Starlight (The Four Lights Quartet Book 1)

by Fergus O'Connell

  She had heard in June 1917 that her husband was missing and Lewis wondered if he had been involved in the French mutinies after Nivelle’s disaster on the Chemin Des Dames. Lots of the mutineers had been executed. But he said nothing of this to her. She asked him if he was married and when the answer to that was that he wasn’t, she ragged him. Surely he had a girlfriend. He shook his head.

  Outside the restaurant, he offered his arm and she took it as they walked back to the hotel through the dark streets. They were silent. Helen tried to push her way into Lewis’ thoughts. Normally he allowed her, welcomed her, but tonight he closed that door. He realised it was the first time he had been able to do that.

  ‘Do you have more things to do now when you get back?’ he asked her.

  He could only see the vague outline of her face it was so dark.

  ‘No, Cecile should have done everything. Just lock up and go to bed,’ she said.

  And so they did.

  57

  Lewis began to come to Amiens every chance he got. If he could only stay a night, they would go to dinner and then return to either his bed or hers. He always insisted on renting a room saying she needed the money. If he came for a weekend, he would help around the hotel so that after a few weeks it felt like they were a couple running the place. Each night they slept in either his bed or hers.

  Sandrine was very independent, her own woman and Lewis liked that about her. She and her dead husband, Jean-Jacques, both had family but they lived in Rouen. It was a long way. Sandrine didn’t see them very much. Lewis’ French improved as did her English. They had no disagreements of any description. Sandrine was always happy to see him and he her. She rarely spoke about Jean-Jacques and he told her nothing of Helen. Though one evening, as they were eating, she said to him, ‘There was somebody, wasn’t there?’

  ‘There was.’

  He didn’t know what else to say and, after a long silence, she said, ‘It’s alright, you know. You can tell me if you want to – when you are ready’.

  And then they talked of other things.

  Their lovemaking was genuine and passionate and adventurous. It wasn’t serious or mournful. There didn’t seem to be any ghosts in the bedroom, neither Jean-Jacque’s nor Helen’s.

  One evening, over dinner, he told her about Helen. When he had finished, Sandrine said laconically, ‘She sounds complicated.’

  The remark stayed with Lewis for the rest of the evening. Later, during the night, he woke and it was still there. Lewis had always thought that the only thing complicated about his relationship with Helen had been their age difference. He hadn’t seen her marriage as a complication. She didn’t love her husband and so she would divorce him – simple as that. And Lewis and Helen loved being together – that was what really mattered. She would divorce her husband and she and Lewis would be together. But now he realised how profoundly accurate Sandrine had been. And it wasn’t just Helen that had been complicated. Lewis realised that he himself had been complicated – or maybe confused was a better word.

  His relationship with Helen hadn’t been simple at all since – simultaneously – he had wanted her to be mother and lover. And for her it had been even worse because, at different times, he was the son she never had and her lover and she already had a husband to whom, despite all her protestations, she was bound.

  He saw it clearly now in a way he had never done when he had been in the midst of it. She had never left her husband. Not really. Those things that Lewis and Helen had shared together in Fowey had been just strange anomalies. Married to her husband was her normal state. My God, all the time she was writing to Lewis, while he had been at war, she had been married to her husband. Who knew? Maybe she had been meeting him, sleeping with him, especially after she had been transferred to France and the distance separating them wouldn’t have been that great. Lewis realised that her relationship with him had been in her head. It was an imaginary one conducted by an imaginary version of her that never really existed. She had pretended to be a person that she wasn’t.

  But she had had no malicious intent – he knew that. She had just not wanted anybody to get hurt. But looking back on it all now, somebody was always going to get hurt. And it had turned out to be him. But he couldn’t hate her for it or feel angry – not any more. Given how mixed up he was at the time, it must have been a thousand times worse for her with the added complication of Robert. Her head must have been about to explode a lot of the time with all of the conflict going on there.

  Lewis wondered if she was still like this or had she managed to find some peace. Had she been able to put him out of her mind and her heart in a way that – up until now – he hadn’t been able to? He found himself hoping that she had found some happiness. And he realised that this was something he had not felt before. Up until now he had been tormented by the thought of her sharing her life with somebody else. That idea had been like a terrible nagging ache that never left him. Tonight, for some reason, it didn’t seem to bother him – it seemed remote and far away.

  And what about Sandrine? There were times when he thought that being with her was what he wanted. That to settle down with her, to get married, to have children would be the finest thing in the world. But then, at other times, he couldn’t picture himself growing old as an hotelier. Whatever else about his life so far, it hadn’t been conventional. It had had colossal highs and lows. He had spent the last couple of years living on the edge and while it hadn’t been pleasant, there had been something about it, some whiff of danger that appealed to something deep inside him. He knew that he definitely didn’t want to live that close to extinction again, but neither did he want the kind of extinction that he sometimes thought being an hotelier would bring with it.

