The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

  His words were so touching she couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They swept out in a torrent and he gently kissed each cheek. His lips were damp when she pulled back.

  ‘Go find him, Sophie.’

  She grazed her lips against his, tasting her own tears, and then she was moving fast, her footsteps fleet down the stairs, barely acknowledging the flights as she descended.

  30

  PARIS

  September 1918

  The man stood and took his salute.

  ‘Good morning, Lieutenant. I am Colonel Sheridan. Have a seat, please.’ He smiled, warmer than the fire that was burning in the grate. ‘You’ll have to forgive me. I’m afraid my French is rusty.’ He extended his hand in the friendliest of greetings now that the formalities had been dispensed with.

  ‘My English is reliable,’ Jerome replied with a grin as they shook hands.

  ‘Thank heavens for that. I’ve ordered some tea. Would you . . .?’

  Jerome nodded. He didn’t particularly like tea, but he understood the English drank such copious quantities of the black leaf that to decline would be like spitting in the colonel’s eye. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘These last four years we’ve been drinking stuff not much short of warmed mud but finally, finally, I’ve got my hands on a caddy of Darjeeling. And only the best – Vickery’s, if you please. My wife had it sent over so I could celebrate. Thank the stars for Fortnum’s, eh?’

  Jerome frowned in a friendly way. He understood the words but didn’t grasp much of the meaning.

  ‘Sorry, old chap. I’m probably speaking gibberish to you. Too much excitement that this filthy war is ending and the Hun’s on the run.’ Sheridan smiled broadly.

  Jerome had always liked the English but they were truly a quaint and rather curious lot.

  A man arrived with a tea tray.

  ‘I carry my own tea cosy,’ Sheridan said somewhat proudly, not at all self-conscious at how ridiculous this sounded. Jerome liked him even more for that as the moustachioed senior officer pointed to what could only be described as a hat sitting on the teapot, pompom tassels hanging jauntily from the top of it.

  ‘The wife knitted it for me. Can’t bear cold tea.’

  ‘Charming.’ Jerome refrained from saying anything more regarding the teapot hat.

  The tea was poured and handed over.

  ‘Marvellous brew, eh?’ the colonel wondered, smacking his lips with pleasure.

  The steaming golden tea was indeed refreshing with a bright, almost floral flavour; it was surprisingly delicious. Jerome nodded genuine admiration and smiled.

  ‘Couldn’t find a wretched tea strainer so watch the leaves, old chap.’

  ‘It’s delicious, thank you. I’m wondering why I’m not meeting with French authorities?’ he said, trying to refocus his companion onto matters at hand.

  ‘Well, you’re a bit of a conundrum, old chap. You were transferred with British prisoners and just to keep the paperwork all neat and tidy, we feel it’s best to sign you off here before you move to your company and they do whatever they have to,’ Sheridan said, looking like he hoped his simple explanation of an otherwise highly complicated process would help. ‘However, I gather there’s a little snag.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Care to put it in your own words?’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel.’ He began his long tale, leaving out no detail. He’d rehearsed it a dozen times in his mind since leaving the hospital team and arriving in Paris. It had been surprisingly poignant to bid farewell to the Swiss, who had been so generous – particularly Nurse Agatha, who had fought back tears when he placed a gentle kiss on each cheek, looked her firmly in the eye and thanked her for being so good to him. They had not shared their secret, so only they knew what it meant, and he wondered if poor Agatha might take some ribbing over the meaning of his cryptic words.

  ‘I’m distraught, but I’ve had time to get used to my situation. Now all I want is to see my wife, return to my home, hug my family.’ He stared at the colonel. ‘Something’s not quite right, is it?’

  ‘Well, old boy, I have to tell you that I did receive some information to this end yesterday and I took the liberty of calling a Monsieur Louis Méa —’

  ‘That’s my brother. Excellent, he —’

  The colonel held up a hand, his moustache twitching. ‘And this Monsieur Méa denied that he had ever received a call from Switzerland.’

