“There is,” says Herbert. “Do you have an idea?”
Wonderful. Now they’re consulting the children. Sarita places her hand on Roddie’s shoulder and delivers a falsely confident smile.
“I know I’m not allowed to drive the Hotchkiss,” says Herbie.
“Because you’ll kill yourself,” says Sarita.
“Herbie, can you drive?” asks Herbert.
“He can,” says Roddie. “He drove all the way back from Paris last July. Georges wanted to take a nap, so he let Herbie try and we only ended up in a ditch once.”
“Was it a big ditch?” asks Sarita. And, of course, is ignored.
“The Hotchkiss is hard to handle,” says Herbie, “but I can do it.”
“The roads are already stalled,” says Sarita. “And those people are desperate. Is it safe?”
“We should probably take back roads. Herbie, why don’t you look at the maps?”
Herbie nods and begins walking quickly to the house. “Farther,” he says, “where are we going?”
“We are going to La Rochelle.”
“La Rochelle?” Sarita feels the second wash of panic. “Herbert, that’s three hundred miles away.”
“Probably longer on secondary roads. Sarita, ships haven’t been running from the north for weeks.”
“Can we at least telegram ahead to secure a berth?”
Herbert’s face assumes a look of tragic patience. “No, Sarita, we cannot. We are at war and are being invaded by Germany. I doubt there’s anyone in La Rochelle much interested in taking a reservation.”
Why have they waited this long? They should have sent Roddie to England weeks ago, and Herbie. Although if they’d done that, they’d be walking to La Rochelle. “What should I do?” she asks.
“Whatever you think should be done, provided that we’re ready to leave by eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Inside the house, all is still. The summer light floods the windows without cheer, making the drawing room seem enchanted. The house is so hollowed out with quiet that Sarita feels as if she’s haunting it. The scent of furniture polish holds in the air, that and vinegar, which is what they use to clean the mirrors. The hall clock ticks and in the dining room Sarita sees Villiers holding a tray of crystal goblets, but standing stock-still.
“Villiers!” There’s a panicked tinkling, but Villiers manages to set the tray down without breaking anything. “What are you doing?”
“I am putting the washed glasses back in the cabinet.”
“Do it later, if there’s time. I need you to collect all the silver. Grab a blanket.”
“Why not pack it in the cases?”
“We’re not taking it with us. There’s no room.” There’s so much to do that Sarita can’t move in one direction before feeling herself pulled in another. “Herbie!” she calls. Both Herbie and Roddie appear instantly, which means they were just outside the door. “Herbie,” she says, “I need you to dig a hole.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re burying the silver.”
“Like pirates?” asks Roddie. “Can I bury the silver?”
“You’re needed elsewhere. Although where exactly? And doing what? I want you to take a pillowcase off one of the upstairs beds and put my jewelry in it, and look around and get anything else that’s valuable. And then you should pack some clothes. Or maybe Beatrice can do that. Where’s Beatrice?”
“She’s scything the lawn,” says Herbie.
Sarita follows Herbie out onto the verandah and, sure enough, there is Beatrice slicing the grass into submission, shearing and shearing, in a dangerous frenzy. “Beatrice!” She looks up. “Forget about the lawn. Just leave the scythe. You’re needed in the house.”
In the coat closet, Sarita finds her carpetbag, which she usually uses for overnight visits to Dimples and the baby, who are, thank God, in England, as is Cricket. She’ll need to send the daughters a telegram but doubts she’ll have the chance before La Rochelle. Is she crazy to be packing the accounts? Deeds, those are worth something, aren’t they? Or maybe she should be in the wine cellar, because that’s an item that won’t lose its value. And Herbert has certainly spent enough money stocking it. She drops the bag, looking around at the desk, at the cabinet, at the rug—which is valuable. Should she do something with the rugs? Probably not, but the paintings—they should at least be hidden, but where won’t the Germans look? Maybe in the root cellar? Or perhaps in the attic of Père Fabrice’s cottage? Who’s free to do that? She looks out the window and sees Herbie wandering around with the shovel.
