by Tom Gamble
It was thanks to them that an idea began to form in Summerfield’s mind. By the river, there was a rutted clearing neither used for crops nor grazing. It was worn and dusty and dotted with several clumps of thorn bushes and the decaying stump of a large and solitary olive tree. The left side of the clearing sloped downwards for twenty yards or so before plummeting into a little ravine that gave onto the river. On closer inspection the patch of ground was like a cheese full of holes—snakes, mice, rabbits, foxes. The occasional whitened rib cage and discarded animal skull also pointed to the fact that it was used as an occasional tip. And it was here that one day Summerfield took it upon himself to lead a group of twenty or so giggling, babbling and laughing children to initiate them in the game of all games—football.
The ball he had made from a bundle of newspapers Badr had supplied him with, wrapped in consecutive sheets around an inner core of wood and bound together with a web of string. The notion of goal posts was quickly understood. The fact that it was forbidden to touch the ball with the hands was completely ignored. In this way, the first attempt at a match resembled some sort of mediaeval variant of rugby with children running everywhere punching, pulling, kicking and screaming. A large cloud of dust swallowed up the small, thrashing players which at least allowed Summerfield to have an approximate idea of where the ball actually was. And it was when the dust for some reason settled and the children became quiet, that he was able to understand that the ball had been reduced to a few shreds of paper, a stream of knotted string and the wooden core looking like a discarded coconut.
The following morning, Raja took Summerfield to see her grandfather who happened to make some of the finest gourds in the valley. Summerfield described what he was looking for. Raja’s aunt lent a hand with her sewing kit. By the time the sun had retracted its midday claws and the light became soft and golden, Raja returned to Summerfield with a new football—not exactly round and not exactly inflated, but something that could be kicked and something that rebounded off the ground, albeit at a sometimes crazy angle. Summerfield was overjoyed. He took Raja in his arms and embraced her and she went a dark purple with embarrassment.
Over the next week Summerfield organised a series of matches between groups of children that he separated into teams wearing different coloured neckerchiefs. Parents began to watch, as did the village dignitaries from afar. The Kaïd, Ahmed Youadi, watched the battles for the ball with barely disguised pleasure from his parapets in the Kasbah. The village Mullah frowned at the scene with barely disguised fierceness. Very soon, a long forgotten law was invented that forbade any organised ball games for prolonged periods and Summerfield’s enterprise promptly outlawed.
The emptiness lasted four days and the silence in the valley seemed incredibly deafening and downright sad. On the fifth day, sitting on his seat outside, Summerfield cocked his head and listened. From the distance he heard the sound of childish whoops. He rose from his chores and craned his neck, straining to pinpoint where the sounds were coming from. In the distance, across the other side of the valley, a group of tiny dots were running wildly about a patch of abandoned field kicking a ball. The children had rebelled. Summerfield grinned. And his grin turned into a laugh. It was the beginning for Summerfield; the beginning of his acceptance of the valley and of his love for the people of the mountains.
41
News of Henri’s death came to them on the 14th of June, the day German troops occupied Paris. Jean Bassouin called by to announce it to the Lefèvre family at lunchtime. Apparently, Sarah’s husband had been engaged in the Abbeville sector when his armoured column had been attacked from the air. They didn’t know where the body had been buried. Sarah had sent the wire from Rouen where she was attempting to get a ship across to Southampton.
Jeanne was fraught. Despite the sad news, her thoughts were immediately for Sarah. Was she safe? Were there bombs? Jean Bassouin, Sarah’s father, was deeply moved too. It was the first time Jeanne had ever seen her father show any emotional sympathy, all the more so because he put a protective arm around his friend and colleague. Bassouin, desperately guilty, called himself a fool—he should have repatriated his daughter at the start of it all. No one ever thought it would turn out like this and so soon. Lefèvre, making excuses about it being better to concentrate their minds at the office, led Bassouin away to his car and the awaiting police escort.
Alone now with her mother, Jeanne waited until Soumia had cleared the table and brought them tea on the veranda. When she spoke, she was afraid her voice might betray some of her happiness despite the terrible news.
