The edges of the newspaper rustled as a light wind blew through the partially open window. The paper was a weekly extravagance, yet it allowed her to feel in touch with reality, if it could be called that these days. This week the newspapers told her that the Allies were winning every battle and the Germans were on the run. Once again fact was blurred by fiction. The propaganda machines were hard at work. She had no doubt that there was a government office devoted to censoring newspaper articles. Well, they had to, she reasoned, sipping black coffee; the Allied army could hardly note in print which area of the front they were heading to or where they would next engage the enemy, nor could they speak the truth of the battles. The need to ensure that morale was maintained within the military and civilian population, and that the secrecy of military movements was safeguarded had stripped the word truth from the world’s vocabulary.
From an early age Madame Chessy learned to project an image of carefree optimism. She had loved her husband dearly, however at times during their marriage she yearned for the life the Bonets had once lived. Such thoughts made her feel guilty, which was why she tried to be positive at all times. Marcel had often criticised her simple enthusiasm, playfully at first, then, as years of physical labour on the farm began to take its toll, he grew impatient and gruff.
The trait her husband took umbrage to was the one that saved Marie following his passing. On news of his death, anger and denial had seeped through her, to be followed by a grudging acceptance. She still grieved for Marcel and dreamed of their years together, but she also learned to be grateful: for her boys, the farm, the food on their table and the life she had lived to date. She did not become bitter, simply realistic. She found it absurd that Marcel did not live to see the change in her.
The final metamorphosis from flirtatious girl to pragmatic woman came with the arrival of a letter. The letter, written by Emmanuel, a soldier friend of Marcel, arrived months after the official notification had been received of her husband’s death. The correspondence was a revelation. Unlike Marcel’s all-too-few letters from the front-line, this despatch had escaped the censor’s watchful eye, and it was brutal in description. In it she learned the details of her husband’s death. He had been gassed at Ypres in April 1915. A yellow-green cloud had floated towards the men; assuming it was some type of smokescreen created by the Germans, the French had waited in their trenches for it to pass and the attackers to be revealed. The cloud was poison gas. Madame Chessy recalled the letter falling from her hand. A swift, painless end to her beloved’s life was the only one that she had considered. It was some days before her courage returned and she was able to read the rest of Emmanuel’s note. In some respects, she wished he had not divulged so much.
Many of their soldiers, he had written, had died in and around Ypres and the carnage had been going on for months. The old town was in ruins and the great Cloth Hall, which dated back to the twelfth century, had been partially destroyed, with a number of civilians fleeing to nearby Poperinge. Despite the artillery bombardments that carried on the wind, the French newspapers spoke only of minor skirmishes. Certainly, few people in the Saint-Omer area, including Madame Chessy, had any idea that such major warfare was occurring only forty miles away.
The worst of it was the number of dead French soldiers Marcel’s friend spoke of. The word thousands was still imprinted in her mind. One, even twenty perhaps, she could comprehend, but thousands? Where were the bodies? Why were people not screaming in the streets? Did they even know their loved ones were dead?
The author’s parting words still haunted her: ‘Many still think the war will be over soon. Perhaps it will be. There will be no more Frenchmen left to fight.’
Madame Chessy threw the newspaper atop the embers in the firebox. As a mother she could forgive the military censors. Part of their aim was similar to hers: a wish to give an assurance of normality and hopefulness in difficult times. These were the same attributes she had worked so hard to instil in her home following Marcel’s death, and to that end her twins never saw Emmanuel’s letter. It had long ago become ash. Yet as a woman she hated the men who had pushed them into war and now lied and glorified it for the sake of propaganda and military strategy.
The coffee was cold. She sipped at it absently, so lost in thought that when a familiar bash vibrated the farmhouse door the drink splashed the back of her hand. Clucking her tongue at the interruption, she wiped her skin clean and opened the sturdy door to a warm summer morning. Roland the dog sat patiently outside.
‘Can you not scratch or paw at my door? Must you fling yourself at it like some marauding animal?’
Roland cocked his head to one side and trotted into the farmhouse. He snuffled about the kitchen floor and then whined.
‘I should never have made this for you,’ Madame Chessy replied, reaching to where a rag ball sat on the top of a wooden dresser.
Roland took the ball in his mouth and walked outside. Two rabbits watched the dog’s progress as he covered the clearing in long strides. Now comfortable with this invader of their territory, the rabbits barely paused in their foraging. Madame Chessy was keeping an eye on them. If they continued being so unafraid she would not even need a trap.
‘Don’t you disturb Francois and Antoine,’ she called after the dog. The boys were easily distracted, and having sent them fishing to a neighbouring pond in the hope of some perch for their midday meal, she didn’t want Roland to delay them. Roland looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Go on, off you go, then.’ Some days she honestly thought Roland understood her. The dog broke into a run and disappeared into the willow trees.
