‘Water,’ ordered James.
The waiter hurried away and Diana stared out at the surf breaking along the beach opposite.
She turned to him. ‘Is that man frightened of you, James? Do you know him?’
He lit another cigarette. ‘Nope. Never seen him before in my life. He must be the nervous type.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘Where were we?’
‘You were telling me why you didn’t want to spend the rest of the war in a POW camp.’
‘Yes . . . Well . . . back in 1940 a lot of us thought we’d lost the war. France had fallen and it looked like England was going to be next.’
Diana frowned. ‘But surely the Germans would have sent you back home if that had happened, once the fighting was over. We’d have exchanged prisoners, wouldn’t we?’
He burst out laughing. ‘What? Are you serious? Once the Nazis had won, and got their own prisoners back, they would have treated us exactly the same as they did everyone else they crushed – the Poles, the Czechs, the Russians . . . haven’t you read Hitler’s blueprint for Britain after we’d been subjugated? The newspapers got hold of it last year. It made for grim reading, I can assure you.’
‘Of course I read it. Don’t patronise me, James.’
‘I’m sorry, Diana, I don’t mean to. But think about it. The Führer’s master-plan for a smashed Britain would have done for every British POW this side of the Channel, me included. Hitler decreed that every able-bodied British man between the ages of seventeen and forty-five be transported to the Continent to work on German war and construction projects.’
‘I know,’ she interrupted. ‘I told you, I read about it. And I agree, it would have been horrendous. Our POWs were to be offered a choice, weren’t they . . . Fight for Germany in special British units, or be drafted into factories.’
He nodded. ‘Exactly. The Todt industrial complex. It was huge and it took slave labour wherever it could get it. Most conscripts didn’t survive the war – they were starved and worked to death. Of course I had to stay out of German hands.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ Diana gave him a frank look. ‘All this is with hindsight, isn’t it, James? You couldn’t have known any of that back in 1940. Why didn’t you try and contact the French Resistance? They would have helped you.’
‘Because I thought we’d lost the bloody war! You’re not listening! Anyway, helped me to do what, exactly? Get back to Britain? For Christ’s sake!’
She flinched.
‘I’m sorry, Diana.’ He took several deep breaths as he calmed himself. ‘Look. Even if I had managed to get back home – and it’s a bloody big if – and Britain had somehow struggled on for a few months more before collapsing, I would’ve been given a sodding medal, paraded in front of the newspapers, and then shoved back into another Spitfire to be shot down again, and die a hero’s death or be taken prisoner. You have to understand, Diana – the very idea of flying missions again seemed totally mad to me. It was mad. Out of the question. I didn’t even have to think about it.
‘Anyway,’ he went on, more gently, ‘there was no Resistance, not at that time. France was collapsing. It was utter chaos here. Army chaps wandering about like lost souls and civilians trudging from here to there in random groups or in mass refugee columns or hiding indoors waiting for the Apocalypse . . . I know. I saw it. I was a bloody part of it for a while. You’ve never seen anything like it in your life. It was like the End of Days, I’m telling you.’
There was a long silence.
‘How many of my squadron made it?’ he asked eventually.
She shook her head. ‘Not many. Quite a few were killed. One of the boys who saw you crash was shot down the very next week. Others were taken prisoner, of course. I think one pilot was executed by the Gestapo after he tried to escape.’
He squinted at her through sunshine and cigarette smoke. ‘Hmm. You must think I’m a bloody coward.’
‘I haven’t really had time to consider the question, actually.’
The nervous waiter was back, refilling their water glasses.
Out on the Mediterranean, a distant ferry was returning from Corsica. Diana watched it for a while, struggling with her thoughts. She decided she did not have the right to judge anyone who had gone through the kind of trauma the man opposite her had endured. Perhaps she should accept his reasons for deserting.
