Madame Barbara

by Helen Forrester

  The colonel nearly burst with irritation, while Barbara tried to control her laughter. ‘Non!’ roared the colonel.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ cried Barbara. ‘I think I’ve got a peppermint.’ She opened her handbag, and dug around. Thankfully, she handed the little rogue the wrapped sweet. ‘No gum,’ she told him.

  He grabbed the sweet and ran back to the Blanc house.

  The colonel said fretfully, ‘You shouldn’t bother with them. They’re a permanent nuisance.’

  ‘Tush. He’s a beguiling little thing.’ Because the alley was narrow and uneven, she slipped her hand under the colonel’s arm, and then said soothingly, ‘You must be sorely in need of your dinner after such a long day in Caen.’

  He grinned suddenly. ‘I am. Have you eaten yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, let’s eat together. I’m sure my boys won’t be back until midnight, at least, and I dislike eating alone.’

  Barbara hesitated for a moment. Both of them were staying en pension at the hotel – he was not asking her out. And in crowded Liverpool one frequently found a perfect stranger seated at one’s café table, with only the merest, ‘If you don’t mind, madam …’ on the part of the waitress. Added to that, with six years of war behind her, crowded into trains and buses, into air-raid shelters, into public dances, with troops from around the earth, Barbara was used to being on sociable terms with strangers; she had a shrewd idea of the likely treatment she would receive from anyone. Only Michel had surprised her; his reactions had been unexpected enough to make her feel she had trodden on a land mine, she considered with a rueful grin. In the colonel’s case she was sure that she would get nothing but respect – and she would owe him nothing, because her meal was already included in her en pension arrangement with the hotel. She had nothing to fear. And she was proved right.

  ‘That would be very nice. It is a bit dull by oneself,’ she agreed with a smile.

  As they walked back to the hotel through the ill-lit streets, her thoughts returned to Michel. She wondered idly if, after finishing the Dubois garden, he were, despite the near darkness, working at the market garden he had mentioned to her. She now knew, having seen where he lodged, how much he must need the money.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Madame Benion passed her landlady’s sitting-room door. She could hear the hum of voices, but could not discern what was being said. She longed to enter.

  With a heavy heart, she stood for a moment and then reluctantly decided that it was better to leave the priest uninterrupted.

  She continued slowly up the staircase and entered her own room, lit by a single candle stuck in a bottle. For once the room smelled pleasantly of real coffee. Dear, kind Madame Blanc had, from her own secret store of beans, insisted on making coffee for both Anatole and his mother.

  ‘Who was it, Maman?’ whispered Anatole, as she went to sit on the edge of his bed.

  She explained the visit.

  ‘He wants Michel to pick him up at six o’clock tomorrow morning!’ She looked glumly at the invalid. ‘I doubt he will be able to do it, do you?’ Then she shrugged. ‘I didn’t know what to say. In the end I told him he would. What else could I do?’

  ‘He may be able to, Maman. Michel’s trying to do too much, that’s all. He’s exceptionally exhausted. And Father Nicolas is a great old man – he may be able to sort him out.’

  He turned his head to smile at his worried mother, and then went on, ‘After I’d talked to Father Nicolas a few times myself – you remember, when I returned home – I was relieved in my mind. I saw things clearly. He is able to divide the important from the unimportant. He gave me faith – and that helps me to endure what I have to endure – and things to rejoice about. He pointed out that I have a loving mother and brother to care for me!’ He laughed weakly. ‘He couldn’t heal my lungs, however – though he’s been a good friend to me ever since, hasn’t he?’

  His mother smiled back at him, and said more cheerfully, ‘Yes. He’s been a good friend. He has, I believe, great experience – and great faith himself.’

  ‘That’s something we all have to have, Maman. How else do we get through?’

  She took his long bony hand and held it as if she never wanted to let it go. There was a break in her voice, as she agreed with him. What else was there?

  The door was open, and they heard a murmur of voices. Footsteps went slowly down the staircase. Maman rose from her seat on the bed, and went to the door to listen. ‘Michel is seeing Father Nicolas out,’ she told Anatole.

