The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

  Madame Lacaze nodded to Jean-Louis Duthileul. The village dispersed.

  25

  Curé Phillipe didn’t need to scour his bible to know there was no passage, no wisdom on the subject of a woman fornicating with her husband’s murderer. A man who’d left his wife and child.

  Dominique and his father sat across their silent Sunday table. Dominique thought, I am to go to the house and what? Tell them to leave. Ask them? Lecture them on morals?

  Is that my job?

  Yes, it is.

  Do I take the Curé? Waste of space that he is. No. Take him. He won’t speak, will he?

  The father watched his son and wondered what he was thinking. Jean-Louis Duthileul, a man without trust, never thought to ask. His own thoughts, however, warmed him.

  “I’ll take a drive, I think.”

  ‘What’s he up to?’ thought Dominique.

  Duthileul drove the long way round – avoiding the curtains and wagging tongues – and came to the house from The Roc road.

  “Madame, I hope...”

  “Come in, Jean-Louis. If I may..?” she demurred.

  “Please.”

  He took off his best hat and followed her through to the dining-room. Heavy furniture. Old. Serious.

  He sat in the proffered chair the other side of her stove. “Drink?”

  “Ah – perhaps a small cognac?”

  She nodded. O, he feels celebratory does he?

  She poured two glasses, placed the decanter back in the walnut cabinet. Leaded glass doors, hinge-drop moulded handles. Crystal glass.

  “Your health.”

  “Santé.”

  Nice. Rich.

  She sat, waiting.

  “Your son...”

  “Yes, Monsieur Le Maire spoke of it. Them.”

  “Oh,” Jean-Louis was momentarily stalled. Madame Lacaze watched surprise pass fleet across his craggy dial.

  “Children...” she sympathised.

  “Your child, Madame.”

  “My God, you’re prideful.”

  Duthileul blinked at such directness. “I am,” he recovered. “Aren’t you?”

  “Not about my son, no.”

  Suddenly Jean-Louis didn’t want to talk about Jerome. He took another mouthful of his drink.

  “This is better than mine,” he offered. Madame Lacaze nodded. Waited.

  His eyes came to hers.

  “I wanted to know how you felt...”

  “Why?”

  Jean-Louis stalled. There was something delicious in this. Something ancient.

  “I wondered what would hurt you least. I imagine.” Madame Lacaze turned the glass in her hand.

  “Why?”

  “Respect?”

  “You know nothing of me.” Not even my name I bet.

  “Enough...” he ventured. God, I haven’t done this for forty years.

  “I’m rich,” she said.

  “So am I.”

  “Respect for that, then?”

  “You know I’ve respect for money. This isn’t about coin.”

  Madame Lacaze nodded her appreciation of the honesty, the tiny raising of the stakes.

  “How could you affect what hurt me least?”

  “If I could I would, is my point.”

  “That’s a kind thought.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  She took a first sip. “I am. You’re not a man to do things from the goodness of your heart are you, Jean-Louis?”

  “This is a small community. An injury to one—“

  “Oh, piffle, sir. We’re as feral as cats.”

  “True.”

  He dared a smile.

  She registered it and played back with, “And what, in your opinion, would hurt me least?”

  “That your son should somehow – remain within reach?”

  “Do you mock me? Again?”

  Again Duthileul blinked. “No.”

  “My son could hardly be further from me.”

  “Of course. I meant – geographically.”

  “We know what you meant.” Madame Lacaze placed her glass on the table and asked, “What business is this of yours?”

  The question came direct and uncluttered by anything but curiosity.

  Jean-Louis spread his hands just a little too wide. “My son – your son – our commune. Taste. Tone. Tact.”

  Her head nodded whilst she thought ‘Nonsense. And your commune, you mean.’

  She swirled the liquid and watched it settle. He wants something.

  What?

  If I lift my eyes in one second, in one more second, I shall see. One more.

  O My God! He does. Weight lifted from her.

  A wary Delight moved into her.

  Jean-Louis, no fool he, sensed change and stood, gathering his hat. “Madame, perhaps I have said too much. And as you say – what possible business is it of mine?”

  Madame Lacaze said, “You won’t have another?” And could have kicked herself.

  “Another time – I’d be delighted. When our hearts are less burdened perhaps.”

  She followed him to the front door, watched him to his car, tip his hat and drive away. She closed the door.

  His mother must be senile. He needs a cook. And I have an idea for the revenge.

  Jacques worked.

  Sunday afternoon, warming sun, The Mayor and the Curé stood outside Madame Valet’s house. Severine pulled up a chair, edged aside her curtains, and flattened her face against her window.

  Jerome opened the door.

  Dominique Duthileul gawped. Shaven head, no eyebrows, sunken eyes. Wearing what must be her dressing-gown.

  “Fuck me,” it said.

  “Who is it?” came from upstairs.

  “Everyone but the law,” he called. He raised his nose at the Mayor and asked, “Where is the flic?”

  “May we come in?”

  There was a smell. A stale smell.

  Jerome called, “May His Holiness The Mayor and God’s boy come in?”

  “What for?”

  When they didn’t answer Jerome offered over his shoulder, “Moral dressing down I imagine...”

