The hurt had instantly shadowed across Lisette’s face. ‘Luc, you’ve got to snap out of this. For Harry’s sake, for my sake! This is our home now.’
The reality of her sentiment had only deepened his personal crisis.
When Luc took the time to examine the chaos in his mind, he believed his discontent stemmed from his sense of impotency to fulfil promises. He had promised himself he would find his family, or at least find out what had happened to them. He had promised to return to central France one day and see young Robert and his grandmother, who had saved his life and nursed him back to health. Robert would be about twelve now, and Luc had to wonder whether Marie was still alive. Who would be looking after that sunny, sweet child who’d bravely cut his thumb to share blood with him? ‘I’ll come back,’ Luc had promised, but years had passed.
He had also promised to find a German who had inflicted perhaps the greatest wound when he forced Luc to murder an old man he loved as a father.
Then there was the silent, wounding despair that ate away at him day and night in not living up to his promise that he gave his beloved grandmother that he would be the keeper of the lavender; that he would never let its magic die and that he would plant it again one day.
‘It will save your life; give you life,’ she had said often enough in that singsong way of hers.
Perhaps the lavender’s magic had kept them safe, but where was that magic now?
The single promise he’d fulfilled was the one he’d made to his enemy. Markus Kilian had been an enigma. As a decorated and beloved colonel in the Wehrmacht, he represented everything Luc despised. But strip away the uniform, the status, and Kilian embodied all that Luc admired in a man. Kilian had lost his life protecting Luc but both of them knew the sacrifice was ultimately for Lisette … and her safety. Luc knew Kilian had hated the Nazis but he had loved Germany. When he died, it was with Lisette’s name on his lips, a genuine and respectful smile for Luc, and an unblemished record of patriotism. It could so easily have been Luc bleeding out in the Tuileries Garden that terrible night as Paris was liberated.
As the colonel had counted his life in minutes, Kilian asked Luc to post a letter for him upon his death. It had taken Luc a long period to do so, choosing the right time when letters wouldn’t be seized by the Allied forces. At the end of 1945 he had bought a British stamp and posted Kilian’s bloodstained letter within another envelope to Ilse Vogel in Switzerland. He’d accompanied the letter with a note of his own, written in French. He could have written it in fluent German but that was too risky. He’d never heard back from Miss Vogel and didn’t expect to.
Luc knew he shouldn’t, but he frequently wondered how often Lisette thought about her German lover. When thoughts of them together crowded his mind he’d come here to the cliff edge – where far too many people willingly stepped off – to let the wind blow the jealousy away. For he had made promises and needed to keep them … sometime, somehow, but not yet.
Luc stood, stretched and licked the salty film from his lips. The sky had brightened considerably. If he walked back around the headland he’d see the old Belle Tout lighthouse that had been decommissioned at the turn of the century. It was a wonderful old building on the highest part of the cliff face. If Luc had worked there, he could have gone home each night, cuddled his son and kissed his wife, but the lighthouse had proved ineffective. When sea mists gathered or low cloud descended, the craft would sail perilously close to the cliffs.
The new red-and-white-striped lighthouse that had been built out to sea was his place of work now. He rotated shifts with two others to ensure the bursts of light every twenty seconds were visible beyond twenty-five miles out to sea. Today was the first day of a two-month posting for him. Leaving Lisette and Harry was becoming harder with each new eight-week shift. As his son grew, Luc realised he was missing out on milestones: Harry’s first smile, his first tooth, his first strangled attempt at a word. It had been ‘Daddy’, according to Lisette.
He preferred the midnight-to-0400 watch most of all, when it was silent and dark … and lonely. His life in the lighthouse was a perfume concoction of brass polish, petroleum gas oil and lubricating oil … and paint, of course. Three keepers sharing a confined space meant the smell of men spiced the air too. His watch hours flew: winding the lens clock, checking that the burners were pricked out, that the fuel tanks were stocked to keep the light burning constantly through the night. He was happy to tackle whatever needed to be done.
