When they had seated themselves on the wall, she opened the long narrow package of lunch and revealed a baguette. She tore it into two, and Michel used his penknife to divide up a piece of soft cheese which smelled delicious. The hotel chef had also managed to find two small pieces of cold chicken, and Michel looked at them as if they were gold. The apples included in the package were a little wizened from long storage. Michel said he thought they were imported, and gave her a mouth-watering description of Normandy apples, which would come in September, if the trees were sufficiently recovered to produce them.
‘Last year’s crop small,’ he told her. ‘Many trees destroyed or much damage.’
She nodded sympathetically as she handed Michel half the baguette. She said, as she brushed a cascade of crumbs off her lap, ‘We’re lucky in England that our countryside wasn’t fought over. In fact, the crops were greatly increased during the war – we used to import much of our food before the war.’ She paused in astonishment as Michel pushed a big hunk of bread into his mouth and followed it almost immediately with another hunk. The poor soul must be starving.
She continued her conversation, as if she had not noticed. ‘Our ships were being sunk by the U-boats in the Atlantic so often that we thought we would really starve, there was so little to go round.’ She paused, and then added sadly, ‘Dad was drowned at sea – went down with his ship.’
She had spoken too fast for him and she had to repeat it slowly, sentence by sentence.
He clicked his tongue. ‘Condolences, Madame.’
She nodded in acknowledgment. She missed very much her father’s sporadic appearances in his home. For what had she and her mother worked so assiduously, if it were not to provide a friendly, happy home to which he could return?
As he took the piece of chicken she offered him, Michel remarked on her mentioning the countryside being unspoiled. He said, with his mouth full, that he knew the English farms were on the whole OK, because he had seen them.
‘You have?’
‘Yes, Madame. Like I tell you before, I have seamen’s papers – how you say? Ordinary seaman book? Before the war, to earn some money, I serve under my uncle a few voyages – he own a small freighter, like I tell you. He trade between England and France – and, sometimes Ireland, wherever he get cargo. In 1940 Germans come. Finish.’ His gesture signified a cut throat, and he made a face. ‘My brother, Anatole, taken by the Germans for work in factory, is sent down a coal mine. My father die naturally – not from Germans. I come home to help Maman. No more go to sea, except one voyage when I arrive in Bayeux. At that time, it was work I could do immediately.’
She smiled. ‘So you saw England?’
‘Yes, Madame. Have shore leave. I ride in bus. Look at farms and villages. Plymouth look like Caen – but the farms OK.’ He bit into an apple.
‘Why don’t you go to sea again?’
The question was personal, and he was not sure that he wanted to answer it. He had, like many French, a dislike of personal questions.
Then he thought that it did not matter. She would soon be gone. ‘A seaman’s work is hard. I get much pain,’ he replied ruefully, as he touched his malformed shoulder.
Her look was sympathetic. ‘I see,’ she said – and thought that cleaning up after hens must have been nearly as hard.
She offered him part of her bread. ‘It’s too big a piece for me,’ she lied. He accepted it with a muttered, ‘Merci,’ and ate it, this time more slowly.
He suggested that they go in search of cider, to which she readily agreed. She slid down from the wall and dusted the crumbs off her dress. He put two remaining apples back into their bag and handed them to her. She accepted them, and said, ‘Perhaps we shall be glad of them later.’
He bowed slightly. How could he say that his mother would have been very glad of them?
He drove her into a part of the town which appeared to have more life in it. He parked the taxi near a tiny café with tables set out on the pavement in front of it, though its windows were still boarded up. They chose the table closest to the taxi.
‘I watch taxi,’ he explained to Barbara.
After the ruins they had seen, Barbara felt relieved to be in a small area where normal life seemed to have re-established itself. The café was not very busy, but there were young couples there gossiping over drinks, as well as an old gentleman enjoying a cup of coffee while he read a newspaper. She smiled slightly at the latter: every café seemed to have its old gentleman deep in a newspaper. A dog slumbered at the feet of one young man.
