The Long Way Home

by Fanny Blake

  Once again, Helen was putting her in an impossible position. Of course Isla could continue to refuse. Of course she could insist that she have the holiday she had planned. But what about Charlie? Helen had waited for a break like this one for years. Who was she to spoil it? Yet these few days were meant to be just her and Tony. But really, how much did it matter when they had the rest of their lives ahead of them?

  However much she liked the secrecy, the feeling of their affair being something so special to the two of them, the family had to meet Tony some time. Although she liked the idea of keeping Tony to herself, she also liked the idea of showing him off, of seeing how much everyone else would like him too. Perhaps she should simply bow to the inevitable. He would understand that she had no choice.

  In her ear, Helen was going over again why this job was so important to her, how long she had waited for such an opportunity and couldn’t stuff it up now. Surely Isla could understand how much it meant to her.

  And Isla could.

  When their conversation was over, Helen was mollified and Isla annoyed with herself, partly for giving in again but more because she wanted to look forward to spending time with her granddaughter without resenting it. How could a fourteen-year-old make her feel so conflicted?

  Anyway, she had agreed, so she would have to make the best of it. At least Helen was telling Charlie while she broke the news to Tony.

  In the background she could hear music, people talking. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘A bar with friends. Can I call you back?’

  ‘Another pint?’ asked a woman’s voice.

  She looked at her watch. Ten thirty.

  She wanted to tell him then so he had time to get used to the idea. ‘It’s not really urgent but…’ She tried to sound as relaxed as possible. ‘I just wanted to let you know that it looks as if Charlie will still be here when you arrive after all.’

  She could hear someone near him laughing loudly, but from him there was silence.

  ‘Tony?’

  ‘I thought you were putting her on a train.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘What’s happened?’ She pictured him rubbing a finger under his left eye, something he did when pondering the implications of a decision.

  She explained quickly what had happened but she could tell she only had half his attention. ‘Of course I’d rather there was just the two of us…’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’ve got to go.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’m with friends discussing the business opportunity I told you about.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s just a dinner that’s gone on but I’m hopeful… Listen, we’ll speak tomorrow. But I’m sure everything will be fine. I’d like to meet her.’

  How lucky she was. She had to love him for taking the disruption of their first holiday together with such equanimity. She’d call the hotel first thing to see if they could find them another room. And if they couldn’t? She’d just have to find them somewhere else. But it wouldn’t be the same. This was the place that he had chosen.

  At least she and Helen had a relationship that allowed them to be open with one another. Helen could ask. She could say no. Even if it didn’t take much to change her mind when it came to Charlie. Helen knew that her daughter was Isla’s weak spot. Isla’s thoughts went to May again. If only they had been able to talk. How different their relationship might have been. She felt a sudden pang of grief that almost winded her. What had she done wrong? What had she done to make her mother turn against her?

  Without thinking she googled ‘Paris in the Fifties’ and clicked on Images. A black-and-white world presented itself that looked so very different from her own. A man planting a kiss on the cheek of a smiling woman. A stall selling fruit in a street market with another woman being passionately kissed. Scruffy children playing in the streets. Two nuns with a pushcart of provisions. Ruined buildings and deserted streets. Vintage cars. Models posed in elegant tailored suits on street corners, on stairs or in front of cafés. Isla remembered May, typically Scottish, without an ounce of the romance and glamour she saw in the photos. As far as Isla knew her, she had been an ordinary housewife focused on her family and her home. Occasionally she’d dress up a bit but not with the willowy elegance of the women Isla saw on her phone. She found it hard to imagine May in this lost world. How on earth would she have fitted in to somewhere so different from the Scotland where Isla and her sisters had been brought up?

  21

  Paris, 1954

  Alone and pregnant in Paris. The inner strength May had found when she learned Max was leaving and realised he was not the man she had thought had mutated into grief and disappointment. They washed over her when least expected. She hadn’t heard from him again. Wendy had told her that he had left Paris for good as he said he was going to, returning home to Wisconsin to his girl and good job prospects. He hadn’t sent her a message, a note; nothing. But she, of course, was not all Max had left behind him. He had left her with a problem that she didn’t know how to begin to solve.

