Every Mother's Son

by Val Wood

  So they stood against a wall of a square and waited. They had not been there long before they were approached by two young and shabbily dressed girls, who put out begging hands; when they shook their heads, the girls came closer, touching and stroking them on their arms, murmuring something.

  ‘What are they saying?’ Daniel asked.

  Charles was blushing. ‘I can’t possibly say. But don’t look at them, and if they don’t go away we must move on.’

  ‘American?’ one of the girls said to Charles. ‘I speak ze American. You see dancing, monsieur? Can-can? Oui?’

  The other girl sidled up to Daniel making kissing sounds and said, ‘Je m’appelle Maria.’

  He finally understood what this young girl, with the same name as his sister, was suggesting and he pushed her away. ‘Come on,’ he said to Charles. ‘Let’s be off.’

  As they strode away, the girls, laughing and not in the least offended by their rejection, called out, ‘Adieu. Good night, messieurs,’ even though it was the middle of the day.

  ‘That was a close thing,’ Charles said as they turned a corner. ‘We must take care. They might well have had a couple of ruffians close by protecting them.’

  ‘Oh, but look here!’ Daniel exclaimed. They had come to the entrance of a narrow street and on each side of the street were cafés, many of them filled with families: fathers, mothers and children. ‘These might be all right. Gosh, what a lovely smell!’

  By the door of one of the cafés was a blackboard with a menu written in chalk and Charles quickly calculated that the food was within their means. A waiter came towards them and Charles indicated that the two of them would like ‘le déjeuner’.

  ‘Certainly, gentlemen.’ The waiter took them towards a table with a checked tablecloth set with cutlery.

  ‘Oh, you speak English,’ Charles said. ‘What a relief. My French isn’t very good.’

  ‘I worked in London for two years, but then I came ’ome. The food isn’t as good in England as in France.’

  ‘We’ll give it a try,’ Daniel said. ‘I can smell soup.’

  ‘Les potages.’ The waiter nodded. ‘Bouillabaisse? Potage à la reine? Fish or chicken?’

  ‘Chicken,’ they said simultaneously. ‘And bread,’ Daniel added. ‘Lots.’

  They were each given a deep bowl of piping hot chicken soup sprinkled with herbs and crisp croutons and a plate of crusty bread, and they ate without speaking apart from murmurs of pleasure until they were finished and the bowls scraped clean. The waiter cleared away and then brought them a plate of cheese and ham and a carafe of red wine and two glasses.

  They glanced at each other and Daniel shrugged and grinned and poured the wine. ‘When in France,’ he said merrily, ‘eat and drink as ze French do!’

  ‘Yes,’ Charles agreed, taking a sip. ‘But after drinking wine we’ll need an afternoon nap.’

  ‘A siesta! Or is that Spain?’

  The waiter came back to chat with them and they guessed that he wanted to polish up his English. He told them his name was François and asked them where they were from; they told him they were travelling and were looking for somewhere to stay for a few days.

  ‘We can’t afford a great deal,’ Charles explained. ‘We have to make our money last.’

  ‘What you want? Just a few nights?’ the waiter asked. ‘No more than three?’

  ‘Three will be about right,’ Charles said. ‘We want to see the sights: the Louvre, Notre-Dame, the Tuileries … Montmartre …’

  ‘Ah, ah! You are artists, yes, or you want to see how the poor people of Montmartre live?’

  ‘We know how poor people live,’ Daniel broke in. ‘My mother used to be very poor. But Montmartre—’

  ‘You want to climb ze ’ill and see the view, yes?’

  ‘And I’d like to see the artists’ work too,’ Charles said.

  ‘Then you may stay with my mother,’ François said. ‘She can have you for three nights only. She will say that you are friends of mine if anyone asks. She doesn’t speak English, but she will feed you and give you … erm, logement for a franc or two. Come back ’ere at two o’clock and I will take you to look at ze room; she lives in Montmartre.’

  ‘How absolutely wonderful,’ Charles said as they paid the bill and walked back to the main street.

  Daniel agreed. ‘Right in the heart of Montmartre. Couldn’t be better. Let’s just wander now, shall we?’

