The Bench

by Nigel Jones

  “What did you talk about for two days?” asked Jacques, slightly apprehensive once more.

  “You.” She laughed at the alarmed look on his face. “Don’t worry, it was all good. Little Honeysuckle thinks you are a saint. I had to fight the urge to shatter her illusion with tales of your sexual prowess. But we were honest with each other and she made me talk. As I said, it’s very difficult not to talk to her. I liked her enormously and I think she probably liked me, despite me taking her dream away,” she paused, “I’m sorry the bitch in me did not leave her with a promise to return you when I have finished with you!” She smiled at him. “I know all about your childhood and your special places, the mill and the Warren. She very cleverly let me know that I would have to fight for you and I’m afraid I left her thinking that I would. She was too perfect, Jacques, I couldn’t resist it. But we are friends of a sort and she did me an enormous favour, she gave me back my fighting spirit.”

  Jacques was imagining them together, two protagonists, Honeysuckle in her way every bit as strong as Yvette. She was not the killing machine Yvette was, but a powerful force that could change destinies and shape events. He could see Honeysuckle cajoling Yvette into regaining control of her life, all the time taking stock of the woman he had made pregnant. For her part, Yvette would not allow this young woman to see her weaknesses and her guile would have clicked back into action within minutes of meeting her. Yes, Honeysuckle was the perfect person to get Yvette to snap out of her melancholy. In one way they were adversaries, but they were similar in so many other ways. Seeing them together would have been quite something.

  “What are you smiling at?” Yvette already knew the answer.

  “You two, sizing each other up.”

  “Two feline predators preparing to fight over their prey?”

  “Something like that,” he replied.

  Yvette laughed. “You’d have been scared stiff if you had been there. If little Honeysuckle hadn’t been so civilised and nice, I’d have tried to scratch her eyes out.” Then she added, “But it would not have been easy, she would have put up one hell of a fight. So our sparring was verbal and much of it was left unsaid with a raised eyebrow or knowing look. She was good, your Honeysuckle.” Yvette gave him a respectful look. “I’m sorry for my sarcasm, but this goddess was sitting by my bed, and I’d been led to believe she was a scrawny little child. Men!” The respectful look gave way to a withering glance.

  “We never did any….”

  “I know, I asked her, and little Miss Perfect wouldn’t know how to tell a lie, would she?” She raised an eyebrow and waited to see the relieved look on his face, then added, “That’s if you don’t count the kiss at the mill.” She was delighted at the look of horror on his face. “She was probably a minor then, wasn’t she?”

  “I, I suppose….”

  Yvette was revelling in his discomfort. “Mind you, if you had been completely French it would not have stopped you, you would have taken her. Don’t worry, darling, I know you’d never cheat on me. You are too much of an English gentleman, and little Honeysuckle would never have let you anyway.” She took his hand, suddenly more serious. “Jacques, she is lovely and good. You will be perfect together.” She leaned across and kissed him on the lips. It was not a platonic kiss, it was sensual and full of promise. “I am French, and I do not have your silly hang-ups. So, as I said, while I still have you I will use you.”

  She stood up and pulled him to his feet, then led him through the carriage door into the corridor and started to walk towards the rear of the train before stepping into the tiny bathroom and pulled him in with her. True to her word, she proved that she had no inhibitions. Like a wonderful cameo from an old film they both climaxed as the train entered a tunnel, the sudden change in air pressure and noise masking Yvette’s scream.

  Once back in their carriage they were silent. Yvette read a book and Jacques sat with a smile on his face. At first he was smiling about Yvette. She was an incredibly sensual woman and their sex-life had been thrilling from the first time they had made love. He remembered days in Paris, nights in small inns, and auberges where they had made love and experimented, often after laying plans to destroy a nearby depot or bridge. Woods, where they had lain in wait for a passing convoy or train, had witnessed their passion for each other. And the farm where the brothers had been bad farmers had played host to their carnal desires, as had the fastest lorry in France! They had been good times and the sex unbelievable, but he knew it was coming to an end and part of him was sad.

