Madame Barbara

by Helen Forrester

  Michel glanced at his watch, and decided that, for once, he would chance being late. This man needed to ease his misery. ‘We can stop at a little bistro in the next village, if Monsieur wishes,’ he said.

  ‘I’d like that.’

  So Michel took him into a tiny place, which had been, until the invasion, the front room of a private house, and after checking with him, ordered a Calvados. He regretfully refused one for himself on the grounds that he had to do the driving.

  ‘Get me another,’ ordered the visitor.

  ‘You realise it is very strong, Monsieur?’

  After downing a second glass, Cardinal obviously felt better. He leaned back in the taxi, closed his eyes and never said a word until they arrived in Bayeux. With a practised eye, Michel occasionally glanced at him through his rear-view mirror; even this bear of a man was mourning, no doubt about it. A nap would probably do him good.

  At the hotel, Cardinal laboriously counted out the fare in French francs, and gave a tip that seemed small compared with some of the British and American ones Michel had received.

  Chapter Thirty

  Michel sat for a minute or two outside the hotel gate. Though the trip with Monsieur Cardinal had taken him longer than expected and he had not much time, he contemplated going home to see how Anatole was. He decided, however, that it would not be safe to park the taxi in front of his home while he ran up the stairs. Further, he doubted if he had the skill to turn it in such a narrow space, in order to get out of the alley – and to back it out would be equally hazardous.

  Wiser to go to collect the morticians, he decided. Since their work was coming to an end, they might be glad to see him a fraction early.

  Barbara was sitting peacefully in a corner of the hotel lounge window. It was very quiet; all the other visitors appeared to have gone out. She enjoyed looking at Gaston’s efforts in the garden. Today, he was pegging a trailing plant up the twelve-foot garden wall, using a mallet to hammer in, with rapid taps, the hooks to hold it; she therefore had not heard the taxi arrive in the street outside, nor did she notice, rather later, a murmur of voices as the Americans went through the foyer.

  She had received Michel’s note, and had, to pass the time, brought some knitting downstairs with her. She was concentrating hard on a design of chains up the back of a cardigan intended for her mother. She had found the wool offered without clothing coupons in the market at Birkenhead; she had asked no questions and had thankfully bought it at a price much higher than if she had tendered coupons; her mam, she had determined, was going to get a decent birthday present.

  A huge, ungainly man plonked himself into a basket chair near to her; it creaked threateningly.

  The sunbeams pouring through the window lit up her bronze-coloured hair and her pleasant face. She glanced up at him and recognised the Canadian she had seen once or twice before in the hotel.

  She smiled shyly, and then returned to counting her stitches carefully.

  The new arrival shouted across the room to the barman in English, ‘Hey, you, bring me a large Calvados.’

  The barman caught the word Calvados and turned to fill the order.

  The Canadian twisted himself back to examine Barbara in more detail.

  Not bad.

  He enquired fairly politely if she would like a glass of Calvados.

  ‘Oh no, thank you,’ she replied, with a little laugh. ‘It would be too strong for me.’

  He was surprised to receive a reply in English. ‘You from England?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she replied, and picked up her third needle in order to turn a chain.

  His drink came, he gave his room number and initialled the bill.

  He picked up the drink and sniffed at it suspiciously to make sure that it was the same drink that he had had while with Michel. Satisfied that it was, he tossed about a third of it down in one swallow.

  Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Barbara expected a sudden splutter. But he swallowed it as if it had been lemonade.

  ‘Watcha doing in Bayeux?’ he asked.

  Caught off guard, Barbara dropped her knitting in her lap. Her lips trembled, as she replied, ‘I came to visit my husband’s grave.’

  The man took another gulp of Calvados.

  ‘I’ve been to see my boy’s. Sold the hunting lodge a month back, and didn’t know what to do. So before I settle down again, I came to take a look at this place.’

  Barbara looked at him gravely. ‘Me mam says you must see where a person is buried – to convince you that – that – a person is really dead. Otherwise, you might look for them for the rest of your life. This last week, I’ve begun to think she’s right. She should know. Me dad was lost at sea.’

