by Don Jacobson
“However, you forget that I found you in a hospital full of screaming, cursing, frightened men. Do you really think it was my first trip to the wards? I did not doubt for a minute that you used a latrine when on the lines. Your apology is accepted.
“But, if you get too boisterous, I will have to ask Monsieur Jacques to come in and sit on you. Now, do you need to use the facilities?”
Indeed he did. She called Jacques into the house, and in his grumbling way, the older man helped Henry navigate his way to the WC[xi] after she had left the room.
The ancien smelled of sweat and stale tobacco. Henry had seen young poilus in their thousands hunkered down in their own trenches near the British sector. He figured Jacques to be an older more weathered version of the French soldiers he had met. Bits of tobacco shed from putrid and ever-present Gauloise cigarettes would have been clinging to lips that covered wine and smoke-stained teeth. Speaking of stains, his faded blue work shirt would sport several from various recent meals, at least until Madame Jacques, if there still was one, would beat them out on her washboard. But, he was strong,
“Ah, Anglais, Madame says you must go to the pissoir. Come now, I have removed the blankets. Ah, but of course you knew that. You are blind, not numb. Raise your arms. I will lower my head between them and you may grab my neck,” Jacques stated in clear, if accented English. His rough peasant hands then grabbed Henry’s biceps and, gripping them, helped him swung his legs over to the floor.
He is educated! And, my God, feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders! They are like the buttresses holding up an ancient oak trunk! Perhaps I was hasty in judging him to be typically clannish and backward paysan.
The two accomplished their journey with a slow, shuffling gait; Jacques’ mighty arm wrapped around Henry’s waist. The floorboards creaked as they moved, disturbing the ever-present sibilance of the waves. Henry’s breathing offered a ragged counterpoint to the context of the soundscape through which he moved.
Quietly, without ceremony, Jacques guided him to stand in front of the bowl, its cool rim flush against his shins. Then silence and no motion. They waited.
Jacques gruffly said, “So, Anglais, I thought you had business to take care of? Are you wanting me to hold it in my hand for you, eh?”
“Mais non, ma petit chou. If you are thinking, perhaps, that this trip will have more of a happy ending for you than an empty bladder, you are mistaken. Peut-être, I could get little Martine from l’Hôtel Barrière to stop by if Madame leaves the House. She is very talented with oils and her feet I hear,” Jacques leered in Henry’s ear.
Henry recoiled at the thought that the sanctity of the House would be so violated! Not that he was an innocent. His father and Uncle, both peers of the realm, had initiated their three elder male children into the mysteries of intimacy at a quiet Mayfair townhouse. Plain and understated, the building housed a rather exclusive “club” frequented by gentlemen of their circle. What was understood, though, was that the business conducted at the “club” would not cross over into regular life and never into home!
So, he fumbled with his pajama’s drawstring—thankfully tied neatly in a bow—and completed his business in short order. Then he quickly retied his bottoms: his anger at Jacques having sharpened his reflexes and tactile acuity. However, he still had to depend on the Frenchman to safely guide him back to the bed.
After he had settled Henry back on the mattress’ edge, Jacques pulled back and offered in a softer voice, “You must listen to me, Anglais. I know I am a very rough piece of stone, no? But, you need to be harder yourself, not just for now, but in the future when She will need you.”
She? Future?
“I say what I say and act as I do because that way nobody bothers me. I frighten them, no?
“But, that fear also protects Madame. Since Monsieur is away in Amerique and the young Monsieur is off fighting, as is my Maxie, I am her guardian.
“The only men who are left behind the lines are the old, the cripples, the queers, and the criminals. The first three are not dangereuse.
“But if those putains—deserters, thieves and worse—know that I will rip off their heads and shit down their necks[xii] if they annoy me they will never harm Madame. They know that I will come for them.
“So, Monsieur Henri, become a hard man. You will have to be ready. The connard[xiii] will try to hurt her beyond what he has.
