The Bench

by Nigel Jones

  As the Lysander was being refuelled Jacques suggested they get a cup of tea in the Mess. He could not wait any longer to see the face of the shadow that had been sitting behind him. He had been thinking about her for the last five weeks, fascinated by what kind of woman would be a Resistance fighter.

  He offered his hand along with his ready smile as she stepped from the ladder. Yvette thought it ironic that she had spent five weeks in mud and ditches blowing up bridges and attacking supply routes, shooting Germans and being shot at, and then an Englishman should be offering her a hand to take one last ten-inch step onto a perfectly dry piece of tarmac. But he smiled at her and called her Mademoiselle. It was a very handsome smile, so she took his hand and allowed him to help her down. It was also the first time they had really been able to take a proper look at each other.

  Yvette was smaller than he remembered, perhaps five-feet- three or four, and she could easily have been five-feet wide, her jacket was so large. Baggy trousers were tucked into socks and huge boots, and perched on her head was the same beret she’d worn when he’d flown her to Normandy.

  She could have been ten feet-wide for all Jacques cared, because beneath the beret was the prettiest face imaginable. With streaks of black camouflage on her cheeks, she looked like a pussycat with whiskers stretching from her petite nose.

  As she took his hand and allowed herself to be escorted from the Lysander, Yvette could also see his face properly for the first time. He was young, she thought perhaps twenty, but he was handsome with spectacular eyes that were both kind and strong. Now standing on the ground she had to raise her head to look up at him. He was tall, over six feet and athletic-looking, his broad shoulders perfectly supporting the flying jacket; its fur collar caressed his jaw with its five o’clock shadow. Yes, this Englishman was French, but he had the manners of an English country gentleman, a very sexy one at that.

  “Tea, Mademoiselle?”

  He had a naturalness to him that fascinated her, and she realised she was still holding his hand and he had made no attempt to let go. She looked at their hands still clasped together but she didn’t speak.

  “You’d better hang on, the path to the Mess is very uneven,” Jacques said quite seriously.

  Yvette looked at the fifty yards of pathway that led to the building she had visited before, it was perfectly flat and recently laid. “Thank you, it looks a little tricky.” She continued to hold his hand as he escorted her to the Mess.

  Jacques was astounded at his own behaviour. He had never behaved like this with anyone. Actually he’d never really had a girlfriend. There had been a girl in Yarmouth who was nice and had fancied him, but nothing had really happened other than a few kisses and a clumsy grope on the beach by the pier. Honeysuckle had always seemed to be around, which he didn’t mind because he preferred her company anyway. But now here he was, quite naturally flirting with a beautiful ten-feet-wide woman who must have been older than his inexperienced eighteen years.

  ‘Oh well here goes, there is a war on, the rules have changed. The worst she can do is tell me to push off,’ he thought.

  He looked down at her as they walked, and she was looking at him with a slightly puzzled look on her face, then suddenly there was her pretty smile again and she gave him the faintest of nods.

  Yvette was only twenty-two years old herself but she had seen more of the horrors of life than anyone she knew, and she’d lived in a brutal world since the War began. She was brave and she was fearless, she had killed many men and crippled others and she could live with it. She’d had sex on a number of occasions and some of those partners were now dead. They had been good men, she had not loved them but she missed them. She had no time for relationships, they would just make her more vulnerable and she had a job to do. When she had defeated the Nazis, she had to find her family.

  She gave him a broader smile and squeezed his hand. This Jacques was nice. She needed nice for a while, some strong arms to hold her and she did not have time for courtship, if he proved to be all right over a cup of tea she would sleep with him.

  When she squeezed his hand Jacques was suddenly scared, but excitement rushed through his body too. He now suspected he would probably lose his virginity to a French girl, and it felt like the perfectly natural thing to do. He squeezed her hand back in acknowledgement of their unspoken agreement.

  Tea went well. They made each other laugh and by the time the engineer came to tell them he’d refuelled the Lysander, Yvette was excited at the prospect of sleeping with Jacques.

  Back at Tempsford, Yvette stayed in one of the rooms over the Red Lion Inn where she was to rest before getting her brief for the next assignment and return to Normandy. Jacques was given two days off before his next sortie, so the very next night he met her in the pub for dinner.

  Jacques was sitting by the bar when she walked into the room. The ten-feet-wide man/girl had transformed into a real girl with curves in all the right places. The pussycat face had on real make-up and bright red lipstick adorned very kissable lips. Her black hair, which he’d never actually seen, formed a bob round her beautiful face. Her hips swayed on perfect legs accentuated by high heels as she walked towards him in a figure-hugging green dress.

  Jacques stood up as she approached and she raised herself on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Bonsoir, Jacques.”

  Jacques’s heart was racing, and he felt terrified. He’d never really been scared before, not at Dunkirk or on any of his missions, but this slip of a girl scared the living daylights out of him. He took a deep breath. “You look beautiful, Yvette.” He raised her hand above her head and twirled her round once. “Quite beautiful.”

