by Jan Harvey
‘How did you free yourself from it?’
‘Read the Bible,’ he replied, ‘that sorted it out.’
‘You read the Bible to free yourself from it?’
‘Yep, really read it and I realised I was not compatible with religion. My parents and other relatives made it very hard for me and for a while it screwed me up and I used to drink away the pain.’
‘That’s so sad, poor you.’ I looked at him, tilting my head to one side. ‘And now?’
‘I don’t have much to do with them, they do faith healing and speak in tongues and are way too woo woo for me and it’s embarrassing now.’ He went quiet for a moment. ‘But I’m fine, really I am. I’ve worked at it and I don’t drink to the same extent now, honestly.’
‘I’ve never been clear on any of it,’ I told him, ‘it always seemed an opportunity to start wars and not tolerate other people to me.’ I really did feel for him, there was a little tug on my heart as I thought of him growing up and being so trapped. My parents never railroaded me into anything and I’ve always been free to make up my own mind.
‘You’re right, it’s behind most wars,’ he continued as we stood up, the chairs scraping on the uneven flagstones of the pub floor. ‘But enough of war and religion, we have work to do.’ He had a broad grin on his face.
‘Do we?’ I asked, a little excitedly. ‘Where?’
‘At Freddy’s house, I’d like to give you a hand with “the room”’.
‘Really?’
‘Yep, as long as I can have any old photos we come across for my collection. That’s the deal.’
‘What are you collecting?’ I asked.
‘Old photos, I just said that.’
‘I meant what for?’
‘I scan them and put them on the ‘net’, it’s a resource for artists, authors, historians. It helps if I can post info about them too, but the images alone are fascinating for people all over the world,’ he said.
‘I’m not sure I can let you have any of Freddy or his plays or the actors and so on.’
‘I’m not after them, it’s more street scenes and countryside or events I can use, if we find any.’
‘Do you know, I think Freddy would love to think some of his things had a use now he’s gone, like a legacy. We must check with Hat, of course, but I’m sure she’ll be fine about it.’
‘Good.’ He put three twenties on the table to cover the bill and then, standing up, he said; ‘Let’s do it.’ At that moment I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do than spend my afternoon with Matt in Freddy’s “room”.
The door opened half way, teetering piles of papers and books leaned dangerously towards toppling over onto the floor if we pushed it any further. Matt moved them to enable us to enter the room together. It was a real, traditional, old-fashioned mess. The only visible furniture was an old armchair, its sponge stuffing springing out through tattered holes in the tweed fabric. The blotter on his desk, although completely covered in doodles, was clear of paper. Everywhere else, each surface and square foot of floor was covered in newspaper cuttings, coupons, magazines, typed letters and books – everywhere books. There were stacks of them, shelves of them, and furniture made of them. Two piles of large books made a makeshift coffee table, with a plank of wood on top. An empty cup, stained brown at the rim and a dinner plate ingrained with dried food were on top of it.
‘Blimey.’ Matt scratched his forehead.
‘Bet you’re wondering why you volunteered now?’ I said brightly, though in all honesty I was thinking the same, it was a huge task.
‘I think we’ll need a lot of tea,’ was all he said, and with that he began to pick up anything on the floor that was preventing us from moving forward.
We agreed on four piles on the landing. One for the family, one for the charity shop and a pile to throw out. The fourth pile, divided in three, was for Matt, Hat or me. Matt and I each had a bin bag and it was easy once we got our system going, and being able to talk to each other helped. We found a file with all of Freddy’s’ important papers including the mortgage saying that he owned the house officially, mortgage free, in 1968. Matt opened a book on warships and found a thin piece of paper, flimsy and fragile, a receipt for a pair of boy’s shorts dated 1952.
‘F.T.Bernheim and Sons, Farthing Road, London, E2. The sum of one shilling and sixpence. Received with thanks.’
I read another out loud: ‘Locke and Mead Publishers, London SW3, For short story two hundred pounds. Payment in full.’ It was made out to Freddy. The paper was crinkled, as if it had been screwed up and flattened out again. I wondered when he’d done that, possibly on one of his bad days when, no doubt, he locked himself in this room alone. Poor sad Freddy.
I made tea and commented on how quickly the stacks had grown, except the one for the family. It was still little more than a pile of documents and bills, most of which would be of no interest to them. Mine, of course, was made up of books, including two copies of The Barchester Chronicles and a well-preserved first edition of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, exactly as C.S. Lewis would have seen it.
‘I hope I don’t do this to my family when I’m gone,’ said Matt as he took a break to sip his second cup of tea. ‘I’d get rid of everything in my own way long before someone else had to do it.’
‘Me too,’ I replied, blowing across the hot tea in my cup. ‘Though, when I go, there will be a hell of a lot of books to sort out, that’s for sure.’
‘I do like that about you, Connie,’ he said. ‘You deal with technology in your work, but go back to books in your own time. No Kindle?’
‘No, I love the feel and smell of books and the cover, it’s a package for me, a 3D thing.’
