Max’s eyes widened remembering that Bonet – according to Eichel – had been a Maquisard in Provence and was wanted by the Gestapo. ‘That’s really helpful.’
‘Good. That’s what they call me – Helpful Nic.’
They laughed as Gabrielle arrived with the bill.
‘Thanks for your meal suggestions,’ Max said, making an effort as he knew Nic’s stare was imploring him to be conversational.
‘You’re welcome,’ she said with a shy grin and pointed to the bill. ‘I’m off my shift now. Anne-Marie will take your payment when you’re ready.’ She hesitated.
Max blinked, then shrugged. ‘Okay, thanks. See you round.’
Gabrielle left.
Nic shook his head. ‘You’re such a loser.’
‘Shut up.’
His friend gulped his coffee. ‘So you’re definitely going to Koblenz?’ Max nodded. Nic sighed. ‘My aunt once told me that learning the truth doesn’t always mean finding contentment.’
Max expressed a look of soft irritation. ‘And how does your aunt arrive at this philosophical gem?’
Nic tore open the small biscuit packet that came with his coffee. ‘I suppose I should admit that she works there.’
‘What?’
He nodded, looking resigned to helping his friend. ‘Since the records went public.’
‘Can she help me?’
‘I suppose I can ask.’
‘Do it.’
‘On one condition.’
Max’s gaze narrowed. ‘Go on.’
‘You ask Gabrielle out and join Mireille and me – and some of the others – for a couple of drinks, perhaps a smoke or two. Mireille’s friend has some good Moroccan marijuana,’ he added, temptation in his voice. They both knew the answer. Nic gave him a friendly punch. ‘Well, just say yes to a few drinks, then.’
‘Yes,’ Max duly replied.
‘Deal,’ Nic said.
‘I’ll call Tante Marie tonight.’
‘Okay, I’m going to pay and then head back to my place to write to this woman in Scotland.’
‘How old is she?’
Max shrugged. ‘It was her twenty-fifth birthday in 1944. So she’d be forty-ish.’
Nic whistled a small breath. ‘Old, then.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
London, England
Jane held a tea towel filled with ice to her eye and felt the frosty burn singe around the tender area that she knew was swelling fast. Her left ear was buzzing faintly but her lip, curiously enough, was the most painful of her injuries. She could barely move her mouth before the wound would open and bleed again.
How would it ever heal? She wondered absently. The sounds around her were comforting ones of Meggie bustling around the kitchen.
‘Here we are, dear,’ Meggie said, arriving at her side and carefully wrapping her hands around a cup. ‘Hot, sweet tea; it will help.’
‘I don’t think I can, Meggie.’
‘Just sip. Please.’
‘Where is he?’
‘With the police and his brothers in the sitting room.’ Jane winced at the mention of the police. ‘I’m just going to take them a pot of tea and I’ll be right back, dear. All right?’
Jane nodded.
‘You have to keep that on your eye, Jane, luv. The doctor’s on his way.’
‘Meggie, no doctor, I’ll be fine.’ She felt her lip split open again and the blood began running freely down her chin. Her eyes watered helplessly and she felt pathetic.
‘Jane, we have to. The police have insisted. And Mr Cannelle’s brothers did too. They’re very worried for you. This can’t go on. If I hadn’t come back for my umbrella, you might be dead now.’
Jane gave a sound of disdain. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
The older woman folded her arms and gave her a pointed look. ‘This is not the first time.’ When Jane cut her a worried glance, Meggie’s expression softened. ‘Did you think I didn’t know?’ Jane’s eyes misted as she nodded. ‘Well, he’s been weeping like a baby over what he’s done to you tonight – keeps begging to see you – but that doesn’t escape the fact that he did it.’ Jane swallowed hard and with it her sorrows. Meggie was right. Life couldn’t go on like this.
They both looked around at the sound of the doorbell.
‘I’ll get it. That will be Dr Jenkins. Finish your tea, dear.’
Jane sipped obediently and waited, devastated. It had finally happened; the moment she’d dreaded and yet denied. The tea tasted as bitter as the scorn that twisted on her mouth.
