Madame Barbara

by Helen Forrester

  The word wife gave the priest the clue for which he was looking. ‘What did you see – a young lady at her prayers, perhaps?’ His question was amiable, almost teasing.

  Michel’s mouth dropped open as he stared, shocked, at the gentle face before him. Unaware that he had so simply given himself away, his pain was mixed with astonishment at his questioner’s perception.

  ‘Oui, mon Père. A young English widow. She has come here to see her husband’s grave. She was not at prayer, though,’ he confessed. ‘We talked to each other.’

  ‘Humph.’

  Michel withdrew his hand from that of the priest and covered his face. Dry sobs again shook him.

  Slowly and with difficulty, because he did not believe that a celibate priest would understand, the story of Barbara came out, and his despair about her. ‘I may even have frightened her, mon Père, with the rashness of my approach. She is still in grief.’

  To his surprise, however, the priest nodded a gentle understanding. ‘Since you were both in the cathedral, I assume that she is a Catholic?’

  ‘Oui, mon Père. There are many Catholics where she lives.’

  Michel had underestimated the wise old priest. Father Nicolas had heard many a dreadful tale and he was quite pleased to learn about something so innocent – and he had no doubt in his mind of its innocence. Thus does God heal, he thought; just as the grass grows again to cover the earth’s agony, so do human survivors cover their wounds by finding joy in each other.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  At the hotel, Barbara came slowly down the stairs from her room. She was on her way to the dining room to have an early dinner. As she abstractedly descended the last flight of stairs to the lobby, she was turning over in her mind the details of her afternoon with Michel. She was filled with doubt. Meeting Michel was almost too good to be true, she told herself; yet internally she was in turmoil – and all because of him.

  She hesitated on the bottom step, as if to recall where she was, and looked over the shabby hall towards the reception desk.

  At that moment, Colonel Buck, the mortician, came through the swing door of the hotel. In his usual impatient way, he strode across to the desk clerk.

  ‘Can you get a message to the cab driver for me?’ he enquired, as he took a diary out of his top pocket and consulted it. ‘I need to change the time he’s to pick me up tomorrow.’

  ‘Now, Monsieur le Colonel?’

  ‘Yes, now.’ The colonel snapped his little diary shut.

  The clerk looked glumly at the American, and prayed to be delivered from all Americans, particularly this one, who was always in a hurry. ‘It may be difficult, Monsieur. He will have gone home.’

  Patience, patience, Colonel Buck told himself. He asked painstakingly, ‘In that case, where could I find the owner of the cab?’

  ‘Monsieur Duval shuts his garage at five o’clock, Monsieur.’ The clerk threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘There’s not much petrol to sell, few vehicles to service – why stay open later? You understand his problem, Monsieur? We have many problems at present.’

  ‘Jeeze!’

  Reservations pursed his thin lips, and turned to consult a note on a board behind him. He swung back to the irate colonel. ‘Benion will come in about seven thirty tomorrow morning, well before he expects to pick you up. He will check – er – for messages.’ He was not sure how much the colonel knew about the illicit use of his taxi, so he did not mention that he already had a message from a huge, strangely dressed Canadian male, who had registered at the hotel only an hour before and who wanted to go to the Canadian cemetery.

  The colonel did not care, he would have assured the clerk, what happened to the goddamned cab so long as it was where he wanted it, when he wanted it – and Benion was good at arranging that – he was a very helpful fellow. Knew the countryside like the back of his hand. Always knew where to get a drink or a decent meal. The colonel opened his mouth to respond when he observed Barbara coming towards him.

  She had heard the enquiry about the taxi driver, and the American’s show of impatience had refocused her troubled mind.

  ‘Good evening, Colonel.’ She greeted him with the polite, professional cheerfulness she normally used when coping with B-and-B guests.

  The colonel’s face cleared. He had already connected Barbara with the taxi driver. His assistant, Wayne, had seen the kiss outside the cathedral, and told him about it only twenty minutes before. The budding romance had given the colonel something pleasant to think of, at a time when he had not much to laugh about.

