John – she hadn’t known his name then – had nodded seriously and glanced her way. ‘Does every woman want children, do you think … even goddesses?’
‘I have no idea. Most, I suppose, goddesses included.’
He turned to regard the painting again, giving her an opportunity to study him more closely. He was attractive in a non-conventional way; neither short nor tall. His frame was broad but he was thin – too thin, perhaps. But she liked the first hint of silvering around his hair, which he wore short and neatly parted on one side with only a hint of Brylcreem to keep it in place. He looked back at her and she once again noticed his penetrating grey gaze, which was vaguely unsettling when it fixed upon her, but softened immediately.
‘Do you come here frequently?’
She’d nodded. ‘As often as I can. I like all the museums and galleries. I make sure I get to each at least twice a year.’
Once again he’d returned his attention to Venus. ‘She’s very lovely. It makes you want to reach out and touch her.’
‘She’s loved and she loves,’ Jane had said, successfully keeping all self-consciousness from her tone.
‘Do you have children?’ he’d asked, although she sensed he knew the answer.
‘No. I’d have to meet someone first.’
He’d beamed such a bright smile, it had dazzled her momentarily. ‘You just have. I’m John Cannelle.’
She giggled, delighted by his jest. ‘That sounds French.’
‘I suspect it is.’
She could do nothing but offer her own hand, laughing. ‘Jane Aplin.’
‘Mrs Aplin?’ he’d asked, a glint of amusement ghosting through those pale eyes.
‘Mademoiselle, she’d corrected with equal humour.
‘Well, then, Jane. I hope you don’t mind me calling you Jane?’
She’d shaken her head softly.
‘Now that we’ve formally introduced ourselves, will you allow me to whisk you out of here and over to the Ritz?’ He’d grinned mischievously. ‘For a drink, of course.’
Their friendship had moved quickly to romance over the following weeks. John had continued to make her laugh as easily as if she were a child at the circus watching the clowns. He had been attentive, affectionate and generous, picking her up from her work as a designer with one of the city’s fashion houses and treating her to dinners, musicals, theatre. She’d learnt he was in the grocery business with his family and only later that he had fought at and survived the very bloody battle of Monte Cassino with the 8th Army.
‘You were injured,’ she said, glancing at his leg that showed a pronounced limp. ‘You never talk about it.’
‘I’d rather talk about us,’ he’d replied and she realised then he had smoothly been deflecting her questions about his wartime experiences since they’d met.
Except she knew him better now and wasn’t to be put off so easily. ‘But the past is what shapes us, John. You know everything about me. I know so little about you. You’re one of our heroes. It was for you and all the men like you that we kept the home fires burning.’
‘Look, I don’t talk about the war, Jane,’ he’d said over their afternoon tea at Fortnum & Mason. ‘I find it … difficult.’
‘I understand. But maybe if you—’
‘Don’t pry!’ he’d snapped and then looked at her, mortified, reaching for her hand, refusing to give eye contact to those around them who had glanced their way at his harsh tone. ‘Forgive me, my darling. I can become rather emotional; the war took many close friends from me.’
Perhaps his outburst, brief though it was, should have been her warning sign. But by then Jane had been stung by the arrow of the son of the goddess that had first brought them together and she had let his brief explosion and her curiosity slip.
It had been late September and cool enough that damask had been favoured for her wedding gown of her own design. Her bouquet of pale-pink roses and orchids had been preserved but was now as dry and lifeless as her four-year marriage. She hadn’t seen the disintegration coming. Its insidious shadow had stolen into their lives, although Jane was now assured its toxic presence had been lurking inside her husband for years; he’d just hidden it well. John’s doctor had called it melancholia. But the physician that his family had finally insisted he consult after several weeks of John refusing to leave his bed had termed it clinical depression. Privately, to Jane and to Peter, John’s elder brother, the physician had added that it was mildly manic and suggested that John’s war experiences were the likely culprit.
‘But he seemed so cheerful, so dashing when I met him,’ she’d bleated to the physician.
