by Justin Go
—Mind your own bloody lives! This is my life and my child—
—Darling, calm down—
Eleanor stands up and touches Imogen on the shoulder, but Imogen pulls away.
—I can’t believe you told them. Why did you tell them? Why?
—You can’t do this on your own.
—I am doing this on my own.
Her father stubs out his cigar.
—And how do you intend to finance yourself? Or the child for that matter? Filling shells at Woolwich twelve hours a day, one day off every fortnight? Imogen, you’re nineteen years old and you haven’t the faintest notion what it means to pull your own weight in this world. You’ve never done it and pray God you never shall.
No one speaks. Eleanor sits down and looks out the window. Imogen’s mother comes to Imogen and takes her hand, practically kneeling before her daughter.
—You must think of us, Imogen. Think of what they would say. Think of Papa’s position, you’ll see he’s only trying to protect us. For heaven’s sake, think of your child. Don’t you wish it to be happy, to have every chance in life as you’ve had?
Imogen shakes her head. —Does every girl in England have a family that makes decisions for her? And takes her own child from her?
Her father scoffs. He takes another cigar from a box on the mantel, but he is too agitated to light it.
—You’re the child, he retorts, otherwise we shouldn’t be having this conversation at all. Imogen, we’re not here to beg for your consent. I won’t see this family’s reputation compromised on account of your girlish fancies. If you won’t entertain your mother’s ideas you shall have to entertain mine, and I daresay they’ll please you even less. When I think of the thoroughly decent fellows you’ve ignored only to turn to this scoundrel, it makes my blood boil—
—What do you know of him?
—I know what he did to you.
—And you think I’m naïve. What makes you imagine I didn’t do it to him?
They stare at her in frank amazement, Imogen staring back, looking at her family as if she had never seen them before in her life. Her father, his forehead slightly flushed, muttering to himself as he cuts the end of the cigar with a pair of silver clippers and strikes a match; her mother, grasping Imogen’s hand and talking softly about dire consequences Imogen is too young to understand—her father’s delicate position, the blockade and U-boats, no coal in Sweden save for what the Germans give, now the Russian problem too—not to mention the scandal of the last envoy’s niece in Paris, which had not been half so delicate, and not in wartime; and Eleanor, worst of all Eleanor whom Imogen now hates as she has never hated anyone, Eleanor who still will not look her sister in the eye, her face turned to the window as she smoothes the folds of her skirt.
—It follows you all your life, Imogen’s mother whispers. You’re too young to know what that means, but I’ve known women who twenty years later can’t enter a room without imagining they’re being spoken of—
Imogen is not listening. She swallows and says some stupid, hateful thing to all of them, hardly aware of her words, then dashes into the hallway, grabbing her handbag and pulling her umbrella so violently from the basket that it topples, spilling the umbrellas and walking sticks and Grandfather’s silver-headed cane. She leaves them all on the ground and runs out, slamming the door behind her and crossing the square before anyone can follow.
She does not know where she is going. The sky is drizzling as Imogen turns west on Oxford Street, the shops and sidewalks, the motor drays and omnibuses appearing and dissolving as her mind runs in frantic circles. She thinks back to Eleanor two weeks ago, when Imogen had told her she was pregnant and Eleanor had fallen silent, then taken her hand and said it would be all right. She remembers the last night with Ashley at the Langham Hotel, the lights turned off and the curtains drawn, Ashley kissing her bare shoulder and saying it was all right no matter what happened to him in France, that to truly love one person was the most anyone could ask of life, even if it lasted only for a week—
Don’t say such things, Imogen had told him. Never say them, Ashley.
The rain quickens as Imogen crosses Vere Street, the newsboys running for shelter into the doorway of Marshall & Snelgrove. But Imogen is already soaked, the cold water running down her neck into the collar of her frock. She walks all the way through Hyde Park into Knightsbridge until a white-haired man on the Brompton Road sees her crying on the sidewalk. He raises his umbrella to shelter her from the downpour.
