Gossamer Cord

by Philippa Carr

  Nothing would convince Gretchen that there was not something behind the boys’ behavior.

  I decided the easiest way would be to try Bert, who might betray something more readily than his brother would.

  I found him alone and said: “Bert, do you like Mrs. Denver?”

  Bert opened his eyes wide, caught his breath, and put on an air of wariness.

  “Well, Miss …” he began and stopped.

  “What is it? What don’t you like about her? Why are you always watching her?”

  “Well,” said Bert, “you’ve got to watch ’em, ain’t you?”

  “Have you? Why?”

  “Well, ’cos …”

  “Because what?” I asked.

  “Well, you know, Miss, we go to watch out for ’em every night, don’t we? Charley says …”

  “Yes, what does Charley say?”

  Bert wriggled a little.

  “Charley says you’ve got to watch ’em. You never know what they’ll be up to.”

  “What do you think Mrs. Denver will be ‘up to’?”

  “Well, she’s one of ’em, ain’t she? She’s a German.”

  I felt sick. I was reminded of that scene in the schloss when those violent young men had tried to break up the furniture.

  I said: “Listen, Bert. Mrs. Denver is our friend. In a way she is related to me. She is good and kind and this war has nothing to do with her. She is on our side. She wants us to win this war. It is very important to her and her family that we do.”

  “But we watch out for ’em, don’t we? And she’s one of them. Charley says we ought to watch her.”

  “I must talk to Charley,” I said. “Will you bring him to me?”

  Bert nodded and willingly ran off. Soon after he returned with his brother.

  “Charley,” I said. “I want to talk to you about Mrs. Denver.”

  Charley’s eyes narrowed and he looked wise.

  “She’s on our side, Charley,” I said.

  Charley looked disbelieving and gave me a look of mild contempt.

  “I have to explain something to you,” I said. “It is true that Mrs. Denver is a German.” I went on: “But they are not all bad, you know. Moreover, she and her family have been treated very badly by them. Hitler is as much her enemy as ours—perhaps more so.” I tried to explain briefly and vividly what had happened at the schloss on that never-to-be-forgotten night, and I think I must have done so effectively. His eyes narrowed. He was a shrewd boy. He understood something about violence, I could see.

  I finished: “You see, Charley, it is of as great importance to her as to us that we win this war.”

  He nodded gravely and I knew that I had brought home my point.

  It must have been a month after the incident of the phosphorescent fish, and Dorabella and I were on one of our seats in the garden watching the sea. A dark night, with a thin crescent moon, a midnight blue sky, and a smooth, almost silent sea.

  The first fears of invasion no longer enveloped us. It is amazing how quickly one can become accustomed to disaster. Our spirits had been considerably lifted by the Prime Minister’s frequent broadcasts to the nation, and each passing week meant that we were more prepared. We were told that the nine divisions brought back from Dunkirk were now reinforced and at full strength. Here, in our country, there were forces from the Colonies, also Poles, Norwegians, Dutch, and French—the latter being built up by General de Gaulle. All over Britain men were rallying to the Local Defence Volunteers, and even in the last few weeks our position had improved considerably.

  We were by no means lulled into security, but we were optimistic and we were certain that, when it came to conflict, we would stand firm and win.

  “Do you realize,” Dorabella said to me, “it is nearly a year since all this started? It seems it has been going on forever.”

  She smiled wistfully. She knew I was thinking of Jowan, as I always must be. Where was he? Should I ever see him again?

  Then suddenly I noticed it. It was a faint light, not on the horizon, as we had seen with the fish, but much nearer to land.

  “Do you see … ?” I began.

  Dorabella was staring out to sea.

  “Fish?” she said.

  “Yes, perhaps it is …”

  The light disappeared and then there was darkness.

  “They are still laughing at us because of that night,” said Dorabella. “Only the other day … oh, look, there it is again!”

  It was there and then gone. There was darkness and no sound but the gentle swishing of the waves on the beach below.

  Dorabella yawned.

  “Well,” she said, “we learned our lesson. No more raising the alarm for a shoal of fish.”

  “They all enjoyed it and the locals were glad to have a laugh at our expense.”

  “There’s something in that. Anything that can make people laugh these days can’t be all bad.”

  “Gretchen is happier now.”

  “It must be wonderful for her. I wish …”

  She stopped, and I said: “I know. I’ve just got to go on hoping.”

  “There’ll be some news soon. I feel it in my bones. I’ve got some very reliable bones.”

  She was trying to cheer me. I wondered if she really believed that Jowan would come back safely.

  Then I was back again, thinking of those places where we had met, going over what had been said between us, how we had gradually become aware of our feelings for each other. I remembered how unhappy I had been when I thought Dorabella was dead, and how he had comforted me and how different I had been then. Experiences change people, force them into maturity. How young I must have been before that visit to Germany!

  Dorabella gave a sudden start.

  “Look! Down there! I saw it on the water, a dark object bobbing about on the tide.”

  “It’s a boat,” I said, and I heard the drumming of an engine.

  “Probably one of the fishermen coming in late,” replied Dorabella.

  We waited for a few seconds. We could not see the boat coming into the beach.

