Madame Barbara

by Helen Forrester

  This was real; not just a sexual attraction – much more than that. Her mother had once said that a happy marriage was much more than sex, and Barbara’s parents had been happy just between themselves; even as a little girl she had sensed it. No matter what hit them – unemployment, illness, the catastrophes of life – there had been this private closeness between her parents.

  If her mother had loved her father like this, no wonder she was still grieving at the loss of him.

  As far as George’s military service had permitted it to be, her own marriage had been satisfying, hadn’t it? she asked herself wildly.

  It was her turn to be honest. It had not. She had had no idea that a man could make her feel as she did now, this minute, standing shakily outside a makeshift café in a foreign city, her hand tucked underneath the arm of an almost unknown foreigner.

  She sought for breath, for her lost common sense, and then looked up at him and said softly and warmly, ‘There is nothing to forgive. I feel honoured that you have been so honest with me.’

  She did not say what she was thinking deep beneath this gentle reply: I don’t care a damn if you come to me with nothing. Just share my bed and love me truly; it’s all I ask. We could work out everything else together; I know it; I just know.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She was honoured? Because he, a nobody, had confessed his feelings for her? Was it truly because he had been honest with her?

  There were few shops in this corner of the city, and as they walked slowly through the narrow medieval streets, they were, despite the carnage in the countryside, bathed in the sleepy calm of a peacetime Sunday. Yet both of them were in turmoil.

  He could not believe what he had heard, nor what he had been so mad as to set in motion. Did she really feel any affection for him?

  She had not said so, Michel warned himself. But neither had she got up and left him in disgust. And he knew, without the slightest doubt, that he himself was besotted.

  Not all the humiliations heaped on the nation as a whole as a result of their surrender to the Germans, nor those forced on him personally by the greedy occupying army, had ever succeeded in reducing his peacock pride to real humbleness of spirit; all those had been insults about which he could do nothing; one simply endured them and promised oneself revenge some day.

  His sense of Barbara’s sincerity did make him feel truly humble; she had put herself on an equal footing with him, made him a gift, at least, of trust, made him feel she valued him for what he really was.

  Barbara could not, in her bewildered state, have said exactly why she trusted him, a foreigner as poor as a street child; a man of a very different calibre from anyone she had ever met before and she had dealt with many men in her time.

  ‘Just because the war’s put money in civilian men’s pockets, they seem to have lost their sense of decency, if they ever had it,’ she had once fumed to her mother as they sat together by the kitchen fire, while the anti-aircraft guns round the ports of the Mersey roared like some great landslide, and an occasional bomb blast nearer at hand told them that they were not themselves immune from oblivion.

  That evening Barbara had being doing the bed-and-breakfast accounts, while Phyllis peeled the next day’s potatoes, for use in connection with the inventive breakfasts she made for her complaining elderly residents.

  ‘Well, even the men who stayed with us before the war would try it on sometimes, luv, as you well know,’ her mother had reminded her. ‘But you could usually put them off with a joke. And if I got someone who was a real pest, I used to say we was full up – and they got the message eventually. Your dad used to worry about the pair of us sometimes, when he were at sea. But he didn’t have to – you simply put ’em off.’ She dropped a peeled potato into a bucket of water. ‘At worst, you could land them a good old-fashioned slap in the face.’

  Barbara had unwillingly agreed that such a sharp refusal usually worked, particularly if administered in public.

  Because of the profound disturbance of the population during the war, when so many men and women were far from home, she had looked into dozens of hopeful, impudent faces – and felt sick because it was, sometimes, difficult to avoid them. Now, by a miracle, she seemed to have met someone honest enough to trust.

  She had trusted George because he was a local lad – after all, she knew his mother. He had told her on their wedding night that the moment he had asked her for a dance he knew he would marry her. ‘You always know,’ he had said gravely.

  She had laughed at the idea, but he had indeed married her; it had taken her rather longer to decide that she loved him enough to marry him.

