The Lost Girl

by Carol Drinkwater

  ‘Sir Thomas, you are being harsh,’ Lady Jeffries interrupted.

  Charlie clenched his teeth, placed his fork with deliberation back on his plate and took a slug of wine. He was not in the mood for this. The very mention of the subject detonated a rush of opinions back and forth, swirling about the candlelit room.

  ‘The Bill is a nonsense,’ continued the knighted army chap. Others assented. Plates were removed. More wine poured. Charlie had no idea which Bill was being debated, but the mood was growing heated, argumentative. Sweat began to pimple his temples. He glanced again at Maggie. Could they reasonably make their escape? She was oblivious to the discussion in progress, lost to the honeyed compliments of her two admirers, whose attentions were hers alone.

  Damn it. He needed air, a cigarette.

  ‘And what is your opinion, sir?’ Some fat woman, with arched brows and too many pearls seated alongside the blusterous colonel-type, quizzed him.

  ‘On which subject is that?’ he managed.

  ‘Why, the deserters and the Freedom Bill, of course.’

  ‘There is no discussion to be had. Hang, draw and quarter them. Miserable cowards,’ her neighbour bellowed.

  Charlie’s views had been forgotten. The guests had moved on, clamouring to throw in their tuppence-worth. He was disregarded. Thank the Lord.

  ‘And what of this fellow who speaks of reprieve, of damaged minds, of war trauma?’ shouted one from the far end. ‘Does he have a point, do you think?’

  ‘Poppycock!’

  A sweat bead dropped treacherously to Charlie’s jaw. He lifted his napkin, dabbed his lips and discreetly wiped his face. Laying the napkin on his bread plate, he rose as unobtrusively as he was able. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’ Nobody was listening. The debate was rising in volume, fired by copious servings of fine wine. He left the room swiftly, colliding in the hallway with the cork-nosed cook, carrying a steaming dish of new potatoes. She let out a cry. He made hasty apologies and headed on down the corridor towards the back of the house.

  He’d sit outside on the porch for a while, rescue his self-control. Re-inhabit Charlie Gilliard, drive down the temporary resuscitation of Robert Lord. The whooping and loud voices diminished, then died away as he stepped out into the warm night air. The zizzing of a grasshopper drew his attention, a decidedly more amiable companion. He lowered himself into a rattan chair at the table where the cook used to shell peas. He should go and keep Maggie company. Or was she content for a short while with those aged admirers to entertain her?

  He raised a hand to his face and rubbed at his mouth, dry and tight. Robert Lord was not a yellow-belly coward. He was just a man, barely more than a teenager, who could no longer stomach the decaying stench of death and killing. But he was gone. Gone. Robert Lord was no more. A tidal swell rolled up within him. Was he about to be rumbled, to lose everything for a second time?

  He would like to take Maggie on holiday, whisk her away, to Greece perhaps, the ancient sites, the islands, just the pair of them, away from the responsibilities of flowers and farming, away from the clouds rising ominously above the perfume-making capital. Make love, read poetry, create babies. He would have had the resources to cook up such a plan a month and more back – why hadn’t he? – but their funds were too tight now. His savings were spoken for. He and four other local farmers had clubbed together and sent a small pot of money to the Italian villagers who had lost lives and family. He was the most junior of the producers in his area. Handing over his donation had cost him dearer than his neighbours, who had few debts against their land and homes. Still, he could not have refused to contribute his share.

  Was time closing in on him? What if someone should come looking for him in the light of this wretched Bill, if Maggie should ever learn the truth? If she should be publicly humiliated and judged for his ignominious past? Better to kill himself than bring her to shame … Why hadn’t he confided in her?

  ‘There you are. I wondered where you’d got to. What are you doing sitting out here alone?’

  ‘Oh, listening to the night,’ he said, brushing away a tear, conjuring up a phoney smile. Wasted. She couldn’t detect it. She was standing behind him.

  ‘I see you had a browse through the photographs. All that pomp and ceremony. It was quite marvellous, very moving. An event unlike any I have ever attended.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, preferring not to be drawn further on thoughts of home and bloody England. He heard the creak of wicker, the swirl of a skirt as his companion sat down.

