The Men

by Anthony Masters

  ‘Why?’ asked Lucy quietly, risking an interjection. Could she begin to steer him, she wondered, or was that going to be too ambitious? Too dangerous?

  Tim paused, but didn’t seem inhibited. ‘Philippe Madol had an English wife. Not that she was there – he’d sent her home – but he was sympathetic. He hid us in the hotel for a night and then arranged another couple of days at Pavilly. The château hadn’t been requisitioned by the Germans and still had the housekeeper in residence.’ He hesitated and Lucy risked another question.

  ‘Is Madol still here?’

  Tim shook his head. ‘Not according to Peter, who tried to phone and thank him in ‘forty-six. Madol sold up after the war apparently. I’ll always remember him. I don’t know who owns the place now.’ Tim paused, looking directly at her for the first time. Suddenly it seemed almost unbearably hot in the Riley and Lucy wound down the window as quietly as possible.

  ‘Who did the map-reading?’ she asked.

  ‘Peter. He was soon prompting us to move on.’

  ‘From the château?’

  He nodded again, impatiently, glancing first at the hotel and then back at her as if he had suddenly realized they had spent an inordinate amount of time sitting in the car.

  ‘What was Martin’s role?’ Lucy asked quietly, determined to make the most of an opportunity that seemed nothing short of miraculous.

  ‘Supplies officer.’ Tim gave a cracked laugh. ‘His aim was to keep our bellies full and our spirits up. But he didn’t have much luck.’ He looked exhausted now. Was she pushing him too far? Or had he simply run out of steam?

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Tail-end Charlie.’ He laughed the cracked laugh again and gripped the door handle. ‘Shouldn’t we be checking in?’

  Lucy didn’t move, wanting more, and was relieved to see his grip on the handle relax.

  ‘Peter and Martin were the finest pair of chaps I could ever have served with.’

  This time, she forced herself not to speak, hoping the flow would continue. But it didn’t. Instead the words came haltingly.

  ‘I know you’ve always found Martin and Peter rather over-protective. I don’t mind admitting that I feel much the same. That’s why I always head for the shed. But they mean well, you know.’

  He paused for such a long time that Lucy almost asked another question. Resolutely she remained silent.

  Tim began to fiddle with the ashtray and her already taut nerves screamed. At the same time, she had the strong feeling that he was trying to summon up the strength to tell her something.

  ‘We’re here, aren’t we?’ he said at last. ‘Back in France, after all these years.’

  Lucy knew the chance had gone and plunged in shakily. ‘Was I right to make you come?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to leave me,’ he said. ‘I’m no good on my ownio.’ The attempted joke was painful. ‘Anyway –’ his grip was back on the door handle – ‘let me introduce you to the delights of the Hôtel des Arbres.’ The cracked laughter was working overtime now.

  The interior of the hotel was very different from the drab exterior. Directly Tim opened the front door Lucy saw a galleried hallway with a wide staircase sweeping up to the first landing. There was the smell of dark, cool, fragrant wood, floor polish, garlic and cloves.

  To the right of the staircase was a small reception counter with a bell on its dark surface. Nobody was around, and as they stood there in silence they could hear the melodious ticking of a clock. There was also the angry buzzing of a trapped bee as it nudged a windowpane.

  Tim walked slowly across the high-ceilinged foyer, gazing up at the galleried landing with its oak balustrade and ragged stair carpet.

  Lucy followed him across tree-patterned tiles, the branches stark and leafless, a winter design that was stained and, in some places, almost completely faded.

  Around the walls and up the staircase were woodcuts of more trees, this time in full leaf with Latin inscriptions. A large painting of traditional poplars lining a road was positioned over the reception counter, the narrow strip of tarmac fading into the distance beyond the trees.

  A photograph underneath the picture showed a similar poplar-lined road with three familiar figures on bicycles.

  Lucy felt dizzy, the shock waves sweeping her, and she clung to the counter for support. Then the dizziness receded, leaving a dry mouth and a pricking at the back of her eyes.

