‘Je suis très, très désolè,’ he whispered and his voice was thick with sorrow. But she only had to look at his broken expression to know he was genuine in his apology.
She nodded, not quite ready to speak. In a heartbeat he’d scooped her and Harry into his arms and was holding her so close and tightly her feet lifted from the floor. Then he kissed her again; not tenderly this time, but with urgent passion.
‘You’re squeezing me, Daddy,’ Harry giggled. He wriggled himself around somehow and planted a kiss on his father’s mouth. ‘Did you bring me some treasures?’
‘In my pocket,’ Luc said, and winked at his boy. Harry squealed with happiness and while he made his way to the ground, Luc gave Lisette a haunted look. ‘I don’t want to fight,’ he whispered in French. ‘And I especially don’t want to do anything but love you when we have our precious time together,’ he whispered between kisses. Harry began to dig in his father’s pockets. ‘You and Harry are all that matters. Forgive me for mentioning his name; forgive me not understanding your needs. Forgive me for hurting you.’ He put her down and she nodded as he filled his arms with his son.
And still you do hurt me, she thought, knowing that she was all he had in his life to open up to. The French were still regarded by the stoic British as cowards who capitulated to the Germans. And no talk of the brave Resisters would change that opinion quickly. Nevertheless, Luc was accepted in this small community because of his marriage to her and, no doubt, his good looks and reticent manner. However, Lisette couldn’t imagine the repercussions if their neighbours had even a whiff that Luc’s background was pure German. Harry would have to live with the stigma of a ‘Nazi’ father, even though there were few more proudly French than Luc and he was one of the bravest Maquisards who had put his life on the line time and again to help the British spies in particular. ‘Forgive me,’ Luc whispered again.
She smiled with love. ‘Go on, show Harry the treasures,’ she said.
He caught her hand. ‘Take the job at The Grand. I don’t want you to ever feel trapped. What’s more, I think now that the weather’s improving we should do some daytrips, take a holiday.’
She brightened. ‘We can go for a picnic into the woods that I remember we visited in my teens. You’ll love it … bluebells and all.’
He kissed her hand as he pulled away. ‘No, I can do better than that. Get someone to look after Harry. I’m taking you to London.’
‘London!’ She couldn’t believe it.
‘We’ll go to the Festival of Britain. I know you want to.’
‘Oh, Luc,’ she squealed, with happiness this time. ‘Oh, yes, yes! I’d love it. They’re putting on special trains and everything.’
‘So I hear,’ he said, laughing.
‘Show me the treasures!’ Harry butted in.
‘For sure, my little man,’ he said with only warmth in his voice as he joined his son in his bedroom. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a fistful of flotsam and jetsam from the beach. ‘Lay these out and I’ll tell you the stories behind them.’
Harry grinned, dropping to his knees to carefully place each treasure next to the other in a neat row on his pillow.
Luc turned to Lisette. ‘Our trip to London will be a day when I shall spoil you filthy … as you English say.’
‘Rotten,’ she corrected. ‘Dinner’s in ten minutes.’
She left them alone to check everything was ready and then tiptoed back to listen to her two men outside Harry’s door. Lisette leant back against the wall of her son’s bedroom and listened to her husband tell his tall tales.
‘… and this grey one?’ Harry asked, sitting on his father’s lap on his bed.
‘Ah, that’s the biggest one. His name is souffle.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Souffle? Well, literally translated it means breath but in this case it means spat from the mouth of a giant.’
Harry gave a gasp and Lisette chuckled silently outside. This game was one neither son nor father ever tired of and it seemed her husband could fabricate amazing stories to go with the endless booty of pebbles, bits of glass, cuttlefish, starfish, broken crockery and shells he picked up from the beach on his way home.
‘What’s the giant’s name?’ Harry asked in wonder.
‘He’s called Orum and he has an army of dwarves that he’s captured and imprisoned who run all his errands and cook up the mountain of food he eats each day. This is a pip he spat out from the giant apple he’d eaten.’
‘Ahhh,’ Harry said in more wonder. ‘Who keeps all the dwarves from being naughty? Surely the giant can’t run after them.’
