Madame Barbara

by Helen Forrester

Michel undid the bike and lifted it down from the taxi’s luggage platform. Duval examined it. He laughed, and said he had always wondered where the bikes brought ashore during the invasion and those carried by parachutists eventually went. He had never thought of their being picked up by Americans. He could sell a thousand if he could lay hands on them.

  ‘You never see this particular kind in the street,’ he went on thoughtfully, as he ran his hands along the handlebars and tried the brakes. ‘I believe this one actually came from parachute troops – I know they had a special folding bike to carry on their backs.’ He straightened up, and added, ‘You’re lucky.’ And Michel had to admit that, yes, he was.

  He rode it home and caused a sensation as he turned neatly down the narrow alley.

  He carefully carried it up to his room and propped it against the wall. Being able to fold it meant he could usually take it indoors, he congratulated himself; and, consequently, he would be much less likely to lose it.

  This cold attic room, in which they had suffered so much, was his room now. But without Anatole and Maman, he hated it; it made him feel almost physically nauseated.

  On the evening of the funeral, after collecting her sparse belongings and tying them in her shawl, Maman had said a fond farewell to her son and Madame Blanc, and had accompanied Claudette back to Rouen, to begin, after she had rested a little, a new life as resident grandma to a wide-eyed three-year-old Colette.

  Michel had no desire to remain in the room for any length of time; he could not even persuade himself to sleep in Anatole’s now vacant bed; it was where he had expired, and it was customary to clean thoroughly a bed and room where someone had died. This had not been done. So he still slept on his narrow mattress on the floor. Madame Blanc had agreed that he could take an evening meal with her each day, for which he would pay her. Unless the taxi proved to be very popular, he was not sure whether he could continue to do this.

  He had put out feelers already, looking harder for a job locally. Now he had the bicycle, he could get work on a farm, he knew, but he wanted, if possible, to avoid hard, physical labour. For that he would need to go elsewhere.

  He lay on his mattress and smoked his last cigarette as he considered the implications of having the bicycle.

  With patience, he could range all over Normandy. For temporary work, he could probably find another poulterer desperately short of labour, a place where he could use his considerable expertise. But they would not pay much, he decided.

  What he most needed was to save enough money to buy some decent clothes, and to maintain himself in France – and in England for at least a little while. He wanted, also, to take Uncle Léon into his confidence, tell him about Barbara, and his idea of living in England; ask his advice as to how best to go about it all. Uncle Léon knew some of the English ports really well, and would, he felt, be able to advise him about costs and any problems.

  Then he remembered the breeder from which his father had sometimes bought eggs to improve his own small number of breeding stock. The man had had a big business; before the war he had even employed a bookkeeper/clerk who kept the careful records of the hens skilfully selected and mated to produce the best breeds: that was where Chanticleer had come from – poor Chanticleer, who had ended up as dinner for three sales Boches.

  He decided that, with his last week’s pay from the Americans and his gardening money, he would buy himself a respectable-looking second-hand mackintosh and a trilby hat, and get a haircut. His mother had always cut his hair while they had been in Bayeux, using Madame Blanc’s scissors. In the second-hand stalls in the market, he might also find some trousers, which Madame Blanc might be kind enough to press for him. And, thus disguised as someone a little better than a dreadfully deprived peasant, he would try for a clerical job in the egg and poultry business of his father’s supplier.

  He rolled on his straw mattress and smiled grimly, as he thought how much fun Anatole would have got out of this dress-up effort at self-aggrandisement.

  To give himself some idea of what else might be on offer, he had spent an hour in the corner coffee shop consulting the ‘Help Wanted’ advertisements in the various newspapers available to its patrons. And in order to gain some insight into what was happening in England, he read, with far more attention than he would normally have given them, any small snippets of English news which the papers happened to carry. His survey did not turn up much that was useful.

  He had, in his pocket, written references, one from Duval, resigned to losing his driver eventually, and an absolutely glowing one from the colonel, testifying to his integrity, his driving ability, his knowledge of Normandy, his excellent English and his reputed years of experience as a farmer.

  After some thought, Michel decided he could also take a look at the holiday resorts along the coast, and see what hotel work he could find. Not all the coast was a total ruin. Trouville and Deauville, pre-war English playgrounds, might not have been so wrecked as other places; he could try the hotels there if he had no success in his application to the poultry farm.

  First, however, he would use a precious day to go to Port-en-Bessin to find his uncle and see if he could get his seaman’s papers replaced; like everything else, they had been lost on the farm.

  Once he had some decent clothes, some sort of a suitcase in which to put them, and money in his pocket, together with a replacement of his seaman’s book, perhaps Uncle Léon would himself take him on, let him work his passage to Portsmouth or Plymouth, his usual ports of call.

  Shortly after coming to Bayeux, when both the South of England and Normandy were in a very chaotic state, Michel had done one voyage with his uncle without his identifying book. Now, however, with order restored, he would not get far without it.

  In England, he could cycle up to Liverpool on his bike; he reckoned he could do two hundred miles or so in three days. He could sleep rough en route, find a haystack or a barn to curl up in – except for the last night, when he would have to find a place where he could wash and make himself respectable before arriving on the doorstep of Maman Bishop; he must never forget that the B-and-B was primarily her enterprise, not Barbara’s. A good first impression on Maman would be vital.

