Madame Barbara

by Helen Forrester

  Like her Liverpool Irish forebears, she was generous to a fault, and it did not occur to her that he might feel ashamed at being dependent, even temporarily, upon her and Phyllis, that he had taken more insults from her fellow countrymen than he could stomach, and that he bitterly regretted that he had ever set out for England.

  Unaware that her minefield might well explode any minute in an unexpected way, she smiled, went over to the bed and gently kissed him awake.

  Chapter Forty-two

  His fatigue was still so great that, upon being awakened, Michel could not for a moment remember where he was or recognise the smiling face bent over him.

  He gulped, as the white ceiling swam above him and a cheerful voice urged him, ‘Wakey, wakey! It’s teatime.’

  Mon Dieu! Madame Barbara! He came to earth with a jolt and struggled to sit up. Flustered, he allowed himself to be given a hug, and to be urged, ‘Hurry up, sweetheart. Mam’s waiting on us.’

  She stepped back to allow him to swing his feet to the floor.

  ‘Oh, yes. I regret … I am not washed or changed.’ He dithered as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ve fed the visitors. We’ll be eating, comfortable like, in the kitchen. Work clothes’ll be OK.’

  ‘I wash my face.’ He pointed to the little sink, as he pushed his feet into his shoes. ‘I come – two minutes?’

  She gazed down at him, plain adoration in her eyes. Then she bent to kiss the top of his head.

  ‘Aye, it’s lovely to have you here,’ she sighed. Then she agreed, ‘I’ll go down and tell Mam.’

  Before he could answer, she had whisked away through the door, and he heard her swift feet running down the stairs.

  Numbly, he splashed his face, and again combed his untidy thinning hair. As his mind began to work again, he controlled a desire to fling himself back onto the bed and scream at an unfair world. What in the name of God was he doing?

  He bared his stained teeth in the mirror, and then rinsed his mouth and spat into the sink. He looked old and haggard, and knew that for his own self-respect, he must, before facing Bill Spellersby, get a haircut, make himself neat.

  He bent down to do up his shoes. As he pulled at the laces, he tried to think sensibly how to deal with these two nice women awaiting him below without hurting either of them.

  He gave a final, hard tug at the laces, and then ordered himself, as if preparing for some great campaign, ‘Eat, you fool. You’re hungry – and your mind won’t work.’

  As he tucked his shirt into his trousers, he reminded himself of Napoleon’s famous saying that an army marched on its stomach. Teeth clenched, he walked firmly down the corridor to the lavatory. Then, before descending the stairs, he stood holding the banister at the top, while the carpeted flight seemed to waver before him. When it again looked straight, he walked slowly down it. He was so hungry that his legs would barely carry him.

  In the hall, a happy clatter of dishes and the smell of fried food greeted him. His mouth filled with saliva.

  At the back of the hall was a built-in desk. On it lay a telephone and a large open account book. Behind it was the kitchen door.

  As he opened it, he was not only filled with apprehension but also with a natural shyness at entering a world which was strange to him.

  Phyllis was standing at the gas stove and had her back to him. As she quickly slid some sausages out of a frying pan and onto a plate, she turned her head to greet him She then added to the plate fried tomatoes served on toast. The toast was so that they would go further, she would have explained, if asked.

  She chuckled when she saw him. ‘Barbie says you was so asleep, she didn’t think you recognised her,’ she teased him.

  He laughed uncertainly. ‘I sleep much,’ he replied cautiously.

  ‘Aye, you come a long way, lad. You must be beat.’

  Though he had not heard the idiom before, its meaning was fairly clear, so he smiled politely in agreement. On a counter near the sink was a big pile of dishes, more dishes, he thought, than Maman had ever owned in her life. He presumed that they were waiting to be washed up.

  Barbara, already seated at the table, smiled up at him, and told him where to sit.

  He made himself eat the unusual meal slowly. It tasted much better than he had hoped, though apples and custard, he decided, were not his favourite dessert. There was plenty of bread, however, some butter, and homemade jam, and, finally, another slice of the big cake he had earlier sampled – it seemed more digestible cold than it had done when hot. The tea, hot and weak, at least made a drink, though he longed for a decent cup of coffee.