  Now, she knew that what George had said could happen. She yearned for this unknown quantity walking beside her more desperately than she had yearned for anything in her life. But it was absurd; though she had been widowed for nearly four years, only yesterday she had wept for George. What was she thinking of?

  Michel swallowed. He knew nothing of Barbara’s thoughts. He realised, however, that he was floundering in waters very deep for him; yet he was impelled by primeval instinct to continue.

  At her remark that she felt honoured by his honesty with her, he squeezed the hand tucked under his arm in warm acknowledgement, and, after a small silence, he begged her, ‘We talk some more, somewhere quiet?’ He stopped walking to look directly at her, eyes pleading.

  That an elderly woman in a café should, with a gentle joking remark, release this nonsense in him, against all that he had ever been taught – it was against custom; it was not remotely sensible. Marriage was largely a business contract.

  But these were not normal times.

  In ordinary circumstances, he would probably never have met her; and, if they had met, his first thought would have been, as usual, to wonder what dowry she had.

  Yet now he suddenly had thoughts of marriage spinning dizzily in his head, though he had no idea how on earth he was going to achieve it. Not simply to lay her, but to spend the rest of his life with her. He had never felt like this about a woman before. He didn’t care whether Barbara brought a dowry with her or not; all he cared about was the woman herself.

  When he had watched Barbara kneeling by her husband’s grave, torn with sorrow, though trying hard to control herself, he had felt at first an overwhelming desire to comfort her, to love her better until she smiled again, and they could laugh together.

  How good it would be, he had meditated, to be loved by her as she had obviously loved her husband.

  Now, as if by reciprocal consent, they walked slowly round the outside of the great cathedral. On the other side was a formal garden, not very well kept but green with new spring growth. It was a hushed, almost deserted close, bounded in part by the houses of the cathedral clergy and in part by the cathedral itself. Despite its shabbiness, it was a haven of peace, untouched by war.

  Michel paused and surveyed it. He felt unexpectedly so overwhelmed by the hopelessness of his situation that he wanted to burst into tears. To cry to God, to anybody to help him out of his predicaments.

  It was ridiculous, cowardly, to feel so helpless. He inhaled deeply to try to steady himself. Men faced their problems; they did not weep.

  Barbara heard his inhalation and turned to him. She was distressed to see that his usually brown face had turned almost yellow. ‘Are you OK?’ she enquired uncertainly.

  He shivered as if cold, and then forced himself to smile. ‘Certain, I am OK.’

  The garden was furnished with several benches already occupied. On the nearest one sat an old man accompanied by an equally aged dog.

  Barbara and Michel sat down at the other end of his bench. Their tightly clasped hands lay on Michel’s knee.

  The old man turned to them and smiled. He remarked politely that it was a lovely day; it had been a great spring for tulips.

  The man nodded absently. He looked ill. His whitefaced, obviously foreign companion did not look much better. The old man noted her quivering lips; she looked as if sh
e might be about to cry. He thought he understood the tension between them – almost certainly a dissension of some sort.

  After a minute, he decided to be kind and leave them to it. He heaved himself up, gave the dog a light shove with his foot, bowed slightly, and slowly walked the animal down to the other end of the close to another seat. He wondered what had happened to them; nowadays, one never knew what horrors a person had endured.

  He smiled to himself. Anyway, now they would be able to embrace.

  He plodded over the grass to the other side of the close, and settled himself again. He glanced over to them. How lucky to be still young. The woman was certainly being comforted.

  Barbara eventually struggled free. She laughed weakly up at Michel, and was thankful to see his normal colouring was returning. She reminded him that they had come here to talk.

  In order to help her recover her own sanity, she asked, ‘Tell me about yourself. I know about your work. But what do you do in your spare time?’

  Calm down, you imbecile. She’s right. He reluctantly withdrew his hand from under her jacket. He sensed that for all her pliability, he might lose her right then and there if he carried matters any further.

