by Liz Trenow
For several moments they stood, stunned into silence. Otto nudged her. ‘This is crazy. Where on earth are we going to stay, Mama? And when are we going to eat? I’m starving.’
Martha scanned the scene, trying to find someone who looked kindly and reliable, someone educated who would probably speak French and not just the local Flemish. Her eye was caught by a man in his early thirties with a bold, handsome face. She watched him for a few moments, his brow furrowing as he studied the ruined buildings, making notes and sketches in his book.
Carefully, she manoeuvred herself until she was standing within earshot, and took a deep breath. It was time to try out her French. ‘A dreadful sight, is it not, monsieur?’
He looked up with an easy smile. ‘Oui, c’est terrible. But I find my eye has grown sadly accustomed. Is it your first visit here?’
‘Indeed it is.’ She paused. ‘We are just arrived. Would you know of somewhere my son and I could stay for a night or so?’
The idea evidently amused him. ‘Madame, you cannot stay in Ypres. I am afraid there is not a single habitable building remaining.’ He immediately added, more kindly, ‘You could try Hoppestadt. It is not far, only seven kilometres. There are two hotels there, The Grand, and Hotel de la Paix.’
‘I thank you, sir, for your helpful advice.’
She went in search of Otto, whom she’d left guarding their luggage near a coffee stall. His eyes were fixed hungrily on the vendor pouring batter into a waffle iron.
‘Can we have one, Mama? Please?’
The delicious aroma of warm sugar and fresh coffee reminded her that they had eaten only half an egg and a crust of bread since yesterday. She ordered a waffle for each of them. Dusted with icing sugar like a light fall of snow, these crusty grids of golden batter were more delicious than she could have imagined. The coffee was stronger and smoother than any she had tasted in living memory.
‘I’m in heaven,’ Otto mumbled through a mouthful. ‘I shall eat nothing but waffles the whole time we are here.’ The joy of his smile filled her heart, sweeping away the discomfort and distress of the past twenty-four hours. If he is happy, I can endure anything.
*
An hour later they were still waiting for a taxi. When they checked again with the waffle seller he told them there were only eight serviceable motor cars in the whole town and all were engaged taking tourists to the battlefields.
‘You need to get here early next time,’ he added unhelpfully.
She was beginning to despair when she saw the man with the notebook approaching.
‘You are still here, madame?’
‘We are attempting to travel to Hoppestadt as you recommended, but all the cars seem to be engaged,’ she said. ‘It is obviously a good business being a taxi driver in this town.’
‘I’ll remember that, if I am out of work in future,’ he replied, with a teasing smile that reminded her, just a little, of Heinrich’s. He paused, turning away and then back to her. ‘Madame, I am returning to Hoppestadt in my own car shortly. May I offer you a lift?’
Her immediate instinct was to refuse: it was far too risky to become familiar with this man who, given longer contact, might see through their subterfuge, their pretence of being Swiss. But he was so charming, his eyes so kind, and it could be several hours until a taxi became available. She heard herself accepting.
Ten minutes later he reappeared in a battered, dusty old Citroen without a roof or side windows. It spluttered to a halt, emitting a cloud of choking, oily smoke.
‘She’s no Rolls-Royce, I’m afraid,’ he shouted over the clatter of the engine, leaping out to open the passenger door. ‘But the war, you know . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Tanks were their priority. Still, she gets me from place to place.’
Otto climbed into the tiny back shelf, wedging himself beside their two small cases. She’d given him strict instructions not to utter a single word for the whole of the journey. The man held open the door as Martha lowered herself as gracefully as possible into the passenger seat – it was a long way down and she could feel her knees creaking – and folded in her skirt so that he could close it.
Surely no harm could come of travelling with a gentleman with such impeccable manners? It felt sweet to relax into the unaccustomed pleasure of handing over responsibility to another, if only for a brief while. She hadn’t realised how exhausted she felt, after facing that gruelling interrogation on top of an uncomfortable and mostly sleepless night.
