Françoise laughed, enveloping Lydia in her comfortable bosom. ‘I am a mother and an obstetrician. How could I not know?’
‘Please, don’t tell Tom. I haven’t said anything yet. It is only a few weeks. Maybe ten or eleven.’
‘He will need to know quite soon. Especially if you are suffering with the sickness.’
‘He lost his first wife in childbirth. The baby, too.’
‘Ah, I see. You are worried because you do not know how he will take the news. But, Lydia, your husband is a good man. Nothing mends a heart better than the arrival of a child – especially when it is your own.’
Lydia knew all this, and yet there was more, wasn’t there? What about the coming war? Why would anyone bring a baby into such a world? So much for bloody Dutch caps and Volpar gels.
There was another reason she didn’t want to tell Tom yet: she still hadn’t ruled out abortion. There was that society abortionist in London who did the debs, the one whose number was in all the Girton girls’ address books. Was he still practising? Easy enough to find out.
‘Don’t worry, cherie,’ Françoise soothed. ‘I will say nothing. It is your place to break the good news.’ She patted Lydia’s hand. ‘Tell me,’ she said briskly. ‘Do you have this sickness every day? You must find these long car journeys a great trial.’
‘Oh, it hasn’t been so bad. I’m quite strong.’
‘Yes, I see that. But, Lydia, you can confide in me while you are here. Now, as your hostess I will fetch you that lemon cordial. And as a doctor, might I suggest a little less wine in the evening?’
‘Am I being lectured?’
‘Professional advice, nothing more.’ Francoise laughed. ‘I smoked and drank through my own pregnancies, so what can I say?’ She turned to go, but Lydia put out her hand.
‘Can I ask you something, Françoise?’ she said. ‘I’m interested in training to be a doctor, but I’m almost thirty, so am I too old? Would it be possible if I have a baby to care for? I am particularly interested in psychiatry.’
‘Cherie, if this war comes, there will be a great need of doctors of all kinds.’ Francoise smiled. ‘I don’t know the situation in England, but if any woman can make it happen, I’m sure you are the one.’
*
The wire arrived from the office of the Ministry of the Interior in the late afternoon:
Release authorised from Camp du Vernet of internee Marfield, Marcus, into the charge of Professor Talbot of University of Toulouse, conditional on the internee’s removal from France by September 3.
A. Sarrault, minister.
‘So, messieurs, he is yours,’ the major said.
In the hours of telephoning back and forth, first to Maurice Sarrault in Toulouse and then to the ministry in Paris, Wilde had requested some sort of mattress be brought for Marcus. When Cornet saw the way things were going, he ordered a straw palliasse. As an afterthought, he called out to the lieutenant: ‘Make sure it is clean!’
The stench was everywhere. Wilde did not want to imagine what conditions must be like inside the barrack blocks, nor the quality of the food. His former undergraduate, stretched out, shivering, was evidence enough.
Wilde helped Marfield to his feet and, with Talbot’s assistance, walked him slowly towards the front gate. All around them men wandered aimlessly, their work details finished. As they got closer to the fence, a man in his fifties approached them and said something in German, before switching to broken French. Talbot stopped and spoke to him, then turned to Wilde.
‘This is Wilfrid Zucker. I have heard of this man, Tom; he is a composer. His work has been performed in Paris and Salzburg.’
‘Why is he here?’
‘Because he is a refugee. These are not all Brigaders or fighting men.’
The composer was holding out his left hand and shadow-writing on it with his right. Talbot fished inside his jacket for a scrap of paper and a pencil. With a trembling hand the man wrote down his name, and another name – Gerhard Sankte – with a London address. Talbot took it. ‘He says this man Sankte in London will vouch for him and asks that we contact him.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Wilde nodded. He had enough German to understand what Zucker had said.
Other men were now clustering around, grabbing at their coats. Some tore pieces of cigarette packs and playing cards, fighting for the pencil to write down their names and the names of contacts. They spoke in myriad languages and stank of overflowing latrines. More than anything, thought Wilde, they stank of neglect and desperation. He took all their pieces of paper.