  Michel sighed. It was nice to have relations, but nobody knew better than a French peasant how families could feud over property. He must be careful with Maman Bishop.

  It was a pity that Uncle had not been able to attend Anatole’s funeral; his housekeeper, Hortense, had written that he was en route home from Cherbourg, and that Michel’s letter about Anatole was awaiting his return to Port-en-Bessin. He knew Hortense so well that he was not surprised that she had opened a letter addressed to his uncle – she ran Uncle Léon as well as his home. Only this morning Michel had finally received a response from the man himself.

  After his condolences, he had asked about Maman’s and his plans.

  Well, Maman seemed quite happy about staying with Claudette. She had whispered to Michel that she did not want to go to Anne-Marie. The poor child still did not have a proper home – the destruction of Rouen had been so extensive that only the good God knew when she and Guy would be rehoused. And though bereft of her little boy, Anne-Marie was so self-centred that she had never even seemed to realise that the loss of her son was also Guy’s loss. She might be careless of Maman’s needs and feelings.

  So stout, placid Claudette promised Maman a warm little room of her own, right above the ovens, and had happily taken her home.

  Michel was very content that this should be so. His elder sister and her husband, Bertrand, would, he knew, protect her mother; she would never be exploited. The couple had even opened their door to Michel himself, though the best they could offer was a truckle bed at the back of the shop.

  He thanked her effusively, but refused the offer.

  With an understanding smile that he might have his own plans already made, she immediately agreed, though Maman protested wearily that she would be losing her second son.

  He assured
her that he would visit her as soon as he was settled. Meanwhile, she must rest and enjoy the company of little Colette.

  Though Michel had wanted to tell Claudette about Barbara, he refrained. He was not sure how antagonistic his sisters would be to an English sister-in-law. Take one problem at a time, he decided, and what he needed now was a little ready money.

  The brothers-in-law and his uncle had all offered to pay part of the funeral expenses, so, to Michel’s relief, he was not in debt for that. He had his final week’s wages from Duval, and small amounts to collect from his two gardening jobs.

  Where should he start?

  As he waved the family off on the train to Rouen, he suddenly found the absence of Anatole unbearable. Tears ran slowly unchecked down his face. Once again, he beat himself for feeling such relief at Anatole’s death, at being free at last. He wished he had been able to discuss, hammer out, a sensible plan with him, the last really close friend left to him in an almost devastated existence.

  Not quite the last friend. There was Barbara.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  When, that evening, he had to face the empty attic, Michel was thankful to go down to the kitchen and eat the supper Madame Blanc had provided for him. As soon as he could decently take leave of her, he would walk over to the cathedral to meet his darling Barbara.

  The thought of having to say farewell to Barbara, on top of losing Anatole, tore at him, and he was rather silent as he ate.

  On the other hand, Madame Blanc, in an effort to comfort him, was quite loquacious. She praised Madame Benion and his efforts to keep Anatole comfortable, until Michel felt he could not stand any more, but he was aware what a friend she had been to the family, and assured her that none of it would have been possible if she had not been kind enough to rent the attic to them.

  He glanced up at the clock on her mantelpiece. In half an hour, he expected to meet Barbara to say goodbye. He nibbled a last piece of cheese and drank his coffee. Madame put down his heavy sigh to the loss of Anatole. She herself was going to miss the dear friend she had made in Madame Benion, so she ventured a small sigh too.

  Michel told Madame Blanc about the gift from the Americans and that he had left it secured with a bicycle lock, in the attic. Since the attic door had no key, he hoped that it would be safe up there.

  This made her a little uneasy, because other tenants might consider the room empty and wander in; one woman had already asked her, on behalf of a friend of hers, if it was now available for letting. She suggested that he put the machine in the cupboard in the roof, if it would go in.

  He did not want to have to leave it outside the cathedral, so he agreed to try this.

  He took his leave, and went upstairs to see what could be done. It was awkward, but he did finally slide the bike into the roof, and shut the cupboard door on it.

  Barbara was not standing at the cathedral door as they had arranged, and Michel’s heart missed a beat.

  He paused uncertainly on the other side of the road, and then almost ran across it.

  He found her in the porch, with one toe propping open the door into the cathedral itself. She was listening to the choir practising.

  Immediately, she heard his step, she let the door slam and turned to fling herself into his arms. He caught her and held her. Then he eased his grip in order to kiss her. He was astonished to see that there were tears in her eyes.

  He had assumed that she would grieve at their parting just as he was grieving, but somehow he had not expected her to cry; on the previous evening, she had, on sitting with him in the shadows of the great nave, discussed with him extremely practically what action they should take. Today, however, passion held sway.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he said gently, as he touched her blackened eye, which was beginning to turn an even uglier yellow under her face powder. ‘It won’t be long, I promise you.’

  She half choked as she answered him. ‘I’m trying not to.’ She sniffed, and then said in a strained whisper, as someone passed by on the pavement, ‘Let’s go in and sit somewhere away from the choir and the organ.’

