Madame Barbara

by Helen Forrester

  ‘Not till we’ve got this cleared up,’ snarled a furious Barbara. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, there’s Mam to be considered. She’s bein’ that generous to you.’ She was shouting now, her voice echoing amid the rocks and along the empty beach. ‘And what do you do? You back out. Don’t you realise that she can’t manage without me? What would she do? And what would I do, anyway? The B-and-B will be mine, some day.’

  He pushed the dog away. Simba snarled softly.

  ‘French women work out of the home,’ he reminded her quietly, determined to keep calm. ‘Here, your mama could, perhaps, find help to work the house.’

  ‘Not that she could trust,’ replied Barbara, as determined as an angry terrier to defend her livelihood. ‘You’ve got to watch all the time visitors and staff, ’cos of theft, ’cos of no-goods. There has to be at least two of you, and three would be even better.’

  Driven into a corner, Michel felt again the overwhelming weakness of exhaustion. ‘Hush, listen to me,’ he begged.

  ‘Listen? What good will it do me? And us both got to face Commander Spellersby tomorrow – remember my letter? Exactly what are you going to say to him, I’d like to know. Has he sneered at you?’

  Michel had, of course, remembered Bill, and he had decided before he arrived at West Kirby that the appointment should be kept.

  He answered her immediately, his voice calmer. ‘Bill never sneer at me. You and I go to Manchester together. I talk with him. Tomorrow is the day, as you say.’

  ‘It is. And we’d better get home. Mam’ll want to go to bed.’

  When Michel got up, he swayed a little on his feet, and he slipped, as they descended the rocks. He winced as his ankle gave.

  She was still sobbing quietly, but she turned automatically to aid him. ‘Be careful,’ she warned quite kindly and took his hand to lead him down, and then added rather resentfully, ‘We got enough on our hands without you breakin’ an ankle.’

  The ankle hurt sharply as he hobbled back to her home.

  They did not speak again until they entered the kitchen.

  In a faded blue terry dressing gown, Phyllis was seated at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of cocoa. After glancing at their sullen faces, she asked them if they had had a good walk, and received mumbled replies from both.

  Trouble, she decided immediately.

  Uncertain what to do, she took another sip of cocoa, and then warned herself. Mind your own business, Phyllis. Let them fight it out. She did, however, note Michel’s limp and immediately enquired about it.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Michel assured her heavily, and, indeed, it was nothing in comparison with his worries regarding Barbara. ‘I rest now. Tomorrow it is all right.’

  She drained her cup and got up. ‘Oh, aye,’ she agreed briskly. ‘Soak it in cold water if it bothers you – there’s a bowl under the bathroom sink – and rest up.’ She turned to her daughter, who was hanging up her cardigan on a hook on the back door, and said, ‘Barbie, luvvie, I made some cocoa for both of you. It’s in the saucepan there.’ Then she half smiled at a haggard Michel. ‘It’s only dried milk in it,’ she apologised to him. ‘But I were that lucky to get a tin of cocoa I thought I’d try it.’

  ‘It will be nice – certainement,’ replied Michel bravely; it could not be worse than weak tea.

  Phyllis turned back to Barbara. ‘Mr Willis – you remember him, Walsingham Jam Company – is booked into number 4 – two nights.’

  ‘OK, Mam. You go to bed now. You must be tired.’

  After her departure, Michel sat down suddenly. I must rest, he thought frantically. I can’t argue any more. I’m so tired, I don’t think I could even make love.

  Still in a towering rage, augmented by a sense of panic, Barbara ignored him and turned on the gas under the pan of cocoa. It was already fairly hot, and in a moment or two it began to boil. She took two mugs off their hooks and filled them. ‘Want to take yours upstairs?’ she asked him without an iota of expression in her voice.

  Thankful to escape, he nodded, picked up his mug and went slowly and cautiously towards the door, his ankle whingeing unhappily at every step.

  He paused, as she turned to tell him formally that the three o’clock train from West Kirby would be about the right time to set out for Manchester. ‘It’s a dinner invite,’ she informed him. Then she asked if he would like to get a haircut in the morning.

