by Judy Leigh
‘Or watch TV,’ Maggie added.
DJ and Jake exchanged glances, their eyebrows raised. Emily chimed in. ‘Perhaps you just haven’t met the right man yet, ladies. I promise you, there are a few good guys out there who defy the stereotype.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Emily,’ Cassie agreed.
‘So, ah, everybody…’ Tommy held out his cup as François filled it with coffee. ‘We have quite a full schedule today.’ He cleared his throat over the chatter but no one was listening. The couple at the far table got up, holding hands, and walked to the exit. The smart woman followed them, still speaking rapidly on her phone. Tommy gazed at the twelve remaining people still eating breakfast and chattering excitedly and tried again. ‘So, everyone, today we will visit the beach, the cemeteries beyond and if we get time we’ll go to Bayeux before we drive to Amiens.’
‘Oh, yes – we must see the Bayeux tapestry.’ Denise purred. ‘I do like cultural visits, as you know.’
‘It’s always worth a visit to Bayeux, ladies – I’ve been several times,’ Ken agreed.
Tommy presented his most official expression. ‘We are staying over at Amiens tonight. We are booked into a hotel with a funny name – I can’t remember – called La Mort Pirate or something like that.’
‘I don’t care where we stay, Tommy. One hotel is as good as another as far as I’m concerned – I can sleep anywhere.’ Pat’s mouth was full of bread. ‘But we’d better not bother with the card games later, DJ. I was cleared out of euros last night.’
‘I’ve booked a big table for us all in the restaurant for dinner at eight,’ Tommy explained. ‘We will get slap-up nosh after the graveyards and the beer is good there. It’ll be brilliant. It’s a nice hotel, very comfortable, it gets good reviews.’
‘La Mort?’ Pat gaped at Emily. ‘What does that mean? Isn’t it French for love?’
‘That’s l’amour,’ Emily replied.
‘So, what does it mean?’ Lil asked.
Cassie waved a hand, as if it was unimportant. ‘It means death. Tommy thinks we’re staying at a hotel called The Pirate’s Death, apparently. Or The Dead Pirate. Not sure which would be worse.’
‘My days,’ DJ murmured.
‘Do you think the place is haunted?’ Maggie’s eyes bulged.
Lil snorted. ‘I’m not superstitious. As long as the Grim Reaper has got a few bottles of wine in his cellar and the food’s good, it’s all fine with me.’ She stood up and adjusted her sunglasses. ‘Right, that’s breakfast done. Come on, Tommy – get the minibus out. Maggie and I are ready to hit the beach.’
8
The breeze buffeted Cassie as she stood on Omaha Beach. She was staring up at the huge memorial anchored in the sand, a series of tall angular shapes formed like wings or sails, the steel glinting in the sunlight. She sighed and muttered the title, ‘Les braves,’ beneath her breath. Emily came to stand beside her, followed by DJ and Jake, their hands in their pockets. They were still for a while, thinking, then Jake said, ‘It’s so sad.’
DJ read the sculptor’s words aloud. ‘“I created this sculpture to honour the courage of these men. Sons, husbands and fathers, who endangered and often sacrificed their lives in the hope of freeing the French people.”’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Poor lads.’
Cassie turned up the collar of her jacket against the breeze. Emily pulled a phone from her pocket and took some snaps, standing close to the sculptor’s words and photographing them several times.
‘Incredible, when you think about it,’ she said softly. ‘All those women left behind waiting, and they had no idea what happened to their men, not really. I expect they all had a telegram and were told the soldiers had been killed in action but what else would they know about how it happened? Nothing, not ever.’
Cassie moved closer to Emily and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘How’s Alex doing?’
‘He’s out in the Middle East.’ She pushed wind-blown tendrils from her eyes. ‘He’s fine. We talk on the phone when we can.’
DJ breathed in. ‘It must be tough having a marine as a boyfriend, Em.’
Emily nodded. ‘It has its moments. But I’m glad I’m here with you guys – it takes my mind off worrying.’ She gazed around at the beach. ‘Well, not here exactly – this place gives me the creeps.’
‘I saw the beginning of Saving Private Ryan. I was terrified just sitting in the cinema.’ Jake’s voice was a whisper, the pummelling wind drowning his words.
DJ agreed. ‘The first half an hour was almost unwatchable.’
