Murray. Propped up. Dead. Strang. He didn’t want to think about Strang, but the sounds and pictures wouldn’t be shut out and he felt the darkness closing in on him, pouring into his breathing spaces. Stop. Philip lay down and did fifty more sit-ups. Upstairs, footsteps moved across the floor. A door slammed. Straining his ears, he heard the key turn. Time was passing at least, but the idea of the room above now empty of any living presence disturbed him.
You could go out of your mind, conjuring horrors in the blackness. Jeanne d’Arc at the stake. Other female martyrs. How many could he think of? Mary, Queen of Scots? Hardly. Bit of an idiot. Particularly in her choice of husbands. Oh God, Bothwell, in the bottleneck dungeon, dying ‘hairy raving and in filthe.’ After ten years in the dark. Ten years.
Okay, back to Françoise. Why did he feel so uncomfortable about sleeping with her? Sleeping not being the word, really. One thing was that Françoise seemed to be on some campaign of determined promiscuity, admitting to six other lovers since the war began, and it brought out a feeling in him he knew to be unpleasantly puritanical and proprietary. More discomfiting was her complete control over their relationship.
Like some lumbering aeroplane fogbound on the ground he had to wait until his experienced French pilot decided conditions were right for take off, and then she flew him just where she wanted – on a straightforward flight from A to B or, thanks to her skilful coaxing, into more fancy, looping-the-loop kind of stuff. ‘Your English girls will be pleased you met me.’ The sex was wonderful, its intensity heightened by it often taking place in lip-biting silence, but oddly emasculating. The climax of pleasure registered on her face as a look of intense concentration, quickly erased.
But she could hardly, in her role as his guide and protector, go all vulnerable on him, could she? Philip realised it was some foolish male instinct that made him uncomfortable; but he could not quite rationalise away his discomfort. Perhaps having relinquished nearly all control over his destiny nine months before, he needed to assert some power through his prick. So he wanted to rape her? No, that wasn’t it at all. Stop bloody whingeing then. Just lie back and enjoy it why don’t you, you lucky bastard?
Think about Rosie. A picture, the last picture, Rosie walking away from the quay, the hat and bluebells trailing from her hand. The turn of her cheek. He knew so little about her, yet so wanted to hold on, to make her important. The short time they’d actually been together made him scour his memory for every time he’d ever seen her, exchanged a word or a glance. Though it was completely dark, he closed his eyes in order to dream the past.
He’s following her into town. There’s a sea breeze; a playful, flirtatious breeze, whispering underneath her blue spotted dress, flicking it above the backs of her knees. The postboy, coming the other way on his bike, raises his cap to Rosie, looks after her, wobbles, nearly tumbles off. Passing Philip, he flashes a complicit grin.
The blue spotted dress disappears up the steps into the library, and on impulse he waits for her to come out, sitting on the wall and smoking a cigarette. A casual might as well get to know her idea, turns awkward when she sees him and blushes scarlet.
He stands, stubs out the cigarette underfoot, smiles. ‘Get anything good?’
She shows him. A period romance. ‘Ah.’ And another book, underneath. The Tomb of Tutankhamun. ‘Is that for your uncle?’
‘No.’
He’s offended her. ‘Are you going this way? I’ll walk in with you.’
After a while, she speaks, ‘I like romances, but I like to know things too.’
‘Of course. I didn’t mean…’
‘I left school early, so I want to carry on educating myself.’
‘Very laudable.’ A look shows she’s detected sarcasm. Another awkward pause. He tries again. ‘Did you come to Falmouth, then, after you left school?’
‘No. First I went out on the knocker with my aunt.’ He must look baffled because she elaborates, ‘Going round houses, buying clothes and things to sell on.’
‘Funny kind of job,’ he says, then senses he’s made yet another blunder, because she’s cross, defensive.
‘People do it a lot round where I come from.’
After a minute or two of walking in uncomfortable silence, she stops at the turning. ‘I’m going down here. Goodbye.’ Then, unexpectedly, she holds out her hand to touch his. He watches the dress flit among the shuffling crowd of market stall shoppers until it disappears.