  By the spring came confirmation that the Graves Exhumation Units were indeed going to be disbanded. Whatever bodies had been recovered were recovered; whatever remained would now be left to chance or to French farmers or builders. Even though he had known for a while that it was coming, the decision was still a shock to Lewis. The unit had become like a family to him. Indeed, for a long time, before Sandrine, it had been his whole world. Now, in July, his enlistment would be up and he would be demobilised. What would he do then?

  He was no nearer an answer to this question when he spent the following weekend with Sandrine. That Friday evening, as he rode on the lorry into Amiens, he found himself wondering again if his future lay here with her. Was that why she had come into his life? Maybe he should ask her to marry him and he could live here and help her run the hotel. As a business it was clear that it had a future. Every month there seemed to be more and more people coming to visit the battlefields. The hotel was busier than it had ever been. She would need help. And he enjoyed being with her. He was sure she had her dark moments, just as he did, but they seemed to understand each other, understand each other’s sadness. They didn’t ask about it – just took it as a fact of life. They were solicitous of each other and tried not to take each other for granted. It seemed like a very solid foundation for a future together.

  That evening they ate in the small apartment she maintained for herself on the ground floor at the back of the hotel. She had prepared the food herself which was unusual because normally, when they ate in, she just got food from the kitchen. The remains of dessert lay on the table and their coffee cups were half full. Apart from the two tall candles which had burned half way down there was no other light in the room. The heavy furniture in dark wood seemed to have merged into the walls. She reached across and took his hand, but this was something one or other of them often did when they went out. She looked at him with her brown eyes and then with a little smile on her face, she said, very softly, the words that had never passed between them before.

  ‘Je t’aime, Lewis. Je t’aime’.

  58

  Lewis stood outside his tent smoking. The spring evening was warm with a smoky orange sun sinking beyond the green rolling countryside, making long shadows of the men as they moved
around the encampment. The smell of onions and grilling meat was in the air.

  ‘Mail, sir.’

  Sergeant Wilkes passed Lewis a handful of letters. The first was from Dad – he would read it later – there were two bills, one for shirts that he had bought when he had reluctantly gone home on leave at Christmas, the other for books he had had shipped from Foyles. When he saw the handwriting on the last letter it was a moment before he recognised it. Or perhaps he recognised it straight away but it was a moment before he believed what he was seeing. Thick, expensive white paper. The back-sloping hand in blue fountain pen. The obviously feminine writing. Helen.

  The letter had been posted to Horn Lane and re-directed in Dad’s handwriting. Before he realised what he was doing Lewis smelt the letter. Stupid fool. An old habit. He turned it over and read the return address. It was the one in Shropshire. So, she was still with him. Or had he died? Was that what this was about? With trembling hands Lewis tore open the letter, ripping the envelope apart in his urgency. It was one small sheet of heavy white paper folded in two with the same return address on it and written in the same blue ink. His eyes raced over the words.

  Dear Lewis,

  I have made up my mind to leave Robert & will be doing so in the next few days.

  I wanted to meet you. There is so much I want to say to you.

  I don’t know what your circumstances are. Maybe you are married & if you are, I hope that it has turned out to be everything you would have wished for. I don’t know where you are or even if you’ll get this. But if it does & you would like to meet, I would come to wherever you are, no matter where that is.

  I know that I have hurt you beyond belief & perhaps you are standing by a fire getting ready to burn this.

  But I hope you will not & I can get a chance to see you. You can reply to this address & don’t worry, if you do, your reply will reach me.

  Yours, Helen.

  He collapsed into his camp chair and for a long time sat there, reading and re-reading the words. He searched for signs of affection. The ‘dear’ and ’yours’ were bland, things one might write to a friend. She wanted to meet him. But for what? To say what things to him? She was still with Robert and he was still alive and she hadn’t left him. She had said everything she had to say the last time. What else was there?

  Yes, he would meet her. He would be delighted to meet her. There was much he wanted to say to her.

  He wrote a reply straight away. It was an equally bland letter that began ‘Dear Helen’ and ended ‘Yours sincerely’. He told her that he was in France – he left it as vague as that – that he got leave every other weekend and that if she wanted to meet he could meet her the weekend after next. He wrote his reply on Monday, it went in the post on Tuesday and would have arrived in England Wednesday. He had a reply by Friday.

  Yes, she would come to France on that weekend. Where should she meet him?

  He replied telling her that he would meet her outside the main door of Amiens Cathedral at 6 pm on Friday March 19.

  59

  The Wednesday before he was due to meet Helen, Lewis went into Amiens. He hadn’t told Sandrine he was coming so that when he came in the door of the hotel, her face lit up.

  ‘Lewis! Quel surpris.’

  She leaned across the counter and he kissed her on the lips, but he knew it was a half-hearted kiss.

  ‘Is somesing wrong?’ she asked?

  She always spoke in English when she wanted there to be no doubt about what she was saying.

  ‘No, nothing’s wrong,’ he said airily. ‘It’s just that I won’t be able to come and stay this weekend.’

  Her brown eyes met his. He looked away with a kind of reflex action and then looked back again.

  ‘She’s come back,’ she said. ‘Hasn’t she?’

  He felt ashamed, guilty, he wasn’t sure what exactly.

