Autumn felt more like winter. The winds were unusually strong for the time of year, and the temperature had fallen to an unseasonal low - often below zero during the night.
By early November Mitch had been seeing Professor Puel for seven weeks and according to the professor the treatment was working. One evening Mitch came into the sitting room smiling. He took a bottle of Canadian Club from the cupboard and poured himself and Claire a nightcap. ‘She’s asleep,’ he said, handing Claire her whiskey, before sitting down with his own. ‘Aimée is happy, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, she is.’ Claire looked at her husband and smiled. She hoped her reply reassured him. He had enough to do coping with the terrible memories the psychiatrist was unearthing. ‘What about you?’ she asked, ‘you seem more like your old self these days. The treatment must be working.’
‘I guess it is,’ Alain said, thoughtfully. ‘Professor Puel says he’s helping me to come to terms with what happened when I was in prison. I don’t remember much after the sessions, so I must take his word for it.’
Not remembering much meant her husband remembered something. Claire wanted to ask him what it was he remembered. But when she met the professor he said she must not question Alain. He said questioning him would hinder his recovery. “For many years Captain Mitchell has buried memories in a very dark place,” he said.
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ Claire said, ‘I can’t begin to imagine what awful things you suffered in that place.’
‘Puel said I blocked out bad stuff. He said I have survivors guilt.’ Claire sat up in order to take in what her husband was saying. ‘I escaped from the prison and survived, but deep down I knew there would have been reprisals. He said I would have known then that some of my fellow prisoners would have paid for my freedom with their lives. Because of that I buried my feelings. Puel said I have never faced up to the fact that I caused their deaths. He said the guilt I feel is so profound, so deep-rooted, that to survive in everyday life I ignore it; pretend it didn’t happen. He said guilt cannot be denied forever and in time, as it has done with me, it rises to the surface and manifests in angry outbursts and nightmares.
‘And you, my darling, have had to put up with it.’ Mitch’s eyes filled with tears. He pulled Claire to him. ‘I’m sorry for all I’ve put you through. I shall make it up to you. All I want now is to make you happy.’
Claire inhaled deeply. ‘I am happy, darling.’ She looked into her husband’s eyes and kissed him on the lips. ‘How could I not be happy with you and Aimée to love.’ She wanted to say When you are better I shall really be happy, but that might be interpreted as putting pressure on him. Instead, she said nothing and kissed him again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a modern apartment. Warm air blew through grids in the walls from October to spring, changing to cold air at the end of May, keeping the apartment warm in the winter and cool throughout the summer months. The letting agent for the Canadian Air Force told Claire the cooling system was called air conditioning. It wouldn’t be needed in England she thought, it is never hot enough.
She went into Aimée’s bedroom. She was asleep. The nights were drawing in. Shorter days were only to be expected at this time of year - longer nights too, though Claire hadn’t reckoned on there being so many without her husband.
Returning to the sitting room she drew the curtains, then poured herself a Canadian Club. She had become accustomed to a tipple after dinner with Mitch. When Aimée was in bed they relaxed, talked about their day, or listened to the wireless. She looked at the clock on the mantle shelf. Ten-thirty, he hadn’t come home, again. She knocked back her drink, took the empty glass to the kitchen, rinsed it under the tap and stood it upside down on the draining board. With a sigh, she scraped Alain’s dinner into a bucket with a lid that they kept under the sink and put his plate in the washing-up bowl.
She switched off the lights as she walked through the apartment. After checking the front door was locked she took out the key and went to bed on her own, again.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Mitchell.’ The receptionist at the Louis Bertrand hospital greeted Claire with a smile when she finally reached the front of the queue. ‘How may I help you today?’
Claire was trembling with worry. ‘Could you tell me where my husband is, please?’ The receptionist looked confused and frowned. She scanned the names listed in the large appointment book on the desk in front of her. ‘He had an appointment yesterday afternoon,’ Claire said. ‘He didn’t go to work afterwards, nor did he come home, so he must still be here.’ She watched the woman’s short manicured fingernail glide across to a corresponding list on the previous day’s page.
