Birdsong (52 page)

We are on road repair work again. It is very hard work, though most of the men think it better than tunnelling. We have to fill big holes with stones and what they call facines, which are bits of spoil, masonry and suchlike, from damaged houses.

What with the mire and the rain and all the dead animals, it is a sorry business. We feel sorry for the dead horses, such beautiful animals so badly knocked about and they didn't ask for any part of it.

We still do a bit of digging. The CO says we've made our contribution to the war, but that it's going to become a much faster business fought above the ground now. We'll see about that. We have started to advance now and there is a real feeling that one more push and it will be over.

We are all keeping cheerful and bright. Evans has had a new pack of cards and I am quite the star turn at brag now. I have also done some more sketching. Trusting you are keeping well and that I will see you again soon.

From your loving husband Jack.

Before he rejoined his company, Stephen took two of the days owing to him in leave and went to Rouen, where Jeanne had moved during the German spring offensive. It was a hot Sunday afternoon when he arrived. There was a festive atmosphere in the streets. Old motor cars were taking families for a drive. Others had four-in-hands, carts, or bicycles--anything to keep their promenade moving. There were numbers of small boys running on the cobbles and shouting to the drivers of the vehicles.

Stephen moved through the crowd in some puzzlement. Following Jeanne's instructions, he came to the cathedral and turned into the medieval part of the city, where she had taken a room until she could return to Amiens.

She was waiting for him when he rang the street bell. She took him across a courtyard and up to her lodgings. There were only two rooms on the first floor, but she had managed to make them pleasant with the things she had been able to take out of Amiens.

She sat him down in one of the two armchairs and looked at him. He had grown very thin and his skin had become lined and leathery about the eyes. Their expression was no longer guarded; to Jeanne it seemed vacant. He had not lost any hair, even at the temples, but there were now streaks of early grey almost everywhere in it. His movements had a dreamlike quality, as though the air about him were very thick and had to be pushed slowly back. He smoked without seeming to know that he did so and dropped ash on his clothes.

This was the man who eight years earlier had so stirred her younger sister. Isabelle had told her nothing about their lovemaking, but she had given Jeanne a strong physical sense of him by referring to his shoulders, his eyes, and the deft movements of his hands. The man Jeanne saw was different; it was hard to believe it was the same person. This thought made her feel easier in her mind. They went for a walk in the town and then to the museum, where they sat in the gardens.

"What happened to you in the spring?" said Stephen. "I had no letters for a time."

"I did write," said Jeanne. "Perhaps they got lost in all the commotion. To begin with the town was filled with refugees from other places as the Germans advanced. Then we were bombarded and the mayor gave the order to evacuate the town. I stayed for a time because I didn't want to come back to Rouen. They used to shell at night, using flares to guide their fire. It was frightening. I went to the cathedral to help them take out the stained-glass windows. We wrapped them all up in blankets. Eventually I had to leave, but I didn't tell my parents where I'd gone. I managed to find these rooms with the help of a friend I'd known when I was a girl. My parents don't know I'm here."

"Would they be angry?"

"I don't know. I think they've almost given up hope with their daughters. They heard that Isabelle had gone to Germany. They had a letter from an old friend of Azaire's in Amiens, a man called Bérard. He said he thought they ought to know." Stephen sang softly, " 'And the little boat sailed away-y-y.' "

"What was that?"

"I knew that man. He used to visit when I was there. He was a_ _bully, a preposterous little man, full of his own importance. But he seemed to have some sort of power over people."

"I wrote to Isabelle and told her what had happened. She wrote back and told me that when the place was first occupied by the Germans this man Bérard offered the commandant his house to live in. He thought they would be staying there for the whole war. When they moved on after a few days he was left feeling shamefaced. According to Isabelle he tried to make up for it afterward by making very belligerent noises."

"But he didn't join the army?"

"No. Perhaps he was too old. Isabelle said she was happy, though Max is not well. He had to have his leg amputated and he has not recovered his strength. She's very devoted to him."

Stephen nodded. "Poor man. I'm sorry."

