I put an arm about her and held her against my heart.
“Yes, my darling. That’s why.”
“Bung it in,” said Berry, fiercely. “Let people know the truth. Hundreds of letters you’ve had, all begging you to take us back to Gracedieu. You always meant to do it. You said as much at the very end of the book. Well, why haven’t you? Because we did go back…for eight soul-searing months…and had to clear out again. And this time, not because of the Boche, but because of the French. And ours was no isolated case. Look at the Duchess of —. Left her lovely villa and fled in front of the Boche. And the Boche never touched a thing. And the moment the Boche was gone, the place was stripped – by the French.
“Let me tell the sordid story. I don’t care. People mayn’t fancy the truth, but they ought to know. And, damn it, this is history.”
“As you please,” said I.
“All through the war we were thinking and dreaming of Gracedieu. By a round-about route, the servants kept us informed. Our home was inviolate…they had moved the more valuable pictures and hidden them at a farm…they had packed and removed our clothes to a secret place…all was well…the Gestapo had occupied the villa, but were behaving well…the silver had been buried, the liquor had been concealed…the house was never left: food was hard to come by, but one or other of them was always there: they were but waiting for the day when they could once again ‘surround us with their devotion’… We continually thanked our God for such fidelity.
“In October 1944, we found ourselves in Lisbon. It was not until February 1945, and then only at the instance of a Minister I happened to know, that visas were issued to us to re-enter France. The war was then drawing to a close, and the South of France was clear. We wired to our faithful servants to expect us in five days’ time, and on the following morning we took the familiar roads which would lead us back.
“One incident, I remember. We had been delayed at the Spanish-Portuguese frontier, and night had fallen before we had reached Ciudad Rodrigo, at whose agreeable guest-house we meant to pass the night. The outskirts of the town were not lighted and we lost our way. We encountered a Spanish Officer, whom, having no Spanish, I addressed in French. His manner was rather stiff, but he told me the way. Then he said, ‘You’re German.’ We all yelled ‘No’, and I pointed to the flag on the car. He peered at this, for the light was none too good. Then he saw it was the Union Jack. Instantly, his manner changed. His face alight with pleasure, he stood to attention and saluted – and stood with his hand to his hat until we had gone.
“Ciudad Rodrigo, Burgos, San Sebastian… And then, at last, the frontier which we knew so well. At eleven o’clock one morning we crossed the bridge into France. Our reception was civil. Boy, who was driving, took out his crowns and put them on to the shoulder-straps of his British Warm. At our request, Cook’s representative – a Frenchman – showed us the way to the American Post. Boy spoke to the Officer on duty, who promised to telephone to Gracedieu and say that we should arrive in three hours’ time.
“Within three hours we sighted the lovely place, and we stopped by the side of the road and looked across the valley, to mark the bulwarks which meant so much to us. Then we drove on through Lally and up the familiar road. The faithful servants were there, to wring our hands. I think, to be honest, that tears were in all our eyes. After much tribulation, we had come home again.
“The garden had run to seed…the box had not been trimmed…the lawn didn’t look like a lawn…and the fountain was stained… But such things didn’t matter. Tea was served in the library, beside a handsome fire: and, later on, a dinner of sorts was produced, with some of our own champagne. But the house was very cold; and two days later I had pneumonia.
“Between you, you pulled me through; and I was myself again, before April was in. But things were difficult. Food was scarce and the beer was not fit to drink. And petrol was hard to come by. But Boy had made friends with the Commandant of the District, an old-type, sad-faced Frenchman, and he had German petrol and gave us what he could spare. We’d just enough to get into Pau once a week. For they said that I must be fed up: and there you could buy butter – under the counter of course, at two pounds ten a pound. But these things didn’t matter, for we were at home. And our faithful servants were looking after us. When we went down to Pau, we always took the maid or the butler, to give them a treat. There was one other servant, a little local girl; and, of course, we all pulled our weight.
“And then, almost exactly two months from the day on which we had returned, the storm broke.
