Lies Told In Silence

by M. K. Tod

  He’s thin and weary, she thought, noticing dark circles beneath his eyes as he came closer. With no concern for who might be watching, she embraced him in the middle of the square.

  “My mother has invited you for dinner.” Edward’s eyes widened in response. “She’s making roast pork, so she must think you’re a special guest.”

  “She knows about us?”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Everything.”

  “Everything?”

  Helene glanced up in time to see his furrowed brow. “Not quite, but she’s probably guessed. It’s very hard to fool Maman. I had the most embarrassing conversation with her. But enough of that. If we hurry, we can visit our hilltop and still be in time for dinner.”

  She had been to the shepherd’s hut a few times since Edward left, once to give it a thorough cleaning and on other occasions to stare dreamily into the valley below, speculating about their future. Usually, she took his letters with her and reread them while sitting in the sun, searching for hints of unexpressed emotions and cringing when Edward wrote bluntly of casualties or the conditions he experienced.

  They sat on a blanket beneath a spreading pine where earthy scents mingled with the sun-soaked tang of dried grass and baked stone. Crickets soared and a yellow butterfly danced among nearby brambles. Embracing Edward earlier, Helene had felt his ribs barely covered by flesh, and now, with his sleeves rolled up, she saw that his arms were little but sinew and bone. “Chéri, you are émacié, very thin,” she said.

  “I haven’t had much time to eat.”

  “But soldiers have to eat. You can’t fight without proper food.” She held him close. “Maman has become a wonderful cook. Her dinner will be very good for you. Now, tell me how it was.”

  “We did all right. Regained some ground near Albert. One of my men lost a leg and another suffered a head wound. They’ll both go home soon.”

  “And you?”

  “Much the same.”

  A bird chirped from the treetops, and Helene tilted her head to search for it. Having already learned that silence allowed him to speak his true thoughts, she did not press for details. Edward traced the length of her fingers one by one.

  “Our battalion repulsed several German attacks. Each time my men and I waited for the end of heavy shelling before moving with the front lines. Then we would dig in again. In between the shelling, airplanes flew overhead, but I was usually too busy to see whether they were German or British. You have to ignore them. There’s no point wondering whether they will drop one of their bombs or spray their machine guns in your direction. No point at all. You just have to get on with it. It’s been a gruelling few weeks. Just before I came to see you, we were told the French are gaining ground on the Aisne and that preparations for another push at Ypres are underway. It just goes on and on, Helene. On and on. But let’s not talk anymore about that. I want to hear about you.”

  Helene felt his tension and heard the abject weariness of his voice. She steadied herself with a deep breath and kept her voice light. “Monsieur must give me another kiss if he wants to know what I have done while he was away. Perhaps more than one kiss,” she said as she lifted her lips to his.

  *

  From the kitchen window, Lise watched them approach the house arm in arm. The tall, thin man beside her daughter laughed at something Helene said, turning to look at her with such obvious passion that it took her breath away. He loves her, she thought.

  “Maman, this is Edward Jamieson.”

  Edward took her hand and dipped his head with careful courtesy before handing her a bouquet of flowers.

  “Bonsoir, Madame Noisette. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “And I you.” Lise held his gaze for a moment, trying to get a sense of the man. She noted nothing cocky in his demeanour, and despite the smile, his eyes radiated sorrow. “Helene, can you arrange these in a vase? I need a little time with Monsieur Jamieson on my own.” She smiled at Edward. “Monsieur, please come this way.”

  Even with windows open to catch an evening breeze, the house was hot, so Lise took Edward out to the garden, her long grey skirt swishing as she walked. They sat near the birdbath beneath a pergola draped in ivy.

  “I understand you were at the ridge.”

  “Yes, Madame. I was wounded.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Edward nodded in acknowledgement. “Helene, Jean and I listened to the battle for three days. An experience I have no wish to repeat. It must have been dreadful for soldiers like you.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  Lise waited, but Edward did not elaborate. “We’re grateful to you Canadians.” She paused for a moment of respectful silence. “Tell me about yourself, Monsieur.”

  He looked at her, his brown eyes clear and sharp, his face deeply tanned. “I’m a soldier, Madame, with the Signal Corps, but before I enlisted I worked for the telephone company from the age of fifteen. With eight brothers and sisters, I left school to help my family.” He pursed his lips. “Leaving school was difficult because I love learning, but my duty as the eldest was clear.”

  During the next hour, Lise heard about each of his siblings, discovering that one of his sisters had been left behind with a maiden aunt in England when Edward’s parents immigrated to Canada. She heard stories about fishing on a small lake north of Toronto, about his parents’ staunch Christian faith, about his mother, who dominated family decisions, and about a game called hockey played in the winter on frozen ponds.

  Lise was surprised at Edward’s candour, and finally, she smiled and invited him into the house, where the dining room table was set with white linen and deep blue china. In the middle, the pink flowers Edward brought were mixed with white dahlias.

  “Perhaps you could pour the wine, Monsieur. We haven’t had a male guest in the house for a long time.”

