The Bench

by Nigel Jones

  They were good, one of the best teams in France. When London gave them a specific job they never failed to deliver. In between assignments they devised their own targets and ways to disrupt the German war effort.

  More recently they’d been instructed to co-ordinate the various Resistance groups to prepare for the Allied invasion of France. No date was given and it was still some way off, but it was felt that to maximise the effectiveness of the Resistance a closer working relationship had to be formed. They had travelled extensively meeting other leaders, and a network of communications was established between them all.

  One visit had taken them to Paris for a romantic weekend, to make contact with the recently formed Prosper network. They met with Yvonne Rudelatt and Andre Borrel, both of whom Yvette had met before within the S.O.E. They had been parachuted in to set up the new network around Paris in preparation for the invasion.

  They also met Sophie for the first time, the girl Jacques would subsequently meet again in Vietnam several years later. They both instantly liked Sophie, she was amusing and initially Jacques thought, possibly just a tiny bit mad, but her colleagues said she was brave beyond belief. Sophie and Yvette became instant friends and she had joined them for a simple meal in a small Rive Gauche restaurant on their last night in Paris.

  Jacques watched fascinated at Yvette talking with Sophie. Sophie brought a side out of her he had never really seen before; a young woman who was interested in fashion and make-up; who liked to dance and loved the ballet; a woman who loved to cook and exchange recipes; a woman who wanted a normal life.

  He sat quietly and listened to them. Here was the wonderful, vulnerable girl that lived beneath the facade of the warrior. He hoped he would see more of that girl. Yes, Sophie was good for Yvette and most probably, Yvette was good for Sophie. Together they could be girls again, girls like Honeysuckle whose life had not been scarred by the War.

  During the course of the evening they only talked once about the Resistance and it was Sophie who brought up the subject. “I’m a little scared about our new network, Prosper, I don‘t even like the name.”

  “Why?” Jacques asked.

  “Because it is so new. There are people involved we have never met before. Too many new faces whose backgrounds we do not know about. What we are going to do is hugely important, prepare Paris for the invasion, but it is all being put together too quickly. It cannot be secure. We are going to fly in over sixty agents over the coming months and vast amounts of arms and explosives. As you know, our groups have been small, tight knit, almost family. I am nervous, it doesn’t feel right.”

  “Then be careful and do not trust anyone, Sophie,” Yvette said, the cool Resistance fighter once again. “If you need us, we will be there for you.”

  “Thank you, thank you both.” They had known each other just thirty-six hours but there was total trust between them.

  That night in their small hotel, Yvette said, “I like Sophie immensely, we must look after her, Jacques.”

  They made love and eventually fell asleep in each other’s arms. It was probably the most intense lovemaking they had ever had. Relaxed, on their romantic weekend, Yvette could be herself, and when she thought he was asleep she whispered in his ear, “I love you, Jacques. Don’t be cross with me, but I think I am going to have your baby.”

  Jacques was not asleep and when he heard her words he froze, a maelstrom of emotions flooded through him. He knew he was not supposed to have heard and he lay perfectly still. His mind was racing, trying to work out the connotations of what Yvette had just whispered to him. Then his thoughts turned to Honeysuckle, and just as every other time he thought of her he was confused. Why did he have such a feeling of loss?

  The next day, when he was back in his apartment in Le Havre, he wrote the letter to her, but not before he’d had a long conversation with Yvette.

  When they awoke in the early hours and had made love once again, he said, “I heard you, cherie. I heard what you said about the baby and it is fine, but are you sure?”

  Yvette was crying. “Yes, pretty sure, I am six weeks late. You are not angry?”

  “How could I be angry with you? How do you feel about it?”

  “I’m not sure.” She managed a smile. “It’s not great timing is it?”

  “No, but if it is meant to be, so be it. That is if you want to have a baby?”

  “I do, Jacques.” Then she added something that demonstrated all her torment and angst. “Do you think it will make me human again?” There was a look of need on her face, seeking validation from him.

  Once again Jacques’s heart went out to her and he saw the girl he could love. “Don’t be silly, you are human. One very beautiful and loving human.“ He kissed her gently on the tip of her nose.

  Yvette tilted her head back and her tongue sought his, she needed more proof that she could love. Jacques, feeling her need, obliged.

  * * * * *

  Honeysuckle ripped the envelope apart, anxious to get at its contents. She recognised his writing and couldn’t wait to get to read his words. Since she had kissed him in the pool barely a minute had passed without him being in her thoughts. She had already planned the rest of their life together.

  It would start in France, where she would join him in the Resistance. She had even written to the S.O.E. offering her services as a fluent French speaker, just as soon as she was old enough. Vera Atkins had replied, saying they would be interested when that time came, but hoped the War would be over long before then. They would get married in St. Agnes’s Church, the prettiest Church on the island, with its thatched roof, nestling in the grounds of Farringford House just a short distance from Yarmouth; they would have five children, all with French names. The first would be conceived on their private beach by the pool upstream from the mill where she had kissed him, and they would make their home in one of the cottages that lay sheltered below Headon Warren, her favourite spot on the island. In this paradise they would live a perfect life farming, or fishing, or maybe both. She knew some of these dreams were just the child in her, but the woman in her also knew that she wanted to give herself, her heart and her body to the man she loved.

