The Hearts That Hold

by Rosie Clarke

  It looked very like her. Lizzy was delighted, but James scoffed.

  ‘It’s nowhere near as good as a photograph,’ he declared and refused to have his own portrait taken.

  He had of course taken rolls and rolls of films, which he was anxious to have developed as soon as he got home.

  ‘Jack says I should learn to do it myself when I’m older,’ he announced. ‘It’s quite easy really, Mum – but you need a dark room. Jack told me all about it.’

  My heart jerked at the mention of Jack’s name, but I smiled as I asked when Jack had mentioned the possibility of my son developing the films himself.

  ‘Oh, he writes to me every week,’ my son replied carelessly. ‘He tells me lots of interesting things, and says he’s going to buy me a cine camera – that’s one that takes moving pictures, Mum,’ he explained kindly. ‘He says I can have it for my fourteenth birthday.’

  ‘That will be nice, darling.’

  ‘And he says I can go and visit him in America when I’m sixteen if you will let me – you will, won’t you?’

  ‘We shall have to see when the time comes.’

  ‘I shall go one day,’ James said, that hint of mutiny in his eyes.

  ‘Yes, I expect you will, darling.’

  We had a very simple lunch of crusty bread, cheese and ripe tomatoes. Then we made our way unhurriedly towards the Pont Neuf.

  Several people were queuing for the next boat. Because of the crowd I was not immediately alerted when a scuffle started; then Sarah touched my arm.

  ‘That man is attacking Francine.’

  ‘Where?’ I looked in the direction she pointed out and saw she was right. ‘Stay here with the children!’

  I ran towards the spot where Francine was putting up a terrific struggle against a man who appeared to be trying to forcefully abduct her. I shouted and he turned his head to look at me, then said something to Francine. She shook her head and kicked him on the ankle. He yelled at her, then, just as I arrived, let go of her arm and ran off. She was clearly upset and shaken, though she did not appear to be hurt.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ I said, leading her to a wooden bench away from the curious stares and eyes of the crowd. ‘Are you all right? Do you want something – a cognac?’

  ‘No, thank you, Emma. I shall be all right in a minute. It was a bit upsetting, that’s all.’

  ‘Why did he attack you like that? Was he trying to steal your bag?’

  ‘No – nothing like that.’ She bit her lip. ‘He knew my mother during the war, and he had seen me with her a few times. He thought I was like her. It was just a mistake …’

  ‘But … he wasn’t French. I thought I heard him say something in what sounded like German …’

  ‘Yes,’ Francine said, a bleak expression in her eyes. ‘He was an officer stationed here when Paris was occupied …’ She took a deep breath and her hand trembled. I put mine over it. She smiled then and nodded as if the action had made up her mind. ‘He paid my mother for sex. She was desperate for money after she lost her job. He wasn’t the only one …’

  ‘Oh, Francine …’ I looked at her with sympathy. ‘That must have been difficult for you.’

  ‘It was the shame,’ Francine said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘Grandmère disowned her, and she was forever telling me that my mother was a whore. When the war ended, Maman was denounced as a collaborator and spat at in the street. She put up with it for a while – and then she hanged herself.’

  ‘How terrible!’ I felt the shock and horror of it run through me. Francine’s mother had been so desperate she had taken her own life. Hanging was a dreadful way to die. I could not imagine being that desperate. ‘I suppose she did not feel she could face what had happened – but it must have been awful for you.’

  ‘Grandmère said she deserved to die. I was sorry for her, but also desperately ashamed.’ Her eyes sought mine. That day at Marie Bourdeille’s showrooms … she threw me out because of who my mother was, not because my sketches were not good enough. She said I had no right to approach her …’

  So Francine had lied to me that day.

  ‘And the designs – were they yours?’

  ‘Yes. She copied them, though she changed bits and pieces. She knew I could never prove she had cheated me. Besides, who would take my part against her? I was the daughter of a woman who went with the enemy.’

  ‘You have nothing to be ashamed of,’ I said and smiled at her. ‘We all do what we have to do, Francine. Your mother was no worse than a lot of others.’