  ‘Too bad.’ The bear drained his glass and called for another. Then he leaned forward as if to impart a confidence.

  He said, a little laboriously, because his thoughts seemed to be becoming muddled, ‘You know, when I saw that cross over Gary, I was so lonely; I couldn’t believe how lonely I was. The cab driver, he knew it, you know; and he told me not to give up. The future’s still waiting for you, he said.’ The man paused in an effort to clear his muddled thoughts. Then he remarked, ‘He’s a real oddball.’ His last words were slurred.

  He looked her over lasciviously, and went on, ‘Mebbe you’re my future waiting for me.’

  His fresh glass of Calvados arrived. He drank it in one straight draught as if he were a Russian drinking vodka.

  Barbara decided to retreat. She rolled up her knitting and said quickly, ‘I must go.’

  He caught her arm as she edged out round a coffee table. He said, ‘You don’t need to go. Stay’n be company.’

  She pulled away, and dropped her knitting. He laughed, and held on to her.

  She glanced hopefully at the barman. The barman had discreetly pressed a button that he had not had to use since the Germans left. It rang a warning at the desk of the concierge.

  ‘Let me go,’ snarled Barbara angrily; she’d seen this type before in Lime Street.

  His gorilla-like grip tightened as he sprawled in his chair. She pulled hard, and carefully ground her high heel into his instep.

  His boot protected him from the worst, but the jab through the tongue of the boot was still painful. ‘Getting nasty, eh?’ Still holding her, he rose unsteadily to his feet.

  Scared, she pulled again as hard as she could, and he immediately let her go. Released, she stumbled and fell headlong over another small table, hitting her head on a wooden chair arm.

  He had played an old trick on her, and he roared with laughter.

  The barman urgently pressed his button again, and then came quickly round the bar to help her. Wakened from his afternoon snooze in his chair behind his high desk, the concierge, a heavy-set man, ran in, followed closely by tall, thin Reservations.

  Barbara scrambled out of the way, and got to her feet.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked the concierge. Then, viewing with shock the trickle of blood on Barbara’s face, he asked in alarm, ‘Madame? Are you all right?’

  Swaying on his feet, the Canadian gazed round at the sudden muster of men. He was at least a head taller than any of them, and was used to bar-room brawls.

  ‘Nothing’s up,’ he announced ponderously. ‘Silly bitch tripped up.’

  He underestimated the experience of the men facing him. The barman winked at his friends and bent to move the coffee table. The concierge stepped smartly behind the Canadian, and the man suddenly found himself in a hammerlock applied with the full force of a heavy man, and a right arm round his throat that threatened to throttle him.

  Nevertheless, he ruined a couple of tables, sending ashtrays, a planter and numerous magazines flying, as they fought to get him out.

  The noise brought the maître d’hôtel from the dining room, who snatched up the phone on the reservations desk and called the police.

  The Canadian managed to shift himself sufficiently to bite the concierge’s arm. Outraged, the conci
erge tightened his hold. The man collapsed suddenly from pressure on his windpipe, and the concierge let him drop to the floor.

  Help seemed to be arriving from all sides, so Barbara picked up her knitting and fled to her room.

  Sorely shaken, she went to the sink, and peered at her face. She had a small cut above her right eye, and a big purple bump was rapidly materialising around it.

  She hastily wrung out her face flannel under the cold tap and applied it. Then, still holding the pad to her eye, she flopped down on the end of the bed, and began to cry, the helpless crying of someone defeated.

  She cried because her hard-won peace had been shattered. Rested, diverted by her taxi driver, the change from home had done her a lot of good. She had begun to think more sensibly – and on her dressing table, wrapped in newspaper, lay six eggs, the result of a walk to the market that morning, a present for a sick man whom she did not know.

  Sitting in the window after lunch, with time to knit while she waited for Michel, she had been quietly content.

  Now, she felt weak and vulnerable, and wished George had been there to give the oaf a black eye.