‘Quite right, my little piglet,’ Luc replied. ‘He has goblins for that job.’
Lisette heard the soft clunk of pebbles against each other. ‘This is a beautiful shell, Daddy. Who does this belong to? A fairy queen?’
‘No, darling boy. That belongs to your mother … I suppose she is a fairy queen in her own way.’ She heard Luc kiss his child’s head. ‘I picked that shell because it’s almost as beautiful as your mother. Look at that pearlescent interior and how it glistens in the light.’
‘I’d like to live in there,’ Harry remarked.
‘You do. You’re the prince.’ Luc must have tickled him because Harry gave an explosive screech and then helpless laughter followed. ‘Come on. Let’s go give the fairy queen our special magic shell.’
‘It’s magic?’
‘Oh, yes. Didn’t I mention that? The fairy queen can make wishes come true with this shell, but only she knows how …’
‘Thank you, Luc,’ Lisette muttered as she drifted back down the hall.
CHAPTER THREE
It was the middle of May and celebrations for the Festival of Britain were well underway. King George had officially opened the festivities, which were being hailed as a ‘tonic for Britain’ after years of austerity and the devastation of war. The two pretty princesses had waved to the cheering, flag-waving crowds that lined the route between the cathedral and Buckingham Palace. Some considered the whole notion a waste of public monies, but Luc thought it was inspired to host a nationwide celebration of the future to energise and reawaken a nation still in mourning.
The whole country was involved in the festival. Up and down the kingdom people were holding local exhibitions to promote the very best of all things British. And the government was determined that every member of the public who wanted to visit the main centre of the festivities at London’s South Bank could. It was to be five months of constant celebration. Just a few weeks into the festival it was all people were talking about, even in sleepy Eastbourne. Lisette was beyond excited about their trip.
Harry had been picked up by Irene, a close friend of Lisette’s and mother of two, who clearly adored their son. She was the one who’d urged them to stay overnight and come back early in the morning so that they could enjoy a night out.
They’d stepped aboard one of the special trains in the town centre and rattled their way north to London’s Waterloo station before a short walk to Festival Hall.
‘You look gorgeous,’ Luc admitted to his wife and the flush of excitement on her cheeks was a balm. He couldn’t remember seeing her so happy, other than on the day of Harry’s birth. Her trim figure was returning rapidly and she’d put on an eye-catching new outfit for spring.
‘It’s the new look,’ she said, twirling the circular skirt for him. ‘I treated myself. Like it?’
Like it? He’d wanted to tear it off her and kiss the tiny waist it was cinching with its cheeky bow-shaped belt, and nuzzle the breasts her incredibly provocative off-the-shoulder ribbed knit was outlining. She was a picture in pale blue. Her hair was now fashionably cut and flicked around her ears, which wore the tiny pearl earrings he’d given her for her last birthday. He didn’t see her dressed up like this often enough and had perhaps taken for granted, or forgotten, what a stunning woman Lisette was. She was now a heart-stopping 31-year-old. His wife would turn heads today but he didn’t
care; she wore his ring.
They could see the dramatic, cigar-shaped Skylon Tower for miles. It was a nod towards futuristic buildings and had become the main emblem for the posters and promotions for the festival.
‘That looks like a space rocket,’ he said. ‘And the dome looks like a flying saucer.’
Lisette had laughed as she tore open the newspaper and the heady smell of vinegar on salted chips intoxicated them. ‘It’s not elegant but you’ve got to admit, this is good.’
Luc grinned. ‘Watch your skirt.’
She gave him a wry glance. ‘I don’t plan to wear it that long.’
‘Mechante!’ he whispered, feigning horror at her teasing.
Lisette nodded. ‘Wicked, eh? You should see what I have in store for you, Mr Ravens,’ she threatened, putting a crispy chip between her teeth.
He grinned and suddenly leant in to bite down on the chip.
‘So this dome,’ she said, flicking through the program, ‘features everything to do with the physical world.’
He frowned. ‘You mean the land, the sky?’
