‘Well… Guns, you know?’
‘What are you doing, precisely?’
‘You know that “precisely” is out of the question. Imprecisely, I will tell you that I and others are going to spring a member of our organisation from a police station, some distance from here.’
‘Going to spring’, she noted as she pushed her feet into her overalls and pulled the straps over her shoulders. Not ‘trying to spring.’ She adored his confidence, but feared it too because it was such fallible armour.
He made her put on the jacket again because he felt her shivering. ‘This prisoner is to be taken by truck to a railway station, to be put on a train going east. We will intercept the truck.’
It was on her lips to say, ‘Henri, don’t!’ But why was she thinking like a clingy woman? He was a fighter, as was she. Their methods and weapons were a little different but they were battling the same enemy, and the risks they were prepared to take were pretty much the same. Hadn’t they just baptised this rustic meadow with the passion of their bodies – because they were liberated from the narrow constraints of conventionality? So instead of speaking, she kissed him, drawing hearts on the roof of his mouth with her tongue until he groaned and almost rolled her into the grass again. Almost…
‘People will be about soon. Listen, do you hear? The doves are flying away from the tower. They tell the time for us and are better than any clock. Work starts early here at Chemignac and there is always Albert… Get your shoes on, Yvonne. Button up that jacket and please, put your beret back on so I don’t see your hair touched by the morning light.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to take that image away with you?’ she teased.
‘Are you mad? I want to come home. I do not want to get shot because when my friends launch their assault, I am staring into space like a drunken rabbit.’
Later, and before he left, he knocked at the tower room door. He had depressing news. ‘You must stay incarcerated here for a while, chérie. That damnable industrialist who has requisitioned the other side of the courtyard? He’s back. Albert saw his car pulling into the avenue. Don’t put so much as the tip of your nose outside the door, nor open the window. I’ve warned Jean-Claude too. He can come and see you up here, if you want company, but under no circumstances must either of you go outside. You understand?’
‘At night, surely—’
‘Not even at night. Be patient, ma flamme. The bastard only stays a couple of days at a time. And I will be back very soon. Do you want to keep my jacket?’ He’d spotted it hanging over the bottom of the bed.
‘Do you have another one?’
‘I do, an older one that I don’t mind getting damaged. I’ll take that.’
‘Oh, Henri, no heroics. Oh, goodness, what about Cyprien?’ Her colleague’s suffering had gone clean out of her mind. What love can do… ‘If I mustn’t cross the courtyard, I can’t very well sit with him.’
‘Raymond will take care of him, and Albert will take a turn. I’ve given orders. Other than that, Cyprien will have to take his chances. We all have to do that in the end, no?’
That night, confined in the high room whose air felt deeper, stickier, than in any other part of the château, Yvonne slept fitfully. Anxiety wound around her throat like a ligature. If only she knew how Henri’s mission was progressing, but she could only wait, perhaps many hours. Potential outcomes crossed her mind. Not least that he would fail and die. Or perhaps worse, be taken alive. Taken to prison, where the false name and papers he carried on such occasions would be inspected and challenged, the truth eventually extracted from him, or from another of his band.
Falling into unconsciousness only after hours of mental strife, she was woken by a knock.
She was out of bed, crying ‘Henri!’ even before she was properly awake. As her fingers touched the key in the lock, as she was about to turn it, sleepiness fell away. Survival training asserted itself. Her hand dropped. ‘Identify yourself!’
‘Let me in, Madame. I want to talk. I’ve brought a bottle of cognac.’
She recognised the nasal whine. Or maybe . . . ‘Henri, are you having me on again? Is it you?’
‘It’s Albert. Why should you suppose I’m my brother? He cannot be everywhere, you know.’
The sour, hard-done-by tone left her in no doubt. ‘Scoot, Albert. I need my sleep.’
‘Not when my brother is around, hein? I’ve seen the way you look at each other. I know you were together in the hay meadow this morning. I saw you as I came back from town. But he’s not here and I am. And I am younger than him.’
‘That is no recommendation, believe me. Go away, Albert. Good night.’
She jumped as a fist thudded against the other side of the door, inches from her face.
