Mr and Mrs Jack Dawson
9, Glamis Terrace
Evenwood
Near Bishop Auckland
County Durham
He pushed the paper back in his pocket, and concentrated on the queue, which was moving more quickly now. Standing on tiptoe again, he made a last attempt to see the mysterious girl, but to no avail. She was nowhere to be seen, and for a brief moment he felt an unreasonable sense of loss.
Chapter 4
Marck, France
Sunday, 2 December 1945
For Madeleine, everything had changed.
She pulled herself up from her bedroom floor, where she’d been sitting since her row with Maman, thoughts whirling in her head. She’d no idea how long she’d been there, fretting about the future. She went to the window and looked out at the back garden, with its neatly-trimmed grass, and rows of cabbages and root vegetables. She remembered how neglected it had been only recently. And, sad as she was, she couldn’t help smiling as she recalled seeing both her papa and her maman out there, working to put it right after the mistreatment it had suffered at the hands of the occupying Germans.
She’d found the sight surprising, because before the war Maman had never had the time or the inclination to work outside. But once their unwelcome guests had left, she’d spent hours gardening with Papa, and seemed to enjoy it. It must have been something to do with her new-found freedom. Maman had taken on a fresh lease of life after those hostile bastards left.
And now, as Madeleine thought about the shame she had brought on the family, the cloud of sorrow hanging over her grew heavier. This war has changed us all, that’s for sure, she thought, weeping as she looked at the neat rows of vegetables. Through her tears she couldn’t help noticing how spectacularly the pale, filigreed carrot tops contrasted with the dark-green sturdiness of the round cabbages. They’re just waiting to be cut and thrown into a pan, she thought, as a disturbing vision came into her head. She could still see the German soldiers laughing as they urinated over Papa’s cabbages, and, not satisfied with that, kicked them off their stems and used them as footballs. She shuddered now, remembering how she’d put her whole family in danger. She’d been so enraged by their behaviour that, for one adrenalin-filled moment, she’d forgotten any fear she had of ‘les monstres’. She’d run outside, stopping only to grab a spade. Clutching it in both hands, she’d been about to take a swing at the two nearest soldiers, when Dominic, who knew only too well how they’d retaliate, had come up behind her and taken the spade before it did any damage. Everyone had stopped what they were doing, and there had been total silence as Madeleine was dragged back into the house by her trembling brother. Then the drunken Germans had laughed before resuming their game. They hadn’t stopped until all the cabbages were smashed to pieces.
Madeleine hunched her shoulders. Dominic had gripped her arm tight. Once they were out of sight of the soldiers he had shaken her, shouting, ‘Have you any idea what they’d have done to you? They’re bad enough sober. Don’t you see, they taunt us because they want us to react, and you … you played right into their hands!’
‘You’re hurting me, let go!’ she’d shouted.
He’d released her and backed away, saying quietly, ‘You’re lucky they’re only laughing about it.’
But that was no comfort to Madeleine, who knew the soldiers actively enjoyed her frustration. She was powerless, and they could do anything they wanted. Her biggest regret was that after that – after realizing how spirited she was – she had become a challenge to them for the rest of the occupation, and they had found her even more attractive. She’d drawn attention to herself, and wished she hadn’t. ‘Ugh!’ She shivered at the memory as she wrapped her cardigan around herself for comfort. She refused to think about the Germans.
She was hungry now, and would have gone downstairs, but didn’t want to face the family, so decided to stay in her room. She thought wistfully that if she’d been outside, and it had been summer, she could have picked blackcurrants, gooseberries and raspberries. It seemed a lifetime ago that she and Dominic had been little, and hidden behind those bushes stuffing their faces with as much fruit as possible. How they’d suffered afterwards! Maman and Papa hadn’t been sympathetic about their stomach cramps and desperate visits to the toilet. They’d just ticked them off, and told them never to do it again. And of course they had taken no notice!