‘Mitchell, Captain Alain Mitchell. Two o’clock yesterday to see Professor Puel. He won’t be here now,’ the receptionist said. ‘The captain’s appointment was for an hour. He wasn’t booked in for an overnight stay.’
‘No, he wasn’t, but this morning the professor’s secretary telephoned me to say my husband could go home.’ Claire was rapidly coming to the end of her patience. ‘Would you telephone the professor’s secretary and find out where Captain Mitchell is, please!’
As she picked up the telephone, the receptionist glanced at the lengthening line of people standing behind Claire and smiled apologetically. Claire waited for what felt to her like an age but was probably only a few seconds, before the secretary’s telephone was answered. After a brief salutation, the receptionist asked if Captain Mitchell was in the hospital, and if so, in which ward. She spoke in French, which Claire thought was rude considering she had asked her for help in English.
When the receptionist returned the receiver to its cradle, Claire repeated what she’d heard her say when she confirmed Alain’s whereabouts. ‘La salle d’hôpital psychiatrique aile huit?’ she said, in fluent French. The receptionist’s cheeks coloured with embarrassment. ‘Would you direct me to ward eight in the psychiatric wing, please?’
‘It is next door, Madame, in the old hospital. Go out of the main doors, turn left, and follow the footpath.’
‘Merci et au revoir,’ Claire said, curtly, and left.
Claire followed the receptionist’s directions and, after turning left onto the main drive that curved round in a broad sweep in front of the new hospital’s modern glass doors, followed the path along the side of the building to the old hospital at the back. It was hardly next door, Claire thought, and it was as unpleasing to the eye as the new hospital building was pleasing.
With its dark red and blue brick exterior, tall narrow windows with bars across them, the original hospital, which housed the psychiatric wing, looked more like a Victorian workhouse or an asylum. It had probably been both in its time. The sooner she got Mitch out of the place the better.
She turned the brass knob at the centre of the heavy oak door and pushed. It didn’t open. She tried again. When it didn’t open the third time, she rapped on the door sharply. A second later she heard a key in the lock, followed by what sounded like a second key and the scraping of a bolt. The door opened.
‘Mrs Mitchell?’ Before Claire had time to answer the nurse said, ‘The receptionist rang through and told us you were on your way. I am looking after the Captain,’ she said. ‘Nurse Bryant.’ She put out her hand and Claire shook it. ‘Please come in.’
‘Where is my husband? Why was he kept in overnight?’
‘He became upset during his treatment and had to be sedated.’
‘Upset? His treatment was yesterday. Why wasn’t I told?’
‘I don’t know. Professor Puel will explain everything to you.’
Claire followed Nurse Bryant along a short corridor into a room with several easy chairs facing a table with a wireless on it.
‘Where is he? Where’s Captain Mitchell?’
‘He’s asleep at the moment. I thought you might like to wait in here. It’s more comfortable--’
‘I don’t want to wait anywhere, I want to see my husband. When Professor Puel’s secretary telephoned me, she
said I should come at once.’
‘Ah!’ The look of displeasure on the nurse’s face told Claire that the secretary had no business contacting her. ‘I’ll take you to him right away.’
Claire had noticed wards one to six when she arrived; seven was next to the small waiting room, eight was opposite. Nurse Bryant crossed the corridor, pushed open the doors and went in. Claire followed. At first glance, the ward looked like any other hospital ward. Some beds had metal rails at the side, which, Claire thought, was to stop elderly patients from falling out. On closer inspection, she noticed leather straps across several of the beds and looking up she saw iron bars across the windows. The ward had six beds, three on each side of the room, but only one patient - her husband.
‘When Captain Mitchell wakes he’ll be very pleased to see you.’ Nurse Bryant stood at the top of Mitch’s bed, her head tilted on one side. ‘Poor Captain. He kept calling for China. At first, I thought he was talking about the country, but then he said he was sorry, asked China to forgive him, and said he loved her.’ The nurse looked sympathetically at Claire. ‘Do you know anyone called China?’