  ‘But that can’t be right. The nurse is well known to me, I trusted her and . . .’ His words petered out. ‘What did you tell him – did you give him all the details, sir?’

  ‘Well, I said a Swiss hospital. I didn’t say its name or exactly where it was because I never had the chance. He denied the call ever occurred and he was rather abrupt about it, as I recall.’ He gave a sad shrug. ‘Look here, can you prove what you claim?’

  So they had come full circle. ‘Bring my brother here,’ Jerome said, as if it were obvious.

  ‘I would if I could. Monsieur Méa has been called away, I’m afraid.’ Again, he put up a hand. ‘Please don’t ask me where, I have no idea. He didn’t give me the details, but I know he was on government business. Now, I do understand your plight but can you understand it from our perspective?’

  Jerome wanted to suggest that if they couldn’t bring Louis in immediately, then they should urge Sophie to come to Paris but he knew they’d make excuses about not wishing to upset an already heartbroken and grieving widow. He could hear the excuses and placations now.

  When Jerome stared at him, seemingly lost for what to say next, the colonel gave a tight smile. ‘Anyway, look lively, old chap. Let’s not panic. There’s a solution here – we simply have to find it. You won’t be the last misplaced, misnamed soldier we have to find a fit for, eh? At least we have you back in Paris.’

  ‘It’s good to smell France again,’ he admitted carefully, not entirely sure what he meant by that. He knew it probably sounded strange but the unmistakable fragrance of strong coffee at local cafés told him enough about being home. The ash of smelly French cigarettes was in the air but he loved it and only now realised how much he’d missed France all these years.

  Sheridan nodded. ‘All right. Let’s start building a picture so I can hear it directly from you. Where is home, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Épernay.’

  ‘Good. Perhaps you could give me your full name and the full name of your wife.’

  He did so without hesitation.

  ‘Excellent,’ the colonel said, his nib scratching across a form. Jerome watched the older man take in his injuries in one all-over steely glance. ‘So, what was it, Lieutenant?’

  He knew exactly what the man wanted. ‘An incendiary, sir, following a gas attack at Ypres in 1915.’

  ‘Date?’

  He gave it without hesitation.

  ‘Your exact position, as best as you recall?’

  Jerome obliged.

  ‘Now tell me what you remember.’

  Jerome dutifully walked the colonel through the most painful episode of his life.

  ‘I’m sorry for you.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m assured by the nurses that a man wearing a patch over his eye is intriguing.’ The man twitched a sympathetic smile at the dark jest. ‘I manage, Colonel Sheridan,’ Jerome assured him.

  ‘Another cup? We’re just waiting on someone,’ Sheridan said with a bright smile.

  The building in the 10th arrondissement she had arrived at was emblematic of the Third Republic, built in a neo-Renaissance manner with richly carved pale grey stone topped by steeply pitched, charcoal-slated rooftops. Its symmetrical design was highlighted by a lantern chime of three bells for the clock at its centre. Sophie had entered the doors of the enormous town hall promptly, as asked, and was escorted down various corridors. She supposed a similar business of repatriation was already underway in town halls around the city’s districts, although the guns were yet to be entirely silenced. Her belly felt as though a whole team of acro
bats were twisting and tumbling, turning somersaults and leaping around her insides. She’d fully anticipated using every ounce of influence she might wield in order to enter Switzerland. Her last resort was to claim to be a long-lost relative of Jacques Bouchon, as the Red Cross had insisted during half-a-dozen urgent telephone calls that this soldier had no living family. But she had managed to find out where this internee was being housed and ultimately identified the clinical team that looked after him. She’d spoken first to a gently spoken doctor, who assured her that although he had not expressly taken care of this patient, his notes told him that the man she sought was now on his way to Paris, and that he was a widower from Brittany. She still didn’t believe it, but her heart leapt at the mention of Paris. Sophie had to know more before she made her final move. Could she talk to some of the other people who had looked after him? The kindly doctor obliged – he was unable to secure anyone who had taken care of Lieutenant Bouchon directly but he found a matron.