Sitting on the hard floor of his little cell, he remembered how he’d thought the proffered hand, that little show of gentility, rather quaint. Hateful condescension. Laudable. Pompous twerp.
But the memory freshened the stale air of his prison. He thought of her lying naked on his mackintosh, unaware of how erotic she looked. Erotique, French word meaning erotic. Erotisme, something in which Françoise was definitely expert. Did he want to teach Rosie what Françoise had taught him, that dicing with danger – especially dicing with death – could be the biggest sexual thrill of all?
A tap on the wall. ‘Monsieur!’ Philip groped for the bolt, slid it back and opened the partition door sufficiently to admit a shaft of light along which was suspended a paper bag and a large cup. The voice whispered ‘Bon appetit.’ Philip bolted the door and put his nose into the warm bag. A croissant. Underneath, his fingers felt the dampness of meat. He sniffed. Smoked. Pig? Or maybe horse? He ate slowly, chewing each mouthful and taking sips of water from the cup. He tipped the bag upside down, felt the few last crumbs fall into the palm of his hand and brought it to his mouth to lick them off. Lunch was over.
Philip stretched out on the bed. Someone opened a door upstairs and started to move about in the room above. Where the planks joined, light from above etched tiny lines on the unplastered ceiling. The boards creaked again. A puff of fine dust fell on Philip’s face. Something was picked up and set down. More dust. A grunt of exertion and an exclamation, ‘Allez-y!’
But listening did not provide a cheering diversion. Françoise had found them shelter in the basement of an undertaker’s and the noises were obviously the shifting of coffins. Occupied coffins. Philip felt under the bed for the pack of lard and started greasing his boots.
He knew it was about four-thirty when he heard the staff of the undertaker’s depart for the day and it was at last safe to light the small oil lamp. Françoise, in her straight wool skirt and lace-up shoes, the very image of the teacher she was now pretending to be, came back half an hour later, looking pleased with herself. ‘Regarde!’ She showed him her latest find – a fur hat with comical ear flaps. He embraced her and felt a strange lump down her back. ‘What’s this?’
Reaching over her shoulder, Françoise drew a baguette from under her jumper and brandished it like a sword. From her pockets, she produced a dusty saucisson and two apples. ‘Viens,’ she said, patting the bed and taking out her savage-looking knife to delicately remove the skin from the saucisson, slice it into pieces and share it out. Tearing off a lump of bread, she told him the weather was still favourable with no new snow, and that she planned to walk with him and the guide, who she referred to as ‘le Basque’ as far as the lake.
‘Is that safe? Where will you go afterwards?’
She tapped Philip’s nose playfully. ‘Monsieur Worry-Worry. Tous seront bien.’ They finished the meal in silence. Afterwards, she licked her fingers clean, one by one. Then she looked at him sideways, not smiling, testing the moment. ‘English lesson time, no?’ She flicked her head towards the ceiling. ‘Where do you feel them, Philippe, the dead people in their boxes?’ She touched him lightly in the groin. Whatever his brain told him, his prick jumped to attention. She began to unbutton her blouse.
Watching her undress, he couldn’t remember a time when he’d thought her body, long-limbed, small breasted, anything other than beautiful. Naked herself, she exposed him. Not much point saying, ‘I don’t feel like it,’ when there it was, fully erect and desperate.
And for our last outing, Mademoiselle, wh
at will you have me do? Ah, nothing? You, Mademoiselle, you will sit astride and take charge… Perhaps I can assist a little? No? You are strong, your hands on my shoulders, your thighs about my hips. Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle! Merci, merci… And all attempts at humorous detachment must end as you admit me to your divine receptacle, release me, invite me, release me, tease me, take me all the way inside, and so, and so, till I lose my grip, my mind, my last foothold, handhold, toehold, and fall, tumble, spill, turning over and over in empty air.
Françoise put a hand over Philip’s mouth. ‘Ssshh. We must not wake the dead, must we?’
They dressed and packed quickly. She pulled his hands under the light to inspect the nails. ‘Bon.’ Tenderly, she knelt in front of him, rolled up the woollen socks and inserted his feet. Taking the boots, she loosened the laces, pulled back the tongues and offered one to each socked foot, sliding her fingers inside the heel to assure herself of the fit. She tugged the laces tight and tied double bows, tucking the ends inside.