  When she was with Emile, she had to pretend there was nothing wrong. Similarly in her French classes, she sat at her usual desk, slipping away at the end so she didn’t have to engage with anyone. She avoided Mme Dubois by going to her room whenever she had any free time. There, she sat for hours on the edge of her bed staring at the bee-patterned curtains. Outside, the late summer sun shone but she barely noticed. All she could focus on was her terror of what the future held in store for her, her devastation over losing Max and her shame and distress over her predicament.

  She had always imagined that one day she would be married with a family of her own. She wanted her own children more than anything but not like this, alone in a strange city. She had pictured herself at home in Scotland after her adventures, marrying a Scotsman and having her children then – two girls, she thought she’d like.

  Abortion was illegal – she had heard dire warnings about backstreet abortionists and women who didn’t survive to tell the tale, her mother had made sure of that – but keeping the baby was an impossibility. How would she manage on her own? If she went home for help, her parents would disown her, her father sad his plans for her hadn’t worked out, disappointed in her, her mother furious. If she had the baby, how would she live? She wouldn’t have enough money to rent an apartment of her own, however small. How would she eat? How would the baby thrive? No! It was impossible.

  Wendy was little help, wanting to ask advice from everyone they knew but May stopped her. The shame was too great. She didn’t want to be the object of disgust or pity. She needed someone in whom she could confide and trust without the whole world knowing her misfortune. These thoughts played round and round her head, paralysing her. And all the while, time was ticking by, making the need for decision all the greater. Unless Max were to return and rescue her. But as time went past, that thinnest sliver of hope receded.

  Not long after Max’s departure, Madame Dubois cornered May in the nursery when she was putting everything back in its place while Emile was in school. Madame was a stickler for tidiness so as soon as her son left the apartment, May was under strict instructions to tidy everything away. She couldn’t leave the apartment for her classes until the job was done.

  Madame stood in the doorway for a minute or two, watching May at work, her eyes burning holes in May’s back. Eventually she said, ‘May, ma chérie. I think we must talk.’

  ‘About?’ May was immediately on the defensive. If Madame sacked her, what would she do? Where would she go?

  Wendy had made it clear she couldn’t help. ‘Madame Fougère doesn’t like me having anyone round to the apartment so you certainly couldn’t stay. None of them do. You know that. Perhaps I could help you with some money towards your fare home.’ Even she seemed to be washing her hands of May, which made her feel more alone.

  May would have to go home. But she couldn’t.

  ‘About your condition.’ Madame still had her eyes on May but her expression was kind. She raised her hand to
the bow at the neck of her silk shirt.

  May tried to look completely innocent. ‘What do you mean?’ She had wondered if Madame had guessed, but then persuaded herself she couldn’t have when nothing was said.

  Mme Dubois came in to sit in the nursery chair, hitching up her black pencil skirt a fraction. There was a rustle of nylon as she crossed her legs. ‘Come. I’m a woman and I notice these things. I have heard your sickness and seen you not eating. I think you may be enceinte. Am I wrong?’ She smoothed her dark hair, tied back tightly in a ballerina’s bun at the nape of her neck.

  May shook her head, as tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked. What was the point in denying it now? At the same time she felt a tremendous sense of release that her secret was out. Now she would have to confront the fact head-on and make a decision, for good or for bad.

  Madame handed her a lacy handkerchief that she pulled from her sleeve, hardly enough to mop the tears or for May to blow her nose. But the relief at being able to confess was as enormous as the dread of what would follow the confession.

  ‘I am right then.’ Madame’s angular face softened. ‘And who is the father?’

