The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

  Next morning she took her case and walked up the main street, past the railway station, the exhausted shops and sat on the stone steps of the Mairie. His car drove in and she followed him into the cold building and sat in his outer office for two more hours.

  “In. How did you know the Curé?”

  “My family.”

  “Balls.”

  She thought of the Curé in Lyon, the teacher, the butcher. “No. Where is he?”

  “I told you.”

  She wanted to say “Balls”, but nodded, practiced now.

  “I’ll drive you to a place. Tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.”

  His finger ends extended and she walked back to her cell in the Spring sunlight.

  Jacques stretched his legs forward, his eyelids drooping to counter the glare from the water. His float steadied. Two trout and home. Wiped his knife, sat, waiting. As still and quiet as the surface of the Roc.

  Had Jerome told his mother? No chance.

  But if Ardelle had told hers, Madame Lacaze would know soon enough. Or if Sara had dared tell hers. I told mine and the secret will die in her room.

  His mother will cut him off. Sara is scum to her. And then what about Sara? Jerome will never marry her.

  In an hour he had two carp and one of the trout. The sun said nearly noon and with no wind in the pines sheltering the lake he had less than an hour now before the water heated enough for the fish to seek the shade beyond his rod.

  He gazed hard at the float, willing the fish to strike.

  Can you wish a fish? And is that a sin? Is that Covetousness? And if he could, if, say, he had one wish, would it be for a fish? One wish. What would I want? A bull.

  No. Mamman well. Yes. And laughing, happy. Yes, that. Or Peace? A car approached. Can only be Chibret or the doctor. Chibret. Where had Mayor Chibret been?

  And what would he wish for himself? His eyes lifted away from the float. Stupid. Wish your life away. ‘Iffing is close to sin,’ his mother always said. Stupid to wish. Don’t they say that with every wish comes a curse?

  The line moved and his hand tightened. The float edged right, stopped, moved again, sank and he struck. The rod bent. Trout. Struck again to bury the hook and played it in. Big. In you come. His rod arched and his mother’s dinner slid and scrambled kaleidoscopic across the water and out. Sharp club with the knife handle, done.

  He packed up, ate his cheese reward and walked back to the village. This half-kilometre of lane was bounded on both sides by Jerome’s family land, and there, a separate two hundred metres from the bottom of the village, the Big House. Purple volets and sandstone pastel walls. The too-neat garden, its late spring flowers regimentally erect, the orchard behind. The big crucifix. Wrought-iron railings. Old Money. He saw no-one as he passed the Gendarmerie, La Poste and the Mairie, came into the square and there, outside the café, feet up on a chair, Jerome. And with the big glass window between them, Duthileul Pére.

  The old money and the new.

  Inside, in the cigarette smoke silence, two old ones and Valet, the retired garagiste, scowled beneath their berets and gulped pastis until the papers were read.

  Janon shuffled out with Jacques’ beer. Shuffled back.

  “Fish for mother?”

  “Fish for mother.”

  He rolled two cigarettes and they smoked. Jacques nodded at Duthileul, the old bull, waiting. Looked at his friend, the father to be.

  “What’s she going to say when you tell her?”

  “Moo.”

  “You are going to tell her?”

  “If she asks. When she asks. I’ll need some of the money now.”

  “She’ll find out. Everyone will.”

  “I know. I’m expecting De Gaulle to congratulate us tonight.” De Gaulle’s broadcasts. Illegal to listen.

  “Want to listen?”

  “Shut up.”

  Jerome looked steadily into Jacques’ face. “I like you, Vermande.”

  “Marry me then.” Jerome lifted his drink.

  “Remember when I said Vichy had sold everything French? Eh? And you thought – ‘that wanker Jerome, what does he mean?’”

  “Yes.”

  “Laval has banned celebrations of July the fourteenth.”

  Jacques couldn’t stop himself snapping a glance at the old ones, and him, Duthileul, fixed in his chair.

