Madame Barbara

by Helen Forrester

  After years of facing uniforms with terrifying power behind them, Michel was not impressed by mere chauffeurs’ uniforms.

  It became immediately obvious from his accent that one chauffeur was a Parisian. He tried hard to present himself as extremely sophisticated. The other proved to be a local man, privately employed by the wealthy, landed aristocrat who was to be the senator’s host for the night. Michel decided that whoever had driven the blue car, which had, throughout the trip, followed the taxi in procession, must be with the bigwigs at the other table.

  The three were at first stiffly polite to each other. Realising that he was at the bottom of the social heap, Michel was particularly careful about what he said. Though miserably in the background lay the problem of Barbara, his mind was largely concentrated on the coming meal. While waiting to be served, the idea had also occurred to him that if these two could get regular jobs as uniformed chauffeurs, he might be able to do the same – once Anatole was gone. On top of his fears about Barbara, the latter thought was so painful that he could have wept; yet, some sort of plan he had to have for when the day came.

  While so burdened it was difficult to think clearly, but he did decide that, before the colonel went back to the States, he would ask him for a written reference; it might help.

  The three minions were not consulted about what they would like to order. A bottle of white wine, its cork loosened, was plonked on the table. Exquisitely arranged servings of three prawns, sitting on fronds of fresh dill and tiny sections of lemon, were placed carefully in front of each of them.

  Was that all that an expensive lunch consisted of? Three prawns for a starving man! Lunch was surely more solid than that, wasn’t it? Even for rich people who would eat well at every meal?

  What’s more, Michel did not know how he was supposed to eat prawns when in an expensive restaurant.

  Unhesitatingly, however, each of the two chauffeurs picked one up, shucked it out of its shell and popped it in his mouth. Michel promptly followed suit and did his best not to bolt it down. A beatific smile went slowly across the faces of all three. The flavour was delicious.

  Their united approval opened up the conversation. The local man confided that, when he had been a Déporté du travail in Germany, he had amused himself by dreaming of such luxuries.

  Michel promptly told them that his brother, Anatole, had been similarly taken to Germany as slave labour and that he was now dying of tuberculosis. This led to enraged discussion of the number of French lost in Germany as a result of the mass deportation.

  The Parisian elected himself host of the table, removed the loosened cork of the wine, poured half a glass for himself and a generous glass for each of the others. Then he delicately sniffed his glass and took a sip.

  Having satisfied himself as to its quality, he proposed lugubriously, ‘To our beloved dead.’ They drank.

  ‘And to the fifteen thousand who were shot for Resistance activities,’ suggested the local man. They drank.

  Michel began to feel much better. ‘This will be a good meal,’ promised the Parisian.

  It was. Tiny dish followed tiny dish. The pièce de résistance was steaks big enough, the chef had ensured, to suit les Américains followed by a cheese board to rouse the envy of any ordinary Frenchman.

  It was as well for Michel that the meal took two hours. If, on such an empty stomach, he had eaten it quickly, he might have thrown it up. And what appalling waste that would have been. He shuddered to think of it.

  At the main table, the senator could be heard demanding to be taken to where the American Airborne Troops had landed on D-Day, the first day of the Normandy invasion. One of his nephews had been killed there.

  Since they had, when going to the first cemetery, driven very close to the landing place, this caused some consternation amongst the French at the table. Such a visit had not been included in the hasty arrangements made from London. A sharp New York voice suggested smoothly that perhaps it could be arranged for tomorrow – it was rather a long trip to do this afternoon and still be back to address the City Council of Caen in the early evening. The Parisian cursed under his breath. ‘I’m supposed to get my man back to Paris this evening,’ he muttered.

  The employer of the second chauffeur was heard to say in stilted English that his car and chauffeur were at the service of Monsieur if he wanted to make such a visit tomorrow morning.

  ‘Zut!’ muttered the affected chauffeur.

  Michel sighed. He wondered if he too would have to drive up to Omaha Beach. He had warned his mother that he might be late because he had hoped somehow to see Barbara if they returned to the hotel at a reasonable hour. He would be really late if they had to go to Omaha Beach. He had, also, rather counted on having a more normal schedule the following day, so that his mother could, for a few hours, be relieved of nursing Anatole. If he failed to get hold of Barbara today and if the next day’s schedule was to be upset, he must consider how to find another time and place in which to talk to her – if he could think how to broach the subject of the colonel without exploding with grief.

  He wanted desperately to know exactly what had happened the previous evening. Soothed by a good meal and wine, and aware that the colonel would soon leave France, he found it difficult to believe that the amiable man had seduced her. But she could have changed her mind about himself – she could have done so for many reasons. An American would be a far better catch.

  Michel admitted to himself with a grin that a full stomach and excellent wine had calmed him like nothing else could have done; his mind had begun to work in its usual careful way. In any case, common sense suggested that he had little to lose by asking her how she came to be dining with a distinctly plain, quite elderly man. But, despite any rationalisation he could think of, deep inside him sheer primitive jealousy gnawed remorselessly.