  ‘This is Matron.’ She listened to Sophie’s introduction.

  ‘. . . and I was wondering did he ever reveal much about himself?’

  ‘Not to me, although I know he confided in Nurse Agatha. He liked to talk about food,’ she chortled. ‘A soft cheese, some pink-coloured biscuits that were originally dyed with beetroot . . . that sort of thing.’

  ‘Roses de Reims,’ she murmured, chills creeping over her body.

  ‘That’s it. That’s what he called them.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  She imagined the older woman in Lausanne shaking her head. ‘Nurse Agatha is not here but I recall he had a lovely voice and liked to sing. He refused a crutch but his limp was better and he did a lot of hiking to get strong. He was polite, amusing, very well-liked. His arm healed well after the second operation and we were hoping to save his eye so it didn’t change colour.’ Sophie felt ill – could this be him or was she clutching at a desperate straw? ‘Oh yes, he always carried around a cork. It was a champagne cork.’

  Sophie’s breath caught in a gasp.

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘I’m here. A champagne cork, you say?’

  ‘He spent a large part of his imprisonment without his memory. I’m sorry, you really need to speak with the people who dealt with him daily. I shouldn’t be giving you this information – much of it is second-hand.’

  ‘Please, madame – what about the cork?’

  ‘Nothing really. I remember remarking that perhaps he had held on to the cork in order to hang on to who he was.’

  No, Sophie thought. He kept that cork because it reminded him he had a wife waiting for him. She knew the very cork, knew it had the name Delancré burned into it. It was all Jerome had of her.

  And just as she was ready to cast all protocol aside and start making demands of the Swiss, she had received a call from a British colonel based in Paris who was helping to return a French internee who had found himself bundled in with soldiers from Britain.

  ‘How can that be?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s chaos, despite the tight Swiss organisation,’ he’d told her. ‘I’ve been called in because my wife is French and I have a better handle on the language than most, although I would hardly call it good. We have lots of troops to repatriate so they sent me here to help out because I can probably make faster sense of the British troops and names on our lists.’ He gave a groan. ‘I shan’t bore you.’ She’d smiled at his kind voice. ‘Now, I gather you might be hunting a French fellow who has somehow found his way onto the British lists . . . a soldier called Jacques Bouchon, is that right?’

  ‘I am. Please tell me that you have news?’

  ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.’

  She caught her breath.

  ‘Madame Delancré, are you there?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, forgive me. I am listening.’

  ‘I think we have your man. He arrived here yesterday morning and he’s on my list for tomorrow. I’m wondering how hard it might be for you to travel to Paris?’

  ‘I shall be there,’ she said, not giving him the chance to offer any other option.

  He gave her the address. ‘Ask for me at the front desk that we’ve set up. We’ll have someone bring you up. May I ask, Madame Delancré, what relation are you to this soldier, please?’

  ‘I believe this man is my husband.’

  She didn’t think she could have shocked the poor colonel any further if she’d tried.

  He stammered and blustered but she finally explained that she thought her husband must have lost his memory because she was certain that it was him – she had photographs to prove it, which she would bring. By the end of the conversation the colonel was as intrigued as he was eager to help.

  ‘No, I won’t say anything – that would be too much of a shock – but, madame, if you’ll forgive me, I do need to test his bona fides. Why don’t you arrive at eleven-thirty and we shall take it from there, Madame Delancré?’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of tricking this man, especially if he is my husband, Colonel.’

  ‘No tricks, I assure you. These men have seen hell; they’ve lived it and survived it, but returning to their former lives is going to be an enormous challenge. This is especially so for someone like Jacques Bouchon, if he is your husband and he has somehow lost his connection to his past. He may require patience and understanding. He might also turn out to be an impostor, for all I know.’ He sighed. ‘I’m just being cautious, you understand?’

  ‘I’ll prepare for that, Colonel Sheridan.’