‘That’s why I love old photographs, it’s only one step on from the truth.’
We had made headway and we both came to the decision that three hours was long enough. My knees ached from kneeling and I felt bad that I’d kept Matt so long, even if he really didn’t seem to mind. He stood up, stretched out and then looked around. ‘Well, we’ve made headway,’ he said and I laughed, because in actual fact the irony was it was hard to tell we’d even been in there. The floor was cleared and underneath a mountain of papers and cuttings on the desk we found his Imperial Typewriter, two of the keys stuck together, ‘A’ and ‘S’, but we were still surrounded at every level by Freddy’s papers, books and possessions.
‘Tomorrow?’ he suggested. ‘I’ve got a couple of hours to spare in the morning.’
‘Really, you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all, I still haven’t found a single photograph for my resource project, I guess I’m still looking.’ He took my mug from me and carried both, and a handful of books he had selected for himself, downstairs. In the hallway the house felt empty with neither Hat nor Freddy in it, and all of a sudden I felt like we were trespassing. Matt must have noticed my pensive expression; he squeezed my elbow as he passed by, his touch like electricity forking through my body. ‘Come on, you,’ was all he said as I turned to look at him. ‘Home James and a hot bath for us both, I ache.’
‘Me too, but I’ll just have a check around to make sure nothing’s open.’ I pulled back. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Okay,’ he said aware, I’m sure, that I was putting distance between us. I shouted thanks to him, but the front door banged as it closed after him.
We were back at ten the next day, I left the door open for him and I heard it close and then the heartening sound of his feet on the stairwell. ‘Hi, Connie,’ he said brightly as he entered the room. He had such a warm, friendly face, I immediately felt uplifted seeing him again.
‘Shall we get on?’
‘Yes, but before we do, look at this, I found it yesterday in the “Boys Book of Adventure” I took home.’ He handed me a piece of paper, yellowed and old, it had a child’s writing i
n faded pencil. The date at the top was 19 September 1957, the letter was signed Fredrik. I read it and then over again and again.
‘Stanford House’
Barnes
London
19 September, 1957
Dear Father,
I am WRiting to let you know that I am doing well.
I would like to meeT you and hear all about the army.
Yours Truly
Fredrik March
‘I don’t understand, Freddy’s mum was single, Hat told me he’d never known his father.’
Matt shook his head; ‘Well, it looks like Hat was wrong.’
Chapter Ten
There was a crush of people at the station, all of them avoiding eye contact with each other. Joubert clicked his tongue and his old horse moved forward as people moved out of its way to let the creaking cart through. A soldier on duty monitored the queue, looking at documents and then up and down at those who were standing in front of him. His face was inflexible, cold. Two other soldiers were watching passengers on the platform and a small group of officers were standing in a cluster, laughing and joking with each other.
‘Whatever you do, don’t attract attention. If any of them become over interested, look like you’ve seen someone you know and use it as a chance to get away.’ Joubert was irritating her. She knew all this, Yves had trained her carefully for weeks. She couldn’t understand why this obnoxious man always thought her such an amateur.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Thank you for the lift.’ The old man grunted. He waited for her to climb down and retrieve her small leather suitcase from the cart. ‘Got your papers?’ he asked, grating on her nerves once again.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said curtly.
‘Good, take good care.’ He sounded suddenly forced and too loud. ‘And say hello to that brother of yours for me.’
Claudette watched as he flicked the reins across the horse’s rump and turned the cart away from her. She watched him go, his back hunched over the reins, the horse plodding up the road. He was an awful man and he made no attempt to disguise the fact that he didn’t trust her. She turned and joined the queue of passengers. There was a woman with a taut face and loose jowls right in front of her and a nervy old couple with their granddaughter behind her.
‘Papiere.’ The soldier held out his hand towards her as she edged forward. He was hot and there was a thick line of black on the rim of his shirt collar. He looked at her documents, then up at her. He waited a second then waved her on. They thrived on their domination.
The little girl behind her broke free of her grandfather’s hand and made for a friend on the platform. Her grandfather called urgently for her to come back, but she ignored him. The Nazi looked over at her and for a moment time froze. To everyone’s astonishment he smiled. Relief clearly flooded through the grandparents, their faces softened. ‘Kinder,’ he said with a shake of his head and a smile, as if he knew all about children. Claudette watched as the grandfather nodded, a look of suspended belief on his face as he handed his papers over.
The small crowd of passengers surged forward once the train, its brakes screeching, pulled into the station. Smoke and steam descended onto the platform increasing the heat and intensity; travellers picked up bags, scooped up little children and pressed towards the carriages. The officers looked superior as people stepped on to the train, they were going off duty and were excited as they headed for the city. In stark contrast the French on board were nervous. Their eyes darted from one soldier to another, or maintained an empty stare straight ahead.
Claudette found the nerves and overt fear amongst the other passengers a camouflage. No one was interested in her, an unmarried country girl in her early twenties with dull, mousy hair and a worn, summer dress. She soon became accustomed to her anonymity, for it made invisibility easier.