  Charles looked at the map. ‘It’s nearly one o’clock, so we’ve only an hour to kill before we go back to the café.’

  ‘And then a siesta,’ Daniel declared, ‘and I don’t mind if it’s a French or a Spanish one as long as I can lie down and sleep!’

  Charles slapped Daniel on the shoulder. ‘I’m having a most wonderful time and this is only our first day!’

  ‘Me too,’ Daniel said. ‘I can’t believe we’re here, and so far from home.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The house François led them to was down a narrow alley at the bottom of the Montmartre hill. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You see the building work at ze top? That is to be the finest church in Paris. The Sacré-Coeur.’

  The boys looked up and saw men working from wooden scaffolding around a white stone building that was nowhere near finished, but would eventually have the finest position overlooking the whole of Paris.

  ‘It will be a basilica,’ François explained. ‘A Roman Catholic church. My maman will be so pleased when it is finished.’ He crossed himself. ‘If she should live so long.’

  ‘That’s a very steep climb,’ Daniel commented. ‘I hope she has ’strength for it.’

  François laughed. ‘She say that God will give her strength to get to ze top. But,’ he went on, ‘there are many who do not want it there and try to stop ze construction. Politics; always politics.’

  Madame Boudin, a small thin woman with sharp features and piercing dark eyes, was dressed in black. François spoke to her and she waved her arms about, letting out a stream of voluble language that was quite incomprehensible to Daniel and Charles. He turned to them, smiling, and said. ‘Ma mère says that you are very welcome to stay in her humble home.’

  ‘Did she really say that?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Non, but she need ze money.’ He shrugged. ‘Then she will be pleased.’

  They were shown upstairs to a small neat and clean room with two beds squashed into it with one chair; a washstand with a jug and bowl on the marble slab was pushed under a small window.

  ‘This’ll do me,’ Daniel proclaimed, throwing his rucksack on the chair and himself on to a bed.

  Charles gazed round, unused to such a small space. Then he lifted the lace curtain and looked out of the window. ‘We’re in the heart of Montmartre!’

  He could see houses with low roofs, many with their window shutters closed for the afternoon, men trundling wheelbarrows along the cobbled alley, women hanging out washing on balconies filled with tubs and pots of plants that he couldn’t name, bassinets with muslin draped over sleeping babes. If only I could paint, he thought. There is a whole world outside this window.

  He turned to say as much to Daniel and smiled when he saw that his friend was already fast asleep. Charles lay down on the other bed, folded his arms across his chest and heaved a deep breath. Here, he thought, closing his eyes, was freedom.

  Daniel woke first, the aroma of food tantalizing his taste buds. He blinked and for a moment couldn’t recall where he was; he could still feel the motion of the ship but no longer felt exhausted or as if his stomach had been turned inside out. The soup at midday had revived him, as had the sleep.

  The sun had dipped below the hill and there was but a dusky glow coming though the small window. How late was it? He sat up and leaned over to lift the curtain. On the other side of the narrow alleyway, shop and house windows were lit by gas and oil lamps and the street seemed to be coming to life; he could hear people talking, someone laughing and dogs barking. He heard Madame Boudin calling to some
one, then footsteps on the stairs, and he realized that she was calling to them.

  He got up and went to the bedroom door. Madame Boudin was standing outside with a steaming water jug. ‘Bonjour, madame,’ he said haltingly, hoping that he had the right time of day, and thought of the young girls calling out ‘good night’ in the middle of the day.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ she said. ‘De l’eau.’ She lifted the jug. ‘Chaude.’

  ‘Merci.’ He took the jug from her and felt the heat.

  ‘Avez-vous faim?’ She patted her middle and he remembered that the café owner at Le Havre had said the same.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Oui. Very hungry.’

  She indicated that they should go downstairs and again he thanked her, feeling pleased that he had been able to communicate with her.

  Inside their room he poured half of the water into the bowl and stripped off his shirt and underwear and washed in the hot water, then put on clean clothes. ‘Wake up, Charles,’ he said. ‘Supper’s ready.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Charles rolled over, his eyes still closed. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been having a little chat with Madame Boudin,’ Daniel said airily. ‘She said that we should go down.’

