The September Garden (14 page)

‘… but I am being posted away sooner than I thought. Remember the op I mentioned? These posts often come like this, at the drop of a hat. I won’t be at Bovingdon from now on. And because of the various changes in the crews and suchlike, which I can’t go into, you understand, there is no one available to look after Kit.’

As Nell opened her mouth in perplexed dismay, Alex pointed behind him. The dog’s long, expressive face gazed 
through the passenger window of the jeep, his panting breath misting the glass.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of bringing him down here with me.’ He sounded rather breathless. ‘You see, we’d really like you to adopt him. We’d appreciate it very much indeed.’

‘
We
being …?’

‘The boys in the squadron. They all remember your visit so fondly. They loved the story. A few of them cut it out from the paper and it’s pinned up all round the mess.’

Bashful at the accolade, Nell cried, ‘Just look at him,’ and rushed over to the car to open the door. Kit leapt down and padded around her, nudging her leg with his wet nose. ‘Oh, he is such a pussycat.’ She ruffled his great shoulders, scratched between his ears.

Alex was by her side and his closeness brought back the excitement, the tingling in her bones that she’d felt down by the river, moments before she spoilt things.

‘So, you will, Nell? He really took to you before. You look after him. And he will look after you.’

Alex’s eyes were as bright and as blue as periwinkles.

She said, of course she would, how could she refuse? She was sure her mother wouldn’t mind at all. With that she glanced back at the house and saw that Sylvie was watching them through the dining room window.

‘When will you be back?’ she asked, keeping her voice as steady as she could.

‘I can’t tell you. Not just because of official secrets, but because I really don’t know.’

Nell squatted down and buried her face in Kit’s coat, making a huge fuss of the animal to hide the grimace of disappointment on her face.

‘Everything I said before remains.’

‘Alex.’ She looked up at him as a dreadful pain wrenched inside her. ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry. I don’t think I’m strong enough to love you.’

‘I have to go.’

He turned away, got into the jeep and shut the door. He called out quickly, ‘Goodbye, Nell. Please take care,’ and pulled his cap firmly down. She could not read his face. He executed a deft three-point turn, putting his arm out of the window in a farewell salute.

The jeep slipped away around the corner and the engine faded into the distance. She was left standing there while the silence of the morning returned and Kit tugged gently on his lead, wondering where his master had gone.

Standing at the kitchen sink, up to her elbows in water, Adele smiled at a memory. Jean making love to her in his bedroom in the cottage by the sea wall; the two of them, grasping their fervent exchange while his mother was out. She knew her own mother – God rest her – along with Madame Ricard would also have disapproved of Adele not waiting for her wedding night. But these days, everything was different. And every moment, every chance, mattered.

Jean had proposed two weeks before Christmas while they dined at the Petite Auberge. Since then, as the fate of France unfolded before them, they stole whatever happiness they could. They planned to be married in the autumn, when they had both saved enough for the deposit on a little cottage on the road into Montfleur. And yet every day that had passed since then had become shocking, taut and almost unbearable.

The British had left them to it, embarking from Dunkirk.
The retreating units from Cotentin had destroyed Cherbourg docks. They’d left the place in pieces, sunk their ships in the harbour, scuttled any seaworthy vessels. Oil, Jean told her, still floated like an iridescent infection over the waves.

She upended the washing-up bowl and tipped the dirty water down the drain, thinking of the water beyond the harbour, the deep of
La Manche
. She thought of what lay across the sea, on the far side, beyond white cliffs and green fields, in some unimagined English village: Mademoiselle Sylvie in exile.

‘Heavens, it’s Saturday. I need to change her sheets,’ Adele cried out loud.

She dried her hands on the linen towel, picking up her engagement ring from the window sill and slipping it back on.

‘The safest place for a ring is on a finger,’ Madame often told her.

Even so, Adele always took Jean’s ring off when she washed up. She feared it slipping from her hand under the water unnoticed.

She squinted through the lace curtain at the garden baking in the heat. Madame was out there, harvesting the runner beans from the frames, plucking with fury. She saw Madame glance suddenly over her shoulder at a sound coming from the street. Adele cocked her head to listen for whatever Beth could hear. She caught unfamiliar voices calling; children crying. Adele ran up the stairs and up again to the first-landing window that looked out over the front courtyard and beyond the high gates. A straggle of people wandered by the front of the house. A wretched, weary crowd, their petrol having run out many miles ago, 
their cars probably abandoned by the roadside. Some were pulling their own farm cart, as if they were a beast of burden, loaded with bundles of possessions, a precious secretaire that could not be left behind, some lace curtains, a ticking mattress, a standard lamp with swinging tassels. And
Grandmère
, inevitably in black, beaten and head lowered, sitting on top of it all.