He had nodded sadly. ‘This happens, Mrs Cannelle. It is a wicked affliction that can take great glee in delivering its host periods of what we’d consider absolute normality and then, in a blink of an eye, he could become what we term elated or manic, capable of wild ideas and actions. He could just as swiftly be plunged into suicidal tendencies – the flip side, you could say.’
‘And my husband? Be specific. What’s happening to him?’ she’d asked, in a whispered tone of shock at learning this was a known syndrome.
Jane could remember that scene in Mr Carter’s rooms as though it were yesterday, her own distress still so vivid. Peter had kindly taken her hand and given it a squeeze. The three brothers were close and he was as concerned as she. Jane had barely been able to breathe – the physician had suggested she stand by the window, which he’d opened a notch, and take some deep breaths.
When he was sure she was calming, he continued. ‘John’s mania is mild. It manifests itself simply as John at his charming best, when the ghosts of his past leave him be for a while and he can feel a sense of freedom from the demons that plague him. You’ve been married for how long?’ he said, looking down at the notes in his file.
‘Four years next month,’ she’d murmured, not even looking at him.
‘And apart from this recent development of him not wanting to face the day – for want of a better phrase – may I ask if you found that he was sleeping fitfully lately?’
‘He was restless, yes.’
‘Mmm. Irritable?’
She shrugged. ‘John doesn’t like being questioned.’
‘About the war, you mean?’ Carter had queried.
‘About anything.’ She folded her arms and sighed. ‘But especially the war. It’s as though he was never there. As though it didn’t happen.’
‘Mrs Cannelle, shellshock is a terrible thing. I’ve seen it in so many of our fine young men. You say right now he’s not eating?’
‘He doesn’t eat a lot at the best of times. When he goes off his food entirely I know we’re in for a rough patch. John refers to guilt, but he won’t explain what he means by it. I think he means the friends he left behind, dead, in Italy and the fact that he survived.’
‘You’d be right. No talk of ending his life?’
She’d swung around with horror, looking between the two men. ‘No!’
‘Do you think he might attempt suicide?’ Peter had asked Carter, throwing a look of concern at Jane.
‘I can’t provide a definitive answer, I’m afraid. Each sufferer is so very different but there are markers. When he’s low, incommunicative, not eating, perhaps hostile … these are the periods to be especially cautious. During these times John should have twenty-four-hour care.’
Jane’s shoulders slumped. ‘I do my best, Mr Carter.’
‘Yes, you do, Jane,’ Peter admitted. ‘But I’m going to employ a housekeeper – a trained nurse – who can offer this additional support he needs.’
She’d given him a sad, crooked smile of thanks, knowing not to knock back a gift horse. ‘That would be reassuring.’
Carter nodded his agreement. ‘Good. He must be watched and you must ensure he takes the lithium.’
That was easier said than done.
In the last few days John had plummeted into melancholy. He’d been closeted for nearly a fortnight in his study, often whispering to him
self, now and then complaining of voices. When she could get through to him he’d explained that the voices were of his fellow Tommies … ‘the fallen’, he called them. She had sometimes watched him screw his face up in painful fear and she knew he was reliving gunfire and bombings.
He’d stopped all work for the family firm six months ago but his brothers – neither of whom served at the Front – had insisted he remain on full pay. The business could easily afford it, and John was a director who had worked hard for the burgeoning grocery empire in the early days after the war. Jane knew she should count herself as fortunate to have so much generous support as well as the family having the financial means.
The bus groaned up and the conductor swung out from his platform to assist the elderly couple in front of Jane. ‘All right, luv?’ he said, winking at her.
She smiled. His cheerfulness on this dreary night was hard to ignore. ‘Here, let me help you with that,’ she offered to the husband and took one of his bags.
‘Much obliged, dear,’ his wife said.