So many things had changed, and now here she was, eighteen and pregnant. She couldn’t bear to think how distraught her Maman was, and as for Papa: she still adored him, but he’d changed completely. Gone were the times when she’d hug him every time he came in from work, her embrace releasing the subtle aroma of wood shavings still lingering on his clothes. That scent had always filled her with a sense of security, so much so that if she’d felt worried about anything, she’d just have to smell shavings to feel calm and safe. She’d lost count of the times she’d wandered into his workshop over the years, simply to be reassured by that powerful aroma, and to watch him plane wood, running a hand over it to check the smoothness until the surface shone like silk. The look of pride on his serene, kindly face had often brought tears to her eyes. But she’d always left him alone if he was concentrating very hard, because she knew he took his work so seriously. Madeleine pulled a face similar to Papa’s now as she remembered his expression at those times. She would watch him quietly, not daring to utter a word, scarcely even breathing. And she wouldn’t relax until the dovetail joints were fitted perfectly, followed by a triumphant, ‘Et voilà!’ as Papa set down his mallet and chisel.
Now, with the war over, Papa was taking on jobs that weren’t remotely connected with carpentry or cabinet-making, but he was his usual considered self about it: he simply did what he could. So why, she wondered, can’t he cope with my situation now? How can he have altered so much? she thought, recalling her eleventh birthday. That day, feeling particularly happy, she’d crept into the workshop while Papa was out, and, seeing the giant heap of curly wood shavings against the wall, she had, as usual, longed to jump into them, even though it was forbidden.
But this time she’d been unable to resist, and taken an enormous leap on to the top. It was as soft as landing on a cloud, and there she lay in ecstasy, allowing that aromatic scent she loved so much to fill her whole being. She’d been there for some time when, to her dismay, Papa walked in.
She sat up quickly, stuttering an apology for the mess, ‘S-sorry Papa—’
He looked at her, laughing, and said, ‘I’ll tell you a secret, ma fille, I’ve always longed to do that myself, but never had the courage.’
She gazed at him in surprise. ‘Well, come on then, Papa, you must do it now!’ When he hesitated she pleaded, ‘Just think how awful it would be to wish you had done it, when it was too late!’
He smiled at this, and as she held out her hand he hesitated. So she stuck out her hand even further while he looked around furtively to check if anyone else was around. She seized the opportunity to grab his hand, and with a sharp tug he was in. ‘Come on, Papa, get into the middle where you can drown in ecstasy!’ she said.
‘Shush!’ Papa answered. ‘If Maman sees us she will think I’ve lost my mind!’
‘Well, you can tell her you were looking for it in the wood shavings, then!’ Madeleine said, throwing a handful at him.
‘If I didn’t know you better, ma fille, I’d think you’d been at my wine bottle,’ Papa said. Then, seemingly without a care in the world, they’d thrown shavings at each other, and for a short time Madeleine had glimpsed what her papa must have been like as a boy.
She’d treasured their special closeness. Thinking of it now made her heart fill with love; and sadness, because it had gone.
As she turned away from the window, she caught sight of the pretty blue dress in a crumpled heap on the bed, and, feeling ashamed at how childishly she’d stormed off to her room after the confrontation with Maman, she picked it up and held it against herself. Before the argument, she’d thou
ght, stupidly, that she could bring a little joy into Maman’s day by wearing it. She’d rushed down into the kitchen to show it to her, and even though she’d been unable to look her mother in the eye, her arms had been outstretched to show all the hard work she’d done. And she’d asked with a twirl, trying to provoke the smallest sign of approval, ‘Well, what do you think?’ After all, she’d sewn every stitch herself, and it was something that Maman had been nagging her to do, ever since Tante Lucy had given her the material. Madeleine had hoped that maybe Maman would start believing in her again, once she saw that she could apply herself to a difficult task, and wasn’t a complete failure.
But her mother hadn’t given the dress a second glance, telling her to sit down.
There was something much more urgent to discuss: the plan to send her to England.