  Tim gazed at the photograph for a while without comment, a little smile playing on his lips. ‘We’re famous, then,’ he said at last, and chuckled. ‘Bit of a local legend, don’t you know. Just you wait till I tell the chaps,’ he said with locker-room enthusiasm.

  The photograph showed the three men perched on the saddles of heavy-looking bikes. They were dressed in ragged pullovers, shirts and corduroy trousers and each had a bag flung over his shoulder.

  ‘Who took it?’

  ‘The caretaker at the château. She thought she ought to take a snap for posterity.’ He was silent for a while, and then added reflectively, ‘I’ve changed somewhat, haven’t I?’

  Despite the fact that the photo had been taken less than ten years ago, the three men looked quite different, quite French in fact, Lucy thought. They seemed relaxed enough, as if on a cycling holiday.

  Peter was shorter and squatter and more vulnerable looking than he was now, while Martin was thin, with stringy brown hair sticking out from under his cap. But Tim was the old Tim. Tall, spare, his head thrown back almost challengingly. Of the three, he was the only one who was smiling. The expressions of the other two were neutral.

  ‘It looks as if the life suited you,’ she said without thinking.

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Did you know the photograph was here?’

  ‘No one’s been back,’ Tim reminded her. Then he gazed round him again, humming a little tune, trying to appear calm but looking anxious. ‘No sign of anybody. The restaurant’s down there, if I remember correctly. Let’s do a recce.’

  They walked down a narrow corridor into a large, square room with a low ceiling and latticed windows that looked on to a formal garden with roses, heavy double begonias and gravelled paths. Rain still glistened on the shiny dark-green leaves of the begonias and drops were falling from the almond tree. A coil of hose lay near the well-ordered flower beds and there was a trug basket full of cut flowers by the French doors. The garden was walled, with hollyhocks and lupins at the back of the border and clematis entwined with moss roses clambering over the old stone. The British would have let them run wild, Lucy thought, but the French had tamed them with trellis and pole.

  She turned away from Tim and pressed her face against the cool glass of the windows, her attention absorbed by the lovingly tended little paradise that was such a marked contrast to the forlorn square outside.

  ‘Monsieur?’ Tim sounded unsure.

  A large man, tall, bearded and run to fat, had come out of the kitchen in a dirty chef’s apron, yawning, with a splashed cup of coffee in his hands. ‘Oui?’

  ‘Je voudrais une chambre à deux. C’est possible?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the man in more than adequate English. ‘It’s possible.’ He smiled apologetically, aware that he had made Lucy look foolish. ‘In fact you can have any damn room you like.’

  4

  28–29 July

  Tim seemed at a loss. ‘I’m sorry. I would have thought in July–’

  ‘Here in Navise? It’s not exactly what you would describe as a beauty spot, is it? That’s what you say in England, don’t you? A beauty spot?’

  He was staring straight ahead at Lucy with a questioning look.

  ‘Yes,’ she said in English. ‘We do say beauty spot. The surrounding countryside is lovely and the square is – is – peaceful. And as for your garden – that’s a real beauty spot.’ She smiled at him, but he nodded disconsolately.

  ‘The restaurant just about pays. We serve good food. But the rooms are a problem to let.’

  ‘The place
hasn’t changed,’ said Tim, and received a curious glance.

  ‘You’ve been here?’

  ‘Once. In the war.’

  ‘You are familiar.’ He took a couple of steps nearer. The man’s face was doubtful and then slightly embarrassed, as if he was about to insult them and immediately lose their custom. Then he remembered and his face lit up with surprise and pleasure. ‘You are one of the heroic Englishmen in the photograph. Of course, you’ve –’

  ‘Aged?’

  ‘I was going to say you’ve lost weight. My name’s Louis Dedoir.’ He offered Tim a large fleshy hand that seemed to be covered in dried blood. Noticing its condition he wiped it on his apron but didn’t offer it again. ‘I’m sorry. I have beef on the menu. I was just cutting it up. I’ll get my wife to take you up to the most agreeable of the bedrooms. There are several that overlook the garden.’

