No. Even a général could not profligately distribute cars and drivers to mesdemoiselles, nor put his career at risk by giving orders or even recommendations to another’s command, on the word of a young woman he had only just met. Especially, perhaps, a général so old he had been discarded here, presumably overseeing the transportation of the wounded. She would have to trust that he was a man of honour, would give value for what he received.
She held out her hand to him … ungloved, flesh on flesh. A hand can be more seductive than a naked houri, said Miss Lily’s whisper … The smallest of caresses of his fingers.
The waitress discreetly looked the other way. Sophie suspected the discretion would last only until they had mounted the stairs; then her reputation would be gone. Though no one except Ethel knew her name. The général had not asked for it.
After their cheese and a last sip of wine, they went upstairs and he opened the bedroom door for her. A corner room: a desk, workmanlike; two brocade chairs; a surprisingly niggardly bed. He made no pretence of offering brandy, but began to strip, shirt, trousers and then …
A corset. A giant corset, covering him from chest to thigh. She stared as he reached behind to unhook it, fumbled then finally swore.
‘Pardon, my little flower. If you wouldn’t mind …?’
She began to fumble at the laces, not sure if she should cry or laugh.
‘You will have to help me with mine,’ she admitted, trying to keep her voice steady. This was worth it. Had to be worth it. She felt sick, wished she hadn’t eaten despite the need for strength for this, and what might follow.
For the rest of her life she would try to burn this day away. This whole month away.
‘A prelude to paradise, mademoiselle. But we have not talked about your fee.’ He smiled under the weight of his moustache. ‘You may not know that a général does not carry money. I must ask my aide de camp later. I say this so you know I do not cheat you.’
She stared at him, still fully dressed. He had taken her for … a prostitute! But of course he had. Why would a young woman ask to lunch with him if not for money, especially in wartime, when so many needed money so desperately? Even a young woman with her accent, her manner of dress, could be a refugee, saving her good clothes for an occasion such as this. Miss Lily’s lessons had been for another type of setting entirely — the salon, dinner parties, not a single table at an obscure hotel. She had been unbelievably naïve. Ethel had even warned her, yet she had not entirely understood …
‘Mademoiselle?’
She took a deep breath, smelled sweat, talcum powder, something simply male. ‘I don’t want money. I need a car. A driver. Or your help, getting a message to the front lines at Ypres. Monsieur le Général, it is urgent. Vital.’ She backed onto the bed, because her legs wouldn’t hold her any more. She would not cry.
‘Mademoiselle?’
The foolish old lover in a corset had vanished. Instead this was a general, a man who might be her grandfather. He pulled up one of the white brocade chairs and stared at her, absentmindedly rebuttoning his trousers and shirt. ‘Who are you? And what are you doing here, mademoiselle?’
‘As I said. Trying to borrow a car, Monsieur le Général. My name is Sophie Higgs.’
‘And why would you want a car, or to send this message?’
Only truth would work. And she must risk it. This man could have her sent back to England, even to prison in France. Vaguely she thought of the Code Napoléon: guilty till proven innocent.
‘Because the Germans have a new gas. It will be used on our troops at Ypres, the day after tomorrow. It is a horrible gas, far more deadly than anything before. It kills and keeps on killing.’
He stared at her, weighing up whether this was a fantasy, or she had been driven to insanity by the war. At last he said, ‘Do your English military know about this gas?’
He believes me, she thought. Or doesn’t disbelieve, at least. ‘Yes. I was sent the information by a German girl. We met before the war. I don’t know if she wants the Allies to win, or if she just doesn’t want this weapon to be used because it is so terrible. There is no way I can find out. But I have told the English authorities.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘Because they want to use the gas themselves. If they warn the soldiers at the front, the Germans may discover they have the formula. I … I told them that men would die, and the officer I spoke to said that men always die in war, as if it doesn’t matter how they die, or how many …’ Her voice cracked.
