Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  But Dr Gidon appeared to be in no hurry to materialise. Either he was so critically important to the functioning of the hospital that he simply could not be spared or he did not consider two showgirls from one of Paris’s less renowned cabarets sufficiently important to grace with his presence. As time passed, Lily and Poppy became increasingly nervous. Several times they asked the receptionist when Dr Gidon would come, only to be told repeatedly that he would come as soon as he could. As dusk deepened into night, the girls realised that they would have to leave soon or they would miss the last train, due to depart at 8.45 pm. They paced in turn, watching the steady procession of Parisian misery that trudged through the doors of the hospital. Now and then the clanging of an ambulance bell would startle them, its flashing light silhouetting the waiting patients against the gathering gloom of the starkly bare reception area.

  Finally, with night falling, the girls agonised over what they should do.

  ‘We have to leave now, we have just enough time to reach le métro before the last train.’

  ‘We can’t leave without the medicines, Madame will die!’

  ‘But what happens if we miss the train? We can’t walk back!’ They exchanged anxious looks.

  ‘Perhaps we could sleep here and take the first train tomorrow morning ...’ Their frantic conversation was interrupted by a short, thin man with tortoiseshell spectacles wearing a creased whitish coat and the tell-tale stethoscope of a doctor.

  ‘Excuse me, Mademoiselles, you wished to see me?’

  Lily and Poppy almost wept with relief. Lily studied Dr Gidon as Poppy explained their mission and handed over the all-important note with its list of life-saving medicines. He was clearly exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue, his complexion sallow and the skin of his face hanging in loose folds under his chin. He stooped slightly and read the note carefully as he listened intently to Poppy’s explanation. Finally he nodded.

  ‘I am truly sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he told them, pushing his spectacles up his nose, ‘I will see to this at once.’ He paused awkwardly. ‘Do you ...’ Lily suddenly realised that he was searching for the words to ask for payment.

  ‘Of course, Monsieur,’ she replied, passing him the packet. Dr Gidon’s hunched shoulders relaxed a little and he opened the packet, peering briefly at its contents.

  ‘I will be back as soon as I can,’ he told them as he set off down the corridor. The girls looked at each other in despair. Once again they faced an agonised wait while the minutes until the departure of the last train ticked away.

  Fifteen minutes later, Dr Gidon reappeared with a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He apologised again for delaying the girls, emphasising that he understood the gravity of Madame’s illness. He signalled to a dark-haired young man who stood leaning against the counter chatting to the receptionist.

  ‘Gaston, please take these young ladies to the métro station — and hurry or they will miss their train.’ The girls could hardly believe their luck.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur!’ they called as they raced after Gaston, winding their way through the labyrinthine corridors of the hospital.

  ‘Good luck!’ the doctor called back, ‘and may your god go with you!’

  A moment later they had caught up with the fleet-footed Gaston only to find themselves in the emergency bay where the ambulances pulled in. Signalling to a waiting ambulance, Gaston jumped into the cabin. Lily and Poppy paused, momentarily confused.

  ‘Does he mean we should get in the back?’

  ‘So it seems!’ They raced to the back of the ambulance and opened the door, sliding in amongst the bottles, bandages and stretchers. Gaston turned to them with a grin and called, ‘Hold on! We have just a few minutes to make the station!’ The bell clanged and the lights flashed as he drove like a man possessed, racing around corners as the girls clung to various straps on the sides of the vehicle to stop themselves being hurled around like human flotsam and jetsam on a choppy sea. They careered down streets and ducked around the final corner that led to the entrance to the station. Gaston pulled up and turned back to his passengers, his grin even broader. He had obviously enjoyed himself immensely.

  ‘Merci, Gaston!’ called his dazed passengers as they fell out of the rear door and staggered towards the station, barely collecting their wits after their wild ride. They dashed down the stairs towards the métro line, hoping against hope that the last train had yet to leave. They were just in time to see the squat, panelled end of the final carriage as the train pulled away and began to gather speed. They had missed the last train.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ They looked at each other, their faces ashen with concern. It was just half an hour before curfew and they were almost five kilometres from home.

