Legends of the Lost Lilies

by Jackie French

  But he did not understand either. He did understand war, knew Danny was waiting till he turned eighteen to enlist, knew that his darling son did not know war, for no one could imagine it till they were in it, knew that Danny dreaded leaving for New Guinea, too, but would never say so, and he could not stand that either, not without Sophie at his side, could not stand that his son would see trenches, bloated bodies, men tearing out their eyes burned by gas. He could not help them, could not help his children, could not help those men, dying in agony untended . . .

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Somehow he found himself in his and Sophie’s bedroom. He curled up on their bed, trying to think. Perhaps if he slept it might all make sense. He could see what he had to say, he could comfort the twins, be wise for them just as a father should . . .

  It was still light when he woke, though the shadows reached to touch each other under the trees.

  John sat up on the bed and stared around. What was he doing here? A too-large bed covered with a silk counterpane, not the blanket on the bed he’d made from fallen branches in his hut. This room — he had not been in a room since the hospital. Yet somehow he knew his hut was too far to reach tonight . . .

  Nor did John need it. There was a tree, three yards in diameter at least and hollowed at the base. A tree to show visitors, a red gum, its base burned or termite hollowed, that had grown its own scar tissue, strong enough for it to survive, just like he had been hollowed out by war but had survived.

  But he was not hollow now. His name was John. He needed only a few blankets, a billy . . .

  The kitchen yielded two empty cans, perfect for billies, matches, two knives, a spoon, a mug, a loaf of bread. Ah, string. He’d need that to trap the rabbits. Another sharpening stone as his knives would soon be blunt from carving all the crosses, one for every man he couldn’t save.

  Footsteps. He hurried from the kitchen back to the bedroom, carrying his bundle.

  A Fair Isle jumper lay on the bed. A jumper a girl named Rose had knitted.

  John stared at the jumper, reality seeping in, as well as grief so strong he sank onto the bed.

  He was not John. He was Daniel Greenman, who could not cope, but had to cope, for he had two children who needed him, a property to manage, a clinic to run, business decisions that somehow the board of Higgs thought he was competent to make, and he could not cope. He couldn’t.

  Nor could he be John. John had no children, but Daniel Greenman did, and Daniel Greenman could not leave his children.

  But if he stayed as Dr Greenman people would still pester him, need him, when he did not have the strength to be needed. He had failed ten thousand men, a hundred thousand men, uncounted men. The world would be better off without him . . .

  He found his hands picking up the jumper, holding it to his face. Rose and Danny must have their father, for their mother had left them and their other father too, and there was only him. So he must stay Dr Greenman, but only for them, and he could not stay here, not where the wasps might buzz around him once again.

  The footsteps had gone to the bathroom. Now they padded back to Rose’s room. Dawn came early in midsummer. The children would sleep for another two hours, perhaps. A holiday.

  He smiled suddenly, as everything grew clear. He could take a holiday. Daniel Greenman who was not John, but felt John waiting in the shadows, could take a few days’ holiday, camping in the tree. It was not even far away.

  Impossible to explain to them why a holiday was so essential in person. He was not even sure he could put it into words, no matter how clearly the decision was right inside his head.

  No, he could not speak to them. If he talked to Rose and Danny the love between them would draw him back to this ‘normal life’ with which he could not cope. He left his horde on the bed then slipped into the study, found paper and a fountain pen, then hesitated. At last he wrote:

  My dearest Rose and Danny,

  I am tired and have gone camping for a few days in the big hollow tree. I love you.

  Pa

  He stared at the words. They did not seem enough, but what else was there he could say? That Mrs Taylor would care for the house, but they knew that already. At last he added:

  PS I think you should phone your Aunt Midge now.

  He looked at the words in relief. Midge would explain it far better than he was able to. And in a few days, a very few days of sunlight and the call of birds and no pressure from too many voices or walls that closed him in, he would be well again.

  He tiptoed back to the bedroom and took the jumper for the tree might be cold at night. Now to the shed to find a box, to put his foodstuffs in, the flour and bread and cheese they’d give him for opening the gate. But there was no gate near the tree . . .