He climbed into the driver’s seat and turned to her. ‘Please let me introduce myself. Daniel Martens, at your service.’
‘Martha Weber,’ she said. ‘And my son Otto.’
‘Do I detect a Swiss accent?’ he said, navigating the car carefully between piles of rubble.
She had rehearsed this moment over and over in the weeks before their departure. ‘We are from Geneva, come to find the place where my nephew is buried.’
‘I am sorry for your loss. Will you need to take a car from Hoppestadt? I recommend that you book early.’
With every exchange, Martha’s confidence grew. Her story about being Swiss would provide, she hoped, a plausible excuse for any lapses in her pronunciation.
‘If you have any trouble, the owner of the Hotel de la Paix will be able to help you: Monsieur Vermeulen. The name suits; when he gets excited he whirls his arms about just like a windmill.’ The image made her giggle; there had been so little to laugh about lately. ‘It is the most comfortable hotel, more reasonable than the other one, which is rather grand and full of businessmen, and Madame Vermeulen is an excellent chef. For a lady such as yourself, with a young boy, it is the place I would recommend.’
‘You are really most kind. Thank you very much.’
‘It is the least I can do, madame.’
*
The town of Hoppestadt turned out to be reassuringly intact, albeit rather down at heel. Only a few buildings showed signs of shelling. The main square was busy with shoppers and a cafe on the corner was open, parasols raised over terrace tables to protect against the harsh heat of the sun. It was a cheerful sight, reminding her of Berlin in the good old days, before the war.
Monsieur Martens stopped the car right outside the Hotel de la Paix, on the edge of the square.
‘Au revoir, and a thousand thanks,’ Martha said. ‘You have been most kind.’
‘De rien. It was nothing.’
8
ALICE
When Alice cornered Major Wilson on the way into breakfast and explained her plan to leave the group and return to Hoppestadt his jaw slackened with incredulity. This was most irregular; troops were supposed to follow orders.
After a second or so he recovered, composing his features into an expression of polite concern and suggesting gently that it might be just a little unwise for a woman to travel alone, especially in a country so affected by recent turbulent times. Alice attempted to placate him with the news that Ruby would go with her and they would chaperone each other, but this seemed to have the opposite effect.
As his jaw now tightened she found herself distracted by the way the muscles in his closely shaved cheek rippled in a subcutaneous wave. ‘I’m sorry, but I simply cannot allow that. I promised Mrs Barton’s father-in-law that I would personally keep an eye on her. He especially requested it to be so. She has never travelled abroad before, you understand?’
He was not a tall man; in her heels Alice met him eye to eye.
‘Please have no fear, Major,’ she purred, assuming her most reassuring expression. ‘I travelled on my own in Europe before the war, I speak French fluently and I promise not to let Ruby out of my sight. I will take full responsibility, and return her perfectly safe and well. Perhaps you could advise us on the best place to stay?’
‘You’re planning to stay overnight?’ he gasped. ‘What about your room here in Ostend, the meals and so on? We cannot make any refunds, I’m afraid. This really is most irregular, Miss Palmer.’
‘Major Wilson.’ She placed a
carefully manicured hand on his arm, leaning forward and lowering her voice. ‘I have money enough to cover all eventualities, for Miss Barton too, and we shall not be seeking any refunds. I am not to be dissuaded, I’m afraid. But please do not be concerned. We shall both be perfectly safe.’
Eventually, in the face of her insistence, he was forced to relent. ‘I regret your decision, Miss Palmer,’ he said. ‘If you are determined to undertake this journey, I cannot prevent you. But please, at the very least, allow me to ensure that you travel with a respectable cab company. And if you insist on staying the night, then the most suitable hotel would be The Grand. It was a former officers’ mess and the rooms are rather splendid. For what time shall I book your car?’
‘As soon as possible, please. I really am most grateful, Major. We will telegraph to let you know that we have arrived safely, and when we will return to Ostend.’ When she held out her hand he shook it with a grip so powerful it felt like a punishment.