  “Then, no.”

  “Gentlemen?”

  “We need to talk with you both,” said the Mayor.

  Madame Valet came down the stairs and joined Jerome at the door. Squinted at the sunlight.

  “Afternoon, Severine,” she called.

  The smell was doubled. It was both of them. “May we talk?”

  “Go ahead. If you bore us we’ll close the door. Fair enough?” Talking on the doorstep? This wasn’t Mayoral. Wasn’t respectful. A pace behind him Curé Phillipe shifted helplessly. A few seconds of village history passed.

  “What?” Madame Valet snapped.

  The schoolmistress tone made all three men almost jump. Jerome laughed.

  “Your cohabitation is—" Dominique hesitated, “upsetting people.” Jerome really laughed.

  He stacked the last floorboards on the cart. My stairs lead nowhere. Take them down now. My back hurts. All the time. He counted the oak beams holding his bache up. Fifteen. I haven’t washed. Sara washed the dog. I’ll wash when I get there. What’s the point?

  The bedroom walls are only light brick and plaster. The doors and frames no big problem. Prop the bache through the beams, take the walls down. Then the beams, put my bed in the caves, then this floor.

  I’ll need help with the steps. Arbel? And the door and window lintels.

  And how deep are the foundations? Work.

  He rose, his hand catching at his spine. Straightened.

  Ardelle was almost showing. Life was quiet in this lull. The excitement to come throbbed. The surface of their life was not what it had been – before – but it was as near as they could remember without remembering everything. A deal had been done. Was being done.

  They were sitting in the thin spring sun and Arbel watched Jacques’ bache raise from its sagging flat shape back to a wigwam point. He’s on the bed
room walls, then. Arbel could wait till he reached the lintel of his front door before he need call again.

  “He’ll be gone by summer, rate he’s going. Jacques.”

  Ardelle went cold. It was the first time they’d spoken of him. In any way.

  ‘Will you be glad?’ she thought. ‘I will.’

  But she said, “You think so?”

  Arbel looked puzzled. “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  He rolled a cigarette.

  “He might freeze to death before that,” she offered.

  ‘And do you care so very much about that?’ he thought, and reproached himself. She was right.

  “No,” he said, “we wouldn’t let him do that...”

  Ardelle’s heart flushed. It was the nearest to forgiveness she’d been. Stay there. Never go back.

  She smiled. “What?”

  “You.”

  “Oh, me,” he lit the cigarette and went to do something.

  “Is that it? No threat? No legal position at all? Just gossip, immorality and envy? Not good enough for me Monsieur Le Mayor.” Jerome tasted every savage nuance. “You must have some strategy! Christ! What did your father tell you to think?” This was fun.

  “I asked your mother instead.”

  “I know what she said.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And so?” Madame Valet had had more than enough. “We are outcasts. Social malaria. Fine. We accept. We agree. And now?” This was going as badly as Dominique had expected.

  “In God’s eyes...” Curé Phillipe sensed an opening here, “In God’s eyes you are both His children still and He loves you...”

  “Shall I tell you something, priest?” Madame Valet barreled into his watery eyes. “I have a new God. Here.”

  And she held Jerome warmly and firmly at his crotch.

  He relished the electricity of shameful delicious disgusting joy. Dominique and the Curé stared for a second. Severine Vigne too.

  Then they turned and walked away from that place.

  Jacques loaded the cart with the bedroom doors, the wood of the staircase, the nails.

  Monday morning. “Severine?”

  “Monsieur Le Mayor?”

  “You will tell no-one what we saw.”

  “No Monsieur.”

  “Not while we work together.”

  “No Monsieur.”

  He wanted to ask ‘What do you think I should do?’ but thought it would be weak.

  “I’m nearly sixty and we have no income.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “I know.”

  “Have we any?”

  “We won’t soon.”

  “One day at a time. Where is it?”

  Celine realized she would have to think for him.

  Jacques, blinkered, walked his loaded cart through St. Cirgues.

  The replacement teacher arrived. Mademoiselle Noyes.

  She began teaching the children English.

  The children, given a secret code only they and the Mademoiselle could speak, no parents at all, were thrilled. Engaged. The parents filled with a parochial fury – but they daren’t complain about another teacher.

  “We’ve a month’s money.”

  “So much?”

  You’ve never worked. And you won’t now, will you?”

  He was 26, looked 36, smelt 56 and felt ageless in the warmth of the brandy and the oblivion in her body.

  “You’re not to be troubled by life, are you child?”

  “The worst it can do is end. And if it’s to be penniless and starving – an end’ll be better.”

  “I’d prefer to live.”

  “You could eat me when I’m dead.”

  “I’d prefer to live with you.”

  “You are. This is us.”

  “Then I think I’m a little frightened.”

  “Daddy hold you?”

  A bearded blinkered man walked his empty cart back through the village.

  Madame Cantagrel hammered at Sara’s door. “Bring him to his senses,” she demanded.

  “He hasn’t any.”

  “Refuse him access to his daughter.”

  Sara’s bile rose.

  “And tell her what?”

  “He’s not fit.”

