From behind him, Tom heard the knock on the door. For a moment, he thought Claudette had not heard it but then gently releasing Tom’s tie, she lifted her head and barked at the figure on the other side of the door: ‘Go away, in a meeting.’ Her voice was steady, the tone deep and purposeful. But then like a person coming out of hypnotism with a click of the fingers, she seemed to realise the absurdity of the situation she’d engineered. ‘One minute,’ she added, her voice now containing a quiver of panic. Quickly, she spun round on the table, hopped off and sat on her chair behind the safety of the desk. Tom swallowed and tried to straighten his tie.
The person outside the office spoke, ‘Only me.’ It was Clive. What the hell was he still doing here, thought Tom. ‘Just going home, but...’ Tom glanced around to see the door open as he tried to straighten his tie. ‘I thought you’d better see...’ Clive had stepped in, faltered for a moment and immediately tried to act as if he hadn’t. ‘...This report before er, going home...’ he said, his voice slowing down with each word.
‘I thought I’d told you to wait,’ said Claudette quickly, unable to look at him. ‘Didn’t you notice the blinds were down?’
‘Sorry,’ said Clive looking suspiciously from one to the other, sensing the atmosphere and the awkwardness that drifted like a fog within the four walls of the office. Carefully, he stepped forward, clearing his throat, and placed the file on Claudette’s desk.
‘I should be going,’ said Tom, smiling weakly at Clive as he picked up his briefcase. ‘I’ll be back on Tuesday.’ Clive stepped back to allow Tom to pass, his eyes searching Tom’s face for a clue. As he reached the door, Tom paused and looked back at Claudette sitting behind her desk, trying desperately to appear composed while casting her eye over Clive’s report. For a moment, just a moment, Tom almost felt sorry for her.
Chapter 10: The Diary
Saturday afternoon, halfway to France. Tom looked at his watch and realised he was still on British time. He adjusted it to French time, which made it just gone 3pm. The papers were still full of Ronald Reagan and now Ray Charles had also died.
Having caught the Eurostar to Calais, Tom then had to catch a train to St Omer, about 50 kilometres south. Arriving in St Omer, Tom waited at the end of the platform, as instructed. Maria warned him she’d be a few minutes late. Despite the time, it was still very warm. He went to get himself a cool drink and with his awkward French managed to buy a can of fizzy orange. Back on the platform, he waited and hoped he’d recognise her from her emailed photograph. People came and went, bustling and rushing to catch departing trains, meeting friends, returning from work. He doubted if any of them could recount such a week as his. He wondered what sort of conversation took place between Claudette and Clive after his hasty retreat. It was typical of Clive: never there when you wanted him, but turns up when you least expect it.
‘Monsieur Searight, I presume?’
Tom turned to see a tall, slim man, about 40, maybe 45, in a rust-coloured jacket standing directly in front of him, a tanned man with a bushy moustache and shoulder-length hair, and an earring in one ear.
‘Yes?’
He smiled, offering his hand. ‘I’m Bernard, Maria’s husband.’
‘Oh, how do you do?’
Taking Tom’s holdall, despite Tom’s protestations, Bernard sent a quick text then drove Tom the five-minute drive to the Dubois house, pointing out various landmarks along the way.
Maria was waiting at the front door. ‘Tom! Bienvenue.’
‘Bonjour, Maria,’ he said, offering his hand.
Ignoring his proffered hand, she reached forward, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘We meet at last,’ she said. She had friendly eyes and a wide, beaming face, offset by the flow of long, almost black hair. ‘Come through. You look younger than you do in your picture.’
‘Ah, so that cream does work!’
Both she and Bernard laughed heartily, Maria tilting her head back, exposing her glaringly white teeth. His little joke wasn’t that funny, but nonetheless he felt pleased by their warm reaction, if a little embarrassed.
Tom noticed how casually but stylishly dressed she was. She wore a knee-length purple suede skirt and light moleskin shoes. Barely ten minutes in their presence and he felt very much at ease with them both. She wore no make-up. Compare and contrast with Claudette, thought Tom.