Deep down, she’d known that John would never snap out of the hell that the four walls of his mind could create. Of his eight friends – all school chums who’d joined up together – only two of the nine had returned. Phil Parsonage had arrived home as half the man, with both legs left behind in France, and John, who’d left his sanity in Italy. But that was only the scar tissue. The real wound was yet to show itself, she’d discovered, and it did so in aching slowness as he revealed titbit by miniscule titbit the horror he’d witnessed. She learnt of the men whose hands he’d held while they died, whose half-blown-away bodies he’d had to recover just so the army had something to bury … and this included the remains of his closest friend, Bertie. They began their firm friendship in nursery school and it ended when Bertie had pushed John away and taken the full brunt of a grenade. Only once had John visited that memory with her when, after gentle lovemaking, she’d enquired about a scar that ran down his thigh. If she were honest, she hadn’t expected an answer and was surprised into silence as it had haltingly been delivered.
‘Shrapnel,’ he’d begun as he lit a cigarette, dragging back on it deeply. ‘They found me unconscious, concussed and covered in Bertie,’ he’d continued. John had remained dry-eyed but tears had run down Jane’s cheeks and onto his chest. When he’d come to, he’d begged his fellow soldiers to find Bertie. ‘I’d meant his tags,’ he’d said, sucking back on his smoke. ‘They brought me his head; it was all that was left of him,’ he’d said, and had begun to tremble beneath her. ‘I carried him back with me in a ragged, bloodstained shirt.’ He’d barked a mirthless, horribly ragged laugh then. ‘We got to bury something of him, at least.’ And then he’d sobbed in her embrace like a child.
Later that night she’d found him naked in the bathroom, his knuckles broken and bleeding from where he’d repeatedly punched the tiled wall. A few months later, once they’d healed, he’d taken to punching her. Actually, that wasn’t strictly true, she thought. It had begun with verbal intimidation and then pushing. Quickly it had escalated into slaps, hair pulling … once even rape, or at least that’s how she’d viewed it from beneath his angry, grunting coupling against her wishes.
But this evening was different. This time it had been sly. He’d been waiting for her, behaving himself all day for Meggie while the demons in his mind cunningly saved his wrath for his wife. She’d walked into his den, smoothing her hair and saying hello with a bright voice. His response had begun with, ‘Where have you been?’ and ended with a third cowardly punch; the first had been a box around her ear, the second had split her mouth open, and the final one left her seeing stars and only barely conscious, slumped over a sofa.
The last thing she could remember before blacking out was hearing police sirens. Apparently Meggie had come home, heard his yells and her shrieks and had wasted no time picking up the telephone and calling emergency. The local constabulary had arrived just before the fourth punch had been delivered but she’d been mercifully unaware of the rush of burly policeman upstairs and the man-handling of John downstairs. Meggie said they’d even cuffed him until his brothers had arrived. She hadn’t faced his family yet.
Meggie returned to the parlour with Dr Jenkins, who went through the motions of checking that nothing was broken. It wasn’t.
‘Hmm, that lip looks nasty. I’d recommend we sew that.’
‘My ear is ringing too.’ He’d tutted. ‘Has this happened before?’ She’d started shaking her
head, an excuse leaping to her damaged lip when Meggie had answered for her.
‘Yes, doctor. Not this bad but several times.’ Jenkins had cut Jane a reproachful glance. ‘Jane …’
‘Don’t,’ she pleaded.
He held his tongue and continued his prodding, finally sighing. ‘Right, let’s fix this lip of yours. Your ear is going to ring for a while, I’d suggest, but it will pass. Your eye: no lasting damage, but you’re going to sport one hell of a shiner, Jane.’
‘Sunglasses in winter?’ she asked superfluously.
‘Either that or cope with the stares. I’d recommend you go away, actually. Rest, heal … take a long, hard look at your life because I can’t see John coming back from this. It’s worsening, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted in a whisper.