‘Yes, the sea, the poles, outer space, plants … perhaps even some lavender.’
He gave a sound of soft exasperation. ‘I know more about lavender than they could teach.’
‘Ooh,’ she mocked gently. ‘Aren’t you the boastful one?’
He shrugged. ‘The British know little about it. In the Luberon we grew the wild alpine lavender, the original strain with the purest oil. What they grow here …’ He made a typical French scoffing sound. ‘It’s full of camphor.’
‘Then grow your wretched wild lavender!’ she urged again, risking broaching the subject.
‘We need alpine conditions and an entirely different climate,’ he explained gently. ‘Arid summers, remember. Not rainy ones. And snow in winter.’
‘It snows in Eastbourne.’
‘Not enough.’
‘But it would make you happy to grow lavender again.’
He sighed. ‘Yes, you know it would. It’s who I am.’
‘Then we must work out how you can do it.’ She flicked through the program once more. ‘But right now we shall head to the Festival Hall. The list of exhibitors is vast, everyone from P&O shipping to Kew Gardens.’ The names were meaningless to Luc. ‘Eat up. I’m in a hurry to see everything, including “Dick Whittington on Ice” – and you know Joe Loss is performing too, don’t you?’ She rolled her eyes when he shrugged. ‘Joe Loss, Luc!’
‘I’m just happy that you’re happy,’ he admitted. ‘Lead me wherever,’ he grinned.
‘Well, I hope you’ve got your dancing shoes on because I am going to dance in the streets,’ she warned. ‘But first, a toffee apple!’
The day passed in a flurry of exciting images and newfangled items; in music, candy floss and a wealth of accents from Scottish to Cornish and many international languages too. The atmosphere was uplifting and a promotion for joy and hope. When Luc overheard two German voices, uttered in a whisper, he remembered that the whole point of the Festival of Britain was to urge people to leave behind hate and to use the event as a springboard into the future. It affected him. It wasn’t just Lisette’s laughter but the optimism of all the exhibits they had seen over the day that prompted a change of thinking.
It was a moment of epiphany when he stopped where he stood and realised that life was somehow about to change for him because of today. He didn’t know how, but it would. And the notion excited him.
He stood by a pillar, his gaze latched onto a poster of a ship, and his mind wandered to how it might feel to sail away to exotic ports. Naturally the first destination in mind was France, but he knew he wasn’t ready to go back there to live. But filtering through his daydream was the nagging realisation that until he changed his life – that is, until he personally adjusted his approach – nothing about his future would alter. And wasn’t the Festival of Britain all about progress and the promise of a bright future?
The notion of transformation fizzed around Luc’s mind like champagne bubbles.
When Lisette found him, he was standing in front of the poster, staring hard, a small piece of paper in his hand.
‘Luc? What is it, darling?’
He blinked. ‘What?’
‘Where were you just now?’ she asked, smiling tentatively. She glanced at the poster. ‘Sailing away somewhere?’
He grinned, crumpled the paper and put it into his overcoat pocket. ‘Thinking about taking you on the Big Dipper to hear you scream,’ he said, widening his eyes with wicked pleasure.
‘You forget I’ve parachuted from a plane at night, so no Big Dipper scares me,’ she said, digging him in the ribs. ‘Come on, I have to get to the interiors exhibit by Homes & Antiques magazine. Apparently there’s this kitchen that is meant to bring a woman into the social life of the house without interrupting her work,’ she quoted verbatim, eyes sparkling.
‘Imagine that,’ he replied.
‘Oh, come on. I want to see the all the furniture. Someone’s just told me there’s a bright red sofa!’
He pretended to shiver in anticipation. And she laughed. ‘Would you rather go to the circus?’
‘Why wouldn’t you, is more to the point?’
She considered it and grinned. ‘Actually, I would. Come on. Billy Manning’s Circus, John Collins’ Big Dipper and perhaps an ice cream before dinner and then dancing beneath the stars.’
‘I’m exhausted just listening to you.’