When he was off-duty, every third day, and if the weather was being kind and the tide was out, he would scramble over the rocks and their tiny pools of crabs, and make his way across the exposed wet sand and onto the smooth pebbles. He’d take a few moments – even by torchlight if it was still too dark – and find Harry some special pebbles, before he leapt up onto the seafront proper.
Sometimes, if things were slow, he could sneak a lift back in the relief boat and make a quick dash up the steep, looping pathways to the promenade. He’d all but run the short way home to startle Lisette with a surprise visit, desperate to cuddle his wife and son for the daylight hours. She’d always turn misty-eyed to see him as he lifted her up and twirled her around in his arms. And they’d not let each other go, other than to lavish Harry with kisses and hugs, stories and playtime. They’d have eight hours together and then he’d be running back down to the front, braving the treacherous rocks again to make his shift.
Meanwhile Lisette loved their life and could only improve it if Luc were with her every day. She was making new friends by the week, was a member of two women’s groups and was talking about doing some amateur dramatics. And Harry, of course, gave her life its new focus.
Luc wished he could solve his problem of dislocation. There was a gulf they couldn’t fully bridge and it was called the English Channel.
‘Let’s move back to France, then,’ Lisette had said a month or so earlier. ‘Perhaps you’ll be happier there.’
‘No. You’ve built a life for Harry here.’
‘He’s a child, Luc. He’ll adapt. He’s half French.’
‘German too,’ he’d snipped.
She’d cut him a dark look. ‘Let it go.’
He’d nodded but they’d both known he was lying; he couldn’t let it go.
‘Listen, Luc. Let’s get some professional help,’ she’d suggested softly. ‘There are psychologists who can—’
‘I’m not having anyone poking around in my mind. No, Lisette. I’m not mad.’
Her gaze had narrowed then. ‘I know, Luc. But you are maudlin.’
‘Everyone is! A war has just finished. Everyone’s lost someone.’
‘No. Everyone is not behaving like you; quite the opposite, in fact. Everyone else is looking forward. There’s a sense of optimism. Yes, we’ve all lost someone but we don’t wear that pain like a badge of honour.’
He hadn’t understood her turn of phrase but he’d grasped the meaning. ‘And I do?’
She’d given him the saddest of smiles – a mixture of gentle disdain but also pain. ‘Every waking moment, Luc. It’s as though you won’t allow us to be happy.’
Won’t allow us to be happy … he heard the echo of her words in his mind. And she was right. He was holding them back; him and his bleak mood and his unfulfilled promises.
He sighed. This existence couldn’t last, not with Harry growing and increasingly needing his father around, but that thorny issue of what next should be left for another day’s soul searching. As he stood, dusted himself down, the brighter light picked out a small silhouette in the distance. A youth? He was staring over the edge of the cliff as if looking for something, his breath curling in white smoke. From what Luc could tell, the man didn’t even have a coat on or scarf. Who went walking in April without being rugged up properly?
‘He’ll catch his death,’ Luc murmured to himself, unaware that for once he was using a proper English idiom.
As a gull gave a mournful cry over the beach Luc realised that this was prec
isely what the fellow intended. He wanted to catch his death … he was planning to jump.
‘Hey!’ Luc shouted and then whistled loudly in the way that Harry was practising hard to master. He ran full pelt at the figure, who’d whipped his head around to search for the intruder. Somewhere in the back of Luc’s mind he knew experts would disapprove of his approach, but he knew a thing or two about contemplating one’s own death and about what the demons in a dark mind could achieve with their infernal whisperings.
‘Stop!’ the fellow yelled back, holding up a hand. It was only hearing the deeper voice that Luc realised it was a man, not a teenager.
‘You stop!’ Luc hurled at him, not breaking stride until he was within a few yards. Then he slowed, feigned breathlessness, his hands near his knees. ‘Give me a moment,’ he gasped, winning some precious time.
The newcomer was distracted and Luc, as he straightened, got a better look at him. He was small, maybe five foot six, tops. He was likely in his late twenties, perhaps early thirties; clean-shaven, dark, short, combed and oiled hair with a neat parting. Even the tie he wore over a pressed white shirt was knotted neatly at his throat. He obviously planned to be found dressed and ready for his own funeral. Luc noticed a walking stick on the ground nearby. The man had been crying; his eyes glossy from his tears and his nose bright red from the stinging cold. ‘Leave me alone!’ he said.
