He turned her quickly and almost ran her towards the garden, regardless of the fact that she might be unsteady after such an obvious blow. He placed her on the only unoccupied seat and sat down close beside her.
‘Tell me,’ he ordered. ‘Here, let me take that.’ He lifted the parcel out of her hand and laid it beside him on the garden seat. Then impulsively he put his arm around her back and cuddled her to him. ‘Ma pauvre petite!’
So she told him, her voice trembling because she still felt weepy.
He understood, and his grip tightened. ‘I’ll kill him,’ he bristled in immediate outrage. ‘I’ll get him.’
She laughed. ‘No, no. He was so drunk he won’t remember anything; he won’t be sober till tomorrow. He drank the Calvados as if it were lemonade – but it didn’t have the same result!’ Though she did not believe it, she hastened to add, in order to save further bloodshed, ‘He’d no intention of really hurting me. I just fell over the coffee table. My bad luck.’
Michel did not completely comprehend, but he understood most of the tale correctly. ‘He’d no right to touch you,’ he snarled furiously. ‘He’d already had a couple of Calvados when he was with me. He should have known better. Wasn’t René there?’
‘Le serveur?’
‘Yes.’
‘Indeed, he was; he came to help when he saw the man was getting out of hand.’
‘Is that why the police were there?’
‘Yes, they arrested him. He did some damage in the hotel. It’s a very good hotel, Michel. They wouldn’t expect that kind of trouble.’
With his free hand, he turned her face towards him. ‘My love,’ he whispered in English. ‘I am in grief that you are hurt.’ He kissed her tenderly.
The quaint turn of phrase made her smile, and she kissed him back, and such a surge of passion hit her that she had trouble controlling herself.
I don’t care, she thought, as his tongue searched her mouth and she was weak with longing. I’m not going to let this man go.
With the B-and-B, we could make it together. He’d be a help. Mam and me’ve got at least a living, and he can earn something from the garden.
They clung together.
They were wakened to the fact that they were in a very public place when some children shouted to each other, and then ran past them. Their dog paused to sniff around the couple’s knees. A frustrated Michel kicked it away.
When the children had scattered on the grass lawn in front of them and began to play catch, they turned back to each other.
She smiled very sweetly at him, and asked, almost coquettishly, ‘Would you consider living in England – at least for a little while?’
He came to earth with a thud, feeling dizzy. ‘You mean with you – marry you?’ He gazed at her in amazement.
‘Sure.’ She was convinced that Michel was a very practical man, and she pushed on almost urgently, ‘Mam and I’ve got four or more acres of land, crying out to be farmed. It’s still listed as farmland and our lease must have about thirty years to go on it. I don’t know whether we could get a permit to build anything like hen coops, though.’ She paused for breath.
That she should calmly ask him to marry her, and almost in the same breath list her assets, shocked him as much as his own declaration of love had shocked her. Despite what she had told him about her being free, he still thought parents – or at least the man – should do the business negotiations. And yet it seemed that she had thought about it; she understood about land. Or was she just seeking cheap farm labour, he considered uneasily.
He leaned back from her, gazed at her shrewdly. Then he laughed at himself, and threw caution to the winds. ‘Nobody propose marry to me before – but I like it very much!’
She chuckled in sheer glee. ‘I’ve never done it before,’ she admitted. ‘Michel, you’re a sweetheart – how could I resist?’
He liked the idea of being a sweetheart, too, and kissed her again.
Reluctantly, he drew back from her. He took a big breath and warned her, ‘We must talk sensible. You know, for the present, I cannot leave Maman and Anatole. You remember about Anatole?’
‘Yes, I do,’ she said soberly, ‘and the parcel beside you is a little present of some eggs for him.’
‘Un cadeau – for Anatole?’
‘Yes. I was going to buy some flowers – and then I thought eggs might tempt him to eat – and I understand they are hard to get.’
