The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

  “Zoe – let’s wait, eh? She’ll be here in a minute, I’m sure.”

  The child stared at the village.

  “You said she was outside. Where is she?”

  Ohh, fuck all Mothers to Hell and back, he thought. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jerome stepped back inside the house, closing the door. “I want Mamman.”

  “Right. Yes! I understand. But if I don’t know where she is then we can’t find her can we?” he snapped.

  “Why?” His daughter was tensing with fear.

  “Because!”

  Zoe cried.

  Jerome took her back to her bed.

  Zoe cried.

  “I want Mimi!” howled the granddaughter.

  “She isn’t here either. There’s just useless me!”

  Zoe threw herself face down on the bed and howled. “You’re not Mamman! You’re no good!”

  “I know! Thank you – I know!”

  “I want Mamma. I want Mimi!”

  “Well, you can’t have them! Can you? You can’t have them. They’re not here.”

  “I want – someone...” the child was heading into hysteria. “Someone else – yes, I know. No can do, Zoe.”

  “Mamman!!”

  Jerome walked out as he felt the impulse to strike the child flood him. Her howls turned to screams as he closed the door and he panicked instantly - would some fucking neighbour come running? Would Sara hear over in the bar? What was he to do? I need a drink. Zoe took a fresh breath and howled.

  This is awful.

  I’m her father. And I’m worse than useless. Jesus Christ, Sara’s been out of the house five minutes and look at it – listen to it! It’s almost funny, except – Zoe howled again – it’s true. Oh, fuck me, I never felt this helpless in the war!

  “Mamman! Mimi!”

  Fucking women. They have a stranglehold on children. Colonised them. Men are useless. No! Fuck that. I won’t have that.

  “Mammmmaaan! Mimmiiii!”

  Got it.

  He went back to the child’s room, opened the door and her terror swarmed out and filled the house.

  “There, there – no problem, Zoe – we’ll find Mimi,” he said as he ransacked the drawers for a shawl. Zoe wept, in a loop of uncomprehending fear.

  He found socks, they didn’t match but what the hell...

  “Where’s your woolly bonnet? Eh? Where is the bastard thing?” He ripped clothes out of drawers, strewing the floor – till he found a scarf of Sara’s.

  Zoe took a breath and looked up at her father, arms full of clothes, a demented look in his eyes and she filled with panic again.

  “I want Mamman!”

  “Come on then – we’ll find a bloody woman – if that’s what you need my little precious darling – we’ll go and find a bloody woman, eh? Let’s get warm, tho’ eh? Because it’s cold out there in the big world, isn’t it; yes it is, we know that because we went to the door and it was freezing wasn’t it? But the women are all outside so we know we’ll have to be warm, won’t we? Yes.”

  His diatribe quieted the child long enough for him to prepare the shawl and socks and he lifted her from the bed and she squirmed, human plasticine, wriggling away from his hands. Again he curbed the desire to smack her into acquiescent shock and burbled on instead.

  “I know – I know – you want them to just be here and for big bad poppa to disappear up the chimney with the smoke but Life isn’t that simple Zoe; no it isn’t. When we really want something – like you want Mamma or Mimi now – we have to work hard for it, don’t we? Yes, we do, we have to put this shawl on, yes, and these socks and we have to go into the cold cold night to find them. Yes. Sit still! You must have socks on. You must!”

  The child looked ridiculous. Shawled, scarved, odd-socked, sad and scared, as her father scooped her up into his arms, wrestling away from him now, pushing at his chest with her little strength; and he prattled on, since, thank God, at least his nonsense silenced hers for the moment.

  “Mimi – yes – we’ll go and find Mimi, shall we? Yes, let’s Daddy and Zoe go and find her. Ready? It’ll be cold when we open this door won’t it – but we don’t care, do we? No, we’re determined, aren’t we Madame? Yes, we’re determined to find a female!”

  He opened the door and the cold air wrapped itself around them both and he stepped out with his shocked daughter into St. Cirgues and the black December night.

  Sara flicked through the magazines in the Tabac. Drivel. The three shocked men had said nothing but she giggled inside imagining what they must be thinking.