As Michel seated Barbara, there was a momentary pause in the conversations at the other tables. Everyone glanced at an obviously foreign lady, accompanied by a nondescript fellow, who was apparently the driver of the taxi which had just been parked.
A waiter came forward and flicked a grubby cloth across their table, while he asked what Monsieur wished. Michel told him, and he brought two large glasses of cider. Michel took change out of his trouser pocket and paid the man.
He lifted his glass towards Barbara in a silent toast. She smiled and made the same gesture towards him. ‘Cheers,’ she said.
He grinned, and they drank slowly. They did not speak. In the company of interested observers, they were both shy.
Seated so very close to the other patrons, who were obviously townsfolk, Michel feared that, if he made a mistake in English, someone who knew the language better would snigger at him. Because he had travelled further and done different kinds of work, he was more aware than many peasants of his lack of education, though he had received as much as a peasant could aspire to in pre-war France, and his working knowledge of English was much better than he realised.
For the first time since the dreaded telegram had come to announce George’s death, Barbara felt truly relaxed, content to sit in the sun and watch the passers-by. Most of them seemed to be women shopping in little temporary stalls across the square.
There were few children, mostly small, and they stayed close to their mothers. She noted two who were bowlegged, and she wondered if they had acquired this affliction from a shortage of milk in their early years; during her whole life, she had seen only one English child with bow legs, though she had a vague recollection of her mother saying that the affliction had once been common because the poor could not afford milk.
Michel asked if she would like another glass of cider. She refused politely, feeling that she should not be an expense to him. She had also realised that the drink was quite potent. When he suggested a little walk round the square, and she rose from her chair, she felt dizzy and had a strong desire to giggle at nothing in particular.
Michel laughed at her, and then took her elbow to steady her. ‘First time you drink cider?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘It’s made me a bit giddy.’
Though he did not know what giddy meant, it was obvious that she was not quite steady. Still laughing slightly, he put his arm round her waist and held her fairly close. Like this, they promenaded slowly over to the stalls, Michel glancing back occasionally to check on the precious taxi.
‘Not much here,’ he remarked when he saw the goods for sale. ‘Shortages of everything.’
‘It’s the same at home,’ she told him. ‘You have to hunt for everything.’ She described her search for paint – paint to put on walls, she had to explain, not paint for pictures.
‘You paint walls?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Yes. Mum and I did them before the war – we run a bed-and-breakfast. It’s very shabby and needs a lot of repairs. First job is to paint the bedrooms, make them look clean and cheerful, and then make new curtains and bedspreads. But you simply cannot obtain paint – and as for curtaining …! I’ve tried everywhere.’ She shrugged.
He stopped walking and looked down at her in shock. He did not know what a bed-and-breakfast was, and assumed it was a colloquialism for a brothel. ‘For prostitute?’ he asked.
She looked at him blankly for a second, and then
began to giggle again. ’Non, Monsieur. No prostitutes.’ She choked with laughter. ‘A kind of hotel for travellers – we provide simply a room and breakfast.’
He began to chuckle too. His hold round her waist tightened, ‘Chambres d’hôte?’
‘Yes, I think that is what it is in French.’
‘A few in Normandy long ago – before the war.’ He corrected himself, ‘I forget sometimes – war is still on – in Indo-China.’ Then he burst out, ‘Trouble also in Algeria. We still fight to save our Empire. Much goods go to soldiers – war take money, take munitions, take men. We have few young men left.’
They were both suddenly sober again. More deaths! thought Barbara. Suddenly she lost her gaiety, and wanted to cry.
By mutual consent, they turned back towards the taxi. A couple of slick-looking townsmen in business suits, briefcases in hand, were inspecting it.
As Michel and Barbara approached, still entwined, the men looked up. They saw an obvious peasant walking in an intimate way with a woman, who, from her dress, was a foreigner. They were puzzled by her. Looking back at them, she knew the type – they were too well dressed in a loud kind of way: in Liverpool, they would be purveying hash – spivs, shady types.