  “Merci, Monsieur, and you are very handsome.” Her eyes never left his. Although they had spent only a short time in each other’s company, Yvette liked being with him more than any man she’d met. She was pretty sure he was younger than her, but he was self-assured and his eyes somehow gave him a gravitas that made him seem older, they were wise eyes and very sexy.

  They had a drink at the bar then went into the small restaurant for dinner. The choice was not great, however the food was fresh and it didn’t seem to matter, they were perfectly at ease in each other’s company.

  Yvette had stayed there before and she was a favourite of the landlord. Somehow he’d managed to acquire a bottle of Burgundy, which he presented with great aplomb to the childish delight of Yvette and the amusement of Jacques.

  It had been the perfect evening and now they were looking at each other over the remnants of the Burgundy. There had been no talk of the War or their former lives; they were both living in the present. That was all that mattered, especially to Yvette.

  “Jacques, will you think I am terrible if I ask you to sleep with me? You are so kind and I need someone strong to hold me.” There was a look of shame on her face, almost pleading for forgiveness. “We don’t have to have sex, but I need you. I am saying it badly, I’m sorry. I hope you understand?” She was confused at what she was asking of him and looked for his reaction. She hoped she had not shocked him and he had managed to grasp what she was awkwardly trying to say.

  “Of course, Yvette. I understand.” His eyes were compassion and strength, and they understood perfectly. She hadn’t told him her story, but he could see there was so much she wanted to tell, and he could see the tear in her eye.

  “Thank you, Jacques.” She was not surprised by his insight. She stood up and led him by the hand from the restaurant and up the old oak staircase to her room.

  She kissed him gently on his lips and slowly undressed him, then stood back and peeled the green dress from her own body.

  Jacques thought his heart would stop as she stood in front of him and allowed his hands to explore her curves. He thought he would explode when she gently stroked his penis and pushed him back onto the bed.

  She knelt astride him and kissed him again. As his eyes met hers, he said the most unexpected thing.

  “Not now, Yvette. I will hold you, m
aybe tomorrow when you are ready.”

  Yvette couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. He was perfect and she wanted to cry, she hadn’t cried for over a year and this sweet man knew she needed to, even though his body told her he desired something else.

  Jacques cradled her in his arms and she allowed the tears to come, her head resting against his muscled chest. She was safe and even though she cried she was happy.

  Jacques was desperate to make love to her, but he could sense it was the wrong time.

  “I’m sorry, cheri, I will make it up to you and I’ll explain later,” she managed to say through her tears.

  Jacques could feel her breasts against him and tried not to think about them. His hand rested on her buttock and he could feel the soft hair of her groin against his thigh. His hormones wanted something different, but he knew that she needed comforting, probably more than he needed sex, so he just held her and stroked her hair, occasionally kissing the top of her head.

  After what seemed like an hour her sobs subsided. The woman he had been told was the bravest in the Resistance had cried herself to sleep. Jacques enjoyed the feel of her body against his for probably another hour before he too was overtaken by sleep.

  He awoke to the most wonderful thing he had ever experienced. Yvette was kissing his penis, and then slowly she moved her body over his and eased herself down onto the erection he was convinced would explode before he entered her. He managed to control himself just long enough as her tongue found his and her groin devoured him. How he managed it, he did not know, but she had an orgasm just before his own climax and she collapsed in his arms.

  When she’d woken up and found his arms still enfolding her she had never desired anyone so much. He had given her something no one else ever had. He had given her back her humanity and allowed her to grieve.

  “Wow, Yvette, I love it when you cry.”

  He giggled and her hand sought him out again. “You do don’t you?”

  This time Jacques was more in control and discovered the joys of sex. In fact he enjoyed sex several more times before Yvette finally allowed him to take a rest.

  “Well I must say, not only are you the nicest man I’ve ever slept with you are the by far the sexiest and best lover a girl could ask for. Where do you get that stamina from, and who taught you?”

  “No one. First time, I’m afraid. You just deflowered me. Five times!”

  “Oh my God!” Yvette was suddenly on her knees looking down at him with the wickedest of grins on her face. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” Jacques was smiling too; in fact he thought he’d be smiling for the rest of his life.

  “Oh my God! How old are you, Jacques?” Yvette suddenly looked concerned.

  Lie or not to lie? “Eighteen, nearly nineteen.” He had a look on his face that was asking if it was old enough.

  Yvette’s mouth was agog as she processed the information. Slowly the wicked grin reappeared. “So let’s put all that youth to good use then.”

  When they had finished she took his head in her hands and kissed him. “I will not tell my friends you are only eighteen. It will be my secret, my beautiful English Frenchman.”

  “How old are you, Yvette?”

  “It’s none of your business. Come on, lunch, let’s have a picnic.”

  An hour later they were sitting by a stream in the English countryside armed with a loaf of bread, some cheese and another bottle of the elusive Burgundy.

  “We could easily be in France,” Yvette said as she broke off another piece of bread and fed it to him. “It is lovely here, I am so happy.”

  Jacques was happy too. He was lying on his back with his head in her lap, looking up at the girl he’d spent all morning making love with. The sun was warm on his face and the water seemed to play music as it gently meandered through the rocks of the stream.

