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Lies Told In Silence

Page 30

by M. K. Tod


  Upstairs, she found new drapes and spreads in vibrant colours—sunny yellow, field green, peony pink—and tasteful decorations and new pictures that made each bedroom feel warm and inviting. On her mother’s dresser were family pictures: Guy with Renee and their four boys, Jean and Yvette with their twin girls and one of her and Francois with their three taken two years ago. She opened the door to what had been her grandmother’s bedroom, where the only colour came from a deep blue washbasin which she remembered filling with warm water so Grandmere could have what she called her “petite toilette” before breakfast. Everything else was white, making the room look like summer clouds. No wonder Maman and Papa still come here.

  Helene stood at the bottom of the attic stairs, wondering what she would find in her old room, the place where she slept when they first came to Beaufort, the place where she read Edward’s letters and hid them from her mother’s eyes. The place where they made love one winter day. The stairs creaked in protest as she ascended.

  At the top, she braced herself for a colour like lavender to conjure up fields in Provence, or azure to recall the Mediterranean, or perhaps red to commemorate the Tonneau that served them so well. When she opened the door, a smile spread across her face. Her mother had left it untouched.

  She imagined her mother making this deliberate decision and wondered at her reasoning. Why didn’t she tell me? Was she trying to protect something I might consider precious? Each item in the room whispered memories. Helene pressed her fingers against her lips. Did she know I would eventually come?

  *

  Sweetheart,

  I haven’t had a letter from you yet, but I’m sure there is one on the way. Perhaps our military mail system is having difficulty finding me. I have all your other letters tucked in a waterproof bag inside my satchel, so if I don’t receive one from you soon, I will reread one or two to keep you close.

  My darling, you have made me the happiest man in the world. To know that you are waiting for me and have agreed to marry me is a gift beyond belief. Every day I think about those last hours we spent together. I long for you; every part of you is precious to me. Promise me one more time that you and I will always be together.

  Today is Sunday, and I imagine you sitting in St. Jerome’s waiting for Father Marcel’s sermon to end. I hope you are thinking of me.

  All my love,

  Edward

  By the time the sun was slipping away, she had finished reading every letter, including those she wrote, pausing to wipe her tears or stare into some unseen distance, seeking a way to understand. Edward’s last few letters were so desperate she could hardly bear to read them.

  She returned the letters to their box, arranging them by date, hers interleaved with his. Bereft and disoriented, she walked barefoot along a stone path to the pond, where she stood for a long time listening to frogs croaking and the soft mooing of Monsieur Doucet’s cows. A crescent moon, pure and innocent, pierced the sky while fireflies danced near a cluster of lily pads and crickets sang their night song.

  Who am I now that I know?

  She felt as though an earthquake had opened a chasm, and she was on one side separated from everything familiar. Her life no longer made sense. Her father’s deception made the decision to marry Francois a betrayal of immense proportions; not only had she broken her promise to Edward but she had denied him his daughter. Each of his letters made it clear that she was everything to him. When the air cooled, she shivered and returned to the house, exhausted and empty. In the narrow chasteness of her girlhood bed, she thought about the man who loved her now and the one who had loved her long ago.

  *

  She woke to the pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof and dragged herself out of bed. A bank of cloud stretched across the horizon like a grey shroud. Suitable for the way I’m feeling, she thought.

  Helene looked into the mirror leaning against the wall above her old dresser. Her face was bruised from sorrow, red-rimmed eyes puffy, hair lank and dishevelled. She grimaced and made her way to the bathroom. Except for the gentle sounds of rain, the house was quiet, and after soaking in the tub, her sadness eased a fraction.

  Downstairs, she rummaged in the kitchen, making breakfast and coffee from provisions her mother’s housekeeper had arranged. Being in the kitchen reminded her of happy times when her grandmother taught her to cook and when she and her mother talked about life and womanhood. This is where we became friends. Despite the war, this house was full of love and a measure of contentment. Helene allowed her mind to wander, images coming and going as she contemplated her circumstances, and an almost dreamlike state gentled her soul.