They ignored her, and asked Michel if he were the driver.
Barbara felt him tense as he let go of her, and replied, ‘Oui, Monsieur.’
‘Who owns it?’
‘Is that any business of yours, Monsieur?’ Michel was offended.
‘It may be stolen.’
‘Certainly not, Monsieur. Are you calling me a thief?’ He bristled. ‘It is leased to the American Army, here to attend to the graves of American servicemen. I am their driver. Now, if Monsieur will kindly step back, I have to go to Bayeux to pick them up.’ He gestured them away from the door of the vehicle, which he opened. ‘Please come, Madame,’ he said in English to an apprehensive Barbara.
She had sensed only that the men were not selling something but were bent on making some kind of trouble. Michel watched the men all the time as he held the taxi door open for her. She saw him suddenly shift his weight lightly onto his left foot, almost as if he were going to kick the nearest man.
Without taking his eyes off them, he said sharply in French to Barbara, ‘If Madame will be seated. We must hurry. The colonel does not like to be kept waiting.’
With her nose in the air, Barbara frowned at the men, and got swiftly into the cab. Michel slammed the door after her. He swung into the driver’s seat and immediately started the engine.
The men had read correctly the slight movement of Michel’s feet. As neither wished to be laid low with an agonising kick, they had hastily moved back slightly. Their movement had enabled him to get into the cab. Now, as he swerved the vehicle backwards, the men hurriedly stepped further out of the way.
‘Au revoir, Messieurs,’ Michel said frigidly as he passed them. He was obviously very put out.
‘Phew! What was all that about?’ Barbara asked sharply.
There was no reply, but she could hear his angry, heavy breathing.
She shrugged, leaned back and awaited events.
Outside the city, back on the road to Bayeux, he drew into a tiny side lane, and stopped. He swivelled round in his seat in order to speak to her. He still looked upset.
‘Excuse me, Madame, that I not go to the Abbaye aux Dames?’
‘That’s OK. Don’t worry. Who were those men?’
‘I don’t know. I believe they try to make trouble for me. To make a disturbance, so that I have to leave the taxi. Then one of them steal it.’ He rubbed his jaw with one hand, and glanced at her to see how she was taking this.
‘Surely not?’ she said, though she had sensed that they were spivs.
‘I think so, Madame. You understand, Madame, I am a poor peasant – and they know it. They think me stupid, and they know the taxi is valuable; it cannot be mine. They are rude. They say perhaps I steal it. To them, I am nothing – and they are dressed like businessmen; how you say in English?’
‘Smart alecks? Spivs?’
He shrugged. He did not know the words, but felt she had understood him. ‘They say they call a gendarme. They say I steal. Who is the gendarme going to believe? Two men like that – or me? Gendarme ask for my papers. I show them and they see that Monsieur Duval of Bayeux own taxi. Gendarme decides to take me in – and you, too – who are you? He check by phone with Mr Duval. Duval is furious. What is taxi doing in Caen on Saturday? And he doesn’t know who Madame is.’ He paused a moment, to give her a sly grin. ‘I cannot say to gendarme I make trip for Americans – they are in Paris. Duval think I am washing taxi and checking engine today. Get tank fill, ready for Monday – clean up garage and his stable. Weed two gardens, which I do for a market gardener and a rich man. So I am suddenly having big problem. Taxi outside vanish.’ He shrugged. ‘Eventually gendarme sort everything out. But dead cert lose my job, and only the good God know where taxi is.’
‘Good heavens! Are you sure?’
‘I believe so. If not, why they insult me? Lots of bad people, at present, Madame. Black marketeers, thieves, looters, many deserters from all the armies. Car or taxi or van worth a lot of money on the black market. Even a loaf made of wheat flour has good price.’
Barbara leaned back in her seat. ‘Well, I’m dashed! I knew there was something wrong about them. But I thought these things only happened in England.’ She smiled at him. ‘Of course, it doesn’t matter about the Abbaye aux Dames. You certainly got out of the situation quickly.’
