The Lily in the Snow

by Jackie French

  ‘You know the word,’ Sophie remarked.

  Mrs McDonald flushed. ‘My brother-in-law mentioned it. He . . . I . . . They, the sisters, wouldn’t allow me to see John unclothed. I suppose that is reasonable, if he were not my husband. But a doctor is different.’

  ‘Did Dr Greenman,’ it was so much easier to use the unfamiliar name, as if there was no relationship to the man she had loved in every sense of the word, ‘find any identifying marks?’

  She shook her head. ‘John doesn’t have any useful moles or something like an appendix scar. He did have a scar on his left hand, but of course that is gone now.’

  ‘Mrs McDonald, excuse my frankness, but all you have is a man who has brown hair, and who is roughly the right age and the same height as your husband.’

  ‘He is shorter now, from his injury and being bedridden for so long.’

  So ‘Matthew’ was not even the same height as John McDonald, thought Sophie. Surely this woman was deluding herself. ‘Why are you so sure he is your husband?’ she asked bluntly.

  Mrs McDonald hesitated. ‘I know this will seem idiotic, but it’s his smell. Yes, there’s disinfectant and carbolic soap and illness but, under it all, it’s John. Faces change, your ladyship. I didn’t even know I remembered what John smelled like. But as soon as I grew close to him I knew it. There are a hundred other things too — the way he moves his head, the set of his shoulders. It’s nothing anyone but me would understand. Except his brother, perhaps.’

  But only a wife, or long-term lover, would know the essential scent of a man, thought Sophie. She would always know Nigel’s. ‘Dr Greenman isn’t as sure as you are?’

  ‘He says he might be John. I think he thinks he is John, but for some reason he won’t give a definite opinion.’

  Or he thinks he isn’t, and doesn’t want to hurt you, thought Sophie. ‘What is the legal situation?’ she asked.

  ‘Quite clear. If John can be positively identified, then I’m his next of kin. I’ll take him home. Even if I didn’t have the means to do so, the Australian government would repatriate him once they knew who he was, at the request of the French government, unless he had family who would contribute to his support here in France. But if he refuses to admit we are his family . . .’

  Ah, thought Sophie, so a man who cannot speak or write and may have brain injuries has few rights. He must do as his next of kin and his country order.

  ‘But until he’s identified there is no way to prove he’s even Australian,’ continued Mrs McDonald bleakly. ‘So he stays here.’

  ‘Your word isn’t enough to convince the authorities?’

  ‘I don’t know — probably not, unless his brother adds his weight to the identification. But that isn’t the point.’

  Mrs McDonald looked down at her gloveless hands, the nails short, the calluses on her fingers those of a woman who had been in the saddle much of her life, a gold wedding ring, an engagement ring with sapphires and diamonds. ‘Mother Antill says that he has the moral right to choose whether to go or to stay here, to be John McDonald or Matthew, even if he doesn’t have legal rights. I . . . I agree with her.’

  Ah, a woman with intelligence and sensitivity, not possessiveness, thought Sophie, as Mrs McDonald fumbled for a handkerchief. Sophie passed her one of her own. Mrs McDonald wiped the tears, then blew her nose. ‘He has almost nothing now, you see,’ she said quietly. ‘Just the choice — to be Matthew or to be John. I can’t take that from him.’

  ‘Even though you’re sure he is your husband?’

  ‘Especially because I am so very sure. I love him,’ Mrs McDonald added. ‘I didn’t know if I still would, after all this time. But I do, even if he won’t accept me.’

  ‘I see.’ Sophie took a smoked salmon sandwich, and then a sip of coffee. She needed sustenance. ‘Do you think he has lost his memory?’

  ‘No. Or at least he remembers enough to know me.’ Despair edged her voice. ‘Why would he respond to the sisters, but not to me, if he didn’t recognise me? He won’t even take a spoonful of soup from me, but I’ve seen Sister Emmanuelle hold a cup for him.’

  ‘I suspect Mother Antill thinks he has some memory too, and possibly even some voice. But surely life would be so much better for him at home than here? The sisters do their best, but . . .’ She gestured at the frozen turnip fields, the cabbage stumps, the mud, the inadequate puffs of smoke from only two of the farm house chimneys.