“Alors. I have said too much. Mind me. You must protect her when I cannot.”
Chapter Six
October 7, 1915
Time over the next few days was marked by the meals served as Henry lay in his upstairs cocoon. Without those he would have had no idea the time of day. Sleep was difficult or impossible as his internal clock was thrown off without the visual stimuli of sunrise and sunset. The modest doses of morphine prescribed by Doctor Campbell did double duty; they reduced his coughing fits and helped him sleep. Yet, he still found that he would lie awake for what seemed like hours before Jacques would come to guide him to the WC to empty his overnight bladder.
He was bored. He had always been an active man. His university hobbies included fencing and boxing. He rode every day when the family was in residence at Matlock. As his wounded lungs mended, Deauville’s peace and quiet began to get on his nerves.
Oh, She would come and sit by his bedside, prepared to read or to talk, as he desired. Those desultory conversations were not particularly satisfying, usually ending up as gentle verbal duels with him trying to winkle out the tiniest bits of information She was willing to offer.
While not the only example, her refusal to allow him to know her name particularly irked Henry. Even today, every time he would probe, she would deflect his efforts. Sometimes she would change the subject. Other times, her silence halted him as if she had held her hand up like a quartermaster directing traffic along the roads running behind the Front.
However, the void she created was imperfect. Her lack of words made her breathing all the more audible to Henry’s sight-deprived hearing. Her heightened emotion as she sought to control herself spoke loudly to his heart. He visualized her heaving chest as she leaned back in her chair by the bedside, her lips parted slightly as she inhaled. Perhaps she blushed. Perhaps her irises dilated. Something about this situation definitely disturbed her. His youthful ego flattered itself that he excited her.
But, then again, she is a woman of a particular age whose husband has been away far too long. Maybe I remind her of what she misses most.
He stopped himself at this, regulating his thoughts.
She is married, you fool. And, she is the mother of two nearly grown children. Is this what war does to a man? Of course! Battle strips away the veneer of civilization, that which we use to tame our primal urges, to push them into the darker corners of our minds.
How close the animal is to the surface! But, is that what we wish? Have we not spent a thousand years moving forward and upward away from the medieval brutality that turned the worst of humanity into nobles while those who would not exploit their fellows were destined for servitude?
Maybe Ted and I were all wrong about it. Maybe replacing manliness[xiv] with masculinity[xv] was the lazy way. To be the cultured gentleman is so much more difficult than to bow to our primal instincts. To be brave and willing to take the part of the weaker must be of a higher order than battling to win bragging rights as measured by acres controlled or miles taken.
Why are we fighting a war with millions of men facing one another? Is it honor? Or is it to assert dominance over the other males of our European tribe? Have we fallen so far?
Henry’s brown study was interrupted by a knock on the door. She rose to admit a visitor.
“And, how is my patient this morning?” asked Dr. Campbell, his Scots brogue giving the room a Highland scent.
She replied with her Grosvenor Square tint, “I do believe that Mr. Williams is chafing to get out of bed. His cough is markedly better. His appetite has improved to the point that Jacques h
as threatened to get out his fishing tackle to fill the larder lest the Anglais, as he continues to name him, eats us out of house and home.
“And he has positively become a pest wanting to know about every little thing that is happening in the world. I think that he needs something to occupy him.”
Campbell considered this, “Well, my Lady, if you will leave us men to it for a few minutes, I will examine him and render my verdict.”
Once the door had closed behind her, Campbell assisted Henry into an upright position. Then he peeled away his pajama top. A cold stethoscope allowed Campbell to assess Henry’s lung sounds. A few medically non-descript “Hmms” and “uh-huhs” left Henry wondering if Campbell was catching good news or worrisome problems. Apparently satisfied, Campbell helped Henry lower himself back onto his pillows.
Then, Henry could hear Campbell moving about the room closing the windows and shutters and drawing the draperies. A thud followed by a rather colorful Gaelic curse punctuated the doctor’s activities.