Jane followed them on. There were no seats left, only standing room. Jane dug in her handbag for some coins and while waiting for the whistling conductor, she tuned out to the conversations, coughs, laughter and cramped conditions. With one hand clinging to the overhead rail, she allowed her body to sway with the rhythm of the lumbering movements of the double-decker and fixed her gaze on the darkness of the window, whose glass mirrored her solemn reflection. She saw a tall woman, surprisingly leaner than she’d imagined, with brownish-golden hair tied back. Her eyes looked a fraction sunken; she could see the darkish hollows beneath them and knew it was not just John who wasn’t sleeping. Her cheekbones protruded more prominently than she could recall and her coat, which was only a year or so old and had fitted her well, now swamped her.
The conductor arrived, whistling aimlessly. ‘Where to, gorgeous?’
She gave him the bus stop, dropping the coins into his hand.
He wound out a green ticket from the machine, which he tore off and presented to her. ‘Cheer up, luv. It may not happen,’ he quipped.
Jane smiled lamely and tuned out again until they reached her stop.
‘Thank you,’ she said to the conductor as she alighted into the now more persistent drizzle.
Jane could see her home from the bus stop – a majestic Victorian terrace. The light on the porch was burning dimly, illuminating the stained glass in the door, and the front bedroom upstairs was aglow too. But the sitting room she could see was dark, which suggested John might still be closeted in his study at the back of the house or retired. The latter would not surprise her; John would not want the housekeeper fussing around him or having to make polite conversation with her. She was a bright, cheerful lady who worked hard, but she could talk underwater, Jane was sure.
She turned the key in the lock and opened the door, jumping to see Meggie suddenly loom out of the shadows.
‘You startled me,’ Jane admitted.
‘Sorry, Mrs Cannelle. I had just turned off all the downstairs lights and was gathering my stuff up when you opened the door.’
Jane gave a wan grin. ‘Everything all right?’
Meggie nodded. ‘Mr Cannelle is in his study.’ She frowned. ‘He’s not eaten today.’
‘All day?’ Jane asked, pulling off her headscarf, then gloves.
Meggie nodded ruefully. ‘I tried everything. I offered him soup, eggs, sardines, sausages. I even made him a hot Bovril, but he wouldn’t touch a thing.’
Jane began unbuttoning her coat. ‘He didn’t eat yesterday either,’ she admitted.
‘Perhaps you being home will encourage him, dear. Start with a sweet, milky tea and go from there.’
She smiled sad thanks. ‘Sorry, Meggie. Are you going somewhere?’ she said, noticing the woman was pulling on her outdoor wear as fast as Jane was pulling her own off.
‘Yes, dear. I’m off to the films with my friend, Vera, don’t you remember?’
‘I’d forgotten. Sorry. Yes, of course. Lawrence of Arabia, isn’t it?’
Meggie pushed past her. ‘I think I’m the last person on earth to see it!’
‘I haven’t yet, although they say Omar Sharif is very dishy.’
Meggie nodded. ‘So I hear. You’ll be all right? I won’t be late. Ten at the latest.’
‘We’ll be fine.’
‘I’ve left some cold meat out for you, dear. There’s fresh bread and some chutney in the larder.’
‘Thank you,’ Jane said, sighing. ‘I’ll go and see John first.’ She watched the housekeeper leave and then turned to regard the stairs; just fourteen of them. But it felt like an interminable climb, her gaze fixed on the Axminster carpet in a traditional deep red and rich cream design. The swirling pattern led her to the summit and ultimately to the landing outside the study, where a dim light leaked out from beneath the door. Jane took a deep breath and wondered what awaited her on the other side.
Be Dr Jekyll, she pleaded silently, and found the courage to knock.
CHAPTER TEN
Pontajou, France
Louis nodded at the young man who emerged from the overcast day into the darker shadows of the bar and noticed how, even now after all these years, he tended to turn his face to one side. ‘How are you, young Dugas?’
‘I am well, thank you, Monsieur Blanc,’ the young man replied evenly and with no enthusiasm. ‘One bottle, please.’
‘Has he run out of his homemade poison?’ Blanc asked. There was no geniality in his remark.
Robert nodded. ‘He’s easier to handle when he’s drunk,’ he admitted.
‘His aim isn’t so accurate, eh?’ Louis quipped and regretted it. Dugas’ violence was nothing to joke about.
