She’d thought – obviously mistakenly – that she and her sisters had grown closer since Martine and Simone had told her what had happened in Boulogne. But where had they been when her parents and Dominic had planned this visit to England? Why had they allowed it to happen? And why had Dominic agreed to go without talking to her first? She couldn’t understand why the whole family had taken such a huge decision without involving her.
Yes, she knew they were unhappy, but that wasn’t a good enough reason for them to make plans behind her back. So she decided that it would be better for everyone if she left.
She couldn’t remember ever, in her whole life, feeling this miserable and this disappointed in herself. She stared in her bed staring at her little brown valise, which was perched on the top of her wardrobe, begging her to get it down.
Finally, she decided to pack the valise and hide it under her bed until night-time. She’d use Dominic’s bike to make her getaway, because he was away, so it wouldn’t be missed. She would hide it in the wild fuchsia bushes at the end of the road, where it would be easy to collect. Then she would ride it to the station in Calais, and catch a train to Boulogne.
Once in Boulogne she would find Nicole, who would surely know someone who could help her to get rid of this … this … she couldn’t even say the word. Even the memory of how it had been made, on that fateful day when she and Tom had loved each other so desperately, couldn’t make what was growing inside her anything more than a burden. A burden that was going to wreck her life.
How could she have feelings for it, when its father was a liar? She knew now that Tom was never going to write the way he’d promised. She guessed that, once home, he’d go back to the old life he’d had before the war. Probably get back together with a girl who had waited patiently for his return. Huh! No doubt he would marry this girl and live happily ever after! Well, good for you! Madeleine thought fiercely. You just dump this thing into my body, and then go home. Oh, don’t you worry, I’ll be sick in the mornings for you, I’ll take all the shame and humiliation, and suffer the pain of childbirth. Just go home and forget all about me, and have a happy life!
But whenever she gave way to negative thoughts like this, they would be accompanied by an unwelcome little tug at her heart, because deep down she knew she was being untrue to her memory of their love affair. There was always that pang that maybe at the time he really had meant every word. Her anger prevented her from trusting her intuition, which sensed that everything between them had been sincere.
The last thing she wanted, right now, was to think rationally about Tom. And she certainly wasn’t going to accept that she still cared for the person she blamed for her present misfortune, because her anger was making her strong. Strong enough to run away.
And now, here she was standing in the dark, halfway down the stairs, her heart thumping, holding her valise above her head in case it bumped against the banister and alerted the person she could hear moving around.
Hardly daring to breathe, she listened: a familiar sigh came from her parents’ room, followed by a loud yawn. Merde! It’s Papa! He’s woken up! Alarm bells rang in her head as she glanced upstairs in panic, not knowing whether to run back up or continue down. But she couldn’t move. She was so scared of being caught that she simply froze to the spot, her suitcase poised mid-air. She closed her eyes tightly, waiting for Papa to come out and find her standing there like a statue.
She heard him drag the petite po from under the bed, before, to her embarrassment, peeing into it noisily. Still holding her breath, she prayed that he wouldn’t come out of the room to empty it. She was so relieved to hear him push it back under the bed, that, unable to hold her breath any longer, she sighed. Luckily, Papa didn’t hear it. He yawned loudly and climbed back into his creaky bed, and she silently thanked God for it. Then, still gripping her valise tightly, she crept downstairs in the dark.
At the bottom of the stairs was the heavy oak front door Papa had made. It was Papa’s job to bolt the doors at night, after everyone had gone to bed. But, earlier that evening, as he’d been doing his rounds, Madeleine pretended she needed the toilet. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll lock the door when I come back,’ she’d called out to him. Since the back garden was completely enclosed there was only one bolt on the door leading to it, unlike the front one, which had three. And Papa had continued bolting the front door, responding only with a nod.