‘I don’t believe that you’re a coward,’ she said finally, still staring out to sea. ‘You fought very bravely, James. My brother thought you were the best and most courageous man in the squadron. Even so, every man has his limits – I realise that. But there’s something I need you to explain, now I know you’re alive.’
‘What’s that?’
She turned to him. ‘After you were shot down . . . where did you go? What did you do? And why didn’t you come back to me when the war was over? I thought you loved me. I thought we were happy.’
‘I did love you,’ he said quietly. ‘And we were – we were so happy, weren’t we? But how could I come back? As soon as the authorities caught up with me – and they would have, Diana – I’d have been tried for desertion. They’d have hanged me. Probably still would. I made my bed in the summer of 1940 and I’ve had to lie on it ever since.’
She looked at him bleakly. ‘You could have come to me. I would have protected you.’
‘No, you couldn’t, however much you tried. I would have been a curse on you. Can’t you see that?’
‘Not really, no.’
He threw his head back. ‘I think we need to take a break from all this.’
She shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
‘Well, I think we should eat, anyway. D’you mind? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’
Diana looked at her watch. It was almost one o’clock. She’d promised Stella she’d be back at the villa for lunch.
‘I have to make a phone call.’
‘Of course. Look, Diana . . .’ He reached for her hand. She let him hold it for a moment before she withdrew it. ‘I’m going to tell you everything. You deserve that, at least.’
She crossed the marbled lobby of the Negresco. It was so much cooler in here than on the hot terrace, in spite of the sea breeze. As she made her way to the telephone booths, Diana was intercepted by the hotel manager, bobbing and smiling and intertwining his hands against each other as though he were washing them. He could be Uriah Heep, she thought.
‘Madame.’ He bowed. ‘May I say what a very great pleasure it is to have monsieur’ – he bowed in the direction of the terrace – ‘and his companion with us for lunch today. May I—’
‘I’m his wife.’
The little man’s eyes widened and she saw fear flicker in them.
‘But of course, madame,I should have known. A thousand apologies. As I was about to say, if there is anything I can do to make your visit more enjoyable . . .’ He bowed again and scurried away.
Diana’s mind reeled. Why on earth had she said that? Douglas was her husband, not this ghost she hadn’t seen or heard from in more than ten years. What was she doing?
She realised that she’d been in a state of shock for the last two hours. Now she was away from him for a moment, it was evaporating, and the reality of the situation came crashing in on her. He had been alive all this time. Alive. He’d been hiding in France, and if she hadn’t come here – to Nice – she’d never have known.
What was he doing here, anyway? How did he live? He looked prosperous enough, and even after spending such a short time in his company, she could see he had some kind of hold over people here. That waiter, and the manager just now . . .
Diana felt a faint but unmistakable premonition of danger.
Abruptly, she changed her mind. It was madness to have lunch with him. She would go straight home, now, and wait for Douglas to get back from work. She would tell him everything, starting from that first day in the flower-market when she’d heard James’s voice floating from the cab.
Overwhelmingly relieved by her decision, she walked briskly to
the hotel’s side entrance where she knew there was a taxi-rank.
‘Diana!’
She turned round. He was on the far side of the lobby, looking at her with a slightly puzzled, hurt expression. Even though she’d been sitting opposite him for almost two hours, she experienced fresh shock at the very sight of him.
Something else, too. She was suddenly and fully aware, for the first time that day, of how attractive he still was.
She felt as if she was looking at two subtly differing images, each one similar, but shifting and overlaid. The James she remembered with such clarity from that last day at the Dower House – crisp in his freshly ironed uniform, handsome despite looking haggard after weeks of gruelling warfare – and this James, still lean, but robust, and completely at home in his new environment. From the little French she had heard him speak, she suspected he was more or less fluent in the language.
He walked quickly across to her and after a moment, placed a hand hesitatingly on her shoulder.
‘This must be so difficult, so impossibly hard for you. I’m sorry, darling.’
Don’t call me that! You have no right to call me that, not now!