  ‘Should we return to the hospital and beg Gaston to take us home?’ ‘But then we’ll be taking the ambulance away from an emergency.’ ‘Should we sleep at the hospital?’

  ‘But we need to get the medicines home to Monsieur Maurice,’ argued Lily desperately, ‘let’s try to walk as far as we can before curfew and then ...’

  ‘If we walk quickly, perhaps we can get close to home and then take the back alleys once the curfew starts.’ Nods were exchanged and the girls dashed up the stairs and out onto the frigid street where the icy wind howled, screeched and whipped at their coats.

  Half an hour later they were still the best part of three kilometres from Le Prix. They began to walk in the shadows, ducking into alleyways and skirting doors and entrances in case they needed somewhere to hide quickly. Crossing the street was the most dangerous proposition. It was a dark, moonless night, but that was less than reassuring as the girls had no idea who might be lurking in the various doorways and entrances as they passed. They moved quickly and nimbly, grateful now for the athleticism that was a prerequisite of their profession. They sidled down one alley after another, careful to count the streets. Now was not the time to become lost in Paris’s sinuous alleyways. Steps sounded and they hugged the wall of the alley until they passed. A cough erupted nearby and they crouched in a darkened doorway until they were sure they were safe. This way they covered another kilometre and felt almost reassured that they could reach the safety of Le Prix in another hour or so of late-night hide and seek. Then they heard the stamp of boots and voices, loud, guttural voices speaking German, men laughing and joking together and walking rapidly towards them. The girls froze and searched wildly for somewhere to hide, scrambling for the nearest doorway which was through a gate and down a little path. They flattened themselves against the door, hardly daring to breathe. The conversation paused. The men had heard something. Rapid fire orders followed. The stamp of boots increased in urgency, moving swiftly towards the doorway where the girls cowered, shrinking against the wood of the door, desperately hoping that they would somehow remain invisible to the German patrol.

  Then the door opened.

  Somehow the ancient iron hinges, thick with the rust of untold ages, failed to complain and the heavy oak panelling swung noiselessly back as the girls half-fell and were half-dragged inside before the oak door swung noiselessly shut. From the sprawled heap on the floor where they lay, Lily and Poppy looked up at their rescuers to be greeted by the curious wimpled faces of four nuns. One pair of lively blue eyes looked immediately familiar to Lily and she gasped in astonishment.

  ‘Sister Marguerite!’

  ‘Lily, my dear, how lovely of you to drop in,’ quipped the plump nun, her soft face suddenly wreathed in smiles. She turned to the others.

  ‘It was Lily who very kindly helped us with Sister Gabrielle,’ she told them. There was an immediate outpouring of thanks as the girls were helped to their feet.

  ‘Cups of tea, Sister Maria!’ came an order from a thin, elfin nun and one of her fellows scampered off as her sisters escorted the girls down a dimly lit corridor hung with ancient icons and a large painting of an angel escorting lost travellers to safety. Lily and Poppy were dazed both by their good fortune and
the extraordinary surroundings in which they now found themselves. Lily found her voice first.

  ‘Thank you, Marguerite, thank you sisters, you saved us!’ A banging erupted on the heavy oaken door and Marguerite motioned the girls to silence.

  ‘Follow the sisters, girls, while I deal with the gentlemen at the door.’ She winked and turned back towards the entrance where the banging was increasing in intensity. The elfin nun led the girls deep into the convent, while the third nun waited in the corridor, ready to signal Marguerite that it was safe to answer the door. The banging increased further, the sound echoing and bouncing along the corridor. The signal came and Marguerite glided silently to the door, opening the tiny judas window that allowed her to survey the caller from within.

  ‘Good evening my son, may God be with you,’ she intoned calmly to the furious helmeted soldier who was preparing to batter her door once more.

  ‘Open this door!’ demanded the soldier.

  ‘Please state your business, young man,’ replied the nun patiently as if battering Germans were an everyday occurrence.