‘I order you to open up! I am also part-owner of this estate. You think it is all my brother’s property? It is not! I can give orders too. I command you to let me in!’
‘Go away.’
Silence fell, broken only by Albert’s patchy breathing.
After a moment, in a changed voice, he said, ‘Your English friend is burning hot. Cyprien’s fever has reached its crisis and Raymond is a useless nurse. Just a peasant, after all. You’d better come down or your friend will die.’
Her fingers strayed to the key, the challenge reaching the most persuadable part of her. But again, caution won. ‘Albert, are there any bottoms of any barrels you are not prepared to scrape in your desire to be a pest? I’m going back to bed. If you want to stand outside my door all night, feel free.’
She got back under the covers, pulling them up over her head. At some point – she wasn’t sure quite how long he held out – the defeated scuffle of boots signalled Albert’s withdrawal.
Her face scrunched, and silently she wailed, Come back, Henri. Please, please come back.
On July 11th, the skies opened. Yvonne stayed in her room listening to the rain drumming on the courtyard flags. She started a new book, but spent more time alternately doing floor exercises and sleeping. On July 12th, it was still raining and no news had come from outside the château.
Worried about Cyprien, desperate for word of Henri, she went downstairs and waited until she saw Albert leaving his apartment. He was wrapped in oilskins against the weather. Knocking on the grimy window, she waved and shouted until she caught his attention. He stared at her, then walked away.
‘Damn you,’ she muttered. Ignoring Henri’s warnings, she ran out into the downpour, eventually catching Albert on the path that led to the winery buildings. ‘Give me any news you have,’ she demanded.
He folded his arms. ‘About what?’
‘Take your pick. Cyprien?’
‘Still alive.’
‘Your brother?’
‘Heard nothing.’
‘Is that… Is that good or bad?’
Albert laughed. The hood of his cape half-covered his eyes. Rain dripped down his cheeks. His chin had soft, fluffy beard-hairs on it, she noticed. He really was immature in everything, except in his skills at triggering her temper. ‘So? Good or bad?’
‘Depends how you look at it, Madame. Depends whose side you’re on.’
‘And whose side are you on, Albert?’ Her hair was drenched, her clothes waterlogged, though it was such warm rain it felt unexpectedly refreshing. Albert gave another little laugh, and his gaze swept her body, lingering at her breasts, their contours revealed by her sodden blouse.
Pinning her hand to her side, because all she wanted to do was slap him, she turned around and went back to her quarters. Back to the tower room.
That next night felt like the longest of her life and because she had to do something to keep herself from going mad, she took the little key she’d found in Henri’s jacket and opened the wardrobe. She took out each garment and in the darkness held them to her face, imbibing their spicy smells. One in particular felt like woven water against her skin. Then, all of a sudden, confused and fretful, she hung them back and slammed the door.
As s
he got into bed, shivering with suppressed tears, she thought she heard the dragging of fingernails down one of her walls. It frightened her, until she realised that it came from above. It must be the doves roosting in the roof joists.
On her last morning at Chemignac, July 13th, the rain stopped. Yvonne again disobeyed Henri’s orders. Jean-Claude persuaded her to do it.
He’d given her some good news. Having been woken early by the sound of a powerful car engine, he’d peeked through a broken window-shutter. He’d hoped it was their host returning, but it was a black Renault gliding down the walnut tree avenue to the road.
He told her jubilantly, ‘Our German neighbour has gone. Off to cut down more trees, I don’t doubt. I sincerely hope one falls on him. But it means we can emerge from our holes.’
Jean-Claude also reported that he had popped in on Cyprien. ‘I think “as well as can be expected” best sums up our young chum. He’s alive, anyway. Just wish it wasn’t so darned stuffy inside these walls.’
A stiff breeze had banished the last traces of cloud. Under dense, blue skies the courtyard flags had begun to steam. The sun climbed to the meridian and that was when Jean-Claude made his dangerous suggestion: ‘Why don’t you and I sit outside for a bit, Yvonne? Mm? Can’t hurt, and I reckon we both need fresh air.’