  She stood in the doorway, to wait until Michel came slowly up the stairs. In one hand he held carefully a glass of Calvados.

  His first words were, ‘He made me take his glass and told me to drink it before I go to bed. To make me sleep.’

  He came slowly into the room, balancing the glass with care. He said cautiously, ‘The glass I had has gone to my head – it was the best I’ve tasted in years.’ He actually smiled at his mother. ‘I should have waited until after supper to drink it.’

  Maman felt a huge sense of relief. He might be a little drunk, but he sounded normal enough.

  She actually laughed. ‘Do you really feel better, my child?’

  ‘Yes, Maman.’ He gave a huge sobbing sigh. ‘I am myself,’ he assured her.

  He turned and carefully put the glass on a shelf. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her. ‘I’m so sorry, Maman – to make such a fuss. I should tell you that he warned me it could happen again. You are not to worry, though. He feels sure it will pass.’

  ‘My dear, it doesn’t matter. Simply let me know if you would like Father Nicolas to come again. I’m sure he would.’

  She forced herself to comfort him. She knew very well that he had been stretched to the limit during the occupation. The years since the invasion had, in some ways, been even worse.

  She sighed as she patted his back as if he were a little child. And then there had been Suzanne, she thought. How could such a nice girl do something so shocking?

  That she herself had been equally stressed was something she felt she must forget. The loss of hope, as the months went by, had affected her more than she had ever acknowledged to her sons. She knew, however, that she must endure, keep a cheerful face, at least while Anatole was with them. When her big lad left her, then she would rest; then she could cry.

  As she held Michel, he said, ‘I’m so hungry, Maman. You were making soup?’

  ‘Yes. I was.’ She laughed as she let go of him. ‘I’ll go down and get it. Madame Blanc said she would watch it did not burn. You sit with Anatole for a few minutes. I’ll just make sure it’s hot and then I’ll call you to bring the cauldron up for me.’

  She went purposefully downstairs to the kitchen.

  Michel gave a big sniff and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He had absent-mindedly put the priest’s handkerchief in his back pocket. He sat carefully down on the bed.

  ‘What a fool I am,’ he said to Anatole. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

  A brief smile lit Anatole’s face. ‘Don’t berate yourself. I understand,’ he said. ‘Every man has a breaking point.’ He carefully eased himself round to look at his brother more directly. ‘You know, when we talked the other night about your pretty English widow, I thought what a comfort she would be to you. What happened?’

  Michel threw up his hands in a deprecating gesture. ‘She’s another frustration. She’s the type you marry. There’s no way I can do that, situated as we are.’ He faltered, unwilling to hurt Anatole.

  Then gaining courage, he blurted out, ‘What actually triggered it off was the memory of Henri. It just hit me. Our helplessness, our stupidity in such a crisis.’

  Anatole took in a big breath that made him flinch with pain. He waited for it to ease, before he said, ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. If something could have been done, I’m sure you and Monsieur le Docteur and Maman would have done it. It was a miracle that they didn’t pick up all three of you as well. By refusing
to talk, he saved you. After all, you were all three involved in caring for fugitives.’ His voice expressed the resignation of those who know that, whatever happens, they are helpless to remedy it.

  ‘I know, Anatole. But he paid a dreadful price – for our sake. That’s what hit me. It suddenly put my own petty worries in perspective. Made me feel what a fool I was in comparison with him.’

  ‘You’d have done the same for him,’ responded Anatole with assurance. He did not mention that the news of Henri’s horrible death, broken to him when he had returned home, had been a dreadful blow to him in his already weakened state. Determined, however, to comfort his brother, he added, ‘And I don’t think your problems are petty. They are very real.’

  He rested himself, and then he enquired, ‘What did mon Père say?’

  Michel chewed his lower lip. ‘He is kind, you know that. And like you, he really understood. He took me through everything, even my thoughts about Madame Barbara.’ He stopped and sighed. ‘I understand better now how you must have felt about losing Henri. I cannot bear to lose Barbara – and, God forbid, that I ever lose her in such a terrible way. It must have been frightful for you to learn about that.’