The old man stared at her. He might not believe the story of a secret weapon, she thought, but he did believe the story of English perfidy. He patted her hand automatically.
‘You are a virgin, then?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
The général sighed. ‘A pity. My first true virgin and she is no cocotte.’
‘You mean you believe me?’
He smiled. It was a grandfatherly smile. ‘Let us say I choose to believe you. It is a good afternoon’s entertainment. Better than I had expected.’
‘I … I’m sorry you didn’t get what you expected, Monsieur le Général.’
His smile grew wider. ‘In truth, mademoiselle … What is your name?’
‘Sophie Higgs.’
‘May I call you Sophie? In truth, my performance has not been … admirable … for some time. But one must keep up the appearance.’
Relief turned her legs to jelly. ‘I wanted the car to go and warn the troops, the officers in charge. But you can telegraph them and tell the commanders at Ypres what is going to happen.’
‘No, mademoiselle.’
‘But you said you believed me!’
‘You do not understand war, my dear. I am a général.’ He shrugged. ‘But my country is under the boot of the Bosch as well as of our allies. What do I say to your countrymen, or to my own, or the Belgians? That a girl in a hotel told me of a secret German weapon? If they believe me, they would say your English major was correct. Some things must be kept secret. Your country, my country, Belgium must use this weapon too. Men die in war. That is what war is.’
‘They don’t have to die this way. Not this time.’ She tried to shut out the memory of the sheep.
‘It is that bad, mademoiselle?’
‘It is that bad.’
‘I am desolate. But I cannot help you.’
‘You won’t help me.’
‘That too, mademoiselle. But it is you who do not understand. Have you ever fought a war?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then let an old man who has explain it to you. How can the troops at Ypres be kept safe from this weapon?’
‘I … I don’t know. Masks. Thick clothes and gloves. Or just get them out of there.’
‘Exactly, mademoiselle. How do you find masks and thick gloves for ten thousand men, on a battlefront, in one day, or even a week? It cannot be done.’
‘Then move them away!’
‘In other words, retreat. Months of fighting, tens of thousands dead for every yard of French soil won back, and you ask me to tell the commanders there to move the men back, leaving the ground to the enemy? They would not do it.’ He did not add, ‘I will not risk what little position I have left on the judgement of a young woman’, but she heard the words nonetheless.
No, the English command would not move their troops, not give up an inch of ground, no matter the casualty rate. Nor would the French, and other nationalities serving there. They had not cared about the death of thousands before. Why should it be different now? Especially when they, too, might use the weapon …
But the men on the ground … If she could talk to the junior officers who shared the trenches with their men, so when the gas came they’d know enough to give the order, ‘Run!’
‘Then lend me that car. And a driver who knows how to get there. If anyone finds out, you can say that it was an act of chivalry … that I was trying to reach my brother who has been wounded.’
‘Do you ha
ve a brother?’ The général sounded merely intrigued.
‘No, mon Général.’
‘You want a driver too?’ The old voice was resigned. He did believe her, had seen enough suffering, perhaps, to do a little — a very little — to stop more.
‘I do not know the way,’ she said.
‘Very well. But I would like to meet you again, mademoiselle. When you have finished with my car and driver, where can I find you?’ His smile was the most genuine of the afternoon as he added, ‘And I will try to seduce you at luncheon again, and this time you will most properly refuse, and it shall be entertaining for us both and for all who watch us.’
‘At the Ritz,’ said Sophie. It was the only Paris hotel she knew.
‘And your name really is Miss Sophie Higgs?’
‘Yes.’ It hadn’t occurred to her she should have given him a false one. His smile grew as he followed her thought.
‘Luncheon after the war, then? With champagne to toast your efforts?’ For a moment he looked serious. ‘I think you may trust my driver, mademoiselle. He is British, assigned to my staff as my aide de camp, and he should know the area. He is a man of sense. If it is too dangerous, he will not take you further, nor himself, nor my car. You understand that and accept?’