  There was a shifting of chairs, while the argument continued against going so far as Omaha Beach. The drivers drained a second bottle of wine which had arrived during the meal, and hastily rose. They bade each other a friendly farewell and rolled a little unsteadily out to their vehicles.

  There was still a small crowd outside, made up largely of women and white-haired men. They were interspersed with a few older youths jostling each other and making rude jokes; the jokes were being received by the other bystanders with silent, prissy disapproval. All the onlookers were being kept back in a good-natured way by the pair of gendarmes.

  As the main party emerged, the senator was tightly sheltered by his security guards; the gendarmes relaxed, as he was safely packed into the back of his car.

  Michel opened the taxi door, in preparation for the arrival of his two officers. They were the last to be seen out by the maître d’hôtel, and had paused to say something to him. Michel had his back to the main party. He idly smiled at a pretty girl in the front of the crowd. At her left stood three youths on the edge of the pavement.

  The bored gendarmes turned to look at the uniformed colonel and his senior officer from the War Graves Commission, who, chatting to each other, began leisurely to move towards the taxi.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Michel saw one of the youths swing his arm up.

  Instantly, Michel hurled himself at him, half-twisting on his left foot, as he moved. With all his own weight behind it, he landed a deadly back heel blow at the youth’s crotch.

  The youth screamed, stumbled and fell backwards to the pavement. He dropped the piece of concrete which he had been about to throw at the colonel, and clutched his outraged private parts.

  Unable to recover his balance, Michel staggered, tripped, and collapsed on top of him.

  The other youths knocked aside the shrieking women and fled.

  The gendarmes whirled round. The little crowd was scattering in all directions.

  Pushed against the window of the restaurant, the pretty girl also shrieked with fright. Then, realising exactly what Michel had done, she yelled, ‘Bravo! So brave!’

  The struggling youth,
held down by Michel, tried to bite him. Michel slapped his face hard, rolled off him and on to his feet.

  The maître d’hôtel quickly shut the door of his restaurant and locked it. The two limousines took off like moon rockets.

  The uniformed undertakers stood paralysed. Both had seen the reason for Michel’s split-second move, and they were both very shaken at the unprovoked attack.

  All thoughts of security had been concentrated on the wretched senator; they had not given a second’s thought to their own safety.

  As the startled gendarmes stared uncertainly at the cringing youth and at Michel rolling neatly to his feet, the youth tried to crawl away.

  The colonel gathered his wits. Outraged, he pointed at the young man on the ground. ‘Arrest him!’ he ordered one of the gendarmes.

  The gendarme looked nervously at him, as if he had not understood the English order. He turned to his fellow officer.

  Michel raised one foot, as if he were about to kick the youth in the face. The lad lay still.

  The colonel and War Graves joined the police conference, while Michel continued to guard the offender.

  Finally, and, it seemed to Michel, reluctantly, the youth was manacled and made to limp round to the local police station, while the taxi carrying the two Americans was slowly driven behind them.

  War Graves immediately demanded a telephone in order to call the American base. Again, this was reluctantly granted by the officer on duty; the Americans were not popular and, further, the police did not want it reported that they had failed in their duties. The Americans were, however, adamant. An incident involving the visit of an American senator had to be taken seriously.

  Nobody had said a word to Michel, except to order him to follow the gendarmes to the police station. He was privately delighted to find that his daily savate practice had kept his skill intact.

  I should have been able to maintain my balance, though, he upbraided himself. He forgot that a half-starved man can only do so much, and that he had probably drunk too deeply.

  He was scared, however, when, at the police station, it was suggested that he had attacked a young man who had done nothing.

  The colonel was immediately furious. The youth had threatened him with a piece of concrete. Did a man have to wait to be hit before the confounded, inefficient gendarmerie took action? All this in almost incoherent French.

  French pride was hurt to the quick. The phone call was made. A Jeep arrived from the base. Three privates and a young officer, anxious to show off his legal knowledge, tumbled out.

  The array of hated American uniforms was overwhelming. A charge of threatening behaviour was agreed upon.

  By the end of the afternoon, an exhausted colonel, his two assistants, who had had a most restful afternoon doing nothing at the base, and a smug Michel, were on their way back to Bayeux, having delivered War Graves back to the comfort of his base office.

  Neither the colonel nor Michel had any idea what had happened to the senator – and certainly in his present mood the colonel did not care very much. A senator who wanted to visit a foreign country, without giving time for proper arrangements to be made, could expect problems.

  At the hotel, he thanked Michel heartily. ‘If you hadn’t spotted the man, I could have had my face smashed in.’ He paused, and then grinned. ‘And the lunch was great.’

  ‘Monsieur is most welcome,’ Michel responded warmly. With a full stomach and over half a bottle of wine in him, he felt he could take on the world.

  The colonel hesitated before turning to enter the hotel. ‘Why did the kid pick on me?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘The uniform, je crois, Monsieur. Only two uniforms in the party, and you are closer to him. A good target. He throw straight.’

  ‘Is the American uniform so much disliked?’

