‘The roads are nearly deserted, Mam. There’s hardly any cars or trucks. The Jerries took them. You can’t even buy a bike.’
In regard to the latter remark, Phyllis said gloomily, ‘You can’t buy nothin’ much here, neither,’ and she looked down in disgust at her bleached blackout curtains.
‘What’s he look like? Got a picture?’
‘No. I tried to get some film for our old camera before I went, remember? Nobody seemed to have any – or if they had it was under the counter.’
She dutifully described her lanky sweetheart, with his fine Norman features, deeply lined. ‘He’s twenty-nine years old and he’s gone through hell with the Jerries, Mam.
‘And to crown all, after they hoped to be rid of the Germans, the Allies fought all over his land, flattened his apple trees, killed his birds in their coops, and ruined his home.’ She looked up from her sewing, and exclaimed, ‘Do you know, Mam, his farm’s full of land mines and shells and unexploded bombs? He’s still waiting for them to be cleared. Nobody can even walk into the place till it’s cleared.’
‘What birds?’ Phyllis asked suspiciously.
‘He and his family is poulterers, Mam. They raised hens and sold eggs and chickens. Before the war, with their neighbours, they was planning to send eggs to Britain. They made cider from the apples they grew. It’s sometimes very strong.’
‘Humph. And how much did you drink, young lady, to swallow his line? It could be a pack of lies.’
‘I don’t think so, Mam. He was driving the taxi for some American soldiers who were staying in the same hotel as me; and they thought very highly of him. One night, I had dinner with their officer, Colonel Buck, and he told me a lot about him.’
‘Humph.’ An American might’ve been a better buy, considered her irate mother.
While Phyllis slowly turned the sewing machine handle, Barbara described Anatole’s tuberculosis and his terrible years in Germany, ‘like a slave.’ She stood up to fold a curtain. ‘He died a few days before I was due to come home. And I held Michel in a dark corner of the cathedral while he wept it out,’ she told her mother baldly. ‘He said he hadn’t a friend left alive, and I said, “Oh, yes, you have. You’ve got me, my love.” And he has,’ she concluded defiantly.
She turned her back on her mother, as she laboriously completed the folding of the heavy material. She wanted to cry out to God to keep him safe and send him to her – and give her mother some compassion for him. Only God wasn’t there any more.
As she turned back to ask which pile of curtains needed more rings, Phyllis was saying philosophically, ‘Oh, aye, Joyce Talbot’s girl got TB in the ATS and she died. Can’t do much about it.’ Then she looked up at her daughter, tossed another curtain to her, and asked, ‘He’s not got it, has he, for God’s sake?’
‘I don’t think so, Mam. He’s half-starved by the look of him, but he’s quite spry. He does kick-boxing and he still exercises.’
‘And just how’s he going to work here, speakin’ like a Frog? And how am I supposed to talk to him?’
‘That’s rude, Mam.’ Barbara was suddenly annoyed. ‘How do you think he talked to me?’
Phyllis accepted the thrust. ‘Right,’ she grunted irritably. ‘But, look here, girl. He’ll never fit in. Can you imagine him in this village – in the pub?’
‘I don’t know, Mam. Get him some English clothes and an English haircut, he won’t be that obvious. Actually, I can’t imagine him in a pub – more likely he’d be in a café drinking coffee.’
Phyllis exploded. ‘In a café, drinking coffee? That’d be a sight to see. Him amongst all the ladies!’
‘They’d love him,’ shot back Barbara, seeing him in her mind’s eye turning his undoubted charm on all the elderly local matrons sipping their morning coffees. Then she said, pleading, ‘Don’t be cross, Mam. We both know that it’s going to be a long job getting him here, getting settled, finding a job, hopefully, in the poultry line – though he could probably go to sea if he had to; they’re so short of men.’
Phyllis’s lower lip trembled. ‘They are,’ she agreed, her voice a little hoarse.
