Tug of War djs-6

by Barbara Cleverly

  Most people he interviewed automatically put on a mask for the occasion even if they had nothing to hide. Nine times out of ten he would patiently prise away the mask only to find the same innocent features hiding underneath. On the tenth occasion something dark and hideous would be exposed.

  But he thought he had never spoken to anyone less bent on concealment than this woman. ‘You will, of course, want to know the truth of my relationship with Dominique. Yes, that is his name. He is Dominique de Villancourt. A cavalry officer with the Dragoons. A Parisian. Graduate of the Academy at St Cyr. He was my lover throughout the war years. He told me that he had a wife in Paris and that he did not love her. I can only assume he was telling me the truth of this because he spent every available leave with me. When the German army invaded Champagne in 1914 he managed to reach me and put me on the last evacuation train into Paris. He pushed an address into my hand and told me to go there. It was an apartment overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. I spent the more dangerous periods of the war years there and he came whenever he could. Sometimes we met here when things calmed down. We were lucky — this house escaped the shelling, you see.

  ‘His wife, he said, knew nothing of the arrangement. The Paris apartment was in my name. He transferred the deeds from his name to mine. I kept all the documents and handed them to Inspector Bonnefoye for verification. He has, I understand, successfully authenticated Dominique’s signature. After the war when he did not return I sold it and invested the money in reinvigorating my father’s business here in Reims. I learned much in Paris. I was not a “kept woman”, monsieur. Oh, no! I earned wages by working in the theatres. Starvation wages! But it was the knowledge and skills I was building to say nothing of the contacts I was making that have stood me in good stead.’ She waved a hand around her office. ‘I am doing rather well, you see.

  ‘But I owe it all to Dominique. I still work — ludicrous, I know, but it’s how I feel — for him. For a future together. I have never accepted his death. .’ She gave them both a challenging look. ‘It’s pathetic, I understand that, and I see the embarrassed pity in your eyes before you look politely away, but the conviction that he is alive and will one day come back to me has always been so strong that it is quite useless to fight it.’

  ‘How did you meet this officer?’ Dorcas asked, enchanted by the story. ‘Oh, I say, I’m sorry. . excuse me. . it’s none of my business. .. Sorry, Uncle Joe.’

  Mireille turned and smiled at her. A smile to match Thibaud’s, Joe thought.

  ‘It was very romantic! I was working here — in the old shop, that is — helping my father with his tailoring when a dashing young officer came in. Literally dashing! He was in a hurry — his regiment was being sent north to harry the Germans and the sleeve of his tunic was hanging off. A respectable dragoon does not harry Germans looking like a scarecrow! He needed attention on the spot. The standard of tailoring in those days was appalling but so much to do in so little time. . My father was away so I did the work myself. He stood in his shirtsleeves and watched me while I sewed. We talked. We flirted. We fell in love. He said he would return. I knew he would and he did. And I know he will again.’ She looked at them with speculation and came to a decision. ‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’

  She led them out through the french window, across the courtyard and into a recently built extension to her empire.

  ‘This is where I live. I hope you like the modern style?’

  ‘I visited the exhibition of Arts Décoratifs in Paris last year,’ said Joe warily, ‘and was most impressed.’

  He made further polite comments as she showed off her cool white interiors with their accents of black, grey and cobalt blue; he enjoyed the gleam of chrome, the sculpted lines of the black leather chairs, the feeling of generous space after the bustle and clutter of the commercial premises. ‘Your own design?’ he asked.

  ‘No. The work of a charming though expensive young architect from Paris. I bring you here to impress you, not with my success and my taste but to give you an idea of my grasp on reality. I want to demonstrate that here lives a woman who is firmly rooted in the modern world. . a woman of common sense and energy who can look to the past and not ignore it and to the future and not fear it but who can — and does — live fully in the present. Oh, dear!’ she smiled in apology. ‘I don’t like to hear myself blowing my own trumpet but time is short. You are a stranger whom, for some reason of instinct, I wish to impress. Forgive me for showing off but you will understand that it is a necessary preparation for the next room I shall show you. This one is back over there in the old building and is indeed a re-creation of the living quarters of the old house. My father’s old parlour. It is very special.’

