With Men For Pieces [A Fab Fifties Fling In Paris]

by Sophie Meredith

  “Darling, of course!” he said. “Mother, this is Sheila. “We’ve been together for two years now….”

  “Enchanté!” said Sheila, holding out her left hand.

  “Plissed to meet you,” she said in her best, clipped English.

  Sheila looked disappointed. She was not to know of this woman’s long-kept resolve to never speak again in her native tongue.

  Yvonne Grandsire was a proud woman, though born of peasant stock. She had struggled for many years to be independent. Of her relatives, of her friends, of her country. Ever since that day in June, 1940 when she had left France, clutching the hands of her two small boys, her pockets full of the family silver that had seemed the most logical thing to snatch up in the short time available. She had fought her way onto the last train to leave Paris, machine-gunned much of the way to St. Malo. They had spent an anguished thirty hours crossing the Channel, dodging the mines…nothing to eat, no drinking water…more than one refugee lapsed into madness. The older boy had been a source of comfort to her, never complaining, squeezing her hand in silent encouragement. The younger one had added to her misery by his constant whining.

  The nightmare journey over, she and her little family had sought out relatives of her husband but were hardly given a warm welcome. What with rationing and Air Raids, who had the time to worry about three extra people who did not even speak English? Yvonne wasted no time in finding a place as Cook where she could live-in with her sons.

  England had given her then a safe harbour—she would be eternally grateful. She loved England, she loved the Royal Family, she loved the Prime Minister, the National Health Service. She made an intense effort to shed her French skin: to become English.

  She began with the language. She forced herself to read the Daily Mirror conscientiously every day, till at last, she could cope with its content, not merely its headlines. Her sentences were still spattered with her “’er says” and “’e not going at the bus.” To the end of her days, she would say “I’m disgusting!” meaning “disgusted.” Her few friends were amused, but they respected her efforts and did not mock.

  There was another reason for this total rejection of her native language: she had run away, not only from the Germans, but from her husband, too. They had long ceased to love each other, she and Jean Grandsire. He had taken a mistress and his only value now to his wife was the fact that, being half-English by birth, he had thus provided her with a British nationality and passport. He was, moreover, fighting with the British Army, the Royal Engineers Regiment, so she received an allowance for the duration of the War. This she used for the children, keeping herself entirely on her earnings in the kitchen of the South Coast hotel.

  The first blow to this comparatively-peaceful existence came when Jean claimed his eldest boy through the Courts. Taking advantage of her ignorance of the law, of her difficulties with the language, he avowed that she was not providing a suitable home for an impressionable boy of ten. The intimations of immorality in this plea arose more out of his own promiscuous leanings, but he managed to convince the judge that the Winterbourne Hotel, while not exactly a brothel, was no better than it should be. Young Jean was whisked off to Yorkshire to a public school and housed with his northern relatives during the holidays. For little Paul who was five, his father provided the fees for a Private Dayschool but graciously allowed the child to stay with his mother, being too young to be corrupted, apparently.

  Unfortunately, Paul was the living symbol of Yvonne’s unhappiness. It was during his gestation that Jean had first flaunted his unfaithfulness. Besides which, he was the image of his father. Mother and son did not get on: there were exhausting battles of will, while he was still young, a cold distance growing between them as he matured. He was deeply ashamed of his mother. She was different to other boys’ mothers. She spoke strangely. She mixed with humble people. She ran a sweetstall at a market—bought with capital saved and scraped from her hotel wages. Little did he realise that a young man in the same lodging house was later to become a famous playwright and use the sweetstall to set a scene in a drama which was claimed as a breakthrough in British Theatre. (John Osborne: Look Back in Anger) Not that Paul would have been all that impressed by this tenuous cultural connection. He was concerned with the commercial, rather than the cultural side of life.