A screech from the chicken pen scattered the rabbits. Madame Chessy lifted her skirts and quickly walked the short distance to the barn. Snatching up a pitchfork, she ran back to the boarded-up yard situated a few feet from the farmhouse. The chickens screeched madly inside, and the rooster crowed hoarsely. A fox rushed past the gate, a smudge of tawny red. A fox in summer was not unusual, but mid-morning? Madame Chessy bellowed her anger, opened the gate and rushed at the animal. She was surprised at its size: it was larger than the one that had stalked them during the winter, much larger than a normal fox. It eyed her as it crouched, two hens already dead at its feet. Tightening her grip on the pitchfork, she pointed it at the animal. Instead of trying to escape through the open gate, the fox held its ground and growled. Lifting the pitchfork higher, Madame Chessy brandished it at the snarling animal.
‘Ha, ha!’ she said loudly, trying to scare it off. ‘Get away with you!’
The fox bared his teeth and continued to growl.
Taking a step backwards, she felt the wall of the chicken pen. The fox sprang towards her –
Roland came from nowhere. A mass of grey hair spun through the air like a missile and slammed heavily into the attacking fox. The animals came together in a blur of teeth, limbs and hair. They rolled around the chicken pen, scattering the feathered inhabitants outside. Stunned by the savage battle, Madame Chessy flattened herself against the wall as the animals bit and kicked. Limbs entwined, they rolled across the ground and slammed into the wooden fence. Minutes later it was over. Roland stood with a single front paw on the fox’s neck. The animal kicked and snorted wildly, eyes wide. Gradually the fox gasped, then stilled. Roland snuffled at his prey and lifted his mangy head.
‘Mama, are you all right?’ Francois appeared.
‘We heard the noise downstream,’ Antoine added, taking in the sight of Roland still pinning the fox to the ground. ‘That fox is massive.’
‘It tried to attack me,’ their mother gasped. ‘Roland – Roland saved me.’
‘Good boy, Roland.’ The dog growled as Antoine approached. ‘It’s all right, boy.’
‘Is it dead?’ Francois brushed grit and leaves from his mother’s skirt.
Roland whined and gingerly lifted his paw from the neck of the animal.
Antoine turned to his brother. ‘He’s d
ead, all right. Come on, boy.’ Antoine held out his hand. Roland slowly surveyed the fenced-in area and, as if finally convinced the attack was over, he ambled across to him.
‘Is he injured?’ their mother asked, gripping Francois’ arm for support.
Antoine ran his hands over the dog. ‘A torn ear, by the looks of it.’
Francois steered his mother out of the chicken yard. ‘Come, let’s get you inside.’
‘And you, Roland, let’s get you inside as well,’ Antoine said.
Leaving the occupants of the chicken yard pecking out in the open, they entered the farmhouse. Francois attended to his mother, offering her a glass of wine to calm her nerves. Roland jumped up onto a chair and allowed Antoine to apply an antiseptic balm to his injured ear. The dog rested his head on the kitchen table and yawned.
Madame Chessy patted him affectionately on the head. ‘You have been well named, I think,’ she said softly.
The soldiers walked down the road towards the village of Tatinghem. They were a raggedy collection of men. Languid and casual in their movements, they didn’t march in formation and were busy talking and laughing, their rifles slung haphazardly across their shoulders. They wore slouch hats and woollen tunics that ballooned over their hips, partly because every man’s trouser pockets appeared to bulge with unknown contents. Cigarettes hung from bottom lips and their conversation was loud, full of laughter, peppered with the odd curse as they tried to pronounce French words.
Francois and Antoine observed the approaching soldiers from a copse of trees on the edge of the road. It was mid-morning. They had already visited the markets in the village to sell cheese and eggs in order to buy a little meat from the butcher, and they were about to take a short cut home when the soldiers came into view. Francois patted Roland between the ears and then pointed to the shoulder badges on the approaching soldiers. ‘Australian,’ he advised. They had already met some of them, either on the roadside or in the village, but the Australian soldiers were yet to be billeted to the Chessy farmhouse.
‘What on earth do they feed them in Australia?’ Antoine mused as they peered through the trees at the passing troops. The men were tall and strong looking and, by all accounts, a mischievous lot. Antoine had witnessed first-hand that many of these soldiers from the great south land had little respect for British officers, and when not fighting were generally more concerned with gambling, drinking and having a good time than showing any form of military discipline.
The twins then turned to watch as a well-drilled platoon of British soldiers approached from the opposite direction. They marched four abreast, arms swinging smartly, their strides precisely timed. A staff car was in the lead, slowing as it approached the Australian contingent.
‘Here’s a go,’ one of the Australians said with a drawl.
Francois and Antoine glanced at each other. Their English had been picked up gradually over the preceding months from the British soldiers billeted at the farmhouse, but they remained intrigued by the Australians’ accent.
The shiny black car drew level with the Australians, who paused and stared as if they were holiday-makers. The British troops were close behind.
The officer in the staff car signalled for his driver to stop. ‘You salute an officer, Private.’
The Australian he addressed gave a smirk but kept his hands by his sides.
‘I’m a colonel!’ the officer stated loudly.
‘Best job in the army,’ the Australian replied. ‘You keep it.’
The officer gave an exasperated sigh and tapped the driver on the shoulder. Francois and Antoine grinned as the shiny black vehicle sped off.