  He gritted his teeth and tried to pay attention to her question. What an absurd one it was.

  ‘We never have time, once the Germans take over and my father die. We work much and sleep little. If hens and chickens are to live and lay eggs, they must be very clean. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub! When I work I smell of hens, creosote and disinfectant.’

  She giggled like a young girl.

  ‘It’s hard work,’ he insisted. ‘Move coops and brooders regularly to sit on fresh stones – big job – feed, water, hatch, keep warm. It last for ever. Milk cow, feed horse, clean stable, plough, sow forage, make vegetable garden, slaughter hens for market. Clean and pluck them. Wash eggs. Take them to the sales Boches. Nicest job – prune apple trees, pick apples, make Calvados out of them. Dig up potatoes.’ He paused for breath, and sighed, as some equilibrium returned to him. ‘In peacetime, late in the evening, go to café in the village for un petit noir and read the newspapers. In winter, read a book by the fire, perhaps. At Christmas, go to dance. Often little jobs take the evening time – mend harness, mend shoes, cut up logs.’

  ‘Phew!’ she exclaimed. He still had his arm round her, and she cuddled closer to him.

  He turned to kiss her again. ‘I decide yesterday that even if our family go on our land, I cannot work it alone – I can find a labourer, perhaps – but there is much shortage of men, you understand? And labourer cost money. I decide, now, I never go back to the land. I never make my wife work like Maman and Bonnemaman. Maman work too much already. Anatole – my brother – is very sick. My sisters both married to men from Rouen. I start new – something else.’

  ‘What would you like to do?’

  He hummed under his breath, while he tried to concentrate on her questions. Then he said, ‘All I know thoroughly is about hens and eggs – and make good use of a small piece of land. Now, I can also drive. Guy, my brother-in-law, is lorry driver. He look for job for me. But I want better – more safe job. His lorry is – how you say? – an ancient monument!’

  She gurgled with laughter. ‘I know just what you mean,’ she said. ‘That’s about the level of all our lorries in England, too. So, what do you think you could do?’

  ‘What I really like is work for a big, big egg company or hatchery. Not wash eggs or clean hen coops. I would like organise breeding, be in office – keep records, inspect brooders, learn management. I have big knowledge – I could use it to run a big flock.’ She felt him shrug his shoulders. ‘Big ideas. I need school to learn to manage men to do what I say.’ He stopped. Then he laughed derisively at himself. ‘Who am I to do things like that? I’m crazy. No hope.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Nothing in Bayeux. Look in Rouen, Cherbourg, perhaps, once they are builded again. But there is another problem – we can’t move there.’

  He went on to explain the problem of moving Anatole; and, further, his mother’s reluctance to go far from their land until the Government made a decision about it.

  She accepted his explanations and admired him for his loyalty to his family; and then she said thoughtfully, ‘Liverpool – and the rest of Merseyside – used to be full of big food companies, and I know of at least one which made cattle feed – I don’t know about hen feed. A lot of them have been bombed flat, and I don’t know which ones will rebuild.’ It was her turn to shrug. ‘It’s too early to say. But I’m sure that somewhere on Merseyside there’ll be a hatchery or an egg company.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘I could soon find out.’

  Here was an idea to be explored. But Michel knew that, at least for the time being, he must stay in Normandy. She had, however, not crushed his idea of what he wanted to do next.

  Had she truly meant to imply that his hopes could, perhaps, be fulfilled in Britain, if he were free to go there? It was too new an idea – in his shaky condition, he could not totally grasp all the inferences of what she had said; he would consider them carefully, when he felt more in control of himself.

  She was watching him, awaiting an answer to a suggestion which she herself had made without much forethought.

  The shadows on the grass were lengthening. He glanced at his watch, and stirred reluctantly. ‘We talk about Liverpool another day. I must go. Weed and water the garden of Monsieur Dubois,’ he told her, ‘and then stay with Anatole. Maman go to visit her friends for a little while.’