  As he sat back, while Phyllis poured her third cup of tea and Barbara ate her piece of cake, he felt better, less agitated, more in command of himself. He answered their questions about his journey, praised the vicar and his wife who had given him a meal, made them laugh about the tramp he had picked up, and then he dried up. He did not know how to express, without giving offence, his inward storm of rage at many of his other encounters.

  It was Phyllis who sensed his reticence; dreaming of the possibilities of the night to come, Barbara was a helpless bundle of pure desire.

  I should give them time to themselves, she decided, give them something to do. He’s a nice lad, nice manners. He’ll open up a bit in time, no doubt.

  And, though Barbie is a sweetie, I always did want a boy, too, around the house. I was so looking forward to George coming.

  She contemplated her empty plate and hoped that, with this thin, handsome stranger, they could come to some sort of arrangement whereby he fitted into the business. He looked at present as if he didn’t have a cent to bless himself with. She gave a tiny sigh. We’ve got a lot of honest talking to do with each other, she considered. And we’ve got to do it – because it’s our Barbie’s happiness what is at stake. She’s so set on him – I’ve never known anything like it.

  As she gazed at the weary face of her guest, she counselled herself. Be careful, Phyllis, me girl; this lad may not have much, but you can see easy enough that he’s the proud type. Always got to watch where you tread with men like that. Phyllis dealt with men at her reservations counter almost every day of her life; and she often said to her friend Ada that she knew a good man when she saw one – and this lad looked likely, very likely, she had to agree with Barbie on that.

  She said with determined cheerfulness, as she pushed back her chair and got up, ‘Now, the system is that I take time off in the evening, and Barbie takes over. I’m goin’ to put me feet up in a deck chair out in the garden, while the sun’s still shining, and read for a bit – a lovely Ethel M. Dell, I’ve got.’

  Michel nodded courteously, wondering what an Ethel M. Dell was, and what was to come.

  Barbara woke up to reality, and hastened to say, ‘You see, Mam gets up early,’ she explained, ‘and she makes the breakfasts and sees people out. It’s my job to wash the evening dishes, tidy the kitchen, carpet-sweep the dining room and lay the tables for breakfast.’ She rose from the table. ‘And, in the evening, I look after the front desk in the hall there, and book anybody in who comes. And I do the book-keeping.’

  ‘Please do what you usually do.’ He wondered if she expected him to help her. How could you tell a girl washing dishes that, however much you love her, you can’t stand her country and you want to go back to France where at least people are civil; after such a statement she might throw every dish within reach at him, he considered grimly.

  Unaware of her beloved’s predicament, Barbara answered him.

  ‘Well, it all has to be done,’ she said philosophically, ‘Though I’m sure Mam would listen for the front doorbell tonight, if you’d like to come for a walk along the beach afterwards. The tide’ll be going out, but it’s pretty nice.’

  Her mam smiled, ‘’Course, I will, luv. It’d give you and Michel time to talk to each other.’

  And I hope they take the hint, she thought, glancing at her guest’s tight, set expression. The
re’s somethin’ wrong here. Seems to me they need a bit of walkin’ in the moonlight to set the scene.

  When Phyllis got up to fetch her book and retire to her deck chair, Michel rose from his chair – and Phyllis gave him full marks for the small polite gesture. She stopped, as she was about to pass him, and laid her hand on his arm. She glanced up at him, and said, ‘I’m real glad you arrived safe. We was both so worried about you.’

  She saw the sensitive mouth soften and quiver, before he said, ‘You are most kind, Madame.’

  She smiled, and punched him gently in the ribs. ‘You don’t have to be that formal, luv. After all, I’m goin’ to be your mam, too, aren’t I, come next week?’

  He was paralysed for a moment, his eyes full of sudden fear. She saw it.

  ‘Don’t be nervous, lad. Everything’ll be all right.’

  Nearly ready to choke, he managed, ‘Thank you – Mama.’