  ‘It’s a walk through hell,’ Anatole replied flatly. And it’s ever present; only your own death, he thought, will ever relieve you of the pain.

  ‘I’m so very sorry, Anatole.’

  Anatole lay quietly. Only his laboured breath broke the silence. He knew he must not let his brother slip back into the kind of melancholy which must have preceded his sudden earlier distress; he, at least, had to go on living.

  To Michel’s surprise, he asked, ‘Did Father Nicolas make any comment about Barbara? And her being English?’

  Jolted back from his brother’s mourning, Michel replied almost mechanically, ‘He didn’t say anything about her being English. But he seemed to approve of her, a good Catholic with a small business. He is a very practical man.’ He smiled slightly at Anatole – the alcohol had lightened his spirits.

  Diverted, Anatole also lost his sorrowful look, and actually grinned, as if he were involved in some amusing secret conspiracy.

  ‘Maman?’

  ‘Exactly. If ever things go right for us, Maman can never object that Barbara is a penniless Protestant.’

  ‘That’s something, at least.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’ Michel was quiet. He was exhausted and so very hungry.

  Then he remembered the priest’s words about Henri, and he told Anatole of the old man’s proposal that there should be a memorial in their parish church or, possibly in the cathedral, or perhaps a garden to perpetuate their friend’s name and his bravery as a Resistance fighter.

  ‘I know it won’t bring him back, Anatole. But it will tell people in future that a lot of us didn’t collaborate with the Germans. Many of us defied them in our own way, as best we could.’

  Anatole was silent. A memorial for one man seemed distant and pointless to him. He had personally seen too many French die in Germany. Altogether, there had been 180,000 of them lost there, and 330,000 more, at the last count, killed during the invasion. Even now, with no one left alive to claim them, many lay under the ruins of their homes, on land still too dangerous to penetrate. It had certainly been a horrible Pyrrhic victory.

  Yet he knew that he would have given his own life to save Henri if he had had the chance. He moved his shoulders restlessly. He said, nearly choking on the words, ‘Try to arrange it, Michel. It would be something, at least.’

  He hoped suddenly that their little parish church, which his mother had told him had been badly damaged, would be repaired and be there for centuries more. Perhaps a memorial in it would whisper down those centuries the story of a personal victory amid defeat. It might inspire someone yet unborn to be as brave as his beloved Henri.

  Michel nodded. ‘I will,’ he promised.

  He rose from the bed as he heard his mother coming slowly up the stairs. The soup pot was heavy cast iron, and he ran down to meet her and take it from her.

  As she came in behind Michel, Maman recollected the American visitor, and told him about the early morning start to go to Caen airport.

  Despite his long days as a poulterer when early hours were a necessity, the very thought of having to begin work at such an unearthly hour made Michel want to yawn. He was also anxious about meeting Barbara. Having thought he knew the Americans’ schedule for the day, he had not expected to work for them in the morning and had promised to see her at eleven o’clock.

  ‘Do you think you can drive him?’ Maman asked.

  ‘Oh yes, I’ll be all right. I’m OK now, Maman,’ he lied, in the forlorn hope that he would feel less shaken in the morning. He put the soup cauldron down on a piece of slate on the floor, which they used to prevent the hot pot from searing the wooden planking, and hoped that, indeed, he would be fit in the morning.

  Maman took a loaf from the cupboard and tore it into pieces. She filled a bowl with soup for Anatole and then dropped small, soft pieces of bread into it. ‘I’ll feed him tonight,’ she said to Michel.

  ‘No, Maman. I can do it as usual.’ He took the bowl from her. ‘You eat.’

  She accepted what he said, and filled a bowl for herself. She kept the remainder in the iron pot so that it would be warm for Michel.

  Michel crushed up the bread into the vegetable soup and then slowly spooned the soft mass into his brother’s mouth. As his mother sat down on the mattress on the floor to eat her own meal, she remarked that the colonel looked most formidable, in marked contrast to his wife.

