The Diamond Waterfall (87 page)

This will have to be my Happy Christmas letter to you. I wish we could find a way to spend some time at Xmas together. I've got lots to talk to you about, and things to ask you. You're a wonderful listener—although when
you
do the talking, you're awfully bossy, so there—that's to stop you getting a swollen head!

Well, 1943 is nearly over and the best thing that's happened in it (apart from my being an
aunt!)
has been you coming back from North Africa,
safe and sound.
Why do you have to be up in wild, wild Wales where I can't see you, why can't you get yourself stationed
in Yorkshire?
(Don't get sent abroad again just yet, please!)

The latest is that I'm going to spend Christmas with Diana and her family. It's the first since her brother's death, so it's really a sad occasion. She has been quite a lot better just recently, but this holiday will open up all the wounds.

She has a different Pole now. This one is really super and I think it
may
be serious. Her parents have met him and like him a lot. He was almost a lawyer before the war.

She sends you her love. She thought you enormous fun when you were here, but says we'd look better together if you were a bit taller. (Moral—I shouldn't have worn my smart new Joyce wedges!)

Isn't it lovely—I've had a letter from
Aunt Alice!
It was brought over by a major who escaped through Switzerland and who'd been staying with some people who have a daughter in my aunt's convent —work that one out! Of course it isn't the same as seeing her and
talking to her (we used once upon a time to have such lovely
family
talks), but after the long silence it feels awfully nice and warm.

She said something so touching in the letter, Jay. It was to do with her early life. She told me lots. Things I never knew—like about marrying Gib, Teddy's husband, and how she had been
afraid
of marriage (though she didn't say exactly why), and that maybe that was why it had all gone wrong—that she'd perhaps not really been ready to accept it. But she said that now God had helped her to understand. And then this illness she'd had, when she'd written me rebellious letters that I never got. Now that was over, it was as if she could suddenly see clearly. That everything was for the glory of God, and she was doing now what she was meant to be doing. Even her photography that she's taken up again—she's finding a way to use that to help others,
and
to glorify God. She sounds so happy, Jay. And I'm so happy for her. I do love her.

There's been one letter from Teddy since I saw you. But it didn't
say
anything and it didn't answer any of my questions or say anything about my news. It's a bit fishy, a
mon avis.
I wish I had an exact address in Scotland. I wonder if it's remotely near Michael? My geography was always terrible, and anyway I don't believe the postmark is where she actually
is.
If it didn't worry me so horribly it would make a nice bit of detective work. Makes me a bit Orphan Annie, if I didn't have Michael and Jilly and you (and my nephew! by the way, Jilly says he's beginning a tooth
already! Is this a record?!).

I nearly forgot. Weren't Diana and I lucky!! Glenn Miller came to play at the U.S. camp in Pennypot Lane.
And we were there!
We had a really wizard time.

There've been two letters so far this month from Christopher—I get that sinking feeling every time the newsreader says
Sicily.
Worrying, it's a habit isn't it? and how could I not? I think of darling Mrs. Hawksworth and her other son going all those years ago. Oh Jay! Now do tell me I'm just silly when I wonder if they brought you back from Sidi Rezegh so you could go to France for the Second Front? (Which
must
come next year, mustn't it?) Try and stay a
long time
in Welsh Wales.

You don't mention any girls at all—are you losing your touch or won't they go out with you anymore? Please give me a proper account of how many Welsh beauties you've charmed. After all,
I
tell
you
everything!