  Joe guessed what she was attempting before he stepped through the parlour door. And stepped into a different age. It took a moment to adjust to the scene. He found himself in a room from before the war. Dim, cosy, overstuffed and decorated in the manner of the belle époque, was his first impression. A thick wreath of wood-smoke spiked with the orange peel and rose petal scent of pot-pourri was almost overpowering. Red plush curtains and potted palms, gold chandelier far too imposing for the room — after the clean geometric lines of Mireille’s house, it was all an assault on the senses and very surprising.

  There was a pair of well-worn armchairs, one on either side of the fireplace where a log fire smouldered, and it was towards these chairs that Dorcas strayed. Joe watched her take in the collection of items cluttering the top of a table by the side of one of the chairs: a pipe, still half full of burned tobacco, a tobacco pouch, a dusty brandy glass with the faintest trace of brown liquid in the bottom. From under a footstool a pair of black patent slippers decorated with bumble bees peeked out. A copy of War and Peace had been abandoned over one arm of the chair. The other chair was occupied. A fat white cat gave Dorcas silent warning of his displeasure at being disturbed and she crept away.

  Joe breathed in the atmosphere of the room, torn between two reactions. Should he be seduced by the homely allure, the suggestion of every kind of masculine comfort on offer? He didn’t doubt that upstairs there existed a similar shrine ready to provide solace for a weary returning soldier. His mind ranged briefly over feather beds, fresh linen, afternoon sun filtering through shutters, and flushed at the thought. Catching Mireille’s slight smile he wondered if she had caught him out. Of course she had. And the woman’s intelligence and awareness rendered invalid his alternative reaction. This was no Dickensian scene of mad longings never to be fulfilled. Mireille Desforges was no Miss Havisham. She understood herself, laughed at and forgave herself for this indulgence.

  ‘This is the room he will return to?’ whispered Dorcas, respectful as a pilgrim at a shrine.

  ‘It’s the room he has never truly left,’ said Mireille quietly, her eyes shining with suppressed tears. ‘He was happy here. If only I can bring him back, he will settle into his chair and pick up his book where he left off. He will feel secure with his cat on his knee. His cat will know him and welcome him.’

  She picked up the cat and hugged him but he struggled and made it quite clear that this demonstration was inappropriate. With a shrug, she replaced him on his cushion. ‘Louis was a kitten when Dominique brought him to me as a gift. The trouble with cats — do you have a cat, mademoiselle? — then I’ll tell you — you cannot compel or even expect their affection. And Louis has always understood himself to be Dominique’s cat. Indeed, I do believe he understands Dominique to be his human. You’d swear that he holds me responsible in some way for his disappearance! He’s getting old now but he’ll remember. He’ll leap on to his master’s knee, purr in triumph and favour me with his narrow-eyed proprietorial sneer. And — believe me — I shall be delighted to see it!’

  ‘You are both waiting,’ said Dorcas.

  ‘Exactly Louis despises me and I don’t like cats. It’s clear that we ought to have parted company years ago but. . he’s a link with Dominique. Can you understand this foolishness?�
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  ‘And this is your dragoon?’ said Dorcas, pointing to photographs on a sideboard.

  Mireille picked one up and held it lovingly in her hands for a moment before passing it to Dorcas.

  Joe was intrigued to see the interaction between the two and perfectly content to stand quietly by and watch the scene play out.

  Dorcas stared and gulped. ‘Golly! What a hero! And — yes — I can see the likeness. Do you see it, Uncle Joe?’ She passed it to Joe.

  ‘Yes, I do. It’s very clear,’ said Joe.

  The stern face was handsome, the pose a rigid and conventional professional portrait of a cavalry officer in full regalia.

  ‘Taken sometime after 1916, I think? He’s wearing the new-issue uniform in bleu d’horizon. May I?’

