The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

  “And you’re a reason to celebrate something.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Chibret looked at Arbel’s set jaw and stony eyes and righteousness exploded in him.

  “Damn you! You won’t come? Damn you.”

  Arbel stared at his Mayor. Snow on his flat cap, fury in his tiny eyes.

  “I don’t understand. It’s selfish, selfish. Why won’t you come?”

  “I’ve nothing to celebrate,” Arbel said coldly.

  “We won! You’re home! You’ve come back to us! Think of other people who lost loved ones, won’t you?”

  He looked hard at Arbel. He hadn’t budged. “It’s pathetic I know, but we need something.”

  “I’m sorry.” Arbel closed the door.

  Chibret drove back to the Mairie, wrote his resignation letter, took it to La Poste and went home. Outside his home stood the stripped birch tree with its weathered tricolour bandages and the sign reading “Honneur à notre elu.” Chibret took an axe and felled it and everyone in St. Cirgues knew by the time Galtier delivered their invitations there would be no New Year Celebration.

  Jacques nursed his swallows’ nest down to the caves and wondered, a tiny warm thought, whether they would find it in the Spring, or whether he should take it to Janatou – when he had a beast. When the snow had gone.

  He removed the roof ’s lead in strips and the dog huddled against the chimney breast for the memory of the last fire.

  Jean-Louis Duthileul learned about Chibret.

  He thought for a long, very fruitful New Year’s Day and first thing in the morning telephoned his lawyer, who drove up from St. Céré. For an hour-long consultation, a look at Jacques’ near roof-less house, and the drive back down the white hills to draw up Duthileul’s action. Two days later Galtier delivered it to Jacques after reading and re-sealing it.

  By his third brandy that evening Jerome knew too. So everyone knew.

  Jacques read the accusation, burnt it and worked till he slept.

  Arbel had drunk everything at home.

  Now the pain was in waves instead of constant. He walked to the Café Tabac. Yes, he could buy wine and drink at home but why drink in Hell?

  He found nothing much changed there. No Gley or Valet. But, drinking inside, Jerome.

  They hugged each other for having survived and then drank together, silently.

  For two nights.

  On the third Jerome said, “Chibret’s resigned.” Arbel’s hands warmed the wine glass.

  He nodded.

  The next night he asked, “Why are you drinking?”

  “I’ve always drunk,” said Jerome.

  Then considered the question more thoroughly. “I’m pissing my life away,” he said evenly.

  Arbel looked at Jerome properly for the first time in four days. The bloated face, the reddening nose and cheeks. No, he realised, I’m looking for the first time in three years.

  “Why?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  Jerome took a glass, emptied it down his throat, poured another.

  “I know you left your daughter and Sara. To – be at home.”

  Jerome nodded. Voila.

  Arbel nodded. Reason enough to drink.

  “And what’s your excuse?” the bloated face enquired.

  “I’ve always drunk, too.”

  “And the rest...” scoffed Jerome.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  Arbel thought, took a mouthful, finished the glass, poured another. “Does Sara?”

  “No.”

  Arbel rolled a cigarette, passed it to Jerome, rolled another, lit both.

  Next night there was the two of them and Duthileul.

  “Where are the bovine?” Arbel nodded at the empty bar.

  “The what?”

  “It’s what you used to call them...”

  Jerome remembered Gaston Valet for the first time in a long time. The two young-old men looked at each other.

  “How was your war?” Jerome asked.

  “Pretty fucking awful.”

  “A-ha.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  Another glass. Another quiet.

  “You know that twat,” Jerome nodded at Jean-Louis, “is suing Jacques?”

  “No...” A pull on a cigarette. Another mouthful.

  “I left Sara...” Jerome began.

  Arbel nodded slowly. “I know. Why?”

  “Not sure. Yet.” Another mouthful. “It’s why I’m drinking. I think.”

  Arbel tried to think.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why is he suing Vermande?”

