Charlotte Gray

by Sebastian Faulks

  The trouble with Roderick’s questioning was that he was never satisfied; his endless cross-examination always drove Gray to some slight excess to make him stop.

  ‘Of course they did, Roderick. Of course they sometimes did bad things, especially in the Middle Ages. Even in the war I fought in, it was not unheard of. Some people in my division – not in my battalion, I hasten to add – once had some German prisoners. It was not long after the Somme, that big battle I told you about once, when they’d seen almost all their friends killed one summer day. Then there’d been a long bombardment, day after day the shells falling, and some of the men were almost out of their mind with it. They went on a raid one night, crawling across no-man’s-land on their bellies, and brought back twelve Boches. They took them down the line to the rear area, and the officer in charge told them they had to march them five miles, most of it uphill, in the pouring rain, to some depot where the prisoners would be guarded. These men were desperate, they were exhausted. At times like that you’re not quite human. They had gone about half a mile, when they went into a little wood to rest. They went no further. They asked the officer to stand aside, to take himself off a hundred yards or so, then they shot all twelve where they stood. They told the officer the Germans had escaped. He knew quite well what had happened. They left the bodies there to—’

  ‘That’s enough, dear. Roderick understands, don’t you?’ Amelia Gray took a big tin from the picnic hamper. ‘It’s such a lovely day, we don’t want to spoil it, do we? Charlotte, would you like a piece of fruit cake?’

  Charlotte was sitting on the rug with her chin on her drawn-up knees, and her arms wrapped round her bare legs. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her eyes averted from her father . . .

  ‘. . . all that I remember,’ she said to Levade, as she came to the end of her version of the story. ‘Otherwise he never talked in detail.’

  Levade stood, tapping his front teeth with the wooden tip of his paintbrush. ‘I suppose such things did happen,’ he said. ‘Everyone who went through those years could tell you some horror.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I put it from my mind. I could never explain it to people who hadn’t experienced it. The choice was either to think about it all the time or not at all. Then other things eventually came to distract me. Women, painting, the pointless joy of being alive.’

  Charlotte looked at Levade’s impassive, lined face and thought how little she had understood him. ‘You fought all the way through, like my father?’

  ‘Yes. I volunteered because I wanted to fight. I had inherited my father’s love of this country. I was at Verdun. So were most of us. I was a Jew, but that was all right in those days. We were considered fit to fight and die with the rest. I was a bad soldier. They made me into a soup-man eventually. They were the most expendable. They tied a dozen flasks of wine to my belt and wound me round with loaves of bread which they’d knotted together with string. You could hardly stand up under the weight. Then at night they’d push you out, and you had to run or crawl through the fields and mud from one trench to another. To reach the hill they called the Dead Man, you’d be on your belly for an hour, and when you got there the men would spit and curse at you because the bread was caked in filth and half the wine had leaked away. The Germans knew the routes we took and used to shell them. They only used old men or weak people like me to be soup-men. You didn’t last long. I remember lying in the slime one night, it was in my eyes, my ears, and I looked up and saw the torso of a man pinned against a tree by a splinter of metal. It had no head, no legs, no arms. There was a drip of offal from the waist. Many years later that image came back to me. In a vision of Christ.’

  ‘How did you manage not to be killed?’ said Charlotte.

  ‘I was lucky. I was wounded. I was out for three months. When I rejoined my unit Pétain was in charge. He cared for the lives of his men. We still died in thousands, but he didn’t waste our lives. He understood that Verdun was where the honour of France would be held and won, but he knew the price we had to pay. To have a man like that at such a time – someone who understands that all the history of his country hangs on what he does, and has the bravery to do it . . . Yet he cared for us too, like a father, he worried for our lives. My God, we loved him then.’

  Charlotte saw the rims of Levade’s eyes redden, but there seemed to be no tears. ‘A group of four of us came on a dead horse one night. It was difficult to avoid them. It stank as though it had been there for weeks. My friend cut a piece from its flank and began to eat it. We chose the most putrid parts to make us ill. Two of them got taken into rest, one of them died. But I couldn’t keep it down. I kept vomiting it up. There seemed to be no escape.’