*
Now, as they climbed into the cab, her stomach churned with a jumble of excitement and apprehension. Not only was she going to meet this enigmatic priest, with the chance – only a very slight one, she had to admit – that he might have known Sam, but there was also that other unfinished business.
His reply to her telegram was in her pocket: FORMIDABLE STOP À LE GRAND HOTEL DEUX HEURES MARDI STOP
It had been six long years. They would both have changed, of course, she told herself, she must not expect too much. He was now a qualified architect with his own practice in Lille, which was how Julia, with the help of embassy staff, had managed to trace him. ‘Chances are he’ll know people in Flanders who might be able to help you,’ she said. ‘No naughty business, though. Promise me?’
Alice had promised. She was no longer that gauche, timid girl, after all, out of depth as she struggled to understand the French language and culture, the girl who had once drunk far too much wine because she was so unaccustomed to it and had to be carried back to her lodging, to the disgust of their landlady. Her cheeks still burned at the memory.
No, she was a woman of society now, well known and respected in Washington for supporting her mother’s tireless work for charity and the arts, with her own handsome trust fund and soon to be married into one of the city’s wealthiest families. But how could she come all this way to Belgium and not take this chance to see him just one more time? It was simple curiosity, she reassured Julia, nothing more. For old times’ sake.
*
The church bells were already tolling midday as they drew up in the square at Hoppestadt, and Ginger was lowering the cafe’s awning against a fierce sun that had burned away yesterday’s clouds. The smell of malting barley still lingered, although less pungently than the previous day.
‘Mam’selle Palmer! What a lovely surprise,’ Ginger called, mopping the perspiration from her brow.
‘We came back because I wanted to meet your Reverend Clayton. This is my friend Ruby Barton.’
‘Bonjour, mesdames. You are both most welcome.’
‘Where’s the best place in town to stay a couple of nights, please? The major suggested The Grand. What do you think?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Grand is not so friendly. Me, I would go there.’ She pointed to a part-timbered building with Dutch gables immediately opposite the cafe. The sign outside read Hotel de la Paix. The Peace Hotel. It seemed so apt.
From the outside, the place did not look promising: the windows were shuttered, the paintwork peeling. ‘Are you sure it’s open for business?’ Alice asked doubtfully.
‘Mais oui. Tell Monsieur Vermeulen I send you, and he give you good rate. His wife excellent cook.’ Ginger kissed her own fingertips in a gesture of approval that knew no language barriers.
*
The front door of the hotel yielded with a theatrical squeak into a wood-panelled hallway. As their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, they discovered a reception desk leading into an untidy office behind. Further along the corridor was a stairway with an ornately carved banister; opposite that a door into the formal dining room, its tables dressed with reassuringly crisp white linen. Mouthwatering smells of frying butter and garlic wafted from a door at the rear.
They exchanged glances; the place appeared deserted. Alice spied a small brass bell on the reception desk and pinged it, gently at first and then more firmly. After a moment, a man appeared from a further door at the end of the corridor – the bar, judging by the smell of beer that came with him. His brows and lashes were so pale they gave his face an expression of slight surprise; a stubble of ginger beard completed the impression of someone who had just woken up.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘What can I do for a couple of beautiful young ladies?’
Surely this could not be the hotelier, speaking such fluent English? ‘Am I speaking to Monsieur Vermeulen?’
‘Dearie me, no, I’m just Freddie. Plain old Fred Smith. Left over from the war.’ He called through the dining room doorway: ‘Maurice! You got customers.’
‘Are you from England, Mr Smith?’ Ruby asked.
‘Born within the sound of the Bow Bells. Can’t you tell?’
‘You’re a true Londoner, then?’