  Then his thoughts turned to Honeysuckle and he had an overwhelming desire to see her. It had been ages since their last short meeting. How was she? What had happened with her boyfriend Simon? He couldn’t help it, but suddenly it was Honeysuckle who had been with him in the tiny bathroom.

  Yvette watched his face and thought his expression was the result of their passion. She was glad that he looked so happy, but sad that they would soon part.

  The train finally rolled into the station at Treblinka, a loud blast on its whistle announcing their arrival. Yvette had enjoyed the long ride and part of her did not want it to end, realising it would be one of the last times they could be totally relaxed together. As she stepped from the train onto the platform she shuddered as she imagined the fear and trepidation her little sisters were feeling as they had stepped from another train a few years earlier.

  The train’s billowing smoke symbolically descended to engulf them, once again her life enveloped within a dark foreboding cloud. She knew this place would bring her heartbreak and her life would change yet again, but she was ready, and that dark side of her soul welcomed it.

  “Well, Buster, I have just had imaginary sex with Honeysuckle in the toilet of a train. And not for the first time, I might add.”

  Buster did not think imaginary sex was anything worth eating so showed little interest in the man’s revelation. However his rustling in the carrier bag did get his attention, and the appearance of cheese and onion crisps, his devotion.

  FIFTEEN

  It was another wonderful late summer day. The man had taken the opportunity to walk up to the memorial on Tennyson’s Trail. It was a short but steep climb and the views quite fabulous from the top. When Buster was young he would not have been brought up here, the chalk cliffs dropped two hundred feet into the angry surf crashing against the rocks below. Rabbits found sanctuary in the cliff face from any pursuing dogs and more than one poor hound had taken the chase a step too far. The young Buster, being a rabbit chaser extraordinaire, was not well suited to the terrain. So it was only in his advancing years that Jacques had brought him up to the top of the Down with its threatening cliffs.

  He had left his car at the farm in the valley, which boasted the finest cream teas on the Isle of Wight. Something Buster had been looking forward to on their return to the farm, and something Sophie had come to love too over the many years she had visited the island.

  Back in the small garden by the farm’s teashop, Jacques picked pieces from his scone and fed them to a drooling Buster.

  “Another month or so and the cream teas will be over for the winter, old boy.” He slipped the last piece into the expectant dog’s mouth.

  He liked the farm tearooms. They had proper bone china, and the delightful fresh-faced children who lived on the farm served homemade scones and cakes. He had known the family all his life and their grandpa had been one of his closest childhood friends. Little Rosie brought him a fresh pot of hot water with which to freshen his teapot and squealed with delight as Buster licked her knee. Her whole face burst into a smile that reminded him of Honeysuckle when she was about seven years old.

  Sophie had sat at the exact same table with him less than two years ago and devoured three of the tantalising scones along with a generous slice of almond cake and an impossible amount of Earl Grey tea, as full of life in her dotage as she had been in her youth.

  “I think I must have some English blood in me,“ she had said many years before
, “I like it here too much.”

  Armed with his fresh supply of tea, Jacques decided to stay in the garden to reminisce about Sophie.

  Buster was more than happy. Every table had people sitting at it now and each table appeared to have food on it, and Buster knew just how to look half-starved.

  Sophie had written her article for Paris Match and was now persona non grata with the French military establishment. This was a situation that she relished, but a position that was making it very difficult to return to Dien Bien Phu to do a follow-up about a number of the young soldiers she had met there, and previously written about. She had learned from Jacques that at least two of them were dead, and that the occupation of the airfield was not going well for the French.

  Jacques sat opposite her in the club, Saphine’s voice keeping her audience spellbound from the small stage. He had returned to Hanoi to report back to the High Command about his reconnaissance of the build-up of heavy artillery that the Vietminh had miraculously managed to facilitate, along with the insurgent aspects of the battle about to be played out at Dien Bien Phu.

