A disapproving tut caused them to break their embrace. An elderly woman with two small dogs drew them a disdainful look. Sylvie blinked, blushed, put a hand to her hair and found that her hat fallen off. The woman and her dogs continued on. Robbie cast a quick look around, then pulled her back into his arms, and it started again.
Kisses to make her swoon. She had thought such a thing the product of her adolescent imagination, but now she found they really did exist. He pulled her tighter against him, and she ran her fingers through the closely cropped hair at his nape, to the silky softness farther up. Kisses to make her sigh. Kisses to make her feel like she was flying higher than the Eiffel Tower. When they finally stopped, dusk was falling. Her lips were swollen. ‘I feel like a jeune fille, not a grown woman of twenty-five,’ Sylvie said, trying to make light of the matter, though it was the truth.
Robbie ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair. He looked endearingly youthful. Her heart did a strange little flip. ‘You don’t kiss like a jeune fille, though I know what you mean.’ He got up carefully from the bench. ‘Not the sort of behaviour expected of a British officer, my dear,’ he said in his best old-guard accent.
‘This is Paris, and we are at war. Apart from Madame Chiens, I doubt anyone will have batted an eyelid.’
Robbie straightened her hat and put his own cap on. He checked his watch and blanched. ‘I should have left half an hour ago.’
‘I could come to the train station with you.’
‘No.’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘No goodbyes. I’ll write. If you still want me to.’
‘Of course I do.’
He kissed her swiftly. ‘You’ll get home safely from here?’
‘I’ll take the Métro.’
‘Take care, Sylvie.’
‘And you, Robbie,’ she said. ‘Please take the best of care,’ she whispered, watching him walk briskly from the park.
Chapter Six
2nd January 1917
Dearest Robbie,
I am safely back at my apartment now. I hope you caught your train. I am due at work in half an hour, but I simply had to write to you about today.
I couldn’t believe how nervous we both were, like children on a first date, right down to the kiss on the bench in the Tuileries. I am blushing just thinking about it. So silly, blushing about a mere kiss when we have— But that was different somehow; we were strangers. We still are, practically, and yet we are not. Do you know what I mean? Of course you do.
I was going to say that today was perfect. It was not, though it ended perfectly, if endings can ever be described as perfect. Our earlier conversation was difficult, but I am glad you said what you did. I need time to reflect, but I do see that I cannot sit on the fence forever. It made things easier, or I thought it did, but now I see that all it did was postpone—I don’t know what, pain, definitely, some difficult decisions probably—but things I need to confront eventually.
So often when I write to you, I think you must be scratching your head and wondering what on earth does she mean? After today, I will worry less about that. Have a safe journey and keep safe.
Sylvie
2nd January 1917
Dearest Sylvie,
I am writing this on the train so won’t be able to post it until I get back to camp, but I couldn’t wait until then. Today was—momentous! Is that too strong a word? It doesn’t feel it. I can confess now, I was worried you would not be the person I imagined, or, worse, that I would not live up to your expectations of me. You were so much more than I imagined, and I pray, if your kisses are anything to go by, that I did not disappoint, either. Such kisses, Sylvie. I had quite forgotten that kissing could be more than a means to an end.
But I am not writing to tell you how wonderful your kisses are—that I made perfectly obvious at the time. I fear I was quite harsh with you earlier today, and yet there is a part of me that is glad I was. The honesty between us, my dearest Sylvie, is extraordinarily important to me and, I hope, to you. It matters, which I confess I find a little disconcerting.
I am a soldier. That is not going to change in the near future, and even after—but I won’t talk of after. It is not all that I am, but for now it is by far the biggest part of me. My job is to kill the enemy, and though it’s under orders, and though we are assured that God is on our side, I can’t reconcile myself to it. But I do it all the same. There will always be blood on my hands. If we are to continue to correspond, perhaps even to meet again, though I won’t tempt fate by hoping for that, you, too, will have to find a way of accepting that fact.
I won’t read this over, I never do, but I’ve a horrid suspicion I sound like a pompous ass—pardon the language! I would not have dreamed of committing such thoughts to paper before—is it the war that’s making me so self-analytical, or is it you? We’ve just pulled in at a station and there’s what looks like an entire brigade of French soldiers coming on board so I’ll finish now.
Bonne nuit, Sylvie. Don’t work too hard. I wish you didn’t have to work in that place.
Robbie
5th January 1917
My very dearest brother,
I have not heard from you in two months. I tell myself, because there has been no telegram, not even one of those dreadful postcards, that you must be well, but the more time passes, the more I am afraid for you.