  May tried to drive the picture of Max from her head. But her longing for him would not let him go. She pictured him in the Brasserie Bleu where they last met, at the top of the Eiffel Tower and lying in bed in Brittany, that smile playing on his lips. She knew every inch of him and would never forget them. She would never find someone like him again. ‘An American boy. But he’s gone back home, ordered by his father. We won’t see each other again. He has a girl who’s been waiting for him. He didn’t tell me.’ She broke down again at the memory of his betrayal of her trust.

  ‘Pff! Les Américains!’ She pursed her lips in disgust. ‘And the baby? You want to keep him?’ Madame was nothing if not direct. She sat bolt upright, her expression thoughtful as she waited to hear what May had to say.

  ‘If I do, perhaps Max will come back…’ Her voice faded.

  ‘Bah!’ Madame threw her hands in the air, exploding that dream. ‘I ask you again. You want to keep him?’

  ‘How can I?’ May started sobbing again, as Madame produced a second handkerchief from a pocket.

  ‘Then you must let me help you. I know this is not what you want but we have to act now or it will be too late.’ Madame brushed her hands together as if everything was decided, before she got up to go.

  For May, the next few days blurred together as she tried to keep going as normal while Madame consulted a friend of the family, a private doctor, and arranged for her to have the procedure. ‘You must say nothing about this to anyone, ma chérie. Because this procedure is illegal en France and anyone caught is punished severely. But Bernard will do it for us, and I will pay him.’

  ‘But why?’ May asked at last. ‘Why are you taking this risk for me?’ Despite a deep-seated longing to keep the baby, her first child, this was the only route open to her unless she wanted to throw herself to the winds of fortune. Of the two options open to her, that would require the sort of bravery she didn’t have.

  Madame clasped her hands in her lap, careful not to wrinkle her chiffon blouse or her skirt. Her head was tipped to one side, her beady gaze fixed on May. ‘Because I was young once and I also made a mistake, like you. Someone helped me then, so I know your situation. I know how scared you feel. I know how scared of your parents, too. And, if I am truthful, I feel we are to blame when they trusted you to us. Perhaps we should have looked after you better in return for your excellent care of Emile. So I will look after you now.’

  ‘How will I ever be able to repay you?’ The hurdles that lay ahead of May seemed insurmountable.

  ‘There is no need.’ Madame shrugged. ‘You have been so good with our little boy.’ This was the first time she had paid May such compliments and, despite the gravity of the situation, May glowed with pleasure.

  ‘I like being here.’ She choked out the words. ‘I’m very fond of Emile.’

  ‘And you will continue to be here. We will keep our arrangement. I will tell everyone you have the food poisoning for a few days, and then you will start again.’ Madame hesitated as she deliberated on what she was going to say next. ‘It is not a crime to love a man, you know. But you must be more careful in the future.’

  Only a fortnight after Max had gone for good, so had the baby. Apart from the doctor, the only people who would ever know of its existence were May, Madame and Wendy. The whole episode was over. The procedure had been swift. Madame had escorted May to the doctor’s office. He had reminded her of detective Poirot, immaculately suited with a distinctive moustache. He was brisk and matter-of-fact, showed her to the anteroom where he would conduct the procedure with a nurse (his wife) in attendance. Although May felt ashamed and foolish, lying in front of him, he had not judged her, just got on with what he had agreed to do.

  Her immediate relief was enormous. The results of her terrible lapse in judgement had been dealt with. She was free.

  Except she wasn’t. Other feelings began to creep in, breaking down her barriers until they were holding her tight. Grief. Guilt. Anxiety.

  What had she done?

  Madame was kind and let her do only as much work as she could, nothing for the first few days, but May was keen to get back to Emile and her language course. She believed keeping busy would help her forget. But how could she? She had lost the only man she had ever loved as well as the only thing that bound her to him. The baby was the one thing she would have loved unconditionally if it had had a chance in the world. Although she did her best to put on a brave face, Max and his baby haunted her wherever she went, whatever she did. She thought of writing to him but had no address. Not to tell him what had happened but to see if there was the slightest chance he might return to her. That they might have a future together after all. Then she would change her mind, relieved she would never have to see him again. What might have been was the thought that travelled with her and coloured her every waking moment. Even Wendy and Sam couldn’t lift her spirits. And they tried.

