tickled each other until Julie cried, ‘Enough, enough!’ She rolled on to her back, panting hard. Peter plonked himself on her stomach and grinned triumphantly.
‘I give up. You win, you horrible child!’
Peter bounced with delight, then chanted, ‘Again, again. Please let’s play it again!’
‘In a minute. Give your poor old mum a chance to recover.’
He nodded gravely as he always did and, getting up, wandered off to examine some tiny blue flowers peeping up through the heather. He was always fascinated by tiny things.
He called, ‘Mummy.’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Shall I pick you some flowers?’
She smiled. ‘That would be lovely.’
She watched him as he carefully bent down to search for the stems of the flowers. When he was younger he had yanked them off at the head but she had explained to him why it was better to pick them at the bottom and he had listened with his little head on one side, and then nodded. Now he set about doing the job properly, a frown of concentration on his forehead.
She smiled as she watched him. He was a small boy now, almost three and a half years old, but there was still a lot of the baby in him. Most of the rounded chubbiness had gone and every one of the babyish creases, but he still had a lovely velvety skin, and when his little arms went round her neck and he hugged her tight she loved to feel its softness against her. He still needed p
lenty of hugs, thank goodness. She couldn’t bear to think of him growing up and not wanting them any more. The two of them spent at least two hours a day just talking and reading. Julie looked forward to those hours: to the little body that wriggled into bed in the mornings and snuggled close; to the small fellow who needed a hug when he’d grazed his knee; and to the sleepy bedtime boy who wanted just one more story before falling asleep in her arms.
Her only regret – and it was a big one – was that she had to spend so many hours away from him, working. But that couldn’t be helped: they couldn’t survive without money.
Sometimes she wanted him to stay just the way he was now, not to grow up and drift away from her. At the same time she was fascinated by his development, the way he picked up new words and slotted them into one of his two vocabularies, French or English, and the way he thought things out for himself. The other night, when he’d been up late, he’d announced that, since the moon was nowhere to be seen, it must have forgotten to put its light on. She had been careful not to laugh – the logic was, after all, irrefutable – and she had nodded seriously instead.
Peter was striding towards her, lifting his feet high in the air to get across the carpet of springy heather. In his preoccupation he forgot to hold the bunch of flowers upright and a few of the tiny blooms were torn away by the ragged branches. When he arrived breathless beside her he looked at the flowers in surprise, puzzled that some should have so mysteriously disappeared. But apparently the loss was not too serious: he thrust his arm out and proudly announced, ‘Here’s a present, just for you!’
Julie thanked him and got to her feet. ‘They’re quite lovely,’ she said. ‘I’ll put them in water when we get back.’ She placed the flowers in a pocket of her cardigan and glanced at her watch.
It was getting on for four-thirty, time they went back for tea. They walked up to the path which led inland towards the village.
‘Mummy, hide and seek again? You promised.’
Little demon. He never forgot.
They played two more games, first Julie hiding, then Peter, and then it really was time to head for home.
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