  “Should we give the alarm?” I asked.

  “And make ourselves a laughingstock again?”

  “It’s what we’re supposed to do.”

  “Gordon said we did the right thing. How were we to know about those wretched fishes?”

  “Let’s go down and see who it is,” I said. “I bet it’s old Jim Treglow or Harry Penlore, or one of them. They might be just doing it to catch us … to get another laugh at the expense of ‘they foreigners.’”

  “Suppose it’s some secret agent?”

  “Don’t make me laugh! That’s one of the old fishing boats. There are lots of them in the harbor.”

  I hesitated. We must not call the alarm again unless it was really necessary. If we had waited a while on that other occasion, we might have realized what we had seen was a shoal of fish and not an invading army.

  “Come on,” said Dorabella. “We’ll watch them come in and, if it is anyone we don’t know, we’ll run up and give the alarm. There’ll be time.”

  We sped down the path to the beach and stood close together in the shelter of an overhanging rock. The engine had been shut off and there were no lights showing now. Nearer and nearer came the boat. It touched the sand and then I heard a man’s voice say something in French.

  Dorabella caught her breath as the man looked up at the cliff face towards the house. He had not seen us.

  Then he turned and another slight figure wrapped in a cloak had started to climb out of the boat. A woman, I thought.

  We had to act. We had to slip away unseen. We had to give the alarm. No one must be allowed to come ashore without some interrogation.

  The man was looking our way. He had seen us. He spoke almost in a whisper but his voice was clear on the night air.

  Dorabella said: “Jacques …”

  The man heard. He stepped towards us, the girl beside him.

  Dorabella came out of the she
lter of the rock. She walked towards the pair.

  She said: “Jacques, what are you doing here?”

  He turned and faced her.

  “Dorabella, ma petite …” Then he held out his hands.

  They stood facing each other, then he turned to his companion and said: “This is my sister, Simone.”

  I knew who he was now. I had seen him before at the Christmas party at Jermyn’s Priory when he had first met Dorabella. He was the French artist who had been painting the Cornish coast, and for the sake of whom she had faked a drowning accident and fled to France, leaving her husband and her little son Tristan.

  He released her and turned to me, stretching out a hand and taking mine in his.

  “I am so glad to see you,” he said in his accented English. “I did not think we would arrive. The sea is calm but the craft is frail … and it is a long way to come.”

  “Why … why?” stammered Dorabella.

  “You ask that. We cannot live in France … not till we are free again. Neither Simone nor I. It is impossible. We are two of many who are making this journey. They take to the sea … they take the small boat… and they risk their lives …but what good is life as slaves, eh? So, we escape.”

  “I see,” said Dorabella. “It was very brave of you.”

  She was studying Simone, a small, dark girl who looked romantically beautiful in the darkness of the night. I noticed she was shaking, and I said: “You must be cold.”

  “We had long at sea,” she answered. “It is not easy … this Manche. No … even on such a night as this. We are cold and hungry but we rejoice to have succeed. We are here … as we planned to be.”

  “We can give you some food and something to drink,” I said. “Come up to the house. You can tell us all about what is happening over there.”

  “And you … out at this time?” asked Jacques.

  “On the watch,” replied Dorabella. “For people like you. No, really, we are looking for Germans.”

  “The enemy … you expect … ?”

  “Any minute,” said Dorabella. “We are on watch every night.”

  “And you find us! I did not expect to see you so soon. I planned to land and wait till morning somewhere along the coast. Then we should throw ourselves on your mercy. We want to work for the overthrow of these tyrants who have taken our country. I shall join General de Gaulle as soon as possible … and there will be some work Simone can do.”

  I said: “I think you had better tie up your boat. I’ll go and tell Gordon what has happened.”

  “My sister is so practical,” Dorabella told them.

  “Ah, yes,” said Jacques. “I remember this Gordon. The good manager, is that not so? You must tell him?”

  “Yes. He is in control here and you will understand we have to report to him.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  I left them and went ahead into the house. My thoughts were in a whirl. What a coincidence! Dorabella’s lover, escaping and coming to our beach! But then, I supposed he had made for it, thinking how much easier it would be to explain himself to those who already knew him than to strangers.

  It was all very strange, but then so many strange things were happening now.

  DORABELLA

  Encounter in Paris

  I COULD NOT DESCRIBE my feelings when, waiting with Violetta in the shelter of the rocks, I heard that voice from the past. Jacques in England! And at such a time! Here was the past, which I had hoped was buried forever, come back to confront me. It seems that everything we do remains forever; there is no escaping from it.

  I can remember Violetta quoting something like this once:

  The moving finger writes

  And having writ moves on

  Nor all thy piety nor wit

  Can lure it back to cancel half a line

  Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.

  Violetta always liked poetry and often quotes it to great effect. I thought of this poem now. How true it was. Many a trouble had she covered up for me throughout our childhood, and my affair with Jacques was the biggest of them all. She had helped me to emerge from it with as little discredit as possible.

  The war had helped, for I returned just at that time when it was declared and people had other things with which to occupy their minds than the affairs of an erring wife.