  ‘It’s just something I have to take care of,’ he said in French. ‘I’ll probably see you that weekend after all. I just won’t be able to do it on the Friday night.’

  ‘Don’t say things you don’t mean,’ she said in English.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he replied in English. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Or make promises you can’t keep,’ she said.

  ‘Je dois partir maintenant.’ I have to go now.

  He hesitated, unsure whether or not to kiss her goodbye. She made the decision for him.

  ‘Goodbye, Lewis,’ she said.

  Spoken in a French accent the two English words sounded like the shutting of a door and the turning of a lock.

  They usually finished early on Fridays, so by four o’clock, he was back in camp. He washed, shaved and changed into a uniform that he’d had freshly laundered in the nearby village. The leave lorry deposited him outside the Cathedral just after five thirty. There were still a couple of hours of daylight left. The square outside the Cathedral was busy with people returning home after the day’s work, or going into the great church. The smell of evening meals being prepared was in the air.

  There was no sign of Helen, so he went into the Cathedral and found a pew near the back. He sat in the cool, dim, vaguely incense-scented interior trying to calm his thoughts. The lights of candles twinkled in the side altars and the stained glass windows were still boarded up. His heart was racing. He didn’t know whether he wanted her to appear or not. He didn’t know what he would say if she did. He didn’t know what he wanted or how he hoped this meeting would end.

  He had never been religious, not since he had been a child and Mum had first knelt down to say night prayers with him. In his teens he only went to church to see Victoria and Sophie. During the War he had found himself turning to God in moments of extreme terror. And the last time he had prayed had been after Helen had gone out of his life and he had begun to pray again to get her to return. After several months of that he had given up.

  He slid from the pew onto the kneeler and covered his eyes with the palms of his hands, welcoming the warm pools of darkness. What a life, he had had. Why had he survived? What was the point of it all? He felt like he was going to cry. Outside were the faint sounds of traffic. Pews creaked as people got in or out of them. Somebody dropped a coin into a box which had been emptied. It made a hard wooden thud as it hit the bottom of the box. Feet trudged or shuffled up and down the aisle. But then he heard another sound. It was the clicking of heels, walking slowly on the flagstones. He took his head from his hands and looked up.

  Helen was coming down the aisle and was about mid-way between the altar and the door. She wore a floral dress that stopped above her ankles. It had short sleeves with a white collar and a matching hat. Her coat was draped over her arm. She saw Lewis at the same time. He stood up slowly and stepped out of the pew.

  ‘Hello, Lewis,’ she said softly, and like a tidal wave, it all came back to him, falling on him at once in a great rush. The line of her shoulders, her arms, her hands, the smell of her hair, her laughter. And how she looked when she was naked – vulnerable and powerful all at once. Her back and her buttocks, her magnificent breasts, her thighs, her feet which he had kissed.

  He thought she looked a little older, or maybe it was just that she looked tired. But everything else was as before. The dress was a different style but it reminded him so much of what she had worn that first day in the church in Fowey.

  ‘Shall we go outside?’ she whispered.

  He turned and they walked out together. Walking down the aisle and leaving a church – he was struck by the irony of it. Outside, the sky was a bit more orange and the air was a little chillier. She turned to face him.

  ‘You look well,’ she said.

  ‘So do you,’ he said, inadequately.

  ‘Shall we walk?’ she asked.

  ‘We could go down by the river,’ he offered.

  ‘Is that the Somme?’

  He nodded. She began to put her coat on and he helped her into it. She thanked him. They went north across a little bridge and down the cobbled Rue du
Hocquet. They walked slowly, in silence, almost like lovers. Eventually, Helen took a deep breath and said, ‘When I met you, I … I was a mess. Oh, I didn’t realise it at the time. I thought I was ready to start a new life. But I realise now that I wasn’t and the result was that I hurt you really badly.’

  She halted and turned to him. She put her hand on his arm to stop him.

  ‘For that, dearest Lewis, I am really, really sorry. I know that saying sorry is so inadequate but it’s all I can do. I thought when I left Robert that first time, that I could just turn off my feelings. But I wasn’t able to. It wasn’t that I still loved him – that was long gone. But I felt guilty. I pitied him. And especially after he was wounded. Those are strong emotions. At least they were strong in me.’

  ‘Stronger than love?’ asked Lewis.

  She looked into his eyes.

  ‘At the time they were,’ she said.

  She turned and continued walking.

  ‘I was very angry,’ he said.

  ‘You had every right to be.’

  ‘But then – recently – I realised that I was messed up too,’ he said. ‘I realise that now. I didn’t know whether I wanted a mother, a girlfriend, a lover or what.’

  ‘But at least you didn’t hurt me,’ she said.

  ‘Someone was always going to get hurt,’ he said.

  ‘But it shouldn’t have been you. You were nothing but kind and generous and loving. You’re a good man, Lewis. A good, strong, caring man. You don’t find too many of them. At least I haven’t come across too many.’

  They walked on in silence.

  ‘It turned out exactly as you said. It was killing me. If I’d stayed with him I would have been dead in a few years. In the end, I had to leave – for my own survival.’