  ‘I was afraid to tell you,’ she said. ‘But I am glad I have. Now we can really be friends.’

  ‘We’ll talk some more later,’ I said. ‘The children and Sarah are waiting. As far as they are concerned, that man was simply trying to snatch your bag.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her head going up proudly. ‘It wasn’t important …’

  It might not be important, but it made me think that perhaps I should try to discover a little more about Francine. Sometimes the things she said did not strike me as being quite right. One day I might need to know the truth about her.

  Later that evening, when we were alone, Francine told me a lot more about her childhood. Her grandmother had been a hard, cold woman, always grumbling at her daughter and Francine. She had looked after her granddaughter, but made her work in the small bakeshop she ran, never allowing her to run free with the other children.

  ‘I was determined to escape one day,’ Francine told me. ‘My father deserted us just as the war started. He said he had to go back and fight for his country, but he never sent Maman money.’

  ‘Some men are like that, Francine. What did your father do before the war?’

  ‘He was an artist.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Not a very good one – but at least he gave me his pastel colours and brushes when he left. It was the paints that saved my life. Without them I would have had nothing to live for. After the war ended, I ran away from Grandmère and found myself work – but all the time I kept my dream alive. I hoped one day to work for one of the great designers. Maman had worked at Madame Coco’s house before she closed it in 1939. After that, she took jobs where she could …’

  ‘Madame Coco – you mean Chanel?’ Francine nodded. ‘Sol’s wife, Margaret, had one of her early dresses. It was beautiful.’

  ‘Do you have it now?’

  ‘No. We sold it during the war when new clothes – decent things – were almost impossible to buy.’

  Francine nodded, and looked thoughtful. ‘I think it must have been even worse for you than it was for us during the occupation – the Germans were generous to those they liked. My mother had money and food when others had nothing.’

  ‘I expect she did it for you more than herself,’ I said. ‘Don’t hate her memory, Francine. Just try to forget the bad things and remember the good.’

  ‘Is that how you manage, Emma?’ Her eyes met mine in understanding. ‘I think your Jack Harvey must be a very special man.’

  ‘Did Sol tell you about him?’

  ‘No … you did, Emma. I have seen the way you look when James speaks of him. It must hurt you that you cannot be with him.’

  Her words were spoken sympathetically and I wanted to trust her – I liked her. I still wanted Francine to work with us, but I was going to discover as much as I could. Just in case.

  ‘It hurt more when we quarrelled during the war,’ I said. ‘At least I know he loves me … and we are both doing what we have to do.’

  Chapter 10

  We had been home a few hours when Mum telephoned.

  ‘Thank God you are there,’ she said, and I heard the note of distress in her voice. ‘Can you catch a train straight away, Emma? It’s Jon – he’s ill. Very ill. I would have rung you earlier if I’d known how to contact you. He didn’t want me to worry you, but I think you should come. If you don’t leave at once … well, the way things are, you might not see him again. At least, not alive.’

  Her words had
shocked me. How could Jon be that ill? I clung on to the receiver, feeling breathless.

  ‘What happened? I rang him before we went away. He seemed fine then … at least, he was in a hurry to put the phone down, but he didn’t mention feeling ill.’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ Mum said. ‘Surely you know Jon by now? You were going to Paris for a holiday with the children. He wouldn’t say anything to stop you. Besides, it came on very suddenly. One minute he was laughing, the next he was clutching at himself and complaining of the pain …’

  ‘I’ll get a taxi straight away. I think there is a train in about an hour’s time. Tell Jon I’ll be there as soon as I can …’

  ‘He doesn’t know I’ve phoned you. Just come, Emma. He needs you. He was delirious a little while ago. He kept calling for you over and over again.’

  ‘Delirious …’ I caught my breath as I finally understood how serious it was. ‘How is he now?’

  ‘The doctor came and gave him something to calm him. He seems to be a little more sensible at the moment. I just wish you hadn’t been away … I would have telephoned yesterday but I knew you wouldn’t be home until late last night. I thought he might be better, but if anything he is worse this morning.’

