Baxter, in suit and hat, his beard neatly trimmed, a rolled umbrella in his hand, speaks in a voice of urgent persuasion.
‘You cannot stay here, the Germans are getting closer. France is not safe for a woman on her own.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, I’ve been here ten years already, why should I move?’ says Minnie. ‘I like it here.’
‘For the reasons I’ve just made clear! Occupation will change your life; you cannot expect to go on as though nothing is happening. You are an English woman, you are the enemy.’
‘I am not France’s enemy.’
‘You are Germany’s enemy, and they have invaded! They are in the Ardennes! Are you so obtuse, woman? Don’t you read the newspapers?’
Minnie remains unmoved. ‘My French friends will take care of me.’
Baxter brandishes the umbrella, jabbing it in the air. ‘You have no French friends, only waiters and servants and they will quickly abandon a penniless old actress, you wait and see.’
‘What do the Germans want to mess with an English actress for, anyway? I shall not be a threat to them, how could I? No, if I keep my head down and go about my business they won’t take any notice of me.’
‘Minnie, how desperately naïve you are. Do you not remember the last war? Did you not read of the atrocities? Did you ignore the wounded young men, the crippled and maimed as they arrived back in England?’
‘Oh, soldiers, Baxter! What have I to do with soldiers? I am not in the army! The Germans won’t do anything to me.’
‘You must come back to England, Minnie. I won’t leave you here, alone. It is not safe!’
‘I am as safe as anyone else.’
‘Then you must move to another town, somewhere less conspicuous.’
‘What can be less conspicuous than a large city, where I can blend in and remain anonymous?’
Baxter halts in frustration. ‘You, Minnie? Anonymous? Look at you! Striding around the streets like you own them! Yours will be the first arrest to take place! You might as well stand in the middle of the Arc de Triomphe and wait to be picked up as the convoy approaches, save them the bother!’
Minnie tuts. ‘That is the trouble with writers – always so melodramatic, so full of fantasy and exaggeration. I say again I will not leave my apartment, I like it here. Paris suits me. What is there at home for me, anyway? No work of any description. You know how I hate to humiliate myself scrabbling around for those tiny parts. That last play was a disaster. No-one spoke to me with any degree of deference; they criticised my voice and my pose; they laughed openly when I mentioned my dressing room was too cold and draughty; they told me the large one was already taken! They gave it to whatshername, Georgie Fairweather!’
‘That’s because Georgie Fairweather was the star of the show.’
‘I was once star of the show, and I demand to be shown a little respect. I was great once!’
‘And you will be again … if you would come home.’
‘And live where? With you and Jess?’
‘You have a home. Can you never spare a thought for your children?’
‘How dare you,’ she trembles. ‘How dare you say such things? I would be with them right now, if it weren’t for you!’
‘You’d be doing no such thing. You’d be hooked up with some stage door Johnny, trying to impress him with your airs and graces, and your faded, jaded, sexual wiles. Which,’ he adds, ‘are long since fled.’
‘I think you are drunk.’
‘It would sound the same sober, my love. My words are my own, they are sincere. God knows, you and I have a long partnership, but as a woman – as a true, caring, loving woman, Minnie my dearest – you fail miserably.’
She is not listening. ‘Besides, my daughter and her husband have taken over the house. There’s no room for me. And none of my English friends care about me anymore. When I asked Robert for a loan of a few pounds he wouldn’t give it. Said his wife would skin him if she knew. And Geoffrey doesn’t offer to help, and he’s rolling in the stuff! If only William were still alive …’ She instinctively fondles the dragonfly brooch pinned to her lapel.
Baxter frowns. ‘Then my love, there is only me left.’
‘Yes, my dear Baxter, and don’t think I don’t appreciate your attention, your concern for me. You are a true friend to me, you always have been.’
‘Well, let’s not get carried away. We have had our moments, have we not, but my hand of friendship will always be extended. You can count on me, always.’