  By early afternoon, the rain had stopped, puffy white clouds gradually replacing the grey. Restless, Helene walked into Beaufort, and as she sipped an espresso at Café Pitou, the exterior now painted a cheerful blue, she reflected on the durability of small towns, and how so little changes with time. A comforting thought. The pharmacy, flower shop, café and dressmaker were much the same; the fountain still offered its welcome spray of water. Women stopped for lengthy conversations, shopping bags in hand; dogs sniffed and lifted their legs; a bicycle bell rang sharply. She wondered if she would see a familiar face.

  Madame Lalonde had died several years ago, as had Gaston and Father Marcel. Doctor Valdane’s daughter had three children. Monsieur Garnier still raised award-winning pigs, although his son was now running their farm.

  Perhaps Germaine still lives here, she mused. Memories of Germaine crowded her thoughts: whispered conversations at the café, Germaine delivering notes from Edward, the funeral for Germaine’s fiancé. They had written a few letters back and forth after she left Beaufort, but when pregnancy took her to Honfleur, she stopped writing. She’s probably married with lots of children.

  In reality, Helene preferred not to acknowledge anyone. Conversation would bring questions she did not want to answer. Who was I when I lived here? A spoiled girl, a teenager afraid of what war would bring, someone who mourned her grandmother and grew up quickly. A woman in love.

  Leaning her head to the right, she could see the church where Father Marcel had presided over his flock. The bishop would have sent another black-frocked man to perform the rituals, interchangeable cogs in a life of faith and hope. For a moment, Helene considered seeking the comfort of confession. The tiny booth with its dark interior, smells of incense and solemn, faceless voice had been mysterious, almost frightening when she was young, but her faith had retreated following the war and Edward’s disappearance.

  Can prayer absolve me of secret longing and disloyal thoughts? Which sins would I confess? Lust? Envy? Not adultery …unless memories are adulterous. She sipped her coffee to still the sudden surge of sadness rising within her.

  *

  “Yes, everything is fine. I have food, and Papa has a lovely wine cellar.”

  Telephoning Paris spoiled her reverie, but she had promised to let Francois know she was safe. Helene hoped her husband would laugh at the mention of the wine cellar. He admired his father-in-law’s choice of wines. Francois did not laugh.

  “What about tomorrow?” her husband said.

  “Tomorrow’s the ceremony.” If he can be brusque, so can I.

  “And then …”

  “I don’t know how long I’ll stay. Perhaps a week. We talked about this before.”

  “I know, but I thought … oh, never mind what I thought.”

  “Chéri, don’t be angry. I know I’m being difficult, and I’m sorry. Let’s change the topic. How are the children?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “Did Daniel complete his history project? It was due today.”

  “I have no idea. You coddle him too much. He’d be better off experiencing the consequences of his inattention.”

  She knew Francois was being harsh because she had gone away, not because he wanted his son to fail, nevertheless, she held her tongue. No point in making it worse.

  “Give them my love,” she said.

 
Francois did not acknowledge her statement.

  “Good-bye,” she said, annoyed at his behaviour.

  The telephone went dead.

  Chapter 44

  July 26, 1936

  Nerves jangled as Helene put on and discarded different outfits, fingers fumbling to fasten and unfasten buttons and zippers, her usual decisiveness having vanished into the day’s looming uncertainties. Newspaper clippings describing the memorial and the ceremony lay on the kitchen table. Ten o’clock was the departure time for buses from Beaufort taking villagers to the memorial. Hurry, she told herself, making a quick coffee with a slice of bread and Camembert. She had little appetite.

  He won’t recognize me, she thought, pouting into the mirror as she applied lipstick the colour of unripe cherries and twisted her hair into a loose chignon. I wore it down when he knew me. Don’t be an idiot, he won’t be there. She tilted her head left and right to check her appearance one last time, snapped her handbag shut and left the house.