“Now who would put a blasted ottoman there? That’ll leave a bruise for sure,” Campbell complained as his footsteps became louder signaling his approach.
“All right Mr. Williams. Keep your eyes closed as I unwrap your bandages. The room is as dark as I can get it, but, until I ken more, I wish you to avoid long-term exposure to bright light.”
Henry clamped his eyes shut as the last of the muslin and gauze came off. He felt Campbell peel away the cotton batting resting atop his abused and tender skin. Then, through a skrim of pink blood vessel-filigreed lids, he saw light for the first time in days! A gasp escaped his lips.
Campbell spoke sharply, “Keep those eyes shut. I ken tha’ you sense that I am playing light from my torch[xvi] on your orbs. I need to see wha’ the membranes look like after a week. Hmmm. Seems they are improving.
“Now, let me turn this thing off for a moment. I want you to open your eyes. The room is fairly dark, so do not be surprised if you see little to nothing.”
Henry did as he was ordered. The room was dim, and he was unable to focus on anything. He perceived a blurry deeper darkness looming over him. This he took to be Campbell.
“Now, laddie, I am going to turn my torch into your eyes. I offer my apologies in advance. After all these days, the sudden blast of light is going to be blinding and likely quite painful. However, it is essential that I get a close look at your eyes themselves to see if the gas did any lasting damage. All I can promise is that my examination will not further harm you,” the doctor advised.
Campbell gripped Henry’s left wrist, clamping it down onto the bedclothes. Then an incredible brightness overwhelmed the younger man. His outraged eyes begged for relief. Henry moaned up through the octaves.
“Hold still, there. Almost done.”
The door exploded open, and her voice over-powered Henry’s cry.
“What is going on? What are you doing to him? Stop it this instant!”
The light dazzling Henry cut off leaving him swimming in a pool of sparkling blackness as his tortured eyes refused to allow any more mistreatment. He felt Campbell’s long-fingered hand release his arm and then gently close his eyelids.
Campbell spoke first, “T’was something I had to do, madam. I needed to see if there had been any injury to his corneas. Thankfully, the gas only irritated the soft tissues. Overall, his eyes are progressing, but are a bit behind his lungs.
“My opinion is that Leftenant Williams is well on the way to recovery. His eyes will need to be bandaged for another several days to a week at the very least. However, I do believe that he must now stop being a bed-ridden invalid. He needs to be up and about.
“We have brought him to this house for fresh sea air. Get him out into it. As of this moment, Mr. Williams is on the “light activity” list.”
Chapter Seven
When Henry cried out, her heart ripped in two. She had been pacing up and down the hall outside of his door. Fourteen steps from the corner room to the landing atop the stairs; then fourteen steps back along the bright floral print papered corridor. His anguish pulled her back to confront Campbell. The doctor’s assurances helped reduce the worry but not the sadness.
I am pulled into his circle of raw youth. I cannot resist it. I can barely control myself when I sit next to him. I quiver like currant jelly. I want to crawl between the sheets to cuddle his body, to urge him to rest. I want to feel his legs entwined with mine. So it has been for over 20 years.
I have never made love to this Childe Harold.[xvii] But, God help me, I would if I dared.
And, now Campbell’s treatment instructions would demand that she walk by his side, holding him and guiding him. His exercise would be healing for him; hers would sear her very soul.
October 11, 1915
Jacques watched as Madame and the soldier once again moved slowly along the sandy beachfront. Each was draped in a duster-like great coat to keep the ever-present flying grit from worrying its way in between buttons and under collars. He smiled at the taller man leaning on the more diminutive woman, although she was taller than the average lady, as she guided him along the bleached duckboards of the boardwalk Monsieur had laid down from the house back toward town.
