Northern Girl

by Fadette Marie Marcelle Cripps

  Tom poured out two measures of whisky, and a sweet sherry. He’d found half a bottle at the back of the cupboard. Jack hadn’t mentioned that!

  Seeing Tom hand the measure of sherry to Hannah, Jack grinned. ‘Nobody knew about that, either, lad!’ Then, glancing at his wife with an affectionate glint in his eye, he teased her, ‘And don’t you get yerself drunk before yer’ve seen ter our dinner, mind!’

  Hannah answered indignantly, ‘And when’ve you ever seen me the worse fer wear, Jack Dawson?’

  ‘Never,’ came the reply. ‘But there’s always a first time, just you remember that, Hannah Dawson!’

  At that, she glanced towards Tom and sighed. ‘Nowt changes, does it, lad?’

  He reflected for a moment before answering, ‘No, Mam, nowt changes.’ And as he lifted the bucket to chuck more coal on the fire he added under his breath, ‘Thank God!’

  But whether he liked it or not, change was on its way.

  Chapter 2

  Marck, Northern France

  Sunday, 2 December, 1945

  ‘But, Maman! You can’t send me to England, I don’t even speak the language!’ Madeleine stared at her mother in disbelief. It pained her to see that once-proud face looking so weary. She knew, too, that her whole family were equally devastated by what she’d done. The very thought of it made her stomach churn.

  There was a moment or two of uncomfortable silence between the two of them, and then Madeleine asked, ‘What do you think it will be like for me in England, when the furthest I’ve ever been from home is visiting my sisters in Boulogne, hardly an hour’s train journey away? England might as well be on another planet!’ She pleaded in vain. Her mother obviously had no idea just how distant it was.

  Maman sighed and got up from the kitchen table, while Madeleine remained seated, consumed by a strange mixture of shame and fear; but more than that, she felt immense sadness because she’d let her mother down so badly.

  Madeleine had had a problem looking Maman in the face lately. The hurt in her eyes had been almost more than she could bear. Now, when she slowly raised her head and glanced at her mother, she saw she was busying herself around the kitchen, opening the crock where the vegetables were kept, and looking sadly at the contents. For a second Madeleine felt she was glimpsing herself. She suddenly realized how similar Maman’s facial expressions and mannerisms were to her own. It wasn’t so strange, really, she supposed: after all, their likeness had been commented on many times before, but Madeleine hadn’t really seen it until now, at the age of eighteen. We really are similar, she thought, except, that is, for Maman’s hair, which unlike her own chestnut locks, had turned a beautiful silvery white. And Maman was still in her early fifties! No one had been very surprised when Maman’s hair had gone white early, as it was a family trait, but Madeleine suspected that the war might have had something to do with the speed it had happened.

  She hadn’t really studied Maman closely before; Maman had always just been her mother. But now Madeleine realized that they had exactly the same large, thickly lashed brown eyes, neat noses, and delicately shaped lips. Even their wistful, sweet-natured expressions were identical. She was taken aback, and if she was honest, pleased. After all, Maman was considered to be very striking!

  Oh, Maman, she thought despairingly, as she watched her peeling potatoes for the next meal. What on earth are you thinking, to suggest that I go and live in England? You must be feeling desperate to come up with an idea like that. She gradually slid further down into her wooden chair, causing it to wobble irritatingly on the uneven tiled floor.

  She looked around, and although the room itself had changed little over the years, for her everything had changed. She could feel animosity right here in her own home, and it scared her even more than when their house had been occupied by the Germans. This was much worse, she decided: this was hostility from her own loving family. This was all the love and security that she had ever known crumbling around her.

  She knew one thing for certain: she couldn’t remain here the way things were, because, rightly or wrongly, she felt that everyone was now her enemy. She’d never have dreamed of arguing with her mother before, and couldn’t believe that she was doing it now.

