by John Wilcox
He pulled her to him. “Would you like to tell me what this was all about? What were you trying to get me to do?” He held up the horn tip. “Hypnotise me somehow with this little thing?”
She blew her nose and stood up. “No mon cher. It was not like that. I so wanted you to feel what I feel, to remember how things were between us, but maybe another time. You must do this thing for yourself, although I tried to help a little bit.”
“How things were between us? What do you mean? Well, whatever it is you are up to my love, it hasn’t worked, although this damned place still spooks me.” He looked around. “It will be dark soon, shouldn’t we be getting back?”
She smiled and rose, putting out both hands to pull him up. “Yes, it is not safe to be out after dark because of the curfew, although I think we are safe enough on our own land and particularly in this wood. But we should go because I do not want Henri asking a lot of questions about what we have been doing.”
Together they picked their way back through the path in the woods, even more slowly than when they came, because a sense of fatigue had descended upon Gladwin. His body ached and his head now throbbed, as though he had had too good a night in the mess. He leaned heavily on Marie and, stealing a glance at her in the twilight, he marvelled at the way the softness of her fair hair framed the perfect roundness of her face and he realised how deeply he was in love with this woman. Yet, despite his love, her ethereal quality was beginning to make him uneasy. She was obviously trying to involve him in some sort of spiritualism – perhaps trying to get him to journey to another place and another time. He could think of no reason why she should want him to do this but he was uneasy at the thought. Was she – perish the thought – some kind of witch, for God’s sake? He forced a grin and found himself gripping her hand tighter and she turned and gave him that nose-tilted, eyes-glowing smile that made him catch his breath. Hell, if he was being bewitched, there were worse things that could happen to a Welsh air gunner shot down in enemy territory!
Henri had not returned from Hesdin when they arrived back in the house but a large parcel, roughly tied with string, had been delivered. Gladwin was allowed to remain in the living room while it was unwrapped and the contents revealed as his disguise. His face wrinkled with disgust as he fingered the grimy cloth. There was a pair of shiny trousers attached to looped braces, one pair of darned woollen socks – only one pair for the long walk to Spain! – black, down-at-heel, button-up boots, a collarless cotton shirt, a serge jacket, patched at the elbows, and a wool overcoat with a frayed collar. The ensemble was completed by a dirty cap with a broken peak. The cap was rather too large but the trousers, jacket and the overcoat fitted – after a fashion. So too did the boots, and Gladwin marvelled at de Vitrac’s organisation. Now Marie had metamorphosed into a dresser as she danced around him, adjusting the fit of the jacket around the shoulders and reaching to pull it up by the back of the collar under the overcoat, like an anxious mother preparing her son for his first day at school. At the end she stood back and nodded.
“Yes Will,” she smiled. “You look very Polish.”
“I feel like Charlie Chaplin. The Germans won’t be able to arrest me for laughing.”
She laughed and clapped her hands. To Gladwin she seemed sixteen years old and he wanted to kiss her. She took his right hand and examined it. He glanced down and was slightly embarrassed to see that his hand retained the schoolroom softness that air gunnery had never coarsened.
Marie frowned and shook her head. “Before you begin your journey, Will, you must harden your hands. The Germans will notice this sort of thing, particularly in the farming country.”
“Right. I’ll dig you a ditch or two before I go.”
She gazed at him for a moment without speaking and Gladwin realised that she seemed to show no regret or dismay at the thought of him leaving. He recalled the strong, almost fierce conviction with which she had said that he would escape and then, when the war was over, return to France to claim her. Did this sixth sense, or whatever it was that she seemed to possess extend to the future and so give her this tranquillity about their meeting again? Then, for the first time, a sense of impending loss descended upon him at the thought of leaving. The sweat-stained cap and the awful stiffness of the jacket brought home to him that the ridiculous idyll with this beautiful woman was about to end and that he would probably never make love to her again.