  “Why?” And then, whispering, “How do you know?”

  “And which question,” Jerome smiled, “is the more important?” Jacques felt a flash of irritation with Jerome’s patronising. “Why.”

  “Yes sir. Why would our Prime Minister do such a thing, Jacques?”

  Jacques looked at the fire in his friend’s face. The same fire as he’d had at school and it had burnt nothing yet. Unless, Jacques thought, you count Sara.

  “To please the Bosche?”

  “Voila. And what do you feel about that?”

  “Not much.”

  Some music, a high piano with a cello beneath wound out of the café radio and into the early afternoon.

  “What do you feel?”

  “When all else fails – get angry.”

  “And do what, Jerome?”

  “Gather. Resist.”

  Jacques leaned forward onto the table and watched Duthileul while he whispered, “I won’t talk here.”

  “Scared?”

  “Of you, yes. Do what you must do but don’t sit here hoping for a fight with one of those ancient turds. Act. Stop talking.”

  They looked at each other and again Jacques thought of Sara. “You have a child coming. Is this your response? To fight?”

  “Yes! He must be proud of me – I must be proud of me. I must resist. Or your father died for nothing, eh?”

  “Resist?” Valet had turned in his chair. He barked again. “Resist what?”

  “Don’t, Jerome.”

  “The enemy.”

  “Ahh. The Russians?” The old ones cackled.

  “Russia is fighting Hitler.”

  “Makes a change.” More laughter.

  “More than Petain does.”

  “Petain is France, France is Petain.”

  “Catechisme.” Jerome snarled.

  “Enough.”

  Duthileul silenced them all.

  Jerome gathered his glass, went inside, paid and leaned his back into the fixture of the bar.

  “Fine. In Free France I will not speak, I will be free only to be silent.”

  “Like all of us,” said Duthileul.

  “‘To live in defeat is to die every day.’”

  “Who’s that?”

  Valet sneered, “Stalin?”

  “Buonaparte,” said Duthileul.

  A silence.

  Jerome nodded to Jacques and strode home. Jacques re-lit his cigarette, pinched one last drag from it and downed the beer. He took his glass back and Duthileul turned his chair to face him. Jacques waited. The old man smiled.

  “I have to charge a little more. The War. You understand.”

  “Yes.”

  “Everything costs.” He even tried to look a little sad.

  “Yes.”

  “Bring her when you wish. Only a few sous, a few francs more. You’re a neighbour.”

  “Aha.”

  Chibret bustled in, shook hands, refused a drink, exchanged brief words with Duthileul, who nodded sharply. Chibret took Jacques’ arm and led him outside.

  “A word, in my office, Jacques?”

  “Yes...”

  He gathered his rod and fish and they walked down to the Mairie, into the cool. Through the big hall piled with corn and eggs, potatoes, milk, meat, hay even; the requisition from their farms, into his little office where Chibret hung his jacket on his chair, gestured at the one opposite, and settled. He cleared a space by elbowing paper left and right, leaned forward and looked at Jacques.

  “An evacuee. The Prefecture demands we find accommodation, do our bit blah blah blah. From the North, was in Clermont – etc etc. Ja
cques?”

  “One?”

  “It’s why I thought of you. No room for families, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Squeeze her in?” Jacques’ mind jumped.

  “Er...yes.”

  “Good man. Thank you.”

  Mayor Chibret leaned over the desk and shook Jacques’ hand, business done.

  “Bloody paper. Mountains of it. Triplicate. Who reads it? My secretary, Severine, she’s ill. I never liked the miserable cow. Now she’s ill for three days and I know why she’s miserable and I miss her. War for you. Changes you.”

  Jacques rose.

  “Your mother?”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t see her at Mass.”

  “No.”

  “You’ll find room?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll bring her tomorrow. First of many, eh?”

  A woman!