I keep putting off writing the serious bits. I'm still worried about not having said Yes (or No) to Christopher before he went. If I said Yes, and then had to write that I'd changed my mind, that would be
a terrible thing to do to someone under fire. I suppose I
sort of
said No. I mean, he knows he's quite free. It's just he so very much wants to marry me when, and if, he gets out of all this. And the trouble is, Jay, some days I really think it would be all right. I know they say if you have to ask if you're in love then you're
not
(If I didn't have you, Jay, I'd
seriously
think of writing to a magazine—Evelyn Home or something, because Diana's no help. She just thinks I'm mad not to say Yes. Stark staring!). But sometimes it feels like love, and sometimes it doesn't. I feel
all of a muddle.
I hope being 21 in the summer will help. The awful thing is I wouldn't die of misery if he married someone else, I think I'd just feel hurt. So
that
doesn't sound like love. And—off we go again!
What does Jay say?
Tell me what you think. Honestly.

Now, dearest Jay, thank you very much again for all the shoulder to weep on you've given me for five years now if you count it starting in 1938. I don't know how you managed to cope with my ravings when you were fighting a war in Africa.

If I've left it to the end to say anything about you looking for my father, it's
not
because I'm not grateful. I am, Jay, I wouldn't have known where to start. Now, if you say the Medical Directory is a dead duck and the Medical Register only gives qualifying dates and all that, where do you go next? The 1935 Cox and King's address you wrote to, I awfully hoped for something from that. Did it really just come back Gone Away, are you sure it didn't say Deceased? I know I'm always expecting people to die and I know it's silly. Sorry. I feel altogether I'm asking you something
really difficult
Except
you
suggested it, you said, “I could maybe find out something for you or I could maybe help—if you wanted it.” And when I asked
how,
you said, “Where there's a Jay there's a way.” (You do make the most
awful
puns, Diana remarked on it!)

I'm just off to the movies now, we're going to a matinee. Someone famous is at the organ all this week, Reginald Foort I think. The film is Deanna Dustbin—
Hers to Hold.

Lucky you getting that parcel from your parents. Gosh, it'll be wizard if they really mean to send Diana and me one too. Thanks for arranging!

Lots of love, and a big kiss,

Willow the Wisp.

Teddy sat in the crowded railway carriage. She decided that while they talked around her she would sleep. She'd long ago lost fears she might sleep-talk in English.

She had been reading, nose buried in Vialar's
La Grande Meute,
hoping not to be spoken to. Now she shut her eyes. Her spectacles lay on her lap. (Would they ever seem anything but a nuisance? That time they had needed to be mended and the optician had said, “But, madame, they are hardly worth the wearing, such a weak prescription—it would be better for your eyes if …”)

She dozed, the train swayed. Opposite her was a thin dark man in a beret who had in the rack above him, from the smell, some cheeses, as well as meat and wine, from a visit to the country.

The talk washed over her. It was almost predictable what people said, now that she traveled so often.

“Everyone will be a
gaulliste
soon.”

“Nothing's going to make me, I can tell you. What is he? He's just an
arriviste. “

“The Maréchal's done his best. He's an old man. If
you'd
been there in '14-'18—”

“Running late again. These trains. All we need now is for the Allies to bomb us.”

“All we need …”

“It says here, the GA ticket, it's worth twenty-five grams of oil.” “What are we meant to do with
that?”

“My little grandson—he's hardly grown a centimeter this last two years, and we're a big family. Big bones.”

“… and with the cold we've been having.”

“They were pruning these trees near the Chaussée and René got a lot of firewood. Everyone was after it.”

“People ought to pray more. He says it's because France has turned away from the Sacred Heart …”

“No—from the Blessed Virgin. It's the Blessed Virgin we should be praying to.”

The fat woman beside her shifted her weight, pushing against Teddy.
Eyes half opened, she glanced away from the window and toward the corridor. A man walking down it carefully as the train swayed. His head turned, idly looking in the compartments. Ferdy!

Ferdy saw me!

She closed her eyes again quickly. Feigning sleep. The door slid open. She tried not to hear it. I shan't open my eyes. By not a flicker shall I show fear.

His voice. “Teddy, what a surprise! Wake up, didn't you see me?” The fat woman's voice. “Someone's speaking to you, madame.” He persisted. “Didn't you see me? Teddy, it's
me, Ferdy.”
She opened her eyes, looked at him coldly.