“Herbie!” she shouts.
Herbie turns around, mouth opened in way that does not inspire confidence.
“By the flower beds, so it doesn’t look like you just dug it up.”
Herbie nods, wanders over to a likely patch, and breaks the surface of the soil.
“Not there, Herbie. Anywhere but there.”
“Why not?” he yells.
“That’s where Ticker’s buried.”
Herbie breaks into a smile and moves a few feet over.
Beatrice, in her house apron, is standing at the door.
“Beatrice,” says Sarita, “I need you to bring the paintings to the foot of the stairs there and stack them. And then I guess we’ll wrap them in blankets and bring them to Père Fabrice’s cottage.” Sarita hopes that there’s room in his attic, but if there’s not, she’s certainly capable of tossing the stuff out the window. Or will that arouse suspicion?
“Madame,” says Beatrice, “all the paintings?”
“Just the valuable ones,” says Sarita.
“Madame?”
“The ones you don’t like.” Which is funny, funny to both of them.
Roddie comes down the stairs with the pillowcase. He looks inside it but seems lost. “Mama, this is all I could find.” He extends the pillowcase. “I don’t know where all your necklaces are, or the tiara with the sapphires.”
“The good stuff, Roddie, is in the vault in Paris.” And of course what Roddie has there, diamond studs, some gold, that funny butterfly hairclip with citrine and garnet, is just what one wears to lunch at the neighbors. This activity does seem ridiculous, futile, but one has to do something. “Why don’t you pack some clothes for you and Herbie, and don’t forget some warmer things for the ship.” If they can get on a ship. Move. Move. Move. Don’t think. Don’t panic.
The papers are now stuffed into the carpetbag, giving some satisfaction. Although it does strike her as ironic that the most valuable of these papers is the deed to the house. She makes her way up the staircase and into her bedroom. Roddie has closed all the drawers of the jewelry case, neatly arranged her brushes at right angles to the table edge. Now he’s working on the collection of the silver as Villiers has to put together lunch and, while she’s at it, some food that doesn’t take up too much space for tomorrow’s journey. And they need water. They’re running out of space as the petrol is already filling the luggage rack. Herbie’s pointed out that they’re going to need extra tires. Back roads, extra weight, and the anticipated heat make punctures probable. So Herbert has taken the task of packing the car and a steady mountain of items is massing in the garage that may or not make the final cut. There’s a moment of silence and she savors it.
The windows are still open and an energetic breeze fills the room, plays at the chandelier, setting the crystals to soft music. The wind billows the curtains, then sucks them flush to the wall. That chandelier was very expensive, despite its modest size. Maybe they should take it down, bring it with them. Or the one by the stairs, although she remembers the size of the crate in which that arrived, the miracle of it surviving the journey from Baccarat undamaged. The crate required a cart to itself, a cart that moved at a crawl all the way from the train station, softly easing in and out of ruts, the horse at a steady, steady pace. Caring ab
out luxury things is a luxury. There’s a thought she’s never had, because she’s never been in possession of such items and at risk at the same time.
The paintings are wrapped and stored in the cottage attic, and the jewelry is in the vault in Paris, nice and handy for the Germans when they’re looking for it, but she’s glad to be leaving France. She should be in England, all of them should be together, at least while Charlie is still there.
Beatrice volunteers to keep an eye on the house as she has nowhere to go but her family in Vernon, who also have nowhere to go, although what Beatrice can accomplish for security—little, doll-like Beatrice—who can guess? At least Burroughs will send a man ahead of the Germans to check that the house has been cleared.
“When they tell you it’s time to leave, you need to go. We don’t know how accurate these accounts coming out of Belgium are, but I would rather you not be alone when the Germans arrive.” Sarita hugs Beatrice, who bursts into tears.
“I should have married him.”
“Married who?”
“Marcel.”
Marcel is the second groom, who’s been gone for weeks. “Beatrice, did he ask you?”
“Yes.”
“And did you want to?”
“Not then.” She shakes her head, loosing a mass of blond hair on the left side. “But now, yes.”