“It was after dinner, and we were in the library. The butler came in to take the coffee-cups. Daphne told him she wanted to speak to her maid. Two minutes later, perhaps, the woman came in.
“‘Oh, —, in case I forget, we’re not going to Pau tomorrow, but on Monday, instead.’
“The faithful servant stared.
“‘But I have an appointment with my couturier. He is to fit the frock which I am to wear at my cousin’s wedding next week.’
“We all looked at her.
“‘In that case,’ said Daphne, ‘you may have leave tomorrow to go to Pau by train.’
“‘And walk to and from the station?’
“‘Yes,’ said Daphne. ‘We cannot spare the petrol to take you there and back.’
“The woman went off the deep end, shouting abuse in patois, like a fish-wife of Dieppe.
“In a flash, Boy had the door open and I ordered her out of the room.
“After a moment or two, the butler appeared.
“‘Madame will understand that — is greatly upset.’
“‘Have you come to apologize for her?’
“The faithful servant sniggered.
“‘By no means. But as her husband–’
“‘Leave the room,’ said I.
“When we were alone, I looked round.
“‘And now,’ said I.
“‘Not now,’ said Boy. He looked at the door. ‘We’ll have it out tomorrow on what used to be the lawn.’
“And so we did. I’d been in bed for three weeks, so I hadn’t seen or observed what the others had. But they had discovered quite a lot – regarding the faithful servants who had wept for joy to see their patrons again. The reason why I had gone down with pneumonia was that the house had been unoccupied for several weeks. Not a picture had been moved, though we had paid for their transport to and from some farm. The under-clothes which Daphne and Jill had been wearing the day before we left in 1940 were still unwashed in 1945. The shirts which — had been making for me in June 1940 were still unfinished after five years. A pipe had burst in January 1941, and some of the books in the library had been wet. They were still wet on our return, for they had never been taken from their shelves. And that, after four years. Our milk, which had always been delivered, had to be fetched now by the little local maid. The farmer, to whom I had lent money in 1939, asked the maid why I didn’t come and get it myself. Boy had come in by the guard-room, wearing his British Warm. Passing through the servants’ quarters he had seen the priest of Besse, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking with the butler and the maid. All had risen, so Boy went in to greet the curé whom he had known so well. The man had insulted the British uniform. However well we had known them, no peasant uncovered when Daphne or Jill approached. And they never used the third person, as they had always done. In his efforts to obtain petrol, Boy had been grossly insulted by one of the Prefet’s staff.
“Well, we were up against it. If we fired ‘the faithful servants’ we couldn’t go on, for the little local maid knew nothing at all, but they obtained the food which we had to have to live. And no hotel would take you for more than two or three nights.
“The nearest British Consul was the man at Bordeaux. He was passing through Pau on Monday. That was why we were going down, for I wanted to visit London for three or four days. And I wanted my passport endorsed, so that I could get back. But now we had to consider whether or no we could stay.
<
br /> “Finally we decided that we couldn’t, and the bitter months that followed proved our decision good.
“And so, on Monday, I had a talk with the man.
“I said we had tried and had failed, and he didn’t seem much surprised. Then I asked about visas for Spain and Portugal. ‘They’re easy,’ he said. ‘The exit permit’s the snag.’ ‘What, from this country?’ He nodded. ‘Can’t I get that at The Prefecture?’ He shook his head. ‘Your application must be submitted to the French Foreign Office. You must have a very good reason, which must be supported by documentary evidence. And the application may or may not be granted in two months’ time.’ ‘What, to leave this blasted country?’ ‘That is so.’ ‘I’m a British Subject by birth, and you are the British Consul.’ ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I can do nothing at all.’
“No Englishman likes living in a foreign country which he is not permitted to leave. So our applications went in without delay. We made inquiries about accommodation in Pau. This could not be obtained. When we asked about servants, people laughed in our face. ‘Do you seek to take a bandit into your house?’
