Night Train to Paris

by Fliss Chester

  Fen raised her eyebrows at the mention of the Vichy army general and stifled a laugh as James caught her eye. His attention was quickly drawn back by Simone, however, who rose from the table and led James across to the bar, no doubt to find somewhere more private for the two of them to talk.

  Gervais continued, unfazed by their leaving and puffing his chest out more as he spoke. ‘And celebrities, you see, I have driven Judy Garland and Clark Gable.’

  ‘Really?’ Fen wasn’t convinced he was telling the truth.

  ‘Yes, yes. You don’t believe me, I’m hurt!’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s just—’

  ‘And your friend Henri Renaud, he wouldn’t have been able to save all the artwork without his trusted driver, that’s me.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s very grateful.’ Fen was unsure where this conversation was going, but she could see that Gervais was keen to keep telling her about his society connections.

  ‘He is grateful, France is grateful. He is a good man though, you think?’

  Fen thought about it for a moment. ‘I don’t have any cause to think otherwise. He seems as straight as anyone I’ve met. And a patriot—’

  ‘We are all patriots!’ It was on this little outburst that Fen, not unhappily, realised that Gervais was growing tired of their conversation and only a few moments later she had bid him adieu as he’d made an excuse to join some other friends over the other side of the bar.

  Fen looked back at her own drink and saw that it was empty. A second wouldn’t hurt and she cast her eyes around to see if James or Simone fancied getting another. At first, she couldn’t see them, and wondered if they’d gone back to the bar already, but she scanned the louche types propping it up and resting their backsides on the fixed-in-place stools – James and Simone, it seemed, weren’t among them. She was just starting to feel like a little bit of a lone poppy in a muddy field when she caught sight of them, having a smooch behind the telephone kiosk at the end of the bar.

  ‘Looks like James is getting his own round in,’ Fen murmured to herself, as she collected the empty glasses from her table.

  Slightly unsteady on her feet, she realised she’d probably had quite enough to drink for one evening, so leaving James and Simone to it, and with a cheery wave over to where Gervais was now standing with a group of men, including his taller, thinner, and balder brother Antoine, she picked up her coat and bag and headed for the door.

  Paris nightlife was definitely an experience, she thought to herself as she walked out of the bar. But, she had to admit, maybe it had been a little more thrilling when she’d been seventeen…

  Eighteen

  Fen wondered when the marching band would stop doing a tattoo on her head and carefully rolled herself over in bed to face the window. She peered through bleary eyes to see the curtains still closed, but a bright chink of light was shining through where they didn’t quite meet in the middle. She closed her eyes again and sank her face into the pillow. What had she drunk last night?

  She remembered James and Simone catching up with her outside the bar and James walked them both home, saying a rather lingering goodnight to Simone. Then she remembered that Simone had suggested just one glass of Calvados from the decanters on Rose’s sideboard.

  ‘It’s for our own good,’ Simone had said as she’d sloshed the golden liquid into two of the chunky tumblers. ‘It will help us sleep.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Fen had gone along with the plan, buoyed up by Simone’s gaiety and pleased, on Rose’s behalf, that Simone hadn’t stayed the night with James again. Still, he had been the focus of most of Simone’s conversation as she’d tucked her long legs up underneath her on one of the saggy old armchairs.

  ‘I like him very much. I think he’s a very generous man.’

  Fen had thought to back to the lunch he’d bought her and Rose just the other day and had to agree.

  Simone had continued to wax lyrical. ‘He’s a gentleman, I think, and rich. The way he speaks French, it’s not like you, you obviously learned here in Paris, but his accent is southern. I think he learned to speak French on the Riviera, yes?’ She laughed and sipped her apple brandy.

  Fen had been about to speak when Simone had carried on.

  ‘And his manners are very formal, and his conversation really very highbrow.’

  ‘I don’t think his manners were terribly formal tonight,’ Fen had said as she thought about the clinch she’d seen them both in behind the telephone kiosk.