‘Mother. Mr Wilding has asked me to accompany him to visit the banks.’
‘What? Oh…’ her mother seemed to have been dreaming, weighed down by the news. ‘Terrible, terrible times,’ she muttered. ‘What will happen to our dear country?’
‘Mother? Mr Wilding,’ repeated Jeanne. ‘He wishes me to interpret at the banks. He has some financial business to look into.’
‘Monsieur Wilding, you say?’ her mother had suddenly regained her senses. ‘He asked you?’
‘You can’t speak English, mother.’
‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ lied her mother. ‘I was just thinking it would be wiser, in these times, to have a chaperone with you. Poor Sarah. Soumia, perhaps. Or even,’ she added, matter-of-factly, ‘Me.’
Jeanne smiled fleetingly. ‘Mother, it’s quite obvious that you like Mr Wilding.’
‘I—’ Jeanne’s mother stopped herself, as though any words would only confirm her daughter’s insinuations.
‘But think of daddy,’ continued Jeanne. ‘How hard he’s working and how preoccupied he is. He needs you, you know.’ Her mother looked at her, shrewdly. ‘And think of what he would say if—’
‘Jeanne—you have turned out to be quite Machiavellian in your way of dealing with people.’
‘No, mother. Just stating the obvious, that’s all. In fact, Mr Wilding said he’d be round at 1. Which means…’
‘That you have barely five minutes to get ready,’ said her mother, pursing her lips. ‘And no make-up, Jeanne. Men get strange ideas in their heads when they see blush on a woman’s cheeks.’
‘No, mother,’ called Jeanne after her, as she went inside the house.
Wilding arrived at 1 p.m. sharp in the black Citroën the French authorities had lent him. Why were they treating him so officially? wondered Jeanne as she descended the steps under her mother’s watchful gaze. Wilding got out and sent Jeanne a welcoming smile. She felt suddenly quite self-conscious. True, she had put on a new summer dress—a cream cotton affair, sleeveless and slightly décolleté. Perhaps it was a little too much. Too late now. Wilding had opened the car door for her and she stepped inside, her hem riding above her knee so that Wilding had to look away.
As they drove towards the bank district, Wilding informed her that whatever she was to hear had to remain confidential. She was to swear by it. Solemnly, he laughed and made her draw an imaginary cross across her heart.
‘You see,’ he added, glancing across at Jeanne. ‘Things are turning out pretty difficult and pretty complex too.’
‘You mean in France.’
Wilding nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Jeanne, but it looks sure that France will lose this one. And when they do, things will become extremely complicated—in France, but also here and in the other French colonies. Have you heard of someone called De Gaulle?’ Jeanne shook her head. ‘Not many people have. But they will do. Pretty soon. He’s in the military—a high-ranking officer.’
‘And why will we soon hear of him?’
‘Because he’s setting himself up as the future saviour of France.’ Jeanne frowned, feeling quite lost in it all. Wilding nodded. ‘That’s right. Some say there’ll be a civil war—the old lion of Verdun, Pétain, who wants to control what he can salvage from the German invasion and De Gaulle, who wants to continue the fight until the Nazis are kicked out.’
‘So we should all be on his side, then.’
Wilding smiled. ‘Not so clear and not so easy. What if Britain loses against the Germans? It’s a bit like backing a horse in a race with no clear favourite.’
‘But who’s gambling?’ said Jeanne.
‘Who?’ The answer seemed so evident. ‘Why, the United States of course. The world is changing right under our feet, Jeanne. We have to be very vigilant. Imagine a world under Hitler—a return to the dark ages. We don’t want that to happen if we can help it.’
The banks were closed during the afternoon heat, but Wilding had arranged a series of meetings with the managers at three of them. He introduced Jeanne as his assistant though she knew two of the people and had to politely remind Wilding of the fact. Oh well, she was still his assistant, if just for a day, joked Wilding, unsettled.