  ‘It’s so lovely,’ said Lucy, conscious that Tim had grown tense.

  ‘It’s my solace,’ said Dedoir. He glanced at Tim again. ‘I’m honoured to have you as guests,’ He paused slightly. ‘The photograph was here when we arrived.’

  Tim said nothing and there was a silence which deepened alarmingly. Lucy was over-conscious of the ticking of the foyer clock.

  ‘My husband – prefers not to talk about the war,’ she said, startled at the stuffy, schoolmistressy tone to her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Louis Dedoir was immediately penitent. ‘I was clumsy. Forgive me.’ He was clearly anxious for some kind of forgiving comment, but she decided against giving it to him. Tim wasn’t to be bothered. He had to be a total priority.

  ‘I’m glad I haven’t changed beyond recognition,’ Tim said, making an effort to brush the slight awkwardness aside but only succeeding in increasing the tension. ‘But Lucy’s right. I don’t make a habit of discussing the war.’

  ‘Ah, my wife has arrived. Monique,’ Dedoir shouted in relief, ‘we have guests. Guests who need a room.’

  ‘Quel surprise.’ Her voice was dry and measured as she walked down the corridor. ‘Has the age of miracles come again?’ Monique Dedoir was in her mid-fifties, tall and rather austere with chalk white features and hollow cheeks with broken veins spreading from her nose into the rigid powder of her cheeks. But her eyes held an ironic, intelligent humour.

  She shook hands with Tim and Lucy with a firm dry grip, glancing wryly at her husband’s filthy apron. ‘He looks more like Sweeney Todd than a chef, doesn’t he?’ Her English was equally good. ‘No doubt you will be amongst our last guests. We are putting the hotel up for sale next month.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ asked Lucy with artificial interest.

  ‘Four years and there were two owners before that. We were running a restaurant in America during the war, but we got homesick. Like fools we came here.’

  ‘Did you know the area?’ She knew she was brightly, automatically backing her into a corner as if they were at a cocktail party in Esher.

  ‘No,’ Monique Dedoir replied. ‘It was my fault. I saw some idyllic country village where we could build up a business – and got Navise! Naturally, the hotel came to us at a knock-down price. So we bought it. The village didn’t make such a bad impression on us then. Now it’s like a vice, slowly tightening.

  My husband has got the garden. All I’ve got is ulcers. Can I show you upstairs?’

  The room, like the garden, was an unexpected surprise.

  There were dried flowers on an oak chest, a small wooden chair and a marble wash basin rather shakily attached to the wall.

  ‘Dinner is at any time from seven,’ said Monique Dedoir. ‘Louis is a good chef so you’re in for a treat. I’ll let you recover from your journey.’

  It was five, and suddenly feeling exhausted Lucy lay down, while Tim opened the shutters. The bed was austere but the mattress was not as hard as she had suspected. There were woodcuts of willow trees on the walls which were washed a pale lime green.

  Gazing round her, she felt a little more relaxed, and then saw with surprise that amongst the tree prints there was one that reminded her of home. At the back of her father’s workshop there was a single, straggling willow that leant over a pond. The willow on the wall overlooked a lake, but there was something about the shape of its slender frame that reminded her of the much loved original. Then she realized that if anything happened to Tim she would be alone. Her only relative was a cousin in Australia that she had never met. As for children – Lucy firmly shut away the negative thoughts.

  ‘Shall we have dinner in the hotel?’ she asked Tim abruptly.

  ‘I’m sure the Dedoirs would be upset if we didn’t,’ he replied with a forced smile. ‘Anyway, they speak English which is a help. I hope that hasn’t put you out. I know what a crack linguist you are. But at least I’ll know what I’m ordering.’ He gazed at her almost imploringly, as if he wanted Lucy to bring his nervous torrent of words to a stop.