Philip looked down on the parting in her short, shining hair. ‘Will I ever see you again?’
The green eyes glanced up.
‘Je ne sais pas, Philippe.’
‘After the war… if you can, I mean if you want…write to me. Just take this, would you, please? He’d written on a small piece of paper, The Rectory, Calbourne, Isle of Wight.
It felt good, looking beyond his perilous climb, beyond Françoise’s inevitable further acts of derring-do, into a future where a letter might be sent from one free country to another, floating gently to rest on the old coconut matting in the hall of his parents’ home. He thought about Fritz and Pierre, the penfriends with whom his mother had forced him to keep up a regular correspondence. What was Fritz doing now? Killing Russians? And Pierre?
Françoise read the paper, said the words aloud, nodded, put it in her mouth, chewed it for a moment and then swallowed. ‘I will keep you inside,’ she said, wrapping a woollen scarf around her neck. ‘A la montagne?’
Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006
Somehow, I’d managed to avoid railways until that moment – not so difficult as you’d think in Australia – so when Jan and I arrived at Southampton I said I was looking forward to a new experience.
The London train waited for us, and pretty ancient rolling stock it looked too, painted a grimy blue and cream with doors opening all the way down each carriage. We got in and I heaved our packs up on the wooden racks. I didn’t feel too great, but I put it down to P&O’s dodgy sausages. Then, when the guard came down the platform slamming the doors shut, I went into complete panic. I couldn’t breathe, felt boiling hot. ‘Got to get out,’ I said to Jan. She thought I was having a heart attack and started yelling for a doctor. Meanwhile I’d managed to open the door and blunder out on to the platform. The rest of the passengers just looked on, apparently, a touch irritated by the disturbance. ‘Bloody typical Poms,’ Jan said afterwards.
The train moved off, taking our rucksacks to London without us. I’d progressed to the shakes by then, teeth chattering, legs jerking. The doctor Jan found diagnosed temporary nervous collapse. Had anything like it ever happened before?
‘Never.’
All I knew was I was all right once we got out of the station. We travelled by coach after that. The whole thing didn’t make sense until nearly thirty years later, at the reunion.
I’d had a drink at home beforehand, I admit. Well I was terrified; needed something to summon up the courage to go, and Jan had gone off by then. I thought I’d have no one to talk to, but I hadn’t been there five minutes before this woman came up to me and looked at my name badge.
‘Alex!’ she said. ‘Still the same round cheeks! I don’t suppose you remember me?’ She told me her name was Peggy Baines and apparently we’d last seen each other when I was four. She was one of the other five kids that got sent from Nazareth House in Camberwell.
Staring at this tanned, prosperous-looking blonde, I couldn’t recall Peggy at all, but she didn’t take it amiss – steered me over to a seat and sat with me telling me about life at Nazareth House. ‘You used to make us so jealous, Alex,’ she said. ‘There was a woman there called Auntie Rose who spoiled you rotten.’
Peggy was nine when we left London. She ended up in an orphanage near Brisbane. Apparently it was just as bad for the girls. It was Peggy who told me what happened on the train. ‘I felt sorry for you then,’ she said. ‘You were only a littlun and you were so upset. I gave you a barley sugar.’
‘Do you know what happened to Frankie Evans?’ I asked her, and two minutes later, Frankie walked in.
22
Southern France, December 1942
They climbed into the loft of the barn and waited. Through a small circular opening at one end, the farmhouse was just visible, a pale shape in the darkness. The door of the house opened and the yellow welcome of a farm kitchen flooded out. A figure detached itself and footsteps clumped across a yard, paused, then returned. The door slammed.
Something larger than a mouse scuttled along a beam above their heads and Françoise cried out and clutched Philip’s hand. So there was something she was afraid of. A few minutes later, she stiffened again, but it was not another rat. Philip felt her body straining upwards to get a better view through the opening.
‘Reste ici.’ She slid down the ladder and Philip listened to low voices outside, Françoise’s rising briefly in anger or surprise. Then she called at the foot of the ladder. ‘Philippe? Viens.’