After he’d gone upstairs she’d rattled the back door, making a pretence of going out, before rushing to the front of the house, where she’d stared at the ceiling, listening. Finally, she’d heard the rattle of the washstand as Maman poured water from the jugs into two enamel bowls, ready for the nightly toilette. Madeleine had hoped the clattering of jugs and bowls would cover the sound of her wrenching open the three bolts on the front door. Luckily, they had, and she’d crept back upstairs to her bedroom to wait until everyone was asleep. Only, of course, she hadn’t planned on Papa getting up to use his po in the dark.
She had decided to leave tonight, because Martine was staying with her friend Sophie at Dunkirk, making one less person to worry about. Simone could have been a problem, but she’d gone to her room early with Dominic’s wireless, which she was using while he was away. Normally Madeleine would have warned Simone against doing that, knowing how much Dominic treasured it. But, on this occasion, her sister’s thoughtlessness was a blessing, because Madeleine knew that once Simone had tuned into the BBC Home Service she would be blissfully unaware of anything else for hours.
Dominic had secretly listened to the BBC all through the occupation, finding it much more accurate than French radio. But no matter how much his older sisters had plagued him about it on their visits home from Boulogne, he’d always refused to let them use it. He’d hidden it away, frightened that otherwise they’d be tempted to tune in when he wasn’t around. Heaven knew what might have happened – not just to him but to the whole family – if they’d done that, because even owning a wireless back then had been forbidden.
However, once the war was over, he’d shown all three girls how to work his precious radio, as long as they promised to ask before using it. Simone, in particular, had been hooked ever since. Madeleine knew she’d be dancing around her room right now to the music of Glenn Miller, or pretending to be Marlene Dietrich or Vera Lynn. She was brilliant at impersonating both. Madeleine smiled at the memory, even as she opened the door and prepared to leave her family for ever.
She prayed, eyes squeezed tight, that the hinges wouldn’t creak too loudly. Then she opened the door just wide enough to edge through sideways. She picked up her valise and passed it through the opening, trembling so much that she could hardly place it upright on the step outside. Fear nearly overwhelmed her. Then, her knees shaking, and tears filling her eyes, she squeezed through the gap.
She carefully pressed the door shut, her shoulders tensing at the sound of the latch clicking. And then she leaned against it, her heart beating wildly. She couldn’t believe she was actually doing this. Maybe it was just a dream, a nightmare. Apart from anything else, she didn’t have the courage to be so reckless.
But there was no mistaking the feel of solid wood against her back. The cold night air on her face reminded her, too, that this was not a dream. So she turned and looked up at the house for one last time, feeling that her heart would break. Each intake of breath was a silent sob, hurting her chest. But she fought back the tears. After all, hadn’t she cried enough in the last few days to last a lifetime?
She knew it was only a start, but there was no turning back now. This was the only way she could think of to save her family, and herself, from a life of shame and heartache. She also knew that if she didn’t act now she never would. Holding on to that thought, she quickly walked away from the house, heading towards the place she’d hidden the bike earlier.
She walked as quietly as possible, and although the houses around her were shrouded in darkness she didn’t feel particularly afraid. She’d been much more s
cared by the blackout in the war. At least tonight there was no chance she’d be confronted by drunken Germans or flying bombs. As she left the last house behind she strained her eyes to see the bushes on the wasteland. She hadn’t bargained for it being quite this dark. With a shiver she felt her way along the road, but her sense of direction let her down. She was soon totally disorientated, and couldn’t find the fuchsia bushes. Every small sound startled her and she kept turning round anxiously.
Merde alors! she thought. What do I do now? Placing her valise on the ground, she sat on it in despair. She guessed she must have walked too far, because she knew the bushes were near the end of her street. Feeling annoyed with herself now, especially when she felt tears welling up, she told herself not to be so ridiculous. Suddenly, she heard a rumble in the distance, and kept very still, listening carefully. Recognizing the sound as a car, and seeing approaching lights, she crouched down low. The vehicle headed in her direction, and she flattened herself on the ground beside her valise. Then she saw, only a few metres away, glowing in the headlights, the patch of wild fuchsia bushes.