  Why, even Papa – Papa who’d always been on her side – had taken to spending hours in his workshop doing carpentry, and only coming into the house to eat and sleep. Although she couldn’t deny that financially it was good that he had so many orders, she also knew that, before, he would never have let work stop him from seeing his family. Before all this he would have found a way, even if it had meant going back to his workshop later on in the evening. But now he was obviously burying his head in the sand – or, in this case, sawdust. She thought this wryly, almost laughing out loud at the absurdity of it. How unrealistic of him to think that his problems would go away if he ignored them!

  Some hope of that, she thought, folding her arms. She glanced at her mother again. ‘And what about Papa? Is he still hiding?’ She gestured towards the workshop, where she knew he was.

  Maman turned sharply from the potatoes, dropped her knife on the table, and walked towards her daughter. Madeleine noticed that the colour had drained from her cheeks. ‘I don’t like your tone, Madeleine,’ she said. ‘You weren’t brought up to talk about your parents like that.’ Madeleine felt a stab of guilt as her mother continued, ‘You have no idea, have you?’

  ‘About what?’ Madeleine was puzzled.

  ‘No idea how you’re Papa’s treasured little girl, the baby of the family. Sometimes I think you’re his favourite.’ She said this with hesitation, aware it was disloyal to her other children, before continuing, ‘He’s always been so proud of you. Can’t you see? He doesn’t know how to react to his little girl being … being in this situation.’

  ‘Being pregnant, you mean, Maman,’ Madeleine broke in, ‘You can say it, you know!’

  Trying to avoid more argument, and realizing that Madeleine was being aggressive to cover her deep shame and embarrassment, Maman chose to ignore the remark. She went on, ‘He needs time … we all do … in order to deal with it in his own way. Right now your Papa is heartbroken.’

  At this, Madeleine was suddenly overcome by grief. With a sob, she rushed from the kitchen and through the bouanderie, where they did their washing. Wrenching the back door open, she ran headlong into the garden. She ignored her mother’s calls to come back, and instead threw herself down on the ground between the chicken coop and the fruit bushes, where she wept inconsolably.

  Maman’s words had hit a nerve, and made her realize that in the past few days Papa hadn’t been hiding away so much as trying to protect himself from the painful truth. His favourite child was no longer an innocent virgin. He must be thinking all kinds of awful things about me, Madeleine fretted. Oh, Papa, if only you would talk to me about it! Her mind in turmoil, she imagined herself speaking to him. ‘I wish you’d let me show you I’m not a common little tart.’ She sobbed even more at that. ‘How will you know, otherwise, that this is a terrible mistake, caused by something that happened only once in my whole life? How can you, when you won’t let me explain? All you want is to get me away from here. If only we could sit down and talk about this as a family! You know our other problems have been solved like that.’

  But even she knew this wasn’t the usual kind of family problem. It was too new, too distressing; that was why none of the family could even look each other in the eye at the moment, let alone discuss it.

  She sat up and peered over the fruit bushes, remembering watching Papa every night that week, and noticing how, after he’d locked the workshop, he still carefully put the keys into his overall pocket. It was the only one of his night-time habits that hadn’t changed. There was no longer a spring in his step: he’d taken to trudging towards the house, his capped head bent so far forward that only the tips of his white moustache were visible. And this, along with the tufts of white hair poking out at the sides, had suddenly made him look like an old man, a
shadow of what he used to be. Her heart had gone out to him.

  Before, he would always pull up some lettuce from the garden as he walked from the workshop to the house, and the five rabbits would get up on their haunches in their hutch, their noses twitching in anticipation. Then he’d talk to them and push the leaves through the wire mesh as they hungrily devoured every last morsel. That done, he would stop off at the chicken run, enjoying the mayhem as he scattered handfuls of seed around. The resulting frantic fluttering and clucking had always been a great source of amusement to him, and as this noise could easily be heard from the house the family always knew that in a few minutes Papa would arrive for supper. But first, of course, he’d stop briefly in the bouanderie, to take off his well-worn blue overalls. By the time he came into the kitchen, the table would be set and a glass of wine poured ready for him, and his beaming, cheeky grin never failed to put a smile on Maman’s face.