‘Got meself a Blighty one.’ He indicated an empty sleeve. ‘But Blighty didn’t seem to want me: no work, no home, family all gone. I’m not bitter, it’s just the way it goes. So I come back here. I like the people here, you see. They’re gentle folk, the Belgians, and their beer is good and strong, not like the dribble they serve back home these days. Now I run a guide service to the cemeteries and battlefields. Just get in touch if you need me.’
A tall, gaunt-looking man in his middle years, spectacles pushed up onto a pate of thinning grey hair, appeared from the office behind reception and introduced himself as Monsieur Vermeulen. He spoke French with a guttural accent that was at first difficult for Alice to grasp. ‘How may I help you?’
‘We require two rooms, for two or three nights. Would you show us the best available, please?’
He picked up two sets of keys and led them up the stairway to a wide landing, unlocking the door to room 1, first on the left. As he threw open the shutters the sun flooded in. The room was large and the decor homely and a little faded, but it reminded her of the family’s cabin where they spent every summer of her childhood: her favourite reading corner with the view of the lake, Sam in his canoe, her father fishing, her mother cooking crab. The place had been abandoned since Sam disappeared. No one had ventured there. The memories were too painful.
A patchwork quilt covered the double-sized bed and the floorboards were scattered with colourful plaited rugs. She tested the bed springs with a discreet fist; they gave satisfactorily. The long windows looked out over the square – from here she would be able to see the all comings and goings of the town. Alice was charmed; the place was hardly deluxe, but she liked the atmosphere and it could not be more centrally located.
‘It is good, mesdames?’
‘It’s lovely,’ Ruby said. ‘Nicer than that gloomy old room in Ostend.’
He led them to room 2, next door. It was much the same, with the double bed, the basin and the view over the square.
‘Wherever did you learn such good French?’ Ruby asked, after he’d gone to fetch their cases.
‘I spent three months in Paris before the war. It’s a bit rusty, but it’s coming back.’
‘You never cease to surprise me.’
‘Is that a good thing? I can never tell whether you English are joking.’
‘It means I’m quite impressed.’
‘Quite?’
‘Very impressed.’
‘Thanks,’ Alice laughed. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, then. Shall we unpack and then go across to the cafe for lunch?’
‘Good plan, I’m starving,’ Ruby said.
*
Half an hour later, as they came downstairs, the Englishman was still lingering at the doorway to the bar. ‘Nice rooms, eh, lad
ies? Overlooking the square, are you?’
‘Very good, thank you. It’s a very pleasant view,’ Ruby said.
‘How long are you staying?’
‘Not long.’
‘If you need anything, just get in touch,’ he said, unfazed by Alice’s curt reply. ‘I know my way around and can give you pointers, if you get my drift. Help you search for names and the rest; they’re turning up all the time. I can make enquiries and take you places.’
‘Thanks. We’ll certainly let you know,’ Alice said.
‘If I’m not here, just ask Maurice. He knows where to find me.’
‘Don’t you find that man a bit strange?’ she whispered as they crossed the square to the cafe, blinking in the sunshine.
‘He’s just down on his luck, I think,’ Ruby replied. ‘I’ve seen plenty of his sort on street corners. It’s wicked that they’re treated so badly, after they’ve given everything for their country. I feel sorry for him.’
‘I guess you’re right.’
‘You could ask him where you might look for Sam? He seems to know his way around the place and, for whatever reason, he’s decided not to go home. He might just have clues about others who’ve done the same.’
‘Good thinking, Rube. That’s certainly worth a try. But first, lunch.’
*
They sought shade from the midday sun beneath the striped awning that had certainly seen better days. Across the square, stallholders were packing up their goods, and every now and then the cobbles echoed with the staccato rattle of blinds being lowered over shopfronts. The bar was filling with working men quenching their thirst with cold beer, reminding Alice of how seriously the French took their lunchtimes, and how they would then retire for a couple of hours’ rest. She wondered whether Belgians followed the same custom.
After Ginger had taken their order, she asked, ‘Do you know when we might expect the Reverend, Mr Clayton, whatever you call him?’