  He paused, then smiled. It didn’t matter. God would provide. There was water in the river and other foods to harvest. There would be the song of leaves, a nightly orchestra of crickets, owls and frogs, the scratch of wombats and the thud of roos and wallabies. They were sounds a man could hear but still listen to God. And if he felt confused now all would straighten once he had slept in the great tree.

  Once he had been healed under the trees. It would happen again, now.

  Daniel tied his swag expertly with the string, lifted it across his shoulder and walked towards the trees.

  Chapter 19

  Serenity can be found only in a single moment, the taste of a cup of tea, the tap of bird beaks at a window, a child’s smile. That moment will break. There will be harder tasks than washing the teacup. Every life holds tragedy, and sometimes triumph is almost equally hard to bear. But look for that moment, and you will find it.

  Miss Lily, 1939

  SOPHIE

  She journeyed to Paris blindfolded, as unaware of exactly where she was as she had been in the cellar for the last fortnight. She had been led to the cellar blindfolded; a tray with food and a bucket of water left for her while she slept during what she assumed was night, and her chamber pot taken away. It had been curiously like her imprisonment six years earlier, except here she was not drugged, had a lamp and matches, and was even left French newspapers, magazines and a yellowed copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, complete with photographs of famous actors circa 1900, to read.

  She ate what was undoubtedly French bread, even if made with a ration of chaff as well as flour, wrinkled apples, as well as a Thermos of excellent stew, even if its tiny bones meant the meat might be rabbit, squirrel or even sparrow, and walnuts with their shells cracked but not removed, which reminded her that even the sound of cracking walnut shells might bring dangerous attention.

  She had been blindfolded again when she was led out, dressed now in mauve silk, a 1939 Maison Violette. The dress — its wide skirt sadly out of date now — was accessorised with a mink coat in the fashion of the early 1930s, striped in shades of brown, a matching fur hat on her now peroxide blonde curls, a wedding ring, an enormous diamond engagement ring, another sapphire ring, and a sapphire necklace whose stones did not quite match either the ring or the dress.

  She hoped the blindfold didn’t smudge her eye make-up, or dislodge the fake lashes she had become used to wearing in her cellar. She allowed herself to be guided into what felt like a coffin, but smelled like a vegetable delivery cart and probably was for, as it moved, she could hear the clop of horse’s hooves and the occasional plop of droppings.

  The bird calls outside sounded like early morning, and the air as they led her out smelled of dawn, too. No one had given her any indication of how much time would pass, or even where she had landed. It had been a fortnight since she’d had a conversation, or even heard one. She wanted words. She was also soon hungry, thirsty and far too hot. The cart stopped four times, but no one came to let her out.

  Slowly the noises around her changed: an engine, voices, other engines. The cart stopped again. She heard doors open. The cart moved, but not far. This time someone opened her . . . cage? Litter? A woman’s hand, calloused, extended,
helped her out, still blindfolded. She could smell petrol, onions and horse.

  ‘Do not turn around or look back.’ The voice was unfamiliar. ‘Walk forwards out the door, then to the right and walk down to the corner. The car will be waiting.’

  ‘Lipstick,’ said Sophie briefly. She opened her handbag, looked at nothing but its contents, applied lipstick and two dabs of powder without looking in the mirror of her compact, then obeyed the order to walk forwards.

  I am a swan about to take flight, she told herself, and felt her body throw off the last kinks of her journey. I am young, and a silver beam of light leads me to the door. The door — a garage door — was slightly open. She waited for a minute to let her eyes adjust to the light, pulled on her gloves, adjusted her hat, placed her handbag under her arm, then walked out in small, slightly too sensual though elegant steps, her high heels clicking on concrete then pavement.

  Paris. Bicycles, mostly ridden by young women, in socks, not stockings, a café opposite, a shoe store that advertised German spoken here. The smell of Paris, Gauloises cigarettes and chicory and far less scent of cat than during her last visit. Cats did not prosper in war-time. Nor were there any chic dogs being walked along the pavement.