With the studied care of a surgeon, he set about suturing her lip. It looked ugly, with its two black stitches, but they were neat, daubed in dark yellow antiseptic and numbed from the local anaesthetic.
‘There,’ he said gently. ‘Very kissable in a few weeks.’ She mustered a wan half-smile that showed in her eyes more than on her mouth. ‘But don’t look in a mirror for a while.’ She nodded her agreement just as Peter came into the room.
‘Oh, Jane,’ he said, scooping her up and squeezing her timidly as though she might break. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I’ll be on my way,’ Jenkins said. ‘Don’t get up. Meggie will see me out.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I’ll see you in a few days for a check-up.’ Meggie and the doctor left as James also entered.
He looked shocked at the state of her, kissed both her cheeks gently.
‘This can’t go on. Listen, Jane,’ Peter said, sounding awkward. ‘I’m organising for the cottage to be opened up in Devon. It would ease our hearts if you’d agree to go down there for a few weeks while we sort things out here. I’ve already spoken to Meggie. She said she’ll happily come with you while you convalesce. I know it’s not ideal, being winter, but …’ He trailed off, uncertain, it seemed, of what was best to say.
She made it easy for them. ‘Yes, of course. That’s very kind of the family.’
James took her hand. ‘You are family, dear Jane. And Peter and I are desperately sorry and sad for both of you, but especially for you. We should have protected you from this.’
‘You couldn’t know …’
‘But we should have,’ Peter agreed.
‘It’s no one’s fault. I love him, but I realise now I can’t stay with him.’
James looked deep into her eyes. ‘We’ll help. Whatever you need, we’ll take care of, and we’ll take care of John too. He’ll get the right care, in the right place, with the right people.’
Another pot of tea was made by a clucking Meggie and shared in virtual silence. Jane noticed additional mugs were carried through on a tray.
James had the courage to broach the subject first. ‘Listen, er, Jane … When I said we’ll help with everything, that includes, of course, the services of Badger and Bingley.’
Her eyes swept up from the untouched contents of her teacup. His gaze was fierce.
‘It’s for the best. And in your interests,’ he added.
A tear leaked down her cheek. Divorce. She wiped her good eye. ‘Let me think about it.’
Peter nodded. ‘Of course. No rush. Whatever you want, we’ll abide by.’
‘What are you planning for John?’
‘Hospital first,’ James said. ‘We’ll have him assessed and then listen to the experts. There’s a place that’s more like a country guest house in Lincoln – just a couple of hours away – that’s been set up for ex-servicemen with his condition. It’s more common than most of us realise.’
‘How is John now?’ she asked, mangling the words because of the numb side of her mouth. She presumed he was still talking to the policemen.
‘Contrite, tearful, horrified,’ Peter confirmed.
‘And quite mad,’ James said, twisting away angrily.
Peter sighed. ‘That’s not a helpful evaluation, or an accurate one. It’s not his fault, Jim.’
‘I know, but look at this,’ he said, pointing at her. ‘Jane, you’ve got to accept that our brother needs help. We can’t all keep pretending that he’s the man we once knew. I love him as much as anyone else but he needs professional medical care – round-the-clock attention.’
She nodded. ‘What about the police?’
‘Well, he’s out of handcuffs, thank heavens,’ Peter explained. ‘I presumed you wouldn’t want to press charges, although they were keen to drag him off to the local clink.’
She shook her head wanly. ‘Absolutely not. Can I see him?’
‘No,’ they both said together and then, embarrassed, Peter cleared his throat. ‘Er, Dr Jenkins thought it best that John not see you in this state. I agree. You’ve suffered enough but so has he. He’s deeply upset. We had Jenkins sedate John slightly.’
Jane swallowed. ‘You mean he’s going tonight?’
They both nodded. ‘We’ve already rung ahead. We’ll travel with him, Jane,’ Peter assured her.
‘And Meggie will help you organise to go to Devon tomorrow evening. Catch the sleeper. Stay as long as you like. When you’re healed, come back to London, visit John, make decisions with a clear head.’