  He and his erstwhile employer remained hushed, in stillness for a full minute or two, imbibing the perfection of the night.

  ‘And one or two rather interesting developments have come out of all this, which you may not have heard about it.’

  Charlie maintained his gaze towards the garden where, beyond sight, the sea pattered softly to the shore. ‘Really?’

  ‘The big debate in Parliament that has that bunch in there all heated concerns the “missing members of the armed forces”. Our “lost men”.’

  ‘Lost?’ He coughed.

  ‘Men who went missing in the war …’ She paused.

  For dramatic effect or … ? Charlie’s torso shifted. The cane chair released a squeaking sound, betraying his disquiet.

  ‘It may have come as a surprise to you. I know you don’t follow events back in England …’

  ‘The farm keeps us busy. It’s been a difficult year.’ He cursed the reedy tone in his voice.

  ‘I thought you might have heard of the men lost in the theatres of war?’

  She waited. His lack of response hung in the air. ‘Perhaps not. Well, a debate has been raging in the UK. Oh, for six years now. A chap called Austin triggered it. A decent individual, the Honourable Member for Stretford. He has been fighting for … those who … deserted, who found themselves as deserters. Austin was lobbying for their pardon.’

  Charlie barely dared draw breath. Hand shaking, he pulled from his left-hand pocket a squashed packet of Gitanes, drew out a cigarette and dropped the packet on the table. His first fag in days, but he had no light, no match. He could not turn his head. Lady Jeffries was seated across the table from him. However, her chair was placed a foot or so further back. To face her, he would need to swing his body and that, at this moment, seemed a physical impossibility. He was frozen.

  ‘The British government has finally agreed to an amnesty. Churchill announced it in February. An amnesty for wartime deserters from the forces as part of the Coronation celebrations. It’s been getting a great deal of heated attention. There are as many as a hundred thousand men unaccounted for. Personally, I think it quite marvellous, don’t you?’

  Had she gleaned the truth? Had she always known it?

  ‘It certainly has my vote. New opportunities for those disenfranchised boys to begin their lives again as honourable British citizens. A clean slate.’

  Charlie lifted his hand, with its unlit cigarette, to his face, rubbing his thumb against his left cheek, feeling the hollow beneath his cheekbone, his fingertips against his right. He had shaved before they’d left home. His skin was smooth to the touch, smoother than usual. It was a rare event for him to shave any time after his morning wash.

  Charlie Gilliard/Robert Lord was left-handed. His dead pal, Peter Lyndon, whom to this day he still missed with a deep-fisted grinding in his gut, had been right-handed. Was it even vaguely conceivable that, when the remains of Pete’s body, lying in burned shreds and shot bone shards on the beach, had been gathered up and pieced together, it was evident the remains were from a right-handed corpse, and only one corpse at that? That there were insufficient body parts for two men? Whatever had he been thinking? What skewed, traumatized logic had driven him onwards? Might it have been written into the war records that, in spite of Robert Lord’s brevet ditched on the shore alongside Lyndon’s right-handed body, it was clear to all that Robert Lord was not there? Was it possible that Robert Lord had gone down in history as missing, not killed honourably
in action? Missing, possibly deserted? Had he fooled nobody?

  And if that were the scenario, what had they told his mum, his parents, and dear Doris Sprigley? His mum, his dear old mum, whom he would give the world to see again, to wrap her in his arms, lift her off the ground and swing her about as he used to do, escort her and his dad down the road to the Plough for a pint … But how could he ever look them in the eyes now? Doris, Dad and his mum … How could he admit the lengths to which he had gone to deceive everyone?

  Tears were falling, dampening his unlit cigarette, the flesh on his hand, and he was grateful, damned grateful, for the lack of light out there. No overhead electric bulb glaring down upon him, only the starlight creeping in from outside, creating shadows, and the distant wash of the sea.

  ‘You know, Charlie, many deserted to preserve their humanity, despising the cruelties they had witnessed and had been obliged to partake in, not because they were cowards. Lost men are returning to their families after years in hiding. No judgement, no charges against them. A free pass home to pick up their lives where they left off.’

