‘Violà! Potatoes – one, two, three – what do you think of that?’
‘Wonderful!’
‘And – two carrots and a cabbage. A cabbage?’ He held up the sorry-looking object, grimacing comically, then shrugged philosophically. ‘A cabbage.’
‘Where on earth did you get these?’
Secretively, he touched the side of his bony nose with an equally bony finger. ‘I know a man.’
She laughed.
He put his hand into the sack again. ‘Sugar. Just a few spoonfuls.’ He gently laid the precious twist of paper on the table, then shook the sack. That’s the lot.’ He tousled his hair in a characteristic gesture, then stopped suddenly, snapping his fingers. ‘Say – I’ve just thought of something I kept meaning to ask—’
‘Mmm?’ She was watching him again, hardly listening, watching the play of winter light from the window on the long, straight, fair lashes that shaded his light eyes.
‘That old feller that used to shadow Luke – what was his name? The one with a face like a walnut—?’
She blinked. ‘Spider?’
‘That’s the one.’ He unwound his long, threadbare scarf from about his neck, rubbed his rough, reddened hands briskly together in front of the small fire. ‘Tell me – he likely to be in Paris, would you think?’
‘Spider? In Paris? Of course not.’
He hunkered in front of the fire, trying to warm himself. ‘That’s what I thought. I must have been mistaken. Yet – I’d have sworn it was him.’
‘Where?’
‘In the road outside. I was past him before it struck me who he reminded me of.’
‘You didn’t speak to him?’
‘Nope. When I went back, he’d gone.’
‘You must have been mistaken.’
‘Guess so.’ He eyed the vegetables hungrily. ‘Looks like the makings of some fine warm soup there?’
She gathered them into her apron. ‘Better get used to a vegetarian diet – they’ve issued the last of the fresh meat, so the butcher said.’
He grinned. ‘Not quite.’
‘What do you mean?’
He quirked a fair eyebrow. ‘When did you last visit the zoo?’
She stared at him in fascinated dismay. ‘Oh, no!’
‘Oh, yes! Elephant – camel – rhinoceros – all on next week’s menu, Madame!’
Her face was a picture of almost comic repugnance. ‘Jem! I couldn’t!’
He nodded, undisturbed. ‘Oh, yes you could. If you were hungry enough.’
The laughter died a little. ‘And – do you think we will be?’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘Who knows?’
‘But – it can’t go on for much longer, surely? Everyone’s saying that something big’s going to happen very soon – that the army’s going to break out and join up with the reinforcements coming with Gambetta—’
His movements stilled. ‘Where in hell’s name did you hear about that?’
‘It’s all over the city. The butcher told me. Jem – do you know anything about it?’
He turned back to the fire. ‘The Ambulance has been told to stand by for the twenty-ninth. It’s supposed to be a secret.’
‘There’s no such thing as a secret in Paris.’
‘Ain’t that the simple truth?’ Shaking his head he stood up and walked to the window, stood looking, sombrely thoughtful, across the frost-covered roofs to the enemy lines in the distance. ‘If you know,’ he said after a moment, ‘and I know, and the butcher knows, and presumably the best part of Paris knows – I guess it’s too much to hope that our Prussian visitors haven’t heard?’
