Survivor

by Lesley Pearse

  Mariette thought such meanness wasn’t even worthy of a reply. ‘But you have contacted all of the people they cared about?’

  ‘I placed an obituary in The Times.’

  She knew that meant he hadn’t, and he didn’t intend to telephone or write a personal letter to anyone. She was stunned by such callous behaviour.

  ‘Don’t you think your family would expect you to make personal calls to the people they cared about?’ she asked.

  His face darkened. ‘Who are you to pass comment on what I decide?’ he sneered. ‘I’ve got more important things to do with my time than telephoning Rose’s vacuous friends, or the nodding acquaintances of my stepfather’s.’

  Mariette thought it better to show her disapproval by walking away from him than by saying anything further. They were after all his family, not hers. And if he hadn’t the good manners or the compassion to think about what they would have liked, it wasn’t her fault.

  Jean-Philippe left the house just after ten without saying anything more to her. He took with him the silver candlesticks and a large silver dish from the dining room, a carriage clock from the drawing room and a set of four small watercolours in gilt frames from Noah and Lisette’s bedroom. She had to assume he was afraid she would steal them and, coming on top of everything else, she dissolved into tears.

  The following morning, she went into work to find Mr Greville looking at The Times.

  ‘Have you seen this obituary, about your uncle?’ he asked, pointing to a column on the third page written by Walter Franklin, the editor. ‘I know you said your uncle was a writer, but I hadn’t realized he was so well known.’

  She had long since realized that Greville wasn’t quite as hard-hearted as he liked to make out. He’d been very kind the day after the bombing, and asked if she was alright for money. It helped to feel he cared about her, and she smiled at him gratefully as she picked up the newspaper.

  Her eyes prickled with tears of pride as she read it.

  Jean-Philippe might think a few lines that announced the deaths of his mother, stepfather and sister, plus the date and time of the funeral, was a sufficient obituary. But this was a real one, written by a man who knew Noah well and admired him.

  The whole of Fleet Street is mourning the death of writer and journalist Noah Baylis, who lost his life on 8 March, along with his wife, daughter and family friend at the Café de Paris while celebrating his god-daughter’s twenty-first birthday.

  Often called ‘The Voice of the Great War’, the reports Baylis wrote during that conflict will stand for all time as some of the best, most informative insights into the terrible destruction and true cost of war.

  He was honest, portraying not only the heroism he saw, but also the shocking waste of human life. His passionately descriptive passages allowed us to see what he had seen, to enter into that hell that haunted so many of our men for so long afterwards.

  He went on to praise Noah’s books and his many hard-hitting pieces of investigative journalism on the subjects of slum-property landlords, indifference to the plight of those left disabled after the war, and the extreme poverty which many people faced during the Depression years. He concluded:

  Baylis had a big heart, and he used his talent as a writer to make others aware of the inequality in this country. His death is a huge loss to journalism and to all those who revered him.

  Mariette didn’t think she’d ever met Mr Franklin, but she hoped he would be at the funeral so she could shake his hand and thank him.

  ‘I hope Jean-Philippe reads it and feels ashamed,’ she said, wiping her eyes. She then told Greville what had happened the previous evening. ‘All he cares about is grabbing everything valuable. Imagine what Aunt Lisette would have thought of his behaviour!’

  ‘The sooner you get away from there the better,’ Greville said, putting his hand on her shoulder. ‘You can come and work at the factory, you know. And it would be easy enough to find a place to live down there. But, from what I hear, you’ll probably want to be nearer our Johnny.’

  On seeing her surprised look, he gave her one of his infrequent smiles. ‘I guessed ages ago. He wouldn’t be my choice for you. But it isn’t up to me, is it?’

  She wondered what he meant by Johnny not being his choice for her. That seemed an odd thing for anyone to say about their nephew. Did he know something about Johnny that she didn’t?

  Mariette cut out the obituary so she could send it to her parents. It was so very sad that this was all she could offer to comfort them on losing their dear friends.