  ‘Of course.’ She sighed wistfully, as she slowly rose and picked up her handbag.

  He got up with his usual litheness and stood for a moment facing her, so close that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest.

  ‘I see you tomorrow? OK?’ He smiled softly. ‘We talk more. Reservations say you are in hotel nine more nights?’

  Her eyes danced at this revelation of communication with cool impersonal Reservations. ‘Yes,’ she assured him. ‘Shall we meet here?’

  ‘I meet you by cathedral door – we pass it just now. Six o’clock. I expect we be at hotel by then. The colonel’s work finish soon – they not work late now.’

  ‘OK.’ She smiled and leaned forward to kiss his lips. He caught her arms in a firm grip and kissed her in return. As he held her, he said, ‘If I’m very late, go to hotel. If Americans not return – I am still with them. I give Reservations a message to send to your room when I return.’

  She nodded and turned away quickly. She had discussed his hopes and desires quite calmly, but she felt anything but calm. He had certainly set off a riot of ideas within her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  That night, lying sleepless on his rustling straw mattress, thinking of his long day, Michel acknowledged to himself that this immense, insane desire for a particular woman was new to him. It was different from the ordinary desire which hit him not infrequently, a desire which any lively woman – like Suzanne – could quench. He would have dutifully protected Suzanne and died doing so; she would have been his working partner, the mother of his children. He was equally dutifully taking care of his mother and brother.

  For Barbara, it would not be a duty. He would live for her, love her, use all his innate ingenuity to see that she was happy and comfortable.

  In return, he dreamed that she would love him with the same uncritical passion, simply love him for being himself.

  The thought crossed his mind that he was being tempted because they were both older than many people falling in love. They had experience, and were, therefore, likely to be more understanding of each other’s human frailty and make a greater effort to adjust to each other.

  Apart from all that, Barbara was so dainty that she roused in him a genuine desire to protect and cherish her, like a new apple tree at its first blooming.

  She had aroused in him a level of sexual desire – plain lust, he rebuked himself – such as he had not known since he first went to a prosti
tute to learn how to make love.

  Nothing doing, he had told himself, if he did not marry her. Despite her allowing his advances that day, he believed her to be a respectable woman who would undoubtedly repulse him if he tried anything more.

  And I can’t endure that she should marry anyone else but me, he thought mournfully. But, my God, I am so hard up.

  During that restless night, he had considered again the neat slenderness of her beside his own build. He himself was not very tall in comparison with many of the townsmen of Bayeux – and he was at least twenty centimetres shorter than the Americans he drove every day.

  In comparison with the latter, he was also dreadfully thin – he had none of their exuberant look of abounding health; but, he told himself defiantly, that was largely because he had been hungry for years. Other than my shoulder, I am strong and fit, he decided.

  He stretched himself on his bed like a cat. Darling Madame, he muttered under his breath, I could make you so happy if you gave me the chance. He lay and thought about being married to her, and let himself dream. He had a difficult night.

  He was more than usually tired and fretful the next morning.

  While his mother went out to buy vegetables and get the bread ration, he helped Anatole to wash himself and put on a clean, dry shirt. His nightshirt was sodden from the sudden sweats caused by his illness.

  While he smiled and chatted to the invalid, his mind was full of disjointed ideas of how to build a future with Barbara. Even as he washed down and shaved his brother, Michel knew Anatole was the main blockage to any ambitions he might have and he could have wept with frustration. Dear God, he prayed feverishly for the hundredth time, perform a miracle: let Anatole recover. Let him have the farm. All I want is to be free.

  Driving the taxi for the Americans had been his first solid financial break since the night of the battle, and it was about to come to an end. I have been patient too long, he told himself savagely. I am twenty-nine years old and if I don’t start now, I shall be a casual labourer for ever – or until I’m crippled.