Adele was used to crowds in August in Montfleur, for this was the month for
les vacances
. Paris would be empty: the boulevards serene and quiet, left to the shade of the plane trees, the sparrows and the stray dogs. The small towns en route in the dozing countryside would be shuttered and sleeping. August was a drowsy month where all industry came to a halt. But on the coast, in the seaside towns of Normandy, of Brittany, of the Côte D’Azur, people would stroll along the promenade, gather under parasols with their best hats and take off their shoes on the beaches. They chattered; ate ice cream. Fairs came to town. Everyone laughed and they drank wine. But this August was different. The people arriving in Montfleur were not on holiday. They were shattered people. Refugees in their own country.

Adele went back down to the kitchen and caught sight of Madame through the window stuffing the last of the beans into her basket and hurrying back along the path towards the house.

Like the steady stream of people who first appeared two months ago, during that terrible June – the month of the inevitable, dreadful downfall – the truth of it all dripped through her mind. Jean had been wrong and it was not often that he was. The might of the grey army marched 
like a machine across
La France
, penetrated Paris, and reached them here, yes, even here, Jean, at the very tip of the Cotentin Peninsula.

Adele pressed her hand to her belly where an emptiness gnawed her. She was so hungry her bones felt hollow. Lack of provisions and empty market stalls were now their lot. She had learnt to quiet the rumbling of her stomach by drinking lots of water. She’d lost weight, as all brides-to-be do. But it wasn’t due to happiness or excitement. It was hunger and subtle, creeping fear.

Madame burst through the back door, along the stone passageway and into the kitchen.

‘These are the last of the beans, Adele,’ she said, out of breath. ‘I want them washed and out of sight in the cellar. I want you to preserve them somehow. In salt? In vinegar? As a conserve?’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Perhaps in salt. Do we have any?’

‘
Merde!
The soldiers took the sack when they came to take our potatoes. Did you know, that Monsieur Androvsky next door had to give up all his cabbages? His wife told me this morning. The soldiers just got out a spade and dug them up, happy as you like.’

Adele wondered if they had paid him and Madame said that she didn’t know.

‘They’re
supposed
to pay us,’ Adele said. ‘Didn’t Monsieur say that the
Kommandant
had put it out to his men that they must do good business with us, whenever, wherever.’ She took a handful of the beans and spun them under the running cold-water tap. ‘But then,’ she realised, ‘if we do business with them, we are disloyal to France. Disloyal to de Gaulle.’ 

‘Huh, that perfect idiot.’ Madame took the beans from her and laid them on a red striped tea towel on the table. ‘He can’t help us from London, can he? I think you are listening too much to Jean Ricard. Loyalty is all well and good, Adele, but we have to
live
. We have to eat.’

Adele glanced out of the window. Edmund and Estella had let themselves in the back gate and were running up the garden path. It was time to feed the rabbits. But what on earth with? She bent down to the bucket under the sink where a stump of cabbage and some carrot tops, remnants of yesterday’s stew, had been discarded.

The children knocked on the kitchen door and crept in quietly, their faces twitching with trepidation. Adele knew that they worried what sort of mood Madame was in.

‘Here you are, children.’ Adele handed them the bucket. ‘See what Sylvie’s rabbits make of this.’

Madame turned her back on them, muttering how she could see them all eating cabbage stumps soon.

Estelle thanked Adele, her dark eyes behind her huge glasses glistening with expectation. Adele noticed a scab on Edmund’s knee, the muddy smudges of a playful, unbridled boy. He piped up, addressing Madame Orlande. ‘Excuse me, Madame. Have you heard from your Sylvie yet, at all? We were wondering how she was. And her cousin, little Nell?’

Adele shook her head at him. Estella nudged her brother in the ribs.

Madame spun around, her eyes blazing. ‘How
dare
you ask me about my daughter. Impertinent boy. We will tell you when we hear from her, if it pleases us.
Only
if it pleases us. It’s none of your business.’ 

The children sank back together, clutching the bucket in front of them. Estella was bewildered. Edmund whispered his apology, his eyes wide with shame.

Adele urged them to go and go quickly, that the rabbits would be hungry.

‘I want those children to stop coming here,’ snapped Madame, as their footsteps receded up the passageway and into the garden. ‘It’s too much for my nerves. Isn’t it enough me missing Sylvie without them bringing it up like we haven’t a care in the world? And also, another thing. Monsieur thinks it’s best we don’t fraternise. Do you know what I mean?’

Adele watched Estella and Edmund run up the path, swinging the bucket between them.

Madame lifted the kettle onto the range. She sighed. ‘Monsieur Androvsky is a communist. He needs to be careful. But nothing surprises me any more, Adele. Look at the state of Montfleur. I just heard another rabble walk past not five minutes ago. Did you see them? Where are we going to put them all? You should hear some of the things Monsieur tells me. How is he going to deal with it all? And what about the harvest? Half the men have gone to munitions factories in Germany.’

Everyone must do all they can to preserve France, Monsieur had said, the France they loved. And if this meant working for the enemy, working in a factory in Bavaria during the armistice, then, he said, so be it.

Madame looked at her. ‘Jean Ricard is lucky he can stay. And Monsieur Androvsky too. As a teacher. He should count his blessings. That’s what Monsieur says.’