  Charles opened one eye. ‘And what did you say, monsieur?’

  ‘I said we’d be down in two ticks. Here you are, I’ve saved you some hot water. Eau,’ he said, grinning. ‘Chaude.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Charles sat up and unbuttoned his shirt. ‘You have a charming accent. Charmant!’ he added and ducked, but was still hit by the wet flannel that Daniel threw at him.

  A large tureen of onion soup with a ladle so that they could help themselves sat in the middle of the kitchen table with bread rolls and a slab of butter on a wooden board. There was also a bottle of red wine without a label.

  The soup was delicious, thick with onion and very filling. Madame Boudin cleared away and brought out a selection of cold meats, ham, chicken, sausage and terrine. ‘Charcuterie,’ she said, and then produced another plate, this one displaying various cheeses. She raised her hand and indicated that they should eat.

  ‘I say,’ Daniel murmured in an undertone. ‘Do you think they always eat this kind of supper, or is this put on especially for us? And,’ he added, ‘can we afford it?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Charles said. ‘I think it might be traditional. It’s delicious, anyway.’ He picked up the wine bottle. ‘A glass of wine, old chap?’ and poured two glasses.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do.’ A grin escaped from Daniel’s lips. ‘This is a whole new world for me.’

  ‘Well, I occasionally drink a glass of wine at home.’ Charles took a sip and then drew in a breath. ‘Whooo, but not as potent as this.’ He took another taste. ‘I suspect this is a local brew.’

  He saw Madame Boudin watching him and lifted his glass to her. She nodded and smiled and pointed her finger at her chest, indicating that she had made it.

  ‘Golly,’ he said. ‘Go steady with it.’ He smiled back at their hostess. ‘It is home-made.’

  Daniel too lifted his glass in a toast. ‘It tastes like my ma’s home-made bramble wine. That’s pretty strong too; if you drink enough it can lay you out.’

  François came in just as they finished eating and sat down at the table with them. He poured a glass of wine and his mother brought him a plate and he took a helping of bread and cheese and some of the meat.

  ‘Would you like to see Montmartre by night?’ he asked. ‘It is my night off from the café and I can take you. We can climb to ze top of ze ’ill if you would like to.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ they both said.

  ‘And, erm, girls? You want to meet girls?’

  They looked at each other. ‘Erm,’ Charles shrugged and made a moue. ‘Do you mean dancing girls or …’ He left the question hanging in the air.

  François glanced from one to another. ‘You like girls, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Daniel said quickly, ‘but we’re not here to meet girls. We want to see Paris and all the sights.’

  ‘And art,’ Charles butted in. ‘Galleries and such. Girls might be a distraction.’

  François nodded, pursing his lips. ‘They would. They are. I will show you Montmartre, which is separate from Paris; we don’t pay Paris taxes here, you know. I’ll show you where the artists live and then tomorrow in ze daylight you will find your way; tonight I will also show you dancing, and you may join in if you wish.’

  He took them up the hill to view the scene below, and told them that when the Russians occupied Montmartre they had used the hill for artillery bombardment. ‘Montmartre means mountain of the martyr,’ he told them. ‘And his head, St Denis’s head, they say is buried in ze hillside.’

  It was not quite dark and they could see the whole of what was little more than a village on the edge of Paris. Lights shone from the buildings, the cafés and houses, and the street stalls selling their wares. Then they walked round the basilica, which was already being used as a church even though it was not yet finished and was not likely to be for several years.

  ‘It seems as if we’re looking at history in the making,’ Charles remarked. ‘Perhaps if we come back in twenty years it might be finished.’

  ‘It’ll be another century,’ Daniel responded. ‘We’ll be middle-aged men!’

  ‘I’ll be an old man,’ François said. ‘I’m almost thirty now.’

  ‘You’ll have children of our age,’ Charles laughed.

  ‘First I must catch me a wife,’ François said ironically. ‘Then I shall make my maman very ’appy.’