  No Duthileul.

  Just ragged ancient tares of the religion of alcohol. She nursed the wine and didn’t give a monkey’s fig what the gossip would say – hell, it wasn’t too difficult was it? She’d had a row with her fool man. Correct. And if logic had any courage the bars of France would be teeming every night with frustrated women instead of these old sods. That’s it though, isn’t it? This is their bloody silly dull church. A man’s club.

  “What do you buggers talk about?” she asked.

  Three heads looked up as though a goat in a wimple had just walked into the bar.

  “If I wasn’t here,” she was suddenly enjoying this, “what would you be talking about? M.Galtier?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Drinking – like you. Like men. What do you lot talk about when you’re not gawping at seeing a woman alone in your bar?”

  “Why?”

  Sara laughed. “You sound like my two-year old!”

  “Shut up and know your place,” one of them growled.

  Sara downed the glass, enjoying the rush of cheap warmth.

  “This is your place, right? Mine’s in the home, right? I’ll tell you what I think, shall I?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? You sit here and drink for the courage to think thoughts you don’t have the nerve to think outside this place. It’s a coward’s watering-hole.”

  One of the men turned to actually face her.

  “Maybe we come here to get away from the likes of you.”

  “What’s so scary about the likes of me? What could I do to upset you?”

  “Oh, bugger off!” The man turned away, into the support of stifled sniggers.

  “No. I won’t. I’ll have another please,” she raised her empty glass to Janon.

  He looked helplessly at the men. “Don’t serve her,” she heard muttered.

  “Don’t serve me, then,” Sara said. She rose and walked to the table where the three men sat.

  “Need a fourth for cards? Eh? A little Belotte?”

  She pulled up a chair, sat down and picked up the cards. “Leave them alone!”

  Sara laughed in the man’s face. Shuffled the pack crudely, spilling some. A hand clamped down on them.

  “Get out. You’re not wanted here. You’ve no place here.”

  “Men only? It’s not men only in here is it, Janon?”

  The old one looked helpless at her.

  “I’ll get my wife,” he spluttered and headed for the back of the bar.

  Sara roared. “Get your wife? What if she agrees with me? Then what? You’ll all have to get your wives and then we’ll outnumber you – that’s a good idea! Get them all, then I can have a game of cards.”

  “Your husband killed Gaston – that’s why you’re not welcome,” said Galtier coldly.

  Janon stood still, the men mumbled their agreement. In the silence all eyes turned to her, to see the wound bleed.

  It didn’t.

  “Then how can you allow him to drink here?” There was no answer.

  “You’re pathetic.” She left.

  Jerome walked down through the village, past the Maire, La Poste and the Gendarmerie, out on to the lane. The wind that had only picked at them round the edges of the straggling houses now found its icy way through the crochet holes of the shawl, found the skin above Zoë’s ridiculous socks, whipped the shawl f
rom her head.

  “Mmm, cuddle close Zoe. Cold, isn’t it?”

  The child, amazed, wide-eyed, needed no second invitation. He wrapped her into his coat, pulled the shawl tight and rubbed at her little legs as they walked.

  “Look at those stars, eh? The Milky Way. Where’s Orion? He’s the Hunter. Where is he? There he is! See those three straight stars – those three in a line? See them?” He pointed, making her follow his arm. “Those? You see them? That’s his belt and in his belt is his sword. To kill with. To defend with. To hunt with. Orion. And, where’s the plough?”

  A man and a child, spinning in an empty road, searching the sky. “There it is! See – see that box with a handle? That’s the plough. It’s not a plough really, is it? It’s more like a cart. But it doesn’t sound so good to say ‘The Cart’, does it? No. Well, bugger ‘em, Zoe – for you and me – that’s the cart. Right. That’s our cart. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good! I don’t know any others. Well – I know there’s a bear.” They walked on, the child craning its neck to scan the firmament. “There’s a Great Bear – like Russia – and there’s a little Bear. But I don’t know where they are.”

  “What’s Russia?”

  “Russia is an ally.”