As the car turned the corner she jumped up and grabbed her valise, almost falling over in her eagerness to get to the bushes before all the light disappeared. She felt around in the bushes, but couldn’t find the bike at once, and began to panic. What if the bike had been stolen! Mon Dieu! she thought, as she searched the bushes, which were once again enveloped in darkness. Maybe hiding the bike here had been a really bad idea! She’d been in a quandary at the time, anyway.
That afternoon had been unusually sunny for December, and as she’d pushed the bike towards the bushes she’d felt a burst of happiness. How lovely it is here, she’d thought, looking round at the greenery, before remembering what she’d come to do. What if the local children went there to play? she’d suddenly thought. They’d see the bike. But she hadn’t been able to think of a better hiding place, so she’d taken the risk, pushing the bike in as far as possible.
She felt her way further into the bushes now, trying not to visualize all the insects that could fall into her hair. She held her valise in front of her like a shield, and there, at last, it was. She felt the back mudguard against her leg, and leaned forward to grasp the handlebars. She’d pushed the bike in so far that it had got wedged in a bush, so she decided to push it out the other side rather than pull it out. Determined not to be defeated, she jammed her valise into the basket on the front, and then shoved the bike with all her might.
Eyes closed tight against the foliage that was brushing against her, and, more than likely, releasing creepy-crawlies on to her head and coat, she forced her way through and out into the open. Itching and shivering with revulsion at what might be running over her, she dropped the bike and danced around in a frenzy, slapping at her clothes and ruffling her hair. Stopping as quickly as she’d started, she prayed that throwing the bike down wouldn’t have affected the dynamo, because she wouldn’t get anywhere without lights.
She felt for the bike in the darkness, picked it up, and wedged her valise back into the basket. Then, leaning over towards the front wheel, she turned the dynamo until it touched the tyre. Tentatively, she mounted the bike, and pedalled off into the dark, bouncing over the rough terrain, and to her relief the lights flickered on.
Although she was a good rider, she found it difficult to keep the handlebars straight. With a grimace of exasperation, she realized that in her hurry she’d wedged the valise into the basket unevenly. I’ll have to stop, she thought. But I’d better wait until I’m further away from home. At this rate, the whole family will be up before I even get to Calais.
But at that moment, she was caught in the headlights of a car approaching from a side street. She rode into a pothole that made the bike judder from side to side, lost control and toppled over. The bike went one way and Madeleine the other. ‘Merde alors!’ she whispered, hearing the car stop behind her, and wondering what else would go wrong. She brushed the dirt from her knees and her coat sleeves. Fortunately the grazes on her knees weren’t bleeding much, and she was about to rearrange the valise in the basket when the driver called out, ‘Are you hurt, Mademoiselle?’
Merde! Merde! Merde! Her immediate instinct was to get on the bike and pedal like fury. But she knew that she’d only fall off again if she didn’t straighten the valise, and that would draw even more attention. So, with a carefree smile, she turned to the driver, who had reached her side now, and answered calmly, ‘No, monsieur. I am OK, thank you.’
The man, who fortunately she’d never seen before, looked concerned and asked, ‘Is there anything I can do? Maybe I can give you a lift somewhere? I am on my way to Calais.’
Madeleine turned to look at his car. The driver’s door was open, and the engine running. For a moment she was tempted. But so many things had gone wrong already, and this could be another. After all, she had no idea who the stranger was.
‘Oh, no thank you. Er … I am going to see a friend, only a few doors away,’ she lied. ‘I’m staying with her for a few days.’ Madeleine pointed to her valise, wondering why she felt she had to explain anything to this stranger.
‘OK, if you are sure,’ the man said, still sounding troubled. He turned and walked back to his car.
Madeleine waved nervously as he drove past her, heading along the road that she was about to take to Calais. She watched until he had disappeared into the distance, and then mounted the bike. It was much better balanced now, and she pedalled off confidently into the night.