  “That’s for her to decide isn’t it?”

  A vein throbbed in Madame Cantagrel’s temple. “She’s a child, you fool. How can she decide? What does she know?”

  “You’re a bit diseased, Madame,” Sara heard her voice almost cheerful for the first time in she couldn’t remember how long. “She knows what she knows. If she can’t decide for herself about her own father how can she decide on your opinion of him?”

  Madame Cantagrel rocked slightly on her heels. Her jaw flapped a little. “You approve?”

  “No. But I trust my child.”

  “She’s four!”

  Sara’s mother appeared. “She’s not three,” she said. “Get away from my house.”

  Madame Cantagrel went.

  To tell the shopkeepers not to serve Jerome or Celine. Starve them out of the commune.

  Fifteen oak beams.

  The dog rested his head on its paws, fixed him with his eyes. Jacques stood on a chair beneath where the first beam rested on his north wall. He nestled his shoulder beneath its weight and straightened his legs. It lifted from its stone groove. He bent his knees and it re-settled. He took the chair to the opposite wall and repeated the action. It rose. Good, grandfather. Right.

  He stepped down. Think. Lift it, push it along till it’s clear of the wall, lower it. Can I take the weight? ‘Iffing’. Reap and sow.

  Jacques stood back on the chair, back to the wall, cupped his hands under the beam, took the strain at his wrists and back and lifted by straightening his legs. He had the whole weight. He pushed forward. Across the wreckage of the room, at the other end, it resisted. He took a breath and pushed. It shifted, wee stones splintering. Wait. Breathe. Push. Enough! His end was clear of the wall. He had the whole weight now. Lower it. The dog watched.

  He eased the oak down into his shoulder. Wait.

  Adjust. Breathe.

  Don’t drop it – it’ll go straight through to the caves. Take you with it.

  Don’t think. Breathe.

  Right. He took the whole weight on one leg as he stepped down, a desperate foot reaching for the floor. There. There. My back, my back! Breathe. One foot on the chair, one on the floor and half an oak crucifix on his shoulder. Don’t think! He stepped down to the floor. I can’t lift this off my shoulder now. He pushed the chair aside and slowly bent his knees till he knelt, the oak warm against his cheek and crushing his shoulder. The end was less than a metre short of the floor. Pray. He knelt lower, the wood following. Prostrate yourself Jacques. When he slid his knees and legs beneath him the beam finally came to a rest on the kitchen floor. The man beneath it. He rolled away. One.

  There was a knock at her door.

  She heard herself think, is it him?

  And then, almost giggling at the notion, which one?

  Madame Lacaze straightened her blouse, allowed herself one glimpse at vanity in the hallway mirror and opened the door on Madame Valet.

  “Will you pay us to go away? To another commune?”

  Madame Lacaze held the door tight in her hand, took in the odour and said, “But you must consider his pride. There would be no one to know his story. No-one to disgust. It would kill him.”

  “They’ll kill him soon.”

  Madame Lacaze considered her choice of words. “And, in another commune he’d eventually see you for what you are. Are you sure you’d want that?”

  “You’ve money you wizened bitch – give him some so I can save his life.”

  “No, I won’t finance that.”

  “What would you finance?”

  “You’re insane woman.”

  “I’m doing your job. Pay me.”

  “If you ever call here again I shall get the gendarme.”

  The
first brick through their window was placed by Jerome on Chef Terses’ desk.

  “No problem, Monsieur Lacaze.”

  Christoph, the gendarme of whom Terse was now Chef, stood his shifts outside their house for a week; listening, sweating, hardening. Battered by shock, disgust and a bizarre respect.

  Nothing else was thrown and Jerome and Celine didn’t replace the glass. When it rained in they pushed a cupboard against the hole and lusted behind it. Christoph returned to the Gendarmerie one evening and five minutes later a brick smashed through their other downstairs window and a voice said, “Fire next...” and then it went quiet.

  26

  Curé Phillipe walked up the stone stairs to his pulpit.

  He knew he was no orator.

  He accepted he had no genuine relationship with any member of this parish, nor indeed any of the other two he ministered to. He accepted also that each and every Sunday of his calling he had hoped, with always disappointed breath, for just a sliver of God’s passion and wisdom to speak from or through his heart, his soul. He knew, as he grasped the front ledge of this pulpit, that when he raised his head and looked out at these people he would see, again, that he was tolerated and heard only because it was form and he was a part of that and not, in their blatant opinion, a great deal more.

  To quell this rising fear in him, he turned a page of the big, embossed Bible. And he felt he saw St. Cirgues for the first time ever.

  Rows and pews of unexpectant faces. Tight jaws, and decided minds.

  And he knew the prevailing feeling in this church. In these people. In this village, and, he believed, in Heaven too. He was sure he understood their feelings better even than they – for he had seen her hand on his person. His bald person.

  “Today is no ordinary Sunday...” he heard his voice ring in the stone acoustic.

  “You and I are about to meet a miracle. We will witness, in our midst – here – a living saint.”

  Curé Phillipe took his hands off the front pulpit edge, looked right round every single, shocked face. Then he shook his head a little. “Well, I don’t recognise you.”