  Edward looked at the bottle already open on the table and hesitated before picking it up.

  “First Papa taste wine,” said Jean, struggling to find the English words.

  Edward nodded and poured a small amount into the glass in front of him. After he sniffed the wine and tasted it, he announced that it was delicious and poured a generous amount in all four glasses.

  During dinner, Lise guided the conversation to talk of Paris, life in Beaufort, stories about their neighbours, times when Helene and Jean were younger. They even spoke of Mariele and Tante Camille.

  “How is your son, Madame?” asked Edward during a lull in the conversation.

  “He has recovered very well. I spent more than a month nursing him, as you know.” Lise raised her eyebrows and smiled with amusement at Edward’s embarrassment. Then her face clouded. “But he has returned to the front.”

  “I hear the French are succeeding at Aisne.”

  “So my husband informs us. We pray for Guy’s safety every night.” The table became silent.

  “Monsieur, can you tell a story about les batailles?” Jean said. “Helene says this is bad topic but peut être you have good story?” Jean ignored his sister’s look of annoyance.

  Lise looked at Edward, hoping he would relate something suitable, and could tell from the way he began that he understood her concerns.

  “My fifteen-year-old brother is interested in science. Are you interested in science?” Jean nodded. “Well, this story is about something called triangulation. A way to pinpoint enemy locations through sound.”

  Jean looked puzzled, and Helene rapidly translated the word triangulation.

  Using simple words, Edward explained that before battle it was important to map enemy positions accurately and that one method involved positioning microphones in a triangle in no man’s land. At the mention of no man’s land, Lise took a sharp inward breath.

  “Twelve of us went out in the pitch-black of night, making our way forward in the tunnels and trenches until we got to the forward lines. We moved slowly because the passageways are narrow and they zigzag. Each of us carried a lot
of equipment on our backs.”

  “How much weight?” asked Jean.

  “About fifty pounds.”

  “Mon Dieu! Cinquante livres de pois.”

  “Jean, let Monsieur continue,” said Lise.

  “We had to walk slowly, one step at a time. The trenches can be slippery.” Edward’s careful choice of words reassured Lise. “It took about an hour to reach our destination, where a support team waited with ladders and extra gear. We blackened our faces so the Germans would not see us and checked our packs, working in silence so the enemy would not hear us. Then we climbed the ladders and fanned out in teams of two, creeping through the mud from shell hole to shell hole, counting paces, checking our compasses. Placement of the microphones has to be very accurate.”

  Jean’s mouth was open. Lise knew he was imagining the tension and danger of a dark night near enemy lines.

  “When my partner and I reached our spot, we took off our packs and laid out our equipment then we dug the microphones into position and secured them in the ground. And finally, we hooked a spool of wire to the microphone and unwound it as we returned to the trench.”

  “And then you were safe?”

  “No. Then we got another pack and did it all over again with a second microphone.”

  “Did anyone get hurt?” Jean asked.

  Lise held her breath, wondering what Edward would disclose.

  “Actually, one of our men was shot when he was in no man’s land. We got him back to the medics, though.”

  After dinner, Lise permitted Helene to walk with Edward as far as Monsieur Garnier’s. She knew they would embrace as soon as they were out of sight of the house, but Edward’s conduct had been exemplary, and he would return to the front the following day. It seemed the least she could do for this soldier who was fighting for France.

  She could tell he was damaged by his experiences. At the hospital in Beaufort, and on the two occasions she nursed Guy, she learned that fear lingered in a soldier’s eyes, that souls deaden with what these men lived with every day. Edward’s eyes looked sad and fearfully empty … except when he looked at her daughter.

  Chapter 30

  October 1917

  My darling wife,

  I was surprised to hear that Helene has a young man. Of course, in normal times she would already have had gentlemen calling on her. However, these are not normal times, and this news has unsettled me. It is particularly worrisome that she has seen him alone and that he is a foreigner. I ask you to remember when we were first courting; your Maman was most diligent about having you chaperoned even when we took a stroll in the public gardens. My own emotions at that time were difficult to keep under control, so I can imagine the feelings of this young man, no doubt a hotheaded soldier. It would be best for you to find some way for Helene to break things off with him.

  Your mention of Jean saddens me, as I know that it is my responsibility to give him the male guidance so necessary at this time in his life. I will renew my efforts to bring you back to Paris and reunite us as a family.

  Give the children my love,

  Henri

  *

  Dear Helene,

  Forgive me for not writing earlier, but we’ve had a troubling week. Advances followed by retreats as the Germans continue to pound our positions. I alternate between hope and dismay. Brewster was killed yesterday running a message forward. I saw him fall, but German mortars were so intense I could do nothing to save him. We buried him this morning. He was only nineteen but nevertheless very brave.

  I’m sorry to be so gloomy. Captain Earnshaw has said that we will rotate out for a week of rest some time tomorrow. All I want is a bath and hot food. There’s a town about ten miles back, and I know Eric will persuade me to walk there for a night of drinking. I would rather be with you, but we are too far from Beaufort for me to visit.