  “What’s an ally?”

  “A friend.”

  “A bear is a friend?”

  “Yes. Sometimes it is.”

  He walked. The child leaned closer. The forgotten fear replaced with wonder at the adventure.

  “Where are we going, Pappa?”

  “We’re going to see another Mimi.”

  “Another?”

  “Yes. You’ve two Mimi’s. Mummy’s Mimi and Daddy’s Mimi. We’re going to see her.”

  “Is she nice?”

  Jerome Lacaze bit his tongue very hard indeed. “Of course.”

  “Will she have ice-cream?”

  All round her rancorous heart he thought. “I don’t know. We’ll ask her shall we?”

  He could see the house.

  No lights on. Oh bollocks. Oh fart.

  Sara saw the open door, came in and smelt everything in an instant.

  In the child’s room clothes were strewn everywhere; no husband, no daughter. Oh God – what’s happened? Has – her mind reeled into nightmare – have they been taken? Have some straggling Milice taken some ghastly revenge on them all? For Gaston bloody Valet? Surely not? No – that’s drink talking. He’s taken her. She picked up fallen clothes as her mind rattled. No scarf – he’s taken my scarf. Why? Her shawl. He’s taken her. Where? Why? What if it wasn’t him? What do I do? Her mother was at her sisters in St. Hilaire. What do I do?

  She almost snorted with black laughter at the idea of going back to the bar to ask the men to help her look. They’d be thrilled at my distress. So? So? Sit here – wait and hope? He’s taken her – that’s what must have happened. Must have. Where? To Jacques? What? He’s walking Zoe two kilometres in this night to – to what? To sit and whinge about me? Surely even he couldn’t be that pig-headed? Ardelle? Feyt? I should tell the Gendarmes. I should tell someone something – God’s sake my daughter isn’t here, I can’t sit and trust Jerome.

  He’s taken her to his mothers. He would.

  She sat down and let the thought calm her. It made sense. He would. Pride. That’s him.

  At this time? She’ll be asleep. Right. She wrapped Jerome’s big coat – the dumb fool’s gone out without a coat – round herself and set off.

  Jerome and Zoe stood on the door-step.

  “I think Mimi’s asleep.”

  “Knock on the door, silly.”

  God, why did I start this?

  “She’s not here.”

  “Knock on the door.”

  “Her car isn’t here.”

  “Mimi has a car?”

  “Yes. And she isn’t here. We’ll go home then shall we? Yes, eh? Mamma’ll be home now, I’m sure.”

  “I want to see Mimi.”

  “We’ll come back,” he promised, and surprised himself by meaning it. “I promise.”

  A car’s headlights approached. “It’s Mimi!” the child exclaimed. Oh shit, I bet it is, he thought.

  Madame Lacaze could make out a man with a child in his arms. Her heart both stalled and melted. Another victim? No, surely, not now. That was over. But, if so, why had they come to her house? Was she known, named, now?

  As she neared her compassion took hold. A wee child. But, there hadn’t been any children since The Debarquement. As she turned into her driveway and the babe shielded her eyes from the headlamps Madame Lacaze’s heart took a sharper, colder turn. It’s him. And her. At this hour? What was this?

  Jerome Lacaze held his blood in one arm, as his mother stepped from the car.

  Madame Lacaze locked the car slowly. She ought to put it in the garage, the night would be cold, but...

  “Is this Mimi Two?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why doesn’t she speak?”

  “She’s rehearsing.”

  “What’s rehearsing?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Has she thrown you out, then?”

  Jerome had never had a problem being honest with his mother. More that their truths lay at right-angles to each other.

  “No. I promised Zoe she could meet her grandmother.”

  “Half a truth is better than none.”

  “That’s what you taught me. Zoe,” he hitched the child higher, “this is Mimi.”

  Zoe leaned her body and her cheek into her father’s neck. “No, it isn’t.”

  “No, you’re right. This is Mimi Two, isn’t it?”

  Madame Lacaze coloured, visible even in the dark night. “Is this a Mamman, too?”

  “Yes. Mine.”