They’re all doing it, the last look at Villa Sarita, all but Villiers, who is already sitting in the car. Villiers remembers the last time the Germans came through and has no misgivings about leaving. Roddie gets in next, squeezing up beside Villiers, and then Sarita, who looks immediately exhausted, as if she’s been holding it in. It is six in the morning and Ward has not slept. Neither has Sarita. Herbie stands with the crank at the front of the car. He puts the crank in.
“Herbie, do you know what you’re doing?”
“I’ve never started it. I know how, but Georges says it’s tricky.” Ward comes around to the front of the car, giving a tug on a tank of water that looks a bit loose but is actually secure. Herbie manages to get the crank around once, but then it sticks. He pushes it again and gets it to six o’clock, but then it sticks again.
“So what do I do?” Ward asks. He’s never asked Herbie how to do anything.
“You crank it, but you can’t really grab it. You have to sort of wrap your fingers around one side.”
“All right,” says Ward. It’s really tough, takes a lot of strength, and looking at Herbie, the slenderest of the children, he can see why he’s not up to it. Herbie is only sixteen, has yet to fill out, and might never, as he seems to have inherited his mother’s bird bones. The poor boy’s nervous, that’s clear. He’s got the brave smile going, a tick also inherited from his mother. “Here we go.” Ward moves the crank one revolution, and feels a click—something’s happening—and then he repeats the action a couple of times, then faster, and there’s a clicking and a rumble.
Ward jerks out the crank and he and Herbie exchange a look. The Hotchkiss is alive. The running board is completely loaded up with petrol and Herbie has to climb over it. He settles himself into the seat and looks at the controls, reaches for the pedals, which involves sliding to the edge of the bench. He holds the gearshift and looks around him. Herbert hands him Georges’ goggles. At any other time, this would be funny, but this is Ward’s family who is now in the hands of Herbie. Sarita hands Ward a cushion and Ward folds it and tucks it in behind Herbie’s back.
“Much better,” says Herbie. He releases the brake and sets the car in gear, making some careful maneuver with the pedals. The car creaks forward and then they’re moving. Moving at five miles an hour. They continue at this speed, slowly, slowly, with Herbie holding an almost painful concentration. A leisurely bird passes them, banking to the left across their path. They make the first bend in the driveway.
“By the time we get to La Rochelle, the war will over,” says Roddie.
“Don’t listen to him, Herbie,” says Sarita. “This is fast enough.”
Ward sees Herbie slump his shoulders ever so slightly. Ward doesn’t even know the language for cars.
“Right,” says Herbie. “Here we go. Second gear.”
There’s a terrible grinding noise, then a lag. He thinks the engine is going to quit, but Herbie does something and the car leaps forward. Now they’re really going. A final turn and Rolleboise disappears from view. Soon they are coasting down the hill into town. In Vernon, the café is being boarded up. Mathou, the proprietor, watches, hammer in hand, to see them leave and his face says everything: You are here when things are pretty, and when they’re not, you’re back in England. Mathou does not raise his hand in greeting. He does not smile. On any normal day, the market would be noisy with tables buckling under produce and women shuttling along with full baskets, but the space is empty. On the packed dirt, a child on a tricycle makes figures of eight.
Ward spreads the map across his knees.
“We should go right, to connect with the Tours road.”
“Father, are you absolutely sure?” says Herbie.
“Do you want me to look?” asks Sarita from the back. There’s an edge in her voice.
“I think it’s pretty clear that we need to take the right,” Ward replies.
“Should I stop the car?” asks Herbie.
And they’re only in Vernon. With any luck, they’ll make La Rochelle by midnight.
It’s the second flat tire of the morning. This jack seems about as substantial as an eggbeater. Herbie’s got the hang of it—at least the concept—but the elbow grease is all Ward as it’s dangerous and they can’t afford that Herbie get injured. Sarita and Villiers have wandered away from the road since flat tires make good rest stops. Roddie has been instructed to stay as near them as is acceptable and is keeping guard with his rabbit rifle. The idea is that he shoots over the head of anyone who comes too close, or shoots to announce the presence of someone, or something like that. No one’s sure, but there has already been one group of men chasing them down the road, and they outpaced them, but if they hadn’t, they’d be on foot right now, relieved of car, valuables, food, water.