He gave a little laugh. ‘Madame, if I am not quick up here,’ he tapped his forehead, ‘I am dead years ago.’
She smiled. She could imagine a slightly disabled small boy learning to be very quick-witted about saving himself from bullies; and he had had four years of facing professional bullies, the Germans.
She nodded her head slightly as she thought this over. She was sure that he would be able to smell trouble a mile off, just as she could in the streets of Liverpool or Birkenhead. And those men had looked like trouble personified.
As he restarted the taxi and slowly backed into the main road, Barbara said, ‘Wait just one moment. I have something for you.’ She opened her handbag and drew out a packet of twenty Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes.
Mystified, Michel resignedly turned off the engine, and glanced back at her. When he realised what she was holding, he looked incredulous.
‘For me?’ he asked.
‘Oui, Monsieur. Thank you for taking me out today. It has done me a world of good.’
Slowly, he took the packet from her, and looked at it before stuffing it under his sweater.
He turned slightly to look back at her again. Despite his smile, his eyes looked sad. ‘Thank you. Madame is most kind, and thank you for lunch,’ he said. ‘It was my pleasure to take you to see Caen.’
Though touched by his formal courtesy, exhibited despite his evident semi-starvation and his pathetic shabbiness, Barbara was also oddly disturbed by it. An immense pity nearly overwhelmed her that someone so obviously proud and capable should have to endure such deprivation.
Chapter Ten
As they continued their journey back to Bayeux, they were mostly silent.
Michel was angry with himself. He realised that, in using the taxi at the weekend, he had endangered his already precarious livelihood.
If Monsieur Duval had checked with the hotel, half the staff could have confirmed that the generous Colonel Thomas Buck and his two assistants had gone by train to Paris for the weekend, and that it was unlikely that the driver had permission to use the taxi while they were absent.
The agreement he had with the Americans was that while they were occupied in the cemeteries, he could do short trips to enable mourning relatives to visit graves. The colonel had said it was OK if he received a tip; Michel had, in fact, charged his passengers according to the mileage and, in addition, usually received a tip.
It was unlikely that the colonel cared what Mi
chel did as long as he turned up at the hotel promptly at eight on Monday morning, ready to take him and his assistants to their latest cemetery. If Duval, the taxi owner, found out, however, he would raise a storm, largely because he was not receiving anything for the additional use of his taxi.
Imbecile, Michel almost shouted to himself.
Anatole and Madame Benion received small government allowances, and Michel received a weekly wage from the Americans, so Anatole and their mother would not starve if Michel could not make the extra trips to the cemeteries. Without the money from those trips, however, the three of them would never save enough to start up the farm again when they received their land back – or be able to pay for Anatole’s funeral, when that dreaded time arrived.
All the extra money Michel earned, therefore, was stuffed into a black stocking kept under Anatole’s mattress.
While Anatole lived at home, Michel ruminated, he needed practically all his mother’s attention and a good deal of physical aid from Michel. Maman could not work, even if she could find something to do, and, at the same time, nurse him.
The harassed, overworked doctor in the crowded hospital had told them that nothing medical could be done for Anatole, other than to keep him as comfortable as possible; it was simply a matter of time. While he waited to die, he had drugs – and, thank the good God, the family did not have to pay for them. But they did feed him, comfort him and keep him clean to the best of their ability.
From the hoard saved for the farm, they had bought him a bed and bedding, and shirts. It was he who received any fruit or milk Madame Benion could buy, he who was always fed first.
So he lay by a dormer window, waiting for release from his misery in much the same way as his kind had done for centuries. And his mother tried not to weep in front of him.
As Michel manoeuvred the taxi round potholes, his thoughts wandered from contemplation of his own stupidity.
He decided that, although it would undoubtedly bring on another of his terrible coughing spells, Anatole would love a really good cigarette such as those now lying next to Michel’s protruding ribs under his jersey. They would smoke together, he promised himself, share the luxury.
Madame Barbara Page 11