  Though an experienced businesswoman in her own country, it had taken considerable courage to organise this visit to France, her first trip abroad, and she felt she had done very well in managing alone. Now, the unexpectedness of the attack had shaken her confidence and she was not so sure.

  She was still sniffing miserably while sitting on the end of her bed, trying with shaky fingers to get her knitting back onto its pins without dropping any more stitches, when there was a polite knock at her door.

  She put down the knitting and rose. The knock came again, so she opened the door and peeped out.

  There stood the dignified, English-speaking manager of the hotel, and behind him a housekeeper with a tray with a cup of coffee on it.

  ‘Dear Madame, I hear you have an injury from a drunkard in the lounge. Indeed, I see that it is so. My sincere regrets, Madame. Thérèse, here, has brought some coffee and will help you. Would Madame like to see a doctor?’

  The concern made Barbara want to weep again. She assured the anxious manager that the damage was not serious, and she would love the cup of coffee.

  ‘When you have had time to collect yourself, Madame, the gendarmes in my office would like to ask you how it happened.’

  He stepped back to allow Thérèse into the bedroom; she put the cup on the bedside table, and stood waiting for orders.

  All the fear of police learned in the slum from which she originally came surfaced in poor Barbara. She muttered, ‘Jesus Mary!’ Then she added hastily to the manager, ‘Thanks for the coffee. I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.’ She also thanked the maid, and said she could manage.

  Management and maid retreated.

  She thankfully gulped down the coffee, and then hastily rinsed her eyes, reapplied lipstick and powder, and replaced a couple of kirby grips in the curls piled on top of her head.

  Feeling nervous of foreign police, even if they were, presumably, on her side, she went downstairs to the manager’s office.

  There was no sign of the Canadian; he had been removed to a police van outside the gate.

  There were two policemen who both rose as she entered, and they noted immediately the cut and bruise over her eye, which was rapidly becoming black; no amount of face powder would disguise it.

  They asked her what happened, and she explained. The manager translated.

  ‘Madame does not know this man?’

  ‘No, I saw him in the hotel restaurant last night, that’s all. Today, I think he became very drunk quite quickly. He drank two big glasses of Calvados as if it were lemonade.’

  ‘Surely not?’

  There was a rapid explanation from the manager.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Barbara enquired of the manager; the flow of language had been bewildering.

  ‘I said that I had had Polish troops in here who could do that easily. If we had vodka, they would drink it steadily until they fell to the floor.’

  ‘Does Madame wish to lay a charge?’ enquired one gendarme. ‘Perhaps Madame should consult a doctor to confirm that her injury has not seriously affected her eye?’

  The hotel manager kindly translated for Barbara.

  Barbara hesitated. She had no wish to face a court case; goodness only knew how long that would take.

  She smiled sweetly at the elder gendarme, and said that she did not. The man had just come from seeing his son’s grave; it was understandable that he would need a drink, and she did not think he had realised how potent good Calvados was.

  She turned to face the manager. ‘I think my eye’s OK, except I won’t look too good for a day or so.’

  Rapid-fire conversation ensued between the manager and the police. She did not understand a word of it, so she said, ‘Excuse me, may I go now?’

  All the men rose and she thankfully went upstairs.

  Someone, presumably Thérèse, had put a bowl of ice cubes on the dressing table, and a small towel.

  She never saw the man again. She hoped he had not been charged for brawling, that he had paid the hotel, and that he had found his future waiting for him somewhere far distant from either France or Britain.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Michel brought the morticians safely back to the hotel early, and there was still an hour before he was to meet Barbara. He garaged the taxi, and walked home as quickly as he could.

  He was relieved to see Anatole lying quietly in his bed, his eyes open. Maman was napping on her mattress. She sat up quickly, and asked in a sleepy voice, ‘You are home so early?’

  He lied that he had still to report to Monsieur Duval, which he did about once a week, mostly to say how well the taxi was standing up to steady use, and, sometimes, to get a minor repair.