She wavered, but with Albert out of sight and the German gone, she wondered, what harm could there be? And it would be good to talk to Jean-Claude. Not about Henri, of course. About anything. About showing pedigree cats, or vegetable gardening, or the price of cheese if he so wished. She found a wooden chair to sit on, and collected her book. Jean-Claude went to get himself a chair, and when he returned he also had his camera with him. He’d unfortunately left doors open behind him and the geese, which spent their days roaming through what had once been a rose garden, quickly found their way to the courtyard. Yvonne attempted to herd them back inside, but she soon gave up. Every one she ushered back in was replaced by two more waddling out.
Jean-Claude watched her efforts with great enjoyment. ‘Leave it to Raymond,’ he advised at last. ‘He’s the goose-keeper. He likes them. They like him. In my view, they generate a lot of heat and that is all the good I can say of them.’
The sun had the radiance of an electric fire, and the air was dense as soup. But it still felt like paradise after so long indoors. Yvonne chose a spot in the shade of a wall. She opened the Dumas novel she’d been reading and found her place, but she didn’t get very far. Geese clustered around her, intrigued by her brown shoes – did they imagine they were something edible? ‘Go away,’ she told a particularly bold female, ‘or you never know, toe of shoe might just be applied to rear of goose.’
The creature ignored her, so she eventually ignored it in return. Actually, it was quite stimulating to be surrounded by flesh-and-blood creatures. Hadn’t she’d asked for memories to take away from here? This was another one she would never forget.
She couldn’t get into her novel. The words slipped away from her eyes. All she could think about was whether Henri was on his way home. Or lying dead at the side of a road.When Jean-Claude asked if he could take her picture, she stared at him as if he’d spoken to her in Chinese. ‘Why?’
‘Because you remind me of Britannia, dear girl, afloat in a sea of wings.’
‘It’s absolutely forbidden for us to take snapshots of each other, you know that.’
‘Scout’s honour, if the Germans come within fifty yards of me, I’ll swallow the film. I’ll go potty if I don’t do something other than wrap cold cloths on my ankle while worrying about what lies ahead and if I’m up to it. The hours I’ve spent in the company of Cyprien hasn’t done much for my morale either. His conversation is very one-sided.’
‘Oh, go on then.’ Yvonne kept her eyes lowered, thinking, I could be anybody in my brown-and-beige, and my hair always looks mousy in pictures. ‘Shall I smile and say “cheese”?’
‘Try “Camembert”, it’s more dignified. Ready?’ He took three or four shots, until the sound of children’s voices made him break off. They looked at each other, alarmed. Children?
A moment later, Raymond came into the courtyard. His face as he saw the geese would have given Jean-Claude an award-winning shot, had he lined it up in time. Raymond held the hand of a very little boy and was followed by a girl wearing a headscarf and a patched skirt. She seemed to be about the same age as him, perhaps a year older. She, in turn, held the hand of a dark-haired girl with elfin features and long limbs.
The dark little girl and Yvonne stared at each other. Yvonne bent first. ‘Are you Isabelle?’
A raking appraisal and the little mouth turned down.
‘Yes, it is Isabelle,’ Raymond answered, ‘and this is Pierre-Gaston. And this’ – his homely face lit up with pride as he stepped towards the girl in the headscarf – ‘is my friend Audrey, who looks after the children for Monsieur de Chemignac. Come on, help me round these birds up,’ he told the children.
Yvonne and Jean-Claude stood back as the four young ones persuaded the honking, ruffled geese back into the building, cornering the stragglers. The little boy, Pierre-Gaston, wasn’t much help as he ran among them, enjoying himself far too much. But young Isabelle applied herself to the job with a determination that was not lost on Yvonne.
Her father’s daughter, she thought.
Raymond introduced Yvonne and Jean-Claude to the children simply as ‘Monsieur’s guests.’ Isabelle was very interested in Jean-Claude’s camera.
‘Will you take our pictures?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure you should,’ Yvonne warned.
‘Well, why not, young lady?’ Jean-Claude said. ‘So long as Nurse doesn’t mind?’ He flashed his genial smile at Audrey, who said, ‘Well, if you don’t mind, Monsieur.’