  ‘I’m putting the phone down now,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell him I’m coming – please?’

  I replaced the receiver before she could answer. I was shaking, feeling almost stunned by the suddenness of Jon’s illness. He had seemed so well at Christmas … but then so had Bert.

  I should have been more aware of Jon’s health. The doctors had warned me that he would not live to reach middle age. If we had been living together, I might have realized that something was going wrong sooner. My mother was right. I should have gone down to visit long before this.

  It was a nightmare journey down to Torquay and seemed to take forever. Why had Jon chosen a house so far away? The fear caught at my heart as I stared out of the train window for mile after mile. Would I ever get there? Would I be in time?

  It was dark when I finally got to the house. I paid my taxi and went inside. My mother came down the stairs as I reached them.

  ‘Thank God you’re here,’ she said, and stifled a sob. ‘He is asking for you again, Emma – but I don’t think he knows what he’s saying. I’m not sure he will know you are here. I’m so sorry …’

  ‘I’ll go to him straight away,’ I said. ‘It’s not your fault, Mum. You’ve done all you could, I know that. At least he wasn’t alone. You were here with him.’

  ‘Yes, thank goodness I was,’ she said. ‘Mrs Martin is very good, but she has a husband and family to look after.’

  I nodded, but didn’t answer as I went on up the stairs. Mrs Martin couldn’t be expected to look after an invalid. She had been asked to come in and clean the house each morning. I was Jon’s wife. I was the one who should have been here for him.

  I was wracked with guilt as I went into the bedroom, and my lips moved in prayer.

  ‘Please don’t let Jon die,’ I whispered as the tears caught at my throat. ‘He doesn’t deserve to die. Not after all he has been through – please don’t let him die like this.’

  I vowed that I would spend more time here if Jon recovered. Next time I thought about coming down, I wouldn’t ask – I would just come.

  Jon was my friend. I still cared deeply for him despite my feelings for Jack. I wished desperately that I had been here when he needed me.

  He was lying with his eyes closed when I entered the room. A shaded light was on, and I could see he was feverish. He was covered with just a sheet and a light blanket, but he still felt hot and moist when I touched his forehead.

  ‘Emma … is that you?’ he croaked. ‘I’ve been looking for you. I couldn’t find you. It’s this mist … it’s all around me. I can’t see you …’

  ‘I’m here, my dearest,’ I said and bent to kiss him gently on the lips. I reached for his hand and held it to my cheek. ‘Here I am, Jon. The mist is going now. You can see me, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I can see you. I can touch you …’ His voice sounded so odd and I knew he was not really seeing me. ‘I’ve been trying to find you for so long, Emma. So long … Don’t go away will you?’ He was clinging to my hand now.

  ‘No, I shan’t go away again,’ I said. I stroked the damp hair from his forehead. ‘I love you, Jon. I’m with you …’

  ‘Forgive me, Emma …’ He tossed his head restlessly on the pillows. ‘It wasn’t fair. Must let Emma go … must make Emma happy … not fair … not fair to her if …’

  ‘What is it, my dear?’ I asked. ‘What is troubling you? You haven’t done anything to be forgiven for. It is I who should ask your forgiveness. I let you down by not being here.’

  ‘I did it for Emma …’ Jon said, clearly not hearing me. He was lost in his own memories. ‘It gave me the shakes but I managed to set it up … knew it would work. Did it for Emma. The bastard hurt her … blew him up. Bang! Dead … he’s dead. Can’t come back and hurt her. Can’t let him hurt her … deserved it, but won’t let me go. Did it for Emma … did it for Emma … Emma … need Emma.’

  ‘What are you saying, Jon?’ A shiver ran down my spine, turning me cold. ‘What did you do for Emma’s sake?’

  ‘Mustn’t let her know … not yet … not yet,’ he muttered throwing out his arm fretfully. ‘She wouldn’t … I did it for you, Emma …’

  He jerked up out of bed suddenly, his eyes wide and staring. Then he grabbed hold of my arm.