  Jerome relished raising his voice just enough, “Made him look like a cunt. Can’t have that.”

  Arbel nodded. Just.

  There was a quiet now even Jerome registered as cold. He lowered his voice. “What?”

  Arbel shook his head. The quiet waited. Shook it again. Looked up.

  “Jacques. And Ardelle. While I was away.”

  Silence.

  Jerome wished Sara were there. He heard himself say, “Right.” He felt unutterably feeble.

  He hauled hungrily on the cigarette for inspiration, for a sentence, then blew the smoke out so loud Jean-Louis’ head turned. Jerome leant back in his chair in a parody of relaxation. Poured himself a glass, controlled his voice and said, “How often?”

  “Once, they said – but who’s to believe anything?”

  He drank his glass, searched Arbel’s desperation, felt so very helpless and said, “I’ve left Sara.”

  “I know. I knew,” he said. “You said.”

  Jerome felt the contempt.

  He said, “Let’s walk you home.”

  A hundred times Jerome thought of something to say and a hundred times dismissed it. One of Dominique’s dogs barked, woke the other, which, uncomprehending, joined in the echoing racket.

  Arbel looked round at Jerome, left his front door ajar. Jerome stood.

  Ardelle came to the door to close the draught, her dressing-gown pulled tight. She and the swaying Jerome looked at each other and she knew he knew and that was a change. He’d told. He’d spoken. Something had moved. Thank God. I don’t care now who knows. I’m past shame. I don’t care about outside this house. She closed the door on Jerome.

  He walked into Jacques’ garden. Should I call? Why? What with? My worldly wisdom? He won’t want to talk...

  Dominique Duthileul found Jerome snoring in the hay next morning and left him there.

  The commune met outside and inside Church. But religion is essentially grave and Chibret had rightly seen the need for something lighter, positive. Fun. Distraction. Now he realised his resignation was to be that. An election. New Mayor. “Fuck ‘em,” Chibret thought as they prayed. That should be on every Mayor’s tree, that. Not “Honneur à notre élu” – ‘Fuck ‘em.’

  Jean-Louis lay in his bed, warm. His body warmed so much he felt his ancient balls stir. And why not? Someone has to win.

  Arbel betrayed no change but Ardelle understood waiting, and she would wait and see this through. The difference now was a candle of hope.

  Madame Lacaze sat with her morning coffee.

  Chibret was gone.

  Duthileul and this action against the Vermande peasant. And he will surely push his son forward for Mayor.

  And mine? She almost snorted into her cup. My son.

  Dear God, she placed her hands together, I beg you give him purpose.

  Madame Valet went to the Café Tabac, took two cups of coffee to Jerome’s table and said, “Remember when you sang La Marseillaise and Herrisson arrested you?”

  Jerome stared at that zealous naive back in Time’s fog. “Yes.”

  “Chibret’s resigned, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes..?”

  “Think, Jerome. Soberly.” She sat opposite him.

  Jerome and Sara sat at her kitchen table. He
told her what Arbel had said.

  “Ahh,” said Sara slowly. The jigsaw made sense now she saw the picture. “What did he say?”

  “That.”

  “What did you say?” A pause.

  She looked at him. “Nothing?”

  “Right. I said ‘right’.”

  “Right?”

  “Just like that. As pathetic as that.”

  Sara sat, arms on the table and looked at the wreckage of her husband.

  “If I was the new mayor I’d ban alcohol,” she said.

  “You’d never get elected.”

  “Neither would you,” she retorted unpleasantly, and whilst she had that tone fresh in her voice, “and neither should you be.”

  Next morning his mother told him Duthileul’s lawyer had applied for a court order to stop Jacques’ working whilst the case was pending – and she was certain Dominique Duthileul would stand for Mayor.