  ‘I know. I don’t understand it either. Even if John doesn’t . . . doesn’t love me any more, he would have warmth and care at home, far better than the sisters can give him here.’

  ‘Home is where?’

  ‘Burrawinga in the Western District. Sheep country. Stone walls and far horizons. John loved it. The boys enlisted together. Their father died in 1917, a few weeks after John was declared missing.’

  ‘You’ve managed it since then?’

  ‘There’s a manager, Mr Hamilton, for the day-to-day decisions, but, yes, I have looked after the station since my father-in-law died. Legally it became mine when John was declared dead,’ she added, ‘with a quarter of the income to Daniel — my brother-in-law,’ she added for clarification. ‘Dr Greenman.’

  ‘What will you do if Matthew doesn’t acknowledge you?’

  ‘Go home.’

  Sophie stared at her. She hadn’t thought this woman would give up easily. Mrs McDonald smiled. ‘I’d have no choice. Daniel won’t leave me here, and I’m not going to condemn him to a life attending me in France. It hasn’t been . . . easy . . . for him coming back here, though he hasn’t admitted it. It isn’t fair to put him through even more. No, I’ll go home and then come back with a companion. I’ll volunteer here, not as a nun — I have no vocation and, even if I did, my family would have a pink fit. They are very, very Presbyterian,’ added Mrs McDonald drily.

  ‘I see,’ said Sophie slowly. And she did see. A life of devotion, emptiness or rejection every day from the man she loved who refused any gesture of recognition. Pain upon pain.

  And for the man in that bed in the cold stone ward? If he were John McDonald he would have to be on his guard forever, unable to make close friendships or learn to speak again in case he gave himself away to the woman who was always there, and would always consider herself his wife. Every day he would have to face that she was sacrificing her life for him, when she could be comfortable at home or even marry again, now that more than seven years had passed and he could legally be declared dead.

  And if he were not John McDonald?

  Perhaps then, one day, out of pity or pain, he would pretend he was. And that might be even worse.

  She opened the car door as Nigel, Green and Jones came towards the car. Dr Greenman lingered at the doorway with Mother Antill, who seemed to have accepted her tea leaves would not need to be reused again today. Sophie was glad. A day could contain only so much emotion.

  Sophie sat in silence next to Nigel in the back seat of the car as the conversation flowed around her. She would have liked to huddle, but Miss Lily’s training held. Even her neck remained graceful as she stared out at the fields. Brussels sprouts this time . . .

  ‘It’s possible he’s McDonald,’ Jones was saying. ‘He may be thin now, but the width of the shoulders could belong to a rugby player.’

  ‘And possibly half the British and Australian officers played rugby,’ said Green wryly. ‘I think it might be contagious.’

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ demanded Jones.

  ‘A woman knows her husband,’ stated Green.

  ‘Really? You know so much about husbands.’ Green flushed. ‘It must be fourteen years since she’s seen him,’ argued Jones. ‘Fourteen empty years of continuing to search for him, instead of going on with her life. She’s been living a fantasy. This could be part of it.’

  ‘We have no reason to think her life back in Australia wasn’t rich and fulfilled, even while the search for him continued,’ said Nigel. It was the first time he had spoken. His hand moved di
screetly to hold Sophie’s. She turned and gave him the hint of a smile. ‘Mrs McDonald looks like a woman of sense and determination. Women like that rarely lead empty lives.’

  ‘So why has she come across the world on a wild goose chase?’ demanded Jones.

  ‘Duty?’ suggested Green. ‘Hers is not the only family that’s employed enquiry agents, even if it is just to know where their men’s bodies lie.’

  ‘Love,’ said Sophie softly. ‘She looks at him with love.’

  The car rattled on the rutted road. ‘Yes,’ said Nigel at last. ‘There is love.’

  ‘Turn right,’ said Green, looking at the map again.

  The car swept into a road of houses, neatly gardened rows of vines, vegetables or flowerless geraniums. They would be in the city soon.

  ‘Do you really think it will help if we go back tomorrow?’ asked Green.

  ‘It will help Mrs McDonald,’ said Sophie. She did not try to analyse her feelings about John, or this new version of him, Dr Greenman. Later, she thought. This must be examined later. ‘It isn’t fair to leave her alone.’