  Even though he had been an undertaker all his life, having inherited a thriving business from his father, the number of young lives lost in France had shaken his usual aplomb in the face of death. His being co-opted by the Military gave him high rank and many privileges while he helped them to sort out its cemeteries, not to speak of exploring what had been a wonderful country. The work had, however, been overwhelming to both mind and body. He would be thankful to go home to his wife and family in Richmond, Virginia, to sell elaborate coffins to the well-to-do, and be a much-respected professional comforter to the entire community.

  His longing had made him more than usually irritable, but he turned thankfully to the young widow. ‘Dear lady,’ he said, all smiles. ‘I need the address of our cab driver. Do you happen to know it?’

  ‘No, Colonel, I don’t.’ Barbara paused. ‘I know it’s not far from here.’ Then she brightened. ‘I think I know where you can find him, though. Last time he drove me, he showed me a lovely rose garden in which he said he usually did an hour’s work between five and six before going home – if you didn’t need him.’ She looked down at her wristwatch. ‘It’s not quite six. A Mr Dubois’s garden, he said.’

  Thankful for the information, Reservations interjected, ‘Oui, Monsieur le Colonel. Monsieur Dubois lives less than five minutes from here.’

  ‘Where?’

  The clerk embarked on a long description of the tortuous route through narrow streets laid out in the thirteenth century.

  Barbara clicked her tongue; she knew that the colonel had a very short fuse, though he could be kindness personified. She said quickly, ‘Let me take you. I know exactly where the garden is.’

  The colonel hastily stuffed his diary into his top pocket and said, ‘Great, if you don’t mind.’ That she might be in need of dinner did not, at that moment, occur to him.

  The colonel held the swing door for her and they went out into the courtyard together. The evening air smelled pleasantly of flowers.

  ‘This way,’ ordered Barbara, as Colonel Buck let go of the door and zoomed ahead of her through the great iron gate, which was ajar. He stood poised on the pavement, ready, it seemed, to take off to the moon if necessary.

  As they set out, he did, however, lessen his long stride to accommodate Barbara’s shorter one.

  ‘I just gave my boys the evening off,’ he told her, as they walked down a street made shadowy in the half-light. ‘They’d gone just before I got this call from the base. Otherwise, I could have given them the job of finding Benion.’

  Barbara laughed. ‘I’m sure they would appreciate the evening off much more.’

  The colonel nodded agreement. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you about Benion, but he’s invaluable to us,’ he said.

  As they crossed a road, he stopped suddenly to avoid being run down by a woman pushing a wheelbarrow heaped with small household goods. Then he took Barbara’s elbow and guided her forward.

  ‘When I was in Caen this afternoon I was warned that a senator would be landing there tomorrow,’ he confided. ‘But I didn’t know until just now, from Wayne, that he would be arriving so early. He’s coming via London. The party expect to be met at the airport at 7.30 a.m., and to spend the day touring the cemeteries. It’s a real drag,’ he confided. ‘I’ll hafta leave here early myself and drop the others en route at the next cemetery we have to check on.’

  Knowing little of American politics, Barbara missed t
he inferences of the senatorial visit, and was surprised when the colonel added exasperatedly that senators could always find an excuse to travel at government expense.

  ‘Are they very important? VIPs?’

  ‘Senators? Humph. They think they are. I suspect he’s here to gain headlines. To show veterans and their families – who have votes – his immense interest in the care of their dead – who don’t have votes, of course,’ he said, with heavy sarcasm. ‘You can bet they won’t promise any more money for the job we’re doing. It’s publicity they’re after, looking to the next election.’ He eased Barbara round two women pushing ancient prams with new babies in them. ‘The loss of my time doesn’t matter,’ he fumed.

  ‘Will they stay in Caen?’