  ‘But you survived?’

  ‘Somehow. I was taken off the soup run and went back to join the others.’ Levade unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it to one side. ‘This is the first wound I had.’ A long red scar ran round from the top of his shoulder to his armpit, its edges raised into a purplish ridge. Charlotte could see the rough stitching that held the two welts together, presumably accomplished by the lamplight of some field dressing-station. ‘It looks worse than it was. It wasn’t really bad enough, that was the trouble. I would sooner have lost a leg.’

  Charlotte said, ‘And what do you think about the Germans now? Do you hate them?’

  Levade smiled. ‘I hardly think about them. When I do, I pray for them. I pray for God’s forgiveness for what they have done. And what they are doing now.’

  Charlotte still had not spoken to Julien by the time she set off on her bicycle for her rendezvous with Mirabel.

  It was an icy December day and she pedalled fast to keep herself warm. In all the time she had been in France she had never had cause to doubt the justice of her decision to stay. It must be rare, she thought, that all one’s duties and impulses pointed in the same direction. She had been useful to Julien and Mirabel: she had, as far as it was possible with so little active resistance yet taking place, done her job. She had frequently visited André and Jacob and brought them comfort. More than this, she felt that the time she had passed in Lavaurette and the conversations she had had with Levade had helped her in a personal way. Living in the Domaine, under a different identity, had soothed and educated her.

  Yet however much her staying in France had satisfied her various desires, the most important matter of all, the whereabouts of Gregory, had been set to one side. She remembered her last night of training in England when she had pulled back the curtain to see the misty moon outside, ‘Charlotte’ unclear. She had vowed to Gregory that she would find him, and now at last she was on her way.

  The narrow road wound between bare fields, then through a hamlet where a farm straddled it: the house on one side, the barns and outbuildings on the other. Geese spat at her bicycle as she pedalled through, and scrawny chickens flapped angrily from the rolling tyres.

  After one more dip, the road swung sharply to the right, over a crumbling concrete bridge with rusted iron rails, and climbed for the last time. On the brow of the hill was the moss-covered calvary and the rutted path to the white stone house. Two thin lions sat on top of the gateposts, grimacing over the cold countryside. The stone chippings of the driveway clotted the wheels, and Charlotte dismounted, propping the bicycle against a low wall that enclosed a terrace.

  A momentary thrill of self-consciousness went through her as she stood at the front door. She saw herself and her desperate errand as through the eyes of an incredulous stranger. Then it was gone, because the urgency of what she did was too great, as she turned the large handle and pushed open one half of the heavy double door.

  The great staircase rose in front of her, its broad white steps illuminated by candles gripped in iron holders on the walls. Charlotte went slowly up, feeling the lovely surface of the stone, polished by the passage of centuries, beneath her feet. She walked down the straight, broad passageway ahead, her shoes now cradled and sprung by polished oak. From the last bedroom on the right, the one
where they had met before, she could see a light flickering through the open doorway, over the pinkish markings in the white distemper of the walls.

  She should have breathed in deeply at the threshold, she thought; she should have sent a small prayer arrowing to heaven; but she wanted too much to hear what was waiting for her: she wanted the words that would bring him back to life.

  She knocked and entered the shadowy room. The two boat beds were on the right; on the left sat Mirabel with his back to her, looking through the window over the fallen tree in the garden below. Hearing her knock, he turned slowly round in his seat, and when his face came into the light of the candle, Charlotte saw that it was not Mirabel at all, but Claude Benech.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘I knew you would.’

  Charlotte was too shocked to speak.

  Benech was smiling. ‘You were expecting Monsieur “Mirabel”, I believe.’

  Charlotte said nothing, not because her training required it and not from any sense of self-preservation, but because the absence of Mirabel meant she had lost Gregory.

  Benech coughed. ‘He asked me to apologise. He’s been detained.’