Barbara glanced at her mother and was immediately contrite. She dropped the curtain she was folding, and went to kneel by Phyllis’s chair. ‘I’m sorry, Mam. Try not to grieve.’ She put her arm round her mother’s bowed shoulders. ‘It could be nice for you to have a man about the place. He’d take some of the headaches off you.’
Phyllis stiffened up. She sniffed, ‘I’m OK. It’s just sometimes, I do miss your dad, even now. And I was looking forward to your Georgie coming to help, like.’
‘I know, Mam. But he can’t come, and we both have to face that fact.’ She sighed heavily. She couldn’t say that she was convinced that Michel would be better for her than ever stolid George could have been; it would be unfair to say anything about a decent man who was dead; because George had had an innate goodness in him, and she was aware of it.
Instead, she said, ‘Michel could be a big help here, you know. He and his dad only had about five acres of land; yet they made a living. And we’ve got about that much here – and it’s farmland, not just a garden.
‘And that reminds me, how long has Joe got on his agreement with us for taking hay?’
‘Renews it every October. He’s started grazing a few of his cows on it this spring, as you know. Are you saying your Michel could farm it?’
‘Sure he could. Whether he can get permits to build barns and hen coops, we have to find out.’
‘Look here, girl, this lease is mine, not yours,’ Phyllis snapped in exasperation.
‘Oh, Mam, I know that, but you wouldn’t mind, would you? We’d get veggies and fruit, eggs, chickens, maybe milk from a cow. Even if it’s not a big moneymaker, it would be a boost for the B-and-B with everything fresh.’
Phyllis meditated while she held some pins between her lips, preparatory to turning up yet another frayed hem. It’s my livelihood, she repeated to herself, and very nice it was before the war. She took a pin and stabbed it into the curtain hem. What would I do with a Frog around the place?
But, then, Barbie’s put in a tremendous lot of work, even with that awful job in the war. She’s not being unreasonable, if the man’s liveable with. If I were real unhappy with them, I could put ’em out, anytime. It’s my house.
Then she smiled at herself – as if I could ever put our Barbie out. And the garden’s a proper mess, she reflected. Neither Barbie nor me’ll ever get it to look anything – we haven’t the time. And not a single neighbour has complained about Joe’s cows being here this month – or them being smelly.
She temporised. ‘I wouldn’t want anything smelly near the house. Our gentlemen reps wouldn’t like it, for sure.’ She glanced at the pile of folded, fairly white curtains on a chair. ‘And you can take that pile up to the front hall room and stick ’em on the bed. I want to scrub the walls down afore I hang them.’
‘I’ll do that, Mam, and the scrubbing, first thing tomorrow morning.’ She sighed again. ‘It’d be nice to be able to get some paint, wouldn’t it?’ She picked up the pile of curtains.
As she passed her mother, she bent and kissed the top of her head. Then she paused, hugging the curtains to her, and said, ‘You know, Mam, this place is too much work now. Having a man about the place could help a lot. And we could have an agreement with him about how much share he gets, so everybody knows what we’re doing.
‘And you could keep the books, so you’d know everything’s shipshape – no cheating. Not that he’ll cheat us.’ Her voice warmed, as she went on, ‘You’ll love him, Mam. He says English words real nice; he’s got a voice like Fluffy’s purr. And you’ve been saying for ages that you wanted to take things easier. With a man to take some of the load, now’s your chance.’
‘Tah!’ spluttered her mother, and pulled another curtain towards her. ‘I want to see him first – and I won’t drink any cider before I take a dekko at him! Have you fixed for him to come yet?’
Barbara shifted the pile of curtains in her arms. ‘Well, he’s going to get a passport so he can come for a holiday, first – give you a real chance to get to know him.’ And, she admitted honestly to herself, for me to know him too.
‘Well, I suppose that’d be all right. It means one of our bedrooms doesn’t earn anything for the time he’s here, though.’
Barbara hadn’t considered this point. ‘I suppose you’re right, Mam.’ She stood silent for a minute. Then she said, ‘I could put a bit from me savings into the pot, ’cos it’s true you might be short.’