  As she read his letter her mood swung from excitement to despair.

  My dearest Honeysuckle,

  I’m sorry it has taken so long to write to you, but I am sure you appreciate how busy we are. I would like to tell you about our work here but it would be dangerous, so I hope you understand.

  I often think of you all, and I trust you are keeping everyone in order back home, especially Big Jacques!

  Jacques had got to this point in the letter and did not know what to write next. He knew his next words would break Honeysuckle’s heart, and that was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

  I have thought about our last meeting many times, and the kiss we had at our pool. It is because of that kiss that I feel I have to tell you something. Please forgive me Honeysuckle, but I have met a girl here in France.

  When I see you next I will tell you all about her and our relationship. It is complicated and I hope you will understand.

  I do not know what to say to you in a letter, my sweet Honeysuckle. Please try to forgive me, and let me explain face to face. I hope to be back in Blighty for a few days shortly.

  I intended to write you a much longer letter, but now it seems inappropriate. I thought you should know about her, it is only fair. I also appreciate that writing these words may appear cowardly and cruel, and they may be, but it is not what I intended.

  You must know that I will always love you, but as things now stand it must be as your big brother.

  At this point, for the first time and after months of agonising over Honeysuckle, he finally realised that these last words were fundamentally untrue. He stared at what he had written. He did not want to be her big brother, and without a shadow of doubt in his heart he knew that he wanted the woman Honeysuckle had become.

  A tear rolled down his cheek. There was no
choice, he knew that his duty was to look after Yvette and their child, and the feeling of loss he felt was excruciating.

  Then he’d imagined Honeysuckle opening the letter and the look on her face as her beautiful smile turned to bewilderment, and then to anguish. The thought of it brought more tears. But he could not let her carry on believing that they had a future together as a couple. That would be crueler.

  Perhaps when she learnt of the baby she might understand, but he could not tell her about that in this letter. He needed to tell her in person.

  Please forgive me, my dearest. You are still young and I know you will find someone to love far more than me.

  You have been, and always will be, my best friend. The friend I will always love.

  Jacques x x x

  Honeysuckle stared down at the letter. She thought that her whole world had ended. At first she could not cry, she was in denial. Then for the first time in her whole life she was angry with him. She screamed abuse at the letter and the man who had written it. Then they came, tears that hardly stopped for a week.

  Her mother heard Honeysuckle shriek upstairs in her room. She flew up the stairs to see what had brought on such an outburst from her daughter. She found her curled up in a foetal position, sobbing and making agonised noises as if she were a kitten that had been run over.

  She sat and put her arms around her daughter. “What is wrong, darling?“

  Honeysuckle did not respond. She could not speak. Then her mother saw the letter on the bed by her side. She picked it up and read it.

  Her heart went out to her beautiful daughter and her mind went back to the day Jacques had left to join the Air Force, when she had sat with Honeysuckle at the end of the pier. She remembered praying that Jacques or the War would not break her daughter’s heart. Both had conspired to do so.

  She curled up with Honeysuckle and stroked her hair. “My poor, darling. It will be fine, just wait and see.”

  It was not fine. How could it ever be fine? Finally Honeysuckle found the words she could not say before. “I hate him, Mummy. I hate him.”

  Buster knew it had not been good remembering. He didn’t like the man to be sad; he much preferred it when he smiled. Having said that, Buster did a bit of his own remembering back to when he was a puppy and he first saw a person smile. He had been scared, thinking he was about to be bitten by their bared teeth. He soon learned that they showed their teeth when they were happy and not angry, and after happy teeth there was usually a treat.

  EIGHT

  The storms of the previous day had cleared the air and it was a perfect summer day. Jacques sat with Buster’s head on his lap, looking out past the Needles towards Swanage and the headland of Studland Bay. Where the rocks of Old Harry stood proudly like sharks’ teeth from the sea, mirroring the other jaw that was home to the Needles on the Isle of Wight.

  Jacques was glad to be back on his bench, especially on such a beautiful day. He decided it was too perfect for the dark thoughts of yesterday, so he would to go back to Hanoi and more hedonistic times. There would be plenty of time to revisit the War and the myriad of problems it threw at him.

  Buster had been pleased to see the smile on the man’s face again and almost ran up the hill to claim the bench for ‘remembering and sandwiches.’

  All four legs of the bench had been fine, and he was sitting bolt upright on the seat when the man arrived, proud that he was able to get up without the man’s help. Somehow it was easier in summer.

  “Well done, Buster. Life in the old dog yet.” Jacques produced a dog biscuit by way of a reward for the sprightly hound.

