by Anna Jacobs
Helen stopped dead in the hallway, a sinking feeling making her legs seem suddenly too heavy to move. It was a moment before she could even speak. ‘What do you mean? Where's Harry?’
More tears, with the words barely distinguishable. ‘Il est parti!’
‘Gone! What do you mean “gone”?’
‘Monsieur said you knew all about it, that it had been arranged between you. But I knew it was not so, or you would have told me. I tried to stop him. Ah, mon petit ange, où es-tu maintenant?’
Helen swallowed hard and asked in a voice which trembled, try as she might to keep calm.
‘Please tell me quickly what happened!’
‘ Eh bien, your husband, he grow angry, shout at me. And then he take the child away. And the poor little fellow was screaming and kicking.’ Madame collapsed again, sobbing loudly into her apron. ‘ J'ai fait tout mon possible, je vous assure!’
Helen turned and without a word to Madame, ran up to their rooms, dreading what she would find there. No sign of Harry or Robert. One of their two wicker trunks was missing altogether, as were Robert's clothes and some of Harry's. On the floor behind the door she found the toy dog, which Harry took with him everywhere. How would he sleep without Dodo? Where would he be sleeping that night? She picked the limp creature up and pressed it to her breast, but wouldn’t allow the tears to start. Not yet. Now she had to think, to make plans to find her son.
First she looked for a note. Robert must have left one, for he would want her to follow. It was ten minutes before she found the tiny scrap of paper he had used. It had fallen off the mantelpiece into the hearth. She had nearly missed it. Her heart went cold at the thought and her hands were trembling so much that she had to spread it on the table to read it.
Harry and I will be waiting for you in Nice. Inquire at Le Chat Gris, near the Town Hall.
No signature, no reassurances that he would look after the child.
She paced up and down the room, feeling quite sick with rage at him and his selfishness. How dared he take her son from her? How dared he? But she soon admitted to herself that, as usual, Robert had got his own way. She must now wind up their affairs here in Beziers and follow him to Nice. And as soon as possible. He was no fit person to be in charge of a child.
Chapter 7
‘Bad man!’ Harry had said, when his mother found them. ‘Bad man took me away!’ And he continued to infuriate Robert by repeating this catch phrase whenever he was particularly upset by his father's high-handed behaviour.
‘About time you taught that young devil some manners!’ Robert complained. ‘Threw his porridge at me this morning, he did. See if you can get my blue coat clean, will you? I have to go out tonight.’
Not a word about the way he had taken Harry away from her, let alone a greeting or an apology.
‘If you ever take my son away from me again,’ she said, blocking the doorway for a moment and speaking quietly, but with grim determination. ‘I shall leave you for ever - whether you're ill or not!’
She hugged Harry close and he clung to her like a limpet.
Robert snapped his fingers in her face. He was always one for a stupid theatrical gesture, she thought.
‘Been finding out a few things about that, my pet. As his father, I get to keep the boy if you walk out on me, for whatever reason. So don't try anything, or you'll be sorry! Now, have a look at my coat, for heaven's sake, or I'll be late.’
Horror made her blood run as cold as ice water in her veins. She closed her eyes for a moment and bit back further threats. What was the use? Robert had changed, even in a few days. He was not only more confident, he was feverishly intent on his own concerns.
As the days passed, she found out that he’d made friends with a set of ‘good fellows’, who preyed upon the rich visitors to Nice. These new companions seemed to have brought out the worst in him.
He might never have had an acting career. All he thought of now was, as he phrased it, ‘living off my wits’.
The Perrimans spent the whole summer in Nice. As there were a lot of foreigners there, it wasn’t as easy for Helen to obtain employment teaching English. Instead, to Robert's great annoyance, she offered her services as a seamstress.
‘What does it look like, my wife taking in sewing?’ he raged. ‘What'll people think?’
‘No one knows us here, so they won't think anything.’
Harry sidled behind his mother and hid his face in her skirt. The time he’d spent alone with his father had upset him very much indeed and he’d hardly left her side since.