  She turned right. The limousine — hired in her name — was parked on the corner. She slipped into the back seat as if she already knew both car and driver, had merely left it to glance more closely at a shop window. Sophie Greenman would have thanked him for waiting. The Comtesse de Brabant carefully separated herself from the class she had once belonged to. ‘Drive on,’ she instructed.

  The driver wordlessly pulled out into the traffic, conspicuous among the bicycle cabs that were more common than cars now on the Paris streets. Did he know who she was, or had he merely been asked not to speak to the woman he was to carry? She knew not to ask. Instead she smiled and gazed around with the expression of a woman who was delighted with Paris, herself and what the day might bring.

  She had evidently been left on the outskirts of the city and on the opposite side of the city from where the house that had been leased for her was situated. Street after street, houses looking ridiculously normal with a scattering of German flags on cars or flagpoles, and an increasing number of German uniforms as they neared the city centre. She tried to peer eagerly, innocently, rather than look as if she was assimilating possibly useful information.

  She had first known Paris dressed in war-time, though the uniforms had been French, English and American then, with a few Australians, New Zealanders and Canadians. Her next view had been the week she finally relinquished her empire of hospitals and had entered the quiet opulence of the Ritz, towels as thick as duvets and a tub of endless hot water where she had scrubbed away lice and ingrained disinfectant, then walked the streets each night marvelling at the small art galleries, still with paintings in their windows, greeting the cats who peered at her from laneway walls, and finally known they were at peace.

  Wandering arm in arm with Nigel on a later visit, stopping to buy a single camellia, which he’d pinned on her shoulder, pottering among the bookstalls along the Seine, the scent of old pages and modern philosophy and scandalous works on cheap paper that would be illegal in England.

  The scent changed to urinals, onion soup, but still the omnipresent chicory. More bicycle cabs, and bicycles, and still mostly ridden by young women, too, in their white socks. Those who sat at the tables outside the cafés were more likely to be stockinged, or at least use iodine to dye their legs and a fountain pen to draw the required seam up the back of their legs.

  Sophie automatically checked the limousine for anything that might snag her own silk stockings — she had no idea how many had been sent with her, nor did she want to waste time hunting out a black-market supplier. The Comtesse de Brabant must always wear stockings. But surely Violette would know where they could be obtained.

  Apartment houses, then mansions in a street lined with winter-bare trees, and lawns raked clear of any fallen leaf, with no cabbages, grapevines or onions growing in the front gardens, as if to advertise, ‘I am owned by a rich person, probably a profiteer.’

  They drew up at what must be ‘her’ house. Ostentatious, with a wrought-iron gate and posts topped with lions, rampant. The front garden on either side of the circular driveway was mostly roses, all bare thorny legs at this time of year, a camellia hedge on either side, still without blooms, and gravel paths.

  She hoped the garden behind had been put into vegetables, for until she met with Violette she had no black-market contacts, and French rationing was not just severe, but cruel, for the customer must line up on the right day for onions, or for potatoes or cabbages, instead of buying all on a single market day, except for bread, of course, and pastry. But only Germans and collaborators ate pastry or meat or cake now, or those with inside knowledge and deep pockets, for a lamb chop cost as much as a third-hand car.

  The driver — elderly, with a limp — opened the car door for her, accepted the tip she handed him and waited for the front door to open as Sophie, glad of the warmth of her fur coat, stepped through in the high heels she had become accustomed to but hated to the depths of her soul and hips. The maid who stood there wore the traditional black dress. She and the other staff had been hired from an agency only the week before. If Sophie was arrested, James had made sure none of the staff might be executed as accomplices.

  The maid curtseyed. ‘Good morning, your ladyship,’ she said in French. ‘Your luggage arrived yesterday. It has been unpacked and there is a fire in your bedroom. May I take your coat?’

  Sophie relinquished it unwillingly for the hallway was chilly. But with fuel rationed — and scarce even if you had the ration cards — it would be unreasonable to expect the servants to have lit more than her bedroom and drawing-room fires, as well as the kitchen stove. Even that was a miracle of black marketing. The cook–housekeeper must have excellent connections, as well as the unlimited budget the comtesse’s inheritance provided.