Henri, the last time we met we both said such dreadful things. It seemed then that we were on diametrically opposing sides, but I don’t think we were, it’s just that our way of coping with the loss of Maman and Papa and all the other people from our little town is different. Our tragedy is being replicated all over the Western Front, in Italy, in the Balkans, everywhere this dreadful war is being fought. It felt like we had lost everything back in the autumn of 1914. But we still have each other, and that is so much more than some of the people I meet these days.
Being reconciled to you, my dear and only brother, is my fervent wish, and one, if granted, that I pray will help both of us to become reconciled to the tragic loss of our parents. I will not lie to you. I still see this war as a pointless exercise whose terrible cost cannot ever be justified. But...
I said to you that I could never imagine myself killing another human being, no matter what the circumstances. I had no right to say such a thing, because I have never been forced to confront the kind of extreme circumstances that you and all the other soldiers face every day. I passed judgement and it was wrong of me. Soldiers are also men, who kill only because they have to. They are not animals; they take no pleasure from what they are forced to do—on the contrary, it almost destroys them. I know that now.
I shut out the memory of that dreadful day, but in doing so shut out everything else, including you. I am so very sorry that I judged you so harshly. I hope that you can find it in your heart not to judge me as I did you. Please write. I beg of you, please write.
Your own sister always,
Sylvie
12th January 1917
Dearest Robbie,
I received the letter you wrote on the train only today, even though we’ve both written twice since. How strange that we both felt compelled to write almost the same thing to each other. I don’t know what the English word is, but in French we say nos esprits se rencontrent.
You say that being a soldier is the biggest part of what you are, but for me, it is second to the fact that you are you, Robbie Carmichael. You know now, or at least you will if my letters are getting through, just how much my opinion has changed. I can never condone war, but nor can I condemn those who fight it honourably. I have written to my brother. He has not yet replied. I will write again to him soon, regardless. For now, I send you a kiss, and I leave it up to you to decide which kind.
With affectionate thoughts,
Sylvie
16th February 1917
Dearest Sylvie,
Despite the relative quiet on the front lines, perhaps due to Jerry concentrating all his effort on blowing up our submarines, our mail
has been extremely irregular. I received yours of 12th January along with the one you wrote just three days ago, and I confess I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes imagining every possible variety of kiss that you could possibly give me.
Nos esprits se rencontrent means serendipity in English. More than a happy coincidence, but a meeting of minds, as you say. Not that I believe anything so fanciful. At least I wouldn’t have, before. Now, isn’t that strange? I think that’s the first time I’ve ever compared before—before the war and before Sylvie—with now, and actually preferred now.
I am so glad you finally had word of your brother. It sounds like he’s been through hell, and I’m not surprised. They reported Verdun as a victory, but they said the same about the Somme. I will be thinking of you tomorrow, and hoping with all my heart that Henri manages to get to Paris as promised. However it turns out—and you’ll know before you get this, I suppose—at least you’ll have tried. No matter how changed he might seem, remember that somewhere inside is the brother you love.
I’m being summoned, so must go. I’m refereeing a football match, would you believe. We played rugger at my school, so I’m not exactly sure of the rules, but it allows me to mix with my men. I can hear you laughing at the notion of me voluntarily seeking company—how I wish I could hear you laughing, Sylvie—but I find these days I quite like being one of the lads for a while, when I am elsewise one of them.
Robbie
20th February 1917
Dearest Robbie,
Henri has gone back to the front, and I am so happy and so sad. You were right, he has changed almost beyond recognition. For the first two days, he barely spoke, barely did anything save lie on my sofa and stare into space. He does not drink, but he smokes, lighting one from the other, dragging on the cigarettes as if they were a drug. I suppose they are. Then, in the middle of the second day, I found him weeping uncontrollably—oh, Robbie, such raw pain. I won’t repeat the details of what he told me. Horrors I could never imagine—but then you will know, of course you will know. I let him talk and talk and talk. I said nothing, or at least nothing meaningful, but I held him, and after a while, he started talking to me and not at me and then, only then, I could see what you promised, that inside, trapped but still there, was the Henri I know and love.
It is an exaggeration to say that he is better. I can claim only that I gave him respite, but I do think it is the beginning of something new between us. What that will be I don’t know, only that at least it will be something. You will say you played no part in this, but you did. You gave me the courage to face what I had been hiding from, and that has given me hope. Oh, but Robbie, what a mixed blessing is hope, for now he has gone back...