"Now what about you?" said Jeanne. She took his hand and squeezed it in her affectionate, sisterly way. "You're looking very distracted and pale. I worry about you. I told you that, didn't I? I don't suppose you're eating properly either." Stephen smiled. "I'm all right. The food was much better in the job I've just finished. There was plenty of it, too."

"Then why are you so thin?"

He shrugged. "1 don't know."

Jeanne's dark eyes lit up with seriousness as she pressed his hand and made him look at her. "Stephen, you mustn't give up. You mustn't let yourself go. It's nearly over. Any day now we'll advance and you'll be free to resume your life."

"Resume? I can't remember my life. I wouldn't know where to look for it."

"You mustn't talk in this way." Jeanne was angry. Her pale skin showed, for the first time since Stephen had known her, a pinpoint of blood in the cheeks. With her left hand she lightly beat the wooden bench on which they were sitting to emphasize what she said.

"Of course you won't resume whatever it was you were doing in Paris, drifting around as a carpenter or whatever it was. You'll do something better, you'll do something worthwhile."

Stephen turned his eyes slowly to her. "You're a dear woman, Jeanne. I would do what you say. But it's not the details of a life I've lost. It's the reality itself." Jeanne's eyes filled with tears. "Then we must make it come back. I'll bring it back for you. I'll help you find whatever it is you have lost. Nothing is beyond redemption."

"Why are you so kind to me?" said Stephen.

"Because I love you. Can't you see that? From all that's gone wrong I want to make something good. We must try. Promise me you'll try."

Stephen nodded slowly. "We will try."

Jeanne stood up, feeling encouraged. She took his hand and led him through the gardens. What else could she do to invigorate him, to bring him back to the reality he had lost? There was one thing, naturally; though the complications might outweigh the benefits. It should happen spontaneously or not at all. They had dinner early in a restaurant on their way back to her lodgings and she made Stephen drink wine in the hope that it would cheer him. Glass after glass of red Bordeaux went down his throat but brought no light into his dead eyes. On the way home Jeanne said, "Please be very quiet as we cross the courtyard. I don't want the concierge to know there's a man staying the night in my rooms."

Stephen laughed for the first time. "You Fourmentier girls. What would your father say?"

"Be quiet," said Jeanne, glad that she had made him laugh. It was a hot night, and it was not yet dark as they walked. A small band was playing in one of the squares among the plane trees, where the cafés were starting to put on their lights.

Stephen went with elaborate care over the paving of the courtyard and made no sound until they were safely back in Jeanne's lodgings.

"I've made up a bed for you on the sofa in the corner. Do you want to go to bed now or would you like to sit up and talk? I think I have some brandy. We could take it on to the little balcony there. But we must keep our voices down." They sat in two wickerwork chairs on the narrow strip that gave a view over a dry, sandy garden.

"You know what I want to do for you?" said Jeanne. "I'm going to make you laugh. That's going to be my project. I'm going to banish your Anglo-Saxon gloom. I'm going to make you laugh and be full of joy, like a proper French peasant." Stephen smiled. He said, "And I'll tell stories and slap my thighs like a Norman farmer."

"And never think about the war. And those who have gone."

"Never." He drained the brandy in a gulp.

She took his hand again. "I'll have a house with a garden at the back with rose bushes and flowerbeds, and perhaps a swing for children to play on--if not my own, then visiting children. The house will have long windows and be full of the smell of wonderful meals from the kitchen. And the sitting room will have freesias and violets. And there will be paintings on the wall, by Millet and Courbet and other great artists."

"I'll visit you. Perhaps I'll live there with you. It will shock the whole of Rouen."

"We'll go boating on Sunday, and on Saturday we'll go to the opera, then to dinner in the big square. Twice a year we'll have parties in the house. They'll be full of candles, and we'll hire servants to take round drinks on silver trays to all our friends. And there will be dancing and--"

"Not dancing."

"All right, no dancing. But there'll be a band. Perhaps a string quartet or a gipsy violinist. And those who _want _to can dance, somewhere in a separate room. Perhaps we'll have a singer."