It was almost as if she had spoken aloud.
He took his hand away. ‘Forgive me. I had no right to call you that.’ He looked around them. ‘Please don’t go. Stay and have lunch with me. I promise that everything I tell you will make perfect sense. I want you to understand the whole thing. At the moment this must seem utterly surreal to you . . . I bet you feel like Alice in bloody Wonderland.’
Seeing him standing there, solicitous and concerned, and so unutterably real and solid, Diana’s resolve began to fade. It was only lunch, after all. She was being silly and superstitious.
He gestured to the phone booths. ‘Look, call home. If you can’t work it out today, never mind – we can meet here tomorrow, or the next day, or wherever and whenever you like. I’ll leave it completely to you.’ He pointed to the men’s room. ‘I’m just off there. See you back at the table and you can tell me what’s happening.’
He smiled at her as he walked away, and then turned over his shoulder and called: ‘I hope it’s a yes, though. I’ve already ordered for both of us. Sea bass. It’s rather good here.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said, sitting down at the table. ‘Stella’s tutor can stay for the rest of the afternoon. They’re off to play tennis.’
‘Splendid.’ James didn’t look especially surprised, Diana thought. He was busy with the wine-list. She sat back and studied him.
He was still her James, she decided. Completely relaxed, given the extraordinary circumstances. She wondered if anything ever really threw him off-balance. She could hear him humming to himself as his slim brown fingers moved down the carte du vin. He glanced up and grinned at her.
She shivered. He was gorgeous.
Once, he’d been hers.
He ordered their wine and turned to her. ‘What? What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking that this is the strangest day of my life. I can’t believe this is happening, James. I can’t believe you’re alive and here in Nice. I swear I wouldn’t be surprised if my brother materialised at the next table.’
‘Christ, I would,’ he replied. ‘I’m not one of the undead, Diana, although I almost felt like it the day I was shot down. I was absolutely certain I was about to die when I jumped. In fact, all the time I was staggering to that village, I kept wondering if I had died and it was just my ghost wandering around. I remember thinking—’
‘Of me? Did you think of me, James?’ she interrupted.
He looked steadily at her. ‘I won’t lie to you, Diana. No. No, I didn’t. And we’d been married that very morning, hadn’t we?’
She turned her head away so he wouldn’t see the tears that suddenly pricked her eyes.
‘I didn’t think of anyone other than myself, not that day, and not for a long time after. I felt I’d been given a second chance, a new life. I knew I couldn’t go home so I suppose I blocked you out of my mind. For a time. Only for a time.’
‘How much time, James? Until today? Until an hour ago?’
His head fell to one side and he gave her a crooked smile. ‘No, my love,’ he said. ‘From almost the moment I arrived here in Nice, ten years ago. Don’t diminish yourself through my eyes, Diana.’
Two waiters arrived with their food and wine. One filleted the fish at a little side-table next to theirs, the other poured rosé. Their course served, the waiters hurried away.
Diana and James ate in silence for a while. James took a swallow of wine before continuing.
‘The village was called Licques,’ he said. ‘I remember thinking that was appropriate. I was feeling pretty licked by then.’ He smiled faintly. ‘But I’ll always remember it, whatever it was called, until my dying day.’
He gestured to her glass. ‘Go on. Have a drink, Diana. Trust me – you’re going to need it.’
44
The village street was almost deserted. Brick-built terraces faced each other, divided by a procession of lime trees planted down the centre of the road. The only person in sight was a girl of about seven, sitting on the kerbside playing with a doll. She proffered it to James as he stopped in front of her. She didn’t seem the slightest concerned by his scorched and bloodied appearance.
He politely declined the toy before asking her: ‘Can you tell me, ma petite, does a doctor live in your village?’
She pointed instantly down the street. ‘There. The big white house on the left. Dr Lain lives there.’
‘Merci.’
She gave him a little wave as he lurched away, and returned to her doll.