  On the Friday morning, Mariette sat up in bed and looked at her suitcase lying open on the floor. It was all packed, ready to go, just a few last-minute things to add. She would go to the funeral, come back here and say all the right things to the people Jean-Philippe thought worthy of an invitation to the house, and then she’d leave.

  Joan, a friend she worked with at the old factory, had offered her a bed until she could find something permanent. It was in Bow, a tiny little house with an outside lavatory, no bathroom and gas lighting. Joan was lonely as her two children had been evacuated down to Devon and her husband was serving in North Africa. While Mariette was very grateful to Joan, and relieved that after today she would never need to see Jean-Philippe again, her heart ached at leaving a place that held so many wonderful memories.

  Only six days ago she had been bursting with happiness. Her twenty-first birthday meant she was officially an adult, and she’d felt like one then, strong, capable, ready for anything that might lie ahead. But she hadn’t known then that her world was going to fall apart and she would lose three people who meant everything to her. There was a hole inside her where they’d once been. Maybe, if she could go home to New Zealand, she could fill that hole with her own family. But she couldn’t go home. And there was no one here, not even Johnny, who could take away the deep sorrow she felt.

  She got out of bed and went to run a bath. After today, she’d have to make do with the public baths, and she knew she was going to hate that. Once she was dressed, there was bread to be picked up at the bakery – Mr Giggs, who owned it, had been fond of Lisette and he’d promised three white loaves to make the sandwiches.

  It was fortunate that Lisette had been such a hoarder: there were four tins of salmon in the cupboard, two of spam, and more than enough ingredients for a large fruit cake. Mariette had made the cake yesterday, along with some sausage rolls and some jam tarts. It was a small revenge on Jean-Philippe to make sure he saw the guests eating up everything he’d probably planned to take home. She’d also packed tea, sugar and some other things in the bottom of her suitcase to help Joan out.

  By half past twelve, everything was ready. The dining-room table looked pretty, with Lisette’s favourite white lace-edged tablecloth, a vase of daffodils from the garden, and the food arranged on the best plates, sandwiches covered with damp tea towels to keep them fresh. Tea cups and saucers were on a trolley, and the alcohol and glasses were arranged on a table in the drawing room.

  It was a lovely spring day. Crocuses had opened up in the sunshine, and there were masses of daffodils. Looking out at the garden, she was reminded that they never did get the chickens Mariette had suggested when they were on holiday in Arundel, but they had grown some vegetables last year. She wondered what would become of the beautiful garden Lisette had loved so much and on which she had lavished so much care. Mariette couldn’t imagine Jean-Philippe continuing to take care of it.

  St Mark’s was packed, and many people had to stand. Mariette glanced at Jean-Philippe, who was standing next to her singing the first hymn, and wondered if he was suffering pangs of guilt now that it was obvious to everyone how well loved his family had been. Alice, his wife, hadn’t come with him. When Mariette asked where she was, he said she was unwell. That sounded like a lie, and Mariette wondered if their marriage had broken up. That might account for him wanting to move into the old family home in such a hurry.

  Mariette found the service extremely
painful. She had attended services here many times with Noah, Lisette and Rose, and, although they weren’t the kind of family who went every single week, they knew the vicar quite well, and she had expected him to say something personal, at least about Noah. But he didn’t, and she wondered if Jean-Philippe had told him not to. At the point when the whole congregation had to follow the men carrying the three coffins out into the graveyard for the interment, she heard a couple of whispers that suggested many others were surprised by the bleak impersonal nature of the service too.

  When Johnny had called Jean-Philippe a snake, it had sounded like a very general insult. But after the coffins were in the ground, and the vicar had said the last words, Mariette noted the cautious way people approached him, most avoiding him altogether, so perhaps they too saw him as a snake that could possible spit venom at them.

  Mariette kept her distance from Jean-Philippe, but she was touched that so many people came up to her to offer their condolences. Some she had met before at the house, some were neighbours, and many more were complete strangers, yet they all seemed to know who she was.