She led him around the side of the building. A stocky figure murmured a greeting, showing a gleam of teeth and eyes. This must be the Basque, his guide. Then Philip saw two other men. One presented the silhouette of a businessman; a long straight coat, some kind of city hat, and – most incongruous of all – a briefcase. Next to him was a smaller figure, a youth, wearing what looked like school uniform. The Basque gave out walking sticks and instructed everyone to keep absolutely silent and use no lights. They set off into the darkness, crossed a rough field and ducked under a fence.
‘Who are the others?’ Philip asked Françoise. Already the pair was a few yards back. Françoise whispered they were Jews, father and son. She considered them hopelessly dressed and ill-equipped for the winter climb. ‘C’est complètement con!’
Although it was too dark to see the ground clearly, they seemed to be following a narrow goat or sheep path, showing pale at their feet and zig-zagging steeply upwards. At first, Philip used his stick like a blind man, feeling ahead for rocks or uneven ground, but after a while his eyes adjusted and he moved faster.
The huge dark shadow of the mountain loomed above them. He remembered how much larger and more frightening mountains looked at night. It thrilled him, the idea of the climb ahead and for a while he forgot about the two followers as he and Françoise kept up with the Basque’s fast pace.
After an hour or so, the Basque turned off the path and clambered over a crumbling stone wall. Beyond it, a lake glimmered under a nail clipping of a moon and spectral patches of snow showed on slopes above. They waited for the other two, their warm bodies fast cooling. Françoise stamped her feet, muttered, shivered.
Eventually, the boy climbed over the wall. Very slowly, his father followed, still clutching the briefcase. Once over, he sat down on a rock with his head bowed, the cuffs of his trousers lifting to expose pale shins. Philip introduced himself. Albert, the father was called. They shook hands. A soft hand.
‘My son, Bertrand,’ Albert gasped. He spoke English without an accent. Bertrand nodded briefly, his eyes quickly returning to his father. He offered to carry the briefcase, the intonation suggesting he’d offered many times before. Albert shook his head, still struggling for breath. The Basque pointed into the air. He wanted to get going.
‘Un moment,’ Françoise said, drawing Philip a little apart. She pushed her hair back with her hand in a gesture of impatience that, Philip realised with sudden painful clarity, he would miss. ‘Tu te souviens le mot de passe?’ The pas
sword.
‘Yes.’
‘C’est quoi?’
‘Rosinante.’
‘Et il dit?’
‘He says Bucephalus.’
‘Bien.’ But she was not calm. She told him he must go on alone if necessary, rather than be held back by the others. She placed her last gift in his hands. A pair of gloves. Leather, lined with rabbit fur. Nazi gloves.
‘Where did you get these?’
Françoise smiled. ‘Pièces de rechange.’ Spare parts.
She kissed him on the mouth and walked away quickly, her body a fleeting blur on the wall that disappeared on the other side.
‘Allons.’ The Basque led them around the lake and started up a narrow gulley clogged with rocks. Slabs on either side blocked what little light there was and they made very slow progress, feeling ahead and supporting themselves with their sticks, their breathing now sounding dangerously loud, like some monster huffing. Sometimes, they hit ice underfoot. Even with his good boots, Philip stumbled. Albert fell several times to his knees. His cries of pain began to enrage Philip. A German patrol would hear his racket a mile off. He wanted to get away from him.
Half an hour later, at the top of the gulley, he realised he’d succeeded, because there was neither sight nor sound of Albert and his son.
The Basque went back and Philip sat alone in the silence, counting his breaths to calm himself. It was even darker now but felt a little warmer. Cloud must have come down.
Finally, he heard grunts and rasping breaths and three shapes crawled slowly towards him. The Basque seemed hardly out of breath, despite having had to shunt Albert from below. While the older man sat gulping air, the Basque produced a roll of twine and tested a length between his hands, pulling it until it snapped. Philip understood he wanted to show them it was strong, but not too strong. By tying themselves together they would avoid losing each other, but if someone fell a long way the string would break. They tied themselves wrist to wrist, leaving eight or nine feet between each of them. Then they went on, the Basque first, leading Bertrand, followed by Philip and finally Albert. ‘Give me that case,’ Philip said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.
The War Before Mine Page 19