From where she was in the carriage she had only a partial view of the outskirts of Paris. The countryside changed from a checkerboard of sage green and bright yellow to black turned earth, long straights of overgrown grass, grey clay spreading across broken roads. Every so often a village or small town would appear, some of the houses wrecked and burned into black skeletons.
The train stopped, thick black smoke descended, darkening the carriage. There was a new tighter tension amongst the passengers until, with a hiss of brakes and a clunk of couplings, it began to move forward again. No French was being spoken, instead the laughter and uproar from the German officers at the end of the carriage brought into sharp focus the drained faces and silence of the other passengers. The man opposite Claudette was fidgeting nervously with his pocket, his hand dipping into it as if he were checking something over and over again. Even the children on board were quiet and withdrawn. A young boy watched the soldiers from under his mother’s arm, his large brown eyes fixated by them.
Finally, the sway of the train changed into a long braking halt, steam hissing up into the high roof of the Gare du Nord, blocking out the sunlight. The station tasted of smoke and engine oil. It was hot and clammy and Claudette felt as if her legs were heavy, even her small leather valise seemed to have doubled in weight.
At the gate a line of blue-uniformed policemen stood watching each and every individual as they walked past. Every traveller maintained a steady gait, eyes forward, papers in hand. Some of the hands were shaking.
The police officer who blocked Claudette’s path had grey teeth and greasy hair; beads of sweat ran down his temples from under his cap, she moved towards him slowly. In front of her a young woman, who was holding the hand of a small boy, frantically rifled through her handbag.
To Claudette’s left was a soldier with an Alsatian dog. Its haughty eyes settled on her and she realised his handler, in turn, was looking her up and down too. There was no sign of the newspaper stand. The soldier looked away, his attention drawn by the man who had been checking his pockets, who was now mopping his head with a dirty handkerchief. The dog scratched himself and was reprimanded with a sharp pull on the choke chain. Finally, the woman found her identity card and had it gripped in her hand to show the policeman who simply nodded and let her pass.
Women with children are invisible, Joubert had said. He was right.
‘Documents,’ said the policeman. Claudette handed them over. ‘Name.’
‘Françoise Favelle.’
‘Why have you come to Paris?’
The queue behind her was strained and quiet. Amongst the noise, heat and bustle of the station, there was a pool of silence so that the only sound was the thundering of blood in her ears.
‘I have a job as a maid.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know yet. My brother has organised it for me.’
‘Brother?’
‘Yes,’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s meeting me here.’
‘His name?’
‘Jacques Favelle.’
‘And you don’t know where you are working?’ he raised an eyebrow.
‘No,’ replied Claudette as calmly as she was able.
‘Wait there.’ He pointed to his right and she moved over obediently, placing her suitcase on the floor by her feet. The dog handler was looking her up and down again. She pretended not to notice, but for the first time she felt visible and exposed. There was nowhere to go; the passengers joined by others from a second train surged forward. The grandparents and their charge ignored her, the woman with the jowls too. No one wanted to register her existence. When, after a long wait, the people had passed her by, the policeman closed his gate and turned to her.
‘Come here,’ he commanded. ‘Where are you from?’ Claudette looked past his shoulder and saw a man by the paper stand. He was wearing a flatcap and a scruffy jacket. ‘I’m from a small farm near Vacily,’ she said evenly. She looked up at him and then again at the
man by the paper stand.
He had gone.
Claudette was eye to eye with the policeman who was weighing her up.
‘What do you do there?’
‘I am a seam-’
‘Is anything wrong here?’ The man in the flatcap was standing right in front of them, on the opposite side of the gate.
‘Who are you?’
‘Jacques Favelle, sir, I am this lady’s brother.’
The policeman looked from Claudette to the man in the cap and back again. A black line of sweat ran from his forehead into his eye and he grimaced.
‘Where is she working?’
‘In Twelve Rue Ercol,’ replied Jacques. ‘Where I work.’
The policeman raised his eyebrows and his lips parted into a smile.
‘I see.’
‘She will be a maid, I am the caretaker there.’
‘I would have been very surprised if you’d told me different,’ said the policeman as he ran his eyes over Claudette’s dress and scuffed shoes. ‘You’re definitely not a resident.’ He opened the barrier and waved Claudette through. ‘You look too old to be her brother,’ he said to Favelle over her head.
‘One of my father’s mistakes!’ Favelle winked as he hugged Claudette and made great play of it. ‘My lovely Françoise, I never thought you would come to Paris, what a pity your first time has to be now. She is not so beautiful, but she still has her heart.’ He stank of beer and his eyes, close up, were bloodshot. There was dandruff in his beard. She tried not to take in the heavy stale sweat smell of his clothes as he drew her to him.
The policeman had strutted away, bloated with his own self-importance. He nodded at the German soldier and offered him a cigarette. ‘Arsehole,’ growled Jacques under his breath as he took her case from her and then looped his arm into hers, leading her through the milling crowd. ‘Bastard.’