The Things We Did for Love

by Natasha Farrant

  ‘Don’t watch.’

  She slipped into the pool.

  ‘I did it,’ she gasped.

  ‘Twenty strokes or it doesn’t count.’

  He counted out loud as her flailing steadied. The pool was too small for anything but swimming in circles.

  ‘I feel absurd,’ she said.

  ‘You can come out now.’

  But Arianne did not come out. Instead she laughed and rolled on to her back.

  ‘It’s lovely after the initial shock.’

  Luc growled something Romy could not hear. The current had carried her to the edge of the pool and was nudging her against the boulders. She hoisted herself into a puddle of sunshine and wrapped her arms around her legs. Her dark hair, raked back from her face, continued to drip water down her neck, and a stream of droplets flowed over her collarbone into the fabric of her sodden bra.

  ‘The first time I saw you, you were in the water,’ she said.

  ‘Hardly the first time you saw me.’

  ‘The first time I saw you properly.’

  He lay on his side, looking at her. ‘You were wearing a white dress with a green streak down the back from sitting in the grass.’

  ‘You remember that?’

  ‘I loved that green streak. It said so much about you.’

  She shivered.

  ‘Come here.’ Luc’s voice was thick and low.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

  ‘I only want to dry you.’

  She picked up her clothes and went to him. He shrugged off his shirt and used it to dry her back, dropping kisses along her shoulder blades. She pushed him away without conviction.

  Romy could take it no longer. He turned tail and ran, not caring if they heard him.

  *

  ‘Someone’s in a hurry.’ Marie Dupont squinted into the sun which pierced the clearing where she sat with her sister and Paul mending their emptied snares. ‘Who’d go crashing through the woods like that?’

  ‘I’ll go and see.’ Her younger sister Charlotte skipped barefoot to the edge of the trees, then just as quickly skipped back. ‘It’s Romy!’ she hissed.

  ‘That loser!’ sneered Paul.

  ‘He’s coming this way! And he’s crying!’

  ‘He’s probably been spying on Ari again. He’s so pathetic.’

  ‘Does he still love her?’ asked Marie.

  ‘Yeah, and she hates him.’

  ‘Poor Romy,’ sighed Marie. ‘I wish someone loved me like that.’

  ‘Don’t be such a girl.’ Paul scowled.

  Marie wore blue overalls and Paul’s own hand-me-down boots, but her eyelashes were long and curly as they fluttered over her mud-streaked cheeks. Paul went pink and she giggled.

  ‘I hate him,’ said Charlotte. ‘He was with his father last time he came for the money.’

  ‘Let’s go then,’ said Paul.

  They ran as fast as they could to get away from Romy, and then they ran some more for the sheer pleasure of it, chasing each other back and forth across the stream until they reached the village. They collapsed in a panting heap in Paul’s garden and he drew water from the well for them to drink.

  ‘I love it here,’ said Marie, when they had drunk their fill.

  ‘It’s your home now,’ said Paul.

  The sisters exchanged glances.

  ‘What?’ said Paul.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Marie shook her head at her sister.

  ‘What?’ Paul flipped on to his stomach and looked from one sister to the other. ‘You’ve got to tell me. I’m your friend.’

  ‘I want to tell him,’ whined Charlotte.

  Marie bit her lip. Paul reached out and covered her small brown hand with his.

  ‘All right.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll tell you.’

  *

  ‘But there must be a reason,’ said Arianne later that evening. She, Luc and Solange stood in a concerned semi-circle around Paul, who sat with his back pressed against the well in the descending twilight. ‘You never cry, and it’s dinnertime.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to say.’ Paul wiped away his tears with the heel of his hand.

  ‘Oh, you big baby.’ Arianne knelt beside him and pulled him into her arms. He burrowed his head into her shoulder. ‘What could possibly be so bad?’

  ‘Marie’s leaving!’ wailed Paul. He flung himself out of her arms and on to the ground.

  ‘Paul’s in love!’ yelped Solange. ‘Oh, sweet!’

  ‘Shut up!’ howled Paul.