“I think you have made a mistake. My name is Liebert. Madame Monique Liebert.”

“Teddy, surely—”

“That's enough. You've made a simple mistake—and now, if you would kindly—”

The thin dark man in the beret said, “You're upsetting the lady.”

She saw the once-well-known face, puzzled now, indignant, closing the sliding door, Ferdy walking off down the corridor.

“A mistake,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“Anyone can make a mistake,” said the man with the beret, but the fat woman said, “He went on too long. It was a pick-up. Men … they're all the same.”

They were all silent for a while, then slowly the others began to talk again. She tried to sleep, then she read for a bit. They came around to check papers, and although she had nothing to fear,
I am Monique Liebert, a traveler in cosmetics,
the restlessness was still there. It affected her bladder. She would have to go to the lavatory. She dreaded that Ferdy would be in a compartment close by, where she must pass. She tried to think, Had he gone away to the left or the right?

When she hurried down, it seemed safe enough, but then when she had come out and was halfway to her seat, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Teddy, look,
what is this?”

She tried to move on, shaking him off, saying angrily, “I don't know who you are, monsieur, but if this is an attempt to introduce yourself,
you have not succeeded.”

“We don't need introducing, we know each other … very well.
You
know how well, Teddy.”

She had reached the compartment door. “There are police on this train. If you don't remove your unwelcome attentions …”

His hand touched her elbow, touched her, in that particular way. He said, in English,
“Making conversation, when we ought to be making love …
You know me, Teddy.”

“I don't know what language that is, but I don't understand it. And take your hands off …”

She slid open the door, was safely inside. He stood outside, but didn't attempt to come in.

“Oh dear,” she said, sitting down again. Her knees trembled.

“He's not still at it?” said the fat woman. She shrugged. “Men will try anything. That's how I met my husband.
Certain
he was, he knew me from somewhere or other. I didn't believe a word. But of course he got round me— he still does.”

Only half an hour till Paris, unless the train was delayed again further. She didn't even try to sleep, but kept her spectacles on, burying herself again in
La Grande Meute.

The train drew into the Gare St. Lazare. The great thing, the essential thing now, was not to hurry. How many times had she been taught, how well she knew,
don't hurry.
To hurry is to draw attention. And as well, flurry doesn't make for a cool mind.

She didn't hurry, but walked purposefully, calmly. She saw, as she had dreaded, that it was a day when the Geste were looking at papers. She flooded her mind with details of her cover story, all the little frills that went to make it seem
real:
Cousin Mathilde has terrible asthma and often when she can't manage I go to help her. … I'm worried about Uncle Benoît because his lungs have been troubling him, you always worry about consumption in the family.

Ferdy may be behind, he may be watching for me, may be very near now. I shall not look around.

She went into the lavatories, and was surprised at how she was shaking. As if I didn't have enough anxieties without Ferdy too. Someone had written on the cubicle wall, misspelled, “Money has no smell, a Jew has.” She felt sick.

Back on the platform again, she looked around casually. There was no sign of him. She wondered if she should do a detour on the Métro, just in case. But why, when she was so exhausted?

Daniel waylaid her as she came into the vestibule of her building. He was jumping from one stone stair to the other, two at a time. He looked a candidate for a sprained ankle.

“Ssh,” he said, looking behind him and then over at Mme. Dastien's room. “Are we alone?” He came up close to her. “Madame Liebert, do you know what a Boche is?”

She had been caught out once—saying solemnly, “It's a slang, rude name for Germans.” This time she said, “No, what is a Boche?”

“He's a lean German pig, fattened in France, salted in the Channel, and tinned in England.
Voilà!”

She was so tired that she went to sleep almost at once. She had thought she was hungry, but there was nothing in the apartment and she could not bear to go out. The restaurant nearby had been closed for the last two days because of insufficient stocks. She was invited tomorrow to Olivier and Annick's. She would eat well there.