  ‘I came to see how you both were,’ he said brightly, relief obvious in his voice.

  ‘We’ve had a quiet day, haven’t we, Anatole?’ Maman said.

  Anatole smiled faintly.

  ‘He doesn’t feel like eating,’ Maman remarked, as she recoiled the bun on the top of her head. Then she added pointedly to Michel, ‘He drank some water – and swallowed his pills, like a good lad.’

  So it’s not quite yet, Michel considered with relief.

  Though in his saner moments he would have said that he no longer believed in God, as he drove he prayed frequently to the medallion of St Christopher which hung from the rear-view mirror in the taxi. He begged that, despite the blatant evidence of his steady decline, Anatole would recover.

  Now he went over to his brother, took his hand and held it gently, as he sat down beside him very carefully so as not to shake the bed.

  Anatole did not say anything, but Michel felt the small pressure of a squeeze on his hand. He heaved a sigh. ‘I must go back. I have also to find the colonel again. He left his cap in the taxi.’

  He refused his mother’s offer of a hot drink. ‘Back about half-past seven, Maman.’ He got up, and bent over Anatole, to kiss both cheeks. Then he turned to his mother, who was struggling to get up off the palliasse. ‘Want a hand, Maman?’ he asked mischievously; she hated to acknowledge that she was getting a little stiff.

  ‘Merci. Non. I’m not that old yet.’

  There was a faint gurgle of amusement from Anatole: nothing could have done more to cheer up Michel.

  ‘She’s with the manager?’ exclaimed Michel, a little surprised. ‘Is something wrong? I’m supposed to pick her up now.’

  Reservations shrugged, and then grinned. ‘Ask Monsieur le Patron.’

  ‘Is Colonel Buck in?’

  ‘Non. He went across the road to get a haircut. Incidentally, he’s lost his cap.’ Reservations’ usually immobile face cracked into a small grin, as he added, ‘He looked undressed without it.’

  ‘He left it in the taxi. I’ll walk across and give it to him. Then I’ll come back here for Madame Bishop.’

  Colonel Buck looked quite quaint
draped in a barber’s towel. He was, however, grateful for the return of his cap.

  Michel spent a few minutes in courteous nothings with the colonel and the loquacious barber, and then strolled back to the hotel.

  ‘Madame has just gone up to her room,’ Reservations announced. ‘I told her that you had come. She’ll be down in a few minutes.’

  Michel nodded, and was about to cross over to the concierge’s little office, to pass the time of day with him, when the door of the manager’s office opened and le patron ushered out two police officers. He had noticed a police vehicle parked to the side of the garden gate, as he came in. Another petty theft, he had supposed.

  The concierge was not at his post, neither was his underling, who helped with luggage; he was in the kitchen, having a small wound in his arm bound up by a solicitous and excited chambermaid. Cardinal had succeeded in making a small nick sufficient to cause a trickle of blood. The tough keeper of the gate, adviser to guests and general factotum was rather enjoying being a hero in the kitchen.

  When Barbara, still feeling rather shaky, descended the stairs, therefore, Michel was completely unprepared for a lady with a well-powdered, but extremely obvious black eye. Apart from her handbag and gloves, she had a small newspaper parcel in one hand.

  Just in time, he remembered ever-nosy Reservations, and he did not cry out. His face was expressionless, as he asked gravely, ‘Madame is ready?’

  Madame nodded assent as she steadied her parcel against her chest. Michel opened the front door and she swept through it.

  Outside the courtyard gate, all thought of her dinners with the Americans went out of his head. He turned to her, shocked, ‘Chérie, what happened?’ He lifted his right hand and tenderly stroked her cheek below the bruise. ‘Tell me. Shall I take you to a doctor? I know a good one.’

  She smiled, and replied, ‘No, no, it’s not that serious. Let’s go and sit in the cathedral garden, and I’ll tell you.’

  He was profoundly upset. He thought of the clock ticking mercilessly towards 7.30, but did not care. His darling little English lady so hurt!