Claire neither felt like making polite conversation nor like telling a nurse she had never met before that China had been part of the code name she’d been given by the Special Operations Executive in the war when she and Mitch worked in German-occupied France with the French Resistance. Not that it would matter now. The war had been over for years.
Besides, any Canadian would be proud of the part their armed forces had played in driving Hitler and his army out of Europe and securing peace. Even so, her training had taught her to be cautious. You never knew who you were talking to.
Claire could see Nurse Bryant was curious. Telling her something would stop her from speculating. ‘Yes,’ Claire said, eventually, ‘it’s what my husband calls me sometimes. It’s his pet-name for me. It’s my eyes,’ she said, looking squarely at the nurse. ‘They’re a similar colour blue to a well-known china we have in England.’
‘Ah... I thought it must be something like that,’ the nurse cooed. ‘Oh!’ she said, turning on the spot as if she had only just noticed Claire was standing at the foot of her husband’s bed. ‘Let me get out of your way. Here?’ She took a chair from against the wall and placed it at the top of the bed. ‘I’ll fetch you a cup of tea. Milk and sugar?’
Claire said just milk, sat down and took Mitch’s hand in hers. ‘Darling, what have they done to you. Mitch? Alain? Can you hear me?’ she asked, rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. He didn’t respond.
Sometime later, Claire had no idea how long, Nurse Bryant returned with the promised cup of tea and a biscuit. Refusing the biscuit, Claire took the cup and while the nurse checked Mitch’s pulse and temperature, she sipped the hot beverage.
‘Good!’ the nurse said, taking the thermometer from under his arm, shaking it, and checking it against the fob-watch on her uniform. ‘Almost back to normal.’ She looked at the fob again. ‘He should wake up soon. When he does, I’ll be at the nurse’s station.’ She pointed to a table with drawers down one side and two chairs, one in front and one behind, at the far end of the ward. ‘Give me a wave.’
‘Will I be able to take him home when he wakes up?’
‘Yes, if Professor Puel says you can,’ the nurse said, looking under long dark eyelashes at Claire and blushing slightly.
‘Thank you.’ Claire leant forward, lifted Mitch’s hand to her cheek and watched him sleeping.
Suddenly aware that a light was shining through the tall barred window above Mitch’s head, Claire looked at her watch. It was half-past-five. She had been sitting at her husband’s bedside for almost three hours. She wondered if Aimée was all right. She hadn’t been without one or other of her parents since arriving in Canada. She’ll be fine, Claire told herself. By now she’ll be having tea with her new grandparents.
‘China?’
‘Mitch, thank God. I thought you’d never wake up.’ Claire bent down and kissed him. She turned and waved to the nurse at the far end of the ward. She was speaking on the telephone and at the same time reading a document by the light of a small lamp. Claire waved again, but the nurse was engrossed and didn’t acknowledge her. ‘As soon as the professor has been to see you, I am taking you home.’
‘Forgive me, Simone. I am sorry,’ Mitch whispered and closed his eyes.
‘You have nothing to be forgiven for, darling,’ Claire said. She stroked his hair. He was asleep.
Releasing his hand, Claire stood up and waved to the nurse again. This time the nurse saw her. She immediately put down the telephone, clicked off the lamp, and walked briskly down the ward.
‘He woke up and said--’ Claire didn’t want to say, Simone, ‘my name, but went straight back to sleep.’
The nurse bustled round to the far side of Mitch’s bed, took hold of his wrist and checked his pulse. ‘Normal. It won’t be long before he’s fully awake.’
Claire wanted to say You said that hours ago. Instead, she said, ‘In that case, would you stay with him while I pop to the lavatory?’
‘Of course. It’s at the end of the corridor.’ Claire looked at her husband, a worried expression on her face. Who is, or was, Simone? The nurse, misinterpreting Claire’s concern said, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t leave him until you get back.’
The bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling of the stark white concrete and tiled washroom created shadows everywhere. Claire shivered. Washing her hands she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Dark rings under her eyes made her look ghoulish. She felt tired - and worried. Mitch had called her Simone. She racked her brain. There had been no one in the Resistance cells they’d worked with called Simone. He could have known her before the war, or she could have been someone in the village where he was taken after he’d been shot, someone who had looked after him. Maybe it was a woman from the prison where he was held in France.