  Although he had already decided that he needed a haircut, the remark implied criticism and, in his highly emotional state, it hurt him.

  ‘Yes. I go to barber,’ he replied dully, and went through the doorway to the hall. He wanted to slam the door in pure temper. But it would not do in a house full of visitors, so he closed it softly, and held onto the door knob until he felt strong enough to climb the stairs.

  Chapter Forty-four

  He undressed and slipped, naked, into the chilly bed. He desperately longed to be back in Normandy in a decently warm feather bed, a luxury he had almost forgotten until this moment.

  How could Madame Barbara be so angry? He trembled with resentment as well as cold as he tucked the bedclothes round himself in an effort to get warm. He had dreamed that tonight they might for the first time lie together in a proper bed, and really enjoy each other. And here he was, with no desire in him, shivering alone as if he were still lying on the floor of the attic in Bayeux, or in the straw in the loft of the stable in which he had slept when he had found work at the poultry farm of his father’s acquaintance.

  During the last three months, he had worked long, hard hours and had saved every sou he could. He had eaten little and drunk less, had even smoked only to assuage his permanent hunger. For what?

  Since he was Barbara’s guest, he certainly had enough money to carry him through the visit; the only uncertainties he had were the costs of a wedding ring and of a suitable thank you gift for her mother.

  To be insulted again and again was, however, unbearable – and now to be scolded by his beloved Barbara, as if he had done something terribly wrong. Would he even need a ring?

  And he had yet to tell her of an incredible humiliation, quite a different one, which still rankled in his mind. As he recollected it, he wondered furiously if she would understand or even care about what had accidentally happened to his farm.

  The French Government had decided that they would not buy his land or that of the Fortiers next door. They would make only a small, narrow park directly along the coast, which would not include the Benions’ tiny holding.

  Quite soon after that decision had been made public, there had come another offer, per hectare, from a private company, working through Paris lawyers, who sought small acreages that could be united into decent-sized holdings. They offered for several little farms in the neighbourhood, with the provision that the names of all the present owners could be clearly established and their joint agreement quickly obtained. The company would themselves provide démineurs to clear the land mines.

  Their financial stability seemed excellent. It had been too good an offer to refuse, and most of the owners agreed to it. Even Michel’s sister, Anne-Marie, the most awkward member of the family, had been coerced by Uncle Léon to agree. Though Michel understood that the whole scheme was not yet complete, the Benion family had already cashed their cheque. It enabled them to pay the debts incurred during the war, and leave a little over for each one of them. Michel’s share and the share that Anatole had left him, though small, were, on Uncle Léon’s orders, snugly tucked away in his French Post Office savings account. It would cover his first expenses if he had to return to Normandy, as his uncle had gloomily foretold he would; the money he had with him was from his earnings.

  Fine. What better could one hope for?

  Then had come the denouement. The démineurs turned out to be a group of uncommunicative, efficient Germans! The innocuous-sounding little company proved to be a subsidiary of a powerful German syndicate, which was buying farmland, not only in France, but, it was rumoured, also in England.


  The family was thunderstruck. After all the long battle they had quietly waged against the occupation, they had sold out to the enemy. Uncle Léon and Michel were particularly outraged, but Uncle Léon, after talking to a notaire, counselled silence; the transfer was legal; the family had done well out of the sale. Don’t stir up political dust, he urged.

  Politics? They were suddenly nervous, though they felt cheated out of any small victory that they could have claimed.

  Madame Benion had been more accepting. Who else, she asked resignedly, would have bought such a little farm? Most of the likely buyers, farmers whose land immediately abutted theirs, were dead. Only people with money could afford to buy so much available land.

  Léon and Michel had seen the sense of her remarks. But, added to his loss of Suzanne to a German, the indignity of the sale still rankled in Michel’s mind, and added to his depression. Would he now lose Barbara?