The afternoon soon slipped into evening, which eased into night, and everyone – not just Luc and Lisette – stopped to watch all the lights come on. After years of blackouts, both here and in Europe, it felt other-worldly to see a canopy of twinkling fairy lights and bigger streetlights illuminating London’s roads in such dashing style. Such glorious indulgence had not been seen for many years and the sense of plenty began to infuse through the crowds, who spontaneously burst into dance whenever music was heard. It was comical to watch people in their overcoats twirling around but the exuberance was infectious and delicious.
‘I love you, Luc,’ Lisette said after they finally sat down on a bench, exhausted. ‘Thank you for this.’
‘Oh, the best is yet to come. Come on,’ he said, picking up their small holdall. ‘Let’s go to our hotel.’
‘Where?’ she said, full of intrigue.
‘Do you remember the Imperial you told me about – the one you used on your mock mission for Special Ops?’
‘You haven’t!’ she said, laughing.
‘In the spirit of going forward but not forgetting our past, I thought you’d enjoy seeing it again. Tomorrow morning after breakfast you can walk me through the streets you knew before we met. Show me the flat at Ecclestone Road; show me the Lyons Corner House tea rooms. I want to see it all … we never did get to do that last time in London.’
‘No, because my head had been shaved by the Parisians for being a Nazi whore,’ she reminded him. Luc could still hear the hurt she hid over that traumatic episode during the liberation of Paris. ‘I’d love you to see London – I’ll show you Nelson’s Column and Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey. Oh, come on. You’ve got me going now. Let’s get to bed.’
‘But not to sleep,’ he warned. ‘These treats don’t come without a price, you know.’
‘Which I’ll gladly pay,’ she said, kissing him, and in it he felt the rest of the night’s promise thrumming between them like an invisible but nonetheless crackling, sparking current.
The Imperial hadn’t changed much according to Lisette, but Luc had organised a larger, more luxurious room than the one she’d stayed in at the height of London’s Blitz in 1942. This room had green flock wallpaper and a matching eiderdown. It smelt of pot-pourri and coal tar soap.
‘Seems the owners haven’t visited the modern decor halls at the festival,’ he quipped. ‘Let me help you with that,’ he said, beginning to ease the thin knit over her head.
She laughed when he stopp
ed lifting it once her arms were up and she was trapped inside the cocoon of the knit.
‘Luc,’ she said, in a voice his mother used to use.
‘Now you’re at my mercy, peasant!’ It came out as ‘pea-zunt’.
She exploded with muffled laughter, and not just at his pronunciation. ‘Do you mean wench?’
‘Yes, yes, whatever that word is,’ he dismissed, beginning to undo her bra. She gave a small squeal. ‘Sssh! You’ll wake fellow guests. Now, let me see. If I unhook this …’ He sighed.
It was too late to hush Lisette. Her laughter echoed down the corridors and a passing maid smiled in gentle envy.
In the morning, after an early cooked breakfast, Luc and Lisette spent the few hours they had before the train left wandering around her old stomping grounds. He even fed the pigeons, making Lisette laugh at the birds landing on him, including one on his head. She regretted that they didn’t have a camera.
‘I’m going to buy us one,’ she said as they found their seat on the train. ‘We should be taking loads of photos of Harry. I’ve been remiss.’
‘Remiss?’ he queried.
‘Careless but not in a bad way. Forgetful, you could say.’
‘Remiss,’ he repeated quietly.
Luc’s command of English was so strong now that she didn’t fret about him anymore but he still appreciated learning more difficult words. Privately, she loved his little errors.
‘I had a good time,’ he said, when they were finally in their carriage. He folded up his overcoat and put it on the shelf above them with their bag. He did the same for her coat before sitting down opposite her.
Whistles began to sound and the train made new noises of imminent departure. Doors slammed urgently up and down the platform.
‘I had one of the best days of my life,’ she admitted. ‘I feel alive!’
Luc grinned at her joy. They travelled home in a buoyant mood, both invigorated by their trip and Luc determined that his new mindset would keep a more permanent smile on his wife, and give him a fresh sense of purpose.
The French Promise Page 6