  No more. Madeleine sighed. Papa’s smile had gone. He now walked straight past the rabbits and the chickens, saying he was too tired to do anything else after working such long hours. But she knew how much he had loved feeding them, and how it had calmed him after a stressful day. And his work was stressful, because he never allowed himself to go over a client’s deadline. This was commendable, she was sure, and benefited his business, but not his health.

  For Papa was a perfectionist. No job was ever too big or small, and whatever he made – a small cabinet, a wardrobe, or a set of table and chairs – was always finished beautifully. Of course, this made him highly sought-after, and he always had work. He’d been busy all through the war, invariably giving each job his best, even if it was distasteful to him, like the time he’d been ordered to make desks and chairs for the occupying German officers.

  Madeleine shuddered at the memory now, but she’d been so proud of Papa then, at the way he’d taken everything in his stride. But, she wondered: how could he have shown such calm then, and yet now, confronted with a problem with his own family, refuse to face up to it? It just didn’t fit with what she knew of his character.

  Maybe she could have coped better if her two sisters, Martine and Simone, had been around a bit more. Where were they when she needed their support? Although, to be fair to Martine, she at least had been there at the awful, shameful moment when Madeleine had had to tell Maman.

  * * *

  Even though it was a week ago now, Madeleine still felt nauseous when she thought of it. She shivered as she remembered how she and her sister – who was twelve years older – had walked hand in hand into the living room. Madeleine had almost crushed Martine’s fingers as she’d tried to avoid approaching Maman, and she’d been trembling so violently that she’d found it hard to walk. As she’d clung on to Martine’s hand with both of hers, what she’d been most aware of was a strong desire to rush from the room and vomit.

  She hadn’t been able to hear Martine’s actual words to Maman, the blood was pounding so loudly in her head, and she’d been too ashamed to look up. That is until she heard the gasp of anguish that came from her mother: ‘Oh non, oh non!’ She would never forget the look on Maman’s face as the news of the pregnancy began to sink in. It would be etched on her heart for ever. The shock in Maman’s brown eyes, and the way she’d clutched at her mouth to stop herself screaming, had been too much for Madeleine.

  The room had seemed to spin, and she’d collapsed. She’d felt she was drifting away, and that everything was happening to someone else. As her body had slid down the door frame, she’d put her hand to her wet face. Tears had streamed down her cheeks, meeting under her chin, where they had trickled down her neck into the collar of her dress, drenching her. And there she’d lain, half propped up in the doorway, limp and motionless as a rag doll.

  * * *

  A thorn in her arm brought Madeleine’s attention back to the gooseberry bush she was sitting next to. As she moved away, and tried to disentangle her cardigan from the gooseberry prickle, she thought about her other sister, Simone. At least Simone hadn’t stayed long enough to gloat, she thought sourly. Where the hell was she, anyway? It was pretty obvious that she was deliberately keeping her distance, too. The six-year gap between Simone and herself wouldn’t have mattered if Simone had acted like an older sister, instead of being on a never-ending quest for excitement. She was much more outgoing than either Madeleine or Martine, and made no attempt to disguise her liking for male company.

  But, pretty as she was, her boyfriends never hung around for long. Martine had tried gently advising her to be a little less forward. But it hadn’t worked. Madeleine rolled her eyes at the memory, as she coaxed a pulled thread back into her cardigan sleeve. She hadn’t been any more successful with Simone, either. She’d been less tactful, and had told Simone straight out that if she wasn’t such a tart her boyfriends might stick around longer. But did she listen? No. No one tells Simone how to behave.

  The last straw with Simone, certainly as far as Maman was concerned, had been a month after the Germans had first occupied the house, in early 1940. Maman had walked into the bouanderie and found Simone pressed up against the wall in there with one of the German soldiers. Seeing her like that, all dishevelled and flustered, one thing had been obvious to Maman: Simone hadn’t been forced into anything. The young soldier, the only decent one in the unit, had shrugged his shoulders and apologized to Maman as he’d backed off and walked away.