  The bus ride took less than forty minutes, a collective intake of breath marking the moment when the monument came into view dominating the ridge, piercing the sky with honour and tribute, heartache and regret. Clouds billowed on either side like sentinels guarding memories of sacrifice. To the northeast, dark hills loomed over the coalfields of Lens, defended by German soldiers during the battle of Vimy Ridge. The Paris newspapers had described how the ridge enabled Germany to command an area of more than ten kilometres in all directions, and to kill more than one hundred thousand French and British in the first two years of war.

  Helene shuddered as she tried to imagine one hundred thousand dead men. Edward was almost one of them. A few centimeters, possibly less, made the difference. She looked across fields that once churned with mud and men, now serene in their greenness, and remembered the nights when she and Jean watched them prepare. The first hour of battle slammed through her mind like a boxer’s fist and for a moment she covered her face with her hands.

  The bus let them off some distance away amidst the clamour of crowds, and she was glad to be alone and let her mind roam. Large sections of the field in front of the monument were reserved for dignitaries and returning soldiers, and she tried to make sense of the signs marking different battalions. How did I ever think I could find him?

  Helene stopped suddenly, causing the man behind her to stumble and curse. What if his wife is with him? She had not imagined Edward bringing his wife, yet all around her were men and women, arms linked together, exclaiming over the memorial and listening to stories. Many faces were streaked with tears. Many looked confused, gazing at forgotten fields and buried memories.

  Looking west through a gap in the trees, she saw the bombed out tower of Mont-Saint-Éloi, its jagged shell a monument to bravery. Helene swallowed her tears thinking of how often she and Jean had stood near that very hill, watching soldiers prepare for battle. The hill that seemed so high nineteen years ago looked innocent, the land stretching into the distance, dotted with bushes and grazing cows, green grass crisscrossed with golden wheat. Nothing to indicate the punishing punch of war.

  Closer to the memorial, lumpy sections marked by wide craters remained fenced with barbed-wire, large signs in French, English and German warning spectators of unexploded bombs. As she looked, Helene imagined thousands of soldiers swarming these very fields with only one objective in mind: taking the ridge. Once again, she turned, north, east, south and west to honour those who defended her country.

  Eventually, she found a spot amongst French women who volunteered in the hospitals and listened to conversation bubble and sigh. She had the oddest feeling of being alone, as if the crowds were merely scenery bobbing and bending in the breeze, as if the memorial was meant only for her, the central figure of a woman grieving over a fallen soldier symbolizing her own sorrow. Helene bowed her head as she heard the roar of airplanes and the haunting call of bugles.

  When the King of England began to speak, she looked up, surprised at the short, slight figure with a shock of golden hair. Loudspeakers piped his words across the crowd as he spoke in perfect French, thanking them for their sacrifice and the honour of dedicating this land so that Canadian soldiers could rest peacefully on Canadian soil. When he switched to English, she scanned the crowds again.

  Thin faces, long faces, plump faces, lined faces, men who once defended her ravaged country, their sorrow mingled with bewilderment and a whisper of pride, their stature reflecting the soldiers they once were. Helene’s thoughts left her feeling hollow, as though her insides had been sucked out.

  It might have been the stride that she first recognized or perhaps the tight set of the man’s shoulders that caught her attention. Her body tensed as she watched and waited. When the man neared, she could see his broad forehead and straight nose, and she knew. She held his gaze and smiled, overcome by his nearness.

  “You came,” she said, feeling the familiar heat stir between them.

  “So did you.”

  With great difficulty, Helene resisted reaching for him despite the ache that billowed inside. He exuded the same calm strength that had first attracted her, the same penetrating gaze that made her feel as if he could touch her soul. The weight he carried made him look more serious, more successful, though he wasn’t in the least bit heavy. A wisp of grey marked his temples, and she longed to smooth his hair, ruffled by the wind. He looked at her with anguish and love.