  22

  The new chef de gendarmes had arrived New Year’s Day. He’d missed the first Sunday Mass and felt suspicion as tangible as the mountain frost. In his first weeks he introduced himself, as The Chef With No Gendarmes, to most of the outlying farmers; shopped on market days and did a night or two in the café. He had no family – killed in an air-raid on Dijon. A town cop farmed out. The lawyer’s letter informing him of application for restraint on Vermande’s illegal dismantling of what was contestably Jean-Louis Duthiluel’s property lay on his desk. He read through it again, looked at the high white sky. I’ll walk it.

  Jacques had only the barn-end gable of slats to take out and then he would have to face the problem of the main beam. Without taking it down he was stymied. He couldn’t move the A frames till that monster weight were lifted and he couldn’t start on any brick work for fear of weakening the whole structure. And the worst thing was he’d need help and that meant asking. Talking.

  Like Jerome yattering on now about this letter. “You need a lawyer, Jacques. An avocat.”

  “I need a cow. When it thaws.”

  “Vermande! You have to face this.”

  Jacques stacked slats by the top of the stairs.

  “He’s a shit, Jacques. He’ll have you for breakfast and laugh about it.” Jacques pocketed the pins, piled the slats along his arms and went downstairs. Jerome made to follow.

  “No, please,” Jacques said, “a minute’s quiet.”

  He went down to the caves and Jerome sat in the attic skeleton, the wooden rib-cage, the bache-lungs breathing noisily with the wind. Wee stones everywhere on a carpet of gritty dust.

  When the robot re-appeared he said, “I’ll help you with that beam if you’ll listen.”

  Jacques’ body went back to removing slats and pins.

  “You’ll never see Janatou – or anyone else there or anywhere – if you don’t resist this.”

  “I’ll say what happened. To anyone.”

  “You need a lawyer to say it.”

  Jacques laughed. “Listen to yourself, Jerome.” He stopped moving. “I need a lawyer who wasn’t there to say what I said when I was there?”

  He turned back to the slats.

  “Oh! Fucking grow up. I’ll be fucked if I’ll let that shit take this from you because you’re too damned mule-headed to not stop him.” Jerome was stunned at the sound of passion moving in him. Jacques stacked wood.

  The Chef de Gendarmes rapped hard at the door.

  Tayo barked. Jacques went downstairs, jiggled the latch and Tayo sniffed at the starchy smell of the man.

  “Vermande?”

  “C’est moi.”

  “May I come in?” the man said after five seconds staring. Jacques stood aside and the man stepped into the dust.

  “Terses. Paul.” He offered his hand.

  Jacques shook the fingers and gestured towards the empty fireplace.

  Jerome listened till The Chef mentioned Jacques’ need for an avocat then he came pouring down the stairs.

  The drunk from the café. The Maquisard who shot the school-teacher’s wife. Left his own. The son of the old money.

  “See?” Jerome said to Jacques, brusquely shaking Terses’ hand. Jacques looked from one to the other.

  “Monsieur,” he settled on the flic, “do you believe what I’ve just told you?”

  “That’s not the point!” Jerome leapt in.

  “Do you?”

  “Monsieur Vermande – my opinion doesn’t count.”

  “Give it anyway.”

  “I haven’t heard M. Duthileul’s side of this story.”

  “I told you. I duped him. Do you believe me?”

  “I’m not making judgements.”

  “Then you don’t?”

  “I came to advise you of your legal position. When I have all the information I am required by the court to submit a report.”

  “Oh, whoopee...”

  Terses’ eyes moved slowly across to Jerome.

  Jerome looked evenly back. “Right.” He stood. “I’ll get him a lawyer.”

  Terse stood and said to Jacques, “You must stop work if this application is granted.”

  “Till then,” said Jacques and headed upstairs.

  Whilst Jerome walked home the Chef sipped a cognac and was introduced to Dominique.

  “Give me the money to help him,” Jerome said to his mother.

  “What will you do for it?”

  “What? What scheming is this? What do I have to do?”

  “Go back to her. Before she goes to Vermande, where she should always have been.”