  ‘Come for coffee with us. One of those croissants you like so much.’ Wendy tried to jolly May out of her mood, but the last thing she wanted was the companionship and laughter of the gang. She wasn’t ready.

  Being with them only reminded her of what she had lost. Instead she took to going to the Luco on her own. Turning off the main paths, she discovered smaller areas where she could often be alone. She found sitting studying a statue, or just staring through the branches of the trees to the sky was restful and gave her time to order her thoughts. She wrestled with what she had lost and where she would go when she went back home. It was all very well staying in Paris, but she didn’t belong there. The magic had been lost. Occasionally she would look up and Max would be walking towards her, grinning, his hand raised in greeting. Her heart would beat faster until a second look always proved she had mistaken someone else for him.

  One day she was sitting by the baroque Fontaine de Medici, staring at the grotto with its statue of Polyphemus, about to launch a stone at his rival Acis who lay below him with Galatea, his lover. In front of them stretched a long channel of water enjoyed by the ducks that were paddling about in it, two of them quacking and squabbling over a piece of bread.

  ‘May I take this chair?’

  May hadn’t noticed the young man in a black beret with his hand on the back of the chair beside hers. He spoke French with a curious accent that suggested he was a foreigner too.

  ‘Of course.’ She moved hers along to give him more space.

  ‘Thank you.’ A folded newspaper sticking out of his jacket pocket fell to the ground as he sat down.

  They bent to retrieve it at the same time, nearly knocking heads as they did so. They faced each other and laughed. She guessed he was a little older than her, good-looking in his own way with a crop of dishevelled tawny-red hair, dark-framed spectacles and a friendly face. His dark blue shirt was done up to the collar under a rumpled grey V-neck sweater. His
trousers looked worn, with a paint stain on the right thigh.

  ‘You’re English?’ she asked, pointing at the copy of The Times in his hand.

  ‘Scottish, if you don’t mind.’ The sadness of his smile was reflected in his eyes.

  ‘I don’t at all. I’m from Dunfermline myself.’

  ‘Really?! You’re the first person I’ve met from home.’ The way he said ‘home’ struck a chord with her, simultaneously wistful and dismissive. He carried with him an air of sadness or regret, she couldn’t tell which. May wondered what his story could possibly be.

  ‘I’m looking after a wee boy here, and I’m taking French lessons. I live over there.’ She pointed in the vague direction of the apartment.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ He held out his hand for her to shake.

  His palm was firm in hers, his fingers short and neat.

  ‘David Adair. I work here – in import-export. Not very interesting at all. I came here thinking life would be very different. I had such dreams and plans and… well, it is different but not in the way I’d hoped. Not at all.’ He opened up his newspaper and folded it back on itself so he could read it more easily. Their conversation was over.

  ‘Of course.’ She accepted the matter was closed. Apart from their home country they would have little in common. Besides, she had no wish to start talking to someone she had never met. Especially not a man. She was nowhere near ready for that yet. She went back to her thoughts, trying to tune him out despite the rustle of his turning pages.

  Eventually he got up to leave. ‘Goodbye,’ he said with a little bow, then straightened his beret. ‘Perhaps we’ll see each other again.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said. But she didn’t think so. Being entangled with Max had taught her all she needed to know about men for the time being. For once, her mother had been entirely right. She would keep her distance and distrust them until she knew them well. But hadn’t she thought she knew Max better than anyone?

  A couple of days later, she told Wendy about the encounter. She had finally given in to her friend’s insistence that they should meet, so they did after her classes, before they were due to pick the boys up from school. Wendy chattered on as May stirred the sugar cubes into her café allongée, listening to everything Wendy had done and seen.