  He set his sights on a comfortable, respectable niche and, by the age of twenty-three, had married into a thriving business. Grudgingly, he invited his funny old mother to the wedding. His new family coldly ignored her “Continental” manners, she who thought of herself as totally English. Jean senior was long dead. The world would probably see it as his redemption that he had died of war wounds, a dislodged piece of schrapnel causing a hideously painful death. Not so his wife: she could not forgive him for the misery he had caused her. And she blamed him for the second personal tragedy of her life.

  John junior had run away to sea at the age of fourteen and had not made contact since. She heard from her seldom-visited relatives that he had said some bitter things about her rejection of him, apparently believing she had given him up too easily. Her yearning for this lost firstborn grew stronger as the years passed. Paul’s family was little consolation to her. His two children were pleasant enough little tots—it was they who had invented the name Mémévonne to distinguish the rather wierd old lady from their other grandmother. Their mother, Deirdre, began to re-think her previous condescending attitude to her mother-in-law. Paul had proved an asset to the firm in his own stiff, unimaginative way. He was now on the Board. They had moved into a Georgian jewel of a house in Surrey. The children would soon be starting French at school. There may be Continental holidays in store. Mémévonne could be very useful. Of course, one would think twice about having her about the place too much. There had been that hint of scandal at the Winterbourne Hotel. And she was a forceful personality—very outspoken. Still, one could run the children over for afternoon visits and the stubborn old soul must be persuaded to converse in French with them.

  Mémévonne refused categorically.

  “England ’as been good to me,” she said. “I will never return to France where I was so un‘appy. I will never speak the French language again.”

  So she taught her grandchildren some culinary secrets, she entertained their mother politely—but she would speak not one word of French.

  Deirdre was exasperated. And Paul was no help—he had long ago forgotten the limited vocabulary he had brought with him.

  Deirdre tried again.

  “Mémévonne,” she pleaded. “I’ve taken a cottage in Brittany for the summer—you will come with us, won’t you. We’ll pay all your expenses of course.”

  “No t’ank you,” said the old lady shortly. “I prefer to take my ’oliday in Cornwall as usual.”

  But after Deirdre had driven huffily away, the children waving merrily from the back window of the Rover, Mémévonne had wept. She wept for the drying up of her heart. For the hard shell she had built over the years from which she could not now escape. For the grandchildren she could not warm to. Paul and Lilian, Big Paul and Deirdre—they were all she had in the way of family…and she could not love them.

  Then she received the telegram.

  She could not bring herself to open it. She took it round to her neighbour in the row of tiny, neat bungalows, well removed from the Promenade. Kind-hearted Miss Brown, the closest friend Yvonne had made in the prim, seaside town, could see no way of breaking the news gently.

  “It’s from Sheila,” she began. “Bad news, I’m afraid, my dear.”

  “Sheila!” repeated Yvonne in a daze. “I do not know a Sheila.”

  “It’s about your son. He’s been hurt in a car accident, he’s in hospital.”

  “My son…” whispered Yvonne, who knew already in her heart that the message was not about Paul.

  “Yes, Jean, your…other son,” said Miss Brown, who knew just a little of her friend’s history. “He’s in the Hôpital Saint-Marie…in Paris.�
��

  Paul was almost as shaken by the news as his mother. It seemed to shock him out of his complacency and bring out a weakening emotional side of his character. It was left to Deirdre to arrange the flight, to shepherd the pair through the ghastly journey, the slight delay at the Immigration Desk where Yvonne’s dual nationality was briefly disputed. Somehow she got them by taxi to the grey, stone building in the Quartier Saint-Jacques. They were received by a serene, elderly nun who spoke to Deirdre in excellent English after one look at the stunned expression on the old woman’s face, the set, grim fight not to give way on the man’s.

  “I have good news,” she said. “Monsieur Grandsire is making suddenly a marvellous recovery. Come, we will go to him at once.”

  Deirdre held back as the Sister pushed open the door of the small room. Through the porthole she had seen a figure swathed in bandages, his leg attached to a pulley system. Sickness had always made her feel faint and it seemed that her reserves of strength had been used up on the journey. Paul and his mother went quickly to the bed, one on each side. The door swung to.