‘Oh so fervent. I adore it when a man is fervent!’
‘Then let me fervently implore you to come home with me.’
‘I cannot. I have an engagement.’ She smiles. ‘Yes, an acting job. I am working in a tiny theatre, the sweetest, most exquisite place; only a handful of people can fit! But the manager is such a kind soul. He deemed it a great favour and a privilege that I agreed to star in his modest production. Not that I cared much for the payment, although he said I could have the wine and the cakes if I did a good job. Which I shall, of course.’
‘He’s paying you in food?’
‘No, silly. The food is a gift. A thank you. He is so grateful to me, you see.’
‘But no contract has been signed? No money forthcoming?’
‘It is all very proper. Why should he withhold payment? I haven’t upset him. We haven’t fallen out!’
‘Yet,’ says Baxter grimly, ‘but I’m sure you will. I’m sure you’ll find some reason to put his back up. I’ve never yet known you to take part in a smooth-running production without falling out with either your co-stars your director, or your manager.’
‘Baxter if you don’t be quiet I shall send you away, you horrid man. You are supposed to be taking me on an outing, not haranguing me at every twist and turn!’
‘I am haranguing you because I must make you see sense.’
At this, Minnie affects to weep.
‘Weeping?’ he says. ‘Whatever next?’
‘You have driven me to it, you monster. No-one makes me cry the way you do!’
‘Oh, I know you do it rarely. I am honoured that you would feel so deeply moved by anything that I have to say.’
‘You are cruel, Baxter.’
‘Oh yes, you have told me many times.’
‘Your selfishness,’ she insists, ‘is what I can’t bear. I never could.’
‘That’s right. My selfishness. Not yours.’
‘We both made mistakes, Baxter.’
‘You, especially.’
‘Yes, me especially …’ She wipes the pretend tears from her eyes. ‘William is dead and the children don’t want me. But you are a broken man. You know that? And when you are old and ill I will not visit you. Don’t expect me to.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ he says. ‘But if you think you can speak your mind to some German general, and smother him in your actressy charms, then you’d best think again. You won’t land on your feet this time. That larger-than-life persona won’t work in a war zone. You will be all alone in an occupied city. With no work, no money, no friends. At the very least I insist you get out of Paris.’
‘You are far too pessimistic for your own good, Baxter. No wonder your last play was a flop – everyone left the theatre sobbing.’ She is pettish. ‘Take me to lunch, or leave me. I cannot listen to another word.’
‘All right, all right. We shall go and dine, although I fear it is the last time we shall be able to.’
‘Wait,’ says Minnie. Something in his speech touches her at last. She opens her handbag and removes a silver cigarette case engraved with three initials, W.F.F. ‘Please give this to my son.’ Then she unpins the dragonfly brooch from her lapel. ‘And give this to my daughter.’
Baxter lingers reluctantly over the items but eventually takes them from her. ‘You would be better off giving them to the children yourself,’ is all he says …
Lapping water crystallised into view; Charlie was standing on the edge of the Seine opposite the Left B
ank. He turned around. He had wandered far from his original path, but there was no question of returning to his hotel.
Time had moved on. Baxter had not relented. The letters remained unpublished. And yet they maintained some sort of relationship. But if Baxter hadn’t managed to persuade Minnie to come home, what did she do next?
*
Paris by night. Liquid pools of light dancing on cobbles, twinkling bulbs on the lit up tower, the inky black night sky cloaked in stars like a van Gogh street scene. From somewhere within a café Charlie could hear the sound of music playing …
A woman sits at the table under the café’s awning, the red canopy flip flapping in the night breeze. She shivers, pulls at the fur around her neck, occasionally twisting rearwards at the warm interior, longing to be inside, yet defiantly nursing the remnants of her glass of wine. She is lost, an oddity; her eyes are tired, her skin a little pinched, her jaw maybe even a little bruised, or is that just the shadow cast by the dim lamp and the awning?
