‘All right. Don’t anyone run off for the next few minutes. If we do the pictures here we can get the mountains in the background. Bride and groom stand closer together, would you? That’s it. Groom, put your arm around the bride’s waist. Lovely. Bride, put your hand in his. Beautiful.’ The photographer paused for a moment. ‘You know,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I really should do this for a living.’ The bride and groom burst out laughing – and she took the shot.
Hovering nearby, Charlie watched the proceedings from over the church wall. Later when the bridal party and the guests had made their way down the incline towards the waiting cars, he walked slowly around to the rear of the church where it backed onto a field of lavender. The scent was strong; he inhaled deeply, half closing his eyes, feeling the heat from the sun beating down on his bare forehead. Through closed eyelids a pink and orange light began to play over his skin. He became aware of an odd noise that he couldn’t quite identify. Without opening his eyes he concentrated more closely until he’d worked out what it was he was listening to. The tramp of boots and the scuffling of feet on the dusty road grew louder and louder the closer it came.
A rumbling, chuntering noise began to filter through Charlie’s consciousness: the unmistakable sound of a vehicle engine struggling against the incline …
When the vehicle stops several figures emerge and an individual wearing a uniform of blue jacket and trousers opens the trailer door at the rear. A man and woman with bound hands are pushed out of the lorry and onto the road. They are led towards the edge of the empty field where a low wall separates the road from the earth. A shallow pit has been dug recently; the shovels are lying not far away on the ground. The woman is whimpering, muttering, quite dishevelled and confused. The man is bare-headed, tight-jawed, his eyes flickering and blinking in a rapid panicky motion. Their captors push them roughly towards an area just behind the pit, and they both stumble over the rough soil. Manhandled to face forwards with their backs against the wall, the woman shakes violently as though she is in a state of near collapse. The man says something to her in a low voice; in response she begins wailing. Someone shouts at her to be quiet. An order is given. A pistol is produced. The man in the blue uniform takes aim while the rest of them line up opposite. The woman begins to recite what sounds like a prayer, babbling, nonsensical. Her husband is about to open his mouth. The marksman fires once. The man’s body jerks forwards and slumps to the ground. The gunman quickly resets his aim and fires again. The gun jams. He fiddles with the barrel, tries again, click click. He waves the useless weapon in the air. His companions laugh. The woman is frozen in shock. Someone says they should have brought a shotgun. Another suggests jokily that they could use the shovel. The marksman gives up, tells his comrade to go ahead. The second man picks up the shovel, weighs it for a moment in both hands and then swings it like a cricket bat. With a sickening crunch it connects with the woman’s head. The clang of steel sings in the air as her body slumps forwards on top of her husband’s. The marksman stows his weapon, casually inspects the shovel for blood, then tosses it against the wall. For a few moments the rest of them stand and contemplate the scene. Eventually one of them moves forwards and checks that both victims are dead. Then they take hold of the corpses and drag them across to the pit …
Charlie groped for the wall along the edge of the field and threw up all over the grass. It was times like these he hated his skill, his so-called “gift”; it was times like these he craved normality, respite from himself. His mouth was filled with a sharp metallic taste as if his gums were bleeding. His nerves were vibrating to the very tips of his fingers; every hair on his body stretching the skin away from his bones in a wail of protest. He found a spot where he could sit down to recover, and leaning his back against the wall he waited while the blood flow stopped pounding through his chest and the nausea subsided. But that was the straightforward part. It was the rest of it that was a struggle. Forced to bear the weight of everything he’d ever seen and everything he now carried with him, an undercurrent of shame followed him everywhere he went. The resulting unease made him feel permanently at fault, without ever quite knowing what it was he’d done or how he was meant to make up for it.
He had to get a grip. The very nature of his condition meant that he was forever “channelling”, forever letting his mind spin free; filling up with feelings and experiences that weren’t his own, some more troubling than others. Why should this occasion be any different? But sometimes he wondered at the ease with which he could inflict damage on himself.
He’d just seen Gaston and his wife murdered in cold blood – not by the enemy but by their own countrymen.
Charlie left the field and wandered back onto the road. He kept walking, following the avenue of trees, not really knowing how far, or how long it would take; all he knew was that he needed to keep going, towards the town, as far as he could get without stopping. His feet were aching by the time he reached the outskirts, his toes and joints throbbing. He was desperate for a drink or a rest, but his senses were wide open and there was nothing he could do about it …
And then he sees them – Minnie and the girls.
She is holding onto them, one on each side. They are skipping and gambolling, but Minnie doesn’t like to be pulled about and she jerks them to heel. ‘Walk properly! Like this.’ Their shoulders droop; they don’t like being chastised, she’s not their mother. They scuff their toes in the dust, drag their heels, but Minnie keeps a steady pace and they are forced to keep up. Minnie turns round once or twice to check they are not being followed. They are walking away from the centre of town, pursuing a course that takes them along quiet streets. Where is she taking them? Minnie distracts them with tales of her home in London.