  In her bedroom above him, an angry Barbara washed herself and prepared for bed. As she put on her old flannel nightie and climbed into her single bed, she sobbed unrestrainedly. How could they possibly get a decent life together in Normandy? England was suffering hard times, but at least she herself had a roof to offer him and a means of earning a living here. And Mam had been wonderful.

  Mam also lay in her bed, sleepless and unhappy, and wondered what was up, and wished passionately that her husband was there to comfort her. Not that he would have been a particularly good conciliator – Hugh would probably have resented very much young Michel becoming part of the family; another man in his bailiwick would not have pleased our Hughie, she decided with unexpected humour. He would, however, have talked the matter over with her and have got out of young Barbara what the trouble was with her new boyfriend. He’d loved his little Barbie, he had. Suddenly, Phyllis began to cry with sheer loneliness.

  Of the three of them, she got the least sleep that night. By the morning, however, she had thought out a modest plan to integrate Michel more formally into the B-and-B.

  Give him his pride, she thought determinedly. I’ll talk to him tomorrow night, when it’s quiet.

  Chapter Forty-five

  The following morning, by the time Michel had got up and washed and shaved, Phyllis had had her own breakfast and fed her visitors. As Michel hobbled down the stairs, his swollen ankle objecting strongly to every step, she was bustling around the hall, dealing with the two young families about to go home. Through the open dining-room door, he glimpsed the solitary representative, the redoubtable Mr Willis, who had come in the previous night. He was finishing his breakfast, while he studied a notebook, presumably listing his calls for the day in Liverpool.

  Michel mechanically said ‘Bonjour’ to Phyllis, as he edged round the departing crowd and their luggage in the hall. Not knowing what was expected of him, or how Barbara would greet him, it was with foreboding that he entered the kitchen.

  Barbara had just come through a door leading directly from the dining room and was carrying a heavy tray of dirty dishes.

  The kitchen was bathed in sunlight. The sharpness of the light showed up Barbara’s unmade-up face in great clarity. Her eyes were puffy and black-rimmed, her hair untidy. To Michel, she looked ill. He greeted her with a polite ‘Bonjour’.

  She ignored it, and dumped the tray onto the counter.

  ‘Sit down,’ she ordered without preamble, ‘and I’ll give you some breakfast.’

  He sat down, feeling thoroughly miserable, though much stronger than he had felt the previous day. Reasonable food and a night’s sleep had lessened his sense of physical weakness.

  She slid a cup and saucer, spoons and a knife in front of him. Then she went to the stove and, from a heavy iron pot, filled a bowl with porridge. This she laid in front of him. She then gathered from the other end of the table and put conveniently close to him a tin of golden syrup, a jug of milk and a salt cellar.

  ‘Help yourself – you may like some salt on it,’ she said. ‘I’ll make toast.’

  He replied quietly, ‘Merci,’ as she provided each piece of his breakfast. He was not certain how one took porridge in England, but her gestures helped him and he put syrup and milk on it, and ate it gratefully. She put a jar of homemade marmalade by him for his toast. ‘Sorry. No butter. No more rations until Monday,’ she told him, as she brought him a freshly made pot of tea.

  He thought resentfully that Mr Willis in the dining room had probably been served with more kindliness.

  As he finished his toast and drank the cup of tea he had poured for himself, he leaned back in his chair and watched her stacking dishes on the counter.

  I’m fed up with this treatment, he thought crossly, and then he wondered if she had eaten breakfast before he came down. Possibly, she had not.

  He knew only too well what hunger could do to one’s state of mind and, knowing it, he held his tongue.

  Finally, he could not stand the silence any more. He got up from his chair, went to her, took the little marmalade pot she was wiping out of her hands and laid it down by the sink. Then he took her in his arms.

  She stood rigid and turned her face away.

  ‘Chérie,’ he whispered. ‘Come. I love you so much. Stop your anger.’ He kissed the cheek nearest to him. ‘We make peace, yes? We talk. We love each other?’ Today, I feel strong enough to do that, he thought with some relief as her closeness aroused him.

  She crumpled in his arms. A great sob burst out of her.