It had been six months since the daisy-printed material in cornflower blue had been brought to the house by Tante Lucy, and Madeleine had fallen in love with it at once. Tante Lucy was great fun. She was Maman’s sister, and the whole family loved her. She owned a farm just a few kilometres from their home in Marck. As a result she was able to stop off quite frequently and visit them whenever she went to Calais, which was only a few kilometres further on. She’d deliver her farm produce to outlets in and around that town, and if she had time, call in again on her return journey. It was on one of these trips, after she’d been given it by one of her regular customers (who was short of cash that week), that Tante Lucy had turned up with the roll of fabric on her shoulder. The material had been no good to Tante Lucy, who couldn’t even sew a button on without pricking her finger. She’d only accepted it because she knew that Madeleine would put it to good use. And Madeleine, who was always delighted to hear the clip clop of Tante Lucy’s pony, Horace, along with the squeaking wheels of the trap he pulled, had hardly been able to contain herself when her aunt had given her such a lovely present. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a new dress. She usually made do with altered hand-me-downs from one or other of her sisters. But that day, she’d hugged her aunt delightedly, and danced around with the fabric draped over her shoulders, while Tante Lucy sat her stout little self down at the kitchen table with a satisfied look on her face. As always, Tante Lucy drained the red wine from her glass fast before banging it down on the table to be refilled by Maman. Tante Lucy always managed to cheer everyone up with her funny stories – which became more and more exaggerated after a few glasses of wine. There were days when it was pure luck that she got home at all. When Madeleine once voiced her concern about this, Tante Lucy had answered blithely, ‘Don’t worry, Horace could do the journey with his eyes shut!’ This was reassuring, because Madeleine was sure that Tante Lucy drove him home with her eyes closed, too!
Although Madeleine had never especially wanted to be good at needlework, she had to admit it made her very popular with her friends. Especially the ones with older sisters who passed on their cast-offs. Madeleine had the knack of reworking these into chic outfits, and her friends loved her for it. Once she had left school, Madeleine regretted that she hadn’t been more appreciative of the nuns, particularly the ones who’d guided her into sewing, and shown her how to do it professionally. The Catholic school, which both of her sisters had attended before her, had been within easy walking distance of the three Pelletier girls’ house. (Unlike Dominic’s school, which was in the centre of Calais and had to be cycled to.)
When Madeleine had first been told she had a gift for sewing she’d rebelled, and tried to convince her parents that a course in typing would be much more useful. She’d often bashed away at Martine’s rickety old typewriter, and fancied herself as a secretary. She’d only ever seen secretaries at the cinema, where they looked glamorous and led exciting lives. But her parents had seen how naturally sewing came to her, and after a discussion with Sister Therèse, Madeleine’s needlework instructress at school, Maman had become convinced that Madeleine’s future lay with this gift of hers. Madeleine had only agreed reluctantly, until, months later, she’d begun to feel a sense of pride and interest in her work, and this had drawn her into studying harder, on her own.
As it turned out, this was just as well, because, as far as she could see, most of the nuns, except for Sister Therèse, were far too distracted during the last two years of the war to pay any great attention to the pupils. If they weren’t rushing around looking flustered, they were praying. The girls in Madeleine’s class discussed this frequently, but no one had a clue as to why the nuns were suddenly so panicky, and there were all kinds of rumours flying around. The most ridiculous was that they were hiding someone from the Germans – in the cellars. Why on earth would they do that, when it would endanger not only themselves, but the whole school? Yet this particular rumour surfaced time and again. And yes, Madeleine had known at the time that there were plenty of hiding places in the maze of passages that ran off the main corridor in the cellar.
The girls usually craned their necks in that direction, straining to look along the candlelit passageways, whenever there was an air raid and they had to go down the stone steps. But the nuns always rushed them past so quickly that all they saw were the many huge, heavy, forbidding locked doors. They were given no opportunity to dawdle, and it was impossible to work out whether the rooms there were being used.
Madeleine smiled with affection now, as she remembered how efficiently the nuns used to spring into action during air raids, determined to save the girls from the bombs. As soon as the sirens sounded, there would be an almighty clatter of feet as nuns ran along the concrete floor of the corridor to collect the girls from their classrooms. Then the florid-faced sisters would burst in, flustering and flurrying around, but in a strange floaty manner. And the girls, scared as they were, would struggle to stifle their giggles as they were hurriedly gathered together and pushed down the corridor towards the cellar door. Once the girls had arrived, and were crowded up by the entrance to the cellar, the flustered nuns would do a quick head count before shoving them down the steep stone steps into the darkness. Madeleine had often thought it a miracle that none of them were killed before the bombs fell!