She omitted to say that they are soon found if you are prepared to part with almost your last pound note for them.
He was touched, though he did not know how he was going to explain them to his mother.
‘Merci bien. It is very amiable of you.’ Then he sighed heavily, as doubt overwhelmed him. ‘Are you serious? Certain?’
‘Of course, I’m serious,’ she replied determinedly. ‘I know a good man when I see one.’
‘Merci.’ He grinned, and ran his free hand down her thigh.
‘Holy Mary!’ she exclaimed. ‘Don’t.’
He laughed at her discomfort. Then he sobered. ‘Chérie, there are many problems, apart from Anatole. How I stay in England? I need a permit, dead cert.’
He held her close again. Then he predicted, ‘Marry me and you are French, not English – French law is different. Hard for women. Maybe you not like it?’
She was already aware of this fact, and she tried to think about it while he surreptitiously caressed her. She took his hand and held it firmly. ‘You know, I don’t lose my British citizenship if I marry a foreigner. The French may consider me French, but I would still be English to the English.’
‘I am surprise.’
‘It’s a newish law. Sometime, I’ll tell you how it came about.’ She bit her lower lip, and then added, rather hesitantly, ‘Before we plunge in, I’ll ask a solicitor what problems there are likely to be.’
‘So … sol …?’
‘Un notaire, I think it is in French.’
‘You are not only a very lovely woman, chérie; you have much sense – I love you for it. But there will be problems – certain.’
Her discomfort over the Canadian forgotten, Barbara gave one of her wicked little chuckles. She said carefully in English, ‘Liverpool women are born with common sense, Michel; they have to be – our men are away at sea most of the time. We have to bring up our children alone – and we often have to snatch our opportunities for happiness between voyages.’
She stopped to think and to survey his troubled face, and then went on, ‘I think you should come as a visitor, first, if you can manage to. See if you would like to be there.’ She wagged a warning finger at him. ‘You may love me but not my country.’
He sighed. Faced with a definite offer, he did not know the immediate answer. And there was Anatole. He glanced at his watch.
‘It is necessary I go home, ma petite. I am very worry. Anatole does not eat. We are much afraid,’ he gestured helplessly. ‘I do not wish to leave him or Maman long unattended, you understand?’ His arm tightened round her. ‘We talk tomorrow again about your propose, yes? Meantime, we both think hard about it?’
She nodded and rose reluctantly. ‘I’ll walk a way with you.’
‘Not all the way,’ he replied immediately. ‘Maman worry if she see you that she lose her other son to a most beautiful English lady.’ He got up from the bench, and sighed again.
She did not laugh. ‘I do understand, Michel. I can wait. Except I must go home in a few days.’ She picked up her handbag and put on her gloves. ‘Don’t forget the eggs.’
He stood still, looking at her, and then he said solemnly, ‘You make me very happy. You understand that we can do nothing for a little while? We wait.’
She nodded agreement. ‘I don’t know how we’re going to fix it all, luvvie. But we will.’
‘I have to consider how to get permit to live in England, what Maman want to do, what to do about our farm. Many things.’
‘I know,’ she said, suddenly very sober.
He put his arm round her, as for a few minutes they paced a magnificent cloister walked by monks and clerics for almost a thousand years.
As they strolled, he reminded her, ‘We lose everything on the farm. All our clothing. We do not have much. Before I come, I must get a suit and other things. Present myself to your maman – look good.’
She stopped in surprise, and then laughed out loud. ‘You look all right to me. Mam and me are used to men in working clothes, who work hard – and smell as if they do.’
He looked down at himself in a puzzled way. Even Suzanne, when she went out with him, expected him to look properly dressed.
Continuing her line of thought, she said, ‘You should have seen me when I worked in the docks – in grubby overalls – and boots and a turban.’
‘You would look beautiful in anything – or nothing,’ he told her with a grin.
‘Get away with you!’ she teased.
‘First, and most important, I need permit to stay in England?’