  He held her tightly round the waist as they crept up a side aisle where a pillar stood between them and the organ; the music was glorious, but not particularly appreciated by a couple trying to communicate with each other.

  Unnoticed, except by the vigilant verger, they sat down. By this time, the verger had become used to the little couple who talked in whispers to each other in any dark corner they could find. Remembering how he had found them earlier, the man weeping in muffled, hoarse sobs, he had identified Michel as the man who had lost his brother, a tragic experience. Moreover, the woman was a foreigner – which was interesting. So since they did not disturb those at prayer, he left them to themselves. Where else could an obviously poor man in grief go outside his home? To a tavern to get drunk?

  As the sung Mass soared to the roof, the poor man held his beloved and wondered how he could let her go.

  And Barbara feared losing him as much as if he were going off to fight. It was an eerie, haunting feeling sitting in her subconscious mind, which she had tried unsuccessfully to shake off in the few precious days they had enjoyed together. Imprinted on her brain was her last farewell to George. He had never returned. Women friends in her village had been given great send-off parties before they left to join husbands in a dozen different countries. They never seriously expected to return. They left a frightening gap in her daily life.

  In fact, there were dozens of gaps. Who would have believed that you cared about who delivered your milk? But young Freddie had died in Tunisia, and his old, broken-hearted father was continuing the deliveries he had done on his son’s behalf throughout the war. She missed Freddie and she missed her neighbour, Mr Baines’, girl and boy. And other familiar faces – they had simply vanished.

  Now she had this dear sweet man in her arms, a gift from God. And she whimpered with fear that, despite his protestations, she would lose him too. After all he had been through, he might find the problems they faced too much and simply give up.

  As they hugged and kissed and swore eternal love, at the back of both their minds loomed also the spectres of their mothers. They were old enough to defy their elders with impunity, but Barbara’s – and probably his own – future livelihood would depend on her mother’s goodwill; and Michel knew that he was going to hurt his own maman irredeemably if he went to live in England. There was also a smaller problem that Barbara and Maman could not even converse fluently with one another.

  They had no keepsakes to exchange to remind each other of their very existence during their separation. Barbara wished desperately that she had been able to get film for her old camera so that she could at least have a snap of him. Michel wished that he could have bought a ring for her.

  The best news he had for her was about the bicycle, and she immediately saw its possibilities. She agreed that it would really help in his hunt for immediate work.

  ‘I earn. I come,’ he promised yet again.

  She cuddled closer and tried to forget her ghosts.

  The choir master finally called a halt to the practice session, the organ shut down and the chattering singers streamed out. Finally, the lights were dimmed and Michel and Barbara were left undisturbed.

  Michel managed to say at one point, ‘I order the taxi to take you to the station the day after tomorrow.’ He grimaced. ‘I have to charge you for it – but tomorrow I take Americans to the airport. Duval has to know about your trip to station.’

  ‘I realise that. Don’t worry. I can pay.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I shall see you yet one more time.’

  ‘Yes – but I am then again the taxi driver. All I can do for my Madame Barbara is find her a porter.’

  She smiled again. ‘My most beloved taxi driver.’

  In the greater darkness, they caressed each other to the point of recklessness, and, as if by mutual consent, they rose hastily and left the cathedral.

  The streets were almost deserted, ex
cept for a patrolling gendarme. A frantic Michel whipped Barbara into the darkness of a recessed shop doorway, and there they made love for the last time.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  ‘You never!’ exclaimed Phyllis Williams, completely dumbfounded when her daughter told her that she was engaged to a Frenchman. Her mouth opened and closed with amazement, as she sought for words. ‘But you was only gone eighteen days! How could you?’

  She stopped running her sewing machine, while she regarded Barbara with horror. ‘A Frog? He’d have a bad time of it here, he would. Remember the French sailors, when they was here. Lost all their red pompoms off their caps, they did.’

  Barbara laughed. ‘Mam, that was in Liverpool – and you know well enough, down in the docks, a British Army officer could be jeered at just because he’s posh. Or an American, just ’cos he looks fat. Michel’s real quiet, a real sweetie. Don’t you worry, Mam. He’s not a young fool who’ll go lookin’ for a fight.’

  She paused, remembering again his soft seductive voice. She was replacing a missing curtain ring on a white curtain, and she sighed longingly, needle poised, and asked with an effort, ‘Do you think these curtains will ever hold together with all the bleach you used on them?’

  ‘Hope they last long enough till we can find some new material to make curtains out of, but no luck so far. Not nothing worth having,’ replied Phyllis lugubriously. ‘Blackout curtains look so miserable now the war’s over, so I thought I’d try bleach – and they come out OK.’

  So that it did not slip onto the floor, she eased onto her knee the curtain she had been rehemming. Then she demanded, ’stop trying to hide things, and tell me about this lad. What’s he like and how did you come by him?’

  Barbara patiently told her the tale of the taxi. Her voice trembled a little as she told how they had sat by the roadside, and he had been so gentle – and had not tried to take advantage of her.

  ‘On a roadside? I should hope not! But then you never know with them Frenchies.’