  Outside, Deirdre asked the religious, “How did it happen?”

  “He was on holiday with his family—his first return to France, we gather—what a sad end to such a Rentrée—to collide with a lorry….”

  “His family?” questioned Deirdre.

  “Oui! His wife and stepson. They were only slightly hurt.”

  “And…Jean?”

  “He will walk again—but he will need lots of care for several months.”

  Paul came out and leaned on the wall.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “It was too much…I must….”

  The nun showed the couple into a nearby waiting room and bustled off to fetch coffee.

  * * * *

  Amongst his complicated paraphernalia of straps and harness, Jean was speaking.

  “Mother,” he said. “France is bad news. Just like you always said…I should have…trusted you….”

  “My son,” said Yvonne. “Perhaps I should….”

  Then Sheila arrived and his eyes lit up as he kissed her. Unaware of his mother’s hostility, he craned his bruised neck towards the door.

  “Is Jason with you?” he asked. “Jay—are you out there, you young scamp?”

  The door burst open and in came a little boy as unlike Jean as is possible in two males of the same species. Jean was dark and broad-shouldered. Jason was a skinny, blonde four year old. He ran eagerly into the room and their mutual love was evident from the way they embraced.

  Jason turned to the old lady. Impulsively, he handed her the flowers he had brought.

  “Jean!” gasped Yvonne. “Regardez les fleurs!”

  She went on in rapid French to ask him if he remembered the time when they were happy and lived in the Rue de Cérisiers and how his father always brought home mimosa. It was as though the little yellow blooms, their distinctive perfume, had unlocked a hidden chamber in her mind. The years between, her disillusionment with her husband, the loss of her children…all that was washed away. The mimosa belonged to an earlier, happier time.

  Sheila tiptoed out and went in search of the other visitors.

  * * * *

  “You must be Sheila,” said Deirdre as the nun showed in a young woman, one arm in a sling.

  “So happy to meet you,” said Sheila, holding out her uninjured left hand. “Hello, Paul…and….”

  “I’m Deirdre.”

  Sheila put a hand to her eyes and sat down suddenly.

  “Oh my dear,” cried Deirdre. “You were hurt too…and your little boy….”

  Sheila smiled and shook her head.

  “We both had a lucky escape!” she said.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Before the accident, too,” mused Sheila. “Jean is a very special human being you know. I can’t begin to tell you what he’s done for us….”

  “How did you manage to get in touch with his mother?” asked Deirdre curiously.

  “I got her address from mutual friends in Yorkshire,” confessed Sheila.

  Wistfully, she explained. “I persuaded him to come over here. I hoped to help him over his hang up. And it’s worked. But what a price to pay.”

  “How do you mean, it’s worked?” asked Paul.

  “The surgeon says that under the anaesthetic Jean talked in fluent French—yet he deliberately hasn’t spoken anything but English for twenty years.”

  Paul and Deirdre gasped, thinking of Mémévonne’s equally stubborn resolve.

  “Let’s go back to them now,” said Paul.

  He was amazed at the twinge of jealousy he felt—he who had never felt the need of his mother’s affection. Deirdre too felt a stab of indignant envy at the sight of the blonde child cuddling up to Mémévonne—she who had held young Paul and Lilian at arms’ length all their lives. The little boy looked up and smiled briefly before turning his trusting gaze back to Jean.

  Mémévonne took Deirdre’s hand.

  “Look, Deirdre,” she said. “Mimosa. my favourite. You were too young to remember, Paul,” she added kindly. She looked from one to another and her lined face was illumined with joy.

  “Let’s all spend the summer in Brittany!” cried Deirdre impulsively.

  “Quelle merveilleuse idée!” cried Jean. “What a super sister-in-law, Paul. And Maman has been telling me about your lovely pair of kids. I hope they’ll be comin, too.”

  “Oh, bien sûr!” said Mémévonne and Deirdre shot her a look of gratitude.

  Paul spoke quietly to Sheila.