‘You will.’
‘You enquire about it?’
‘As soon as I get home,’ she promised.
‘We write to each other, yes? I give you my address.’
‘And I’ll give you mine.’
As they traversed the busy street to the hotel gate, he said, ‘We do it tomorrow.’
It was very hard to part. They stood looking at each other hesitantly.
Michel said, ‘I expect to come about four o’clock tomorrow.’ Then, as if he had a premonition, he added uneasily, ‘It is not certain.’
‘Anatole?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I fear much.’
‘I am so sorry, my dear.’
The lines on his thin face deepened, as he said, ‘I ask a neighbour to bring a message if I cannot come.’
He glanced hastily round him. The street was momentarily quiet. He leaned forward and kissed her, touching her neck softly with his free hand.
‘I love you,’ he said simply. ‘I love you from the first time you step in the taxi. I will marry you – somehow. And I earn money for you. I promise.’
Holding the newspaper parcel in the palm of one hand, Michel turned and almost ran down the street, dodging irate pedestrians as he went. He was dazed; he had promised almost the impossible, he told himself. Nothing in his life could move while Anatole lived – and he dreaded losing him. Then, whether he worked the farm or not, sooner or later, there would have to be a settlement about it, and with so many owners, such things demanded endless negotiations. And there was Maman, who would be desolate.
Just to rehabilitate himself would take time and immense effort. And then, looming on the horizon, was the problem of getting himself to England and obtaining a permit to live and work there.
Barbara watched him out of sight. Then she went into the hotel, smiled politely at Reception, and dreamily began to climb the stairs to her room. About halfway up, she burst into silent laughter.
Now I know I’m crazy, she thought. I’ve just proposed to a man I’ve only known for a couple of days. I don’t even know his postal address either!
Chapter Thirty-two
On the morning of the third day after Anatole’s death, the slow clip-clop of the hoofs of the horse pulling the cart which carried him to the cemetery sounded to his mother, as she walked slowly behind it, like the halting beats of a tired heart. All she could feel in the depth of her grief was an incredible weariness.
She didn’t want to be here in this small hushed procession, watching the men on the pavement snatch off their headgear in respect for the dead, as the humble cortège passed by. She wanted to lie down on her mattress and sleep and, if possible, never wake up.
Instead, she turned her eyes to the back of the cart, from which fluttered the heavy black ribbons which Anne-Marie had tied on to it. She hoped that the little bunches of flowers laid around and on the coffin would not blow off. It was a very modest funeral for her elder boy – he would always be a boy to her – but she felt that the ribbons and the flowers were enough to show that he had been well loved by his family.
She clung to Michel’s arm. As so often during the German occupation, he had performed a miracle of organisation. In one day he had dealt with the local church, found a carter, a coffin of incredible cheapness, seen that the death was registered and that their doctor gave them a copy of the death certificate. He had then phoned Claudette from the local pharmacy and got her to tell Anne-Marie. He had also written to Uncle Léon in Port-en-Bessin.
Heaven only knew how much all of it must have cost, despite his desperate efforts at economy.
Then, her women friends, like Madame Bazaine and Madame Blanc, had come, with small gifts of food, to take their turn in sitting by the corpse. Those of their sons and husbands who happened to be free that day were attending the funeral, and were, with their womenfolk, walking behind her now. She realised how lucky she was to have such support; but she was so tired, so very, very tired.
The women were wearing their best black skirts, blouses, hats and jackets, very little different from their everyday dress; their sons and husbands were in their best suits, usually worn on Sundays, and each wore a black armband and a black tie. She herself was wearing a decent black jacket and hat lent her by Madame Blanc.
Behind her walked Anne-Marie and Claudette, both in unrelieved black, both sniffing into their handkerchiefs. Guy was driving his truck on a long-distance trip to Nantes and was, as yet, unaware of his brother-in-law’s decease, while Bertrand, Claudette’s husband, had to attend to their bakery in Rouen, and cope with his little daughter, Colette. Neither sister had brought her small daughter for the hasty one-day visit for the funeral, feeling that the children were too young to endure such a long day.