‘They know me! How can I play the part of a gentleman if you insist on taking in sewing?’
‘You'll manage somehow.’ A gentleman! He was the antithesis of this ideal.
‘And anyway, there's no need!’ He flung a coin at her, catching her on the finger and cutting it.
‘See! I've plenty of money. So you don't need to work!’
She picked up the coin and sucked the blood from her finger. ‘I prefer to work. For when your luck turns again.’
‘Damn you, don't talk like that! You'll make it turn!’
She shook her head helplessly. You couldn't reason with him on the twin subjects of luck and gambling. She tried to change the conversation to something less fraught with conflict. ‘Shall I look around for some other rooms? These are nice, but they're expensive - and it's not a good place for Harry. It's very noisy.’
‘Certainly not! I like it here. It's very convenient for me. I’m the head of this family, and it’s about time you started doing what I say.’
It was convenient for his gambling, he meant. She found the place very noisy and there was nowhere outside for Harry to play safely. ‘Well, as long as you can pay the rent, we'll stay,’ she said, as quietly as ever. ‘But if you can't, I shall find somewhere else. I can't afford to keep up a place like this.’
‘It's me who is paying and I can afford it!’
There was just no reasoning with Robert since he'd come to Nice. And it was certainly the longest winning spell she could remember. But she knew, oh, yes, she knew in her bones, that it couldn't possibly last.
Whenever she had time, Helen took Harry for walks or to play on the beach. He was tall and strong for his age and he possessed, like his father she was forced to admit, a great deal of charm. He had his father's wavy hair and bright blue eyes, too, but he also had, she thought, a certain strength of character, young as he was. Anything he started to do, he must finish, and he wept bitterly if he failed. He was devoted to his mother but disliked his father, who rarely did anything but shout at him to keep quiet.
And although for the whole of that summer, Robert’s wits and his luck served him well, he regained none of the weight he had lost and his cheeks were rarely without a hectic flush. He grew tired easily, too. She had no need to worry about him pressing his attentions upon her, because he was always exhausted when he came home. They didn't share a bed, because he often slept badly, sweating a lot and blaming it on ‘this damned heat’.
In the autumn there was a fight and some sort of scandal at one of the cafés which had a back room devoted to gambling. Robert came home looking dishevelled, with a bruise on his cheek and announced abruptly that they were going to winter further south. She'd better pack. He'd got them tickets for the following morning on the early stage coach to Milan.
‘Milan! But - what shall we do there?’
‘I have a position waiting for me if I want it. I’ve been thinking about going for a while now. I’m fed up of Nice and they say Milan is a big city, very modern.
Stunned, she could only stammer, ‘But - neither of us speaks Italian! How shall we manage?’
‘Oh, you'll learn the lingo soon enough. They tell me it's very like French, and look how good you are at speaking that!’
‘But how shall we - ?’
‘How, how, how,’ he mimicked, smiling knowingly. ‘We shall manage as we always do, you fool. By using our wits. Though I've got quite a bit of money
saved this time.’
That was news to her. He’d been short of money two days ago.
He gave her a push. ‘Stop worrying and start packing! I’ve got things all worked out.’
Helen looked at her sleeping son and wondered how she could get him away from this uncertain life, where they never stayed more than a few months in one place.
To think that she had once longed to travel! Now she longed for a real home, however modest.
As if he could read her thoughts, Robert came over to stand beside her and stare down at the boy.
‘Don't try anything stupid, my pet! Remember, the law is on my side. Even the clothes you're wearing belong to me legally.’
‘Why can you not let us go? You don't love us. We're only a burden to you! I can support Harry and myself.’ She touched his arm, her eyes pleading with him. ‘Please, let us go, Robert. You'll be happier without us.’
He threw her hand off. ‘I've told you why I need you. You're my luck! So I'll put up with the boy.
And if you ever try to get away from me, I'll make sure you don't see him again. I’ll put him somewhere you’ll never be able to find him. A father has very wide powers over his children, you know.’