—I beg your pardon, but madam, you’re soaked to the bone. You’ll catch pneumonia. Can’t I help you in any way?
It takes Imogen five minutes to persuade him to leave her be, fabricating some tale about how she has always walked in the rain without an umbrella, ever since she was a young girl, and she does not at all mind being wet. The man shakes his head, watching her in the rain.
—Madam, we’ve all lost something in this war. But we must carry on as best we can.
Imogen walks back through Hyde Park Corner carrying the man’s umbrella. She goes into a bureau de change in Piccadilly and changes the rest of her francs for sterling, but she spent so much on the journey to France that she has only one pound, six shillings left. At the post office on Regent Street she writes two different telegrams to Ashley, tearing up each of them in frustration. He is too far away and there seems nothing she can say that will change anything. She walks down the street to a branch of the Westminster Bank, but none of tellers will let her draw from her father’s account, even if she has the checkbook, and when they go to fetch the manager she decides to walk out rather than be humiliated further.
You mustn’t despair. You mustn’t think at all. Only keep going.
Imogen walks to the Alpine Club on Savile Row. The office is closed, but the club porter answers the door and Imogen asks for the London address of her cousin Hugh Price. The porter shakes his head. He says that Mr. Price does not reside in London, and in any case he is on active service in France.
—Miss, I believe you’re chattering. Won’t you come inside to warm up?
—You’re very kind, but actually I’m in quite a hurry—
It is growing dark now and Imogen walks faster to try to stop her shivering. She must get into dry clothes. She goes to three hotels but they are far too expensive, for Imogen knows her money will have to last, and the last clerk says he cannot recommend a cheap hotel for a young lady. Finally she goes to the YWCA on Baker Street and pays two shillings for a membership card and a bed in a frigid room furnished only with a small table and a Bible. The light is off and someone is snoring in the other bed. Imogen hangs up her wet coat and frock and pulls the papery sheets over her, still wearing her damp cotton crinoline. The blanket is scratchy and it smells of mothballs. She reads the poster on the wall by the moonlight.
TO THE YOUNG WOMEN OF LONDON
Is your ‘Best Boy’ wearing khaki? If not, don’t YOU THINK he should be?
If he does not think that you and your country are worth fighting for – do you think he is WORTHY of you?
If your young man neglects his duty to King and Country, the time may come when he will NEGLECT YOU.
Think it over – then ask him to JOIN THE ARMY TO-DAY
She has a violent urge to tear down the poster, but it is hung over the other woman’s bed and Imogen feels too weak to get up. She turns her back to the poster and curls her legs, drawing the sheets and blanket tightly around her. Imogen sleeps fitfully for a few hours. She cries sometimes and hates herself for crying, thinking of the girls who must have wept in this room, angry that she should be one of them; she pities herself for having no one to turn to, then grows angrier still that she should need anyone. At eleven o’clock the girl in the other bed rises and dresses in the dark, pulling on coveralls and a cap. The girl goes out without a word. Imogen stays in bed.
By five o’clock she is frantic with insomnia and she tries counting backward from a hundred to fall asleep, first in English, t
hen in French and German and Swedish, but she counts too fast and soon her heart is racing. Imogen tosses back the covers and dresses hurriedly, her clothes as wet as ever. She walks down Baker Street in the pale morning, forming words in her mouth without any breath.
You’re hopeless. You couldn’t last a single night, without even a child to care for.
Soon she is talking to Ashley and the child itself, saying foolish and extravagant things, swearing that she loves the child more than herself, that she is certain it will grow to be pure goodness, as brave and virtuous as its father. The sky is brighter with each block she passes and by Cavendish Square the sun is warming the sidewalk. Imogen has been gone for twenty hours and walked eight miles. Her legs are sore and there is a chafing sensation in her left shoe that she supposes is a blister; she is tired, hungry and dirty, and she feels angry with everyone in the world, most of all herself for doing the one thing she had sworn against. She climbs the stairs and turns the key in the lock.