‘The war’s that way,’ a dark-haired Australian said and hooked his thumb in the general direction of Ypres as the British troops marched by. ‘Not very friendly, are they?’ he asked the man standing next to him, when he was ignored.
‘Bloody convicts,’ one of British soldiers replied from the ranks.
‘Bet you’re pleased we’re here, though,’ the sandy-haired Australian replied, laughing.
The Australians walked on.
Francois shook his head. ‘They’re not like the English.’
‘That’s a good thing, I think,’ Antoine decided. ‘They’re free men and they came here freely. As long as they fight, what does it matter?’
‘An army needs discipline,’ Francois countered.
Roland looked from one brother to the other and yawned.
Laughter broke out from the tail of the column of men.
‘Bloody hot here. You’d reckon the Frenchies would have a pub nearby,’ one Australian said, his slouch hat pushed back off his forehead.
‘Too right. I’m as dry as an old Arab’s fart,’ his friend answered.
The men moved on, their laughter ringing through the trees.
‘They say they’re fierce soldiers,’ Antoine said as they turned to begin the two-mile walk back to the farm. ‘Remember that wounded Frenchman at the village last week? Shot through the thigh. He ended up at a casualty clearing hospital about twelve miles from Saint-Omer before he was sent to the hospital there. He talked about the Australians as if they were unafraid of war.’ Antoine hesitated. ‘Unafraid of dying.’ He stopped walking. ‘Many of them are like us, you know: farmers and villagers.’
‘So, they’re brave,’ Francois stated with indifference.
‘Yes, that’s what the people are saying.’ They walked over a series of low, lightly timbered ridges until the country opened up and they were among the neat yellow-patched wheat fields of their neighbours. The area sown was greatly reduced due to the shortage of labour, and some of the wheat was yet to be harvested. Antoine ran his palm across the heads of rustling grain as they walked along the edge of the half-acre area. ‘I would like to see this Great War,’ he continued. ‘If we wait until we’re of age the whole thing could be over.’
Francois shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘I know, but what of Mama?’
‘She’s safe here. There are many soldiers in this area, and we are miles from the front. It’s like we live in another country.’ Antoine glanced at his brother. ‘I want to go, to see what it is like, to be a part of it, to do what Father did.’
Francois rubbed his neck. ‘I don’t know. We promised Father . . .’
‘He promised us he would stay alive and come home,’ Antoine countered. They traversed another slight ridge. Roland bounded through the grass ahead of them.
‘Keep walking or we’ll be late,’ Francois stated.
They crossed a series of small rivulets. Roland led the way, snuffling and barking at anything of interest, including a wary hedgehog, which quickly increased its speed and disappeared into a hollow log.
‘It’s not right to feel obliged to stay at home,’ Antoine continued, ‘not when others have sailed halfway around the world to fight our battles for us. We are French, we have fought for our liberty. Don’t forget, Francois, that we overthrew a king.’
‘And in return we’re paupers.’
Antoine cuffed his brother lightly on the shoulder. ‘You’ve been listening to Mama too much. Those days are long gone.’
His brother gave the slightest of nods. They reached the first of their small fields as the sun travelled to the mid-point of the sky. The wheat had already been harvested and threshed, and the bags of grain had been stacked securely in the cellar with the overflow in the barn. Their mother now worried continually about food, and the boys were just beginning to appreciate her anxiety; two dozen eggs and a round of soft cheese had only given them enough money for a small portion of veal, barely adequate for two people.
At the stream, which weaved its way around the base of the slight ridge on which the farmhouse was situated, Antoine halted. The water was clear and fresh. A single perch rode the current, its body a flash of scales within the glimmering liquid.
‘I worry
about leaving Mama,’ Francois said quietly as he squatted by the water’s edge. Roland appeared by his side, nudging his head beneath his arm. ‘Who will help with the farm chores?’
‘There are neighbours,’ Antoine replied impatiently. ‘We could speak with old Monsieur Crotet. His eldest daughter Lisette is fifteen; she could come and help Mama.’
Francois nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s an option. If Lisette took on the role of companion and helper, it would certainly ease my worries.’
‘And who knows, Francois?’ Antoine clapped him on the back as his brother stood. ‘We will have to start searching for brides on our return,’ he winked. ‘This is an opportunity to have one fully trained. Lisette is quite pretty.’
Francois laughed. ‘Always thinking ahead, I’ll give you credit for that.’
‘I’ve had another thought,’ said Antoine, this time more seriously. ‘I think that when we return from the war and we’re of age, instead of breaking up the farm we should run it together. One-and-a-half acres wouldn’t be enough for each of us to survive on.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on,’ Antoine replied, ‘you don’t really think that a family could exist on such small holdings, do you? Why, we have seen the result of such equality.’ Antoine grasped his stomach and held his fingers to his mouth.
Francois grimaced. ‘You paint a bad picture, brother.’
‘Then it’s done. On our return from the war we will be partners, yes? Perhaps we may even buy more land.’
At this Francois laughed. ‘No one has added to this farm for over two hundred years. In fact, we’ve lost acreage.’
Sunset Ridge Page 7