Robert didn’t reply; his expression remained sombre. ‘How much do I owe you, Monsieur Blanc?’ he said, digging into his pocket.
The rearing that his grandmother, Marie Dugas, had given the youngster still shone through with his polite manners and hard-working ways. Louis felt the familiar prick of shame that the village didn’t do more for this young man. ‘Tell Dugas it’s on me.’
Robert eyed him from beneath the hank of smooth dark hair that he deliberately permitted to fall across his face.
‘I am happy to pay, Monsieur Blanc.’
‘I know. And I’m happy to send your father into a stupor free of charge. It’s the least I can do for you.’
Robert put some francs on the counter. ‘Thank you, Monsieur Blanc. I appreciate your concern. We will be fine. He’s sick. He needs family.’
‘He hates family. He hates everyone.’
‘He is my father,’ is all Robert said as he turned.
Louis sighed and flapped the linen he’d been drying glasses with on his counter with frustration. ‘Come back tomorrow, Robert,’ he growled. ‘I’ll have some work for you,’ he called to the young man’s back. It was something at least, Louis thought.
‘Thank you, Monsieur Blanc. I will do that,’ Robert replied over his shoulder but without looking at Louis, a small, thin silhouette in his bar’s doorway, before he stepped out, shifted the wine into the crook of his arm and strode away.
Louis sighed. Who was going to rescue this youngster before his father killed him?
Robert began the mile’s walk home to their cottage in the unnamed hamlet, pausing to exchange a few pleasantries with the American artist who had converted one of the village’s cottages into a gallery.
As he walked he permitted himself some indulgent memories of happier times. He realised that his best age, the time when he could recall feeling loved, was as far back as infancy. Age five, he thought, with desperate regret: it was the height of the war in southern France; we had little food, and lived in constant fear for our lives.
‘And yet I can’t remember a happier time,’ he murmured, eyes fixed on the dusty, pebbled path ahead, wondering how he’d allowed nearly two decades to pass by while he lived in misery.
Vivid in his thoughts was that hot, dry sum
mer when the German planes were strafing the alpine region and the Wehrmacht had mobilised north, pushing hard to get to the northern beaches of France. And all that stood before that drilled, well-equipped, surging army was a motley band of Maquis: brave southern French freedom fighters aided by an equally courageous group of British spies who helped to keep communication lines open to the Allies.
‘All they have to do, Robert, is halt the progress of the Germans,’ his grandmother had explained. ‘You see, if we can hold them up here, our friends from Britain and America can fight through from the north, and take back Paris,’ Marie had said with a grin of victory, while he’d helped her repair a hole in their chicken coop. It only held three chickens by then. Marie had claimed she would rather give a limb than watch one taken by a fox or, worse, by the Nazis.
‘Vive la France!’ Robert remembered shouting and Marie shooshing him but stroking his hair with pride.
He recalled how the fiercest fighting had occurred on the plateau of Mont Mouchet and a tall, golden man had come into their lives. Luc. Luc Bonet, who loved Lisette, according to his fevered ravings.
‘He looks German,’ he remembered Marie hissing at the old Resistance fighter who had delivered him.
‘You’re right. But he’s one of us. Fought like a man possessed, ran through a hail of bullets and bombs to pick up our fallen. I don’t even know his name. I hope he’ll live to tell you. He saved my life; I’m going to try to do the same for him. Will you take him in, hide him?’
His grandmother had nodded and pointed to the shed. And that had begun the brief but happiest time Robert could recall. Neither of his parents was around then; his mother was doing her best to find work in Marseille, while his father was on compulsory work – or ‘slaving’, as Marie had coined it – in Germany. They’d been gone from his life for two years; long enough for him to have transferred all of his affection to his grandmother. They were a tight, affectionate couple. And then they had become three, with the arrival of Luc. Livid bruising, bones at odd angles, a lump on his head that had impressed Robert enormously, sundry bleeding wounds and a slow recovery over several weeks for the concussion to heal, and his mind to clear. But through it all Luc had become their friend, and the family they lacked.
The French Promise Page 14
