A Vintage Affair (15 page)

‘That sounds promising,’ she said as I began to describe him. ‘A daughter of sixteen?’ she interjected. ‘Well, you’d make a lovely stepmother and you can still have a few of your own. So he’s divorced is he? … A widower? Oh –
perfect
… And how old is Miles? … Ah. I
see
. On the
other
hand,’ she added, her tone brightening as she seemed to glimpse the possibilities of the situation, ‘that means he’s not young and hard up. Oh gosh – John’s waving at me. I’d better go, darling.’

‘Chin up, Mum. No – on second thoughts leave your chin where it is.’

I spent the two hours after lunch stock-taking, phoning dealers and looking at the auction house websites, noting any upcoming sales that I’d want to go to. Then at ten to four I put on my jacket and headed for The Paragon.

Mrs Bell let me in from upstairs and I climbed the three flights, my feet ringing against the stone steps.

‘Ah, Phoebe. I’m so glad to see you again. Come in.’

‘I’m sorry I forgot the hats, Mrs Bell.’ On the hall table I saw a booklet about Macmillan cancer nurses.

‘It doesn’t matter a bit. I’ll make some tea – go and sit down.’

I went into the sitting room and stood at the window, looking down on to the garden, which was deserted, except for a small boy in grey shorts and shirt, kicking through the leaves, looking for conkers.

Mrs Bell appeared with the tray, but this time, when I offered to carry it, she let me. ‘My arms are not as strong as they were. My body is going over to the enemy. I will feel reasonably well this first month, apparently, and then … not so good.’

‘I’m … sorry,’ I said impotently.

‘There it is.’ She shrugged. ‘Nothing to be done – except to appreciate every moment of the short time I have left while I am still able to do so.’ She lifted the pot, though she had to use both hands.

‘And how was the nurse?’

Mrs Bell sighed. ‘As pleasant and well organised as one would expect. She said I may be able to stay here until …’ Her voice faltered. ‘I wish to avoid hospital.’

‘Of course.’

We sat in silence, drinking our tea. By now it was clear that Mrs Bell was not going to resume her story. For whatever reason, she’d decided against it. Perhaps she regretted telling me what she
had
told me. She put down her cup, then brushed away a stray wisp of hair. ‘The hatbox is still in the bedroom, Phoebe. Do go in
and get it.’ I did so, and as I picked it up I heard her call out, ‘And would you be very kind and bring the blue coat?’

My pulse began to race as I went to the wardrobe, took the coat out of its cover, then carried it in to the sitting room where I handed it to Mrs Bell.

She laid it across her knee, her hand stroking the lapel. ‘So,’ she said quietly as I sat down again. ‘Where was I?’

‘Well …’ I put the hatbox down by my feet. ‘You … told me that you had found your friend – Monique – in the barn, and that she’d been there for ten days.’ Mrs Bell nodded slowly. ‘You took her some food …’

‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘I took her some food, didn’t I – then I promised to take her this coat.’

‘That’s right.’ It was as though Mrs Bell was involving me in her story.

She looked through the window again as her memories flooded back. ‘I remember how happy I was to think that I was going to help Monique. But I didn’t help her,’ she added quietly. ‘I betrayed her …’ She pressed her lips together for a moment then I heard her inhale. ‘I was due to go back to Monique in the late afternoon. I kept thinking of all that I would do for my friend …’ Mrs Bell paused.

‘After lunch I went to the
boulangerie
to get my ration of bread. I had to queue for an hour, enduring the mutterings of my fellow customers about this person or that, supposedly buying things on the
marché noir
. At last I got the half-baguette I was entitled to and then, as I was walking back across the square, I saw Jean-Luc sitting outside the Bar Mistral, on his own. To my astonishment,
he didn’t look past me as he usually did – he looked
at
me. Then, to my further amazement, he beckoned to me to join him. I was so thrilled I could barely speak. He bought me a glass of apple juice, which I sipped while he had his beer. I felt intoxicated with joy and excitement, suddenly finding myself sitting there in the April sunshine with this divinely handsome boy who I had hankered after for so long.