Thankfully there was no other traffic for a while, and she soon found herself riding along beside the high cemetery walls. She slowed down. She remembered climbing them with Tom. But somehow she wasn’t frightened of moss-covered tombs any more, even in the dark. She’d outgrown that girlish hysteria: she was experiencing real life – and real fear – tonight. She was so engrossed in thinking about Tom that she had to fight the urge to stop and touch the stretch of wall where they had once laughed and kissed. The memory was suddenly so real that Tom could have been standing in front of her. Involuntarily, she reached out to touch him, lifting her fingers from the handlebar. The bike wobbled so wildly that she only just managed to get it under control before a second car overtook her, hooting.
She cycled on more carefully, angry she’d allowed herself to think about Tom. She had to stop doing it. After all, who was making this dangerous journey in the middle of the night on a never-ending road? Not him! She couldn’t allow him to slow her down, because she had to get to the station before eleven fifteen. If she missed that train, there wouldn’t be another until the morning. Filled with horror at the thought of having to spend the night on a station platform, she cycled faster.
She was so relieved when she finally reached the town hall clock in the centre of Calais. It struck eleven times just as she turned into the road where the station was. But she still had to reach the far end. Mon Dieu! she thought. Am I going to make it?
The traffic lights turned red as she approached, so she jumped off the bike and pushed it on to the footpath, then, quickly jumping back on, pedalled for all she was worth. Outside the station she left the bike in a stand for Dominic to collect later. She’d send him a letter enclosing the padlock key, and telling him where it was. To her horror she realized she’d lost the chain the padlock threaded through. Hurriedly, she hooked the padlock through one of the spokes on the front wheel. She’d just have to hope that would be secure enough.
As she bolted for the ticket office, it crossed her mind that a pregnant woman probably shouldn’t be running with a heavy suitcase, let alone cycling at top speed. How stupid I am to worry about that! she thought. It doesn’t matter, because I won’t be pregnant for much longer, anyway!
Her ticket between her teeth so she could carry her case in one hand and steady herself on hand rails with the other, she realized she had exactly two minutes to get to a platform on the other side of the pedestrian bridge. On previous trips she’d never noticed how many steep steps there were t
o run up and down. But then she’d never been in such a hurry before.
She reached the platform just as the last door slammed shut and the silhouetted stationmaster, half-visible in the hissing steam, blew the final whistle. ‘Oh no! wait!’ she called, as the engine clanked into life.
‘You are too late, ma fille,’ the stationmaster said, seeing her.
‘Oh no, I’m not!’ said Madeleine, as the train jerked and ground, trying to pull away. She pushed her valise at the bewildered stationmaster, then yanked open the first carriage door that came alongside, and jumped in. Then, hanging out of the window, she called to the man, who looked impressed by her daring. ‘My case! Please run!’ The train began to speed up. ‘Give it here! Quick!’
The stationmaster sprang into action. He lifted the case above his head and ran level with her. Madeleine grabbed the case with both hands, nearly overbalancing as she hung out of the window. Pressing her knees hard against the inside of the carriage, she managed to hoist it in through the window.
‘Merci, Monsieur! Merci!’ she called as the stationmaster dwindled away into the distance.
With no energy left to lift her case on to the rack, she dropped it to the floor and sank breathlessly into her seat. Once she’d caught her breath she looked around, and, satisfied that no one in the carriage knew her, settled back again. She was pleased the seats facing her were unoccupied. The last thing she wanted right now was to have to talk to anyone. Or even worse, cope with those furtive glances that pass between strangers who aren’t speaking.
She tried to relax, but all she could think was: I wonder when they’ll discover I’ve gone? Maybe they know already, and they’re out looking for me. She felt a pang, knowing how much she was hurting her parents by running away. But the thought of being packed off to England to live with someone who hadn’t even cared enough to write to her … No. It was impossible.
Northern Girl Page 19