As Michel walked behind his brother’s coffin, he was numbed by grief; he was also beset by guilt. He and his mother had spent most of two nights sitting by the corpse; they sometimes took a nap when a woman friend came to relieve them of this duty.
He had had plenty to think about in those long cold hours.
The need to care for Anatole had knitted together the three of them to the exclusion of all other considerations except for their belief, for a long time, that they were waiting for their little plot of land to be cleared of mines and other dangerous debris. Then they could all go home, they had assured each other bravely – and perhaps Anatole would regain his health on fresh country food.
For sometime, Michel had realised that the likelihood of a return, if ever, to the poultry farm was remote; it was not practical, and he had come to a personal decision about it.
In any event, no matter how much he prayed, it had been certain that Anatole would never live long enough to enjoy a proper home again. The house was hopelessly damaged, the barns were a heap of debris, likewise the chicken coops. The only place in which they could themselves take temporary shelter would be in the cave, and, if Anatole had not died before they returned, he would surely have died in that damp shelter long before they could rebuild the house.
Recently, there had even been talk in the town of making a memorial park of the area in which their land lay. In view of Barbara’s proposal, Michel now hoped that this would be the case. It could settle a lot of acrimonious argument with his mother and sisters, his co-owners, as to what exactly they should do.
As matters stood, by the time they had paid for Anatole’s funeral, Michel would not have a centime, and neither would Maman, beyond her pension.
Father Nicolas had recently suggested that the hospital was not quite so crowded as it had been, and a bed could be found for Anatole. But Maman and Michel had been united in refusing to condemn their invalid to the indifference of an overcrowded facility with a grossly overworked staff.
Before Michel could hope for any real future, Anatole had had to die, but the dreadful dilemma was now settled. Behind his grief, however, lay the hope of his marriage to Barbara, and all the problems that such an alliance entailed, not the least of which was his French di
strust of the English as a race. There was also the almost insoluble problem of the family land holding.
Anatole had slipped quietly out of this life, as quietly and unobtrusively as he had lived it. In three days’ time Barbara would leave, and, in the meantime, Michel had arranged to meet her daily in the cathedral. As he walked behind his brother’s coffin, the thought of parting from her, almost immediately after losing Anatole, filled him with a sense of being deserted by those he loved best. Maman would be supported by daughters and grandchildren. He himself would be alone.
Although so long expected, Anatole’s demise had seemed sudden, and had hit Madame Benion and Michel as hard as if it had been unexpected.
While Michel, as usual, had taken the Americans to the cemetery, Madame Benion had sat on the end of her son’s bed, doing her mending. She occasionally glanced away from the stocking she was darning, to look at her boy, who was dozing.
She turned the stocking right side out and glanced yet again. Then she put down her work. Anatole had opened his eyes, and looked at her as if he did not see her.
What a fine face he has, she thought as she smiled at him.
The beauty of death! Some people died in such a state of composure that the face looked almost saintly. She had seen that look before, when helping other women with their sick.
Though Anatole’s eyes did slowly focus and he smiled faintly, she shot up from the end of the bed, and, panic-stricken, ran out onto the landing. Faintly from the next room came the sound of the violin of the unemployed musician who lived there. She hammered on his door.
The music stopped, and the musician, unshaven and with no shoes on, answered the door.
‘Monsieur – Monsieur – I think my son is dying,’ she whispered urgently, hoping that Anatole would not hear her. ‘Would you run for Father Nicolas at the corner church – or any priest?’
The man looked quite bewildered for a moment. Then he nodded and shuffled over to the bed and dragged his shoes out from under it.
‘Please hurry, Monsieur – hurry,’ hissed the frantic mother.
Madame Barbara Page 29