In Phyllis’s view this reflected on her own naturally hospitable nature. ‘No, I wouldn’t take it, I wouldn’t.’ She pursed her lips primly. Then she added, ‘If he’s your friend, you can have him to stay and give him a nice holiday. And then we’ll see.’
Barbara dropped the curtains, and turned to hug her. She wanted to cry with relief. The first battle had been won. ‘Thanks, Mam.’
Phyllis unwound herself from her daughter’s arms, and said unsmilingly, ‘Never let it be said I denied you having a friend to stay. And just you pick up them curtains. What are you doing, girl? White curtains on the floor!’
Chapter Thirty-seven
Five days after Barbara and Michel’s final, quiet public farewell at Bayeux station, when she left for Paris, a letter arrived for Michel. It lay waiting for him on Madame Blanc’s well-scrubbed kitchen table.
‘I knew you’d be coming down to dinner so I kept it here,’ Madame told Michel.
It smelled as if Madame was preparing tripe; she had seemed determined to feed him properly, and he hoped that this would give him the energy he badly needed to get through the next few months.
Madame was nearly beside herself with curiosity that he should get a letter from England, the address of which was written by hand. The other occasional letters he had received from there had been typewritten; she had understood that they were from the airman he had rescued. As she examined the new letter awaiting him, she had been disappointed that it carried no return address on it. Young Michel could be quite secretive.
Michel had had a busy day. He had decided that he would first look for work in Calvados, simply because it was his birthplace. Wrecked as it was, some of it had been cleared and there were signs of life. Today, he had tried one or two small places within a twelve-mile radius, where he knew there had been hotels, but without success. He had realised that he really was too shabby for the work he wanted. He would have to begin by working on a farm or something similar.
Out of the corner of her eye, Madame watched Michel open the letter. There was such a satisfied smile on his face that she was further intrigued.
After loving greetings, Barbara went on to advise that, to begin with, he should indeed come to England as a visitor. During that time they could be married from her home by special licence. He could then look round for work.
From the point of view of English officialdom, marriage would be a good reason for his desire to stay, she said. Then, they would try to extend his time with her – one way would be to obtain a student’s permit and enrol at a college for a few months to study the English language, or even an agricultural college, if it were not too expensive; she had, she wrote, a little money saved which might help with fees. As a student, he could certainly stay for a while, and, in his spare time, he could see what could be raised in her huge garden. Then, perhaps, with his knowledge of the poultry trade, he might get a work permit. She was making further enquiries about work permits.
She was also checking on what her own legal position would be if she married him.
She reminded him that the B-and-B had a telephone, which made enquiries blessedly quick. She had given him the number before she left.
His faith in her was justified, any haunting doubts swept away. She had not been idle since her return home. She had even found a university student in West Kirby willing to give her French lessons, she told him.
Though he longed to telephone her, to hear her voice, it seemed an enormous, unnecessary expense, which he could not possibly manage.
Open letter in hand, he contemplated her with unrestrained adoration. His spirits rose to dizzy heights, overriding both grief and fatigue. What joy it would give him to make her two hectares fruitful. And how very sensible in her enquiries in England she was proving to be.
One day, perhaps she would be able to speak to him fluently in his own language. In return, he promised himself, he would try to perfect his English.
In front of Madame Blanc, he had to control his desire to laugh aloud. Meeting Barbara had been little short of a miracle. If he ever told anyone how short their acquaintance had been, he would be castigated as totally without common sense.
Anatole, he remembered with a pang, had said that he longed to meet such an interesting lady, who had made such an impression on his kid brother.
And wise old Father Nicolas had not condemned him for his desire – once he knew she was a Roman Catholic, of course; and that would be his best argument when trying to sell to Maman the idea of his unusual marriage.
He had not yet told Maman about her. He wanted Maman to get used to being with Claudette and without him, before he went to Rouen to tell her. In addition he had not been quite sure what he and Barbara would be able to plan together; he wanted to present his family with firm arrangements in view.
He winced at the thought of telling his mother. He knew it would hurt her; no one but himself would quite understand the traumas she had endured. No one else had shared the memories which knitted mother and son together.