  She nodded her consent and he slipped the photograph from its frame. The name of a Paris studio was printed on the back and a date: 1916. He looked again carefully at the soldier. ‘Your officer had been wounded by this stage of the war, mademoiselle?’

  ‘You have sharp eyes, Commander,’ she said. ‘Yes indeed. And I gave a full report on what I remember of his wounds to the Inspector. Dominique had a sabre cut to his right upper arm. A flesh wound, the bone was not affected. It was for that he was given the wound chevron you have spotted sewn on to his left sleeve. But he has a later wound also. His jaw was broken, he told me by a rifle butt, towards the end of the campaign around Soissons. That was the last time I saw him. He could barely speak but he was determined to go off and rejoin his regiment. He was very distressed. I think he had had a bad time and knew he was about to have a worse. I believe he knew he would not return. He was returning to the Chemin des Dames as we later called that disastrous encounter.’

  ‘And what was his rank, mademoiselle, the last time you saw him?’

  ‘He had risen to be a Lieutenant Colonel. He was an officer of considerable standing by the end. The uniform in which he last fought — and perhaps died — would have born that insignia, along with three, possibly four, service chevrons on his right sleeve and two war-wound chevrons on the left. I stitched the second one on myself,’ she said quietly, looking down at her hands.

  She hesitated for a moment and then decided to confide in him. ‘I don’t know how many of the facts of the case they have told you, Commander. . I want you to know that I have no motive in claiming Dominique other than concern for his welfare. You have seen his circumstances. It is intolerable that such a man should have to bear that for one more day. I have seen him. I go every week to the hospital. He does not recognize me. Not yet. But I am assured that memory sometimes does return in these cases. I’m quite certain that I could bring him back to sanity again. I can care for him. . I can afford to provide the best care for him. I have told the authorities that I make no claim on any pension or war recompense to which he may be due and I would insist that any such sums be placed in a bank account in his name and left there. It’s important that you know that.’ She turned her face away from him and murmured, ‘I love him. I want him here with me. I know I can bring him back.’

  Joe nodded, understanding. ‘Tell me, mademoiselle, how well did Dominique speak English?’

  She looked at him blankly for a moment. ‘I really have no idea. I never heard him speak English. There was never a reason why he should. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Someone propounded a theory that, with his Anglo-Saxon looks, the patient in Reims could be an Englishman scooped up by the Germans, processed, misidentified — or not identified at all — and sent off to a camp in Germany for years. That is why I am here. Passing through Reims on my way south, I was asked to spend a moment or two looking into it. It’s thought important to check all the possibilities no matter how remote.’

  ‘He’s French. More particularly, he’s a Parisian.’ The tone was firm, the response that of a businessman clinching a deal. She expected no argument.

  Joe handed back the photograph and she put it back in its place, immediately taking another one from the line. ‘And this one is just a snapshot taken by a friend but it shows us together.’

  A youthful, round-faced Mireille, long glossy hair bouncing on to her shoulders, stood, hat on head, gloves on hands, awkwardly accepting the embrace of recognizably the same man though he was not in uniform but wearing a smart suit and hat and shining boots. Posed as they were in front of the fountain in the centre of the town, they could have been any courting couple walking out on a Sunday afternoon before the war.

  Before he could speak she held up a hand and smiled. ‘Yes, I know this is scarcely proof in the eyes of the unimpressionable Inspector Bonnefoye who gave me quite a speech on the frequency and positioning of war wounds on returned soldiers.’ The smile widened to a grin. ‘A speech illustrated by charts of the human body, would you believe? And a hideously dramatic demonstration of sabre-slashing! But I understand that there are other claimants who can produce equally convincing evidence that the unknown soldier belongs to them — and by ties of blood which is something I could never claim. Though there is one indication which I had been hoping it would not be necessary to reveal. . I would not wish to demean this poor person unnecessarily in any way. He suffers indignities enough in that dreadful place.’ She raised her head and finished defiantly, ‘But if I must fight for him, then I will use any weapon that comes to hand. I wonder, Commander, if you could ask your niece, Miss Dorcas, to go in search of the tray of refreshments I had ordered? Marie should be stumbling along the corridor as we speak. Perhaps you could go to her assistance, mademoiselle?’