  ‘Yes, the whole party’s going to stay at a private château – which is not much damaged. Thank God, I don’t have to do anything about that. Frankly, I would have thought that the French Government would have provided transport for them.’

  ‘Perhaps they didn’t get enough notice,’ suggested Barbara. ‘With so few cars around, it can’t be easy to arrange something decent for them at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe.’ He stopped in mid-stride. ‘Where are we now?’

  ‘That’s Monsieur Dubois’s house. Aren’t his roses lovely?’

  A housekeeper who answered the black marketeer’s door was a little nonplussed at an obviously high-ranking American on her doorstep, enquiring for Monsieur Dubois. Accompanied by his wife, presumably, since the lady was certainly not French.

  After looking them over uneasily, she told the couple that Monsieur and Madame were dining out this evening and had just departed.

  The colonel controlled his sense of frustration as best he could, and then asked if Madame could tell him the address of Monsieur’s wonderful gardener, Benion. Her roses were fabulous. He had never seen such a lovely front garden. He wanted to talk to the man.

  The woman relaxed visibly and immediately gave them Michel’s address. She also told him how to find it. ‘It is a narrow alley, Monsieur – a poor part of the city – not dangerous, however.’

  By this time it was dark, and the colonel offered to walk Barbara back to the hotel before he proceeded further. Barbara had, however, become curious to see where Michel lived so she said that, to save him that trouble, she would accompany him – if he did not mind.

  That was OK by him, he assured her.

  Five minutes later, they were walking cautiously down a narrow, shadowy lane, with houses that opened straight on to it. There was a strong smell of rotting garbage mixed with the odour of bad drains.

  The arrival of a uniform, glistening with brass in the dim light from house windows, caused a ripple of interest. Made ghostly by the long shadows, people sitting on doorsteps stopped chatting, and stared. Two little boys playing catch hastily moved to one side. A man leaning against a wall eyed them doubtfully. Many French had reason to fear any uniform and they had no love for Americans.

  Most of the houses did not seem to have numbers, so in bad French the colonel asked a very old man crouched on a doorstep where the Benion house was.

  The man took his cigarette out of his mouth and gaped toothlessly, almost fearfully, up at the soldier.

  He did not know. He drew on his cigarette again, exhaled, and then shouted across the alley to a woman holding a baby in her arms.

  Neither the colonel nor Barbara understood the rapid reply. The old man, however, repeated to them, ‘Five doors that way, the house of Madame Blanc.’

  While this exchange was going on, Barbara glanced round.

  So this was Michel’s world. It was as bad as anything in the north end of Liverpool, she thought, though none of it had been ruined by bombing, as similar districts in Liverpool had been. Looking at it, smelling the odour of it, she began to understand the possible reason for his not wanting her to meet his mother. Since he regarded her as someone more prosperous than himself, he would be reluctant to show her this.

  She smiled softly. She remembered how she and her mother had clutched at the chance to get out of their own primitive row house in Liverpool, which had not smelled much better. How lucky she herself had been to live so many years by the sea. Michel had been a farmer, used to country smells, admitted, but to good sea air as well – how awful it must be for him to live in a city as crowded as this – and care for an invalid in it.

  A great understanding warmth filled Barbara as she trotted down the alley behind the colonel, who was already in hot pursuit of his driver.

  Used to the freedom that the war had, in a way, brought her, it never struck her that her accompanying the colonel might be misunderstood.

  If she had been challenged about it, she would have replied smartly that she would decide who were her friends – and that a friend did not necessarily mean lover, either present or future. She dealt with men every day of her life and she was quite capable of sound judgement.

  They were lucky. Madame Blanc herself filled her doorway.

  After reassuring Madame Benion about her son’s feeling easier, she had come down, to catch Monsieur le Curé when he left, and, perhaps, learn a little bit of what the upset had been about. The priest was, however, certainly taking his time.

  She welcomed the interesting diversion made by such a senior American officer and his wife.

  ‘Monsieur?’