"Perhaps we could persuade Bérard."

"A good idea. He could sing some German lieder he had learned from the commandant and his wife. The parties would be famous. I'm not sure how we'd pay for them."

"I'll have made my fortune by some invention. Your father will have left his millions to you."

They drank some more brandy, which made Jeanne feel dizzy, though it seemed to have no effect on Stephen. When it grew cold they went inside and Stephen said he would like to sleep. She showed him his bed and fetched him a carafe of water.

In her bedroom Jeanne undressed. She felt encouraged by Stephen, though she could see he was making efforts for her benefit. It was a beginning. She walked naked across the floor to take her nightgown from the back of the door. It opened just before she reached it, and she saw Stephen outside in his shirt, his legs bare.

He recoiled. "I'm sorry, I was looking for the bathroom." Jeanne had grabbed reflexively for a towel that lay on the chair, and tried to arrange it modestly over her body.

Stephen turned and began to move back into the sitting room.

Jeanne said, "Stop. It's all right. Come back."

She put the towel on the chair and stood quite still.

There was no light in the room, but the brightness of the autumn night made it easy to see.

"Come and let me hold you," she said. The slow smile rose up and illuminated her face.

Stephen walked slowly into the room. Jeanne's long thin body stood to welcome him. Her pale arms were held out, pulling up the round breasts that rode like mysterious white flowers on her ribcage in the uncertain light. Stephen went and knelt at her feet. He put his head against her side, beneath her ribs. She was hoping that his forced lightness of spirit would still be with him. He put his arms round her thighs. The soft hair that grew up between her legs was long and black. He laid his cheek against it for a moment, then put his face back against her side. She felt him begin to sob. "Isabelle," he was saying,

"Isabelle."

*

When Stephen returned to his company in the forward area there were celebrations. The men were guardedly hopeful that their next attack would be their last, and after the events on the Ancre and the advance on the canal Stephen had acquired a reputation for survival. Even the enlisted men who had joined since he had been away were aware that he was regarded as a lucky charm. Exaggerated rumours reached them of the witchcraft he performed in his dugout.

The engineers and tunnellers came up infrequently to do trench maintenance. A long tunnel out into no-man's-land was periodically inspected and repaired. Its furthest point provided an entrance to a useful if dangerous listening post close to German lines, apparently still undiscovered by the enemy. Men positioned in it had heard talk from the German front line. It had been of retreat. Enemy shelling followed a pattern. It was accurately aimed at the rear area, with little danger to the front line, and stopped for an hour at lunchtime. The British reply observed the same formalities, so Stephen was able to eat peacefully on his first day back. Riley had heated up some tinned stew, but had managed to find a fresh cabbage to enliven it.

Cartwright, the officer commanding the engineers, came to see him in the afternoon. Although he was regarded as a weak character by the infantry, he had a sense of grievance that made him a tenacious arguer.

"As you know," he said, "we have an agreement to help each other, though as far as I can see there has been little give-and-take about it." He had a pale face with a receding chin; he favoured familiar domestic phrases and proverbs in the hope that they would make his arguments seem more palatable.

"Now I've received an order that my men are to enlarge the listening post at the end of the main drive. That's all well and good, but the last men I had down there said they heard what sounded like enemy work going on just above them."

"I see. So you're saying you want some of my men to go down with you."

"Yes. I think we're entitled to it."

"I thought all the digging had stopped."

"You never know with our friends the Boche, do you?"

"I suppose not. It seems a bit unnecessary, but--"

"'I thought that since you'd been away you'd like to see what's been going on for yourself. After all, the work is done for the protection of your men."

"You're as bad as Weir. Why are you always so keen to get us underground?"

"Because we dug you proper drains here and made this dugout." Cartwright gestured to the wooden walls and the bookshelf above the bed. "You don't think your men could have done this, do you?"

"All right," said Stephen. "I'll come and inspect it, but I can't be away for more than an hour. One of your men will have to bring me back."