The house is quiet. Imogen catches her reflection in the hallway mirror: an unruly thatch of bobbed hair, deep and dark circles under her eyes. She goes downstairs into the kitchen. Her mother is standing with the cook before the gas range, a large wooden spoon in her hand. Imogen’s voice is sharp.
—If we’re going, I wish to go at once. I can’t stand to be in London any longer.
The cook looks away into the pot. Her mother opens her mouth to answer, but Imogen walks out of the kitchen.
THE RECKONING
I have Imogen’s letters now. Every night I doubt that I found them and every morning I pull out the trunk from under my bed and flip back the lid, opening the envelopes and touching the sheets of brittle paper. I feel sure that I’m getting closer to something, if only I’ll recognize it when I see it. Because the signs are everywhere, I just don’t know what they mean.
At the Internet café in the village I write Prichard an e-mail explaining the letters. There’s no phone at the house but I send Mireille’s cell phone number in case he needs to call me.
We spend the night at a farmhouse several miles away with Mireille’s friends, nine of us dining at a long table on simple food and prodigious quantities of wine. Afterward they talk in French by the fire; half listening, I stare at the flames and spell out the letters in my notebook, S-O-M-M-E, as if one code were the answer to them all. At midnight Mireille stands up before the fireplace, her shadow long before her.
—On y va, she calls. Let’s all go for a walk.
Outside there is no moon but plentiful stars, the galaxy streaked white above our heads. We follow a gravel path through the dense forest. After twenty minutes we reach a great wooden cross in the middle of the path, set high on a stone plinth without ornamentation or inscription. I realize this is our destination. As they drink the others become more jubilant. Some lean against the pedestal and swallow wine in huge gulps. Others sing and shout into the dark trees. I ask each of them in turn about the cross.
—What is it for? Who put it here?
They all look at me and smile, but if they know the answer they will not tell me.
On the way back to the house I walk far behind the group, swigging wine straight from the bottle and thinking about the letters. All seventeen are postmarked from England, along with one note written at the front desk of the hospital in Albert. But there is nothing after that. None of the letters mention her pregnancy, nor do they give any hint about what might have happened to her later.
—Maybe there was another one, I whisper. Maybe he burned the important one.
On the path ahead someone has separated from the group and is standing in the road, turned to me in the darkness. It is Hélène.
—Bonsoir. How are you? You’re quiet tonight—
—I’m fine. Just trying to figure some things out.
Hélène nods, lighting a cigarette as we continue down the path. I offer the bottle of wine and she takes a sip.
—I heard you met Mireille in a bar. Who spoke first?
I smile, shaking my head in embarrassment. Hélène laughs.
—I knew it must be her. Where are you from in the States?
—California.
Hélène repeats the word, puffing from her cigarette.
—California. Mireille and I said we were going to run away there when we were seventeen. To Los Angeles. For me it was a joke, but she probably would have done it.
Hélène looks at me.
—We’ve been friends a long time, Mireille and I. Has she told you much about her past?
—A little.
Hélène walks forward, her eyes on the ground.
—Did she tell you she only got divorced six months ago?
—She didn’t say when.
—You must have wondered why you’re staying at that dirty old place, with her family so close by—
—They live nearby?
Hélène looks up at me. —From the cross back there, if you keep walking to the other side of the forest, you’ll be at their house in ten minutes.
—She never told me they were here.
—Well, they know you’re here. Mireille needed me to get the keys to that house, so she had to explain. They’re worried she’s going to get in trouble again. She had so many problems with her marriage. Finally she’s back in school and doing well, then suddenly she comes to Picardie early, for no reason—
Hélène smiles at me.