‘Yes,’ said Sophie. ‘You … you are very kind.’
He shrugged. ‘In this war I have saved no men’s lives, nor cost any. Too eminent to discard, I am put out to graze like a worn-out horse. But this afternoon, perhaps, I may be of use.’ He lifted her hand, and kissed it.
‘I would love to lunch with you, mon Général. After the war is over.’
‘Then let us find my aide, and the car. And a basket of provisions suitable for a young lady.’ He opened the door and ushered Sophie into the corridor. ‘Venez ici!’ he called.
‘Mon Général.’
The door to the next room opened. The man wore a British uniform, well pressed. He stared at Sophie, then at the door to the général’s bedroom open behind them.
‘Hello, Angus,’ she said.
Chapter 58
There is such comfort in old friends.
Miss Lily, 1917
13 JULY 1917
Dawn was a grey smudge beyond the farmhouse.
‘So there you were,’ Sophie said. ‘And there was I. But I didn’t … have relations with him. Truly. Though I would have, if that had been required.’
‘Then I will give you the truth too. I wasn’t angry with you because I thought you’d slept with a French general — or yes, I was, but it was more than that. I was mostly angry because you put me in danger, and because I was ashamed that I was terrified, but had no power to refuse.’ Angus met her eyes in the dimness. ‘This is your fight, Sophie Higgs. I was as safe as one can be in war, till you seduced the général.’
‘I didn’t.’
Angus shrugged. ‘Whatever you actually did together, you seduced him. And he gave you me, just like he gave you the car, and the picnic basket.’
The sky’s black was turning grey. Soon there’d be light, the day, the war. Charlie stirred restlessly in her arms. He peered out towards the chicken, still balanced on the steering wheel of the car.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Good dog.’
Charlie gazed at her as though he didn’t care about ‘Good dog’, even in French. But at least he settled back, a heavy weight on her lap. She suspected the soldiers wouldn’t waste ammunition on a dog, but they might mistake something as big as Charlie for a human.
‘I was safe. A liaison staffer with the général, which means taking messages to our generals, usually about where they are to lunch. It’s the safest job in France, and the best-fed. It’s all I’m good for. Do you know why I couldn’t face going back to the trenches?’
‘Because you’d been through too much already. I never blamed you. You’re not alone; I’ve seen what can happen to men who’ve been there too long —’
‘Have you really? You’ve seen the ones who make it back to England. Most like me don’t! I’m not scared of dying. Well, I am, perhaps, but that’s not it.’ He moved back from her. ‘There was a kid in my unit, back in early ’16. I do mean a kid — one of the borstal boys.’
‘Borstal?’
‘The boys’ prisons. I don’t know what this one had done. Pickpocket, thief … Twelve years old, maybe.’
‘Twelve? But you can’t enlist at twelve.’
‘He didn’t enlist. The borstal boys had a choice: stay in prison or join the army. If they spent a year in the army, they’d be free, all records wiped away. Money in their pockets, heroes back home — what boy wouldn’t join the army after that?
‘That’s who I was back then. A man who gave orders to a twelve-year-old child. And others, who might have been older in years, but knew no more.
‘The lad stood it for three weeks. I found him hunched up crying for his mother in the trench. The other chaps pretended they didn’t see him. I gave him my handkerchief, persuaded him to drink some cocoa. Said the usual things, how his mother would be proud of him, England would be proud of him. God knows if any of it was true. Got him to stop crying, though, even to eat a biscuit. Then the orders came. We were to go over the top as soon as the moon rose, try to take a farmhouse pretty much like this one.’ He stopped.
‘He was killed?’
‘No. He ran. Away from the farmhouse, away from the guns. He hadn’t gone more than a few yards when a sergeant felled him in a rugby tackle. By the time I got back from the raid they’d already tried him. I had to command the firing squad that shot him. And, heaven help me, I did.’
‘You … you had no choice.’ She tried not to let the horror sound in her voice.
