Some Day I'll Find You

by Richard Madeley

But Hélène had noticed Diana from almost the first time she visited the market, admiring her beauty, which reminded her greatly of her own daughter. Marie too had dark looks, and the same green eyes, and like the Englishwoman opposite, she knew how to dress. Hélène had missed her child since she had left Nice to work in Paris, and took a secret pleasure in pretending to herself that the girl opposite was her own beloved daughter, come to visit.

  Now, Hélène saw that something had changed in the Englishwoman’s demeanour. It was obvious she wasn’t paying her newspaper the attention she once had, and she seemed obsessed with passing traffic, particularly taxis. Men, too. The young woman was constantly on the look-out, giving sharp glances to almost any smartly dressed man who approached. Her expression flickered from hope to disappointment throughout her sojourn at the table and when she finally left, she appeared sad and defeated.

  Hélène, already minded to feel maternal towards the young woman, became increasingly concerned. Finally, one morning, when Diana had been fidgeting at her usual table for more than an hour, Hélène came to a decision. She smoothed the front of her apron, propped a painted wooden Fermé sign against her stall, and crossed the street to the café. She walked straight up to Diana’s table on the corner of the little wooden terrace.

  ‘Bonjour, madame . . . you are English, I think?’

  Diana, who was staring in the opposite direction at a suspicious taxi that had, in fact, just disgorged two elderly ladies carrying tiny dogs, gave a slight start.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, you gave me a fright. Yes, I’m English. How did you know?’

  The woman gestured to Armand, who was washing glasses inside, behind his tiny bar. ‘I sometimes come here for lunch and Armand likes to talk about you.’ She smiled at Diana. ‘He is a little in love with you, I think.’

  Diana smiled back. ‘Won’t you sit down? My name’s Diana.’

  ‘And I am Hélène.’ The woman sat opposite.

  ‘Would you like a cigarette?’ Diana asked, offering her the packet. ‘Your English is frightfully good.’

  Hélène took a cigarette and Diana lit one for each of them.

  ‘Merci, Diana.’

  ‘Je vous en prie.’

  ‘Your French is good, too, madame.’

  Diana blew out a thin jet of smoke. ‘Thanks. It’s coming along. Where did you learn English?’

  ‘From my late husband. He was from Manchester.’

  ‘Well, that would explain it.’

  The two women sat smoking companionably for a minute before Diana spoke again.

  ‘Madame – Hélène – what is it that you want?’

  The older woman nodded slowly. ‘But that is the question, my dear, is it not? What is it that you want? What – or perhaps who – are you looking for every day when you sit here?’

  Diana looked slightly haunted. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  Hélène gestured over her shoulder to her flower-stall, which at this time of the morning was almost bare. Only a battered metal bucket containing a dozen white roses remained.

  ‘It is obvious to me from over there each morning. I noticed you weeks ago, when you first came here. Truly, you remind me of my daughter. You are much the same age, I think. My Marie is in Paris now and I miss her greatly.’ Hélène tapped ash from her cigarette into the little tin ashtray between them before continuing.

  ‘But, alors, it is to you that my . . .’ Hélène searched for the word. ‘ahh . . . ma curiosité—’

  ‘Curiosity – it’s the same.’

  ‘Of course . . . my curiosity is directed to you. There has been a change, madame, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘What do you mean? And call me Diana, please.’

  ‘There has been a change, Diana. Armand says that some days ago, a mysterious event took place. You saw a man in a taxi you thought you knew, and since then you have not been yourself.’

  Diana felt a sudden overwhelming desire to unburden herself to this woman, but she resisted a little longer.

  ‘But we have not met or spoken until this moment, Hélène. With respect, how would you know what my normal self is?’

  Hélène blew her cheeks out and gave a little shrug. ‘Écoutez, my dear, I am a woman like yourself. Such matters are clear to us. No, you are not yourself and that much is plain to see.’ She placed her hand on top of the young woman’s. ‘Tell me. Who are you waiting for?’