* * *
The operation known as the Great Sortie began on a foul-weathered day at the end of October in an atmosphere of the wildest confidence and optimism and in forty-eight hours collapsed in a welter of mismanagement, incompetence and sheer bad luck. From the start the Fates were against it. The message sent to Gambetta from the city was entrusted to the balloon the Ville d’Orléans – no one could possibly have foreseen that, incredibly, it would land not in unoccupied France but would fly nonstop across the face of northern Europe to distant, inaccessible Norway – so ensuring that Gambetta and his forces would not discover until too late where and when the breakout from the city was to take place. The lines of communication to the Prussian camp, however – as Jem had suspected – suffered from no such disadvantage as adverse winds and capricious air currents. Days before the Great Sortie was due to begin Prussian troops were quietly redeployed to face it. Even the weather proved to be on the Prussian side as torrential rain washed away the pontoon bridges by which the French were to have crossed the River Marne. At the last moment, uneasily, the French High Command considered calling off the whole operation; the uncertain temper and high expectations of the Paris mobs, however, proved forceful if mistaken arguments against that. On the night of 28 November a tremendous cannonade shook the city as the forts opened fire on the German entrenchments, and the Prussian guns replied in kind. Kitty stood at the window and looked through rain that was showing signs of turning to driving snow to the small, flickering spots of flame that were the cannon mouths, listened to the faint, reverberating crash of the bombardment and the frantic barking of the city’s dogs and thought of Jem, standing by with the others of the American Ambulance awaiting the morning and the blood and bone and broken bodies that would be the inevitable consequence of it. She thought too, with the dull pain of an old wound, of Michael, somewhere there beneath her in the rain-drenched city. Was he afraid? Was he hungry?
Was he, even, alive?
In the two days that it took for the attempted breakout to collapse in blood and terror and sheer, demoralized panic she saw nothing of Jem. Whilst the sounds of battle raged to the north, the city lay with bated breath beneath a bitter blanket of cloud that had turned rain to snow and froze the wounded to death where they fell. Little news was allowed to filter back to the city but, as always, rumour was rife and the steady flow of desperately wounded men and terror-stricken deserters through the chaotic streets did little to reassure the civilian population. Kitty hardly went out. There seemed no point. The shops were closed, the weather bitter and for the moment even the dreary everyday routine of siege life had been suspended. And anyway, Jem might come. She stood for hours at the window, staring out in the direction of the battle, apparent from where she stood as a harmless echo of sound, faint puffs of smoke on the horizon. Jem was out there, on the battlefield – not fighting, of course, but in the thick of the shells and the flying bullets. Did a piece of shrieking, hot metal know the difference between a combatant and a non-combatant? she found herself wondering, bleakly, and remembered that when she had first met him he had been a refugee from a war of his own, a war in which he had found it impossible to fight. The irony would be cruel indeed if his humane services in this war – a conflict in which he had no concern at all – should end his life.
He came late on the third afternoon, with cold early darkness closing upon the city. Louise had just left, having spent the afternoon scouring the streets for bread and for news. No, she had reported, no one knew how the battle had gone, but the guns were silent and the general feeling was that the silence was ominous. The mood in the city was not cheerful.
The first Kitty knew of Jem’s arrival was the oddly uncertain sound of a key searching for the doorlock. All afternoon she had huddled in layers of clothing and an old army greatcoat that Jem had acquired for her – the fuel shortage in Paris was now critical and she had but one hoarded bucket of coal and a small stack of what looked suspiciously like chopped up furniture, again the product of one of Jem’s scavenging expeditions. The apartment was as cold as an ice-cave, her breath clouding the air, ice patterning the inside of the windows. A single, precious candle flickered upon the mantelpiece. A chill, somehow threatening silence enveloped the city beyond the window. Finally, shivering, she had laid a tiny fire and set a match to it. If she could just get warm – perhaps heat the last
of the soup – then she could crawl into bed and conserve both heat and energy. At the sound of the key fumbling at the lock she bent to put a couple of pieces of the priceless coal on the fire, straightening as Jem finally managed to open the door.
The first sight of him stopped her breath in her throat.
Beneath his carelessly open, filthy greatcoat his shirt and trousers were bloodsoaked, stain upon old stain, brick to vermilion. His hands were blue with cold, his face gaunt and stone-white. The blue shadows beneath his eyes were like the mark of death. He looked utterly exhausted.
‘Jem!’
As he stepped uncertainly towards her he staggered, and she flew to him. ‘Jem – you’re hurt!’
He shook his head. ‘No. Not hurt. No. All right,’ he mumbled, the words a little slurred.
Close to him she could smell it; he was as drunk as a lord. He stood watching her, swaying, frowning in fierce concentration.
‘It’s a good job,’ she said, her eyes uncertain, her voice tart, ’that I don’t have a rolling pin to hand.’