He looked over his shoulder. The old couple were in the kitchen. He caught Marie’s hand. “Come downstairs with me,” he hissed. “Now. Please. Please. I want you so.”
She gave him that sad smile and shook her head. “No Will. Henri will be home soon and I must prepare food.”
“Ah, Henri.” Gladwin found himself almost snarling.
“Yes. My husband, mon cher. But you are my eternal husband, Will. That is how I think of you and that is how you are.” She brought his head down to hers and kissed him lightly on the lips. “If I can, I will come to you tomorrow, I promise.” Then she picked up his uniform and led him by the hand to the hatchway.
*
Gladwin found it impossible to sleep that night. Thoughts tumbled over themselves in his brain, like breakers pounding a pebbly beach. Marie had claimed him, there was no other term for it: he was her ‘eternal husband’. He concentrated hard on looking back at his first meeting with her. Did he have a feeling then that he had met her before, some kind of half-hidden recognition of a deep, past love? He shook his head in the darkness. No, certainly not at that first meeting, although he had been intrigued by her and even entranced. The attraction had come upon him quickly – unusually quickly, for Gladwin was not a man of the flesh and, once married to Kathleen, he had kept his desires under control and had never been unfaithful. Now, within days of meeting Marie, he had made uninhibited love to her, to this young married Frenchwoman, as though it was the most natural thing to do. But it had been the most natural thing to do! There must be some underlying reason for his certainty and his lack of scruple, apart from the other-worldliness of being suspended in time here in the middle of a French cellar while war raged all around. Had they met before? Did love, then, survive the passage of time, like a piece of driftwood being washed up on the same shore by tide after tide? Had he really been attached to this elfin creature in other times and other places? If so, there was no obvious evidence of it, except this sudden, overarching love for her. . Oh come on! He must shake out of this. There was absolutely no proof at all that he had lived before, however many heavy hints Marie dropped before him. He sighed and dropped his hand to his penis. Marie’s face came to him without effort: head leaning to one side, her brown eyes wide open in some deep astonishment, her nose tilted. Loveable and desirable. Then he forced himself to think of Kathleen: her eyebrows plucked and then marked in a thin, arching line “like that Marlene Dietrich”, her lipstick smudged in the corner, a hand rummaging in her bag for a cigarette. He groaned and turned over.
Then he sat up with a start, staring ahead of him unseeingly in the blackness. This was absolute nonsense. Dangerous, immoral nonsense! He did not believe in spiritualism, reincarnation or any other form of life after death. What mattered was now, this very moment, the present. This sweet, kind, devilishly attractive girl had somehow bewitched him and had tempted him to behave hideously dishonestly in the house of a man who was risking his own life to help him. Of course he did not love her! How could he? He had only known her for a few days so how could he possibly imperil them all and risk his own marriage? Gladwin shook his head in exasperation. Back home his wife would be worrying about his fate. All right, she was a wife he no longer loved, but that did not mean that he had to abandon her. She loved him, he had no doubt about that, and she would be now agonising about whether he was alive or not – and so would her Mam and Da, kindly, gentle people of whom he had become fond. And then there was Caitlin. How could he betray them all? He punched the bed with his fist. Well, the answer was that he would not. He would find a way somehow to tell Mari
e that he could not go on with this betrayal and apologise to her for his behaviour. She was Henri’s wife. She must have some underlying feelings of morality and she would understand, even though she would be hurt. Damn, what a mess! He lay back on the bed feeling quite exhausted.
*
He was woken the next morning by a strong step on the stone stairway. De Vitrac brought him his coffee and roll and sat down for a moment on the bed.
Gladwin was relieved that it was not Marie, for something of his strong resolution, forged in the darkness, seemed to have leaked away a little in the light of the morning. Nevertheless, he resolved to carry out his decision and end his affair with Marie. He still, however, looked up at the Frenchman guiltily.
“I hear that your new suit of clothes has arrived,” said de Vitrac.