  The unexpected physical contact and the sincerity in the Frenchwoman’s voice were enough to breach Diana’s already shaky defences. She dropped her head low over the table. Glittering teardrops fell from her eyes and she plunged both hands into her hair, and then down to cover her face.

  ‘I can’t stand it . . . I can’t stand it any more,’ she wept through her fingers. ‘I don’t know what to do – I’m in complete limbo.’

  Hélène swiftly moved her chair next to Diana’s, and put both arms around her. The younger woman fell on her shoulder, wracked with sobs.

  Hélène let her weep, making occasional sympathetic noises and clucking softly. Armand watched, transfixed, from behind his little bar.

  Eventually Diana regained control and Hélène passed her a napkin, on which Diana noisily blew her nose.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Hélène . . . It’s been such a strain. Goodness, you must wish you’d never come over to me.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear . . . but, please, where is this limbo you speak of?’

  Diana laughed despite herself, and then hiccuped.

  ‘Limbo is a word that means, oh I don’t know . . . lost; in the middle of nowhere . . . you’re stuck there and time seems to stand still.’

  ‘Ah, la salle d’attente – the waiting room.’

  Diana nodded, hiccuping. ‘Yes, that’s it exactly.’

  Hélène nodded slowly, and then lifted Diana’s chin with one finger.

  ‘And so now, ma chérie, you will tell me who it is that you have been waiting for.’

  Diana told her everything. How her brother had brought James Blackwell home to the Dower House; his visits to Girton and their whirlwind engagement after Dunkirk; the double tragedy that crowned their wedding day; and how she and Stella had begun to build a future under Douglas’s protection here in Provence.

  At first Diana started off at a rush, and more than once Hélène was obliged to ask her to slow down. But gradually, the more Diana spoke, the calmer she became. The jerky hand movements that had accompanied the opening of her story died away, and she found it increasingly easy to look directly into the older woman’s kind eyes as she unburdened herself. The only remaining sign of strain was the series of cigarettes that she lit for herself, one after another.

  Hélène listened mostly in silence, until Diana told her about the taxi that had driven past Armand’s café over a week ago. Here she stopped the younger woman and asked a series of sharp questions. When she was satisfied, Diana carried on, finishing with the findings of the RAF report into James’s death.

  By the time Diana finished her story, Armand had wiped down all his tables and covered them with white tablecloths. The café was ready to serve lunch. Knives and forks with pretty blue handles, and glasses – green for water, plain for wine – shone and sparkled in the sunshine. It was only a little past noon, but already the chairs around them were beginning to fill up.

  Armand bustled over to them, tying a fresh white apron around his tubby waist.

  ‘I trust madame is feeling quite recovered?’ he asked, looking shyly at Diana.

  ‘Yes, Armand, completely,’ Diana replied. She was surprised not to feel any embarrassment about her tears earlier. As she watched Armand nodding and bobbing in front of her, twirling his waxed moustache nervously between finger and thumb, Diana realised how fond she had become of him in the few short weeks since arriving in France.

  ‘Très bien,’ he said now, and conjured a menu seemingly out of thin air. ‘Will mesdames be staying for déjeuner, peut-être?’

  Diana raised her eyebrows at her new friend. �
��Shall we?’

  ‘Why not?’ Hélène replied, standing up. ‘You order for us both, chérie – I must close my stall properly. It is the only one left open. Order anything you like, everything is good here.’ Armand bowed at the compliment.

  While Hélène sluiced down the pavement surrounding her pitch and brought the sun-bleached wooden shutters clattering down on her stall, Diana, with Armand’s assistance, ordered their lunch.

  ‘Salade niçoise to start with,’ she told Hélène a few minutes later when she returned, ‘and then I was going to order us sole grillé but Armand says it’s nicer cooked meunière and finished off so it’s golden-brown – how does one say that in French again?’

  ‘Bien doré,’ Hélène provided. ‘An excellent choice. And now, my dear, don’t you want to know what I make of your remarkable story?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘I must warn you, Diana, I am going to be direct.’

  Diana nodded. ‘Good.’

  ‘Very well. But I want you to . . . how did my husband used to say it? Ah, yes – “hear me out”. No interruptions, yes?’