Major Cornet bustled up, shooing the inmates away, as he escorted the visitors and Marcus Marfield to the main gate. The men looked on like beaten dogs, a sad, defeated bunch.
With some difficulty, Wilde and Talbot helped Marfield into the Citroën and made him as comfortable as they could on the rear bench seat. Cornet ordered a guard to go to Hut 32 to see if there was any property to accompany the released man. Marfield himself had not yet spoken a word.
A woman walked past at a leisurely stroll. She was small and wore a long dark skirt and a billowing white cotton shirt, with a cotton neckerchief knotted about her throat. Her hair was long and dark, her skin bronzed by the Mediterranean sun. She stopped and looked at them through black eyes, then spat at Wilde’s feet and moved on.
‘Good God, Jacques, what was that about?’
Talbot shrugged. ‘As the major suggested, I don’t think the locals like having these camps on their doorstep.’
The guard returned five minutes later with a small, tattered book in a red leather cover. Wilde took it and flicked through the pages. It was a well-thumbed copy of the Book of Common Prayer, a school prize for poetry awarded to Marcus Marfield in 1931. So the communist revolutionary hadn’t quite given up on religion. Wilde smiled for the first time that day.
*
In the distance, in the lee of an overhang, the small dark woman squatted on her haunches, watching the scene unfold through binoculars. A rifle lay by her side.
She felt a grim satisfaction. She had a good idea where they would be going, and she would be there, waiting.
CHAPTER 6
The drive home was slower. Wilde and Talbot didn’t want to shake up the sick man any more than necessary. Every few minutes Talbot turned around to check on him.
‘We could drive him straight to a hospital,’ suggested Wilde. ‘What do you think, Jacques? How urgent is it?’
‘Let Françoise look at him first. If you go straight to the hospital, you will just get tied up in red tape. They are bureaucratic places, typically French, and you will never get home by Sunday.’
*
At the villa, Marfield was helped up to a small attic room with a single bed and a cross on the wall. Wilde and Talbot undressed him gently and put him in a pair of Talbot’s pyjamas, before helping him to lie down.
Françoise checked his temperature, looked in his mouth, noted the regularity of his heartbeat and breathing, then removed the dressing from his left arm and examined the wound, before cleaning it and applying a new bandage.
‘Well,’ she said at last when she came downstairs. ‘He has undoubtedly suffered beatings, but I cannot find any broken bones. There are cuts and bruises and many bites from fleas and bedbugs, also sores on his feet and a fungal infection on his private parts from lack of cleanliness.’
‘And the bullet wound?’
‘The bullet went straight through flesh – muscle. The bone is undamaged. Of course, it will take some time to heal, but at the moment there is no evidence of infection. The camp doctor did at least clean it properly, which is a blessing. I’ll make him a new sling.’
‘Nothing life-threatening?’ Wilde asked.
‘He needs nourishment and rest, that’s all.’
‘Permanent damage to the arm?’
She shrugged. ‘I am no expert, but I think not.’
‘Bastards,’ Talbot said.
‘He was shaking as though he had a fever,’ W
ilde said.
‘It is not fever, some sort of tic or spasm – I think it may be neurasthenia, the effects of the war perhaps. It comes in many forms. Some men are paralysed, some cannot speak, others shake uncontrollably or are rendered immobile through lassitude. This is something that must be investigated when you get home.’
‘How soon can we take him?’
‘If there are no other underlying problems, and if he eats, he should be strong enough in two days.’
‘We don’t have two days.’
Françoise shrugged. ‘That is up to you, Tom. Just keep the wound clean and bandaged, then get him to a specialist as soon as you can when you’re back in England. Two specialists, perhaps – one for the bullet wound, another for his soul.’
She had made some thin broth and fed it to Marfield with a spoon like a small child. He did not resist, eating slowly. But before the bowl was empty, he shook his head to indicate that he didn’t want any more. It was the first communication any of them had received from him. Françoise told him she would clean him properly in the morning, but suggested that now he go to sleep. Marfield obediently closed his eyes like a child, and she left him.