“We can’t afford another flat,” says Ward.
“Not without killing each other,” says Herbie.
“Any ideas?”
“Yes,” says Herbie. “Make Villiers walk.”
Jack sufficiently cranked, the car is tipped up. Now Ward has to get the tire off. Some of the newer models have removable wheels, which will definitely be the case with the next car Ward purchases. But until then, he’ll have to grapple with the tire lever.
“The Routes Nationales will be better maintained,” says Herbie.
“Maybe when we’re closer.” This is the same tire that they replaced an hour ago. “How much farther do we have?”
“Distance-wise, we’re halfway, but if there are more people to the south—”
“I doubt it,” says Ward. “We should be ahead of the majority of the refugees.”
They get back into the car and Villiers hands around some sandwiches—pâté, ham, a sharp cheese. This could be a picnic. There is some wine, but Ward takes none and Herbie just a mouthful. The road rolls out its pale and looping reaches for mile after mile. People are walking, pushing handcarts, carrying sacks over their shoulders like storybook characters. They keep their faces angled to the ground, grim, enacting their hopelessness.
They pass a cart pulled by dogs, which marks the couple as Belgians. The cart isn’t much bigger than a wheelbarrow, packed solid and covered in a blanket. Sarita makes Herbie stop the car because she wants to give the dogs water, and then, seeing the ridiculousness of this, gives the man a bottle of wine. He’s from Dinant, which was hard hit. He produces a picture that at first Ward thinks is of him, only without mustaches. He says it’s his brother. Has Ward seen him? And no, Ward has not, not this man. Another man, a Belgian, has told him
that he might have seen the brother several days ago. And one man from the town says he thinks the brother was shot as a sniper, but isn’t sure. There were so many men executed. The man’s French is rough, and he seems to want to provide details, but keeps glancing over at Sarita as if the presence of a lady prevents honesty. He’s heard that England is taking Belgian refugees, but he would prefer to stay in France. France is closer to home, but if it falls to the Germans, they’ll all be starved if they’re not lined up against a wall and shot. The whole time the man is talking, his wife says nothing. Ward would like to ask if they have children, but where are they? The woman stares at Roddie without blinking. Sarita gives them the leftover sandwiches, but there’s no more to be done for these people. They are the lucky ones, picturesque with their dogs and cart, the ones you stop for and give wine and sandwiches. Herbie puts the car in gear and soon the distance expands between them.
Sarita says, “It’s so strange that everyone’s headed in the same direction.”
Up ahead, there’s a wagon pulled by a horse, which is surprising until Ward sees the age of the animal, and the age of the man up by the horse’s head, whispering to it, tugging it along. An old woman wrapped in a shawl, despite the heat, follows behind. The wagon wobbles through a rut, displacing the mattress that rests atop all the other belongings, and she raises her hands as if to catch it. But the mattress stays put and the three—old woman, old horse, old man—continue moving southward. The composition seems allegorical, but what would it serve to illustrate? The progress of old age? The flight of reason? The death of tradition? He never liked bald illustration anyway. He admired Turner—the light, the movement—but, as he’s matured, that wildness seems out of reach. He will create a frenetic watercolor every now and then, but the body is so much with him that it dominates his vision.
Herbie navigates southward, taking turn after turn as the day slowly exhausts itself. The boy has exhibited an impressive sense of direction.
“You’re like a homing pigeon,” says Ward.
“Only I’m not going home,” says Herbie. He moves his head around, making his neck crack. Roddie has fallen asleep, his head cushioned on Villiers’ expansive chest. Sarita, lost in her own thoughts, has her eyes trained on the passing landscape. He wonders if she’s thinking about Belgium, about the civilians being pulled from their houses, lined up in the town squares, and shot. Is she wondering if that could be them? Is she wondering if another flat tire will put them within reach of the invading Germans?
Valiant Gentlemen Page 40