  Diana nodded again, and noted the past tense, concerning Hélène’s husband.

  ‘So,’ Hélène began. ‘I do not think for one moment, my dear, that your first husband is alive.’ She held up a hand as Diana drew breath to speak. ‘Non! Silence, s’il vous plaît. You promised.’

  Diana subsided. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Yes . . . as I say, I am quite sure he is dead and that he died on the day of your wedding. That much is clear to me. Think about it, Diana. Let us assume, for a moment, that your husband survived the terrible plane crash. Let us also assume he was not captured by the Germans. He would have needed help to survive, and only the Maquis – the Resistance – could have given him that. But they would have sent a message to England, non? They would have explained that your husband was safe. But no such message was received, was it?’

  Diana lips were tightly compressed. ‘No,’ she managed.

  ‘But let us continue to pretend. He survives, and somehow lives out the rest of the war here in France. That is five years, Diana. Five years! Why does he not manage to send any message to you? But most important, why does he not come home to you as soon as the fighting is over? Mmm? Why have you never received a letter or message of any kind from this man? Why would he abandon the love of his life like this? It makes not any sense to me. Does it to you?’

  Miserably, Diana shook her head.

  ‘Now let me ask you a question,’ Hélène continued. ‘Until two weeks ago, did you have any doubt at all that this man is dead?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Non, absolument pas. That is the correct reply, chérie. And did anyone else consider the possibility he was alive?’

  Another shake of the head.

  ‘No. I thought this would be your answer.’

  Hélène paused as Armand brought their starters.

  ‘Eat,’ she ordered Diana when the patron had gone. ‘That is something else that is changed about you, my dear. You are getting rather thin, I think.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Diana jumped as Hélène rapped the table with her knuckles. ‘Eat!’

  She obeyed, forking small amounts of tuna, boiled egg and anchovy to her mouth. The oil and vinegar and lemon juice dressing was delicious, and to her surprise, Diana felt her appetite stirring.

  ‘Now, where were we . . . ah, yes. The morning of the taxi, here in the flower-market. Your father tells you he has similar moments concerning your brother. He thinks he sees him alive once more, yes?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t hear him too, like I did James. He—’

  Hélène raised her hand for silence again. ‘Yes. And now, my dear, I am going to tell you something about myself.’

  She paused to eat some of her own salad and pour them both a little of the rosé wine from the demi-carafe Diana had ordered.

  ‘So.’ Hélène dabbed her mouth with her napkin. ‘I told you I was married to an Englishman. His name was Gerald. We met in the war, the first one. Your own father fought in it, you said?’

  Diana nodded. ‘Yes, he was an infantry officer for almost the whole of the war in France.’

  ‘Then he was very lucky to survive and you were very lucky to have been born, my dear. I think he does not talk about his time in France much, yes?’

  ‘Hardly ever. He once told me it was more or less indescribable.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . that is certainly so. Diana, I was a nurse in that time. I worked in a field hospital just behind the lines, near Rouen. That is where I met my husband. He was brought in with three machine-gun bullets in his shoulder. He was . . . how is it said . . . shocking.’

  ‘You mean in shock.’

  ‘Yes, he was in shock, and the doctors thought he was going to die, he had lost litres of blood. But I was determined not to let him die. I was not a very good nurse, Diana; I lost many of my patients, although I am not certain now that any of them could really have been saved. Their wounds were so . . .’ Hélène fell silent for a few moments before continuing: ‘But with Gerald I had a feeling here’, she gestured to her heart with her fork, ‘that he was a man sent specially for me. It was my destiny to save him, you see. I knew this.’

  Diana was intrigued. ‘What sort of man was he?’

  Hélène laughed. ‘Was he a handsome officer, you mean? No. Well, he was an officer like your father, but Gerald looked like a little frog. I told him so, when he started to get better and tried to flirt with me. “You are a little English frog,” I told him, so many times. But he just laughed. He told me he was a teacher and he would teach me English, and he did. He was very patient with me and one afternoon, when he had fallen asleep in his bed, I looked at him and I discovered that I had fallen in love with him.’