  Jones nodded. He glanced at Nigel. ‘We have a duty to help McDonald’s widow. And McDonald, of course, if that man is him.’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Nigel slowly. ‘Only Sophie and I will go tomorrow. I can drive,’ he added. ‘Sophie can navigate.’

  Sophie’s mind lurched back twelve years to her last attempt at navigating: driving through the smoke-filled darkness near the front lines; the smell of sulphur, mud and blood; knowing she must reach her destination or tens of thousands would die or be left scarred, desperate, in agony . . .

  She had failed to stop the use of mustard gas. Matthew, whoever he had been, had been mutilated because of her failure.

  ‘Yes,’ she said briefly. ‘I’ll navigate.’

  The others must have heard something in her tone. The rest of the drive was silent, apart from Green’s directions.

  Chapter 10

  You can tell so much about a woman by how she wears her gloves. A good maid ensures that each finger is eased off, so there are never any wrinkles. A woman without a maid — or an impatient one — may even use her teeth to pull her gloves off. Look for teeth marks, my dears.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  VIOLETTE

  The house was four long, slush-covered streets from the train station: a bungalow, needing paint, separated from its neighbours by a patch of winter-brown grass, and a row of dormant roses, neatly pruned. Mrs Maillot unlocked the front door.

  The house smelled of cold and, faintly, of a coal fire. ‘The kitchen will be warmer,’ apologised Mrs Maillot.

  ‘It is a palace for me, madame,’ said Violette truthfully.

  The hall led past three other doors, all shut, to the kitchen door at the back of the house. The kitchen windows had clean, though mended, lace curtains, and looked out on another square of grass, a vegetable bed, a leafless tree and a washhouse.

  Half the kitchen table was covered with a white cloth, embroidered at the edges. The other half had been kept clear for food preparation. It held a butter dish and a salt cellar. A dresser displayed willow pattern china. The stove had been skilfully banked up. This was clearly where most of the small life in this house was lived. Mrs Maillot opened the air vent then added more coal. The fire flared.

  Mrs Maillot then reached into the larder, a thin cupboard with a few cans, a half-empty pot of jam, a bread bin and a large brown pottery dish with a lid. A vegetable rack sat on the floor, containing three potatoes, a carrot and a parsnip. Mrs Maillot removed the brown dish.

  ‘I made soup last night. Pea and ham, and there is bread and jam for afters. I’m sorry I have nothing better to offer — I don’t cook much for myself. I’ll just go and light the fire in your room and air the sheets . . .’

  The daughter’s room, thought Violette with sudden pain, ready for sheets to be put on the bed even though she would never sleep there again.

  ‘Madame, please, do not trouble yourself . . .’

  ‘It is no trouble.’

  The voice was painfully eager.

  It was strange to have someone care for her; to have nothing to do except sit and breathe warm air. She looked at the photographs on the dresser as Mrs Maillot bustled about the room next to the kitchen. A man in a suit who looked kind. The husband? A much older couple, in pre-war clothes, possibly the parents. Four photos of a girl, as baby, toddler, and one when she was perhaps fifteen, a studio portrait. Violette had assumed Daisy Maillot had died in the early epidemic, but of course each winter still had deaths from influenza, even if it seemed to have lost its post-war virulence.

  A pretty girl, Violette decided, but not remarkable. But then she had no need to be, for she had been loved.

  Mrs Maillot hurried back. ‘I left a nightdress warming for you too. I think Daisy’s dresses might fit you, a little big perhaps, if you do not mind another’s clothes.’

  ‘It is an honour, madame.’

  The soup was . . . adequate. As Mrs Maillot had said it was pea and ham, and lacking any depth of herbs or seasoning. But Violette ate three bowls full. Her hostess ate none.

  ‘Truly those sandwiches were all I needed at luncheon. You are far too thin,’ said Mrs Maillot worriedly. ‘We’ll visit the butcher tomorrow. A small joint of beef, perhaps, and Yorkshire pudding. And scones . . . you know, it has been years since I made scones. I must put a note out for the milkman — milk and cream, I think. You’ll need cocoa in the morning. He delivers eggs too. And a fresh loaf from the baker.’