  By then Maman had had enough, what with the whole house in turmoil, and les monstres, as the Germans were known in the Pas-de-Calais area, wandering freely about wherever they liked. She’d known that she had no chance of controlling Simone if she stayed at home: the only thing to do was to send her out of harm’s way as quickly as possible.

  Martine hadn’t been best pleased when she’d heard about the plan for Simone to stay with her in Boulogne. ‘Just until the war is over,’ Maman had said, as a way of assuring her that it wouldn’t be for long, because of course the war wouldn’t last more than a couple of years. Martine had had a promotion that year, which meant moving from the bank where she worked in Calais to a different branch in Boulogne, and she’d been thrilled because there was a flat included. Madeleine had been pleased, too, as it had meant that she could get away from Marck for an occasional break in the school holidays.

  There’d been nothing Madeleine liked more than getting on the train to Boulogne to visit her sisters. Though, of course, she could only be there for a few days each time, as it left only Maman and Dominic in the house to deal with the billeted Germans.

  While Martine had thrived in her new independent life in Boulogne, Simone hadn’t changed a bit. Maybe she had even got worse. Martine had been so busy that she hadn’t had time to control what Simone was getting up to. And then, when the war had finally come to an end, and the sisters had arrived back home, the tension between them had been obvious to Madeleine. And, equally clearly, it was because of something Simone had done.

  But Simone was Simone, Madeleine told herself now, and even if she had been around, she wouldn’t have helped at all with the trouble over the pregnancy. Dominic was different. Madeleine’s beloved brother Dominic had always been there to get her out of scrapes in the past. He’d done it ever since she’d learned to walk – even though he was only a year older than her. Because of the age gap between him and his two elder sisters, he’d always been closer to Madeleine. Especially once Martine and Simone had reached their teens, for, much as they loved their little brother and sister, having them hanging around all the time had become so annoying that they’d gone to great lengths to escape them.

  Of course, when war broke out – and more so when the first German soldiers arrived from Belgium – their lives had suddenly become ruled by uncertainty, and fear of the terrible things that had happened to people they knew. And this had drawn all four Pelletier children closer. But even so, Martine and Simone had still been in Boulogne. Martine was almost like a second mother to her younger siblings, and there’d been so many times when Madelei
ne would have appreciated her reassurance and advice.

  Dominic had been Madeleine’s confidant and devoted protector right up until Tom came into her life. He and Tom had got on really well, and the two had become good friends. Such good friends that Dominic had finally relinquished his little sister, confident that she was in safe hands. Madeleine shivered as she thought how he must be kicking himself now, and wondering how he could have got it so wrong.

  This news of Madeleine’s must have hit Dominic really hard: she hadn’t talked to him for nearly a week, or seen him for the last couple of days. It was as if he’d disappeared into thin air, right when she needed him most. She shivered again. It was getting cold in the garden, but she was in no mood to go back to the house. She pulled her cardigan more tightly around her, and crossed it over at the front, holding it together under her folded arms.

  Mon Dieu! she thought, if he’s not around who’s going to convince Maman and Papa that I would rather die than leave my family to go and live with a new one in England? The amount I know about England, they might as well be sending me to the North Pole! Tom hardly told me anything about the place!

  As upset and disillusioned as she was with Tom, she couldn’t stop him from popping uninvited into her head, and playing havoc with her thoughts. If only she could stop thinking about him! She clasped her hands round her knees and dropped her head.

  ‘MAD … E … LEINE!’

  ‘Huh …! What!’ She looked up at the sound of Maman’s voice.

  ‘What on earth are you doing sitting out here in the cold?’ Maman demanded, holding out her hand to pull Madeleine up.

  Hesitantly, Madeleine took it. She followed Maman to the kitchen, and sat at the table. Maman put two cups of coffee down, sat opposite, and stared in pained silence at her.

  ‘Madeleine, do you have a better idea than the one that we’ve come up with?’ she asked. Madeleine didn’t answer, so her mother continued, ‘You’re only eighteen! Think about your baby for a moment! In a few months you’ll be a maman yourself, with no father for your child.’