  Yes, I was indeed impulsive. It was always act first and think afterwards; Violetta would be there to help if need be. But, of course, when I was about to become involved in a mad escapade, I never thought of the consequences until afterwards.

  There had been that time in Germany when I first met Dermot. There he was, an Englishman on holiday, as we were. It was all so natural—a holiday romance which ended in wedding bells. Quite an ordinary story, really. I enjoyed every minute of it at the time. Dermot had all the qualities of a romantic hero—handsome, presentable, heir to a large estate, and very much in love with me. Up to that time, I had been a little disappointed in the holiday. All that intense nationalism, all that clicking of heels, the great Hitler and the rise of the new Germany—and then, of course, it became a little sinister. But it was all so far removed from our lives. When the holiday was over, we should go home and what was happening in Germany seemed of little importance to us. I later realized I was wrong about that—as I was about so many things.

  We came home and my family visited Dermot’s and everything went smoothly; it seemed the most natural thing in the world that we should marry and live happily ever after.

  Perhaps I began to feel a few twinges before the wedding. It is strange how different people can be in certain settings. In Germany Dermot was the romantic hero, rescuing us when we were lost in the forest, defending us during that frightful scene in the schloss when the Hitler Youth tried to break up the place because the owners—our friends—were Jewish. Yes, he was wonderful during that time.

  Then, back in Cornwall, he seemed less heroic, seen against the background of Tregarland, the ancestral home. He was in awe of that strange old man, his father, and he was overshadowed by Gordon Lewyth; there was, in truth, something sinister about the entire household. It was not quite as I had imagined it.

  I realized then what I had done. It had been like that often during my life. It seems fun to do something until the advantages dwindle away, and one begins to count the costs.

  My sister came and I felt better then. She is like a part of myself—the reasoning, sensible part. It never occurred to me until I went away how very important she was to me.

  Well, there I was, in the house in which I had never felt entirely comfortable, married to a man with whom I was falling rapidly out of love. I was very fond of my little son, but I am not the maternal type, and a child could never make up for the lack of a satisfactory lover. It was not that Dermot’s affections for me had wandered. He remained devoted to me, but he was no longer exciting. I found Tregarland overpowering; the closeness of the sea disturbed me, and I wanted to get away. There was no one to whom I could explain my feelings—not even Violetta.

  And then Jacques arrived.

  That silly feud between the houses of Tregarland and Jermyn has played quite a part in our lives. It goes back a hundred years or so when a Jermyn girl and Tregarland boy were lovers—our Cornish Montague and Capulet—and the girl drowned herself on the Tregarland beach after her lover who had tried to elope with her had been caught in a mantrap set by the Jermyns, and was maimed for life. This resulted in years of enmity between the two families.

  My dear sister Violetta and the charming Jowan Jermyn decided that the whole thing was ridiculous and they shocked the whole neighborhood by meeting, falling in love, becoming engaged to be married, and making a continuation of the feud a nonsense.

  I think the locals shook their heads and said no good would come of it and they might have been right, because Jowan had not returned from Dunkirk. I trembled for Violetta. She was not like I am. She would not love lightly.

  There were times when I felt I had
been caught. I could picture the years ahead. I had been trapped here. I was married to a man who had ceased to attract me. I had a child who was more fond of Violetta and Nanny Crabtree than of me. I was not meant for the domestic life. I had always wanted excitement and admiration. Kind and gentle as Dermot was, he was not the ardent lover whom I required to give me contentment.

  And then I had met Jacques.

  It was Christmas. The feud was being thrust aside by Jowan, his grandmother, and Violetta. The grandmother was one of those sensible, down-to-earth women; she lived for her adored grandson in whom she could see no fault. She liked Violetta, which was fortunate—though she might think she was not quite good enough for her wonderful Jowan, but who could be? And everything seemed set fair in that direction. Then came this wretched war and the possibility of Jowan’s being removed from the scene forever.

  That was something I dared not contemplate. I feared it would have such an effect on my sister and I could not bear her to change.

  It was Christmas time when Jacques was in Cornwall and it was at Jermyn Priory that I first met him. I was feeling particularly disillusioned with my life at that time, deeply aware of the mistake I had made, seeing the dreary years ahead—and there was Jacques.

  It seemed that Jowan had met him somewhere on the Continent. He must have talked to Jacques about Cornwall and said something like, “You must come and see us if you are ever our way.” It was one of those casual meetings at which such invitations are lightly issued and seem little likely to come to anything at the time. And then fate plays an unexpected trick, and that seemingly insignificant fact is the catalyst which changes our lives.

  Certainly it would have been better for me if Jowan had not met Jacques Dubois and issued that casual invitation.

  Well, Jacques came. He was staying at one of the inns in Poldown. He had a friend with him—Hans Fleisch, I remember, a German and an artist, as Jacques was.

  They had arrived with their sketch pads and declared themselves excited by the beauty of the Cornish coast. I remember so vividly how I felt at that time—depressed by the dullness and monotony of life. Jacques was different from anyone I had known, very worldly, everything that Dermot was not. He seemed to sense how I felt and he understood it. He was sympathetic and very attentive. I went home from that gathering at Jermyn’s in that state of excitement which I needed in my life.