  “The fools got it completely wrong. There is going to be a blood bath. Somehow the Vietminh have managed to get a bloody arsenal of big guns on the ridges surrounding the airfield. All of them pointing down at the poor French below, and now they have anti-aircraft guns so it will be difficult to evacuate the troops. These dick-head generals still think they can defeat them in a battle. It will be carnage.” Jacques was angry.

  “I have to be there, Jacques. Can you take me back with you? I have to be on the front line. I’m a war correspondent. How can I report it if I’m not there? Please, Jacques, promise them I won’t do another character assassination on them. Please, Jacques,” Sophie implored. “I’ll make it worth your while!” She added mischievously.

  “I’ll see what I can do. I’m flying back the day after tomorrow. To be honest, if you show the boys your scar again they will just take their Resistance heroine back there anyway, regardless of any permissions.” He paused. “It will be dangerous, Sophie. I mean it, we will take a spanking from the Vietminh. They are bloody good.”

  “Shut up! You know the more dangerous it is, the more I want to go, and the photos will be really powerful. With the right words I could really make a difference.”

  “Okay then, it’s a deal. I’ll just pick you up. We won’t ask anyone’s permission. I’m quasi freelance anyway.” He smiled at her.

  Saphine finished her set and came over to join them. Jacques poured a large glass of Chenin Blanc and passed it to her. He watched rapt as her luscious red lips sought out the goblet and swallowed gently.

  He was brought back to reality by Sophie’s giggle as she watched the effect Saphine was having on him. Jacques looked at Sophie and offered a Gallic shrug by way of explanation, which resulted in a more resounding laugh from Sophie.

  Saphine watched them both, once more baffled by their unspoken conversation, but no longer surprised by it. “Is he taking you then?” she asked Sophie.

  “Of course, he can’t say no to me.”

  “Be careful, Sophie. Jacques says it will be very dangerous.” Saphine was serious now.

  “He will protect me as always. That is what our Jacques does.” Mockingly, Sophie pinched his cheek.

  “Let’s hope I can this time,” Jacques retorted a little grumpily, sensing the start of an onslaught as they teased their favourite man, as always treating him like a small boy.

  The onslaught did not come. Sophie was too busy planning her trip back to Dien Bien Phu and the pictures she would take when she got there.

  After a late supper, Jacques found other things to do with Saphine’s sensual lips in the privacy of her apartment. They also spent the majority of the next day in bed, because Jacques needed the physicality of her welcoming body before he returned to the heat of the battle. He was uneasy about the coming weeks, he was used to being the predator and the hunter did not like the idea of being hunted. And now Sophie was going to be with him, but he did not mind that. There had usually been a girl at his side when he went into combat. It felt right that way, and they were the best fighters he had ever known.

  He called the loadmaster to tell him there would be an extra piece of cargo on the flight to Dien Bien Phu. He was more than happy to accommodate Mademoiselle Sophie, whom he remembered well. For her part, Sophie undid an extra button on her fatigues to facilitate a smooth passage through the boarding process.

  As the plane approached Dien Bien Phu they started to attract some anti-aircraft fire. Jacques was back in his Lysander over the fields of Normandy searching for the faint flares on the ground. He saw the runway lights appear several thousands of feet below them as the Flying Boxcar spiralled down over the airfield in an attempt to avoid the flack.

  “I saw the anti-aircraft guns on a patrol, but they weren’t using them then. They bloody well are now!” He shouted to Sophie as an explosion rocked the plane.

  They landed safely and disembarked. They were shocked by what greeted them and it proved to be a precursor of things to come. By the end of the runway was a makeshift hospital with over a hundred wounded, and several hundred dead bodies.

  “What has happened?“ Jacques asked a medic carrying supplies into the tented mortuary.

  “These guys have been evacuated from Lai Chau. They were taking a battering from the 316th Vietminh. 2,100 left to come here, only 185 of them are still alive and most of them are in pieces, fucking carnage!” He hurried through the flap with his supplies.

  Jacques turned to Sophie. “That’s what happens when we expose our troops to them in their environment. They have lived, worked and fought in these monsoon lands for centuries. It’s madness.”