Maria had found Tom a guesthouse he could stay in; just ten minutes’ walk from the house. But after half an hour, she and her husband had decided he was either harmless enough or trustworthy enough to invite him to spend the weekend with them and their daughter, Odette. They lived on the outskirts of St Omer in a three-bedroom townhouse with a small garden. Bernard explained that they had two daughters; the eldest, Brigitte, was at college in Bordeaux and their youngest, Odette, had just turned 18. Tom remarked that they didn’t look old enough to have two adult children, and then blushed at the crassness of his observation.
Maria laughed. ‘I started young. I was only 19 when Brigitte was born. The girls’ father – we are no longer together. Many years now. Bernard is their father now.’ She reached over and squeezed Bernard’s hand.
‘And you, Tom,’ said Bernard. ‘Are you married?’
Tom hesitated. ‘I’m separated.’ How odd that sounded, he thought, the words didn’t seem to ring true. He didn’t dare tell them it’d only been three days, but three days or three years, he and Julie were living apart and hence technically ‘separated’.
Odette appeared from her bedroom, all made-up, about to go out for the evening. Tom said hello and noticed how similar she was to her mother. Odette was forever going out, Bernard told him. They kissed their daughter goodbye and then gave Tom a guided tour of the house. It was a bright, spacious home, mostly wooden floored and lightly decorated. Tom was to have Brigitte’s old room. She was, or had been, a fan of Hollywood film stars. Posters of various pin-ups covered the walls: Johnny Depp, Leonardo DiCaprio, Clive Owen and others he didn’t recognise. With the tour completed, Maria sat Tom in the large kitchen and she poured them each a sweet wine, whilst Bernard started on the dinner. Dinner consisted of spaghetti bolognese with plenty of mushrooms and Parmesan cheese together with a couple of full-bodied bottles of red wine which Bernard described in detail. During the rest of the evening, they sat on the sitting room sofa, drinking the remainder of the wine, nibbling cashew nuts and black olives, and talked of their pasts and futures. Tom told Maria about Charlotte and Angus, and his brother and family out in New Jersey. Maria talked about her daughters and her work as a travel agent.
After an hour of comfortable conversation, Maria said, ‘Let me fetch the things that brought you here.’ She disappeared for a few minutes. Tom and Bernard discussed the following day’s football match between England and France at the European Championships. Tom sipped his wine and looked round the room. Everything was neatly and tastefully organised, with polished wooden floors and books tidily arranged. The occasional floral print decorated the walls and a large lamp with a deep red lampshade cast a relaxing light over the room. Maria returned carrying a shoebox wrapped with a length of string. She laid it on the coffee table in front of them. ‘In this box,’ she declared, ‘is the life of your ancestor, Guy Searight.’ Tom looked at it. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ she asked.
Tom slipped off the string and opened the lid. Inside was a padded envelope and beneath it some books, small enough to fit inside the shoebox. Tom lifted out the first book, a notebook. On the cover, written in a small, spidery handwriting, were the words “Guy Searight, 1914-1921”. Beneath the notebook were two other books – one an English-French dictionary, the other an old edition of Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities. Next, he opened the padded envelope and carefully withdrew its contents. There, in his hands, were Guy’s medals – four of them, attached to one another by a thin strip of metal at the back with a thick pin. They were in pristine condition.
‘My grandmother used to polish them,’ said Maria, reading his thoughts. Thre
e of the medals were round, one cross-shaped. On the back of one of the round medals were the words “The Great War for Civilisation 1914-1919”, and on the rim the inscription “8562 Pte. G.Searight, Essex Reg”. But it was the first medal that really intrigued Tom. On the front, the bust of George V, and on the back, the words “For Distinguished Conduct in the Field”. The ribbon was a dark red colour with a wide blue stripe down the middle.
‘“For Distinguished Conduct in the Field”. My father mentioned this. I wonder why he got it.’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps, if you read Guy’s diary you might find out.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘No, the writing is too difficult for me.’