  ‘But where is she going?’ asked Arianne. ‘You’ll see her again, darling. You can write to her, and visit . . .’

  ‘Ari.’ Luc’s expression was sombre as he crouched beside her. ‘Paul, mate. Do you want to tell us what happened?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ muttered Paul. ‘Just she said their father didn’t have any more money to pay Romy’s dad, so he has to go.’

  ‘Romy’s dad?’ Arianne wondered.

  ‘Protection money,’ said Luc.

  ‘I don’t understand either.’

  ‘He’s blackmailing them.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Oh, Ari.’ Luc reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand. ‘Don’t say you hadn’t guessed.’

  ‘He means they’re Jews,’ said Solange.

  ‘They’re not!’ yelled Paul.

  ‘Yes, they are,’ said Luc. He pulled Paul to his feet. ‘And you, my friend, have got to promise not to tell another soul what you have just told us. Can you do that? You have to be as brave and good as I know you can be and pretend you don’t know a thing.’

  Paul looked at Arianne. She nodded.

  ‘I’m not crying,’ he said.

  ‘I know you’re not.’ She pulled him into another hug. ‘When Papa comes home,’ she whispered into his hair, ‘I’m going to tell him how amazing you’ve been. Keeping us fed, all those rabbits and fish. He’s going to be so proud of you.’

  ‘You won’t tell him about the bad stuff?’

  ‘What bad stuff?’ Arianne smiled.

  ‘You know . . .’

  She kissed the top of his head. ‘I don’t remember any bad stuff.’

  Luc and Solange stayed for supper that night. Elodie grumbled but fetched an extra jar of preserved fruit from the larder. Solange ran home and returned with a freshly made goat’s cheese, and Luc brought wine which Arianne mixed with water for Paul. Elodie went to bed early but the others talked late into the night, with Solange in an armchair and Luc on the floor by the sofa where a sleepy Paul lay with his head on his sister’s lap.

  ‘I’m glad you’re not cross with me any more.’ Paul yawned.

  ‘So am I,’ said Arianne.

  Luc reached out behind him and took her hand.

  ‘I haven’t felt like this for ages,’ he murmured.

  ‘Like what?’ asked Solange.

  She was surprised by the gentleness of his smile.

  ‘Like a family,’ he answered.

  Part II

  June 6th, 1944

  The Duponts didn’t leave immediately but we forgot about them soon enough in the light of what was going on in the north. News trickled down the secret information network from the BBC in London to the forbidden radio in Thierry Legros’s barn. Word spread, whispered at first, then more confident. The Allies had landed in Normandy!

  In my mind’s eye, I have a picture of how it happened.

  I see the ocean, the dark light which precedes dawn. The night shaking with the roar of aircraft crossing the sea which separates Europe from England, 500 kilometres north of Samaroux. Pale figures dropping from the planes, silk mushrooming above them, slowing their descent as they fall through darkness to land on beaches, in fields, in the sea itself. Some are hurt. Some drown. Most survive to fight.

  Under a clouded moon, the beaches gleam. Cotentin, Caen, Orne, Odon, Falaise, minerals and particles of rock, ground to sand by the pounding of waves. They have new names today, in a new language. Gold, Juno, Omaha, Ut
ah, Sword. In the pearl and grey of morning, flat-bottomed landing craft struggle to the coast, belching men into the sea. They stagger through the ebb and pull of the water, the relentless undertow. The guns awake in the fortified dunes. Shells hit the water and the tottering men are blown sideways, blown to pieces, blown under, but still the craft keep coming while the skies above them thunder.

  I see the bodies of the dead and the debris of war strewn across the sand.

  The Allies are back. The path of war is turning.

  And the waves continue to pound the shore, washing over particles of rock.

  June 7th, 1944

  Luc finished school before Arianne that Wednesday but he didn’t wait. She found him when she came back from the station with Solange, drinking at a crowded table outside the Café de la Paix.

  ‘Ari! Sol!’ He threw an arm around Arianne’s waist. ‘Have a drink!’ He poured out two glasses of wine. Several men cheered. Someone shouted, ‘To the Americans!’ Someone else punched him and told him to keep his trap shut.