“So there was nothing for it. We had to stay at Gracedieu and we had to retain our ‘faithful servants’, in order to live. As did everyone else, we lived upon the black market – the lawful ration of meat was four ounces a month. And they alone knew the ropes. Why they stayed, I don’t know: I suppose it suited their book. But life was more than unpleasant. The hatred, malice and uncharitableness, with which we met, became the order of the day. From high and low. It was intolerable.
“About this time the French Government called in all banknotes. The idea was to reduce the unlawful issue by handing back ten francs for twenty. But the Government lost its nerve. So it handed back twenty for twenty. But at least it knew what money in notes was out. Our parish consisted of just five hundred souls – that was the complement of three villages. If those five hundred souls had handed in six hundred thousand francs in 1939, I should have been surprised. In 1945 they handed in fifty-three million. And I know that that figure is true.
“Nearly three months of hell went by, with things growing worse and worse. We came to hate our condition. Our one idea was to leave for ever the home which we loved so much. The summer was nonpareil. Day after glorious day. But we found no pleasure in it. We stayed on the terrace and on our property: and, when we talked, we talked in the open air. We dreaded being called in the morning. There was no health in us. At last Boy wrote to our Military Attaché in Paris. Five days later we had the visas we sought. We obtained our Spanish visas and those for Portugal. And we wrote to Cook’s man at Hendaye, to say that we should be leaving on October the tenth. (I seem to be out in my dates: but I know we were there for eight months and that that was the day we left.) And we asked him to arrange with an agent for the passage through Spain of the car. As is always done. He wrote back and said that he would.
“Boy went to call on the Commandant of the District.
“‘Mon Colonel, our visas have come, and very soon now we shall go.’
“The Commandant shook his head.
“‘No, my friend,’ he said. ‘You have your visas, yes. But you will not leave France. You will be stopped at the frontier. I know what I know. Visas or no, they do not mean you to leave.’
“‘Impossible,’ cried Boy. ‘And what do they want with us?’
“‘I do not know,’ said the other. ‘I only know that they will not allow you to leave. They will find some fault in your passports or something wrong with the papers concerning your car. They do not mean you to go. Do not think that I blame you at all. I wish I could go myself. And now please listen to me. As the military authority here, I can get you out. But I alone can do it. I have an officer at Hendaye, and, if you will give me the date, I will instruct him myself to do as I say. And you must do as I say in every particular.’
“‘We propose to leave,’ said Boy, ‘on October the tenth. We have dismissed the servants, and they are to leave on the eighth. On the ninth a responsible caretaker will come in. That day we shall leave for Pau, where we shall pass the night. And on the tenth we shall leave for San Sebastian.’
“‘Today is the twenty-ninth. I shall visit Hendaye in three days’ time. Please come to bid me goodbye one week from today.’
“Wide-eyed, Boy thanked him and left. One week later, he took his most careful instructions and bade that good man farewell.
“‘Drive to the Town-hall in Hendaye. The tricolour hangs outside. Be there exactly at two. On no account enter the front: go round to the back. There, in a little office, my officer will be waiting. Do as he says, for he is a faithful man.’
“We did as he said.
“The officer was ready and waiting.
“‘Sirs,’ he said, ‘the grey car outside is my car. Drive down the Street and turn. As you come back, you will see the grey car moving. Follow me.’
“He led us towards the Bridge. Then he entered the grounds of a handsome private house. He stopped by the door and alighted. ‘We must see the Head of the Sûreté. The ladies will stay in the car.’ One minute later, we were ushered into a salon upon the first floor. A keen-faced, grey-haired man looked up from his desk. ‘Sir,’ said the other, ‘these are the English gentlemen of whom the Commandant spoke.’ The other rose and bowed. ‘Are your passports in order?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And the ladies?’ ‘Are still in the car.’ ‘You will permit me to see them. I will come down.’ We left the room and the house. He stepped to the car and bowed to Daphne and Jill, who inclined their heads. Then he turned to me. ‘This officer will lead you to the Bridge. As you approach, you will pass him and go on alone. But he will stay behind, until you are gone. I am going now to ring up the Bridge myself.’ We thanked him as best we could. Then we re-entered the car, followed the grey car out and drove to the Bridge. As we approached it, the grey car let us go by and pulled in to the side of the way.