  ‘If you do not open this door, we will break it down!’ threatened the soldier.

  ‘My dear boy, I very much doubt that you will be able to break it down — unless of course you have one of your tanks out there. But it would make rather a mess and I assure you there is an easier way.’ She paused and the soldier stood in confusion, unsure whether this nun was toying with him. A second soldier, evidently senior, pushed past him, scolding him loudly for wasting time. On the other side of the firmly closed door, Marguerite smiled gently.

  The senior soldier appeared at the window.

  ‘Sister, we have reason to believe that some thugs and criminals are operating in this area tonight and may be hiding in your convent. We would like to come inside and check that you are safe and that no intruders will threaten you.’

  ‘I confess, young man, I have seen no thugs and desperados enter through this door tonight and there were no threatening guests at dinner. Perhaps you would like me to look among the other sisters who are currently reciting the Rosary. I can check that no desperados have joined them in their prayer, although we do rejoice over the return of lost souls, of course.’ Now the German soldier was sure that this nun was playing him for a fool.

  ‘Sister, I must insist.’ This time his tone was far more threatening. Marguerite paused slightly before appearing to admit defeat.

  ‘Perhaps, my son, I could admit you alone, particularly if you can assure me that you are a god-fearing Christian. But you understand that we cannot admit a body of soldiers to this holy sanctuary.’ The soldier looked quizzical for a moment, but recognised an easy remedy for a situation that was quickly descending into farce.

  ‘Of course, Sister, I am not a Roman Catholic, but I have been raised a Christian. Perhaps you would permit me to come in alone and ensure that you are safe.’

  ‘Very well then.’ With that the giant rod that battened the door was slid back and Sister Marguerite turned the key in the massive lock. The door swung open, its enormous, encrusted hinges suddenly groaning loudly as if they carried the burden of centuries. The German soldier stepped in, removing his helmet reverently as he did. He stared at the hinges as he passed, as if he somehow failed to comprehend their function. Marguerite accompanied him along the gloomy corridor, its images smiling benevolently at the conqueror as he passed beneath them. He seemed intimidated by the profusion of radiated holiness and attempted vainly to lighten his step as if the noise of his boots somehow desecrated this hallowed place of sanctuary.

  Marguerite described the various rooms as he passed, starting with the neat, bare kitchen, where Maria placed her tea towel to one side and bowed politely in his direction as if he was a visiting bishop. They passed the scrubbed wooden dining hall with its enormous, ancient table, neatly set with wooden bowls for the morning meal. The soldier became increasingly uneasy, clearly out of place in this house of prayer, despite the soft politeness of his escort who glided alongside as if conducting a tour for a foreign guest. Now they approached the tiny chapel where the sing-song intonation of the Rosary rolled and broke, washing the soldier in its wake.

  ‘... holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death ...’

  The soldier’s faced was now blanched white and he tore himself from the intoning nuns with difficulty as if mesmerised by an ancient ritual. Marguerite beamed softly and continued the tour, passing the novice room, complete with white-clad novices, their heads bent in prayer, a soft chant issuing forth.

  ‘... to thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve, to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears ...’

  The soldier gulped and Marguerite could almost feel the urgency of his desire to move on past the mournful intonations of the bowed heads. She smiled gently and led him into the laundry, its stone walls dripping with perspiration as steam poured from an enormous copper stirred by an equally enormous nun, the sleeves of her habit pulled up and fastened in place by wooden pegs. The nun gripped an ancient pole that could have emerged from the ark and looked up as Marguerite called to her, the smile never leaving her face.

  ‘Sister, this young gentleman is looking for thugs and desperados, have you seen any?’ The enormous nun broke into a huge, toothy grin and addressed the soldier, pointing to her cauldron.

  ‘In there,’ she told him with barely concealed mirth, ‘they’ll be model citizens by the time I’ve finished with them!’ She laughed heartily and the German, aware that he was the butt of the joke, turned a bright shade of pink.