  Diana was absorbed in the story. ‘Where did you get married – in France or England?’

  ‘Oh, in England – in Manchester. Gerald’s parents lived there. My parents were so angry, first when they discover I was engaged to an Englishman, and then when I told them I would be married in England!’ She smiled. ‘But at least they were happy he was a Catholic.

  ‘We were married in a beautiful little church in the heart of the city – the Hidden Gem, it is called. Next day, we caught the train back to London, Gerald transferred to a troop train to the boats and I went back to Rouen on my own.’

  Hélène sipped her wine. ‘I never saw him again. He was killed a few days later in a bombardment. All the men in Gerald’s trench were killed too, and they never found their bodies. Not one. I received the news on the day that I discovered I was with child. My Marie. It was a little like you and your James, I think, Diana. We managed to make a new life before . . . before . . .’

  She fell silent. This time it was Diana who reached for Hélène’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Hélène . . . but why are you telling me this, please?’

  The other sighed. ‘Because I had exactly the same experience as you, my dear, and not just once. When I went to England to visit Gerald’s parents, I saw and heard him everywhere . . . in trains, on buses, in cafés. I thought I was gone mad. Once in a restaurant I heard him laughing behind me in only the way Gerald could laugh, and then he said, ‘There you are!’ and I turned round and just for a moment I saw my little frog, but then he turned into a quite different man altogether. I cried and cried. Yet I had been so certain – just as you are, Diana. Just as you are.’

  Diana finished her wine and filled the glass again from the carafe, thinking hard.

  ‘It’s because Gerald’s body was never found, isn’t it,’ she said at last. It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Yes. You have quite taken the point, my dear. I believe that it is most important for one to see the body . . . or at least speak with someone who has. It makes the death a realité . . . one can accept it more easily, I think.’

  Diana sat in silence for a long time. ‘Thank you, Hélène,’ she s
aid eventually. ‘I feel as if you’ve woken me from a very strange dream. It hurts . . . it hurts a lot . . . to let go of what I felt so sure was real, but everything you said about James never making any attempt to come back to me or send a message, and everything you say about your experiences after your own husband was killed – well, of course, you’re right. I’ve been living in a fantasy.’

  Hélène smiled at her. ‘Many women like us do, Diana, for a time at least. But we must help each other to accept the truth. I know I will never see my Gerald again; perhaps you can accept the same about your James.’

  ‘Yes, I think I can.’ Diana stood up. ‘I’m not going to stay for the rest of the meal, Hélène. I want to get home to my daughter. Will you tell Armand to put this on my account? I settle up with him at the end of each week.’

  ‘Bien sûr. Thank you.’ Hélène rose too. She cupped Diana’s face in her hands and kissed her on each cheek. ‘I hope I was not too hard.’

  Diana smiled. ‘No, Hélène. On the contrary, you’ve saved me, that’s what you’ve done.’ She began to walk back to the Promenade des Anglais.

  ‘Will you come back here, Diana?’ the older woman called after her.

  ‘Of course,’ Diana said, turning around. ‘This is where I come to improve my French, isn’t it?’ She waved, and walked on.

  42

  Hélène was late to market the following morning. She hated that; it meant that most of the day’s business would be lost – if, indeed, there were any suppliers left to buy stock from. They’d probably all gone home by now.

  As she hurried through the back streets leading to the Cours Saleya, Hélène ran her tongue over her newly filled tooth. She’d woken in the night with a raging toothache. As a former nurse, she had no fear of dentists and was waiting outside the surgery when the practitioner arrived to open up.

  Hélène’s friends sometimes teased her that she ‘looked’ like a nurse. It was true. There was something very capable about her; Hélène wore her competence like sensible clothes. As Diana had discovered, it was easy to place one’s trust in those grey eyes that looked out kindly from beneath a wide, smooth brow. Auburn hair, now streaked with grey, was habitually tied back in a neat chignon. Even Hélène’s work-clothes had something of the hospital ward about them; she favoured green or pink striped cotton dresses with formal white lace collars. She had never been seen in high heels of any description; Hélène always chose sensible flat, lace-up brogues.