  Oh God, how old? He laughed. First time I’ve done that for a bit. Where will she sleep? In my room. I’ll sleep in the barn. Like when the day-old calves need feeding. No, make a bed upstairs in the grenier. Warmer. Nearer Mamman. He noticed his bag, the fish, swinging. And he heard his whistling as he passed his neighbour’s herd and the bull, good big bull, pray it gives me a male calf.

  Is this woman going to meet a boy or a man?

  What makes a man? I’m six years older than my father ever was and I’ve never done what he did – fought, killed, had a child, died. I’ve never had sex...

  I must cook the fish, milk the cows, take the beast over the lane and tell mother about our guest.

  They ate, the trout sweet.

  “Butter tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  “I know you know.”

  They ate.

  His mother said, “She could be older than me.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.”

  Next morning when he brought her bread and egg she said, “I’ll do the butter.”

  He nodded slowly. “O.K.”

  “Have you made a bed upstairs?”

  “I will.”

  “For you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She ate. The dog sat up.

  “We’ve only two chairs,” she said.

  “Mm.”

  “And she’s from the North?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope she’s Catholic.”

  I hope she’s fun, he thought.

  He found weeds he’d too long ignored, so as to be there to greet her. Should he pick some flowers? He blushed at his crudity. His mother, dressed, came to the door, and stood shading her eyes from the noon-light.

  “Bring me the milk then.”

  He ladled it into the big pot and thought, she’s done nothing for so long, she’ll be too weak for this. Butter is hard work. But, if it means she’s coming back to life...

  As he came up the steps there she stood, pale and thin – sell her if she was a beast – but she was trying. Good. Good. Is this the wish? “This is hard, mamman.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “Fine.”

  He took down the paddle, wiped the cobwebs off it and left her to it, bathing back into the heat. The ploughing. Oh shit, the bull. Was that a car? No. Calm yourself.

  Simone waited. Le Rouget knew her story. They hunched past her, the latest gossip. At noon he appeared and went into the Mairie. Two hours later she climbed into his car and they rose into the hills. The silent man, driving with one fat hand, the car hugging the sharp corners in the lowest gear, endlessly up and away from the war.

  Up into the store-cupboard of France; pasture, cattle, farms, wee clusters of houses. Le Fern. Le Martinet, La Vitarelle, the roof-tiles changing from the slate-grey of the lowlands to rounded terracotta orange speckled with mosses, the roofs angling less sharply against the winter snows. Then a sandstone chateau with one crumbling tower, a sore thumb of ancient opulence in all this practicality; and still the road turned and rose and then, as the car came through La Bouyogne, a panorama spread in front of her, an upland plateau rolling and tumbling for ever.

  He hadn’t made his bed. Blankets. Strode back into the house and there she sat, the paddle adrift, her arm fallen, asleep in the chair. His shadow darkened the milk. Blankets first. Walked heel first into his room, took one from his room, one from the wardrobe in her room, went upstairs and laid them against the south wall for warmth. Old sacks beneath for a notion of softness against the boards. Went down for his clothes, leaving the empty drawers for her.

  This ‘her’.

  He draped his mother’s wasted arm over his shoulder and lifted her easily, less than the milk, laid her in bed, covered her.

  Sat to the milk and the paddle.

  The butter, cheese and the white cheese. He churned. As it thickened and pulled at his muscles he remembered Fridays at the wash-pond, how his ears had burned at the piss-taking; but washing was as hard as sawing, churning as aching as digging. He worked, the dog licking up the few splashes and the separation came.

  The car rocked now, at speed on the flat, the sun bright, and on through another clump of maybe ten houses, Lauresses. Still on, another long high bend, a single farm and now St.Cirgues. The car stopped and so would she. Whatever this was, whatever this took, this was a stop. This was high enough, far enough, to stop. A road sign said Sousceyrac 7 kms, but no. This, St.Cirgues, this would do.

  A smaller, slightly less fat man, with mottled hands greeted them. Chibret.