It made sense but their words were definitely sounding like the death knell of her marriage and her chance for a family. The salty tears stung her bloodshot eye and her head pounded from the hopelessness of it all.
‘I want to kiss him one more time.’ At their sounds of protest, she held up a hand. ‘Let’s not pretend this isn’t goodbye. I want him to know I don’t blame him and that I’ve never stopped loving him.’
She rose before they could say any more. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine alone with him. He’ll do me no more harm, I promise,’ and blinked away the last of the tears she would cry for John and their wreck of a marriage.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The trip back to Strasbourg from Koblenz had taken two hours. Max had fallen asleep almost immediately as the train drew out of the station and he’d slept most of the way, blaming the warm spring sun through the window for making him drowsy. It was cold on the Strasbourg platform, though, by just after 5 p.m. and Max pulled on his leather jacket over his white T-shirt, which made him feel altogether like James Dean. However, if the fashions he’d seen in Paris recently were anything to go by, then a two-button suit was going to be a wardrobe essential. And women this summer would be dazzling in psychedelic colours. He had to admit, a girl in a pair of the new hipster slacks looked seriously cool but even better in the miniskirts that would be raising eyebrows around the university campus next June, July and August.
He sighed. It was definitely time he began dating again; he thought about Gabrielle and her dark intelligent eyes that had regarded him so intensely in the restaurant. She’d smiled for Nicolas but her gaze had been reserved for Max, and he’d ignored it. Stupid. He made a pact with himself. If his father’s wartime lover helped to take him forward on his path, then he would go back to the restaurant and ask Gabrielle out on that date he’d promised Nic he would organise. And he would be interested in her life and would make every effort to be amusing company. And he would spoil her. She looked like she needed spoiling.
‘Good,’ he muttered to himself as he emerged onto the street, his conscience eased. ‘Come on, Lisette,’ he urged into the wind. ‘Help me.’
He left the rose-stoned facade of the railway station behind and headed on foot to his new flat in Krutenau, an old village full of tumbledown but quaint houses near the university that were originally built for fishermen and then became a military barracks before it was reclaimed as residential. The smell of tobacco was permanently in the air here because of a large factory based in the neighbourhood. It was colourful and full of activity; he liked that older people lived in and around this area, rather than only students. He’d moved out of the shared university digs just before
Christmas, preferring the peace of his own apartment and space in a serious bid to lose his constant sense of guilt at being rich. He could afford this independence, so why not?
It had taken him longer than he’d anticipated to get organised for his trip to Germany and then it just made sense to combine it with a detour to see his grandparents, which meant waiting even longer until he could spare a full week away. In the interim, Max had taken the time to make careful notes of all that he needed to research and he’d also sent off his first letter to the woman he knew as Lisette Forestier, using the address in Scotland as his starting point. His letter had been returned, unopened, two weeks later, which was disappointing, but someone had kindly scrawled Try Morris at Pierrefondes Road, Farnborough.
More phone calls had revealed that there was a Mr and Mrs C Morris at number 50 Pierrefondes Avenue; this had to be the right one. He enclosed his original letter with a new note to the Mr C Morris at Pierrefondes Avenue outlining that he was trying to reach Lisette Forestier and that he was the son of a friend she’d known during the war years. He explained that his father had died during the war before he could meet him, and he was hoping she might tell him more about his father. He had kept it deliberately vague and had made sure he posted the letter from Paris, as too many people assumed Strasbourg was German and that would simply complicate things in a Brit’s mind. He’d waited another four weeks.
A letter finally returned from Colin Morris, explaining that his granddaughter, Lisette, who’d anglicised her surname while in Britain to Forester, was now married and had left in the early fifties to live in Australia. Once again his original letter was unopened, which surprised him. He thought the grandfather might have been more curious. It was a brief note without much more information, which could have brought his enquiries to an abrupt halt but Lisette’s grandfather’s last line – a postscript – was ‘gold’: Incidentally, Lisette is now Mrs Luke Ravens and can be contacted care of Bonet’s of Nabowla, Tasmania, Australia.
The French Promise Page 17