  But the hapless German soldier’s tour had not finished yet. Marguerite led him now to the line of spartan nuns’ cells that lay at the rear of the convent. She opened each in turn. They were identical, sparsely furnished with a bed, a tiny table and a small cupboard. Even the crucifix above each bed was the same, the smooth plaster folds of cloth falling just as that of its neighbour, and the angled head with its cruel crown of thorns wearing the same look of promised salvation in room after room. The narrow beds were made in exactly the same way, the sheets and blankets turned down with identical precision. It could have been an army barracks. Closing the door of the last cell, Marguerite led her guest back towards the entrance.

  By now the soldier had seen enough and his face told of the impact of his visit. He summoned his last reserves of bravado and, bowing courteously, took his leave, ushered out the door by Marguerite who expressed genuine regret that he had wasted his time, and promising to alert him to any desperados and thugs who might materialise during the remainder of the night. As she closed the heavy oak door, its hinges complained again at the imposition rudely forced on them, creaking and groaning loudly. Outside, the stamp of feet led rapidly back to the street and into the distance until it faded and was absorbed by the steeping night-time silence. This time there were no voices, no laughter.

  Marguerite abandoned the customary glide of her ilk and fairly tripped back down the corridor. She passed Maria in the kitchen and gave her a triumphal grin.

  ‘Let’s have that tea, now, Sister — ah, but I wish we had something stronger!’ She continued on her way to the novice room where the bowed white heads remained deep in prayer. Marguerite watched them for a moment.

  ‘And may St Vitus, the patron saint of dancers and performers, be thanked for delivering these lovely girls from the soldiers who pursued them.’ Two of the bowed heads peered up cautiously to be met by Marguerite’s broad beam.

  ‘You do make very demure novices,’ she told them. Poppy and Lily exchanged a wide-eyed glance and then burst into laughter that was anything but demure. Marguerite joined them, helping them off their kneeling boards and out of their borrowed habits. Over a cup of tea with Maria and the Mother Superior, Mother Beatrice, who had joined them at the conclusion of the Rosary, they told their story of the medicines for Madame Claudette and their deadly cat-and-mouse game with the German patrol. They were curious about th
eir rescue — how had Marguerite and the other nuns realised that they were crouching in the doorway? Marguerite explained.

  ‘We have a series of little strings attached to the front gate and various points along the path to the door which are linked to bells inside the convent. It is almost impossible to enter the gate and walk down the path without alerting us to your arrival.’

  ‘We saw two figures creep down the path,’ added Maria, ‘and as we watched we realised that you were girls, not Germans, so we thought you must have been in trouble.’

  ‘But the front door,’ Poppy wondered aloud, ‘the hinges were really rusty but they didn’t creak ... and then when the German soldier came in, we could hear them from the novice room even over the sound of the Rosary.’

  ‘That’s Sister Marguerite’s favourite trick,’ exclaimed Maria excitedly, grinning at the amply proportioned older nun, ‘she can lean on the door at just the right spot and make it creak so loudly that it sometimes makes us jump!’

  ‘It’s a little technique for persuading any Germans who demand admission that no-one could have entered without being heard,’ explained Marguerite with relish. ‘It confuses them dreadfully.’

  ‘Sometimes she uses it on the Bishop!’ giggled Maria, obviously enjoying the lark and exchanging mischievous looks with Marguerite.

  By now it was almost midnight and still Lily and Poppy had yet to answer the most important question: how could they safely return to Le Prix that night and deliver the medicines to Monsieur Maurice? Mother Beatrice thought for a moment and then turned to Marguerite.

  ‘Is Madame Lefevre still here?’

  ‘Yes, Mother, I believe she is.’ Marguerite motioned to Maria, who was clearly the odd-jobs nun, and who immediately glided off down the corridor. Mother Beatrice turned to Lily and Poppy.

  ‘As a religious order, we survive on donations from charitable members of the community. One of the ways we have to ... encourage such donations is to offer a period of quiet devotion and reflection for those women for whom the weight of the world becomes all too onerous.’ She paused, looking across at Marguerite, who took her cue.