Hein! How long has it been since I saw them like this? As soon as he got mixed up with that Whitehall crowd—Asquith, Churchill, Grey, Lloyd-George—the fate of the nation stole away the best of his heart. Oh, he never ignored her, but the heat I saw begin in Paris cooled in London. He became such an Anglais. No matter how much I tried to talk to him, he threw up the shutters around his heart…he said to protect her, but we both knew that it was to protect him from the pain of ignoring her as he did his duty.
So much for the proper Anglais “gentleman.” Pfui. We French, we know what to do. We would send away the servants, lock the bookroom door, put a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the bedroom, and make love to our woman. Then in the morning, we would make love again and feast on berries, whipped cream and Menier chocolate. Then café and croissants followed by a leisurely afternoon before the cab to Waterloo to take the train to Southampton for the steamer to Amerique. Then she would long for him to return, not wear herself thin lusting after the boy he was.
But, Jacques knew he could only protect her from the dangers of the world, not of the heart. Madame would have to let the young soldier go. He was not for her…yet. And, Monsieur, when he returned, had better do his best to heal his love.
The duo vanished behind the corner of a dune and was gone.
The wind drove across the wide beach from a leaden mid-October Channel. While bracing, the gusts lifted a thin cloud of sand that scoured the skin exposed above the silk scarves wrapping their lower faces. At least Henry had the advantage of the gauze and muslin bandages protecting his eyes. Arms linked, the two of them made slow, but steady headway as she guided him toward town.
His voice was nearly back to normal after several days of walking into Deauville. The cold ocean air had flushed the last of the toxins from his lungs. He was now able to make himself heard above the sound of the surf and breeze. Coughing fits were rare, and only occurred after much exertion.
The sound of loose grit hissing across the dunes threw Henry into a bout of remembrance.
“We never came here once the school terms began,” he offered, “Deauville was too special to the family to rush over on a Friday and return on Monday.
“But, come August, this place would be hopping! The beau monde from Paris, London and even Berlin would stroll the boardwalk. Everybody wore white, but the women carried the most remarkably brilliant parasols opened to protect their skin from the summer sun. Mauve, periwinkle, chartreuse, champagne, even china blue made a carpet of color bobbing along like flower petals thrown on a stream.
“They looked like one of Monsieur Monet’s paintings. You know, he loved to paint women with parasols.
“Mother and Father adored the art scene. The Impressionists we
re their favorites. Whenever there was a big exhibit, they would sneak off for a few days together in Paris. My sister, Ellie, and I were deposited here with a clutch of servants to keep us out of trouble.
“Before you think they were absentee parents, Deauville, in spite of its bucolic location here on the coast, is just three hours from Gare de l’Ouest in the city. If we got into a scrape, Mr. Wilson could get a telegram to them, and they would be here before the dust settled. And, woe be to the child who disturbed Mama’s gallery walk.”
She smiled beneath her azure scarf, her china blue eyes twinkling beneath a fringe of blond hair dropping across her brow. As usual, he towered above her, but not so much that she could not perceive the subtle softening of his razor sharp features.
Her gaze flicked to his wrapped eyes. They would be a steel grey under their protection. Would that she could see them. But, they were hidden away from her, denying her that joy of being able to look deeply into his soul.
She replied, “Oh, from what you told me, I imagined they weren’t typical English parents. You were probably home at every holiday, and they would be on the sidelines cheering you on in your contests with Eton, Radley or Winchester.”
He turned toward her, “How did you know I attended Harrow?”
Thinking quickly to cover her error, she laughed, “I did not tell you, but my husband is a Harrow man. There are mannerisms that set inmates of that place apart from the others. So, I made an educated guess.”
Henry winced at her playful pun, a grimace baring his even white teeth in a nut-brown face. Her wit was another lodestone to which he was drawn. Every time She spoke, a frisson shuddered his nerves. He imagined that the spot where their arms joined must crackle with sparks and emit powerful bursts of light as if great shipyard welding machines were hard at work. Physical contact with her sent waves throughout his body. Her aroma of roses over cut grass played havoc deep inside his lower abdomen.
This was a woman in full.