In fact, he needed her just for opening formalities. Once these were done with, he told her to wait in the managers’ offices while he consulted various documents and accounts. Alone, Jeanne found all this very intriguing but thought it better not to ask any questions. Two hours later, Wilding had finished his tour and they got back into the boiling car.
‘Wow!’ Wilding let out a yelp. ‘The steering wheel’s as hot as hell!’
‘The seats too,’ said Jeanne, squirming uncomfortably.
‘Should have left it in the shade this time. My apologies, Jeanne. Let’s go before we frazzle like eggs!’
As he pulled away, air mercifully filling the interior, Jeanne said: ‘Jim—could I be your assistant sometime again?’
He looked across and grinned at her. ‘Sure—with great pleasure. You were perfect.’
‘What about that cold drink you offered?’ said Jeanne.
‘That was yesterday,’ replied Wilding, playfully.
‘I think we’ve deserved it today.’
He looked at her. Jeanne held his gaze for a second then turned away.
‘Sure. I think you’re right,’ said Wilding.
They bought cold drinks—orange and beer—from one of the remaining petrol halts still open. Seeking shade, Wilding drove to the city outskirts and drew the Citroën up beneath a cluster of date palms giving blessed shade. Opposite them, in the distance, the Atlas rose majestically into the simmering air.
‘We must be mad,’ said Jeanne, letting out a giggle. ‘The only ones outside at this time of the day. I hope I don’t get heat stroke.’
‘Then drink,’ said Wilding. ‘Here. Would you pass me a beer, please?’
Jeanne leant down to the floor of the car and the paper bag containing the bottles. She was conscious of a large damp patch of sweat across her back and wriggled the material of her dress free.
‘Here, Jim. I’m afraid I’m a little sticky. Excuse me.’
‘No need. Me too. I feel as though I’m melting like an ice cream.’ His eyes rested on her shoulders and darted to her open neck where the sweat had gathered in beads. He took the bottle with a nod, still looking at her. There was an uneasy silence. ‘Aren’t you going to drink too?’ he said, softly.
‘Mm. Yes,’ said Jeanne, feeling a little lost.
‘You know, Harry was a great guy. A friend. He was—is—very much in love with you, Jeanne. I hope—I hope you’ll find each other again.’
Jeanne glanced down, shyly. She felt odd, as though it was not what she had wanted to hear. Somehow, it seemed as though Wilding had betrayed them both, broken the rules of their playful afternoon. A pity. It had taken her away from it all. ‘Yes. I do too,’ she murmured.
And then, suddenly a finger—an index—touched her softly on her neck. It was Wilding’s. She looked up, startled and slowly sat back. She expected Wilding to remove it but he didn’t. And she didn’t move either. Instead, the finger traced a slow, soft zigzag across her open neck, joining up the beads of her perspiration one by one until, lower now, he reached the material of her dress. His finger inched down, nudging under the cream-coloured cotton and gingerly explored the beginnings of her cleavage before once more travelling back up to leave her skin. Jeanne held her breath.
‘Mmm. Yes, you are pretty hot, Jeanne,’ said Wilding, calmly. ‘And beautiful with it. Lucky Harry. How old are you now?’
‘Twenty-two,’ replied Jeanne, breathing freely now.
She couldn’t fathom the American out. Why had he withdrawn his finger? She felt no guilt. In fact, if it weren’t for Jim’s constant references to Harry, she wouldn’t have thought of Harry at all. It was awfully cold of her, but she just wanted touch—human touch, a man’s touch—and everything would be all right.
‘You can do that again if you want,’ she said, avoiding his eyes. ‘I liked it.’
There was a moment of hesitation, Jeanne still looking down and then the finger returned, more playfully now, re-tracing a ticklish path through the cool gleam on her skin. She looked up into Jim’s smiling, understanding eyes and then leant over, again placing her head on his chest, the movement making his hand slide down softly onto the rise of her breasts.
‘I’m so damn sad, Jim. I want to live. Just to live and have some protection, some happiness. Love me—please love me.’