*
In the evening, after the Talbot children had gone to bed, the four friends ate dinner on the terrace to the background chatter of cicadas and discussed how they should proceed.
‘To be sure of getting home before Sunday, we really do have to leave tomorrow,’ said Wilde.
‘I tell you what,’ Françoise said. ‘I will give you the name of an old friend of mine from medical school who practices near Orléans. It is on your route and if you need help, I am sure he will oblige. I will telephone him in the morning so that he is prepared.’
For the first time in the four days they had been there, the conversation turned to the prospect of war. They all agreed that conflict was certain, but its imminence was where they parted company.
‘Spring 1941,’ Françoise said.
‘No, earlier than that,’ said Talbot. ‘Autumn next year – perhaps September. Certainly not before and not much later.’
Wilde and Lydia glanced at each other. They both thought that the war would arrive within days or weeks. ‘We believe it has been planned for months,’ Wilde said. ‘I have even had a rather tasteless bet with an old friend that we will be at war before November.’
Lydia threw him a disapproving look.
‘With Horace, darling, dutifully recorded in the Combination Room betting book. A bottle of best claret to the winner.’ What was in doubt was whether Horace Dill, a fellow don, would live to see the result. Lung cancer was killing him. Wilde returned to the present. ‘Hitler will attack Poland within days. The pact with the Soviets ensures it. Next stop Warsaw.’
Talbot was pouring more wine. ‘You sound as though you have inside information.’
‘Oh, nothing that’s not in the papers. Just putting two and two together.’
‘Papers! Rags – have you seen Le Matin and Le Journal? Anti-semitic rags – some in France seem to be longing for Hitler to walk in.’ Talbot sighed. ‘Oh, I hope you are wrong, Tom. But if you are right, then all will depend on your people.’
‘My people?’
‘The Americans. The British and French are not strong enough alone against the Nazi war machine.’
‘Come on, Jacques. You’ve got the Maginot Line. You have the world’s greatest land army. What can those goose-stepping blackshirts do against such defences?’
‘You wait and see.’ The Frenchman shrugged. ‘But, of course, the US cavalry will ride to our rescue again.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ said Wilde. ‘Won’t happen if diplomats like Joe Kennedy and the other isolationists have their way. I was over in America back in the spring and the non-intervention lobby is very, very strong.’
Talbot suddenly became agitated. ‘But non-intervention – that is the old enemy, my friend! If the British or the French or the Americans had done the right thing and backed the Republican government in Spain, Franco’s rebels could have been beaten and Hitler given a bloody nose. That would have given him pause for thought before he set off attacking Czechoslovakia and threatening Poland. It would have done the world a lot of good if we had demonstrated that the Nazis could be stopped in their tracks. Now there will be war and we will suffer a thousand-fold.’
‘Well,’ Françoise said. ‘I thank God that my children will be too young to fight.’ She caught Lydia’s eye, and Lydia looked down towards her belly. No one wanted to think of the high explosives that would be dropped from the air on military and civilians alike in this coming war. Babies would be on the front line with their mothers.
There was a noise from inside the house. The diners turned, expecting to see one of the children demanding a glass of water, but it was Marfield. The pyjamas he wore were far too big and served to emphasise his emaciation. His left arm was held in a clean sling and his feet were bare. He shuffled towards the table and stopped beside Wilde.
‘Marfield? Don’t you think you’d be better off in bed?’
Marfield smiled wanly. A shade of the old smile that had charmed and won the hearts of dons and undergraduates alike. ‘You shouldn’t have bothered, you know, Professor. I don’t deserve it.’ His voice was hoarse and he spoke hesitantly.
Wilde was on his feet. ‘You did your best, fighting for a cause you believed in. There’s no shame in that.’
Marfield stood there swaying. He was still shaking, but less so.
‘You will be home soon,’ Lydia reassured him.
‘Will I?’ He blinked. ‘Where’s home?’
‘England. Cambridge.’ Wilde spoke firmly.
‘Of course, I remember England.’ He tried to laugh, but it was strained and it was unclear whether he was jesting. ‘Cricket and Evensong.’
‘And your family. And everyone at college. We’ve missed your singing.’