  The dog cocked its head, went outside and barked. He checked his sleeping mother, pulled her door closed and went outside, his heart booming. Heard the car stop, heard one door slam and the other close and then round the corner of the barn came his Mayor and Simone.

  3

  The triangle shrank, he shook his Mayor’s hand and Chibret christened her.

  “Simone.”

  “Jacques.”

  Dirt-weary legs, her whole frame pared. Veins standing angry on her forearms, chest as flat as his, hair straggling round a face once pretty, but weathered now, worn. Warred. Not a face of these hills. Thinner nose. Different eyes. She was a town-girl. Small. Not made and raised for his work. Her forehead was long. She was plain and she was beautiful.

  The dog sniffed all round her and she let the back of her hand drape over its nose.

  Chibret shifted his weight, rested a hand on his belt and puffed a little.

  “I must go – paper...”

  He shook hands in the silence, his thoughts back with his sickly wife. The silence waited till his car left, then began again. A man, a girl, a case and a dog, waiting, in bright light.

  Jacques thought.

  “Come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  He took her case, then, not sure he’d said the right thing, stopped. She waited. He moved again and led her up the stone steps and into the cool. He put the case down and looked at his house with her eyes.

  “It’s brown,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Sit down. Please.” She sat at the table.

  He looked at his fire but saw nothing. She placed a hand, an arm on the table. He turned around.

  Here she was, holding herself. Here. To stay. In his house. In his life.

  She was young. She was here. Simone.

  She looked up at him, staring, his mouth open, stupid. Their eyes met. His brain threatened to choke. Time stood still. When Time moved he saw a hungry animal.

  He reached down ham, unwrapped the muslin, sliced it thin, twice, re-wrapped it, got bread from the earthen crock, cheese and a plate, a bottle of wine, rinsed a cup in the bucket and placed it all before her on the table. Took a pace back to the fire.

  “Thank you.”

  He cut the bread and left the knife for her. “Eat.”

  “Thank you.”

  She sat a second and looked at the food. As she reached for the ham he moved to change the cup for a glass. Poured her a glass of wine and moved to the door. The dog stayed, all eyes.
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  “I’ll – be a second.”

  He went outside.

  Her back kissed the chair.

  Her mouth stopped smiling, her bones relaxed, a hand flapped flat on the table.

  “Ohhh,” like sleep.

  Not carrots, she’s too tired. Lettuce. The first strawberries! Found three good sized ones. He could feel his teeth, the very bone of them. He could taste the blood in his cheeks. He could hear it warm and running. I want to scream!

  Looked up at the time. An hour to milking. Milk. I gave her wine. He marched into the cold of the caves and filled the metal cup, took it carefully up the steps and back into the house. He washed the lettuce and the fruit, placed it all before her and backed away to watch.

  “This is – I needed this.”

  “Good.”

  She drank the milk. Ate the strawberries, one exploding too big in her mouth, she hiccuped forward to catch the drips.

  Then the hard, clear cheese. He watched, enchanted, till she’d done. “Cigarette?”

  “I don’t.”

  The cat strolled in and froze. It gawps like him, she thought. “Simone,” he introduced her, his voice dry round the word.

  The cat looked deep into her eyes, held them, then padded to her. “What’s your name?”

  “Doesn’t have a name. It’s the cat.”

  “Oh. The dog?”

  “Dog’s called Tayo.”

  He rolled a cigarette, concentrating for a second. She took a mouthful of the wine. The alcohol sank, and she shivered.

  “Cold?”

  “No. The wine.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s good.”

  “Good.”

  And now he saw how much she needed sleep. Pecking the cigarette he took her case and opened a door behind her. Took a pace into the room and waited. She turned and saw the bed. The bed. “Come.”

  One window, a chest with a bowl and jug and a towel, and the bed. A solid oak box raised two feet off the ground. Blankets and a pillow. A pillow.

  “Sleep. Wake when you wake. There’s a pot under the bed. Meet Mother in the morning.” He stood, hand on the door.