  Simone had just laughed. ‘He is a passionate man, but that’s good, eh?’ Simone had leaned forward and gripped her hand together in a fist. ‘A fighter, a lover. He’s my type of man.’

  ‘He’s kind too…’ Fen had thought about it. He was really. And kindness was something she thought was far more important than fighting or passion, or indeed money. Arthur had had kindness in bucketloads.

  ‘Yes he is, as you say in England, “perfect husband material”. Let’s drink to me being the next Lady Lancaster!’

  ‘Lady Lancaster?’ Fen had almost choked on the small sip she’d taken when Simone had said that.

  ‘Yes, he’s a viscount. Didn’t you know? He’s inherited a fortune, I think.’

  He is filthy rich… Arthur’s playful words had come back to Fen as she had pondered this new information. If this was the case, though, then James might need to be a little bit careful about how he conducted himself around impressionable young women like Simone. Still, Simone herself seemed truly excited by the prospect of joining the English aristocracy and Fen remembered her reaching for the decanter time and again, as she had filled both their glasses and spoken of her dreams of being a fine lady among the British upper classes.

  Fen rolled over and mustered the mental strength to push herself up and out of bed and, head thumping, find herself a dressing gown and head to the bathroom. Arthur’s words still careered around inside her head, along with another favour he’d asked of her. Look after James. Well, he was doing quite well at looking after himself… but Fen made a note to try to talk to him later, just to check in on his intentions, as she reached for her toothbrush.

  Once a steaming, sweet mint tea was in her hand and she was sitting in the saggy armchair, chosen as it was the one with its back to the light streaming in through the windows, Fen felt better. The clock on the mantel ticked constantly and reminded her that the day was not now young; and if this reaction to a bit of alcohol was anything to go by, neither was she. She was just about to rouse herself again into action when the front door of the apartment clicked open and, moments later, Rose strode into the bright studio.

  ‘Good morning, slug-a-bed!’ she bellowed, and Fen was fairly sure the raised voice was specifically designed to set that marching band off again. And if the voice wasn’t bad enough, it was accompanied by the rhythm section of Tipper’s staccato barking.

  Rose moved towards the console table where the spirits decanters were kept in a tantalus. She picked up the one with a small silver tag hanging around its neck that spelt out CALVADOS and held it up to the morning light to better see exactly how much, or how little, was left.

  ‘Good thing I’m not planning on a morale booster myself later!’

  ‘Gosh, sorry.’ Fen felt terribly guilty. ‘I’ll replace it later as soon as I…’ She pressed her hand against her forehead and sank even further into the chair.

  ‘Ah, you know what I say, live life.’ Rose put the decanter back and came and sat down opposite Fen, basking in the light of the windows. Tipper scampered in too and scrambled up onto her lap. ‘We have all been through so much. I’m not surprised you let your hair down last night, ma chérie. It’s only natural.’

  Fen thought about it. She’d heard of people self-medicating with alcohol, and she always assumed it was just those poor unfortunate souls addicted to the spirit who did it. But perhaps Rose was right, perhaps there was pent-up emotion in her and she had needed the brandy to dull the pain? She nodded at Rose and sipped her tea
.

  ‘As for me, I find my expression in art,’ the older woman continued. ‘And my work has become dark, very dark indeed.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Fen looked over at the easels, one of which was covered with a sheet, shielding the painting from the viewer, or perhaps it was the other way around. She looked at back at Rose. ‘So, where have you been this morning?’

  ‘Ah, just to see Henri.’ Rose let Tipper nibble at her fingertips as she sat back in the chair. Fen thought she looked sad. No, not sad. Disappointed perhaps.

  ‘At the Louvre?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rose then became more animated. ‘And blow me, I was ambushed!’

  ‘Ambushed?’ This all sounded rather dramatic, Fen thought, and shuffled herself a little more upright in the saggy armchair.

  ‘Madame Adrienne Tambour no less! Accused me of selling her a forgery!’

  Le Faussaire… Fen wondered to herself, but kept quiet.

  Rose continued. ‘She thinks the little Dutch one, like the one in your bedroom, Fenella, was missold to her on purpose.’