  The biggest surprise was that Mr and Mrs Hayes, Peter’s parents, had come. She had wondered who the aristocratic-looking couple were, sitting right behind her and Jean-Philippe in the church, but when they introduced themselves to her, she wondered why she hadn’t guessed their identity. They fitted perfectly with what Rose had said about them. Mr Hayes was a big man in his sixties, with thick white hair and piercing blue eyes. His wife was slender, with high cheekbones, and the little hair showing under her wide-brimmed black hat was still blonde. Mariette thought they would make a handsome couple under happier circumstances. But today, in black mourning clothes and with faces etched with grief at losing their son, they looked old.

  Mrs Hayes’s eyes were damp, and earlier tears had left track marks through her face powder. ‘We felt we had to come,’ she said, her lower lip trembling. ‘We knew from Edwin how terrible this has been for you, and we were so fond of Rose. We hoped she would become our daughter-in-law.’

  ‘I wish I could have met you in happier times,’ Mariette said, taking the woman’s two hands in hers. ‘I am so very sorry you lost your Peter, and I find it even more touching that you still came today, despite how you must be feeling.’

  ‘The hardest thing is the way we’ve been made to feel unwelcome by him,’ Mr Hayes said, nodding towards Jean-Philippe. ‘It was bad enough that we had to learn the date and time of the funeral from the newspaper, instead of a telephone call, but we put that down to his grief. But when we told him, just now, who we were, he barely acknowledged us. Not one word of consolation at losing our son.’

  Mariette was shocked, she had thought Jean-Philippe’s unpleasantness was only directed at her. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘I can only suppose he is wrapped up in his own loss. I would’ve telephoned you myself, I certainly wanted to, but Jean-Philippe took Rose’s address book and said he would see to contacting everyone.’

  ‘He doesn’t appear to have spoken to any of Rose’s friends,’ Mrs Hayes said with some indignation. ‘We spoke to some of them we knew when we arrived at the church, and none of them had been contacted. Except that man …’ She pointed to a small, rotund middle-aged man with a goatee beard who was talking to Jean-Philippe. ‘I believe he is the man Rose worked for.’

  ‘Sir Ralph Hastings,’ Mariette said. She’d met him just once, when he had given Rose a lift home for the weekend.

  ‘Rose would never have thought a man with a title was more important than her friends and future in-laws,’ Mrs Hayes said pointedly.

  ‘No, she wouldn’t,’ Mariette agreed. ‘And neither would Noah or Lisette. I have to admit, Jean-Philippe has been very unpleasant to me. I have to leave the house after the wake.’

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ Mrs Hayes exclaimed. ‘You mean, he is making you leave?’

  Mariette nodded. ‘If you should see Edwin, will you tell him? I will drop him a line at Biggin Hill, when I’m settled.’

  ‘We’ll be seeing him on Monday, when we bury Peter,’ Mr Hayes said. ‘He’s been a tower of strength to us this last week, as have many of Peter’s pilot friends. Gerald’s parents came to see us too, such nice people. They asked after you, Mariette. They had high hopes for you two.’

  A sudden sharp memory came back to Mariette of being in Peter’s car, Rose beside him, with her and Gerald sitting in the back, all singing at the tops of their voices. Some of the best times she’d had in London had been with them, and her eyes filled with tears at the memory.

  ‘He was a lovely, lovely man, and I miss him,’ she said sadly.

  Later, back at the house, Mariette busied herself pouring tea, offering people cake and sandwiches. She didn’t know any of these people Jean-Philippe had invited, other than Sir Ralph Hastings, and even that had been only one brief meeting. She noted that there was only one real common denominator amongst the people Jean-Philippe had invited back here, and that was wealth and position. Not one of them was a close friend of the family; they were lawyers, bankers and the like. Presumably just people he’d found through Noah’s correspondence and thought might be useful to him. That made her despise him even more, and she was tempted to fetch her case and get out now, leaving him to clear up.

  A small man with gold-rimmed spectacles approached her. ‘You must be Mariette?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she said, wondering if she should know him. ‘I’m sorry, but have we met before?’ she asked.