  ‘Thank you. Luncheon in half an hour, please?’ She had arranged for the car to pick her up again to take her to Maison Violette.

  ‘Certainly, your ladyship. May I show your ladyship to her room?’

  Far too much gold paint and golden alcoves — empty, as were the walls, of artwork. Whoever owned this house had either been canny enough to remove all valuables before the Occupation, or they had been ‘requisitioned’ by the Germans.

  Pink silk covered her bedroom walls. What had probably been a pink silk canopy over the bed had been removed, to her relief — terrible dust catchers. She resisted the urge to open drawers or visit the dressing room to see what wardrobe had been picked out for her. A fresh day dress had been laid out on the bed, suitable for a quiet few hours at home. She pulled the bell.

  ‘Your ladyship?’

  ‘Another dress, please. A good one. My green, perhaps.’ If there was no green dress she could complain her maid had not packed it. ‘I need to visit Maison Violette this afternoon. The lilies I ordered have arrived, I hope? They are a gift to her, to convince her I must, I simply must, have new dresses. My wardrobe is most scandalously out of date.’

  The maid’s eyes shone with sudden interest. ‘Her clothes are magnifique, your ladyship. I saw you have several of her designs.’

  ‘A long-ago visit to Paris.’ Sophie stretched. ‘But now I need something new. Do you know how many years it has been since I had any enjoyment at all . . . I’m sorry, I do not know your name?’

  ‘Isobel, your ladyship.’

  ‘I have been in chains of marriage, Isobel. And, yes, I loved Henri, but I have been so bored.’ Sophie winked at her. ‘And so I left my blacks at home and came to Paris.’

  ‘It . . . it is not so gay in Paris since the Occupation, your ladyship. The curfew —’

  ‘Pouff to the curfew! I am sure there are clubs which do not have to obey the curfew.’

  Isobel was silent. Not a supporter of the Boche then, thought Sophie, for the only clubs allowed to
open now were for German soldiers and officials, and their guests. She resolved to have as little as possible to do with the servants. It was not fair to cause them offence, when they needed the wage, even perhaps the place to stay.

  ‘Will this dress be suitable, your ladyship?’

  ‘Ah, perfect!’ Another 1939 Violette, stiffened silk trimmed with darker embroidery, this skirt as well too long and wide for today’s fashions, but beautiful. ‘My emeralds, I think. The pendant and the pendant earrings, the small ring and the larger stone, and the gold hair clip too.’

  ‘I will fetch them, your ladyship.’

  ‘And I will bathe before lunch.’

  ‘Yes, your ladyship. I will prepare it now, your ladyship. Will you lunch here, or in the drawing room?’

  ‘Oh, here. Please tell me it isn’t soup.’

  A hesitation. Soup was most obviously on the menu. ‘No, your ladyship. An omelette bavarois.’

  Which could be made as a fast replacement. ‘Excellent.’ Eggs were also strictly rationed. Cook’s contacts must be good. ‘A glass of champagne?’ she ventured.

  ‘Alas, your ladyship, the cellar was emptied when we arrived.’

  So Cook did not have the black-market contacts for wine. Sophie winked her heavy, mink-thickened eyelash. ‘No matter. We will contrive.’

  The bath was glorious: deep scented water in a tub brought up to her bedroom and placed before the fire, with a screen around it to prevent draughts. She allowed herself to be dressed in a garment that was mostly chiffon and feathers, and slipped into freshly ironed sheets topped with a mound of feather pillows, a glorious comfort after the pallet in the cellar.

  Isobel brought in the tray, one that had legs that could be unfolded to make a small table on the bed, correctly divining that her mistress would eat there after her journey. The omelette was indeed excellent, the cheese that followed presumably from the black market, the salad leaves probably from the glasshouse and garden she could glimpse out the back from her bedroom window, the dressing piquant. The pastry for the tarte Tatin was delicately thin, possibly from the scarcity of butter as well as the skill of the cook. Gastronomically it would be no hardship to stay here.