  ‘Did she buy it through Lazard?’

  ‘Yes, more’s the pity, and he probably fleeced her. Still, she can afford it, the fox-murdering old wotsit.’ Rose extracted her hand from Tipper’s mouth and used it to pull her long rope of pearls out from under him, then she started twisting them round her fingertips. ‘That naughty man though. He gets me into all sorts of trouble and he never passes this untold wealth onto me!’

  ‘Why do you use him then, Rose? I agree your art is far superior to the quayside kiosks, but maybe Lazard isn’t the dealer for you? Surely others exist.’

  ‘I suppose I could have a word with that Arnault chap.’ Rose sank back into her chair. ‘Though his brother is… Well, Henri can deal with that.’

  Fen remembered Gervais’s comments from the night before about how much he thought of Rose. Apparently she didn’t feel as warmly.

  ‘Will Madame Tambour want her money back?’

  ‘How did you…? Oh never mind.’ Rose gesticulated as far as the rope of pearls would let her. ‘Michel can deal with that. He sold her the daubing. Anyway, in better and much more exciting news, I have Magda and Joseph coming again later today. I think I’ve tracked down their Cezanne to a farmhouse in the Rhineland.’

  ‘Good gosh! How did you manage that?’

  ‘I have my ways, dear girl. Some less legal than others. But it usually comes down to the military wives and their big mouths. They can’t believe their luck that not only is Herr Bosch home from the fighting, but he brings a little souvenir back with him too. And not just the clap!’ She laughed at her own joke, but then became more serious again. ‘These rumours start and eventually they find their way to me. I shall prepare to leave for Germany soon, after I’ve… well, I need to finish deciphering the list and I need to speak to Henri again.’

  Fen pushed herself up from her chair. ‘I feel this is my cue to head back to London then.’

  ‘No, no, dear girl. Stay as long as you like. You might be able to teach that young Simone a thing or two about morals and manners if you stay under the same roof as her.’

  Fen laughed a little. ‘I’m not sure I’m much of a good example after last night.’

  ‘You’re still you though, and all the better for it.’ Rose paused. ‘Will you stay and see the Bernheims again? They’re coming after lunch.’

  ‘I’d love to, but the forecast is for rain this morning, then brightening up this afternoon. And I’m desperate to go and see if Shakespeare and Company is still there.’

  ‘Oh yes, that dusty old bookstore. I’m sure Magda will quite understand. Be back by six though, chérie! Cocktails!’

  Fen smiled for the first time that morning. She wasn’t sure she’d be up for whatever concoction Rose would come up with later, but if she was going to be able to manage one sip, she better go and clear her head in the autumn sunshine and take in some fresh air on the banks of the Seine.

  Nineteen

  The Seine worked its magic on Fen’s head and served to remind her too of how much she loved this city, especially in the autumn. The light from the low-lying sun shone through the orange and yellowing leaves of the horse chestnut and lime trees, creating a golden glow over the pavements on which she walked. She’d left Rose to prepare for her meeting just before lunch and had wandered the streets of Paris from the Île de la Cité down to the Rue de l’Odéon.

  Fen had pressed her nose up against the dusty window of the sadly closed Shakespeare and Company bookstore, but took a moment to remember how her father would take her and her brother there on Saturday afternoons to browse the shelves and catch conversations between the owner, Sylvia Beach, and her many distinguished literary guests.

  Arthur had often talked of the shop too – it had been one of their many plans to come back and visit it together when the war was over – and Fen tried her best to hold back a tear or two as she saw the empty bookshelves and out-of-date posters stuck to the window. I wonder where they’ve gone? She thought of the books and of the stories she’d heard of rallies in Berlin where books were burned on huge bonfires. She hoped the tomes from Shakespeare and Company’s shelves hadn’t suffered a similar fate, or perhaps worse, been sold to line the pockets of the Führer.

  To cheer herself up, she ducked into a café, just as a few unforecast raindrops started to fall. Fen had the letter she’d written the night before with her and thought about unsealing it and adding in a postscript about her night out. Kitty would love to hear about Josephine Baker, and would groan if she heard that Fen was being matchmade with an overly friendly mechanic.