She sighs, empties the glass, opens her purse, jingles the few coins inside. Enough for another? If the waiter attends she will order one more perhaps, or should she call it a night? She keeps her bag on her lap as if readying herself for departure, when a man approaches from along the street, pausing in front of her table. For a second or two she takes no notice, and then as it becomes evident he is lingering deliberately she finally glances up. ‘What do you want? You’ll get nothing from me, I am simply having a quiet drink,’ but her hard, dismissive voice trails away.
‘I’ve been watching you,’ he says, putting his hands in his pockets, standing feet apart, a firm, immovable presence. There is a hint of working man’s clothes beneath his smart overcoat, but he has a prepossessing mien.
She is nonchalant. ‘Have you indeed?’
He uses her response as an invitation to sit down. ‘Your accent is very good,’ he says. ‘Very convincing. The Germans can’t tell the difference.’
She affects to ignore him but his flattery is seductive. ‘Why thank you. I am good at accents.’
‘I can see that.’ He leans close. ‘But I would say that you are English.’
Minnie admits nothing. ‘You don’t sound like a Parisian, monsieur.’
‘I’m from the south. My friends and I,’ he says, ‘are always interested in anyone who has language skills.’
‘What friends?’
He doesn’t answer directly. ‘You might be able to help us.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Besides, if you are struggling for money…’
‘How dare you!’
‘No, that is not what I meant!’ He gnaws on his top lip. ‘Forgive me, but I think you are putting yourself at risk. You would be safer with us. Some of my friends are English,’ he whispers. ‘If you come with me now there is somewhere I can take you where you will be protected.’
She frowns. ‘You think I will go off with a stranger?’
‘We can help each other,’ he insists. ‘It will be of mutual benefit. How are you managing to avoid detection?’ he adds.
She is not exactly sure. ‘Luck?’
‘Luck runs out eventually.’
There is an undeniable weariness in her voice. ‘You’re not the first person to tell me that. But I am an old woman; no-one bothers with me.’
‘Nonsense! You’re a woman in your prime! Your papers are in order?’
‘False, if that’s what you mean?’ She gives a prim shake of the head. ‘But I’m not coming with you.’
The man holds out his right hand. ‘I’m cold,’ he says, ‘you’re cold, there’s no wine left in your glass, what are you waiting for?’
She fiddles with the clasp on her handbag. ‘Well, perhaps for a few minutes, then.’ She rises magisterially from the metal chair. ‘We shall walk.’
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘all the way to the station.’
She takes his arm. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere the Germans haven’t reached yet. There is a place you can hide out for a while, in the south.’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘At least tell me your name,’ says Minnie.
‘Gaston,’ the man says. ‘Call me that.’
Later, at the Gare de Lyon, where the clock tower looms over the Boulevard Diderot, there are sandbags stacked around the entrances and along the station façade.
The Buffet room is full of diners; inside the ornately decorated dining rooms, the tinkling of cutlery and glasses merges with the sound of conversation.
Gaston buys them coffee, and speaks in low, urgent whispers. ‘It is a mockery of our republic, a mockery of our self-determination, our democracy; the French people are bowing to the will of their oppressors. It is a dark savage violation that menaces and tightens its grip with each passing day.’
‘You must be brave,’ says Minnie. ‘Stand up to them. Remember your history.’ She pulls her fur coat more tightly around her shoulders. ‘The proper government will return. The forces of evil will not triumph here.’
‘You think we should simply pray for our souls,’ he replies. ‘Pray for our deliverance?’
‘The British will help. Mr Churchill stands firm. The King too.’
‘Some of my countrymen don’t believe in that, Madame; they think England will look to her own interest, not ours.’
But there isn’t time for more talk. Minnie and Gaston finish their coffee and head towards the exit. The soles of Gaston’s shoes scuffle on the ground as he shifts a single crocodile skin suitcase from one hand to the other, Minnie’s heels are clacking. They are just an anonymous couple hastening to catch their train. Beneath the arched glass roof the train shed is teeming with passengers criss-crossing the concourse, trotting, weaving, zig-zagging onto the platforms … Steam hisses, carriage doors slam, porters hurry past wheeling luggage on trolleys.