  Buster had known that it was coming. Back at the cottage, he had seen the man put the treat in his pocket and knew exactly what he was doing when he rushed up the hill and appeared to be clever. Being clever always got a treat.

  “Yes, Hanoi today, Buster. Hanoi was a good place for a young unattached man.” Buster watched him smile.

  Jacques was back in the club with Saphine sitting on his lap, her legs crossed towards him showing a heart-stopping expanse of shapely leg to the rest of the club’s clientele. Each one of which she made eye contact with as she sang her song.

  Sophie sat opposite them, smiling and amused at the look of lust on Jacques’s face, which he was unable hide. As Saphine gracefully rose from his lap, somehow brushing the entire length of her leg across his groin, Sophie laughed. “I think you need to cover that up!” She pointedly looked with more than a disinterested glance at his erection, which was pressing against his light flannel trousers.

  Not trying to hide it, Jacques looked down. “She does that, you know. Something about her.”

  “Umm, I’ve noticed.“ Sophie’s eyes widened.

  They flirted, especially here in Hanoi. They’d always flirted slightly and Yvette had found it amusing. Sophie was quite simply a flirt.

  In the wake of the War, Europe had become puritanical once again, returning to the moral values they all believed they’d been fighting for. Hanoi never had those values, love and sex were readily available without judgement or censure. To Sophie and Jacques it was a comfortable place to be, somewhere they could continue the flirtations they had started years before.

  After the lawless years of the Resistance the confines of the new moralistic, straight-laced Europe had proven inhibiting. They were both on the run from that, along with other things from their past.

  Sophie lent forward and touched his penis. “Mmm, nice.”

  Jacques made no comment and did not move, he allowed her hand to rest there as he looked down at it before they both burst out laughing.

  They had never had sex or anything more than a kiss on the cheek. But in their minds they had, and it was a game they loved to play. Saphine knew, and Yvette had never taken offence. Saphine loved Sophie, who was round-eyed, blonde and beautiful and she admired her intelligence. Once she had suggested to Jacques that Sophie joined them in bed. She did not have western hang-ups about sex, after all she had been a prostitute. However Jacques, although giving it a fleeting thought, was far too ingrained with Victorian values to really entertain the idea. As Sophie touched him, he found himself thinking about it again, before an image of Honeysuckle wiped the idea from his mind.

  Sophie laughed. “You’re having a Honeysuckle moment, aren’t you?” She knew him well, and had become his confidante during the past year. She knew all about Honeysuckle and how a different look appeared in his eyes whenever he thought of her, often followed by a guilty expression that would appear from nowhere, as it did now.

  “Shut up, or I’ll take you up on your offer one day, and you won’t like that.” He looked at her hand, which had deliberately started to stroke him at the mention of Honeysuckle, as her eyes mockingly became moon-struck.

  “You’re right, I’d hate it!” She pinched his erection and took her hand away. Her eyes betrayed the lie.

  “Ouch! That hurt,” he yelped.

  “It was supposed to, but it has taken care of your erection.” She was staring at his groin.

  “Poor Jack.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Would you like me to rub it better?”

  “Get off me. You bloody French are all sex mad!”

  She gave him a look that made the innocent young Jacques want to run a mile, but the older Jacques, the French Jacques, the Jacques who had known Yvette and Saphine allowed his eyes to smoulder back at her.

  “Oh my, Jack, those eyes. One day I will have you.” She was perfectly serious.

  Jacques knew that one day she would, and he would not be complaining.

  Saphine finished her set of songs and came to join them. ”I’ve been watching you, you’ve been flirting with my girl.” Saphine kissed Sophie on both cheeks and threw a less than threatening look at Jacques, before resuming her position on his lap. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m starving.”

  As quickly as she had sat down, she stood up and taking both their hands she led them from the club.

  They went to their favou
rite street restaurant, which did some of the best food in Hanoi, where Fatty greeted them. He had kept their usual table free for them. It was the only one beneath a fan. Whenever Fatty knew Saphine was coming to eat, people would sit at that table under pain of death.

  Saphine kissed Fatty, who blushed then bustled excitedly. “What I get you?” Remembering the other two, he then shook hands with Jacques and accepted a kiss from Sophie without blushing.

  “The usual please, Fatty.” Saphine gave him a smile that caused the beetroot pallor to return to the amiable restaurateur, who cannot have weighed an ounce over six stones.

  They sat at their table and soaked up the continuous buzz of street life that enveloped them. It was late, but life in Hanoi made no allowance for the late hour. Street vendors still sold their wares to shoppers who had only recently finished their day’s work. The road was full of tuk-tuks and bicycles, all fighting for space with mopeds and scooters. No obvious traffic pattern was apparent and Jacques, as always, marvelled at how they managed to avoid each other. Brightly painted lorries were the kings of the road, which appeared to take no notice of their smaller, fellow road users.