Emily’s voice was low. ‘It brings it home, doesn’t it, just what an incredible sacrifice those young soldiers made?’
‘I’m sure Alex will be all right.’ Cassie wrapped an arm around Emily.
Emily nodded. ‘He enjoys the life.’ She forced a brave smile. ‘We miss each other though. But we both know what we’ve signed up for, being together. He’ll be home soon.’
‘You’re both incredible young people,’ Cassie murmured. Her head was buzzing with words, images; she gazed at the stretch of sand, so still, so quiet, the tiny grains whipped up by the wind, whisked and dropped, just like soldiers’ lives, separate stranded souls. A poem was forming in her mind, a rhythm, moving phrases and sounds making her thoughts race, words jumbling, colliding and then finding a place and a pattern. Cassie moved away by herself and stared into the distance. Maggie was strolling alongside Sue and Denise, the three of them not far from the monument, looking out to sea. Tommy, Duncan and Pat were down by the waves in a line, wearing black jackets and jeans, standing like three crows, gazing ahead. Albert sat on the sea wall, huddled in his overcoat, looking around.
Cassie thought about Omaha Beach, how empty and quiet it was, and tried to imagine the chaos of boats arriving, soldiers rushing and ducking down for their lives, bullets spraying, shattering, skimming the sea. She closed her eyes and thought of the different sounds, the yelling of commands, voices screaming in pain, ricocheting bullets; she visualised the clash of colours, blood red against blue water and dirty yellow sand, heaped bodies in uniform, the dull steel of helmets, the duller grey of each face against the sky, the cavernous gape of each mouth yelling in silence as the battle raged louder over their cries. It would have been noisy, like hell, like Hades. Cassie wanted to write it all down.
Then her eyes caught the movement of a speck in the distance, two specks, walking slowly together. Her mother was arm in arm with Ken, taking steady paces against the background of a line of waves and the vast open expanse of blue sky. Cassie watched them edge forward, their heads down, Ken in a navy overcoat and a smudge of blue cravat, Lil wearing a red hat and a brown jacket, huddled against him for warmth. Cassie smiled momentarily; it occurred to her that Lil needed this holiday, to step into the bigger, busier world outside Clover Hill, to meet new people. The familiar thought came to her: that her mother had missed so many opportunities in life; she’d become a mother in her teens, forced to throw her energies into bringing up her small daughter alone, in cramped accommodation on a meagre amount of money.
But Cassie hadn’t been allowed to miss out as a child. She’d never known her father but she hadn’t particularly needed one. Her mother had been everything to her. They’d played together, danced, cooked, painted walls and pictures, told and written and acted out stories; they’d been to plays, they’d shopped together, they’d laughed and cried at the same films in the cinema, eating from the same bag of popcorn. Lil had encouraged her daughter all the way, from the grammar school to university in Bristol, through the regular, animated letters Cassie had received during the tremendous times she’d been teaching abroad. She and Lil had always been close; as Lil had always said, they were more like sisters and Cassie didn’t mind that at all.
Her mother had thrown all her energy into the B&B after Cassie had left home and Lil had built a thriving business, probably at the expense of any romantic attachments. Lil always had plenty of friends, but Cassie believed that her father had hurt he
r so badly that she wouldn’t risk love again.
Lil’s fierce independence had rubbed off on Cassie. Of course, she’d had boyfriends, lovers; Cassie had even lived with a significant other twice: Mo in Dakar, Jon in Guangzhou. But she hadn’t stayed with either of them for long; she had a track record of being headstrong, unwilling to commit to one person, to take the final step that allowed you to trust someone. Cassie wondered if it was due to her father or, at least, due to the absence of him.
Lil had told her from a young age that her daddy had ‘gone away to America’ or ‘gone back home’. As a child, Cassie had imagined an elusive stranger, a lean silhouette of a man in a long overcoat and a hat that shaded most of his face, who had slipped into the distance and dissolved forever. Cassie knew his name: he was Frankie Chapman, a man with dark curly hair, clean-shaven, a strong jawline, wearing a uniform. She had seen him in the photo, his arm around her mother; it had been her idea to laminate it so that Lil could use it as a bookmark. She knew Lil stared at it all the time. Cassie shook her memories away and moved back to DJ and Jake, who were chattering and offering chewing gum. She took a piece.