‘But why did your archive want to throw away this stuff?’
‘It needed space for more of its medieval collections. My grandmother asked if she could keep the diary first. Our family has had them all these years; it’s time they went back to where they belong. I don’t think they are of much value, but it’s the diary and the history of it that makes them so fascinating, n’est-pas?’
Tom smiled at the little burst of French. He picked up the diary and ran his finger gently across the cover, feeling the coarseness of the material. He opened it and flicked through the first few pages. He saw it was not so much a diary, but a memoir written after the event. The pages were dusty and dry to the touch and the writing littered with crossings-out and tiny illegible scribbles in the margins. “Uncle Hobbly”, his father had called him. Tom wondered whether he would meet his father or Lawrence, his fearsome grandfather, within these pages. Tom had never been one to concern himself with the past and, unlike Charlotte, he hated history at school, and had never taken any interest in his family history. The only time he had ever indulged in nostalgia was a disastrous school reunion party. But now, this French woman had appeared out of nowhere and delivered a huge slice of the past straight into his lap.
‘Tom, tomorrow I take you on a mystery tour.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘I hope so.’ She smiled.
That night, Tom settled in bed and retrieved Guy’s journal from the box. He wouldn’t read for long, he decided; after his long day, he’d soon be asleep. He thought of Julie. She’d know by now that he’d gone to a small town in France for the weekend, but she’d have no idea as to why and with whom. The thought gave Tom a tingle of satisfaction, which was quickly tempered by the thought of Charlotte. He’d have to take her out on his return. Perhaps they could go see that new Harry Potter film. He’d ring her tomorrow on the mobile.
Tom turned to the first page. Although faded and small, the writing on the first pages was neat enough for Tom to decipher.
My name is Guy Searight. I have decided to commit my story to paper, for I have reached a stage in my life where I am no longer sure how I arrived. I have loved and lost too many times either through the catastrophe of war, injustice or circumstance. I sometimes feel as if I am afloat in a shapeless, unending ocean. A curse touched me many years ago and I live daily within its shadow. Like a plague, everything I touch, anyone I dare to love is equally cursed. I sometimes wonder whether my lack of faith is because of the curse, or whether the curse exists because of my lack of faith. The time has come for me to reconcile my past before I can even attempt to contemplate my future, and with this in mind, I need to write my story. It is a story about a young man who goes off to fight for his country in its hour of need. But when I think back to that young ambitious man, he appears in my mind now as little more than a stranger; a man I once knew and still envy. That young man was born into a generation that suffered as no generation had suffered before and, I hope for the sake of humanity, that no generation need suffer like it again. I may have survived the Great War, but the War lives within me still and probably always will.
May God grant me the strength to write my story, and then perhaps, on its completion, to allow me to live again as a man should live......
An hour later, Tom drifted off to sleep, his dreams a mass of images from Guy’s description of the trenches. His subconscious had been pricked by a distant voice echoing through the decades, a voice which now, finally, had found its audience.
*
The following morning, Sunday, Tom woke up with a renewed sense of optimism. Banishing all thoughts of work and domestic disharmony, he felt determined to enjoy the unknown pleasures of the day ahead. It was a hot June morning and Maria served up a breakfast of croissants fresh from the local boulangerie. Bernard was already out – he was a keen cyclist, Maria told him. She asked how far he’d got with the diary, and Tom felt almost ungrateful having to admit that he’d only managed the first few pages before sleep overcame him.
After breakfast, Maria took Tom on a walking tour of St Omer. It was very much as Tom remembered quiet French towns to be from the occasional French holidays he took with his parents. It had a large central square, La Place Foch, dominated at one end by an imposing Gothic church, big enough to be a cathedral, thought Tom, and seemingly too big for the size of the town. Indeed, according to Maria, it was a cathedral, the Notre Dame cathedral. The other sides of the square were lined with various cafés, boutiques and antique cum bric-a-brac stalls. Tom was impressed how the town had managed to avoid the influx of high street brand names, which stripped British towns of their individuality, removing any sense of their historic uniqueness. Tom and Maria browsed around the shops. Maria bought a large bouquet of flowers and Tom bought a pair of c–shaped earrings for Charlotte. They stopped off in a café and sat outside overlooking the square, enjoying the sun and calmness.