Sometimes, after school, she, along with her four closest friends – Sophie, Hélène, Elise and Fréderique – would spend hours trying to think of a way to sneak down into the cellars and investigate. In fact, for a while they were completely obsessed by it, but when it came to action, none of them were brave enough to try. Not only were they afraid of what they might find, but if any of them had been caught by the nuns, who were extremely vigilant, they’d have been punished by having to sit in an empty classroom for hours and hours, praying continuously. It was a powerful deterrent.
Remembering those times in the cellar never failed to make Madeleine shiver. Even though she was never alone down there, she’d still sometimes be so afraid that she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes in prayer. Instead she’d distract herself by looking at the nuns, who always knelt facing their pupils, giving her a perfect opportunity to study their faces.
There was pretty Sister Therèse, who was far too kind for her own good. She was Madeleine’s favourite, and being good at needlework herself, was delighted by Madeleine’s progress and enthusiasm. She helped, too, with all the sewing Madeleine undertook for her friends and fellow pupils. Granted, it wasn’t much more than a few alterations, but Sister Therèse hadn’t minded that at all, and thought it good practice for Madeleine. Especially as the shortage of money meant that most people couldn’t buy new clothes. So, whenever Madeleine’s friends had a special occasion, they went straight to her with old cast-offs, and expected her to work miracles. Occasionally, she did. And dear Sister Therèse always downplayed her role in this. She was just happy that Madeleine was doing so well. She and Madeleine had even wondered sometimes whether Madeleine would end up running her own sewing business. Or a fashion house! It had been good to dream.
Sister Beatrice was one of the other nuns in the cellar. She had a sharp-nosed, gingery face a
nd always listed slightly to one side, so she looked like an inquisitive fox peering around a corner. Sister Bee – as she was known by her pupils, though never to her face – taught English. But, because she was so woolly-minded, she was unable to hold the girls’ attention for long. Consequently not much English was learnt. Madeleine hadn’t cared at the time: why on earth would anyone need to speak English anyway? She had no way of knowing that her lack of attention in Sister Bee’s English classes was going to be one of the major regrets of her life.
The remaining four nuns in the cellar were Sisters Trudi, Matilde, Emmanuel and Céleste, whom Madeleine, much to the amusement of her friends, had nicknamed ‘the gargoyles’. All four of the gargoyles prayed frantically with their eyes half-open, so they could watch the girls. And as they’d peered out from under their wimples, the candlelight had exaggerated the whiteness of their wrinkly faces, so that they really did look as if they were carved from stone.
Madeleine winced now, remembering how uncomfortable it had been, kneeling on that hard floor. They hadn’t dared fidget, either, as the wrath of the nuns, especially the gargoyles, was as terrifying as the bombs. Aware how tightly she was holding the crumpled blue dress, she laid it neatly on the bed, and tried to smooth out the creases. She suddenly felt desperately sad about those dead – and as she now knew – heroic, nuns.
Bewildered by her sudden changes of mood, she looked around her comfortable, sparse bedroom. Despite all its problems, this was the place she loved best, the house where she’d been born in 1928. It was the only home she knew, and very soon, one way or another, she’d be leaving it for good.
Chapter 5
Marck, France
Sunday, 2 December 1945
The village of Marck was separated from Calais by a huge cemetery hidden behind a high wall. And when Madeleine was six, she’d had an irresistible urge to climb that wall, even though it terrified her. Tom had laughed when she asked him to help her. It had been easy for him to climb it, of course, because he was taller. Her stomach fluttered now as she remembered how he’d lifted her so that she could grip the stones on the top, and pull herself up to look over. She’d gazed down, shivering, at the gruesome headstones – many of which had figures on them that looked like the Devil – and been half scared to death. The villagers walking past had been amused but not surprised. Most of them had known Madeleine all her life, and knew how mischievous she was. They thought it endearing.
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