  Charlotte remembered how nervous Mirabel had been the first time. There seemed no point in denying that she knew him. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘With the proper authorities. He is an enemy and will be treated as such.’

  ‘And you. Why you?’

  ‘Do you remember, we met in Lavaurette one day?’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘I’ve seen you.’

  ‘I have taken an interest in your life, Madame. I saw you kiss Monsieur Levade the day the Germans came. I was intrigued by you. I belong to a patriotic organisation. For some time this Monsieur “Mirabel” has been watched. Then there came a time to act. I was able to help.’ Benech put his hand inside the pocket of his coat. ‘And this was my reward.’

  In the candlelight Charlotte could see the gleam of gunmetal in Benech’s pale palm. She wondered if he was deranged. The orderly, articulate way in which he spoke was perhaps too controlled. She must not provoke him.

  ‘And you’re here for them?’ she said. ‘For your organisation?’

  ‘Oh no. This is a private matter.’

  Charlotte thought of Mirabel’s ‘French’ handwriting in the note. She should have suspected. The contact should have been made through Julien, but she had been too excited to think.

  ‘I don’t know what your plans are, Madame,’ said Benech, ‘but clearly you might feel it worthwhile to make them fit in with mine. The authorities in time of war are efficient and direct. We are fighting for the heart and soul of our country. I’m sure you understand.’

  Charlotte inclined her head slightly.

  ‘They have dealt with your friend. They would be interested in you, too. And perhaps in others that you know.’ Benech smiled again. ‘Do speak to me, Madame. You’re making me feel uneasy and I’m trying to be helpful.’

  Charlotte swallowed. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you,’ said Benech, ‘to be my friend.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I want you to come and see me at my apartment. There you will tell me things I ask. We will develop a relationship of trust. And our friendship will of course take other paths.’

  ‘What paths?’

  ‘The natural paths between men and women.’

  ‘Why should I do this?’

  ‘I don’t think you really need to ask that,’ said Benech, standing up and putting the gun back in his pocket. He walked over to Charlotte and grabbed her jaw in his right hand, twisting her face from side to side.

  ‘Monsieur Mirabel is dead. Before he died, he talked a great deal. Don’t play with me, Madame, don’t play.’

  There was no strain in Benech’s voice, Charlotte thought. In his work he was used to issuing threats and orders and to having them obeyed.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll come to you tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Good.’

  Benech, still holding her face, pressed his mouth over hers.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Charlotte, pushing him away. She managed a half-smile. ‘I must go now.’

  Benech held her by the arm. ‘Don’t try to leave the town,’ he said. ‘I will track you down and find you.’

  She nodded.

  ‘And if you tell one word of what’s just passed between us . . .’ Through the fabric of his coat he pushed the gun against her hip-bone.

  He had released her arm. Charlotte moved quickly to the door. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said, and ran down the wooden landing to the stairs.

  As she grabbed the bicycle from outside and rode off through the gates, she heard Benech call out after her. He had changed his mind; perhaps he couldn’t wait until tomorrow. But Charlotte did not hesitate as she plunged into the darkness.

  She arrived at Julien’s apartment in Lavaurette, ran upstairs and hammered on the door.

  ‘Julien, thank God you’re here.’ She was so out of breath she could hardly speak.

  Julien’s momentary expression of delight at seeing her was replaced by anxiety and anger as Charlotte told him what had happened. She omitted all mention of Peter Gregory, giving the impression that her second rendezvous had been merely at Mirabel’s supposed instigation.

  When she had finished, Julien said, ‘You must leave. That’s the first thing we must do. Get you out.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll be all right. I’ve done nothing wrong, nothing they know about anyway. But listen, Dominique, I had some other news today. Something else that worries me. You know Gastinel, the butcher?’

  ‘Auguste?’