  She’s cold. The child is cold. “Come in,” she said.

  Jerome Lacaze went home.

  Madame Lacaze had poured hot chocolate by the time Sara banged at the door.

  “I’ll go,” said Jerome. “Can I leave you with Mamman Two?”

  “Yes.” Zoe was confused by the question.

  Jerome opened the front door. “You spineless hypocrite.”

  “No...”

  “In half an hour you’re at her skirts?”

  “Zoe wanted— ”

  “Blame the child? Jesus, Jerome – I knew you were weak – but...” She took just enough breath to say, “I want my daughter.”

  “I was hopeless, I admit – and angry… ”

  “I want my daughter.”

  Sara moved past him into the dark corridor, said, “Well?”

  “Ahead.”

  Sara opened the door. A room of lace and heavy oak cabinets, flocked wallpaper, a piano, crucifixes, a portrait of The Virgin, another of The Pope and standing the other side of the table, a long-faded photograph of Jerome’s father directly behind her, Madame Lacaze. Zoe turned in her seat, holding her hot chocolate and, pointing at Madame Lacaze, said, “This is Mamman Two, too!” Giggled and then plain laughed.

  Jerome came into the room. “What’s funny, Zoe?” he asked.

  “This is Mamman tutu!” And she laughed again. Only her father laughed with her.

  “She’s my mamman, too, yes.”

  “Zoe,” said Sara, “It’s time to go home.”

  “Would you like some chocolate? Sara? It is a cold night.” Sara dithered.

  Incomprehension flooded her. Her feelings waved. Swirled.

  She felt anger and contempt for the fool behind her, unconditional love for the child at her side and nothing at all for the woman talking to her.

  “I know,” said Madame Lacaze, “We’ve wasted years. All of hers.” Sara looked round at Jerome.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?” he replied, dumbly.

  “What is this?”

  “I don’t know. There was an invitation to chocolate.”

  “Jerome!”

  He almost jumped. Zoe did.

  “What?” he said, “I don
’t know what. Or why. I know how. I know I’m a fool. I know I’m her son. I know I’m her father. And your husband. Much else is beyond me just at this moment. Though I’d like something stronger than chocolate.”

  “You would.” said both women.

  “Two mammans, daddy,” smiled Zoe. Her parents stared at each other.

  Finally, Jerome asked, “What am I guilty of?”

  Sara laughed. “You think like a Catholic!”

  “It’s how he was raised,” said Madame Lacaze involuntarily.

  “Dragged to piety,” corrected her son instinctively.

  “Not hard enough,” said his wife.

  Then, surprising herself, Sara said, “Yes, I will have chocolate Madame, thank you.”

  “Jerome?”

  “No. Thank you. Mother.”

  Sara smiled, swallowed the snort bursting from her and then plain laughed. Madame Lacaze frowned as she went to the kitchen and it was Zoe who asked, “What’s funny?”

  Sara shook her head, dismissing the moment and the question. Jerome, reddening, heard himself say, “I don’t know Zoe – what’s funny, Sara?”

  Sara felt – almost saw – the alliances shifting. It made her sick to her stomach. She looked at Jerome, took Zoë’s hand, called, “Thank you Madame, but I’ve changed my mind. Home, Zoe.” And lifting the child into her arms she walked out of the room, the house and Jerome’s heart.

  Jerome and his mother stood. “Do you want chocolate?”

  He could see the effort to keep her smile at bay. The glee. The victory.

  “Have you anything stronger?”

  “Yes.”

  Two days later he missed Zoë’s birthday.

  15

  His oak ceiling. Hundred years old. At least. Or it would be. One day. If it wasn’t already. No way to tell, now. Now it’s a floorboard. A beam. Same tree? The shelf over the door. The door. The bed. The floor. All oak.

  And me?

  Gnarling. Skin to bark. Impervious wooden man. Rain falls, feeds my roots. I grow, flowering leaves of dry tears. For Arbel, now. Walking faithfully home, like a dog; while I defile the sacrament of his marriage. For lust. For ‘need’. For ever.

  I’ve stolen the purity of their vows.