“We stopped just short of the pole, and Boy and I got out. Cook’s man was there and was grinning all over his face.
“‘Have you got the agent?’ says Boy. ‘To pass the car through Spain?’
“‘Your passports first,’ said the other. ‘There is the office there.’
“‘I asked for the agent,’ said Boy.
“‘When your passports are stamped,’ said the other – and very near laughed in his face.
“Together we turned to the office. A dreadful-looking fellow was standing in the doorway, smiling like hell. As we came up, ‘Ah,’ says he. ‘The Commandants Pleydell, I think. May I see the passports you bear?’ And he stretched out his hand.
“‘I think,’ I said, ‘you have had a telephone message – about our party, I mean.’
“The man shook his head, smiling.
“‘No,’ he said. ‘And now your passports, please.’
“And, as he spoke, I heard the telephone-bell…
“He turned and entered his office. This was small, and I could see and hear him from where I stood.
“‘But, yes. They have just arrived, sir. I am about to… But, sir… Very good, sir… And the car, also?…Very good, sir… Yes, it is understood… At once, sir… Certainly.’
“When he came back to the doorway, his smile was gone. And his manner was wholly changed. The man was scared.
“‘If Monsieur will give me the passports, I am to stamp them at once.’
“He was as good as his word. As he gave me the passports back, he looked very hard at Cook’s man on the opposite side of the way. We walked to where the latter was standing, looking as glum as hell. ‘Where’s the agent?’ said Boy. ‘Have – have your passports been stamped?’ he faltered. ‘Of course,’ snaps Boy. ‘Where’s the agent you said would be here?’
“The man was sunk. He had instructed no agent, because he knew that we should not be allowed to proceed. And now we were being allowed, and our passports were stamped. ‘I will find the agent,’ he said. ‘While I am gone, this officer will clear you
r car.’
“Looking something dazed, the Customs stamped some papers and handed them back. Then I went off to collect our trunks from the station…
“The agent, who had not been warned, had made no arrangements with Spain and naturally declined to issue a guarantee. But, after what had happened, we wouldn’t have slept in France for fifty cars. So our trunks were piled on hand-carts, which porters pushed over the Bridge, and we drove slowly behind them into Spain. The Customs had been so dithered that they’d never inspected the car or opened one trunk.
“The Spaniards were kindness itself. An agent was found, and I explained our case. He’d never seen us before, but he guaranteed the car: by that, I mean that he promised the Customs in writing that he would pay them the duty upon a car which was worth one thousand pounds, if that car was not out of Spain within seven days. He helped us to register our baggage, sealed the trunks himself and gave us the receipts. We had just enough Spanish money to do these things. Then, ‘Excuse me,’ he said politely, ‘but francs are no good in Spain. You will have to stay at hotels and how will you pay your bills?’ ‘I really don’t know,’ I said. ‘I can give them cheques on Lisbon.’ ‘You will stay three nights,’ he said. ‘And Spain is expensive today.’ He took his pocket-book out. ‘I think you should have fifty pounds.’ He gave me the notes there and then. ‘But to pay you back?’ I said. ‘I will send my account to Lisbon. Your bank will arrange.’ I suppose that can be beaten. But, after France… I suppose it was strain, but, before I could manage to thank him, I had to master my voice.
“Well, that is the sordid story… And you will bear me out that every word is true. People may refuse to believe it: but I don’t care. For all of us know that it’s true in every particular. And that is why we shall never go back to Gracedieu and why you will never write the book which you meant to write.
“Now it’s no good pretending that ours was an isolated case; for it was nothing of the kind. British resident after British resident returned to his home in France, met with the treatment we met with, hoped for a while against hope and finally threw in his hand. I don’t say that efforts were made to prevent him from leaving the country: whether they were or no, I have no idea. But, always because of his treatment, he had to go.
As Berry and I Were Saying Page 16