Sure enough, 100 yards or so further on there was a drive set at right angles to the street. He could see elm trees sheltering a solid white stone-built house at the bottom of the drive. A polished brass plaque on one of the twin gateposts at the entrance announced that this was the Résidence et Cabinet Médical de Dr Hubert Lain. He staggered down the drive until he reached a wide front door, which stood between modest whitewashed pillars.
James yanked the bell-pull, and when no one came, he hammered on the brass knocker. Then he jerked at the bell-pull again.
At last he heard footsteps approaching from the other side of the door and a man’s voice called out gruffly, ‘Oui? Qui est là?’
‘It is I, monsieur . . . I have an injury. I need urgent assistance.’
After a moment he heard bolts being shot back and a key turning in the lock. The door opened a fraction and a big man of about sixty peered out. He was rubicund and fleshy and sprouted extravagant nasal hair. A stained napkin was tucked into his shirt collar; the man must have been having his supper.
The moment he set eyes on James the doctor’s face contorted in panic and he tried to slam the door shut again.
He’s clocked the RAF uniform, thought James. Doesn’t want to get involved. Can’t say I blame him.
He managed to jam his good leg into the gap and forced his shoulder against the door. His back blazed with pain.
The Frenchman was pushing hard against the other side, shouting at the top of his voice. ‘De rien ici pour vous ici. Je ne peux pas vous aider!’
‘OPEN THE DOOR!’ James bellowed. ‘You’re meant to be a doctor! OPEN IT!’
‘Non!’
Ah, thought James, so you understand English then. Right. He reached down into his flying boot, where he kept his service revolver. A lot of the boys carried them when they knew they might be flying over France. He pulled it out and shoved it into the gap above the doctor’s head.
‘OPEN THE DOOR, YOU BASTARD! I NEED HELP!’
‘NON!’
James pulled the trigger and there was an earsplitting bang. The man on the other side screamed and fell backwards, and James shouldered his way in. They were in a little vestibule, the Frenchman trying to squirm away from him into the main hall behind.
‘Ne tirez pas! Don’t shoot!’
‘I will if you don�
��t bloody well pipe down!’ James dropped awkwardly onto one knee and shoved the barrel of his gun hard against the man’s temple. The doctor immediately lay still. ‘You speak English, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re the doctor, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m RAF. Spitfire. I’ve been shot down and I’m hurt. My leg’s been hit and my back’s bad. I want you to dress the wound and give me painkillers for my back. Understand?’
The man scrambled to his feet, James covering him with the revolver. ‘How dare you come into my house in this way! You must leave immediately! I insist that you—’
James clicked the hammer back. ‘If you don’t do exactly as I say, I’ll put a bullet in your leg, all right?’
The doctor glared. ‘Yes, of course – you have the gun, monsieur, do you not? Very well. I will go and get what I need. Wait here.’
‘Bollocks. I’m coming with you.’
The doctor led the way through the house to his surgery on the other side, James’s gun at his back. When they got there, the Frenchman turned around to face the pilot.
‘Monsieur, I refuse to work under these conditions. I will not treat you at the point of a gun.’
‘Yes, you damn well will.’ James hauled himself up on the narrow brown leather examination couch that was bolted to the wall.
‘OK.’ He ostentatiously put the gun down by his side. ‘But this stays here – and remember, it’s cocked.’ He stuck his bloodied leg out and winced. ‘Take a look.’
The doctor pulled a wooden stool from under a desk and propped James’s foot on it. He carefully unwound the sodden silk scarf and dropped it on the floor.
The gleaming shinbone had vanished. It was now covered by a large clot of congealed blood. The entry wound remained clean, but had turned almost black. A strange rippling bruise circled the dark hole.
The doctor grunted and stood up, turning to a zinc cupboard on the wall behind him.
‘It is not so bad, I think,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘The wound is clean. The bullet has passed through so there is no need for an operation. And the bone is not broken. You have been lucky, monsieur.’
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