‘My name’s Luc,’ Luc replied, pronouncing his name the English way.
‘I don’t care.’
‘What’s yours?’
‘I’m not telling you.’
‘It’s the least you can do.’
‘What?’ The man frowned.
‘I can save the police a whole lot of time if I can give them the name of the man splattered below.’
His eyes widened with fear. ‘Shut up!’
Luc gave a small gust of scorn, covering the step he took nearer by waving his arms at the man. ‘Make me.’
‘You’re twice as big as me.’
‘And then you’re a cripple, of course,’ Luc said, nodding towards the walking stick.
‘You bastard!’
‘Oui, c’est moi. Luc, the French bastard.’
‘Yes, I can tell you’re foreign.’
‘Why? Because an Englishman would politely let you jump? Mind his own business?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes!’
‘No, because like you he would be a coward,’ Luc baited, taking another step closer now. He was just steps away from being able to poke the fellow in the chest.
‘Coward?’ the man railed, his voice high and angry. ‘Listen, mate, we didn’t hand over the keys to London. You French just gave Hitler a very warm welcome, didn’t you, and expected the English to save you.’
The well-worn insult barely cut. But Luc sat down suddenly, pretending that all the stuffing had been punched out of him. He sighed, dug in his pocket for cigarettes. He didn’t smoke but in order to fit in he habitually carried around a pack. His co-workers had cottoned on soon enough and curiously liked him more for the pretence.
‘Cigarette?’ he offered.
The man nodded, looking resigned, and Luc was careful to flick the pack over. When he flung over a box of matches, he inched a bit closer while the man was distracted. Luc held a cigarette between his lips but didn’t light up and his companion didn’t notice.
Luc watched him take a slow drag, his fingers trembling in the chill, which he let out with an equally slow sigh. ‘I’m Eddie. Edward, my mother calls me.’
‘Why?’
Eddie blinked. ‘Because that’s what she christened me.’
Luc grinned. ‘No, why die now?’
Eddie looked startled at the directness of the question.
‘That was your intention, wasn’t it?’ Luc said, carefully putting it into the past tense.
Eddie nodded, took another drag. He was shivering. ‘My wife and new baby were killed in the bombings. We were living in the East End – couldn’t afford much else – and Vera, well, she liked her job at the War Ministry. She was a good secretary, was our Vera. Her mother looked after our son when he came along – she lived with Vera while I was away. We called him Harold, after my dad, who died in the Great War.’
Luc swallowed at the mention of his son’s name, but suddenly nothing in his world smelt good. Even the taste of Eddie’s tobacco at the back of Luc’s throat was bitter.
‘It was her day off, apparently,’ Eddie continued, unaware of Luc’s discomfort. ‘Her friend told me they were going to take the youngsters to the zoo but Harry woke up sickening so they stayed home with her mother … and died.’ Eddie’s voice shook. ‘Direct hit. All three gone. Them and a few other families.’ He gave a mirthless, shrugging laugh. ‘I was at the Front and all I lost was the use of my leg.’ He banged on it. ‘Useless bastard thing it is.’ He startled Luc by picking up the walking stick and with surprising strength hurling it over the edge of the cliff. Luc watched it fly through the air, heard it clatter below them somewhere and hoped it was symbolic … that Eddie’s fire had burnt to cold with that gesture. ‘I’ve tried to make a good fist of it, Luc, really I have. But without Vera …’ He trailed off, looked away. ‘I never got to hold my boy. He was blown to smithereens, not even six months old. I had nothing to bury. I can’t even visit a grave for my family. They’re just gone. It’s as if they were never there.’ He began to sob. Luc no longer waited, shifting to hold Eddie’s shaking shoulders. He remained silent until Eddie’s tears were spent. ‘I don’t want to live without them.’
‘Vera wouldn’t be very proud of you, though, if you threw your life over this cliff, would she? You said she was good at her job, loved her work?’
Eddie nodded.
‘That meant she was brave – going to work each day, risking the Blitz, and why? Because she believed that every little bit she contributed was keeping you safer. That one day you’d come home to her.’