—For some reason. Listen, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, and maybe you don’t either. Maybe Mireille doesn’t. But she’s fragile, even if she won’t say so. She isn’t ready to be spending a lot of time with a stranger, but she won’t listen to me, so I’m asking you something simple. Be careful with her. You might have to be patient, but with Mireille, once she cares about something—
Hélène throws her cigarette onto the path. She shakes her head.
—It’s the best thing about her. And also the worst.
When we get back to the house the others are already spreading out on couches and pulling blankets over themselves. The young farmer who owns the house looks at me and grins.
—There aren’t enough beds. Who wants to sleep outside?
Mireille and I sleep in the open air under a vast metal roof, lying on haystacks piled in neat squares, each a story tall. We lie four stories up, each bale our own queen bed. I can hear Mireille on the bale beside me, breathing softly as she turns on her side.
—Are you warm enough? she asks.
—I’m fine.
—You can have one of my blankets—
—No, I’m warm.
A cold wind passes over us, whipping the dry leaves on the ground below. I fall asleep and wake only when I hear Mireille’s voice again.
—Tristan. What do you think of Picardie?
—I’m glad I came.
—So am I.
I draw the strings of my sleeping bag hood tight, watching my breath curl into wisps of steam.
Morning breaks with a dark purple sky. Mireille is already sitting up with the blankets wrapped around her, watching the horizon for the rising sun.
—Should we get going? Nobody else will be up for hours. I wanted to clean the house today—
We drive back to the house and spend the rest of the morning sweeping out floors caked with layers of dirt. Mireille goes upstairs to sweep the bedrooms, but a few minutes later she runs down the steps carrying a wooden box. She smiles triumphantly.
—My grandfather’s chess set. Do you want to play?
We open the chessboard, sitting cross-legged beside the fire to keep warm. The wooden pieces are all carved and painted by hand. Both of the queens are missing, so we substitute one-euro coins. Mireille lifts one of the coins and frowns.
—They’re so ugly. The francs were much prettier. I don’t know who designed this junk.
—Probably the Germans.
She smiles. —We can’t blame them for everything. It isn’t fair.
Mireille chooses the white piec
es. I watch her set up the board quickly.
—I saw Hélène talking to you last night.
Mireille lifts up one of her knights and frowns, setting it back down. She moves her king pawn forward to start the game.
I hesitate. —She said you’re not ready to be spending time with me.
—Of course I’m not ready, Mireille sighs. You know before I met you on Friday, Claire and I went out to dinner. All I could talk about was how happy I was to be alone. I know it doesn’t seem like much, to have this tiny apartment, to be starting school again. But even if it’s small, it’s my own life—
I move my king pawn forward. Mireille shakes her head.
—It just took so long to learn how to be alone. And I know I’m forgetting it now.
Mireille moves her queen pawn forward, but I move my pawn diagonally and take her piece.
—Then Hélène was right.
—No.
Mireille shakes her head, moving her queen’s bishop pawn forward one space. I take that one and soon we are making moves quickly, but I sense I’m not playing against her, only reacting to what she is doing. Mireille looks up at me.
—Hélène thinks I’m not ready for anything, except to draw pictures and hide in my apartment all winter. But that’s not life. Because even if I was ready to meet you, were you ready to meet me? Were you ready to meet the lawyers or go on this search? Nothing ever comes at the right time, and we’re never ready for anything. But either we make excuses or—
—Or what?
She smiles, moving her bishop in line to attack my king. —Échec.
After a few more minutes Mireille has won the game. She tries to hide her pleasure, but it is obvious.
—That was le gambit danois.
—You never told me you’re good at chess.
Mireille shrugs. —I’m not bad, but I’m not good either. When we lived in the south, I had an old chess book and I learned a little. I like the names for the moves. In chess there is a name for everything.
We set the board for a second game and each move our queen pawn forward. I bring up my bishop pawn and Mireille moves her pawn diagonally, capturing mine. She smiles.