‘London on a winter’s day,’ says Minnie, ‘can be smoky and dank, but when the theatre lights glow they illuminate the rainy pavements like blended watercolour paint. I’ve heard that some parts of the city have been bombed … but let’s not talk about that. When the war is over, you must come to stay with me, in England. I will take you to the Haymead. It is the most splendid building. Have you ever been to the theatre? No? Oh, you will love it.’
‘What did you wear on stage, Madame?’ Hélene asks. ‘When you were an actress?’
‘Oh, all sorts: silks, satins, feathers and beads! William always hired the most wonderful costume-makers. I will show you my favourite dress: an elaborate green gown covered with jewels and sequins. And so unbelievably heavy! My dears, you never saw such a thing!’
A figure is approaching. She wears a long robe and headdress with a crucifix around her neck. Minnie quickens her pace; the two women exchange greetings, their voices low and in whispers. The meeting has been prearranged and without further ado the children are passed into the nun’s care. ‘Maman?’ says the little one, turning to Minnie. ‘Papa?’ Minnie smiles encouragingly. ‘You must go with the Sister now. She will take care of you.’
The little one begins to cry. Reluctantly Hélene understands that they must do what is asked of them and that she must now take responsibility for her sibling. She tries to remain hopeful. ‘When can we come to see you in London, Madame?’ she asks. ‘Will it be soon?’
‘Yes, of course. As soon as I can arrange it.’ Minnie turns aside so that the girls cannot see the dismay on her face. The bewildered children accompany the nun away from the road and into a gateway leading towards the undergrowth. A quiet, secluded path leads into the trees. Within seconds they are lost from view. Minnie walks back the way she came, head held high. She moves sedately, now and again listening out for a bird in the tree, otherwise taking no notice of her surroundings.
A uniformed man slouching against a wall eases himself away from the brickwork and follows her. She doesn’t notice until he calls out, challenging her to stop. She does so, but pretends she only paused to sweep some dust from her skirts. The man looks her up and down, as if amused by the apparition. He makes some remark about her fine clothes, she takes it as a complimen
t but he is smirking at her. He asks her for her papers. She rummages within a velvet-corded bag but is chary of showing him anything. When she shrugs and replies that she must have left them at home he grows impatient. He is not interested in her excuses. It is clear he wants her to accompany him. She doesn’t want to go. He insists. She tries haughty disdain, but her rapid hand movements betray her. In the street a woman scuttles past, head down. A farm labourer nonchalantly smokes a cigarette and continues on his way. Eventually the man takes Minnie by the elbow and escorts her down the road and into a turning. Minnie’s step falters. They are approaching an office building, some kind of military headquarters. She is bewildered, argumentative, and reluctant to go in. The man’s grip tightens and she is bundled within …
The doorway and sign vanished. The building was no longer of military character, it was a guest house. Charlie gazed up at the blue shuttered windows, the white walls, the Visa sign stuck on the window, and tried to concentrate. How deep did he need – or want – to go? If the family’s fate had anything to do with Minnie then he must follow the trail to the end. Had she betrayed them somehow? Or did they simply make a mistake? Only one way to find out. He pushed the door open and went in.
The owner of the guest house had his hands full mopping up a leak in one of the bathrooms, but he knew all about the building’s previous incarnation. Some handcuffs and a baton had once turned up in a trunk in a lumber room at the back, he told Charlie. ‘I can show you where one of the cells used to be, if you like.’
A windowless room towards the rear of the building was lit by a bare bulb in the middle of the ceiling. An aluminium ladder lay lengthwise on the floor and a collection of used paint pots, brushes and buckets were stacked against the lumpy whitewashed walls. As Charlie descended the three steps onto the red-tiled floor a mist came into his mind as though he’d just blundered into a cloud of noxious gas. Shouts, insults, desperate cries of innocence filled the space and clamoured for his attention. ‘Interrogations?’ said Charlie.
‘I believe so,’ said the owner.
Back inside the main building, he was taken into a small rustic sitting room with a wood burning stove, a large flat screen television and a bookcase filled with atlases and wine guides. ‘I’ve seen a photograph of this room during the war,’ said the owner, ‘with a desk over there by the window. The filing cabinets were in the corner opposite, and the keys used to hang on a hook by the door. Would you like to see it?’
He meant the photo.
‘Great. Thanks,’ said Charlie.
While the owner went off to find the pictorial evidence, Charlie momentarily had the place to himself. He began to feel a distinct alteration in the room’s layout. Cigarette smoke and the odour of strong coffee hit his nostrils, and rain began to patter lightly against the window. There was a hint of paraffin in the air.
Apart from a poster advertising the Franc Garde the walls were bare. There was no floor covering to speak of, just a thin oil cloth …
The milicien is not angry, he is composed, but he remains standing while Minnie sits in a chair in the middle of the floor. He paces up and down behind her, deliberately disconcerting her, forcing her to continually turn her head to see where he has gone.
‘The children,’ he says. ‘Where did you take them?’
‘What children? I know of no children.’
‘The children at the farm. Grillet’s children.’
‘I don’t know who you mean,’ she says comfortably. ‘I don’t know any farm. I don’t know any Grillets.’
‘The mas,’ he says, ‘where you have been staying.’
‘I never saw any children,’ she says. ‘I don’t take any notice of children in any case. They bore me. Noisy things.’