‘I had a choice. It would have meant a court martial, and maybe they’d have shot me too. But I had a choice.’
She touched him tentatively, then when he didn’t reject her put an arm around him. He put his arms around her again too. They sat for a moment.
‘Sophie,’ he whispered.
‘Yes?’
‘They didn’t kill him. Not quite. I think five of that firing squad deliberately missed. The sixth hadn’t quite hit the target. I … I went up to him, kneeled down. He was dying, blood coming from his mouth. But he knew me. One of the men crouched beside me. I wondered if he was trying to give the lad comfort too, but he must have been the one who shot to kill. He dipped his fingers in the boy’s blood and wrote “coward” on his forehead. He stood and spat. And then the boy died.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Lloyd Biggins.’
‘I’m glad you remember. Only a good man would remember.’
‘Two nights later we went over the top again. That was when I got that medal you admired, and the leg wound too. But I wasn’t brave. I was just past caring. After that boy’s death I couldn’t give orders — not to send men to their deaths, not to send them to kill other men. Did you know that about one man in three can’t shoot the enemy? They fire over their heads, or shut their eyes when they pull the trigger. Did you know that after every advance about half the men have messed their pants or wet themselves? That’s who our British heroes are. And they are heroes, because they try to stick it.’
She wanted to comfort him, but didn’t dare interrupt the flow of speech.
‘I … I vomit if I have to give an order now. If I’m lucky, I make it to privacy before I do. I’ll help you through this if I can, but I don’t know how much use I’ll be. Letting that boy die like that was the greatest act of cowardice I can imagine.’
‘You were trapped. Like he was trapped.’
‘No. Just playing by the rules. Goddamned inhuman rules. You were right. This war is fought like a rugby match. If enough of us had the guts to break the rules, we might end it all. But most don’t even see it, and men like me don’t stand firm.’
He looked at her fully now. His face was sooty in the growing light, white where Charlie had licked his cheek. ‘I’m a tailor’s dummy, useful for wearing a nice u
niform with my medal.
‘You know why they gave it to me and not some other poor damn sod? Because the lieutenant I saved was a viscount — he’d enlisted under another name. There’re men out there who carry stretchers into the heaviest of shelling to bring out the wounded. Men who have died trying to bring a mate back beyond the lines. But this thing,’ he flicked the decoration, ‘they gave this to a coward for carrying an aristocrat.’
‘What if I said I loved you anyway?’
‘The truth, Miss Sophie Higgs? I’d feel worse. I can’t stand pity.’
‘This isn’t pity — it’s respect.’
He snorted.
For a second she saw herself clearly; saw her choices as vividly as if they were lined up on the skyline for snipers to shoot at. Angus deserved his self-respect, for he had done his duty.
There was one way she could stop him from feeling a coward. Give him another image of himself that would take him once more into the front lines. Just once, to save lives. And then back, to his général and safety — because she wanted him safe, because she did love him, even if she was not sure what kind of love it was.
She carefully shoved Charlie behind her, where he couldn’t make a dive outside. She bent to whisper in Angus’s ear. Whispers are for secrets, Miss Lily said. And pillow talk is always secrets. ‘I have four breasts.’
‘What?’ Angus stared at her, then began to laugh. ‘Sophie, there’s no need to seduce me. I’m not the général. I’m here. I’ll do my best.’
Sophie kneeled to whisper again. ‘Imagine my wedding night when my husband found out I had four breasts. You are the only man I could confess it to.’
‘Sophie …’ He sounded torn between desperation and laughter. And something — perhaps — more.
‘You don’t believe me? You’d better count them, then.’ She reached down and undid two buttons on the now-grubby silk dress, showing a whisper of the lace on her stays. Only two, whispered Miss Lily, always let him do the rest.
His hands moved to her dress. She waited anxiously to see if he did up the buttons again. His fingers fumbled another undone, and then another. He looked down at the tops of her breasts in her stays. ‘Only two.’ His voice was hoarse.
Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies Page 43