  Tears filled her eyes. “I had to know if you survived,” she said, touching his arm with the tips of two fingers. “Will you come to see me?”

  “My wife …” The words hit her like a slap and she stepped back. “I don’t …” It was clear her question caught him off guard. “I might be able to get away for a few days.”

  “A few days.”

  Would she risk her marriage for a few days? The time to back away was now. No harm would be done to either of them if she changed her mind now. After all, she had her answer; he was alive. A shivering rush filled her body. Stepping away from him now would only leave her aching for more.

  Helene closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she gave Edward a folded piece of paper. “A telephone number. I’m in Beaufort. Do you remember?”

  “Yes. Almost every day.” He searched her face. “I have to get back.”

  She smiled at him the way she used to, then he turned and walked away. Helene tracked his progress until all she could see was the top of his head next to a woman wearing a red hat. He did not look her way again.

  *

  Exhausted by the day’s emotions, she slipped off her shoes and sank onto a large wicker chair on the porch, holding a glass of wine in one hand and her box of letters in the other. Randomly, she selected letters to read, their sting softened now that she had seen him. Ripe pink faded to pearl, and as dark unfolded, stars graced the sky.

  Later, lying in bed, her mind jangled as memories chased memories. Could she resist the lure of being with him? If I could have resisted, I wouldn’t have come in the first place. She banished all thoughts of Francois and her children.

  At six a.m., bathed and dressed, she sat by the telephone with her second cup of coffee. She had been waiting for almost an hour, afraid that if she stepped away for even a second, she would miss his call. A book lay open on her lap at the same page as when she had first sat down.

  Two short rings startled her. Then another two rings made her jump to answer.

  “It’s you, enfin.”

  “When can I see you?” No pleasantries, just raw demand.

  “I’m staying at Tante Camille’s for a week.” Helene had so much to say but knew if she began the dam would overflow.

  “My wife … my wife is with me. I’ll have to figure out how to get away.”

  “I have until Saturday.” Her voice steadied. “Edward, are you sure?” She waited, listening to the crackle and sputter of the telephone line.

  “Yes. I’ll let you know when I’ll arrive.”

  “Bon. Adieu, mon ch�
�ri.”

  No words could convey the intensity of her desire for him. He would know when they were together. She sat back, amazed at the enormity of what she was about to do. Strangely, instead of guilt, she felt as if embracing the past was meant to be, as if being with Edward, even for a few days, would make her whole again.

  Chapter 45

  July 27, 1936

  She heard the taxi first, a dim buzzing that could be mistaken for a distant tractor, and went to the kitchen window to catch a glimpse through the trees. When the taxi turned up the driveway, pebbles clinked against its metal frame, and the driver slowed to negotiate the sharp turn. The car door creaked open, and still she stood at the window, frozen at the sight of him, so near her body quivered. She glanced at the mirror one last time to see bright lips and flushed cheeks gazing back and opened the door.

  He was bare headed, wearing a navy jacket and pleated grey pants; his dark eyes gazing at her with longing. Behind him, the taxi spun off, kicking up a small cloud of dust. He did not move, nor did he smile, and for an instant, Helene hesitated. He looks nervous, she thought.

  “Darling,” the word slipped off her tongue as if it were something she said every day, “come in.”

  When he was inside the house, she did not hesitate and put her arms around his neck, his lean frame contouring hers in a forgotten pattern as they swayed together, their kiss like an unexpected wave knocking her off balance. A deep pulse gathered inside her as she tasted him and felt his desire. When his hand ran down her back to the curve of her hips, Helene’s breath caught in her throat. She took his hand and led the way upstairs to her grandmother’s bedroom. Grandmere would understand.

  Words were unnecessary. She loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hands over his chest. It’s thicker than before. She wound her fingers in his hair and kissed him deeply. He seems unsure. That’s not how I remember him.

 

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