He began to cough, a racking cough that went on for a long time. ‘Must have caught another damned cold,’ he muttered when it subsided.
Silently she handed him a drink of cold water and he raised it in a mock toast to her. She watched him sip it. ‘You need to rest, Robert. Can we not postpone our departure?’
‘I'll rest when we get there. We're better off away from Nice at the moment. I don’t know why the French want to get it back from Savoy. It’s a very over-rated place, if you ask me.’
What had he done now? Why must they leave in such a hurry? Feeling sick with worry, she set about packing.
They had to get off the stagecoach before they got to Milan, however. Robert's cold settled on his chest, the cough worsened and the other passengers complained. At the next stop, a small town about fifty miles from their destination, the coachman threw their luggage off and them with it. Feeling sorry for the tired-looking woman with a child so young and a husband so sick, he gave them back the balance of their fare. It was obvious this man would not make old bones, then the poor woman would have to shift for herself.
One of the passengers, who spoke a little French, told her there was a convent in the town, a nursing order. They should go to the good sisters for help.
The innkeeper took one look at Robert and refused to take him in, but he did make signs that he would let Robert wait with the luggage in a corner of the stables. Robert, dizzy with exhaustion and fever, sat slumped on his trunk.
‘ Suore,’ repeated the innkeeper several times. ‘Il convento è là.’ He shook Helen’s arm and pointed. Then he pointed to Robert. ‘Ospedale!’ He shook his head. ‘Molto malato.’
If she followed correctly what he was saying - and it did resemble French - the nuns and the convent were in that direction, and there was a hospital. She took Harry's hand. ‘Grazie, signor!’ She had already picked up a word or two, of necessity. ‘Come along, Harry. Let's find somewhere to stay.’
‘He’s a bad man!’ Harry scowled at the hunched figure of his father.
‘Shh!’
The convent was bare and immaculately clean. Its quiet and sense of peace made Helen long to sink into a chair and sleep for a week. Instead, she had to try to explain what was wrong to an elderly nun, who kept pinching Harry's cheek in a way he obviously disliked.
‘Doesn't anyone speak English?’ she asked after a while, when she didn't seem to be making any headway. ‘Inglese.’
‘Ah!’ The nun clasped her hands together. ‘Un momento.’ She vanished.
Helen sat there and the minutes ticked away. She began to worry. Surely the sister wouldn’t just have left them here? Then, another nun appeared, a rosy dumpling of a woman. ‘Sure, they said there was an English woman here,’ she teased, by way of a greeting. ‘And that’s nearly as good as being Irish.’
At the sound of her native tongue, Helen burst into tears and Harry immediately followed suit.
To the kindly nun, Helen at last managed to explain what the problem was. She wept harder in sheer relief, when the sister agreed to help her fetch Robert to the hospital. ‘You poor thing. You're exhausted! Come on, my dear, leave your husband to Sister Clara. I've told her what's wrong. Let me find you and the boy a place to rest.’
Oh, the relief of being put to bed and cosseted, of having the burdens lifted from her shoulders, even if only for an evening! Helen was installed in a small, very simply furnished bedroom, with a truckle bed set up beside her for Harry. She was fed hot soup, then a plate of something called pasta, covered in a delicious sauce.
Later, Harry was bathed in a large bowl in front of the fire by the same plump nun, whose name was Sister Concepta. No sooner had she seen him fall asleep, toy dog clutched to him, than Helen relaxed into a deep sleep herself.
She didn’t awaken until late the following afternoon. There was no sign of Harry, no noise and bustle, no sewing to be done, no jolting coach and best of all, no demanding husband. She sighed and lay there drowsily, reluctant to get up and break the spell.
Sister Concepta tiptoed in a little later. ‘Ah, you're awake now, are you? Good! I'll fetch you something to eat.’
‘Harry?’
‘Eating a piece of bread in the kitchen and playing with the kittens. That's a fine child you have there, my dear.’