  ‘That’s better. Now you give our Barbie a hand with the dishes, and there’ll be lots of time for a nice walk.’ Though not prone to putting her guests to work, Phyllis had decided that the more the young people were thrown together the more they would talk and that would be good for them. Dishwashing was a nice ordinary job tending to engender friendly conversation.

  He nodded assent to her suggestion, and managed a faint smile. He began to collect the chinaware on the table and pile it together.

  Barbara had watched the exchange with relief. Mam was obviously making up her mind affirmatively, and showing Michel that, no matter what, the work of the B-and-B must come first. She smiled at both of them, and took a pile of plates off Michel. ‘We’d better tackle the lot on the draining board first,’ she told him. ‘I’ll wash and you can dry.’

  Relieved, Phyllis drifted away to find Ethel M. Dell, while Barbara learned that Michel was quite experienced at dishwashing. He had, he reminded her, worked in the kitchen of a hotel in Bayeux.

  ‘We’re awfully short of china,’ she confided. ‘I’ve bin watching for ages for an estate sale, so as to buy some more. There’s almost none in the shops.’

  The need to explain an estate sale to him helped to fill time which had threatened to be devastatingly empty. After her mother had gone, she had been surprised not to be grabbed and kissed immediately. He had, however, stood woodenly beside her, holding a tea towel she had thrust at him, as if his thoughts were miles away, though he quickly followed her instructions as to the disposal of the dishes.

  He must still be dreadfully tired, she decided correctly, and proceeded with the kitchen chores. She would see that they did not walk too far after they had finished.

  Chapter Forty-three

  When they set out along the shore, Barbara’s Labrador, Simba, bounding ahead of them, the sun was setting in the middle of miles of wet sand. The long, golden rays reflected on the puddles left by the tide made a glittering pathway towards them. The pathway was partly obstructed by the lumpy outline of a small island. Overhead, seabirds screamed. Closer to the couple, other people were walking their dogs, which barked and yapped round each other, happy to be free for a little while.

  The air was invigorating, and Michel was reminded of Port-en-Bessin. He breathed in gratefully.

  Barbara took his hand and turned him to look at the scene. ‘That’s Hilbre,’ she said pointing to the island. ‘We still can’t get out to it, because it’s got Government installations on it – from the war.’

  He made an effort, and asked, ‘Why would you want to go out there?’

  She laughed. ‘Whitebait – and shellfish,’ she replied. ‘The tidal pools round it have shrimps, and there’s mussels on the rocks. And you can find cockles anywhere here, once the tide goes out. And, sometimes, there are seals out there – really funny they are to watch.’

  He nodded. It sounded like a fisherman’s paradise.

  After a pause, since he did not say anything, she continued animatedly, ‘Before the war, there was a fishing fleet out of Hoylake, just down the coast. But it doesn’t seem to have got started up again.’ She was silent for a minute, and then said reluctantly, ‘No one to man the boats. Too many fishermen died in the war.’

  Michel nodded again rather absently, as he sought for an opening to tell her his decision. As she mentioned the fishermen, she clutched his hand hard. The coast was haunted by deaths of sea-going men, she had told him, one day in Bayeux; Liverpool Bay was full of the bones of ships, and of seamen.

  He remembered the loss of her father, and he turned to look at her. She seemed, unexpectedly, a forlorn little figure in the light of the dying sun, and his heart thumped. Full of compassion, he instinctively put his arm round her to comfort her. What right had he to hurt her more, he wondered despairingly. She was, after all, sticking firmly to her side of the bargain.

  She looked up at him. Held suddenly close to him, she thought that this was more like her Michel, and she rejoiced.

  He licked his lips. ‘I have to talk to you – seriously,’ he blurted out. ‘We sit down, where it is quiet?’

  His body trembled beside her. She sighed, and said, ‘I suppose we must. We haven’t much time, have we?’

  He did not answer her, but continued to hold her firmly.

  They were approaching Hilbre Point, and she suggested they sit up on the sandstone rocks. ‘People won’t walk up here now it’s getting dark. It’s too easy to trip up on the rocks. There’ll just be the frogs and us,’ she teased, and, sure enough, a series of small croaks announced the presence of the little amphibians.