  It was a perfect moment and they were quiet for a while, each wrapped in their own thoughts.

  Suddenly Yvette said, “There is something I want to tell you. The reason I was crying.” Yvette hesitated.

  “Please go on, Yvette, I would like to know.” He raised his arm and stroked her cheek.

  Yvette looked distant, then said, “My name isn’t Yvette. It is Sarah and I am Jewish. Yvette is my codename in the Resistance.”

  Yvette or Sarah, it didn’t matter to Jacques, but he sensed there was more, so he did not speak and allowed her to continue.

  “Maman and Papa, along with my sisters, were taken by the Gestapo. I hid in my friend’s house and they did not find me. My family was initially taken to Drancy Internment Camp in Paris, but then I don’t know where the Germans took them. I know they will be in one of their bloody concentration camps somewhere. People say they are terrible places and many are dying in them. I feel guilty that I could not save them, I should be with them, Jacques.” She had said it. Guilty, she had told a boy she hardly knew that she felt guilty. Others in the Resistance knew her story but none knew about the guilt she felt for not helping them and not being with them.

  Jacques sat up and held her shoulders. “You should not feel guilt. Your family will be thrilled you are not with them and since they were taken you have fought for them, for France. We will win this war and we will find them. I will help you.”

  Yvette looked at him. She could see in his eyes that he meant what he had just said and she knew he would help her. She loved being with him, being an ordinary girl wearing a dress, just wanting her boy to kiss her. She suddenly felt like a child with him as her protector, and not the girl who had probably killed over a hundred German soldiers. It would be so easy to fall in love with him and just let him protect her, but she was not that person anymore. The child had left her the day they took her family.

  “I will join the Special Operations Executive and fight with you. When we’ve defeated the bastards, then we will find your family.”

  There, he’d said it again. “You mean it don’t you? You would do that, yet you have only really known me a day.”

  “Yes, Yvette, sorry, Sarah.” He was still holding her shoulders, his eyes looking intensely into hers. “Anyone can fly the aeroplanes in and out of France. I know the drill there already, and I speak French better than most Frenchmen. They’ll jump at having me, hell it’s already been mentioned to me by my bosses.”

  Yvette was experiencing a maelstrom of emotions. Her whole being cried out for her to take him with her, someone who knows and understands. “It is dangerous, Jacques. They don’t take us prisoner, they torture and shoot us if we are caught.”

  “Then let’s not get caught.” He assuredly squeezed her shoulders.

  “Will we be lovers?” It was suddenly important to her.

  “Yes we will be lovers, and we will fight our common enemy together.”

  “What if we fall out, Jacques? You have not seen the woman who kills. You may not like her.” There was doubt in her voice. She did not like herself at times and was sure he would see how callous she could be.

  “Look at me, Yvette. If that happens then we will continue our fight apart. France is a big place. Together we can be a force, and we will keep each other alive.”

  Tears filled her eyes. Perhaps this war could be bearable with him by her side.

  Two days later Jacques was a member of the S.O.E. and an important part of Yvette’s life. She preferred the name Yvette to Sarah.

  Jacques passed Buster his mystery sandwich. It was worth the wait. Buster had no idea what it was, but it tasted like chicken, so he would add mystery sandwich to his long list of good things to eat.

  FIVE

  After lunch the man didn’t get up to go home, but he nestled back into the bench for more remembering.

  Buster generally preferred to go home to his sofa after lunch, but it was a warm summer day and he was enjoying the sun on his black fur, so he quite happily settled in for the duration.

  Jacques had got into the habit of remembering Honeysuckle between each of his other recollections, and
after remembering the day he lost his virginity to Yvette he felt a little guilty about Honeysuckle. It was a wonderfully sunny day, so he decided to stay a while longer on the Warren and think of her.

  He looked out to the Solent and in the distance the ferry was approaching Yarmouth harbour, sailing boats miraculously avoiding its path with a nonchalance that always amused him. The water was much busier than when he was a boy, but despite everything he still loved the sea and he’d bought his own small sailing boat and had sailed it for a number of years after he had returned to the Isle of Wight in retirement. His thoughts went back to his dear father and wished that he could have sailed it with him before he had passed away. The French flag would, of course, have been flying proudly from the stern of the yacht.

  The ferry was almost in the harbour now and he was back on the Isle of Wight with Honeysuckle, well not quite.

  He was on the paddle steamer approaching Yarmouth all those years ago and standing at the end of the pier was Honeysuckle, waving at the approaching boat.

  He was glad to be going home for a short break before becoming operational with the S.O.E. Other than for a couple of days about nine months ago, he had not seen his parents and he had not seen Honeysuckle at all. She had been visiting her aunt, with her mother, on the mainland and was distraught when she returned to find she had missed Jacques. She had sat with Jacques’s mother for hours in their kitchen and pumped her for every word he had said and for information on all he was doing.

  She wrote to him regularly and he wrote back whenever he could. The letters were always written in French, hers were diaries of what she had been doing, but she never told him how much she missed him. He did not need a soppy girl wasting his time with that stuff when he had a war to fight.