Lil was still leaning against Ken, taking small steps in time with his deliberately slow paces and feeling the sea breeze press against her cheeks. Ken’s arm was very comforting; it allowed her to move steadily as he held her upright, offering warmth and support. She nodded her head as he spoke softly in her ear.
‘It was in June 1944, Lil. Right here, exactly where we’re walking now. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it, that such a peaceful place as this was a scene for one of the bloodiest battles imaginable?’
Lil nodded. ‘I would have been about seven years old. I remember sitting in the kitchen by the radio with my mother and father and my brother, Edward, who was two years older than me, listening to the broadcasts. Sometimes, Mr Churchill used to tell us what was going on; sometimes it was just the man’s voice reading the news. We were living in rural Oxfordshire. It was difficult to imagine a war going on while we were there. They had it harder in the towns and cities. For me, it was more about the things you couldn’t get, rationing of the things you could, and there was always a sense that the enemy was going to march into the village carrying guns and your life would change forever. I remember being scared a lot of the time. My mother kept chickens so that we could have a few eggs. I never had a banana though. Later, the Americans were living nearby – they stayed on after the war – and there was always some chocolate or bourbon. Everyone liked it when Americans came to stay.’
Lil was thinking about Frankie. He had come to stay and they had fallen in love. If he had known about the baby, her life would have been different. She was sure they’d have married; he’d have taken her back to America, they’d have been very happy. Lil breathed out slowly, her heart heavy.
She gazed up at Ken. ‘During the war I was still just a kid. I didn’t start work until I was fourteen. I was training to be a hairdresser. Of course, I had Cassie as a teenager, so I had to grow up quickly, and the pregnancy put paid to any idea of hairdressing. I was a child, really, until Cassie popped out. It’s funny, when you think about it. Growing up happened in one big rush of childbirth.’
Ken nodded thoughtfully. ‘The war must have been hard for children.’
‘It was harder for all those young men who were away fighting.’
‘There were 2,400 American deaths here at Omaha.’ Ken cleared his throat. ‘The Germans lost 1,200 men. One particular division, it was the 352nd I think, lost 20 per cent of its soldiers. They had few reserves, the Germans.’
‘It’s so sad.’ Lil put the knuckle of a finger to the corner of her eye. ‘It didn’t matter which side you were on, did it? Those boys just didn’t go home. How awful must it have been.’
‘The book I’m thinking of writing will probably end with the battle here on Omaha. Private Pattison’s nurse will have been killed and he will be in a boat, the battle raging all around him, and he’ll have no fear any more; he’ll be like a machine, because his love is dead, so his heart is hard.’
‘I think he’d have some fear,’ Lil murmured. ‘Oh, yes, dead love or not, he’d be very afraid.’
Ken nodded. ‘His nurse is going to be called Celia. Celia Maxwell. What do you think of that for a name? Does it fit the time period, do you think? She’ll be a redhead.’
‘Poor Celia. Redhead and dead,’ Lil sighed.
‘And I have to decide whether our Private Pattison makes it through the battle on this beach. I was thinking he’d survive – but then again he might be injured, or even die.’
‘He might,’ Lil agreed.
‘So, what would you advise, to make the novel more powerful for the readers? How would you end it, Lil?’
She spoke without thinking. ‘He won’t make it, Private Pattison. No, he won’t go home to his family again.’
‘Yes, I agree. The most poignant ending of all, Private Daniel Pattison lying on the beach, water washing over his body, darkening his uniform, his blood seeping into the sand and turning the waves red. What do you think? And as Daniel Pattison utters his last breath, Celia’s name is on his lips?’
‘That would be a very likely ending, Ken. But one thing, perhaps, that could make it better…’
Ken lifted his eyebrows. ‘Yes? What would you change, Lil?’
‘Don’t call him Daniel. Daniel is too serious a name, too manly. You want something that shows the young man as they were: bashful, inexperienced, a bit awkward, good-natured, warm-hearted, always kind.’
Ken nodded. ‘You’re right. Yes. Not Daniel – Pattison’s not a Daniel.’ He gazed across the beach, searching for the others. ‘What about Tommy? Or Pat? Albert, even.’
‘No. He has to be Frankie,’ Lil said, her mouth set determinedly. ‘That suits him best. Call the young man Frankie.’