It was the second time she’d made love to a man and she still didn’t know the comfort and bliss of a bed. She remembered Wilding’s hand on her wet bra—her sweat—and Jim’s breathing that became heavy and strong. The next moment they were kissing and it seemed as though all the weeks of despair and pain had transformed themselves into a wildness she had never thought herself capable of. Her hands had clasped Wilding’s body, pulling free his shirt to grasp at the matted hair of his chest. Their tongues were frantic—she realised it must have been the first time in a long time for Wilding too. Their mouths still locked, they had struggled in the confines of the car, his left hand entering the funnel of her open legs, her right hand fighting with the buttons on his flies until she pulled his penis free. His fingers had been thick and skilful and eager, slipping into her heat, her wetness and moving in small, rapid circular motions across her lips and clitoris. A whine had escaped her, gathering in length and intensity. She hardly knew herself. How her hand grasped the weight of Wilding’s sex. It felt large, powerful, and manly. She had never done it before, but the movement came instinctively, as though she had been programmed to carry it out from some unspoken part of her femininity. A rhythmic gesture, pressure on the shaft of muscle. She watched it under her hand as she experienced first her orgasm—a piercing rush of heat, an unbearable pleasure that made her laugh uncontrollably—then his. She cried out when he came, more of shock than anything else. Three spouting jets of liquid which—she swore—jumped a full foot into the air and slapped heavily down onto his trousers, her dress. And then the bubbling afterflow, oozing over her hand, hot and sticky, smelling like the forest after rainfall, ammonia and dark earth. She had felt a little disgusted at first. Then curious and finally almost spellbound as Wilding held her for ages in his arms.
They had cleaned themselves in the water of one of the irrigation channels trickling through the date palms. And then he had driven her away, into an abandoned oasis across the plain. It was here they made love in the heat and shelter made by the car. She lying on his jacket, he cradling her head above the ground so she could see the movements of their bodies. He didn’t have any contraceptives and at first, through sheer fright, she clamped her legs together and resisted his efforts. For several moments, kissing wildly, it seemed they were wrestling.
‘Jim. Harry—I’m not,’ she whimpered, afraid that Wilding would reject her.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Wilding, looking at her strangely. ‘No worry,’ he had said, his voice hoarse and cracking above his whisper. ‘Trust me. I want you.’ She hadn’t understood what he’d meant, but his eyes looked into hers, hard and truthful, and she felt herself opening wide for him, a cradle for his hips. Jeanne was all feeling, the pleasure of presence and contact rather than sexual peaks. She felt Wilding’s sex inside her and how her own muscles gripped onto him, the movement of his body and the clash of hip upon thigh
. She felt his heat and smell against her shoulders and neck, the sweat on his back, slippery under her hands. And she felt him coming, his whole body stiffening and quivering as though electric, and she cried out in fear before a voice said to her it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. She abandoned herself to his orgasm, the only moment of any importance in the world being this one. Soon after, while they had lain for long, silent moments in each other’s arms, he had asked: ‘Did you want me to stay inside of you? Jeanne—did you want that?’
Jeanne hadn’t replied immediately. She was confused by the question and her own behaviour. At last, she said: ‘Yes. I suppose I did. My life, Jim. It’s meaningless. Only you now make it important.’
Wilding smiled and laughed softly. He looked away, his blue eyes searching the mountains and then turned back to her. He kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘Jeanne. I’ve just thought of something. It’s all so—so goddamn obvious. Why don’t you become my wife?’
Jeanne was feeling faint again. Her head was an eddy of excitement and torment: excitement because Jim was in the salon with his parents and Jean Bassouin. Torment because Jim was to leave that afternoon for Casablanca. Once again, her life seemed to be a succession of rising and falling waves. Hope and happiness that crashed into loss and despair.
She waited outside the closed door, hearing Jim’s voice low and measured, so low that she couldn’t discern individual words. A shriek from her mother told her that it was Jim asking for her hand in marriage. And then her father’s voice, clear and nasal after initial surprise.
‘Well, I—our daughter certainly seems to have a penchant for Anglo-Saxons. Whoever would have thought?’
‘Oh, Philippe-Charles!’ Her mother’s chiding voice. ‘But isn’t it simply lovely?’