Despite my darling Barbara, despite my high hopes, the separation is going to hurt me too, he thought with sudden unhappiness.
Because he wanted to break the news to Maman as gently as possible, he did not want to give Madame Blanc any inkling of what he had in mind; she might, after all, write to Maman.
He returned to reading the letter.
To get permanent residence, Barbara went on, could be a slow matter, fraught with red tape. He had to get his worn pocket dictionary out of his back pocket, to look up red tape.
He surprised Madame Blanc by unexpectedly laughing out loud. Red tape? So what else was new?
‘Joke?’ enquired Madame hopefully.
He looked up at her. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, but much to her chagrin, did not enlarge on it.
And talking of red tape, Ciel! He would need a passport – and he must find out the cost and how to apply for one.
He turned over the page of the letter. She reminded him of the airmen he and Maman had sheltered, and how he had told her that the father of one of them was very eminent – a lawyer or a judge or something. Could he let her have their addresses? What about her asking them if they could advise him about permanent residence – and, eventually, citizenship, if he wanted it?
An excellent idea.
Michel scanned the last two paragraphs, and then hastily folded the letter, in case Madame, who had some English, could read upside down over the dish of steaming tripe she was bringing to the table. He would savour the end of the letter in the privacy of his room.
Meanwhile, he examined with some awe the plate of tripe she put before him. Had she really made tripe à la mode de Caen? He was being spoiled indeed. He had not seen the dish since before the war.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The following day, Michel rode over to Port-en-Bessin, in the hope that his Uncle Léon might still be in port. Though it was a pouring wet day, he did not want to waste time, so he had set out regardless of the weather. He could not admit to himself that he was desperately lonely. And there might be some kind of work he could do in the little port, he considered.
He was soaked to the skin by the time he arrived at the ancient cottage in which Léon Benion lived with the rather formidable middle-aged woman Hortense, who was accepted by his family as his housekeeper.
Léon was indeed in port, she told Michel. He had been held up by the storm that had brought the
rain with it, she said, as she bustled behind him into the stuffy old-fashioned, stone kitchen with its blazing coal fire.
Arms akimbo, she then surveyed his dripping state.
‘Come into the bedroom. I’ll get you something of Léon’s to put on while your clothes dry. You should buy an oilskin, you silly boy.’
‘Hortense, I can’t afford one,’ he replied good-humouredly, as he followed her into a back room.
When Léon arrived home, his oilskins dripping, he found his nephew ensconced in his chair in his clothes, while a bedraggled outfit steamed on a rope strung across the mantelpiece.
As Léon greeted him, and handed his own raincoat and beret to Hortense, Michel sprang up from the chair.
There was a good deal of laughter, while Hortense dealt with a second sopping wet male. Hortense was not as grim as she looked, decided Michel; he had met her before, of course, but it had been Léon alone who usually came over to visit his brother’s family.
‘You came on a bike?’ his uncle asked, gesturing towards a corner by the door, where the precious bicycle, neatly folded, was propped against the wall.
Michel said he had, and told him of the Americans’ generosity. ‘That job’s finished,’ he added.
‘How is Maman – and the girls?’
‘Anne-Marie and Claudette are as usual. Maman is exhausted. She’s had too much to bear.’ Michel lifted his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘She’s borne up bravely all through the war, as you know, and then looking after Anatole. Now, it’s caught up with her. She misses her home. Claudette’s doing her best to comfort her; she’s taken her back to Rouen.
‘Claudette says she’ll keep her in bed as long as she’ll stay there, while she gathers strength. Despite the rationing, Bertrand’s bakery is doing quite well; Maman will be well fed, thank God. Both Claudette and Bertrand want her to live with them. They really need an extra woman in the house, just to watch little Colette.’
He stirred uneasily. ‘Things have been very tight with us, since the invasion. Maman insisted on saving everything she could – first, for Anatole’s funeral, which she knew would come – though she never admitted it. Then for eggs to restock the farm. She didn’t eat much, and it worried me. I gave her all I earned, but she wouldn’t always spend it.’
Madame Barbara Page 32