‘Then you did see them?’ He is dressed in the uniform of the armed milice. He wears a khaki shirt, black tie, blue trousers and a blue jacket. There is a white gamma symbol, the zodiac sign of the ram, on his lapel.
‘I am speaking in generalities,’ Minnie says, ‘not specifics.’
The milicien breathes in and out through his nose. Loudly. His patience is not endless he reminds her. He has asked her over and over to tell him what’s become of the Grillet children and still she pretends to know nothing about them. Does she know what will happen to her if she continues to refuse to cooperate?
Minnie reminds him that she is cooperating. She is answering all his questions clearly and to the best of her knowledge. She cannot provide him with answers to things she knows nothing about, now can she? ‘And anyway, you are not a policeman. Why should I talk to you?’
The man tries another ploy. ‘Madame, this man Grillet is a communist, as you know.’
She doesn’t fall for it. ‘I do not. The man I know is a farmer. He cultivates lavender! His name is Gaston.’
‘His name is Patrice Grillet. His wife is Nadine Grillet. Gaston is a code name.’
Minnie falls silent.
The milicien notices the double-stranded pearl necklace that Minnie has around her throat. ‘That is a very fine object,’ he says reaching out to touch it. Minnie raises a protective hand to her throat and gives him an imperious flash of her eyes.
He withdraws as though stung and his face turns red. ‘You must have noticed that the family you were staying with had secrets?’
No. Why would she?
‘I believe that you have been communicating with British agents. I believe that you are a British agent.’
‘Me?’ says Minnie. ‘How unbelievably silly!’
‘Then I will ask you again,’ says the milicien, ‘why are you here?’
‘I’ve told you, I came here for my health. For the beautiful countryside, the clean air, the mountains, the scenery, the long walks!’
He paces around behind her some more. Minnie is unmoved. She knows a show of empty bravado when she sees one. ‘It is rather cold in here,’ she says. ‘Could you put some coal on the fire?’
The man clenches and unclenches his fists. She is a stubborn, foolish woman, he says. She needn’t think she will be allowed to roam around St Rémy freely once they have finished here. He has a mind to have her placed under arrest.
‘What for?’ she asks. ‘Admiring the scenery …?’
Chapter Twenty-Three
The route through town took Charlie along the narrow, cobble-stoned streets, where the scent of chocolate, lavender oil and soft cheese wafted from open doorways. Past ancient houses and quaint boutiques, a charcuterie, a boulangerie, a brasserie, and a small courtyard with an old mildewed fountain; it was only as he reached the Place de la Republique that he became aware that the streets were filling with people. Temporary barriers were being erected on the roadside, forcing him onto the increasingly crammed pavements. Around the shop windows and café fronts a buzz of expectation was in the air. The parents in a family of four were walking so fast, the daughter’s pink crocs came off her feet and she shouted angrily at her mother to slow down. Something momentous was about to happen. What were they waiting for? A parade? A rally?
And then he spotted Valérie, on the other side of the street, craning her neck for a sight of something. As soon as she saw him she came running over.
‘Course à la cocarde,’ she said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the town centre, ‘Abrivado à midi!’
He hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.
‘Allez! Allez! À midi!’ She held her index fingers against the top of her head and made anguished mooing sounds.
‘You’re pretending to be a cow? La vache?’
She would not let him be until he’d agreed to accompany her. ‘All right. Where to?’
When they got as far as the town hall, the mairie, they were confronted by a mass of people congregating around the entrance. An elderly man corralled them up the town hall steps. ‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘It’s safer.’
What on earth was going on?
And then Charlie heard the most unearthly commotion at the end of the street: a stamping,
running, thundering was coming their way, increasing in intensity the nearer it came. It sounded like impending disaster.
The people on the steps rose as if in one movement, sending Valérie tottering against the wall. He reached out to steady her but she just laughed. On the street below pedestrians began to run, following something, he couldn’t see what, it was hidden by the mass of bodies. And then at last he caught a glimpse of something black – a vivid, charging thing, sleek and bony, loud and violent. What the hell was it? A bull?
‘Oui,’ Valérie laughed. ‘Les taureaux!’
Several bulls, tethered with long ropes, were being raced through the streets by the cowboy gardians. Chanting and roaring with the passion of football fans on the terrace, the onlookers milled and surged forwards as the animals galloped along the road. Buoyed up on bravado and testosterone, a trio of youths in t-shirts and jeans had broken away from the crowd and were running behind and alongside the thundering black creatures. Suddenly one of the bulls wheeled sharply, ducked its head, and skittered at one of the boys. Motoring on a surge of adrenalin he gave a great leap and jumped right over the barrier and into the arms of the crowd, who caught him, braced him with their arms and then pitched him straight back out again.
Outside the brasserie a second young man in the group surged his way through a scattering pile of plastic chairs, a bull in pursuit. Shrieking with laughter he leapt onto a lamppost and shinned to the top. By then the third boy had run round behind the confused creature and was clinging onto its tail. The bull jumped and kicked and resisted, but the youth clung on, his slim legs tensed and flexed as he fought to gain mastery.
The Dragonfly Brooch Page 17