A light rain had started to drizzle as they arrived at the Hotel Pirate Jacques just before six o’clock. They had eaten lunch, visited the cemetery, taken a tour round Amiens three times because Tommy was lost and Maggie was desperate to go to the toilet. The minibus pulled into the hotel car park.
‘Here we are, Tommy – this is your Hotel Death,’ Pat announced.
‘I think we’ve had enough death for one day, what do you think, Denise?’ Sue asked in a loud voice.
Denise agreed. ‘All those soldiers lined up in all those rows in the cemetery – some weren’t even eighteen.’
‘I’m looking forward to a shower.’ Jake shuddered. ‘I got cold at that graveyard.’
‘It isn’t really called Hotel Death, this place?’ Maggie asked anxiously. ‘I’ve been worrying about it all day, what with all those crosses and Stars of David and the different names and religions in the cemetery, all of them mixed up together.’
‘No, it’s called the Hotel Pirate Jacques. There’s nothing to worry about in this hotel. It’s named after some pirate called Jacques,’ Emily explained. ‘Tommy must have read the itinerary and made a mistake.’
DJ and Jake were quiet now; both of them had large notepads on their knees and were sketching. Emily peeked over their shoulders. ‘What are you drawing?’
‘Characters to animate later for work.’ DJ was engrossed. ‘Aliens.’
‘I’m sketching a soldier,’ Jake murmured. ‘An old one and how he would have looked when he was young.’
Pat took a breath. ‘That’s so realistic, Jake – it’s exactly like Albert.’
Maggie hunched her shoulders. ‘Will the hotel be creepy?’
Cassie patted Maggie’s hand. ‘You’ll love it, Maggie. Tommy’s chosen well – it was spectacular in the photos online. Apparently, there’s a story about some pirate who lived hundreds of years ago and he was doing a dirty deal in the hotel bar. His enemies came in and caught him, a fight broke out and he was killed on the spot. Literally – there is a bronze slab that marks out the exact place. Poor old Jacques.’
‘Is the place haunted?’ Pat asked, eyebrows raised.
&
nbsp; ‘It’ll be haunted by the English tourists tonight,’ Lil piped up. ‘I’m looking forward to dinner at eight and putting on my glad rags and having a darn good time, what do you say, Maggie?’
Maggie shuddered. ‘It was cold on the beach. I’m glad I had your furry coat.’
‘I’m ready for a shower and then dinner.’ Tommy raised his voice, turning round from the driver’s seat to glance at his passengers. ‘Right, we’re here. We go in, we say hello to the owner, who is called Mireille, and then we’ll sort out the rooms, who’s pairing up with who tonight. After that—’ a smile broke across his face ‘—we’ll all meet up in the bar at half seven and I’ll buy everyone a drink.’
A rousing cheer came from the minibus, and an immediate shuffling from seats and clattering of cases. From halfway down, Maggie’s small voice squeaked, ‘Can I get off first, please? It’s been a long day and I just have to pay a visit…’
Lil was on her feet. ‘Come on, Maggie – you and I will go in, talk to Mireille and tell her we’re all here. DJ and Jake can bring our bags in with theirs – is that all right, lads? Albert, you’d better come with us too. Let’s go in, find the loo, shall we? Then maybe we can have a swift drink in the bar to warm us all up before we go and get glammed up for dinner.’
9
They had been allocated rooms on the second and third floor. Mireille had told Cassie as she led the group to the narrow stairs that the third floor was haunted by Jacques the Pirate. Although most of the others didn’t speak French, eyebrows were raised when the serious-eyed owner said, ‘C’est hanté par le fantôme pirate.’ Pat’s eyes had widened in real terror.
By seven o’clock, the English tourists from The Jolly Weaver had showered, changed their clothes and taken over the bar. Mireille had invited them to choose their food from the menu before they took their seats in the restaurant at eight. Lil watched as DJ, Jake and Pat took turns to stand on the brass spot that proclaimed, ‘Le pirate Jacques a été tué ici, 1745’, pretending to wave a cutlass and fight off the enemy, and then Pat offered to buy a round of drinks. Cassie accompanied him to the bar to help him with the French language. Lil watched as he was approached by a young woman who met his eyes with a gaze of pure boredom and murmured, ‘Oui?’