  Dorcas took her dismissal without demur though her eyes narrowed and she favoured Mireille with a long and meaningful stare.

  Left alone, Mireille faced him, almost laughing. ‘Goodness! She could give lessons in suspicious staring to my cat! I almost expected to feel her claws! She is very protective of you, I think? I’m sorry. I sent her off awkwardly but I am not aware of how much a woman of the world she is, your charming niece, Commander. I would not like to cause embarrassment in one so young by what I have to say, though. .’ She paused for a moment and added thoughtfully, ‘I suppose I was not a great deal older than she is when I made the discovery for myself.’

  Chapter Nine

  Didier Marmont, mayor of Choisy-sur-Meuse in the Ardennes forest, stood on the steps of the town hall heroically fighting back an urge to run a finger around his starched collar. His nervousness restricted itself to a swift twitch at the tricolore sash fastened around his comfortable stomach. Above or below? The bulge was making the positioning of his symbol of authority increasingly tricky. He glanced with a moment’s envy at the still-lean shape of the uniformed American officer sharing the steps with him. The man hadn’t put on an ounce since he’d stormed through the town as a lieutenant nearly ten years ago.

  With the last note of the Marseillaise, following on the American national anthem rousingly played by the town band, their moment had come. Didier, the host, was the first to speak. He swept a commanding gaze over the upturned eager faces crowding the square and, as always, though he never counted on it, confidence began to flow. His voice boomed out, the grandiose phrases everyone waited to hear unfurled and he dashed a manly tear from his eye. Especially warm this year were his compliments to their US Army guests, the faithful band who returned year after year to the town that had welcomed them and billeted them. The last resting place of many of their comrades, the town was remembered with nostalgic affection but also with practical help. The Doughboys had come mainly from the same small place in the States and, on repatriation, had set about collecting funds to send back to their adopted village in France.

  The results of eight years’ hard work were all around them as they stood in the hot August sunshine. The mairie itself, the school and the two bridges spanning the winding river Meuse owed their existence in large part to transatlantic generosity. And, in return, the French had built for the American dead the cemetery and monument they were on this day to hear the Colonel dedicate.

 
; To the crowd’s claps and cheers, the Colonel, a career soldier, stepped forward to respond to the mayor’s introduction. Didier’s son-in-law. It hardly seemed possible. Then he looked at his daughter standing in the front row of the audience, proudly holding up her baby son to witness his father and his grandfather sharing a platform. Though how much a six-month-old could make out he wasn’t sure, and Didier rather thought little John ought to be tucked up at home in his cot, not sweating it out with the rest of them in this heat and noise. Didier had been overjoyed to see his first grandson though he had wondered about the wisdom of subjecting a small infant to a transatlantic crossing. America was so impossibly far away. He was always surprised that the people they loved continued to return.

  His daughter was not the only local girl to be lured west by these handsome great fellows with their promise of excitement and an expanded life. The girls came back on their arm and you could pick them out in the crowd by their silk stockings, high-heeled shoes and pretty dresses. And, especially in his daughter’s case, Didier acknowledged, by her happy face. He was thankful to see it. Yes, Paulette was happy.

  The Colonel spoke briefly in English and then launched into French to a rising cheer from the crowd. He knew the strings to tug at and the emotive words rang out with pride and certainty: l’entente cordiale, l’amitié éternelle, nos amis, nos épouses, nos confrères. . And he finished with a ringing reminder of the phrase which had been on all their lips ten years ago: Ils ne passeront pas! Ils ne passeront jamais plus!

  The ceremony over, Didier made his excuses and slipped away. He hadn’t the energy to confront his daughter and her forceful husband again just yet. He agreed there were many advantages to joining his only living relations over the Atlantic but he shuddered at the idea of the long sea crossing and he felt faint at the thought of the effort he would have to make to start, in approaching old age, on a life in a new land. He fled to the Promenade down by the river. A walk under the chestnut trees would cool him and help him to consider his future. What remained of it.