  Michel looked round, a spoonful of soup halfway to Anatole’s mouth. ‘His wife?’

  The surprise in Michel’s voice made her defensive. ‘Well, I supposed it was his wife. She was definitely not French. Her jacket was pink – tweed.’

  Michel was trembling, as he eased a spoonful of soup into Anatole. He wanted to cry out with passion, ‘No! Mon Dieu! It can’t be!’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  It was something that he had feared since the moment he had set eyes on Barbara. Three amiable, rich Americans far from home in the same hotel as a lonely pretty English widow – to a French peasant it seemed a potent mixture.

  What chance had he against such competition? His hand shook as he put the spoon to his brother’s lips. It rattled slightly, when it touched Anatole’s lower teeth, and the patient gulped when the soup flowed into his mouth too fast for him.

  Michel was recalled to what he was doing. He avoided Anatole’s questioning eyes. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and steadied himself before giving the next spoonful.

  Anatole had immediately understood the import of his mother’s remark, and he muttered, ‘Don’t worry,’ before he took in the proffered spoonful.

  Unaware of Michel’s discomfiture, his mother continued idly, ‘She seemed a pleasant young woman. Not the kind to allow herself to be picked up by a soldier.’

  Anatole gravely winked at his brother.

  The sly wink helped. Some comment had to be made so with an effort Michel replied carefully, ‘There are ladies staying at the hotel. They come from many countries to see their sons’ or their husbands’ graves. I told you that I even had a German Hausfrau one day.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied his mother placidly. ‘You did tell me. She could be one of them – and also need the taxi when next you are free.’

  ‘It may be so.’ Barbara would not be walking to the Benion home with the colonel for that reason. He said dully, ‘It looks possible that I may be in Caen all day tomorrow. The colonel must have something special coming up to be persuaded to start so early.’

  After he had finally wiped Anatole’s chin and had, thankfully, eaten his own soup and bread, he produced Barbara’s Player’s cigarettes, saying that they were a tip he had received.

  His mother did not smoke, but Anatole was delighted; even though they were not as strong as French cigarettes, they were unadulterated and tasted pleasant.

  The smoke dulled M
ichel’s continuing hunger. He shook out the remainder of the cigarettes and put eight of them on the windowsill by Anatole.

  ‘Merci,’ responded Anatole fervently. He knew that it was madness to smoke, that it might well suddenly kill him if it caused him to cough; but the relief, the relaxation of being able to smoke good cigarettes, would be such a pleasure in a pleasureless world.

  He hoped that Maman would agree to light the cigarettes for him – he was not sure that he could strike a match any more.

  Michel then handed over to Madame Benion the tip given him by the English couple that day.

  For once, she did not put it into the black stocking holding their savings tucked under Anatole’s mattress. She looked at the amount in some astonishment; the money would buy several fertile eggs once they had a broody hen and some land to put them on.

  Tush! What a hope! The boys shall have a treat, she decided.

  She announced firmly, ‘I’ll try to buy a piece of chicken for tomorrow. It’ll do us all good.’ She smiled at her smoke-wreathed sons. ‘Or, perhaps, a piece of pork.’

  Worn out, Michel nodded agreeably and announced that he would drink the priest’s glass of Calvados immediately before going to bed, and not share it. ‘Because I must sleep, Maman.’

  Anatole would have loved a sip or two, but he saw the sense of Michel’s remark, and said nothing. Maman merely nodded her head; the day had not, after all, been so bad as she had anticipated. And she, too, would enjoy a little chicken.

  Their ancient alarm clock was wound and set with care. When, at five in the morning, it went off, Michel pounced on it, in the hope that it would not wake the other two. To no purpose.

  Maman struggled up and put on her blouse, skirt and shoes. ‘You must have something before you go out,’ she insisted, and went quickly down to the kitchen to concoct a bowl of coffee made, as usual, with a substitute ground-up mixture, exact origins unknown. She also gave him a piece of dry bread, which she had kept back specially from the previous night, for him to dip into it. It was too early to get fresh from the bakery.