Gaston points towards a platform. ‘Avignon?’ The guard acquiesces. Whistles shriek across the station with a sound like fireworks as they hurry through the barrier and join the stream of passengers rushing to board the waiting train …
Chapter Twenty
Charlie lost sight of them in Avignon. There had been only one course of action – to follow them south, but he did not see them alight, and the station and the surrounding streets were blank, empty. He spent a night in the town in a state of heightened responsiveness, wandering the streets and bars, listening out for them, but no matter where he went, he could not seem to pick them up. He walked around the perimeter of the Palais des Papes; he followed the edge of the Rhône, he went down to the bridge that led nowhere, the Pont St-Bénézet, catching fragments of tantalising conversation and snatched words as they emerged like distorted sounds on a detuned radio before vanishing again in a storm of static. But nowhere could he see or hear Minnie or Gaston and without the Frenchman’s full name there was no way of checking local records for information. He was on his own.
There was little point in hanging around the town another night. But where else could he search? Where else could he go?
****
Thrown into turmoil by Charlie’s unexpected arrival in St Rémy, Valérie unleashed a torrent of misgivings and regrets. No preparations were made, there were no clean sheets, the floors weren’t swept, spiders had colonised the bathroom. She left him the key to the empty farmhouse and hurried away with promises to fetch him clean linen and a cake. In Anne Marie’s absence he made himself at home, examining the books on her shelves, rearranging the cluttered surfaces in the kitchen, revisiting the scene of their tryst. The small bedroom was warm with trapped air, and he felt like a trespasser. When Valérie returned he’d tell her to put him back in the gite after all, leave the house to itself. Alone with his thoughts he took a seat at the table underneath the tree and went over his final sighting of Minnie Devine before she vanished: the hissing and shrieking of the trains in the Paris station, the great gusts of smoke and steam, Minnie and her male companion climbing h
urriedly aboard …
And then straight away – there she is.
Gaston is pouring a glass of wine while Minnie gazes out at the spectacular view of the mountains, savouring the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun.
She turns to receive the glass, and then holds it aloft in salute. ‘Monsieur,’ she says, ‘your good health.’
‘Madame Devine,’ he replies, ‘I am willing to be your host for however long you like – but I do not think you fully understand our current situation.’ He lowers his voice significantly. ‘We must all be very careful.’
‘I’m always careful,’ says Minnie. ‘But as soon as this is over, I will go back to Paris.’
The Frenchman clears his throat. ‘It could be some while yet.’
‘I can’t stay here. Maybe I’ll travel. See the Riviera. All the artists stayed in the south, didn’t they?’
‘Yes,’ says Gaston, nonplussed, ‘for the light.’
The girls come running down the path, hats flying off in the breeze, socks around their ankles, shoes dusty from the road. ‘Papa!’ They halt mid-run, seeing the strange woman in their midst, but Minnie is used to meeting new people; she is like a queen, able to put those in awe at their ease. ‘Hello, children. Well now. You are quite the prettiest little things I have ever seen.’ And because she is speaking French with a perfect accent, they are not sure what to make of her. Is she a native? Is she a foreigner?
‘Papa?’ they say again coyly approaching him.
He embraces them both, one arm around each child, but he has dislodged their hair grips and they twist and turn from him complaining that he is too rough and clumsy. ‘Girls, this is Madame Devine. She is going to live with us for a while, and you will all be very good friends in no time.’
The girls look uncertainly at their father and then at the woman who is smiling benignly at them. ‘I have children of my own, at home in England,’ she says, ‘although they are much older than you, quite grown up in fact … I miss them very much,’ she adds. ‘Perhaps you would draw something for me, or sing? Do you play the piano? Or any kind of musical instrument?’ Do you read? What authors do you like?’
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