‘But I didn’t. She wasn’t there. All I got was a telegram, a glass of brandy with my commanding officer and a slightly earlier release.’
‘But you did come home, Eddie. That was what Vera wanted. She kept you safe in her mind but not for this,’ Luc said, pointing to the cliff. ‘You’d make a mockery of her, giving your life cheaply, when you survived the war, dodged all those bullets and bombs.’
Eddie smiled sadly. ‘Not all of them.’
‘Well, the useless leg makes you a hero. She’d want you to enjoy the peaceful England that you both fought for. You owe it to her, Eddie. In her honour, find a way through this. There’s work for men like you and although it doesn’t seem so right now, there’s a happy life to be lived if you forgive yourself for surviving and forgive Vera and Harry for dying.’
I am such a hypocrite, Luc thought at that moment, hating himself.
Eddie’s tears began to fall again. ‘I don’t feel strong enough …’
‘You are, though. Think of the men who didn’t make it. Live a little for them. Live … because they gave their lives so you could.’
The advice was easy to give … he could hear the sense in his words; why couldn’t he drink some of his own tonic?
Eddie nodded. ‘When you say it like that, it does feel cowardly to end it all.’
‘It is cowardly to end it all. It’s far braver to live.’
‘I thought that’s why you were here too,’ Eddie admitted.
‘To jump?’ Luc looked incredulous.
Eddie shrugged.
‘No,’ Luc said, feeling the pinch of goosebumps pucker on his skin in silent alarm. Is that how he’d appeared? Desperate? As bleak as Eddie?
‘No,’ he repeated and shook his head firmly. ‘I’m just a grumpy French bastard who likes his own company.’
‘No wife?’
He nodded, feeling a needle of embarrassment. ‘I have a beautiful wife and a son.’
‘Then what the hell are you doing up here, man? What wouldn’t I give for the same!’
It was Luc’s
turn to nod, to feel ashamed. ‘I was just on my way home.’
‘Then go home,’ Eddie said. ‘Don’t worry about me. The moment has passed,’ he said, standing awkwardly and holding out his hand. ‘I’ll go to the pub where it’s warm and drown my sorrows hopefully.’
Luc stood and offered a handshake in farewell. ‘How will you go?’
‘I’ll limp.’ He grinned, then lifted a shoulder in resignation. ‘I won’t jump, I give you my word. Not today, anyway.’
‘Don’t go to the pub. Come home with me.’
His companion looked at him quizzically.
‘Come and have a homecooked meal, get warm, meet my family – my son’s called Harry too. He’s three.’
Eddie shook his head. ‘Too hard. I’ll get upset.’
‘No, you won’t. You’ll have a happy time. I have some excellent whisky, too. Come on. It will be good for you to be with a family.’
‘So I’ll know what I’m missing?’ Eddie said, not fully able to hide the bitter tone.
‘No, so you’ll know what you have to look forward to.’ Luc squeezed his companion’s hand. ‘Never reject a Frenchman’s offer … it’s bad luck.’
‘Really?’
‘No, I made that up but it sounds good, eh?’
A smile ghosted faintly beneath Eddie’s sad façade. ‘You sure your wife won’t mind?’
‘Lisette? She loves company. She’ll be impressed I have a friend to bring home.’
‘Don’t tell her how we met.’
‘Of course not.’
‘It will take ages for me to get down without my stick, you realise that?’
Luc bent over. ‘Get on my back.’
‘You’re joking, right?’
He shook his head. ‘I used to do this in the war over far tougher ground than this. Come on, it’s cold and my wife gets cranky when I’m late.’
Eddie frowned. Luc beckoned impatiently. Finally Eddie shrugged and clambered onto Luc’s back and they set off, feeling ridiculous, but Luc’s stride was long and purposeful and he was grateful suddenly for Eddie’s arrival into his world that reminded him how fortunate his own life was.
Luc took a final wistful look at France, which he could now clearly see across the stretch of water, and comforted himself with the pretence that it was not old fish or seaweed he could smell on the salted breeze, but the perfume of wild lavender.
The French Promise Page 4