  Lady Jeffries rose. He winced at the jarring scrape of cane legs against flagstones as she pushed the chair backwards. She crossed a step to him and rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘I suppose for those still in hiding abroad, who have attempted to build new lives, this must be an almost impossible choice.’ She handed him a lighter, waited while he fumbled to ignite his cigarette.

  ‘I had better be getting back to my party,’ she said softly. ‘A houseful of hungry and irate guests champing at the bit. Bigoted old buggers.’ He heard her soft laugh. ‘We’ll see you inside for the main course. When you’re ready. No hurry, Charlie.’

  No hurry? No hurry? It was too damn late.

  Dawn, 14 November 2015, Paris

  ‘It was around that time, after the evening at Lady J’s, that I began to notice changes in Charlie’s personality, his comportment. The signs were insignificant at first, but they grew more alarming over the weeks. His personality began to inch away from him, turning him sour. Yes, sour and moody are the adjectives I would use. Even with me he snapped, and he had always had a loving gesture for me. Girl that I was, I put his moods down to the financial pressures we were living through. It was partly accurate, I suppose. A general malaise was setting in, and its negativity was spreading. A greater number of the farmers were worrying that the glorious days of the perfume industry were numbered. Synthetic scents were the future, or essences pressed from plants grown in foreign countries where the labour was cheaper. Egypt for jasmine. Bulgaria for the roses. Up at the pressing plants in the centre of Grasse, concerns were mounting as to how long they could maintain their jealously guarded position as the perfume centre of the world. Those who sourced the blossoms that were transformed into natural aromatics and scents, which is to say the agents – Arnaud, in our case – and the factories that purchased the raw materials were starting to haggle over the prices they had previously agreed with the flower producers.

  ‘Arnaud paid us an unannounced visit, well in advance of our jasmine harvest, a week or two after our evening at the cinema and dinner with Lady J. He was requesting, or rather demanding, we sign a newly drawn up contract. He wanted a guarantee of more flowers, a greater crop load, except he was offering the same money. For every kilo of jasmine delivered to him, he was offering us thirty centimes less than he had paid the previous year. Charlie argued with him, refused the deal, then lost his temper, which was so out of character that I was taken aback.

  ‘It was a considerable cut and we were in no position to accept it, even for one season. Arnaud’s riposte was that a greater harvest yield would bring us back up to the same figures. I thought Charlie would punch him. Charlie, whom I had never seen lift a finger even against the livestock. He tore up the written contract and flung it back at Arnaud. Then he stormed from the kitchen, hurled himself into the truck and sped off in a flurry of dust and stones. I told Arnaud to get out.’ Marguerite shook her head wistfully at the memory. ‘It was the second time that year I had ordered him off our farm.’ She chuckled. ‘Later, when it seemed I had lost everything, the mean bastard tried to grind me further into the ground. But he didn’t win. Oh, no, even to this day, he didn’t win.’

  Marguerite and Charlie, La Côte d’Azur, late June 1953

  When Charlie eventually returned home, Marguerite could see right away that he’d been on the booze. She was down in one of the pastures feeding barley straw to the donkeys. They had also acquired a few chickens and geese; the latter were honking for supper. She spotted Charlie’s silhouette against the backdrop of an epic violet evening sky as he swayed, slipping and sliding, descending the track that led to the rear of their house. He was on foot. Where was the old bus? This excessive drinking was becoming a habit. She wished he would confide in her, open up about what was eating at him.

  Marguerite let drop the buckets and picked her way hurriedly back up to the patio that led through into the kitchen. ‘Charlie?’

  There was no response.

  She found him at the table, clothes damp and stained with petrol, head bent over his folded arms. He was exhaling great gulps of air. Marguerite, poised uncertainly at the open doorway, thought he was sobbing. She glanced about the room, taking in the state of the place. A photograph of their house when it was semi-constructed hanging on the wall had been knocked askew. He must have banged against it as he came in. Otherwise, everything was as it had been. His jacket had been thrown across the back of another chair. ‘What’s happened to you?’