  ‘It would be wise. I shall see you tomorrow, madame.’

  And so now she sat, nervously wringing the handle of her handbag, waiting to be summoned into the office behind her, where she hoped her husband sat.

  The colonel’s aide sidled up. ‘Madame Delancré?’ She startled but kept her features calm as she nodded again to the man who had greeted her earlier in the reception. ‘Would you care to follow me, please?’

  She stood, smoothed her lightweight wool jacket and touched the neat cloche hat, which was perched at an angle. She’d wrestled with what to wear today and had settled on a sombre but elegant suit of deep plum, which was as far from the colours of Épernay as she could manage. She didn’t want to frighten Jerome, if this was him. In her matching oxblood leather gloves she clutched a velvet handbag; she clicked it shut before making sure her taupe satin blouse was neatly closed at her neck. She wore only the barest hint of a soft rose lipstick. She was half the size she was when she’d last hugged her husband – if this was Jerome, would he even recognise this bronzed, thin woman as his wife?

  The truth was that they were strangers to each other.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at the man by her side before he knocked on the door.

  Jerome felt the gentle touch of the man’s smile but despite its generosity he had the feeling that something was afoot – that he’d passed some sort of test. He heard a knock on the door.

  The colonel gave a nod as if expecting it. ‘Come in.’

  Jerome swung around to see the colonel’s batman leading in a slim, elegant woman dressed in the rich colour of burgundy wine. A ringing in his ears began as soon as the colonel said, ‘Good morning, Madame Delancré.’

  He didn’t hear another word after that. He was struggling to his feet, his one good eye watering to blur the features of the only woman he had ever loved with all of his heart. How could he have ever forgotten her? He heard her speak in a voice that cracked as she uttered his name.

  The intensity of his shock and the eruption of his emotions were so brightly disturbing he wanted to yell his despair. He watched what he hoped was sympathy and not dread marching across the familiar features of the dark blonde woman he knew to be his wife, all the more hauntingly beautiful for the hollowness of her frame.

  ‘Jerome . . .’ was all she could say before he fell back heavily into his chair and groaned out loud with four years’ worth of anguish.

  Sophie had to hide the shock mix
ed with devastating sorrow she felt at seeing Jerome again. She had thought she was ready but nothing could have fully prepared her for the emotions buffeting her now. She could swear a gale was pulling at her hair, whistling in her ears and making her squint. Yet the room was still. Her memory of the man she had kissed goodbye did not match this wasted version collapsed into a chair. He was trying to hide the damaged part of his face, one sleeve hung loose below the elbow, and she swallowed hard as she realised that Jerome would never prune his beloved vines again.

  She looked at the colonel, whose moustache twitched. The senior man coughed gently. His gaze over the top of his glasses asked the question: Is this your husband?

  Sophie nodded.

  The colonel cleared his throat peremptorily. ‘Er, well, I shall leave the two of you for a while.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sophie murmured and waited until the man had vacated the room. She moved on feet that felt weighted, reached for the flask of water on the desk and poured some into a glass. She handed it to him.

  ‘Jerome.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for leaving you.’

  Her breath felt trapped. An apology? It was the last response she could have imagined, especially after all her thoughts of kissing Charlie, loving Charlie . . . The fact that she’d come so close to tumbling into bed with Charlie to consummate their desire was feeding the tornado of emotion whirling around her. She spoke what was in her heart. ‘But you’ve come home to me – that’s all that matters.’ It sounded more useful to him than I love you or I’ve missed you.

  Jerome took the water with a shaky hand and drank it in one draught before he sighed and finally lifted his gaze to her. ‘Sophie,’ he began, more composed, and drew from his pocket the champagne cork he had carried since their wedding day. ‘I’m home because you lit the way . . . even when I was lost. I always had this and I knew it was important – I just had to remember why.’ The voice was the same but it had lost that wonderful lightness of humour that she recalled. They were yet to touch each other, both feeling awkward. ‘Did I find you or did you find me?’