‘Over the bar radio I could hear Frank Sinatra, singing “Night and Day”, which was a popular song at that time. I suddenly thought of Monique being in that barn night and day, and I realised that I had to leave –
now
. But then the waiter brought another beer for Jean-Luc, and Jean-Luc asked me if I’d ever tried beer so I said no, of course not, I was only fourteen. He laughed and said that it was high time I did. He offered me a taste of his Kronenbourg and again this felt so romantic to me, not least because beer was strictly rationed. So I had a little sip, then another, and another – even though I didn’t like it at all – but I wanted Jean-Luc to think that I did. Daylight was fading. I knew I
had
to go –
now
. But by then my head was whirling, and it was almost dark and I realised, to my shame, that there was no way that I’d be walking to the barn that night. So I resolved to go at dawn, consoling myself with the thought that it would be a delay of only a few hours.’

Mrs Bell was still stroking the coat, as if to soothe it. ‘Jean-Luc said that he would take me home. It felt so romantic to be walking across the square in the dusk, past the church, with the first stars shining in the evening sky. I realised that it was going to be a clear night – and a cold one.’ Mrs Bell’s thin fingers absently sought the
coat’s buttons. ‘I felt racked with guilt now about Monique – and my head felt light and strange. And it suddenly occurred to me that maybe Jean-Luc could help her. His father was a gendarme, after all – the authorities must have made some mistake. And so … just before we reached my house …’ Mrs Bell’s hands clutched at the coat. Her knuckles were white. ‘I told Jean-Luc about Monique …I told him that I had found her in the old barn. I explained that I was only telling him this in case he could possibly help her. Jean-Luc looked very concerned, so much so that I remember even feeling a little stab of jealousy, and then I recalled that affectionate gesture of his with Monique’s scarf. Anyway …’ Mrs Bell swallowed ‘…he asked me where the barn was, so I described the location.’ She shook her head. ‘For a moment Jean-Luc didn’t speak, then he said that he’d heard of other children hiding in similar places, and even being hidden in people’s homes. He added that it was a tough situation for all concerned. Then we came to my house, so we said goodbye.

‘My parents were listening to a music programme on the wireless so they didn’t hear me creep in and go up the stairs. I drank a lot of water because I felt thirsty, then got into bed. On my chair, visible in the moonlight, was the blue coat …’ Mrs Bell lifted it now, hugging it to her. ‘The next morning I awoke – not at first light, as I’d intended, but two hours later. I felt terrible that I’d failed to keep my word to Monique. But I consoled myself with the thought that I would soon be at the barn and that I would be giving her my lovely coat – a signifi cant sacrifice, I reminded myself. Monique would be able to sleep at night and everything would be okay – and
maybe Jean-Luc might really be able to help her.’ At that Mrs Bell smiled grimly.

‘Because I felt so guilty about not meeting her the night before, I packed as much food as I thought my mother wouldn’t miss into the basket, then set off for the barn. When I got there I went inside. “Monique,” I whispered as I took off the coat. There was no answer. Then I saw her blanket in a heap to one side. I called her name again but there was no reply – just the sound of the swifts darting about in the eaves. By now I had this pit in my stomach – except that it was like having a pit in my whole body. I walked round to the back of the barn, behind the hay bales, and on the patch of floor where Monique had been sleeping I saw her glass beads scattered amongst the straw.’

Mrs Bell gripped one of the sleeves. ‘I could not imagine where Monique had gone. I went out to the stream, but she wasn’t there. I kept hoping that she would suddenly come back so that I could give her the coat – she
needed
it.’ Involuntarily, Mrs Bell offered the coat to
me
, then, realising what she’d done, she let it fall back on to her lap. ‘I waited there for about two hours, then I guessed that it must be lunchtime and that my parents would be wondering about me, so I left. When I got home they saw that I was distressed and asked why. I lied and said that it was because there was this boy I liked – Jean-Luc Aumage – but that I didn’t think he liked me. ‘Jean-Luc Aumage!’ my father exclaimed. ‘René Aumage’s boy? That no-good chip off a nasty old block. Don’t waste your time, my girl – there’ll be better men for you than that!’

‘Well …’ Mrs Bell’s eyes were shining with indignation.
‘I wanted to slap my father for his nasty remarks. He didn’t know what
I
knew – that Jean-Luc had agreed to help Monique. Then I wondered whether he had already helped her. Perhaps
that
was why she wasn’t in the barn, because even now Jean-Luc was taking her to find her parents and brothers. I felt confident that he would do everything he could. So with hope in my heart I ran to his house; but Jean-Luc’s mother said that he had gone to Marseille and would not be back until the following afternoon.