  When he lifted his head, there were no tears, but puffiness, the whites of his eyes like a map with red roads, and his breath on fire. In all the time she’d known him, Marguerite had never seen her husband in such a condition. It frightened, panicked her. ‘Charlie? Tell me what’s happened.’

  He had run his truck off the winding road into a ditch on the ascent out of Grasse. A man in a black beret driving a small white convenience van, a country plumber from somewhere not far off but not a face Charlie could have put a name to, had pulled over, given him a hand to get out of the truck and offered him a lift home. He’d deposited him up at the ridge. From there Charlie had called in at Gabriel’s but none of the family had been at home, so he’d staggered on down the drive.

  The following morning, cursing his hangover, Charlie trudged off with Gabriel and sets of pulley ropes to haul the Citroën out of the ditch. It needed to be towed to the garage on the outskirts of Plascassier for two new tyres, wheel hubs, a mudguard, but it wasn’t a write-off, which was what Charlie had been anxious about when he’d woken with his throbbing head. In the past, he’d have taken the mishap in his stride. They would have dealt with it. But he appeared to be losing his grip – his head full of sorrow and shame – and they had little spare cash as things were, never mind laying out for another vehicle. Gabriel had driven over in his truck to tow Charlie’s out of the ditch. Charlie sat behind the wheel of his vehicle. The bugger was jammed and wouldn’t budge, wheels spinning, spitting up stones and roots. The air was charged with the smell of burning rubber. He yelled to Gabriel to hold off a minute, then go easy on the accelerator pedal: he’d get out to give his ‘old tin can’ a push from the rear. The bugger was bucking, jammed against a stone or a rock, as the rope dragged her.

  ‘Take it slow, Gabriel, mon ami, or she might roll back on me, crush me beneath her weight.’

  The dust and earth rose and rippled, sending grit whorls skywards. For a few moments, a slow-motion point in time, they blocked Charlie from Gabriel’s sight. Gabriel was keeping a careful eye through his rear-view mirror, foot gently on the accelerator, backwards, forwards, easing and pulling, taking it steady. When the clouds settled Charlie, who had been bent over at the back, shoving and heaving, coaxing his beloved old truck upwards onto the road, was staggering backwards, flapping his arms and kicking to regain his balance.

  Gabriel no longer had him in his line of vision. He called out of the open window. ‘Charl
ie! Charlie?’

  No response. He called again. Still nothing.

  The world had gone silent.

  ‘Mon Dieu.’

  Gabriel slung his gearbox into neutral, switched off the engine and threw open his unoiled door. He jumped out, boots slapping hard against earth and pebbles, lizards scurrying for cover. He was rubbing sweat from his drenched face with the sleeve of his shirt, calling again to his neighbour and friend. ‘For God’s sake, Charlie, speak to me.’

  The response was the wind blowing gently through the gorse and the birds overhead. Charlie was gone. No sign of the man. Gabriel circled the two vehicles and dropped down into the trench. There he found his dear friend, arms outstretched as though on a crucifix, dead in the ditch.

  Dawn, Paris, 14 November 2015

  ‘Later, it was confirmed that Charlie had suffered a fatal heart attack.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘His young heart had given up. Such a generous, forgiving heart.’

  ‘You must have been distraught. So young to be on your own. What did you do?’

  ‘I was lost on that hillside. I accepted the role in the film. Anything to keep my mind off my isolation. Lady Jeffries offered me work, but the film proved to be rather a success so I decided to return to Paris and study theatre. It took me years to come to terms with the loss of Charlie. I have a faded photograph of him somewhere. Let me see if I can find it. It must be in one of these drawers, tucked away beneath goodness knows what. I know when I downsized from our lovely house in Saint-Germain-en-Laye I gave away the greater part of my possessions, but I kept Charlie’s photo. Nothing would have persuaded me to part with it.’

  Marguerite was rummaging through drawers in a sideboard, wiping away an unexpected tear, when Kurtiz glanced at her damaged watch – 7:24. Neither of them had slept. They’d been up all night, talking. She should leave and let this dear soul get some rest. ‘I must get on my way, Marguerite. Let you go to bed. Check into my hotel.’