Adele watched her employer rub her hand fiercely over 
her forehead. She noticed how pale she was these days. She speculated if Monsieur would be back for supper.

‘I do hope so. He was summoned to the
Kommandant
’s office at the
mairie
for a meeting. That was over two hours ago. So, no doubt … What have we got?’

Adele told her she planned to do fried potatoes and omelettes. Plus a little ham. And tarragon, of course. Plenty of tarragon.

‘Yes, the soldiers seem to leave the herbs behind. I wonder if they think they are weeds. Ah, is that him? I just heard the gates. Bring us coffee to the salon, will you?’

Adele rested the tray on the console table outside the salon and tapped on the door. Monsieur, still in uniform, sat with his boots on the fender, his hands clasped over his rounded stomach. Adele set out the cups, poured the coffee.

‘I hear you are going to delight us with omelettes tonight,’ Monsieur said to her, his eyebrows arched in some sort of suppressed amusement.

She told him that’s what she thought. There was not much else at the market to be had.

‘Never mind the market, take a look at this.’

Claude Orlande reached down to a canvas bag that was resting by his feet and pulled out a whole naked chicken by its feet, its feathered head dangling like an obscene gesture. ‘It’s plucked and ready to go,’ he said, evidently pleased with himself. ‘All thanks to the
Kommandant
.’

Madame exclaimed how marvellous it was, as a flush bloomed over her face. She couldn’t have faced omelettes
again
, even though Adele’s were very nice.

Monsieur thrust the chicken towards Adele. ‘It won’t 
bite you. The
Kommandant
wrung its neck himself.’

She asked where it came from and Monsieur tapped the side of his nose.

‘We don’t ask questions like that. Some farmer out near Valognes, perhaps. Take it, girl. What are you waiting for? No, just take it in the bag. Here, take the bag. It’s dripping a bit. Look.’

‘Oh, clean that up will you, Adele?’ said Madame, glancing at the drops of blood on the parquet. ‘And have you aired Sylvie’s bedroom today? I’m not sure I’ve seen the windows open.’

‘I’m sorry, Madame. I meant to do it earlier. And change her bed. I forgot.’

Monsieur grumbled at her. How could she possibly
forget
?

‘Oh,
Claude
,’ Madame laughed uneasily, trying to tease him. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs for your bath? I will run it for you … scrub your back … I hope you thanked the
Kommandant
.’ Madame pressed her hand on Claude Orlande’s knee.

‘Of course I did, woman,’ he said, his voice deepening. ‘But there will be a better way to thank him than that. And thank him properly.’

Adele began to walk out into the hallway carrying the bloody bag gingerly in front of her, but paused when she heard Monsieur speaking. He was telling Madame how the
Kommandant
had reminisced about hunting rabbits as a boy. Loved to give them to his
Mutter
to cook up in a pot. And so, he knew exactly how to thank him.

Madame’s voice turned high-pitched. ‘
Sylvie’s rabbits?
But just one of them, surely, Claude? We will need to breed from the female.’ 

‘No, give him both. Show him we are serious. When one’s wife is an Englishwoman, it is even more pertinent, don’t you think? Oh, don’t look like that, Beth. I’m joking. God damn it, woman, can’t you take a joke? Now where is my hunting knife? I’ll do it right now. They’ll need to hang for a few days …’

Adele shut the door behind her.

She had a quick hour before the curfew. Hurrying along the sea wall she watched the waves lifting seaweed from the rocks and settling it back down with every charge and retreat. Behind her, in the east, the placid sky was deep azure as the sun sank low, sending shafts of light breaking over the choppy waves.

At the squat granite cottage built just behind the sea wall, Jean’s mother opened the door to her furtive knock and let her in.

‘He’s upstairs with Simon,’ she said, her hard, long face straight, folding her arms.

‘May I go up and see him, Madame Ricard?’ Adele asked, unpinning her hat.

The woman cocked her head towards the staircase. ‘You know the way. But be quick about it, I don’t want any gossip.’

Adele watched Madame Ricard’s thin back as she scuttled back into her parlour. She knew that Jean’s mother did not trust her. She was, after all, housemaid to Claude Orlande, gendarme of Montfleur. Orlande who had signed away his soul to Pétain and Vichy France. Orlande who hobnobbed with the
Kommandant
, who had turned his back on the fight, the
real
fight. 

She ascended the dark stairway, her shoes clipping away on the stone steps.

They had the curtains drawn against the evening. By the greenish glow of the oil lamp, they hunched over the table in the corner, tuning Jean’s wireless transmitter. Simon, frowning, had the earpiece held close against the side of his head. Jean was squinting in concentration, turning the dial. He was saying something about the state of the battery when Adele slipped into the room. He looked up and his face softened.

‘Adele, come and listen to this.’ He held out his arm to her and she went towards him and perched on his knee, encircled by his warmth and his familiar scent. He tugged the earpiece off Simon’s head and handed it to Adele.