  I received your package last Wednesday and now carry your picture in my pocket so I can look at your beautiful face whenever I want. The cigarettes are a special treat. Please thank your mother for being so considerate.

  My mother has written with news about the family. My two youngest brothers have been very sick with the measles. She says they are now on the mend, and I suppose since she wrote that letter in late July they are likely running wild again. She enclosed two pairs of socks so I have something clean to wear.

  The captain says there’s hope for a breakthrough since both the British and French are having some success, and I have heard that the Americans are beginning to make a difference. I’ve enclosed a picture of me taken when Eric and I were in the nearby town. I hope you like it.

  I’ll write again in a few days time.

  Yours,

  Edward

  *

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  Helene began her confession absentmindedly, wondering when she would next see Edward. What shall I confess? Her mind ticked through the usual sins: jealousy, being disrespectful, failing to say her prayers, being unkind to her brother. Of course, the most significant items related to Edward, but she preferred not to tell Father Marcel about him.

  It occurred to her that her secret life would shock her mother, that longing for Edward’s touch might be construed as wanton behaviour, that a desire for intimacy would be considered totally inappropriate for an unmarried woman. But why should I confess to being in love? Helene touched Edward’s picture, which was now almost always in her pocket, and sighed.

  His letters arrived with varying frequency, and though more than a week had passed without one, somehow she knew he was safe and continued to write faithfully twice a week, recounting little stories about her life: a visit with Germaine, an episode about Jean, news of Guy, who had been on leave in Paris for a week, her mother’s continuing hospital duties. Helene noticed that her mother seemed more anxious than ever about Guy, as though expecting his luck would soon run out. The last time Guy wrote, Maman had wept for hours.

  After six Hail Marys for the sin of disobedience, Helene sat back in the pew, idly watching others dip their fingertips in holy water to make the sign of the cross before kneeling in prayer, rosaries clicking. Bits of light sparkled in the sanctuary as sun shone through stained glass. Incense released memories of the cathedral in Paris where her family worshipped each Sunday amidst the splendour of society fashion. Her normally confident, proud father always seemed humbled by church, respectful of his position in God’s world. Helene wondered if her own faith was slipping away. Lately, Father Marcel’s weekly sermons offered no comfort, and as war continued to take its toll, she had begun to feel angry with God.

  After confession, she took the path to the hilltop, walking slowly to savour autumn’s last warmth. She stopped to pick wild primrose and listen to the murmuring forest. When she neared the hut, she noticed the door was open and expected to find a farmer stopping to rest or a young boy exploring.

  A moment later, Edward’s slim frame appeared, pacing up and down outside the hut, and she dropped her small bunch of wildflowers and ran to greet him. He pulled her into his arms, triggering a flush of heat as they kissed. They both spoke at once.

  “Where …”

  “How …”

  “Earnshaw gave me a twenty-four-hour pass. I hitched a ride to Beaufort, but no one was at your house. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “I was at confession.” She laughed at the look on his face. “We usually go on Saturday. Maman says it’s good for the soul.”

  He held her tightly again then loosened his embrace as he drew back to look at her, the longing in his eyes clear. Without speaking, she took his hand.

  Months ago, when she had cleaned the hut, she understood that he might want her and had prepared for it, refilling the straw pallet with fresh, sweet-smelling hay, storing a soft flannel sheet and small pillow on a nearby shelf. Thoughts of intimacy made her feel both nervous and excited, but now that the time had come, she felt no hesitation. She spread the sheet and watched as a smile flooded his face.r />
  “Come here,” he said.

  Button by button, he undid her blouse and, when it was off, removed her brassiere, his breath catching as he ran his hands across her breasts, cupping them to feel their weight. She could feel his hardness straining against his trousers as he bent to suck each nipple, lingering to flick his tongue back and forth. When he lifted his head as if to admire his creation, Helene undid his shirt and pressed her breasts to his naked chest.

  “You’re mine,” she said, shocked at her own boldness. Being naked with him felt like the most natural thing in the world.

  “I want to be,” he whispered against her hair.

  For some reason, it seemed important to take the initiative, so she loosened her arms, stepped out of her skirt and pulled him onto the pallet. Lying beside her, he touched every part of her body, watching her lips part as the heat flooded her face. Helene’s breaths quickened as her body stirred with desire, his touch on her nipples creating a wanting ache in her groin.

  When Edward removed his trousers, she saw how hard he was and shifted her legs to welcome him, crying out as he slid into her moistness. He remained still for a few moments then moved in and out with slow, gentle strokes until she grabbed his buttocks to hold him deep within, and he shuddered inside her.

  They dozed for a while, limbs entangled. When she woke, he was propped on one elbow, looking down at her.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “Je t’aime,” she said, leaning against him, her fingers caressing the hairs on his chest. She wanted him inside her again and the intense pleasure of his hands on her body. Edward turned and pulled her towards him.

  “I want you forever,” he said.

  Chapter 31

  October 1917