But I won’t dwell on that. Instead I will tell you my other big news. I am teaching again! Voluntary, not paid, so unfortunately I still have to work in the nightclub, but during the day I teach classes of little ones from refugee families. I thought I could not, that it would remind me too much of what I had lost. I have discovered instead that it is a way of assuaging that loss.
You see how far I have come, how far you have helped me along?
Today I dare finish—with deep affection,
Sylvie
13th March 1917
Dear Mr and Mrs Finchley,
I am writing to express the deepest sympathy of the officers and men of my Company for the sad loss of your son, Private Eric Finchley. It is customary in these letters to extol the virtues of the man as a soldier. I have been proud to serve with your son for the last eleven months, and can assure you that Private Finchley was one of those soldiers who could be relied upon utterly to follow through the course of action expected of him.
But while this earned him the respect of his comrades, it was his enduring good humour, particularly at times when other men were beginning to show signs of battle fatigue, which earned him their abiding affection.
Your son could raise a smile in the most onerous of circumstances, Mrs Finchley, and you have my word, as a man who has endured countless such situations, that doing so is no mean feat. The intercompany football league that has proved so popular with our battalion that others have begun their own, was the brainchild of Private Finchley, and while not all of his initiatives were strictly above board, they were universally successful.
Private Finchley was mortally wounded by a sniper while on reconnaissance duty. The bullet hit him in the head, killing him instantly. Sometimes we officers gloss over the details in order to spare relatives pain, but in this instance, it is the truth. You have my word that your son died instantly and did not suffer.
I believe you have already been informed of the location of his grave, but if there is any other way I can be of service, then please do write to me.
Yours very sincerely,
Robert J. Carmichael, Capt., ASH
15th March 1917
Dearest Sylvie,
I am afraid that if I write it down it won’t happen, but I am fairly certain that I can wrangle a few days’ leave in a couple of weeks. I know that your teaching and your work must come first, but is there any chance you can arrange for cover? It’s a lot to ask, and as usual I can’t give details, but after that, it looks like I’ll be otherwise engaged for some time.
We’ve said so much in these letters of ours, but there are some things that words can’t say. I want to see you, touch you, hear you, and, yes, I want to kiss you again, too! I don’t even have a photograph of you, and yet you have become— No, I don’t want to speculate.
All very well for us to spill our guts in our letters—forgive the crudeness of that, too much time spent with soldiers—but is our affection for each other as real as it feels? I think so, but perhaps you don’t. It’s a risk I want to take, but if you don’t, then tell me now. No, you probably won’t be able to tell me in time.
I’ll send you a telegram and you can decide whether to meet me or not. I’ll understand.
With all affection,
Robbie
20th March 1917
Dearest Robbie,
I know this won’t get to you before I see you—oh, please God, let me see you—but I wanted to write, just so you’d have proof if anything went wrong, of how very much I do want to see you, just as desperately as you do. I have arranged for someone to take my classes. I have arranged cover at the nightclub. I have bought a new dress and I’ve had my hair cut. I sound like a silly girl. I feel like a silly girl. I do know what you mean, though; I am almost afraid to think about it because the disappointment would be unbearable. I can’t stop thinking about you.
Two more days. Yes, I worry that you might have changed your mind about me, but what I don’t worry about is that I might have changed my mind about you. Two more days—I shall count the hours. No, that would be fatal. I shall work extra hours to avoid watching the clock.
Oh, Robbie.
With deepest affection,
Sylvie
21st March 1917
Café le Buci, 13.00.
I will wait and hope.
Hope is indeed a mixed blessing!
Robbie
Chapter Seven
22nd March 1917
Sylvie emerged from the Métro at Pont Neuf station and began to make her way over the bridge across the Seine. She paused halfway across, pulling her coat tightly around her, for although the sky was azure-blue, the breeze was chilly. Downstream, in the distance, the Eiffel Tower was hazy, looking like a watercolour painting of itself. Her stomach fluttered with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Every time she tried to imagine this rendezvous, her mouth went dry and her blood heated. It scared her how much she was looking forward to it.
She crossed to the Left Bank and began to walk up Rue Dauphine. Was this encounter really only their third? They had said nothing overtly, made no demands or promises, but it was clear from their letters that they both wanted more than a few stolen kisses. She could feel her face flushing under the narrow brim of her hat. Almost five months ago, that first
time. And second time. And only time. She was a different person now. And Robbie—yes, so, too, was Robbie. It was nearly three months since they had even kissed. The desire she felt clawing at her, keeping her awake even after the busiest night at the club... Would she be able to surrender to it in the cold light of day? And would it be the same between them, now that they knew each other?
Never Forget Me Page 14