‘Cold,’ he said, shivering suddenly. ‘Jesus bloody Christ, I’m cold.’
‘Come to the fire.’ She pushed the chair she had been sitting in even closer to the flames, profligately shovelled more coal upon the fire. He huddled in the chair, hands extended to the sudden welcome blaze. He was trembling so violently that he could not hold them still. A wave of compassion all but choked her; what in God’s name had happened to bring him to this state? Almost without thought she leaned forward and brushed back the tousled, dirty hair from his forehead. One of his hands, so cold and claw-like it barely felt human, imprisoned hers. The nails were dark with blood, the skin stained. Fiercely he pressed his forehead against their clenched hands. His grip was painful. It was a full minute before she realized with a shock that the burning upon the chill skin of her wrist was his tears. He wept helplessly and soundlessly. She fought back the tears that rose in sympathy. He had begun to shake his head a little, his forehead still pressed against her hand, back and forth, back and forth, an endless denial, a desperate negation of what he had seen and done over the past days. ‘God!’ he whispered at last, ‘Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!’ A monotonous chant of failure and despair.
She put her arms about him as he sat, rigid and shivering, held him with every ounce of strength she possessed, her cheek pressed hard against the shaggy thatch of his hair. At last the trembling eased a little. She felt him take a great, gulping breath. She sat back on her heels, holding his hands firmly in hers. ‘Do you want to tell me?’
Tears welled again in his reddened eyes. He looked away, shaking his head dumbly.
‘Then – can I get you something?’ Despite all her efforts her voice shook.
‘A drink,’ he said.
In silence she stood and walked to a cupboard on which stood an open bottle of wine and some glasses. She poured some for him, then after a moment’s hesitation a glass for herself, and carried them back to the fireside.
He drank thirstily, half the glass in a gulp.
‘There’s a little soup left,’ she said, ‘if you’d like it?’
‘Later.’
She nodded, knelt beside him again, taking his hand in hers. He clutched her fingers, crushing them painfully, driving the blood from them. She did not move. He carried her hand to his face, rested his cheek upon their linked hands.
She waited.
‘Carnage,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody carnage.’
She said nothing. She was sitting on the wrong side of the armchair, away from the fire, and she had begun to shiver with cold, yet she could not bring herself to move.
He drank again.
A coal slipped in the grate, sending a shower of sparks up the narrow, soot-stained chimney.
‘The look on their faces—’ Abruptly he let go of her hand and dashed his knuckles across his eyes, shaking his head sharply, like a dog shaking free of water. ‘Not enough doctors. Not enough drugs. Not enough stretchers – They were dying in filth and fear on the bare ground. Boys. Christ Almighty, they were just boys—’ He shuddered, drank the rest of his wine at a draught. Unspeaking she held out her own untouched glass. He reached for it. Stopped. Shook his head. ‘No. I’ve had enough.’
‘Could you eat the soup?’
He lifted his tousled head. Sucked his lower lip. Tears stood still in his eyes. He shook his head again.
An irresistible impulse of compassion brought her up on her knees, and she took his thin face between her two hands. He made no attempt to escape her, nor to hide the weariness and pain. Very, very gently she kissed him, tasting the wine, the salt of their mingled tears.
