‘You’ve done a lot for us, though, Major,’ said Georges. He had changed into his corduroy jacket and canvas trousers, as if to mark the occasion.
‘Perhaps.’
‘You will come to visit us, won’t you, Major? I mean, after all this is over.’
‘Oh, Lucienne, there would be nothing on earth that I would like better.’
Pierre frowned, trying to work out whether that was, essentially, a ‘yes’.
‘Oh, would you mind?’ The major rummaged in his bag. ‘I’ve been given this,’ he said, holding up a camera. ‘A gift from the men, a going away present. Could I...’
‘Yes, by all means,’ said Lucienne. ‘Where would you like us to stand?’
‘Just here, next to the fireplace. Now, which button is it? Ah, here we are.’
The three of them hunched together in front of the fireplace, Pierre in the middle, his father’s hand resting awkwardly on his shoulder. ‘I haven’t had my photograph taken in years,’ he muttered. Lucienne fluffed up her hair and grimaced in her attempt to smile.
‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
Click.
‘Perhaps one more – just in case. Keep still...’ Click. ‘Lovely.’
‘Thank you, Thomas.’
‘And now, I ought to go.’
‘You sure you don’t want us to come with you?’
‘It’s very kind of you, Georges, but no, I think best not. It wouldn’t do to be seen waving off the enemy, would it?’
‘No, I guess not.’
The major patted his pockets. ‘Oh, before I go, I wonder if I could have a final look at your White Venus, Pierre?’
‘Really? OK.’
‘White Venus?’ said Georges. ‘Is that what you call that thing out there?’
‘Leave him be, Georges. If it amuses him...’
‘Come,’ said the major. ‘Come with me, Pierre.’
Late afternoon, and the yard was half in the shade, the chickens sticking to the cooler side. The major inspected the sculpture as if seeing it for the first time, circling it, considering it. ‘Very good,’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘May I take a picture of it?’
Pierre shuffled on his feet. ‘If you want. I don’t...’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t really like it any more. It’s nothing like the painting.’
‘Rubbish, it’s an excellent piece of work; you should be proud. Do you think Botticelli managed it in one go?’ He took his photograph. ‘No, he probably worked on it for months, years even. I’m sorry the town hall said no. I think it would have graced the reception area very nicely. Here, let me take another with you next to it. Go on; don’t be shy. That’s it. Smile, Pierre, give us a smile. That’s it. Good lad.’ He turned the camera round in his hands. ‘Am I meant to switch this thing off, I wonder? You know, Kafka has been buried.’
‘No.’
‘This morning. In an unmarked grave’
‘Oh.’ Bouchette, Dubois and Kafka – all dead.
‘Why are all your tools here?’
Pierre hadn’t noticed but the various shovels, brooms, sledgehammer and hoe were all lined up neatly against the shed wall. ‘Perhaps Papa’s having a sort out now that’s he’s started working again.’
‘I see that you’ve become close to Claire.’
Pierre nodded, not sure how to respond.
‘That’s good. I’m sorry that I...’
‘It’s... it’s fine.’
‘You know, don’t you? It wasn’t her fault. I knew she was under orders and I took advantage of that. If I’d know you were...’
‘It’s fine,’ he repeated.
The major covered his embarrassment with a smile. ‘She’s a charming girl. You’ll make a lovely couple. I’ll be expecting an invite now.’
‘Sorry?’
‘To the wedding.’
Pierre laughed politely, hoping the conversation would end.
‘Pierre, listen. I want to give you something.’ Placing the camera on the rocking chair, he slid his ring off his finger and held it out in his palm.
‘Me? You want me to...?’
‘It would have been for Joachim, as you know, but...’
‘I... I’m not sure.’
‘Please, it would be an honour. You are very much alike my Joachim; you remind me of him in so many ways, I’m sure I’ve told you. It would make me happy to know you wore his ring.’
Pierre took it.
‘Try it on.’
‘It fits. Different finger to yours but it fits.’
‘Perfect.’
‘I’ll... Thank you. I shall wear it always.’
The major glanced up at the sky. ‘And now, I really ought to be going.’
*
The major had gone, handshakes all round, an embrace and a peck on the cheek with Lucienne, closing the door gently behind him. Georges, Lucienne and Pierre sat in the living room, an air of gloom hanging over them, unable to find anything to say. Pierre had slid the ring off and secreted it in his pocket. He couldn’t face telling them why he had it. Not yet.
Eventually, Georges broke the silence. ‘I wonder whether they’ll send us another guest.’
‘I hope not,’ said Lucienne. ‘Despite the extra food, it’s somebody else’s turn. I want Michel to have his room back to himself now.’
‘Hmm.’ He patted his knees. ‘Well, this is no good. Did you say you were going out shopping?’ Lucienne nodded. ‘I think I’ll come with you. It’ll give me something to do. Did he take his camera?’
Immediately, Pierre could see it in his mind’s eye. ‘Oh no,’ he yelped, springing to his feet. Dashing out in the yard, he saw it where the major had left it, on the rocking chair.
Georges had followed him out. ‘Is it there?’
‘Yes. What do we do?’
‘Well, run after him, of course. He wouldn’t have got far with that suitcase. Hurry up, then!’
Pierre rushed out the house, slipping the ring back on. The major had said a car was taking him from the town hall to the train station at Saint-Romain. He ran up the hill, round the bend and towards the town square. As he approached the square, he could see the car with its swastika pennant, a private, doubling up as a chauffeur, lifting the major’s suitcase into the boot. The major, next to the car, was shaking hands with another officer. The two men parted with a Hitler salute. Pierre waved. The major hadn’t seen him. The major stepped away from the car, as if preparing himself for the journey ahead, pulling the creases out of his tunic.