  She tried to help. ‘The trouble with the English is they expect foreigners to speak their language. Insist, in fact.’

  Tim seemed put out. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said rather frigidly.

  ‘How long?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘How long what?’ He was impatient.

  ‘How long are we going to stay here?’

  ‘A day or so.’ Suddenly he seemed to make a decision. ‘You don’t mind if I go out for a bit?’

  ‘Go out?’ Lucy sat up against the headboard. ‘Go out where?’ She felt a childish pang of desertion. Why was he leaving her alone? She stared at him accusingly, panic welling up.

  His face was completely expressionless, but Lucy thought she could detect a hint of resolution in his eyes.

  ‘Just for a stroll.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Tim was silent, and she waited for a while. When the silence became unbearable Lucy repeated her offer.

  ‘I’d rather go alone. Just get a breath of air and have a think.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ she demanded.

  ‘Nowhere in particular.’

  Lucy was sitting on the edge of the bed now, not knowing how to cope with what Tim was doing. But what was he doing? Just going out for a stroll. What in God’s name was the matter with her? She tried to apply logic and found none.

  ‘I shan’t be long.’ Tim came over to the bed and sat down, holding her hand. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I’il always love you.’

  The situation suddenly seemed to have got out of control. What had started out as the greatest risk of her life had taken an unpredictable turn. But surely, that was what risks were about. All he’d done was to suggest a walk. What was wrong with that?

  ‘I shan’t be long. An hour. Maybe less. Just to have a think. Why don’t you take a rest?’

  ‘You never go out on your own.’

  ‘I haven’t had the gumption, old girl. But you’ve given me some confidence.’

  ‘Have I?’

  He bent down and kissed her. ‘You bet.’

  Strangely enough, Lucy slept, dreaming of the willow tree overhanging the pond at the back of her father’s workshop. It was a late summer evening and they were both sitting on a blanket having a picnic that she had prepared. She was about ten, and often ‘mothered’ her father in this way. On this occasion Lucy had made him tomato sandwiches with plenty of salt, the way he liked them. She had also produced sandwich spread, Battenberg cake and doughnuts, cherry slices, bread and butter and plum jam. They ate silently and companionably, watching the willow leaves rustle in a fleeting breeze.

  When she woke Lucy felt the pain of her father’s death far more acutely than at any time before.

  She glanced at her watch and saw that over an hour had passed, but her grief, long delayed, temporarily overlaid any doubts she had about Tim and she began to cry for her father for the first time since the funeral. The tears came easily, and she was grateful they were flowing at last.

  Ten minutes later Lucy got up and walked over to the wash basin where she swil
led her face with cold water. She knew the tears were just the start of her grief for the man who had been her rock and comforter, who had loved her unconditionally and who had never faltered in his depth of feeling. What was more poignant, unlike Tim and herself, Lucy and her father had never kept any secrets from each other.

  She went to the window that looked out on to the garden and glanced at her watch again. It was a quarter past six. Wasn’t it deeply insensitive of Tim to stroll off so casually? Injured innocence, a sense of martyrdom, a feeling of being left out irritated her. Lucy went back and sat on the bed, trying to reach the pain of her father’s death again but only feeling an increasing anger against Tim.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Lucy gazed at her watch again.

  It was six thirty.

  Where the bloody hell was he?

  The knock was hesitant.

  ‘Tim?’ she called expectantly, her anger evaporating in blessed relief, but when the door opened Monique Dedoir stood on the threshold.

  ‘Is your room satisfactory?’ she asked tentatively.

  ‘I was just waiting for my husband.’ Lucy was immediately defensive, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. ‘The room? I rather like it.’

  ‘It’s simple.’

  ‘And welcoming.’ It was such a surprise seeing the photograph,’ said Lucy artificially, determined not to give herself away. ‘I was impressed Monsieur Dedoir could recognize my husband. He’s changed a lot. But I gather you find it difficult to let the rooms.’ She realized she was running on like Tim had been and she brought the flurry of words to an abrupt halt.