  ‘What are we drinking to?’ asked Arianne.

  Luc motioned them closer, sliding his hands over their backs until their heads were touching. ‘It’s started,’ he whispered.

  ‘What’s started?’ Solange giggled as Thierry pulled her on to his lap.

  ‘The liberation, donkey, what d’you think? The Americans landed in Normandy yesterday.’

  ‘And the English,’ hiccupped Thierry.

  ‘To the English’, someone called, and they emptied their glasses.

  ‘Come with me to Lascande,’ whispered Luc in Arianne’s ear.

  ‘There isn’t time before supper.’

  ‘To the woods, then. To the pool for a swim.’ His hand crept around her waist, inching towards her breast.

  ‘Too cold.’ She pushed him away, laughing, aware of people watching.

  ‘To women!’ someone shouted, and they drank again.

  A car crawled past and stopped a few doors down from the café. Four men in Milice uniform got out. The laughter in the café stopped.

  ‘What the hell are they doing here?’ asked Jérôme.

  ‘Hide the bottle, quick!’

  ‘We're allowed to drink, aren't we?’

  ‘They’ve come for the Duponts,’ said Luc.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ whispered Arianne.

  ‘Yes, I do. I know that’s what they’re doing.’

  They stood and shuffled round the table to the street.

  A small crowd had already gathered outside the Duponts’ house. From the back, Arianne caught only glimpses – the blue of Miliciens’ uniforms, a gun raised like a truncheon, a wide-open front door. Mayor Jarvis stood by the car, hands pressed together, face drawn.

  ‘I thought they always came at night.’ Odile Jouvert, the baker’s wife, stood on tiptoe to get a better view.

  ‘Not any more,’ said her husband.

  Joseph Dupont stumbled out of the house, followed by his wife and daughters. He stopped when he saw the crowd gathered outside. One of the Miliciens drove his rifle butt into his ribs. He groaned. Charlotte howled. The car doors slammed shut behind them and the engine roared.

  Another small figure burst out of the house, blazing copper hair standing on end, his half-open school bag still slung across his body trailing books and papers.

  ‘Stop!’ screamed Paul. ‘Somebody, stop them!’

  ‘Oh my God,’ breathed Arianne. ‘Paul was with them.’

  She broke away from Luc and began to run towards her brother, shouting for him as she clawed her way through the crowd.

  ‘Ari. It’s all right. Don’t cry, it’s all right.’

  Romy had appeared beside her. He took her arm and began to clear a passage through the throng.

  ‘You!’ Luc was also at her side, incandescent with rage. He barrelled into Romy, knocked him to the ground and raised his fist.

  ‘Enough!’ Father Julien stepped out of the crowd and seized Luc by the arm.

  ‘I’ll kill him!’ yelled Luc.

  ‘Quiet!’ Father Julien was stronger than he looked. Luc, pinned to his chest, quivered with anger. ‘Romy, are you all right?’ Romy nodded and scrambled to his feet. ‘Go home to your mother. You, boy,’ he barked at Luc. ‘Come with me.’

  *

  ‘I have to go and see Luc,’ Arianne told Elodie later that evening.

  ‘Is your brother asleep?’

  ‘He’s out cold. I gave him some more wine and water.’

  ‘He’ll be developing a taste for it if you’re not careful.’

  Arianne hesitated on the front step, then turned back towards her great-aunt.

  ‘Apart from finding Maman when she died,’ she said, ‘I think today was the worst thing I ever saw.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elodie. ‘I think it probably was.’

  ‘For you too?’

  ‘I’ve seen other wars.’

  ‘They won’t come back, will they? The Duponts, I mean.’

  ‘No, child,’ murmured Elodie. ‘They won’t come back.’

  Still Arianne lingered, looking out into the twilit street.

  ‘Go,’ said Elodie. ‘Just make sure you’re back before curfew.’

  She found his mother alone in her kitchen, a bottle of eau de vie and two glasses on the table.

  ‘He’s in his room,’ slurred Teresa. ‘You can go up if you like. Try to make him see sense. I won’t chaperone you.’