  He ignored her little joke and, with a heavy heart, he agreed that it did seem quiet. She led him to a huge flat stone from which they could watch the sky turn to emerald green, and then, as the moon rose, to silvery darkness peppered with stars.

  She cuddled close to him, and asked light-heartedly, ‘Where shall we start?’

  He replied immediately and with bluntness. ‘I can’t stay in England.’

  She recoiled as if he had hit her, and pulled herself away from him.

  ‘Why not?’ she whispered in shock. ‘Mam seems to have taken to you like anything.’

  ‘She is much kind,’ he acknowledged immediately. ‘But I not tell you yet everything what happen as I cycle here. It is very bad. I endure rudeness like I never expect.’ His voice gained strength as his indignation came to the surface, and she, as if turned to stone, gazed at him appalled. ‘The racial words so cruel – because I am French. It is intolerable.’ His tone was biting. ‘How will I get work from such people?’

  He turned to her and put one hand on her shoulder. His voice changed. ‘I love you, ma chérie,’ he said with passion. ‘Like I never love anybody. I want us to go back to France together.’ His anger and his desire gave way to a more persuasive tone, as after a momentary silence, he went on, ‘I know now that there is work there which I can do – not very good, perhaps, but we would not starve.’

  As he spoke, all Barbara’s plans crashed around her.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she stuttered. ‘Have we been rude?’

  ‘No, no, chérie. You and your mama are very good. It is the people I meet, while I bicycle here, never you.’

  ‘I thought they had been very nice to you.’

  ‘I tell you only about nice people. Now I tell you about others.’

  He poured out every insult, large or small, suspected or obvious, which he had received during his long journey.

  She listened in disapproving silence.

  ‘English people aren’t like that,’ she finally interjected defensively. Then it began to dawn on her that, perhaps, they were sometimes. But only with Blacks or Jews, weren’t they?

  ‘Many are,’ he assured her hopelessly. ‘You warn me not to wear a beret, not to go in drinking places. Why?’

  He waited.

  She let the pain of loss go through her. It was not the loss of his affection which hurt; she was sure she still had that; it was a loss of innocent belief in the innate goodness and rightness of her own people.r />
  When the silence between them became more than he could bear, he almost cried out, ‘I do love you, ma chérie. You know I do.’ He allowed his hand to steal from her shoulder, so that he again held her closely. She did not yield to him. ‘I simply want us to live in Normandy.’

  Finally, she awoke from her stupor. ‘Normandy’s wrecked,’ she said dully. ‘It’ll be donkey’s years before it’s fit to live in again.’ She turned her face to him and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. ‘Trying to find a place to live would be real hard, I’m sure it would. Here, I’ve got a decent home – and you’re welcome in it.’ She stopped and turned her face away again.

  ‘You and your mama are much kind,’ Michel repeated. Then he added fuel to her unhappiness, by saying, ‘Also, I do not wish to depend on you. I must find work myself – and where will I find it in England when the English people hate a Frenchman so much?’

  She began to fight back. ‘I don’t believe that they care about foreigners that much. Liverpool’s always been full of them – and since the war there’s been more jobs than men. There’s hardly a man out of work in the village.’

  ‘You do not know what foreigners may have to endure – you are not foreign,’ he responded tartly.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she retorted angrily. ‘Except, at times, it didn’t feel very cosy bein’ Irish in posh parts of Liverpool. Out here, we don’t feel it.’

  She got up suddenly from the cold rock on which they had been sitting. She was crying now, as she irritably brushed down her skirt. ‘You’re not playing fair,’ she upbraided him. ‘You’ve let me arrange everything – I’ve even got a special marriage licence for us to be married next week – and now you’re backing out. How could you? How could you?’

  ‘I’m not backing out,’ he snapped back. ‘I want to marry you – and take you back to France instead.’

  ‘That’s all very well. Just give up a good home and go back to a ruin!’ she sobbed. Simba heard her and snuggled close.

  He swallowed his outraged pride and began to plead. ‘Please, please, my love, consider. Think about it. Marry? We can, certainement! It is my joy to think about it.’