  “What! I can’t. And you can’t possibly want me to. You never wanted me to – you can’t now.”

  Madame Lacaze looked even and silent in her son’s eyes. “And I don’t want to.”

  There now. He’d said it out loud. And it felt true. Still she gave him nothing. Anger rose.

  “Don’t manipulate me! Help him.”

  “It’s you I want to help.”

  “Good God mother – where did you ever learn to be so devious?”

  “Stop drinking and he’ll have his lawyer.”

  “Right.” He sat. “I will.”

  Dominique and his father both nodded ostentatiously to Madame Lacaze at Mass. She smiled slowly at both of them. Everyone knew about the letters and the lawyers and the Gendarme and the shrewd wondered why Jean-Louis had taken so long to do it. The rest weren’t surprised but took the madman’s side – for all that was worth in a battle involving money and its’ protector, the law.

  On the last Monday in January, as the bombing raids on Berlin were stepped up and the Allies landed at Anzio, Bernadie arrived with the Prefect to organise the election. Normally the council members would have elected one of their own, but since May last year there had only been Chibret and his secretary. They printed posters with the date of the election and welcoming nominees. ‘The losers can make up a new council,’ they agreed.

  Jerome had the shakes.

  He’d spent a first day in bed and now the second at Puech.

  “I’m getting you a lawyer,” he said, the thought crossing his mind he was trying to make Jacques feel guilty. Except Jacques showed no evidence of being grateful.

  He would finish the gable end today.

  “It’ll take three of us,” Jerome said, nodding at the beam. Nothing.

  “I’ll go and ask Arbel, eh?”

  Nothing. Jerome left.

  Returned.

  “He’ll come tomorrow.”

  Jerome sat back down in the dust, pulled his coat round him. “That house is Hell. Too.”

  Jacques worked.

  When Jerome trudged home, his galoshes and trousers soaked with fresh snow he certainly felt sober.

  Next morning his mother drove them both down to Maurs and her lawyer, who was deference itself. A small cake was produced. Jerome wolfed it.

  M. Hubert folded his arms happily, “And M. Vermande accepts the charge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Madame Lacaze, the case will be a pleasure.” They
drove home.

  Jean-Louis drove into the village with a good bottle of red for Chibret. Then drove them both to the Mairie where Chibret seconded his nomination of Dominique Duthileul. Bernadie scowled and crossed the road to Sara’s house. Spoke to her mother. “Where is he?”

  “Lives with his mother now,” her head gestured down the village. Bernadie rocked slightly.

  “What?”

  “You deaf?”

  “He left her? And the child?”

  “He lives with his mother now.” She folded her arms.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “He may even get to Him.”

  “God forbid. Madame – my condolences.”

  “No need.”

  The door closed.

  Bernadie strode down to Madame Lacaze’s house and rapped hard on the door. Jerome answered it.

  “Bernadie!” His face warmed with joy.

  “You twat.”

  Madame Lacaze opened her living-room door to see Bernadie’s hands close round her son’s throat and the two of them falling hard onto her polished hall parquet. She winced as Jerome buried his knee hard in Bernadie’s groin and the older man groaned balefully onto his side. Jerome stood. He nodded to her and Madame Lacaze went back inside.

  Jerome watched Bernadie rise to his knees then helped him gingerly stand.

  “Let’s walk,” he said.

  At the front gate Bernadie shrugged off the helping hand and by ten yards up the road his back had straightened.

  “You left your child?”

  “Yes.”

  “Man who turns his back on his family is no good.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You were.”

  “I must have changed.”

  They walked. La Poste up ahead, then the Mairie, then the café. “Why?”

  “It happened. It’s easier.”

  Bernadie looked at Jerome. The fattening face, the nervous eyes. “Do you want a drink?”

  “More than anything.”

  Bernadie stopped walking and snorted, “And I thought you should stand for Mayor.”

  Jerome stopped. Two men in a snow-slushed street.

  “I’ll buy ‘em,” he said.