  ‘Oh, Michel! I’m sorry, Michel. I’m so sorry I shouted at you. But you frightened me so much, and I just don’t know what to do, I don’t,’ she wailed, as she poured out her misery to him. ‘I thought we’d got everything settled.’

  ‘We have yet some weeks, chérie, to think,’ he said, as he ran his hands down her back. ‘First, we see Bill – he is my good friend still. We enjoy seeing him. Then you tell me how we marry – I do not know, exactly, the law of England. You say you have special permit? We fix that. Slowly, slowly, we decide what to do.’

  She was crying steadily now against his shoulder. He beguiled her, stroking her softly through her skirt and then under it. She wriggled in mild protest.

  ‘Remember, we buy a ring. Important, is it not?’ he suggested.

  He dropped her skirt and lifted her left hand. She had removed George’s ring. He kissed her fingertips. The sobs lessened and a woebegone face was turned towards him. He kissed her with passion, and suddenly she responded.

  Her mother called from the hall. ‘I’m goin’ to start changing the beds, Barbie. Come up and help me when you’ve had your brekkie.’

  Reluctantly, Barbara withdrew in order to answer the summons. She gave a little quivering sob, and then shouted back, ‘OK, Mam.’ To Michel, she whispered almost tenderly, ‘You’re a proper rogue. I don’t know what to do with you.’

  He grinned down at her triumphantly. ‘Have you breakfast?’

  She sniffed. ‘No. I didn’t want any.’

  ‘You eat breakfast. I wash dishes.’

  ‘OK.’ She withdrew herself reluctantly.

  ‘We are now – how you say? – good friends again?’

  She stood in front of him while she took a handkerchief out of her apron pocket to wipe her eyes. Then, as he waited, she sighed and then said with a wan smile, ‘More than that – but I still don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I know, chérie. But we have time. We talk about everything – no anger – and we decide. Breakfast first,’ he ordered her, feeling that he was now in command.

  This brought another shy smile. ‘You had the last of the porridge. I’ll make some toast.’

  He threw up his hands, and laughed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  His laughter was infectious, and she grinned. ‘Don’t be. I don’t really like porridge. As soon as we’ve done the beds, I’ll press your suit and shirt,’ she promised practically, as she pushed two slices of bread into the toaster.

  ‘Merci bien, Madame,’ he replied, stifling a desire to say, ‘Forget everyt
hing. Come up to bed.’

  ‘And you’d better go to the barber.’ Her voice was relentlessy firm.

  ‘Oui, Madame Barbara,’ he teased. ‘Where he is? And how much money?’

  ‘In the village. I don’t know what it costs, but not much. Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘Non, merci.’ He sighed and applied his mind to the immediately possible. He thought, with acidity, that it would be interesting to see what attitude the barber took, if his new customer appeared to be a foreigner.

  He turned on the hot tap to fill the sink. Despite the complaining ankle, he felt much better.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Word that Barbara Bishop, George Bishop’s widow, was considering getting married again had seeped out via his mother, Ada. Barbara had actually gone to see her, to break the news as gently as she could to her old friend.

  Ada had been very kind and encouraging, grateful to her daughter-in-law for coming specially to tell her. She had, however, spread the news to others, who regarded it as yet another of their number becoming a war bride, who would go away to live in a foreign country, nothing very special. In due course it had reached the barber, who had cut George’s hair since he was a small boy.

  Like most barbers, he had a wonderful knowledge of the affairs of the locals and a great flow of friendly conversation. Michel not only got a neat head of hair, but found himself telling the old man all about the maquis and the Resistance, from the view of an insider.

  At the end, when his shabby trousers and pullover had been brushed down, he counted out the price asked, and, on leaving, bid the barber a polite, ‘Au revoir.’

  By the following day the whole village knew that Barbara Bishop’s new boyfriend was not bad-looking, once he had had a decent haircut. He was a poultry farmer, who had fought with the Resistance. If Michel had heard this he would have corrected it, because most peasants were disarmed, so he had, more accurately, harassed the Germans in any way possible to aid those who were armed.