  ‘Emma doesn’t know, does she? You haven’t told her? You haven’t told her what I did? Promise me you won’t tell her! Mustn’t know … Emma mustn’t know …’

  ‘No, I haven’t told her. She doesn’t know,’ I said. ‘Lie down, Jon. You must rest, my dearest. You haven’t done anything bad …’

  ‘She thought Sol … but he couldn’t … Learned how to do it in the dark … blew myself up, but not this time … made sure of that … Dead, he’s dead. Can’t come back …’ He laughed wildly, a horrible sound that once again made my blood run cold. ‘This time I did it right … for Emma. Can’t give her anything else … had to do it for Emma … too selfish … should have let go …’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said again, soothing his forehead as he began to thrash wildly again. ‘You did it for me, Jon. I understand. You shouldn’t have done it, but I know why … I know why, dearest.’

  I heard a choked sound behind me and turned to see my mother. She had been listening and watching.

  ‘What did he do, Emma? It must have been something terrible if it is causing him so much anguish. What did he do – and why did he think he owed you something?’

  ‘Please don’t ask me,’ I said. ‘Whatever it is is best forgotten. Jon will want to forget it if he comes through this.’

  ‘And if doesn’t?’

  ‘Then his secrets will die with him,’ I said. ‘I haven’t told anyone anything while he lived, and I shan’t now.’

  ‘Did you know about whatever it is he did?’

  ‘I suspected … but I didn’t know it was Jon. I never once thought it was Jon …’ I caught back a sob. ‘Please, leave me with him for a while, Mum. I need a little time to be alone with him.’

  ‘I’ve misjudged you, Emma,’ she said. ‘You won’t tell me, and I shan’t ask again – but he has said other things while he was rambling. I think I understand now. I was wrong to blame you.’

  I didn’t answer her, and after a few seconds I heard the door close behind her.

  ‘Oh, Jon,’ I wept. ‘Why? Why did you do it? I never wanted …’

  He was tortured by what he had done. I saw now that I should have guessed long ago that he was the one who had planted that bomb in Philip Matthews’ car, but I had not thought my gentle, sensitive husband was capable of doing something like that.

  Of course I had forgotten that Jon was really two different people. During that time in France, when he had first been tortured and then almost killed in an attack
on his captors by the French resistance fighters, he had blocked everything out of his mind, forgetting even his own name. The man who had killed and done terrible things in France, eventually being blown up in a sabotage attempt that went wrong, was not the man I had married. That man had been forged in the flames of bitter war, forced into acts that he must have found appalling – but that was the nature of war. I could accept the necessity for what he had done out of a need to survive – but could he?

  Jon had buried himself for as long as he needed, then let the real Jon come back when the war was over – when there was no more need for killing. I was sure one day the doctors would be able to explain how that was possible, even if they hadn’t been able to when Jon was a patient all those months.

  When I first saw Jon in the hospital towards the end of the war, I had sensed that he was trying to block out what had happened in France, and I believed he had been successful in doing that for much of the time. It was when he remembered that he had a fit of what Sister Jones called the shakes.

  He had been having one the night I found him trying to pour himself a glass of brandy. I should have known something had happened then – something so awful that it had brought all the horror of that time back to him.

  It must have taken so much courage to plant that bomb. Yes, it was a terrible thing to do! I wished desperately that he had not done it – but I respected the courage behind his action. He had suffered such cruel, painful injuries from the sabotage attack. To risk something like that again, he must have been prepared to die for my sake.

  ‘Oh, Jon …’ I whispered as the tears trickled down my cheeks. ‘I didn’t want you to do that for me … I didn’t want you to take someone’s life for my sake.’

  Sol was right. Jack would have known how to deal with Philip. It should have been left to him. There was no need for murder …

  A part of me was horrified that the gentle, sensitive man I had known could do such a thing, yet I understood why he had done it. It was all he could do for me.

  I had stood by him in the hospital. I had given him the love that had always been his, though not my whole heart. He knew I had given up my chance of a new life in America to stay with him – and he could never be a proper husband to me.