‘Who won the cricket?’
The others at the table looked at Marfield mouths agape, then at each other – and all began to laugh.
Marfield’s smile broadened but his eyes seemed a little bemused as he looked at each in turn. ‘Have I said something funny?’
‘You just sounded like the archetypal Englishman asking about cricket in the middle of a foreign country. Anyway, what cricket?’
‘The West Indies tour. It must be finished by now.’
‘Ah,’ Wilde said. ‘I suppose I should know. No, hang on, I do recall hearing something. Last match drawn so England win the series. Does that sound right? Century for Hutton.’
‘Then all is well with the world – and so I shall forsake arms and come with you.’
CHAPTER 7
The drive north was gruelling for all three of them. Until now, Lydia and Wilde had been in no hurry and could enjoy the countryside in its summer finery. But with Marfield in such a bad way, they left at dawn, keenly aware that they would need to cover 500 miles before nightfall.
Wilde had wanted Lydia to share the driving, but she declined. Irritated and tired after a bad night’s sleep, he was reluctant to stop when she asked. Only when her nausea became unbearable did he stop for ten minutes. He gave her one of those meaningful looks that couples give each other: This is not like you, Lydia. Not at all like you.
Before leaving, Talbot had taken Wilde into his study and closed the door. ‘Don’t expect too much from Marfield, Tom,’ he said. ‘Françoise believes he is shell-shocked. I was at the front in the war, at Verdun, and the best of men suffer. You see things no man should see, and you cannot talk about them with those who were not there. I imagine your undergraduate has witnessed things that will leave deep scars. Don’t expect him to talk about such things – I have never told a soul the truth of my own wartime experiences.’
Françoise Talbot had given Lydia a bag full of bandages and some torn sheets to turn into slings, with instructions on dressing Marfield’s arm. ‘If he is in pain, give him some aspirin.’
Lydia was in fact already
well versed in basic medical aid; her own father had been a doctor.
‘I am so sorry you are leaving,’ Françoise had added, giving her a farewell hug. ‘Such an abrupt end to your honeymoon. We would have loved the pleasure of your company a few more days.’
Marfield was silent for most of the trip. At the dinner table the night before, the conversation had not gone much further than the introductions and cricket. He had sipped a glass of red wine and smoked a couple of cigarettes, then nodded, said ‘good night’ to no one in particular, and taken himself to bed.
Today he wore a spare pair of Wilde’s trousers that hung around his fleshless waist as if he was a scarecrow. He also wore Wilde’s second pair of brogues, which were a size too big, and a casual white linen shirt. Lydia had insisted on helping him to wash and on shaving his stubble; he had sat on the edge of the bath as she warmed his face with hot, damp towels and soaped his face with Tom’s brush. Finally, she had held up the cut-throat razor. His eyes opened wide in alarm, but then he smiled and she laughed. ‘You’ll soon be your old handsome self.’
The first thing Marfield said on the drive north came a couple of hours into the journey. ‘How did you find me?’
‘A friend of yours came to us,’ Wilde said. ‘Honoré.’
There was silence for a minute, then. ‘I don’t know anyone called Honoré.’
‘He may have used a false name. From his rags and shaved head I assumed he had been in the camp with you.’ Wilde described him in detail, but Marfield didn’t offer even a flicker of recognition.
In the long silences, Wilde recalled all he could of Marcus Marfield and his time at Cambridge. The boy had been well read and had shown a keen interest in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, though he was sometimes slow in joining discussions, only making a point when sure of his ground.
What Wilde remembered most about Marfield was his presence. When he entered the room, eyes turned his way and people went silent, as though he were some Hollywood actor. If Marcus noticed the effect he had, he made nothing of it. The only time Wilde recalled being surprised by him was when discussing Henry VIII. Most students seized on Henry’s cruelty to his wives and courtiers when they fell from favour; Marcus had taken an opposing view; Henry, he maintained, was exactly the monarch England needed at the start of the sixteenth century. Through calculated ruthlessness he restored stability and let the rest of Europe know that his England was a country to be reckoned with.
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