Jean-Claude dragged his chair around as he located interesting angles from which to take his shots. He was still hampered by his injury and needed to sit down quite often. Telling them, ‘Stand tall, don’t grin. Don’t slouch. Perfect!’ he posed them singly and together. While Audrey and Raymond held hands and Pierre-Gaston jumped up and down, refusing to stay still, Isabelle performed for the camera. It was clear to Yvonne that she loved the lens.
She showed off her ballet steps, standing with a foot pointed, her arms extended elegantly, keeping her pose as Jean-Claude adjusted his focus. Her mouth turned right down when, after several shots, Jean-Claude said, ‘That’s all. Mustn’t use up too much film, you see.’
‘All right,’ Isabelle said, with a little pout. ‘We’ve come to see Papa, anyway.’
It fell to Yvonne to tell them that ‘Papa’ was still away. ‘On business.’ From the little boy there were tears, while Isabelle glared as if she, Yvonne, were responsible for their disappointment. Yvonne wished she could do something, offer something. But she had too many fears of her own to reassure unhappy children, and was relieved when Audrey took them away again.
‘Poor kids,’ Jean-Claude said when they were gone. ‘Yvonne, can I get a portrait of you in profile, without our feathered friends?’
‘Oh, go on. I’m only pretending to read, after all.’
Henri strode into the courtyard as Jean-Claude clicked his shutter for the third time, and his face turned to granite. Without a word, he hustled Yvonne inside. So roughly she dropped her book. He grabbed her chair as he went past, slinging it against one of the interior walls. He waited for Jean-Claude to join them and rounded on him. ‘Take out the film,’ he ordered. ‘Expose it, now!’
Jean-Claude remained imperturbable. He never boiled up or grew flustered. Probably why he’d passed all his agent training in spite of his age. ‘Our German neighbour has gone. Tell you what, old chap, I’ve nearly finished the roll of film, so I’ll hand it over to you. After I’ve taken some shots of you, what do you say? Because we really do need a record of these times. This war won’t last forever and without pictures, who will prove who was where? Who will prove who was on whose side? One day, Monsieur, you might be calle
d upon to explain why you obligingly supplied so much wine to the enemy. Good to see you back, by the way.’
The sense of his words reached Henri, who answered with a curt nod. They went outside again and pictures were taken until the film ran out.
‘I will keep your camera too, and hide it until you leave here.’ Henri held out his hand. With a pained sigh, Jean-Claude gave up his precious Kodak.
When it was just the two of them, Henri snarled, ‘Are you mad, after what I said?’
Yvonne patted her hair defensively. Henri’s handling had destabilised the hairpins. Her bun was slipping down her neck. ‘He’s right. That German has gone. He left this morning.’
‘I told you about his staff, no? The two servants who live in? Pox-ridden informants both, and no more than fifty feet away.’
‘Albert has seen me outside since you went.’ He’d as good as lured her out, actually. ‘If it was so darn dangerous, why did he say nothing?’
‘Albert does not make the rules here or give the orders.’
‘No. Clearly not. Oh, don’t look at me like that.’ His scathing fury was making her curl up inside. ‘I’m just so glad to see you back. Four days, Henri!’
But he wasn’t ready to relent. ‘I thought the British SOE trained their people. Look what they send us! Old men, actors and female amateurs. We deserve better.’
‘How dare you?’ Her anger flared, in part from shame but mostly from anguish. This wasn’t the reunion she’d fantasised about through the sleepless hours. This man, his face tight with rage and disgust, could not be the one who had made love to her. She wasn’t sure why she’d disobeyed orders to keep indoors. Perhaps she just didn’t like taking orders. A gracious apology was in order, but somehow she couldn’t get it out. ‘You may criticise, but Cyprien wouldn’t have got shot in the first place if your people hadn’t made a muck of things. Have you identified your informant yet, may I ask?’
Henri rubbed his chin uncomfortably. ‘No. We recruit only those we know we can trust, but men and women break. Sometimes we win, sometimes we fail.’
A Gown of Thorns: A Gripping Novel of Romance, Intrigue and the Secrets of a Vintage Parisian Dress Page 20