  ‘No, my dear, but I knew your mother many years ago. I’m Henry Fortesque, a retired lawyer. Noah and I were close friends when we were young, but we drifted apart, as people do. I met Belle when she was staying in his apartment prior to leaving for New Zealand, and I liked her very much. When she asked Noah to be your godfather, he was very touched. The last time I spoke to him on the telephone, about a year ago, he said you were staying with him.’

  Just to find someone who knew her mother and cared about Noah was like being given a comforting hug. ‘Then you’ll know Belle loves New Zealand, and I have two younger brothers, Alexis and Noel,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘I have kept abreast of her happy ending,’ he said with a smile. ‘I helped Noah a little in tracking down your father in France. By all accounts, he is a very charismatic man along with being a true war hero. There are few things more satisfying in life than seeing two people who deserve happiness finding it together. You have your mother’s beauty and, I suspect, all of your father’s charm.’

  Mariette laughed softly. ‘You aren’t short in the charm department either,’ she said. ‘Gosh, it is so nice to meet someone here today who has a link with my family back home. I thought of Noah, Lisette and Rose as a second family, and to lose them all is very hard.’

  He put his hand on her elbow, and drew her out of the drawing room and into the kitchen. ‘Forgive me for manhandling you, my dear,’ he said. ‘But I had noticed a certain frostiness between you and Lisette’s son. As so few of Noah and Lisette’s real friends have come back here today, I formed my own opinion as to why. I suspect he only invited me because he thought I might be useful.’

  ‘I am really mortified about how he’s been behaving towards people,’ she whispered. ‘But he’s been even worse to me. This has been my home for two years, but Noah and Lisette were barely cold before he ordered me to leave here. I’m going the minute this wake is over.’

  The small man’s eyebrows shot up in horror. ‘My dear, that is appalling,’ he agreed. ‘I know Noah had come to think of you as another daughter, he told me this himself. He hoped that, when the war ended, he and Lisette could travel back with you to New Zealand to see Belle and Etienne. But we can’t really talk now, walls have ears and all that. If I give you my card, will you come and see me? I’m only in Hampstead.’

  There was such kindness in his tawny-coloured eyes. ‘I’d like that, Mr Fortesque. It would be wonderful to be able to speak to someone who knew and cared about Noah and his family.’ />
  ‘Call me Henry, please,’ he said. ‘Now, where are you intending to move to?’

  ‘Bow, where a friend said she could put me up till I find something else. It might not be much but it’s more welcoming than here.’

  He took out a card from a silver holder and handed it to her. ‘Could you make it to my house on Sunday, for lunch? My wife misses not having any of our children close by, she’d be pleased to feed you up.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much, Henry, you’ve made me feel a lot better.’

  ‘About one o’clock,’ he said. ‘We usually eat before two.’

  The guests ate everything, down to the last sandwich and sausage roll, and then began to leave.

  Mariette went up to her bedroom, packed the last of her things, and took one last fond look at the room which Lisette had said was inspired by Belle’s hat shop. She hoped that Jean-Philippe would never have a moment’s happiness in this house, or anywhere else.

  As she got to the bottom of the stairs, with her coat on and suitcase in hand, Jean-Philippe came out of the drawing room.

  ‘There’s clearing up to be done,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Yes, by you,’ she said sharply. ‘I’m off now, and I hope I never have the misfortune to see you again. I also hope you never have a moment’s happiness in this house.’

  ‘You little guttersnipe,’ he said, and took a threatening step towards her.

  ‘You lay one hand on me, and you won’t know what’s hit you,’ she warned him. ‘If your mother wasn’t already dead, she would have died of shame at how you’ve behaved. Toadying around rich, influential people that she barely knew, but ignoring all those she cared about. All I can say is that your father must have been an evil man, because you sure as hell didn’t learn it from your mother.’

  She wrenched the front door open and left without looking back.

  But she couldn’t hold back the tears that had been barely contained all day, they spilled over and ran down her face. ‘I’ll think of something to hurt you, Jean-bloody-Philippe,’ she muttered. ‘Just you wait.’