  They walked down again into the streets and he took them through several dark alleyways, where he said the artists lived in near poverty, to a basement where they could hear music and people singing and clapping.

  It was an airless room with tables and chairs surrounding a small dance floor where a number of athletic men were dancing in a group, kicking up their legs and turning somersaults, while the audience cheered them on and hooted blandishments. The music was coming from a piano, a tambourine, an accordion and a fiddle.

  François went to a bar counter and brought back three glasses of wine, putting them down on an empty table. Charles took out his pocket book and offered François money to buy a bottle of wine, which the Frenchman took.

  ‘I daren’t drink much more,’ Daniel said as they sat down at the table, whilst François went again to the counter. ‘I’m already well oiled with Madame Boudin’s wine. I want to remember where I’ve been.’

  ‘It’s late already,’ Charles murmured. ‘I shouldn’t think François would want to stay much longer if he’s working tomorrow.’

  François came back a few minutes later with a bottle of wine, another glass and a dark-haired girl of about twenty clinging to his arm. She was dressed in a white frilly dress with black stockings peeping beneath it. ‘This is my sweetheart, Claudette,’ he said, giving them a sly wink. ‘She’s going to dance for us in a minute.’

  Charles and Daniel had both stood up as she approached. ‘Mademoiselle,’ they said in unison, giving a short bow.

  ‘I thought you hadn’t yet caught a wife,’ Charles enquired, when François told them that Claudette couldn’t understand or speak English.

  ‘I haven’t,’ François said. ‘She’s not ze kind of girl to take home to your mère.’

  Claudette looked questioningly at him and then at the two young men. Charles smiled at her and said softly, ‘C’est une belle femme,’ and she blushed prettily.

  ‘Did you say she was pretty?’ Daniel leaned across the table. ‘Cos she is, she’s beautiful.’

  François grinned and said something to her and she glanced coyly at Daniel and then kissed François’s cheek. ‘Je t’aime,’ she said softly, before moving away.

  ‘She loves you,’ Charles said. ‘Do you not love her?’

  ‘Of course.’ François shrugged. ‘But I can’t marry her. She is a dancer, she can’t cook or keep house or any of ze things that would be expec
ted of her. I love ze wrong kind of girl.’

  The music started again and a group of young women rushed to the central floor, shrieking and catcalling as they began to dance just as the men had done, kicking up their legs and turning somersaults, all seemingly competing with the others. Some of the men in the audience put on their top hats and the dancers vied with each other to kick the hats off their heads. When they succeeded the men pressed a coin into their hands. François went to lean on the bar counter to watch.

  ‘I can see why François can’t take Claudette home to meet his mother.’ Charles’s voice was strained as he attempted to be heard above the noise. ‘She’s rather wild.’

  Daniel nodded. The girls were dancing without restraint, and he had a sudden memory of his sister Dolly turning somersaults out in the paddock and not minding if her brothers saw her with her skirts over her head and showing her cotton drawers; but I wouldn’t like to think she was doing that in front of strangers, he mused. Men will get ’wrong message. They’ll think the women free in their ways even though there’s nothing to see but black stockings and suspenders.

  When the dancing was over, François returned to the table with a girl on each arm. Daniel and Charles stood up again. One girl was dark-haired, plump and vivacious and he introduced her as Nanette. Daniel could see that Charles was attracted to her black hair, olive skin and brown eyes, a complete opposite to his fair colouring.

  The other girl was blue-eyed, fair-haired and slender, and smiling at Daniel. She whispered something to François. He laughed and shook his head.

  ‘What?’ Daniel said. ‘What’s funny?’

  François shrugged. ‘Chérie thinks you are very ’andsome. She asks, are you Italian?’

  ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘They ask, can they sit at your table?’

  ‘Of course,’ Charles said, pulling out another chair for Nanette. Daniel did the same for Chérie. She sat down and crossed one leg over the other, showing rather a lot of black stocking, but when Daniel sat down beside her she transferred herself neatly to his knee.

  ‘I don’t think you need an interpreter,’ François smiled, ‘so if you will excuse me I will go to find Claudette. I come back in a short time.’