‘And - my husband?’ She wished she didn't have to ask this, wished she need never see or think of Robert again.
‘He's in our hospital. We're doing all we can for him. Do you - er - know how ill he is?’
‘Yes.’
The sister patted her hand. ‘It must be hard for you, to see your husband gradually getting worse .
. . ’
‘The hardest thing,’ said Helen bluntly, ‘is that he is my husband! He is not a - a kind, or even an honest man. And he's a gambler.’
‘Ah. Like that, is it?’ The sister squeezed her hand. ‘Well - the Lord's will be done.’
‘Yes. The Lord's will. I've kept my marriage vows, at least, but it can be very hard.’
‘It will be for the best in the end. You'll see. The Lord will provide.’
Helen could not imagine how anything that had happened could possibly be for the best, but later, as she sat thinking, she realised that only Robert could have given her Harry, and Harry was worth everything she had suffered. Everything. So perhaps that was what Sister Concepta had meant.
The next day Helen was summoned to see the Mother Superior, an austere-looking woman, who questioned her curtly about her circumstances, with the help of Sister Concepta. They agreed not only to let Robert stay in the hospital, but also to give Helen and her son the use of a room, in return for Helen's help with whatever tasks there were.
‘Some of them will be dirty,’ warned Sister Concepta.
‘I'm no fine lady. I’ve always had to work hard to feed and house my son. As long as he's all right, I care little about myself. I'm a good seamstress, or I can scrub a floor. Whatever you need.’
She said nothing about the coins sewn into her petticoat.
She found the convent a very soothing place to stay and took to sitting in the chapel when her day's work was over. Sometimes she prayed; sometimes she just sat and let the peace wash over her; and sometimes she had the pleasure of listening to the sisters' exquisite singing. The voices soaring up into the darkness of the vaulted roof were so pure, they often brought tears to her eyes, and even Harry, young as he was, would sit quietly and listen with her.
After two weeks, Robert began to improve, confounding all the sisters' dire prognostications. But he was even thinner than before and he didn't lose the cough completely. He hated the convent, was often rude to those caring for him and as soon as he possibly could, he left, dragging his wife and child off to Milan.
‘If I don't turn up, th
ey'll give the position to someone else,’ he kept saying. ‘Why did you get off that coach? I could have rested in Milan just as easily.’
The position he had spoken of so glowingly was in an establishment totally devoted to gaming.
The hard-faced proprietor found it useful to have an English gentleman available to chat to the visitors from whom he took so much money. He claimed it lent a better tone to the place.
Robert seemed to feel that he could play the part of a gentleman to perfection, but his tales of the tricks used against the hapless visitors disgusted his wife. How had she been so blind as to think she loved this man? Why had her parents kept her so ignorant of the world? She would not, she vowed, keep Harry ignorant. She would tell him everything about their lives as soon as he was old enough to understand.
It was a hard winter in Milan, and the colder it became, the more Robert coughed. In February, even he admitted that they must move on yet again to an even milder climate. ‘Damned nuisance, this cough! But I haven't caught another cold, have I? I'm over the worst now. If I can only get away from these biting winds, I'll be fine. You'll see.’
Helen made no attempt to argue with him. If he wanted to fool himself, then let him! Anything to make him easier to live with! For as his health deteriorated, Robert's temper became more uncertain.
He had hit her several times recently, in sudden fits of rage - and once, once only, he hit Harry.
When that happened, she had seized a knife from the table and threatened him with it. ‘If you lay one finger on my son again, I'll kill you.’
He laughed in her face. ‘You're not the sort.’
She pushed her face right against his and spoke softly but viciously. ‘Try me, then. I promise you, I mean it. I'll do anything to protect Harry from you. Anything, including murder.’
For a moment everything hung in the balance, then muttering something about she-wolves and vixens defending their young, he swung out of the room.
After that, he left the boy alone and took his ill humour out on her alone. That upset Harry almost as much, anyway.