  ‘… But I don’t much fancy writing about it,’ she said to herself as she paid her bill and slipped the letter back into the pocket of her trench coat. Of course, she’d only been matchmade with Gervais so that Simone and James could act more like a couple.

  Simone’s words were still echoing around her head and Fen had to admit that for some reason or another she was feeling slightly uneasy about the pairing. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Simone, but she did wonder if Simone saw James as more of a meal ticket than a real, true and honest man to love and to hold. Perhaps having her own dear Arthur so cruelly taken from her made her more sensitive to it, but she detected more than a little ambition in the young woman’s attitude. Equally, she was very young and Fen only hoped James knew what he was doing, leading her on so much.

  She checked her watch against the great tolling bell of Notre Dame and saw that to her relief if was now 5 p.m. Rue de l’Odéon wasn’t far from Rose’s apartment and Fen was glad to be getting back; cocktails aside, she just rather fancied putting her feet up.

  As she neared the end of the Rue des Beaux-Arts, Fen heard a familiar ‘what ho’ from behind her.

  ‘Oh, hello, James.’ Her thoughts of a few minutes ago were still fresh in her mind. ‘Not with Simone?’

  ‘No, she’s at work, I assume.’ He looked guarded, or at least Fen thought that might be the reason for the sudden crossing of his arms in front of him. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’

  His question struck Fen right in the chest. It was absurd. Jealous? ‘Ha, no. I mean, absolutely no. You’re a very nice man—’

  ‘It’s just you left in rather hurry last night, and dammit, Fen, I don’t want you to think badly of me, as, of course, I was happy to walk you both home, but a man’s entitled to have a bit of fun and—’

  ‘Bit of fun? Should I tell Simone that’s all she is then?’ she snapped at James, which was as much of a surprise to her as it was to him, and due in part to the fact that her thoughts regarding it all were still rather fresh in her mind. She stopped, only yards now from the large double grey doors of the building, and took a stand. ‘Or will you tell her yourself, like a gentleman, that she’s nothing more than…’ Fen looked around her and in the dying light of the autumnal afternoon caught sight of the tailor, Dufrais et Filles. The mannequins in the window were dressed in the sort of outfits Simone revelled in.
Fen pointed towards them. ‘… Well, nothing more than window dressing?’

  ‘Oh, that’s just ridiculous.’ James followed Fen as she entered the building and started climbing the many steps up to the fifth floor. ‘She’s not a child, she’s an adult.’

  ‘She must be a good ten years younger than you, James, if not more.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So… you should know better than to take advantage of her. Unless you plan on marrying her?’ They both paused for breath as they climbed.

  ‘God no, it’s not like that. She’s just showing me the sights.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what they’re called.’ Fen thought of the telephone kiosk clinch last night.

  ‘Well, who are you to say who I can and cannot see?’ James crossed his arms.

  They stood face to face now, slightly panting, outside the door to Rose’s apartment.

  ‘Arthur told me to look out for you, but if you don’t want me to, then that’s fine. Really.’ Fen fumbled in her purse, trying to find the key, but her hand was trembling, she wasn’t used to confrontation and hated that she and James were having these cross words. Maybe it really was none of her business who James had fun with?

  ‘Dammit, I can’t find my key.’ Fen felt flustered. ‘And you breathing down my neck won’t help, James.’

  ‘Breathing down your neck? You’re the one giving me the third degree on propriety.’

  Fen snorted and was about to say something about the noblesse oblige of his lordly status when she remembered that Rose seldom locked the door. She grasped the doorknob and, as expected, it clicked open. Fen exhaled with relief and let them both into the dark hallway, hoping the change of scene might also change the direction in which the conversation was heading.

  ‘She’s not that interested in me anyway…’ James said, pulling Fen very much back into the discussion.

  ‘Not you perhaps,’ Fen took a deep breath, ‘but she seems to think there may be a pot of gold hiding under your sunny disposition.’