  All this time and she had never seen his room! She was struck by how bare it was. A bed, a chest of drawers, a table and chair. Schoolbooks but no novels, nothing to mark it out as his. He sat on the window ledge and did not get up when he saw her.

  ‘I came to see if you were all right.’

  ‘Come here.’

  His breath tasted of alcohol. She turned her face away. His hand closed around her waist, and he pulled her roughly towards him.

  ‘If it weren’t for you,’ he whispered against her mouth.

  ‘You’re hurting me . . .’

  He cupped her face in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he mumbled. ‘But I have to do something. I can’t just sit around and wait.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ But Luc had passed out, his head on her shoulder. She dragged him off the window seat to the bed, pulled the blankets over him and went downstairs.

  ‘How is he?’ asked his mother.

  ‘Out. Angry. Maudlin. I’ve never seen him drunk before.’

  ‘We’ve both had a shock.’ Elbows resting on the table, Teresa pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. ‘I hoped it would be different here.’

  ‘It’s never happened before. People being taken, I mean. Not from the actual village. Not like that, in broad daylight.’

  ‘But it’s happening now. We’ll lose him, Arianne. See if we don’t.’

  ‘Lose him?’

  ‘They’ll all go. All the young men. Fighting with the Americans. I hate the bloody Americans!’

  ‘Luc won’t go. He . . .’

  I have to do something.

  ‘What?’ Teresa drained the last drops from her glass. ‘You think he’ll stay for you?’

  Arianne tilted her chin.

  I can’t just sit around and wait.

  ‘He’ll forget about us.’ Teresa started to cry. ‘He’ll forget he even had a mother . . .’

  ‘You mustn’t say that!’ Arianne patted the older woman on the arm. ‘He loves you, he’s always telling me so.’

  ‘Liar,’ sniffed Teresa.

  ‘I’ll send my aunt to see you in the morning.’ Arianne began to edge towards the door. Teresa’s crying turned to sobs.

  ‘Make him stay!’ she wailed. ‘You’re a woman now, Arianne. Don’t let him get away!’

  June 8th, 1944

  Her schoolbag was not big enough for everything she needed, but to go out carrying anything else would raise Elodie’s suspicions. She had raided the larder in the night. A jar of cherries in eau de vie
, a fresh goat’s cheese, Elodie’s emergency chocolate. She would get into trouble afterwards, but it couldn’t be helped. She saved her bread from breakfast, smuggling it up to her room to pack with the other things she wanted – candles, matches, a pair of sheets.

  She wove her hair into a plait and checked her appearance in the mirror. No extra flush, no hint of dissipation gave her away. Elodie, when she bade her goodbye, did not notice anything amiss. She had worried Luc might not be at the station, but he was there as usual, not looking very much the worse for yesterday’s excesses.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said as soon as he saw her. ‘For anything I did or said. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You were upset. It was a terrible day.’ She lowered her voice as she had heard film actresses do, hoping she was not ridiculous. ‘Meet me at Lascande at midday,’ she murmured.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Midday, mind,’ she breathed. ‘Not before.’

  *

  I am mad, she thought as she sped through the woods. After all the lectures she had given Paul, to be cutting school herself! Her father’s last words to her, almost, be good, study hard, do your mother proud, and yet here she was, out on a school day, skipping a geography test! The birdsong today was deafening, the morning light hard and clear, the ground damp with dew. Arianne had started at a run but slowed to an amble by the time she reached the faded signpost, and it seemed to her that this sharpening of the senses, this being in tune with her surroundings were as much a part of her preparations as all she had done and all she had yet to do.

  She let herself into the house and set to work at once in the bedroom. She threw open windows and swept the floor, she dusted the furniture. She went out to the garden and picked some early roses, she laid out her stolen food. She shook the bedspread out on the lawn, and washed herself in the giant’s bathtub. She took the linen sheets out of her school bag and made the bed.

  He came at twelve as she had asked him to, and followed a trail of rose petals from the scullery door to the four-poster bedroom where she waited for him with her hair brushed out, in an old satin nightgown of her mother’s. A woman, his mother had said, but she felt like a little girl.