After their coffees and a large sweet pastry each, Maria took Tom to the cathedral. It took them a few moments to adjust to the darkness inside the church and Tom remarked how cool it was within. It’d been years since Tom had stepped into a church. The far end was dominated by a huge organ, which, according to Maria, dated from the 18th century. The highlight, however, was the impressive astrological clock, which showed the signs of the zodiac and the movement of the stars and sun over St Omer. They strolled quietly up the aisles and Tom admired the murals depicting the descent of the cross painted, allegedly, by Rubens. Before leaving, Tom lit a candle and stared at the flickering flame. He offered a quiet prayer asking that he be guided through his current predicament while apologising for his lack of religious direction.
‘Come,’ said Maria, ‘we need to go for a little drive.’ Carrying her flowers, Maria led Tom out of the cathedral and back to her car. They drove about three kilometres southwards on the Abbeville Road until they came to a large cemetery – the Longuenesse Souvenir Cemetery, explained Maria as she parked the car. As they entered the neatly manicured grounds, Tom was hit by the vast numbers of perfectly lined military headstones, rows upon rows upon rows. Maria led the way, seemingly knowing where to go amongst the hundreds of identical rows.
‘Over three thousand men are commemorated here,’ she said. Eventually, she came to a stop and looked down at a headstone. Following her gaze, Tom gawked at the inscription:
In the memory of Jack Searight, Essex Regiment.
Killed 11th November 1917.
Chapter 11: The Visitor
Late Sunday afternoon, Julie was trying to mark her students’ GCSE homework, but, sitting at the table with a whole pile of them awaiting her attention, she was having difficulty concentrating. Charlotte was upstairs listening to some music, it sounded like Busted, her new favourite band, the bassline thumping through the ceiling. She was meant to be doing her homework and she had her poetry recital coming up at the end of the week, but how she could concentrate with that noise, Julie didn’t know. Another day, she would have remonstrated but since Tom’s departure, relations with Charlotte had become strained to say the least, and Julie had no stomach for another argument. Charlotte had become sullen and short-tempered, and recently Julie had noticed the smell of tobacco smoke on her daughter’s breath. What was really upsetting Charlotte, Julie knew, was that Tom had made no ef
fort to speak to her and the poor girl was missing him; they both were. Charlotte could do without this upset, especially as she was coming up to the end of her last year before starting on her GCSEs. But when she tried to offer her daughter the comfort she needed, Charlotte merely shunned her efforts.
She gazed at the exam paper in front of her trying to summon the concentration to actually mark it. Where was Tom now? All Julie knew was that he’d taken himself off to someplace in France she’d never heard of. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t worried. They’d never been apart for this long before, at least not in the fifteen years they’d been married, and now she wanted him back – desperately. She wandered around the living room, not wanting to cook or even think about it. She picked up a framed photograph from the mantelpiece of the three of them taken on their Spanish holiday the previous year. She sighed and slumped onto the sofa. If Tom was, in some way, trying to punish her, it was working. She felt miserable. She wanted to ring Alice and Robert to see whether Tom had come back yet, but she daren’t; it had only been a couple of hours since she last called. She began to fear the worst. What if he never came back, what if Tom made this ‘trial separation’ permanent? Seized by an abrupt surge of anger, she threw the photo frame across the room. She couldn’t face living without him; she’d rather lose a limb. What would they do? Tom couldn’t go on staying with his parents; he’d have to find a place of his own. Or she might be forced to find somewhere else herself. Neither of them could afford the mortgage on one salary; they’d be forced to sell-up, uproot, destroy the family home. It was all too big, too depressing to even contemplate.
The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3) Page 12