  ‘Not like?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Michel considered this before replying; he did not want to offend his employer. ‘French in Caen lose much,’ he explained finally. ‘Lives, homes, work. You see how terrible is the city at present. Invasion make much damage, more than Germans. British take the city, while General Patton get to Paris. Now local people hate all uniform. Also, unfortunately, Americans are rich. Buy much food in expensive restaurant.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe young man is hungry.’ He smiled wryly and lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.

  The colonel solemnly nodded his understanding.

  Good old Michel. Colonel Buck felt that his gratitude to his driver had not been sufficiently expressed. Apart from the uncomfortable episode outside the restaurant, the man had been a godsend during the undertakers’ work in Calvados because he knew the countryside so intimately. In addition, the colonel and his colleagues had never worried that he would rifle their jacket pockets or open their briefcases when left in the cab. Soon all three of them would be back in civvy street in a country largely untouched by war or shortages; and would probably never see him subsequently.

  He said, ‘What about garaging the taxi and then coming back here for a drink?’

  Michel expressed himself delighted. ‘Five minutes, Monsieur le Colonel,’ he replied grandly.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  While heart-sick Michel had brooded dejectedly about Barbara as he drove to meet the senator, Barbara had not forgotten about Michel. How could she forget a man who had upset all her preconceived notions of what her future might be like?

  She had received his message that he could not meet her at eleven o’clock, so she decided that, during the evening, she would stay within the hotel, so that he could communicate with her again, as he had promised. Meanwhile, she would explore Bayeux further.

  On her way out, she paused to pass the time of day with Reservations, who, since the hotel was still trying to find a clientele again, was not particularly busy. In order to get some inkling of when Michel might return to the hotel, she asked if he knew whether the taxi would be busy for the entire day.

  Reservations solemnly stated that he believed the Americans were gone for the day. There was, however, he said, already a gentleman in the hotel who wished to be taken to a Canadian grave as soon as Michel could do it, the first Canadian to come, he believed, and that Michel had already said that he would be busy for the Americans until tomorrow.

  Satisfied, Barbara pulled on her black hand-knitted gloves, and, contentedly swinging her embroidered handbag, went for a long walk through the narrow, winding streets of the city.

  There was, as usual, very little wheeled traffic, except for cyclists, a few horse-drawn drays and delivery vans; very occasionally, a car or a small van would slide past. Unlike in devastated Caen, pedestrians crowded the pavements, frequently spilling on to the street itself, which tended to disconcert the few drivers.

  The crowd was neatly, though shabbily, dressed. Barbara noticed, with envy, that many women wearing only black, sometimes with a white blouse, had a simple elegance missing from British women. She became more aware of her own long, self-confident stride, so typically English, and of her pink clothes.

  As in the Wirral peninsula, there were few young men around, and Barbara wondered if the male population was at work, or had been so seriously culled by the war that there were few of them.

  Although she knew that the French Government was trying to encourage a higher birth rate, there were, compared with the baby boom only too apparent in Britain, not many toddlers either. The few that she saw clutched the hands of adults as they were dragged along the narrow pavements; they seemed to have to dodge swinging handbags or shopping baskets as best they could.

  Though gaunt of face, few pedestrians looked as emaciated as Michel. But, like Britons, their faces and the way they moved suggested that they were uniformly tired and dispirited.

  The black-and-white-timbered shops and houses were interspersed with even older medieval stone walls, broken by dark lancet windows and doorways. They had low doorsteps hollowed by generations of shuffling feet. As in England, there was a general lack of fresh pai
nt. Over all, a grey sky threatened rain.

  The city reminded her of Chester. Like Chester, it had not received much damage, but it had obviously become shabby from neglect while its inhabitants had dealt with more urgent matters of life – and death. And also like Chester, this city had Roman origins, she recollected. Only French signs and French chatter told her that she was in a foreign country. Again, she was impressed by the sense of a shared history.

  She stopped occasionally, to peer into the windows of small shops. They rarely had much in them, but it was attractively displayed. In dress and jewellery shops no prices were exhibited. Barbara decided, with a quiet laugh, that this was probably a high-class part of town; as Liverpudlians said, if you had to ask the price of a garment, you knew it was too expensive.

  She did not want to purchase anything beyond a small gift to take back to her mother; the limitations of the British laws regulating the taking of cash out of the country meant that she had to be careful of the money she spent. She had prepaid her hotel bill, including all meals, direct from England; some complicated method of international book-keeping, she had assumed, known only to travel agents; and she hoped her payment would cover the packed lunch she had shared with Michel.

  She decided that she would ask Michel’s advice about an inexpensive gift for her mother.

  She found herself in a part of town where the streets were even narrower. They led her into a small square where lettuce, tomatoes and other spring vegetables were being offered for sale from barrows. Here, women in shawls and black skirts and blouses, hair screwed up in buns on top of their heads, pinched tomatoes with worn hands and then haggled over a few sprigs of bright green parsley.

  A fishmonger stood outside his little shop, fresh fish displayed in a window open to the street. He seemed to have an adequate stock, and Barbara remembered Michel saying that Bayeux was not far from Port-en-Bessin, a fishing port from which lost airmen and Jewish refugees were sometimes smuggled out of France during the war. Judging by the amount of fish displayed, some of the fishing fleet must have survived the havoc wrought by the invasion.