  Once again, Colonel Buck gathered up his French, and asked for Michel Benion.

  Madame was in an immediate quandary. She was uncertain how to reply. Finally, she said, ‘Michel is not available at present, Monsieur. Would you like to give me a message for him?’

  Colonel Buck swallowed hard. Nothing in this bloody country was simple or straightforward. Just what did ‘not available’ mean? And why did she not ask him in? He was not used to being kept waiting on people’s doorsteps, even if the resident was poor.

  While he hesitated, Madame Blanc’s black eyes narrowed until they sank into her fat face. She sensed the colonel’s irritation. Since she knew who he must be and that, indirectly, he represented Michel’s rent, she tried another tack.

  ‘Perhaps Monsieur would like to speak to Madame Benion?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ replied the colonel between gritted teeth. At the same time, a sharp little pain went through Barbara. Had Michel lied about not being married? But then she remembered Michel lived with his mother.

  The two children who had been playing ball in the alley, gave up and came over to stare at them. Madame shouted to the elder one, ‘Gaston, run up the stairs to the top floor and ask Madame Benion to come down. She has visitors.’

  The child went up the stairs like a squirrel up a pine tree, visions of a piece of American gum dancing before him.

  Madame Blanc smiled benignly on the representative of the United States Army standing on her step. She did not address him further. Americans were so ignorant of all things French. Digging up their corpses to take them home, the newspaper had reported. As if we do not know, after three invasions within a century, how to care for cemeteries, she considered irritably.

  Madame Benion’s light step was heard coming slowly down the stairs. Madame Blanc wondered what excuse she would give the officer.

  Barbara caught her breath. She was swept by sudden shyness as Madame Blanc made space for her overtaxed, white-haired tenant.

  So this was Michel’s mother. She was so tiny! She must be only about four feet nine; yet Michel had said that she had worked all her life on the poultry farm. She was dressed in unrelieved black, her snow-white hair drawn tightly back into a bun on the top of her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she had been weeping, her colourless face deeply lined as if with great age – the saddest face Barbara could remember, in a world full of sorrowing people. She realised that she could not, very well, introduce herself, and she began to regret that she had not gone back to the hotel.

  Madame Benion nodded politely to her. Then she folded her hands neatly across her stomach and looked up at
the immense soldier before her. ‘Monsieur? Madame?’ she enquired with quiet dignity.

  ‘Colonel Buck, ma’am,’ He bowed his head slightly.

  Madame Benion smiled gently. ‘Ah, yes. Michel’s colonel?’

  The colonel was not sure that he was exactly that, but let it pass. He explained his errand. He wanted Benion to take him to Caen airport tomorrow, starting out at six a.m. At that hour, thought the colonel, they would have a chance of getting there on time, despite any mishaps en route, even a change of tyre – if the wretched vehicle even had a spare tyre.

  Not by a flicker of change of expression did Michel’s maman allow the colonel to see the quandary into which he had plunged her. The boy was obviously very unwell and was still with Monsieur le Curé. Would he be fit to drive?

  He has to be fit, she considered frantically. Somehow, he must do it.

  Quite used to facing rank in the German Army, never mind their common soldiers, her polite smile remained fixed, as she replied, ‘Of course, Monsieur le Colonel. It will be his pleasure.’

  One never knew, she told herself. The curé had worked miracles with Anatole. Dieu seul le sait, he may do the same for Michel.

  ‘Six o’clock at the hotel gate, Monsieur?’

  The colonel relaxed. So far so good. ‘Thank you, Madame.’

  She bowed, and turned her toothless smile on Barbara, and bowed slightly, ‘Madame.’

  Quite charmed by her, Barbara smiled at her and bade her, ‘Bonsoir, Madame,’ as the colonel stepped down into the alley, took her arm, turned her round and marched her briskly back towards the street.

  There was a flutter of feet behind them. He turned.

  Gaston trotted up beside him, his hand held out. ‘Got any gum, chum?’