Or… Claire’s heart began to drum as the realisation struck her. He had spent eight, maybe ten, weeks away from home on Air Force business during the past year. He had been back to Canada twice. Or was it three times? Her head was spinning. Could he have met Simone then? Did he have an affair with this woman, fall in love with her even, and was now asking for forgiveness?
The door opened, making Claire jump. ‘Your husband is awake and asking for you, Mrs Mitchell,’ the nurse said sternly.
‘Thank you.’ Claire pushed a rogue curl from her forehead and followed the nurse back to the ward.
She had been longer in the washroom than she had intended. When she returned to the ward Professor Puel was at Mitch’s bedside talking to him. She sighed with relief. Her husband was awake. The professor, wearing a dark charcoal coloured suit, white shirt and black bowtie, was tall and slim with fair greying hair and piercing pale blue eyes. It looked to Claire as if he was saying something her husband didn’t agree with or didn’t know. Shaking his head, Mitch shouted, ‘I don’t know, I tell you. I don’t remember!’
As she approached the professor raised his voice and, as if for Claire’s benefit, he said, ‘So, Captain, you don’t remember anything of what we talked about yesterday?’
Mitch’s brow creased. His eyes searched the professor’s face as if what he had said the day before was just out of his reach and would come to him from some dark corner of his mind. Then he shook his head. ‘No. There was something, and it was important, but it has gone. I just have a feeling of sadness; of sorrow. I felt angry when we were talking yesterday, I remember that, but I don’t know why. And…’ He struggled for the word, ‘Remorse,’ he said at last. ‘It’s as if I did something shameful that I regret, which I need to put right, but I can’t because I don’t know what it is.’ Tears filled his eyes.
Claire stepped between Mitch and the professor. ‘My husband has had enough treatment for one day,’ she said. ‘If you have finished with him, I should like to take him home!’
‘Of course, Mrs Mitchell. My secretary will telephone with the da
te and time of the captain’s next appointment.’ He saluted Mitch and offered Claire his hand. ‘Mrs Mitchell?’
Claire shook the professor’s hand, briefly. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Would you like to telephone for a taxi, or for someone to fetch you, Mrs Mitchell?’ the nurse asked when Professor Puel had left.
‘No, thank you.’
‘I’m afraid Captain Mitchell won’t be able to drive for twenty-four hours. Not until the sedative is completely out of his system.’
‘Then it’s a good job I’m driving,’ Claire said. The nurse looked surprised. ‘I drove here, so I’m sure I’ll be able to drive my husband home.’ She took Mitch’s shoes from under the bed and pushed them towards him. ‘Close your mouth darling and put on your shoes.’
On the way to the car park, Mitch began to laugh. Claire glared at him. ‘What?’
‘You, driving. Are you serious?’
‘How the hell do you think I got here, Mitch? When Professor Puel’s secretary telephoned, she sounded worried. So, I jumped in your car and came straight here.’
‘Where’s Aimée?’
Naomi took her to school. I asked her to telephone Marie when she got back and ask her to pick Aimée up after school and take her to her house. We’re here,’ Claire said, putting the key in the lock of the car’s passenger door. ‘Get in.’
‘Are you annoyed with me, honey?’ Mitch asked, when Claire slammed the driver’s door.
‘Not annoyed, but you shouldn’t have laughed at me. It was bad enough that the nurse looked shocked when I said I was driving. You should have more faith in me. I’ve driven abroad before, in bigger and more powerful vehicles than this thing, or have you forgotten?’
‘No, but that was different.’
‘How? I don’t have to dodge bombs driving in Canada. Other than that it’s exactly the same, so sit back and enjoy the ride.’ Claire negotiated the car out of the carpark, past several badly parked vehicles and into the traffic on the three-lane freeway. ‘I didn’t like the way the professor spoke to you when he came to see you on the ward.’
Chasing Ghosts Page 5