“Yes, and I am very grateful.” He forced a smile – he must not give the Frenchman any cause to be suspicious. “Not quite good enough to go to the Ritz in I should think, but I am sure it will do. Thank you.”
The Frenchman did not return the smile. “Good. Your papers should come soon. I do not know what name our people have given you, but it will be Polish. You must memorise it and everything else in the documents. You speaking only a little French may even be an advantage if you can bluff your way through in pseudo-Polish, if and when you are stopped.” He spoke coldly, as usual, and Gladwin realised that there was no word of reassurance about the journey south. The reference to “if and when you are stopped” was typical.
“How is your ankle?”
Gladwin twisted his foot under the sheet. “Much better, I think, thank you. I have been taking a… bit of exercise.”
“Good.” De Vitrac rose.
“Just one thing…”
“Yes?”
“I was thinking about our conversation the other evening. About your ancestors and that sort of thing.”
“Ah, my pedigree. Like a dog, eh?”
“No, no, of course not. No, your family. Has the same name, de Vitrac, been retained through the ages?”
“Why do you ask?” Gladwin felt a moment of unease. He was not even sure why he had asked about Henri’s name. Perhaps it could have provided some clue to Marie’s persistence. Maybe the Frenchman had some insight into Marie’s strange faith. Could he even, perhaps, have shared some previous existence with her?
Gladwin tried to sound nonchalant. “Oh, no real reason, I suppose. I am just interested in that sort of thing. I did teach history, you know.”
“Ah yes. I had forgotten. Yes, we have had the same name in the masculine line since the time of the Normans, I believe. Although until the Revolution it was longer. What is your word… yes, double-barrelled, I think you call it. We were of the house of de Pont de Vitrac. I am supposed to be the Comte de Pont de Victrac. Quite a mouthful, eh? But the first part was dropped at the time of the Terror, and the title, of course, also.”
He now stared unseeingly across Gladwin’s shoulder at the stone wall beyond, as though he was looking into the past. “The Revolution. A terrible, terrible time, that. So much senseless killing of good people by that… that… mob.” He spat out the last word and his lip curled. His eyes, usually so expressionless, were now full of hate. Then he seemed to regain control and smiled down at the Welshman. “But perhaps they did us a good turn. I would hate to go through life signing cheques as ‘de Pont de Vitrac’. It’s bad enough as it is.” He shook his head. “But now you must excuse me.”
“Of course. Thank you for breakfast.”
De Vitrac turned and walked to the opening in the keg wall. Then he stopped, clicked his fingers in irritation and turned back. “Ah, I have forgotten to tell you the news I have. I hope that, within the next few days, you will be joined by your comrade from the aeroplane.”
Gladwin sat up in bed, his thoughts suddenly returning to the twentieth century. “Wonderful. Do you know his name?”
“Alas, no. But he should be here, even perhaps by tomorrow. We believe that, now that the Germans have searched here, this is the safest place to keep him for the few days more we need to plan your journey.” He smiled politely. “I am afraid that he will have to sleep out here on the floor with just a mattress. But it will only be for a short time.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
As he washed, Gladwin’s mind turned over the alternatives for the identity of his new companion, the man with whom he would have to make the long and dangerous journey to the south. This new factor made him forget Marie for a moment. The compatibility of the two of them would be important, even more vital than on board the Lancaster, for in France they would have to live cheek by jowl, each reliant on the other to conceal their identities. If one was discovered then, surely, so would be the other. Who was it? He pictured them all, in turn: the tall David George – his navigation skills could be useful on the journey, perhaps; Smithie, the farm mechanic; Mac, a pharmacist whose training might help to ease aches and pains on the long trek; or Harry Hampton, whose big moustache could, possibly, be a giveaway. Did Polish workers have moustaches? Perhaps. Proctor could not have jumped so early because he would have remained at the controls as long as possible, so it would not be him. It was probably either Mac or David, who were nearest the escape hatch. He sighed as he ran the rough, wet flannel square over his neck. Marie had promised to come to him this afternoon. He took a deep breath. This was the time to tell her that it must be over now. She would be hurt but it could not be helped. It would be for the best. He gritted his teeth.