  A distant voice called to him. “Jacques, when you’ve dumped your kit can you come to my office. I’ve got a job for you.” It was Colonel Castries, the commander of the camp. Jacques nodded to him.

  When Jacques returned from the meeting Sophie was alarmed at the look on his face. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “We’ve lost two complete patrols, good men, trying to gain intelligence on the exact location and numbers of the Vietminh. Apparently there has been a big build-up in the few days I’ve been away. They want me to take a patrol to try and find out what we are up against.”

  Instantly Sophie asked, “Can I come?”

  “No.” He said it sharply. “Sorry, no, Sophie. It really is too dangerous. Your job is to report this war, not die in it. I want you alive to tell the world what a fuck up all this is.”

  Jacques was right of course, so she did not argue. “Be careful, cheri.”

  “Don’t worry, I will. I want to read your articles.” He smiled at her. “Going tonight, under cover of darkness, just four men. Don’t know what we’ll find.”

  Sophie busied herself piecing together the story of the survivors from Lai Chau and taking photographs of the wounded men. It was not a pretty story. Hundreds lay rotting in the jungle, others had been captured and a good many appeared to have deserted. The final option being one Sophie found hard to argue against. It kept her busy though, as she watched the clock waiting for Jacques’s return listening to the rain of a tropical storm pounding like a machine-gun on the corrugated tin roof of her billet. Not that she would have slept much anyway as she lay awake pondering the depth of her feelings for him, and wishing a certain Honeysuckle did not exist.

  The morning light brought an end to the incessant rain and the return of a very tired and very wet Jacques. As soon as she saw him, without thinking she ran towards him and threw her arms about him.

  “That’s nice,” he said as he hugged her back. “Better stop though, they will all get jealous.”

  Sophie giggled. “Sorry, Jack. Public displays of affection are frowned on aren‘t they?” She feigned a mock embarrassment at her actions before hugging him again, this time adding a kiss and saying, “I’m so glad you are safe. What was it like?”

  “No scraps luckily, b
ut the enemy is all around us and there are a hell of a lot of them just sitting in the hills around this valley, guns pointing at us. There are probably 50,000 men, at least 5 divisions. They are well armed with some bloody good artillery. How the hell they got it here, Christ alone knows! This could be a massacre, we only have about 16,000 men, tops.” Jacques had a troubled look on his face.

  “What will happen now?” asked Sophie.

  “I don’t know. I am going to make my report to the C.O. with a recommendation that all the men he has set up in positions around the valley to form the anchoring point of this ‘fortress’ are brought back, and the whole lot shipped out by Transport Command. Then they can find a battle they stand a remote chance of winning.” He suddenly laughed. “The guys tell me that he’s called the seven fortifications we’ve dug in after his mistresses, names like Beatrice, Gabrielle and Dominique. Oh! And I particularly like Claudine. I think Sophie would be nice too wouldn’t it? Except I’d hate to think anyone called Sophie would have an affair with that prick! Just think, when the shrapnel blows their leg off the boys can take heart from the fact that they are being slaughtered in a place with a nice name.” He almost spat the last words out.

  “Will they listen to you, Jacques?”

  “Of course not. I’m just the bloodhound that sniffs out the prey for their sport. I’m convinced they think it is all a game. Fucking idiots!” He suddenly relaxed and smiled at Sophie as his hand took hold of hers. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you. If the Nazis couldn’t kill us, I’ll be damned if I will let the bloody French do it.”

  Sophie laughed. He had a huge smile on his perfect face and she knew he really believed he would look after her. “Actually I … ”

  “I know. You’ll look after me. Either way, we stick together.” He squeezed her hand. “You do know it’s not too late for you to…”

  “Oh shut up, Jacques. You know I love a fight. I’m as bad as the French generals. I am staying right here. There is one hell of a story about to unfold right in front of my eyes,” she paused, not knowing whether to say the rest, but decided she would, “and you are here, Jacques. For now we are meant to be together.”