  “They’ve laid their ghosts at last.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I look forward to hearing the whole story one day. But for now, how glad I am that mimosa was all they had left on the flower stall.”

  Chapter 27

  The Rambouillet Forest lies southeast of Paris. On a rise in the middle of this popular picnic spot is a hospital, built originally as a sanatorium. Consumptive patients used to come here for the Fresh Air Cure—all the ground floor windows open onto sleeping-balconies. The park is criss-crossed with paths, hopefully encouraging TB sufferers to exercise as soon as they were fit enough.

  It was the ideal setting for post-operational therapy—réeducation the French call it. Robert’s little room was cosy compared with the bleak disrepair of the Parisian ward. He was reconciled now to the almost salt-free diet. Here it was more imaginatively presented. He showed me his daily bread ration—a third of a baguette, pale and tasteless, issued every morning to last out the whole day. The greater part of his portion was stowed away in a drawer. He saved it for Philippe who was always starving. I was pleased to see him togged out in the track suit. As I had thought, the blue exactly matched his eyes.

  “We go for a run twice a day,” he boasted. “The woods are magnificent. I’d like to show you.”

  We went out of the front entrance and walked around the building, thus passing in front of Philippe’s window, though he was only next door along the corridor as the crow flies or rather as the nurse scuttles. He was closeted inside with his wife and children, all crowded round the television set.

  “I passed it on to him,” said Robert. “I hope you don’t mind. There’s still a few weeks left on the lease, but I’d much rather read—and write.”

  I was so pleased to hear that he was writing again that I ignored his reference to my arranging the rental of the television.

  “I’ll send you in a typewriter!” I cried. “And paper—pencils—books….”

  He stopped his steady jog-trot.

  “What do you think of the autumn colours?” he asked. I followed the sweep of his arm. The trees were magnificent and through a gap, we could see from the knoll where we stood, a splendid view of open country beyond. I turned to look at him and caught him gazing at me with yearning. This was so different from his harsh brightness the last time I’d seen him—I caught my breath.

  “The sun on your hair,” he gasped. “It’s just the colour o
f a chestnut—you should let it grow longer.”

  I muttered something about keeping up with modern fashion but neither of us heard. We stepped towards each other. I felt myself melting. And he—the shell was cracking—he did not need to be protected from me anymore. He was surrendering and I, too, was giving myself gladly. We sank into the bracken. The world revolved.

  “Is it…will it have done you any harm?” I asked, brushing twigs from my clothes but nestling still in the crook of his arm.

  He laughed, and it was such a good sound. It was not the mischievous chuckle he shared with Philippe as they together tormented the nursing staff. Nor the bark of amusement at Mabiche, smuggling in his chicken dinners. It was our laugh—from Brittany—from another woodland scenario. So, trees do hold a magic, I thought. It had just needed this recreation of our first love scene to bring it all back.

  “The doctor specifically advised it,” he was saying. “Poor Philippe looked quite dismayed when Doctor Dove said “All you need now, Messieurs, is a little gentle running and a lot of…amour—not too many mistresses at a time, mind you.”

  I thought of the small, tight-lipped woman who would be called upon to provide this particular aftercare for the other terrible twin. I was glad to be attractive, to be able to promise pleasure to the man I loved.

  “I want to talk seriously now,” he said.

  I moaned softly. I did not want to spoil our moment of ecstasy.

  “I must!” he insisted. “You must come to understand…everything. First—Lilian.”

  I pulled away slightly, but he forced me back close to his body and I did not resist further.

  “I know it’s not much to start with,” he said. “But just for the record, she’s my half-sister and even that’s not certain. We supposedly shared the same father, but my stepmother was—frankly—a whore. She tried to get rid of Lilian…a botched up abortion could just explain the way she is. But poor Father always took pains to give the impression that it was a family weakness. I told you about my aunt—his sister. Probably just a coincidence that she was ‘similar” to Lilian. It’s tragic, don’t you think, that he should have needed so desperately to make himself believe that he had not been cuckolded.”