*
She came to him that afternoon, as she had promised, sweetly and lightly tripping down the steps and running to embrace him. Slowly, he untangled her arms from around his neck.
“Marie,” he began. Immediately she sensed that he had changed.
“No, no,” she said. “Don’t finish what you were going to say. Don’t leave me again. I could not bear it.” She clenched the ball of her left hand in the palm of the other and hunched forward slightly, addressing his left collarbone, terrified of meeting his eyes. “You must not say that you do not love me, because I know that you do.”
“Marie,” he tried again. “This is wrong, all wrong and you must know it. I do not know what you see of me in the past or in the future, in this strange way of yours, but I cannot share in these… in these experiments of yours. I believe that we only have one life and, in the space of a few days, I seem to have thoroughly messed up yours and mine, both.” He seized her tightly-clenched fists in both of his hands and pushed them under her chin so that she was forced to look up into his eyes. “It is all my fault. I could not resist you. It was an unworthy, carnal impulse and I am ashamed of myself. We are both married and I for one cannot contemplate betraying any longer the man who is giving me shelter. From now on, Marie, we must be friends, but nothing more.”
He heard his words as though from afar and he could not refute that they sounded pompous and wounding. It was as though he was rebuking her for her infidelity. Marie’s face was contorted in pain, as though he had struck her.
“You do not mean this, Will,” she whispered, tears trickling down her cheeks. “You cannot. I am not being unfaithful because you, Will, are my eternal husband. There is no betrayal in me loving you. You must know that.”
He bit his lip and felt all his resolve ebbing away as he looked down into her tear-stained face. He turned his own face away desperately and spoke to the stone wall. “No, I am sorry, but I do not know that. We both have spouses now and that is what matters – what matters is this life, now, the only life we have. Please forgive me for behaving towards you as I have. I am sorry, but it must stop.”
Gently he pushed her from him and turned away.
She must have stood very still for a time, for he heard no sound. Then he heard her turn and climb the stair. He sat on the bed and put his head in his hand. He had been clumsy and cruel but he had done the right thing. Of course he had. It had to be done… but, oh, the look in her sad brown eyes! She had not betrayed her husband
– it was he, Bill Gladwin, who had been the betrayer; he had seduced this slip of a girl then thrown her away, like a doll for which he had no further use. He groaned and put his head between his knees. Why did happiness come at such a great price – so great that it could not be afforded?
It was Josephine, wheezing down the stone steps, who brought his apple juice that evening and he was glad that he did not have to face Marie. Miserably, he got dressed and faced the prospect of another evening alone in his cellar, for the dinner together in the dining room had been obviously intended as only a singular, celebratory affair. That pleased him, too, for he could not face posturing to Marie and her husband. He wished to be alone in his misery.
*
For three further days Gladwin stayed alone in his cellar. Neither Marie nor Henri came to see him and his meals were brought by Josephine. The minutes and hours passed as slowly as he remembered, from his childhood, that interminable wait for daylight to come on those Christmas mornings long ago. Except that this time there was no suppressed excitement, only boredom and the agony of trying to put Marie from his mind. Conscious of the long march ahead, he increased his exercises until his ankle began to ache anew, forcing him to lie on his bed. At least Marie made no attempt to ensnare him once more. If she had done so, he miserably confessed to himself, he was not sure that he now possessed the discipline to resist her. His conscience was being tried – it was as though this claustrophobic incarceration was some kind of medieval test of his faith.
It was on the fourth day of his renunciation of Marie that the Germans came for Henri. The three quick thumps on the trapdoor, which they had arranged after the last visit as the alarm signal, sent Gladwin’s heart into his mouth. He hopped across the cellar floor and turned out the light and then, by touch in the darkness, reassembled the barrels across the entrance to his hideaway and sat waiting, fumbling to button up his RAF tunic.