‘Major! Major Hurtzberger.’
This time, the major saw him. Walking quickly towards him, he shouted, ‘Pierre, is everything OK? What’s wrong?’
Pierre caught him up, slightly abashed to be so out of breath. ‘Your camera. You forgot your camera.’
‘Oh, thank you!’ He took it. ‘Silly me. Thank you so much.’ The two of them stood facing each other, not sure what to say. ‘That’s my car.’
‘Yes. Your driver’s waving at you.’
The major glanced back, acknowledging the summons. ‘Yes, I’d better go.’
‘Yes.’
‘This is it then, Pierre. I hope, one day... You’re a good boy.’
‘Goodbye, Major H.’
‘Major H, yes.’
Pierre offered his hand, another handshake. The major ignored it and, stepping closer, flung his arms round him. Pierre, unable to reciprocate, stood with his arms hanging at his side. The major smelt clean – aftershave and soap.
‘Goodbye, my boy. I shall miss you.’
Pierre watched him as he marched quickly back to the car, clutching his camera. The driver, waiting at the wheel, started the engine. The major got into the back, closed the door behind him, and wound down the window, looking straight ahead. The driver eased the car off, round the green, round where once had stood the statue of Soldier Mike, and onto the road to Saint-Romain, its pennant flapping gently in the breeze. With his breaths coming in short gasps, Pierre watch
ed the car disappear into the heat rays of the late afternoon. The major didn’t look back.
*
Pierre returned home almost in a daze, feeling like a drunk man. Images, uninvited, sprung into his consciousness, of playing with Michel in the fields behind the house, flying a kite, of his father pulling his brother out of the lake, his fist beating Michel’s chest, giving him the kiss of life – Why didn’t you save him? The words, the accusation, had always haunted him. Why didn’t you save him? He thought of Joachim, killed at nineteen; of the major’s last words, calling him ‘my boy’.
He stopped, his head pounding. Someone passed by, a woman with a walking stick, a breezy greeting. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, felt the unfamiliar gold of the ring scrape his brow. Generations of my family were cavalrymen.
He staggered home. The sculpture. He’d only done it for his father, a means by which to finally supplant Michel from the forefront of his affections. It hadn’t worked; nothing would work. He knew that now. The major would never see it again, would never see the final work. His mother had never shown any interest, and his father... he was more interested in the chickens. It was Michel he was saving from the water yesterday; Michel, not he, not Pierre. The wrong son. A memory – that of Georges playing with Michel, running round the house, playing hide and seek, Michel almost falling over with such laughter. His brain was full of such memories – Georges and Michel. Michel and Georges. But never him. Not a single one. He kissed the ring.
He burst into the house and found it empty. They’d gone shopping. He raged from room to room, pent up energy threatening to overcome him. He wanted to hurt him, to hurt his father. He gripped his hair, told himself to calm down. Yes, Michel had been the favourite but only by the virtue of his death. It was natural. But why then, this pain, this stabbing of his heart?
He went through the kitchen and out into the yard. The chickens fled upon his arrival. There she stood, the White Venus, her face still without features, mere hollows where her eyes should be. The White Venus – is that what you call that thing out there? She was still anonymous, still just a block of sandstone. And how he hated her. She’d known all along that it had been a pointless exercise. I am not a work of art, she seemed to be saying, jibing him. I am a work of desperation. You can’t manipulate me, just as you can’t manipulate your father. You’re weak. Like father and son. Weak.
‘Yes, I am weak,’ he said through clenched jaws. ‘I let him drown, and no one’s listened to me since.’ With rapid movements, he scooped up the sledgehammer, taking its weight and bracing himself. With a mighty sideways swing, he smashed it against her head. A cloud of splinters burst; a crack appeared, running from her ear to her throat. A second blow, the head flew off, crashing against the yard wall with a satisfying thud. The chickens squawked. ‘I am not weak,’ he screamed as he delivered a third blow, a fourth, a fifth. His chest heaving, his hands dry with dust, he carried on and on until like a snowman melted to its core, only a stump of the White Venus remained. Finally, panting, unable to see with dust and sweat in his eyes, he dropped the sledgehammer. He felt sick; he felt evil; he felt triumphant. Wiping away the sweat, he viewed the chaos he’d created, white dust everywhere, the fragments, the shards and bits of sandstone, scattered across the ground. Tears came to his eyes. The White Venus was no more; he’d killed her, and much more besides. He had no need for her any more; he had Claire, his very own White Venus.
He heard the front door open. His parents were home.
THE END
Other works by Rupert Colley
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This Time Tomorrow, Part One of the Searight Saga
This Time Tomorrow, Part One of the Searight Saga
‘Two brothers. One woman. A nation at war.’
A compelling story of war, brotherly love, passion and betrayal during World War One.
I’m the author of several historical novels and works of non-fiction. I’m also the founder of the History In An Hour series.
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I was born one Christmas Day, which means, as a child, I lost out on presents. Nonetheless, looking back on it, I lived a childhood with a “silver spoon in my mouth” – brought up in a rambling manor house in the beautiful Devon countryside.
It’s been downhill ever since.
I was a librarian for a long time, a noble profession. Then I started a series called History In An Hour which I sold, along with my soul, to HarperCollins UK.
I now live in London with my wife, two children and dog (a fluffy cockapoo) and write historical fiction, mainly 20th century war and misery.
The photo is of a much younger me as a wannabe New Romantic. I look a bit older now.
Do feel free to email me: [email protected]
Thank you for purchasing this novel and taking the time to read it.
With kindest regards,
Rupert.
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The White Venus Page 27