  ‘Yes. You know he left us to join a fledgling Gaullist network in Limoges. Well, I gathered from Pauline Benoit, who’s a friend of his and a bit of a Gaullist herself, I suspect, that they’d been set up. They went to some agreed place for a drop and the plane didn’t come. In fact, the only other people there were the local gendarmerie, who wanted to know what on earth they were all doing. They spent the night in prison. They’re certain they were betrayed by someone.’

  It was the word Limoges that filled Charlotte with a sense of lurching emptiness. ‘Do you know exactly where this drop was?’ she said.

  ‘Pretty well. Why?’

  ‘Have you got any maps?’

  ‘Yes, over on the shelf.’

  From among the dusty atlases and tourist guides, Julien eventually produced a detailed map of the area. Charlotte spread it out on the floor beneath the light. She could still remember the references Mirabel had given her. She peered at the small figures at the side of the map for a moment, than ran her finger slowly across the paper.

  ‘There,’ she said, her face turned anxiously up to Julien’s. ‘Was it there?’

  ‘Pauline said something about a stream and a church. Yes. Look, there they are.’

  Charlotte could not bring herself to speak for a moment. At last she said, ‘Oh, Julien. Something terrible has happened. It was me. Mirabel asked me to take a message to someone in Limoges. I must have got it wrong, the wrong co-ordinates. But if it was one of our people, why were the Gaullists there? I don’t understand. My memory is . . . well, almost infallible. I must have given it to the wrong person.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?’

  ‘Mirabel told me not to tell you. Minimum information. Anyway, it didn’t seem important.’

  ‘He told you not to tell me?’

  ‘Yes, he said, Whatever you do, don’t tell Octave.’

  Julien shook his head. ‘Oh, God. They’ve used you, haven’t they?’

  ‘I don’t understand. Surely Mirabel is—’

  ‘Mirabel’s like everyone else. He’s under orders from the politicians. And the English are no better than the French.’

  ‘You mean he deliberately misled me?’

  ‘Whoever you gave the message to wasn’t one of ours. It was a Gaullist. I don’t quite know why the Englis
h would want to mess it up for them. But the reason doesn’t really matter. What did he promise you in return?’

  ‘I . . . Nothing. Nothing, really.’

  ‘Nothing “really”?’

  ‘Well, he intimated that he might be able to help me find someone. If I did what he asked, if we kept in touch. It was rather vague.’

  ‘The airman?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘My father told me.’

  Charlotte nodded without speaking.

  ‘You really thought he might know where this man was?’

  ‘I suppose I did hope. I mean, he knows people, he’s in touch with them. And . . . And . . .’ It all sounded too foolish.

  ‘Oh, Dominique, you poor girl.’ Julien opened his arms and hugged her tightly to him. ‘You poor, poor girl.’

  Charlotte was reluctant to disengage from the safety of Julien’s arms. ‘And what should I do now?’ she said.

  ‘You must go home at once. I can get a wireless message to London. You must get out as soon as you can.’

  ‘But, Julien, I’ve only just begun.’

  ‘If you stay, they’ll get you. The Gaullists will tell the police even if Benech doesn’t. The fact that you’re from England makes it worse. Perfidious Albion.’

  ‘But we’re all on the same side.’

  ‘Not now you’ve betrayed them.’

  ‘Oh God, Julien. What about Peter? He can’t manage without me. He’ll never get back now. It’s only my being here in France that’s kept him alive.’

  Julien looked crushed by what she said, as though he had not really believed until then in the depth of her feeling for another man. He took her hand and said gently: ‘If you love him, leave tomorrow. If you stay, they will kill you. Men like Benech are worse than the Germans. If you love him, for God’s sake go.’

  7

  DINNER AT THE Domaine was late that night, and Julien asked Charlotte to eat with him and his father. It was the first time she had seen them together for any length of time, and she kept imagining the ten-year-old boy returning home from school to find his tearful mother telling him that his father had deserted them. What would the distraught Madame Levade have thought if she had been told then that, twenty years later, the two of them would be sitting with a Scottish woman in the vast panelled dining room of a draughty manor, miles from Paris, the Germans in possession of their country?