He sat for a moment, very still, eyes closed, lips cool and soft and totally passionless beneath hers. Then slowly she sensed a change. His mouth hardened hungrily. She felt his hands upon her shoulders, almost demented in their sudden strength. She closed her eyes. Without taking his mouth from hers he stood up, roughly pulling her to her feet with him. His hands were under the heavy greatcoat, brutal upon her breasts, sliding to her buttocks, clamping her body to his. She felt a brief flash of fear; this was not the Jem she knew, but an urgent, savage stranger. And then she touched his tear-wet face with her cold fingertips and all doubts were drowned in a surge of mixed desire and pity that was as hurtful and as lovely as flame. Whatever he had seen, whatever horrors he had endured he was here now, and he needed her. Tenderness would surely come later. She slid her fingers into the dirty, wind-tangled hair and pulled his mouth down harder upon hers. He groaned against her open lips. His hands were again roughly at the bodice of her dress. Still within the vice of his arms and careless for the moment of the bitter cold, she shrugged the greatcoat from her shoulders. Her breasts were bare, nipples rigid in the cold. He forced her back, his hungry mouth at her nakedness, and she shuddered, afraid again at the violence in him. Yet as he pressed her down onto the rug before the flickering fire she did not resist. Pity was gone; her need rose now to match his. She it was who pulled the revolting, blood-stained shirt from him, who held him to her, arms and legs entwined fiercely about him, her hands moving frenziedly upon his thin back. The slight weight of his body was ice-cold against hers. His savage strength surprised her. The exquisite explosion of pleasure it engendered within her body brought helpless tears, and deep, deep within her happiness moved, warm and certain. He was hers. He loved her. She knew it.
In that moment she would have died for him.
She moved her head, resting her wet cheek upon his shoulder as he sprawled, exhausted, across her.
The abruptness of his movement as he flung himself from her shocked her more than anything that had come before.
She sat up, pulling the crumpled greatcoat about her bare, cold shoulders. ‘Jem—?’
He did not look at her. Vicious with haste he hauled the filthy shirt back over his head.
Stunned, she watched his movements in the flickering candlelight. Climbing into his trousers, standing on one leg, he lost his balance and almost fell; and with a cold premonition of utter disaster she at last realized just how drunk he was. She scrambled to her feet, the coat clutched about her naked body. ‘Jem – what are you doing?’ Her voice was sharp with anxiety.
Still he kept his eyes turned from her. His face was set in a deadly mask of distaste and self-disgust. She bit her lip, stepped forward and touched his arm.
He froze, his head bowed. ‘Don’t!’
She dropped her hand as if it had been burned. Stepped back from him. ‘Jem!’
He turned and looked at her at last. ‘I’m sorry. I acted like an animal. It was unforgiveable.’ He almost choked on the words.
‘No!’
He talked blindly on, the words blurred with weariness and drink and remembered evils. He was swaying a little on his feet. ‘I swore I wouldn’t. Years ago I swore it. Luke’s. You’re Luke’s and always will be.’
‘No!’ she shouted again and as if in nightmare realized that he hardly heard the word, let alo
ne registered its meaning.
‘You came to me as a friend and I – oh, God!’ In despair he swung away from her and hit the wall with the flat of his open hand.
She flinched from the violence. ‘Jem, please! Listen to me—’ She reached for him again.
He shook her off fiercely.
She was crying now, and trembling with cold and with shock. He stumbled awkwardly towards the door.
‘Jem,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t go. Don’t leave me—’
He turned unsteadily to face her. His face was hard as rock and shadowed with misery. ‘Don’t fool yourself, Kitty,’ he said, ‘and don’t think to fool me. You don’t want me,’ and, stumbling, he left her there, bereft in a world as bleak and hopeless as death itself.
* * *
She slept at last, that night, for a few uncomfortable, restless hours, her face still tear-stained. She had lain for hours awake going over, minute by minute, the horrible scene with Jem, alternately shedding tears of misery and – more often as time moved on – burning with shame and humiliation. She had done nothing to stop him; worse, she had thrown herself at him, all but begged him to take her – she remembered the sound of her own voice, pleading, and her cheeks flamed again; God! How could she have so acted the whore? He at least had had the excuse – such as it was – of drunkenness and distress. She had none: and now, in face of his brutal rejection, the episode seemed sordid and shameful. Time and again his face rose before her eyes and she heard the faint and, it seemed to her now, contemptuous emphasis on the last pronoun when he had thrown those last words at her. ‘You don’t want me—’
What in God’s sweet name had he meant by that? Did he really believe that she had used him for some selfish purpose of her own?
Until the exhausted small hours she swung on a pendulum of unstable emotion. Tomorrow she would go to him. Convince him. Go on her knees if she must. She would make him see her love, her need of him.
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