  The room still felt curiously lived in, even though the fire glowing in the bedroom fireplace had only recently been lit. A doll in a frilled dress sat on a cushioned chair. The nightdress was only a little too large, the bed warmed not just by the fire, but by a hot brick wrapped in flannel. A framed tapestry above the bed said God Watch Thy Rest.

  ‘Sleep as late as you like,’ said Mrs Maillot from the door. ‘It . . . it has been such a hard time for you. You need rest and building up. We’ll get more soup bones tomorrow too.’

  And perhaps I will make the soup, thought Violette. She had seen leeks out in the garden, and there were those carrots and potatoes in the vegetable bin. There might even be a bay tree on the walk to the butcher’s.

  Mrs Maillot hesitated, then crossed the room. She bent and kissed Violette’s cheek. ‘Sleep well, my dear,’ she said. She turned the gas light off as she shut the door.

  Violette waited till her footsteps had vanished to the kitchen again, then checked the door was unlocked. The front door was locked, but only with a bolt on the inside.

  She was not a prisoner then. She had not thought she was, but Violette Shillings would not have survived so long if she had not been cautious.

  She lay back in the soft warm bed, under the comforting weight of blankets and a quilt, then she felt under the pillow to check her knife was still there. Satisfied, she slept.

  Chapter 11

  Men have moustaches and beards. Women do not. Except, of course, they do as they grow older. It is an unadmitted fact that men and women both become more androgenous as they age. Your tweezers will be your best friend, my dear, with the first hairs of your goat’s beard, but I will also show you a useful thin toffee you may apply that will remove the smaller hairs on cheeks, forearms and legs. Hairlessness in women is associated with youth, and youth with beauty. I advise reading a good book propped up on a cushion while plucking, to pass the time.

  Miss Lily, 1913

  To Sophie’s surprise Nigel excused himself as soon as they returned to the Ritz — he was usually sensitive to her moods and she needed him now. She sat in the living room of their suite, staring at the snickering fire. Flickering, eating the logs. Apple wood, she thought by its scent, hoping the Shillings people were all settling in safely for the evening. The Ritz did not subject its guests to the scent of coal.

  But she could smell eucalypt smoke again, see the flames rise in John’s campfire, the billy coming to
the boil as he made tea for her. The night she had gone to him in desperation . . .

  She could not think of that. She must not think of that. What should she do? What should she say to him, to Nigel? Her mind and emotions felt like they had melted together —

  She stood and walked over to the window, then turned as the door opened.

  ‘I have brought crumpets,’ said Miss Lily gently, standing back to let the waiter carry in the tray.

  The waiter placed the tray on the table and set out the teapot — silver, naturally — the silver hot water pot, the milk jug and sugar basin, each with the crest of the Ritz. The English might be barbarians who drank tea instead of coffee, but the Ritz did not allow its employees even the ghost of a Gallic sneer.

  The crumpets were accompanied by butter, honey and a toasting fork. The waiter laid them by the fire.

  ‘How . . . I mean why . . .?’ stammered Sophie, as the waiter left the room.

  ‘Sit,’ said Miss Lily. She gestured to the two armchairs, then poured tea. She handed Sophie a cup then bent, each movement a symphony of grace, placed a crumpet on the toasting fork and held it by the fire.

  Sophie shut her eyes. She was back at Shillings, in that magic winter before the year of war, Hannelore laughing as her crumpet fell off the fork, and darling Mouse . . .

  She felt tears warm on her cheeks, knew that was exactly what Miss Lily intended: tears for all she had lost. Tears for Mouse and valiant Dodders. Tears for her father, tears for John.

  Because the John she’d known was just as lost as her beloved friends. That golden man in his ragged shirt who washed in a gully and sang ‘Danny Boy’. That simple, sunlit man who spent his days carving crosses for every dead man he’d watched charge into battle, or quietly counselling the returned servicemen of the district, who would journey to his hut by the gate for understanding or simply a cup of tea, the song of lyrebirds and of peace . . .

  She had thought, after that night together, that he had fled — but he’d only gone to find coffee for her breakfast. She had arrived home to the telegram announcing Nigel’s surgery; had flown to him in England, never thinking of pregnancy till weeks later.