‘That evening I went to the barn again, but Monique still wasn’t there. Even though it was getting cold I couldn’t bring myself to put on the coat, because by now I saw it as
hers
. So when I got home I went up to my room, and under my bed was a loose floorboard beneath which I kept a few of my secret things. I decided to store the coat there until I could give it to Monique. But first I needed to wrap it in newspaper to protect it. So I found the copy of the
Gazette Provençal
that my father had been reading, but as I separated the pages an article caught my eye. It was all about the “successful arrest” of “aliens” and other “stateless persons” in Avignon, Carpentras, Orange and Nîmes on April 19th and 20th. The “success” of this round-up, it went on, had been directly due to the policy of stamping the ration cards of Jewish people with their ethnic identity.’ Mrs Bell looked at me. ‘
Now
I knew what had happened to Monique’s family. The article talked of trains heading north, “loaded” with “foreign Jews” and “other aliens”. Having hidden the coat, I went downstairs, my head reeling.

‘The next afternoon I ran to Jean-Luc’s house and
knocked on the door. To my joy he opened and, my heart pounding, I asked him, in a whisper, if he had been able to help Monique. He laughed and said he’d “helped her, all right”. With this sick feeling, I asked him what he meant. He didn’t reply, so I told him that Monique needed to be looked after. Jean-Luc replied that she
would
be looked after – along with “others of her kind”. I demanded to know where she was, and he replied that he had helped his father escort her to St Pierre Prison in Marseille, from where she would be put on a train to Drancy as soon as possible. I knew what Drancy was – an internment camp on the outskirts of Paris. What I didn’t know,’ Mrs Bell added, ‘was that Drancy was the place from which Jewish people were being sent further east – to Auschwitz, Buchenwald and Dachau.’ Her eyes were shimmering. ‘Then, as Jean-Luc shut the door, the enormity of the situation hit me.

‘I sank on to a wall, and whispered to myself, “What have I
done?
” I had tried to help my friend, but instead my utter naïvety and
stupidity
had led to her being discovered, and sent to …’ Mrs Bell’s mouth quivered, then I saw two tears fall on to the coat, darkening the fabric. ‘I heard the whistle of a train in the distance, and I thought Monique could be on
that
train,
now
– I wanted to run down to the track and make it
stop
…’ She reached for the tissue that I held out to her, and pressed it to her eyes. ‘Then, after the war, when we all learned what the true fate of the Jews had been, then I was …’ Mrs Bell’s voice caught ‘… distraught. Every day, without cease, I imagined the ordeal that my friend, Monique Richelieu – born Monika Richter – must have suffered. I was in torment, knowing that she had certainly
died, in God knows what hellish place – and in what terror – because of
me
.’ Mrs Bell struck her sternum again with a little ‘thud’. ‘I have never forgiven myself, and I never will.’ My throat was aching – as much for myself now as for Mrs Bell. ‘As for the coat …’ She clenched the tissue. ‘I kept it hidden under the floor, despite my mother’s angry protestations that I must find it. But I didn’t care – it was Monique’s. I longed to be able to give it to her – I longed to be able to help her into it, and to do up the buttons.’ She fingered one of the buttons now. ‘I also longed to give Monique this –’ She slipped her hand into the nearest pocket and pulled out a necklace. The pink and bronze glass shimmered in the sunlight. Mrs Bell laced the beads through her fingers then held it to her cheek. ‘It was my fantasy that I would one day give Monique the coat and this necklace and, can you believe …?’ She looked at me. ‘It still
is
.’ She smiled, bleakly. ‘You probably find that very strange, Phoebe.’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

‘But I kept the coat in its hiding place until 1948, when, as I told you, I left Avignon for a new life here in London – a life far from the arena in which these events had happened; a life in which I would not be bumping into Jean-Luc Aumage or his father in the street, or passing the house where Monique and her family had lived: I could not bear to see it again, knowing that they had never returned to it. And I never did see it again.’ Mrs Bell heaved a deep sigh. ‘But even then, when I moved to London, I took the coat with me, still hoping to have the chance some day to keep my promise to my friend – which yes, really
was
insane, because by then I
had learned that the last known sighting of Monique was on August 5th, 1943, when she arrived at Auschwitz.’ Mrs Bell blinked. ‘But I have kept the coat, nonetheless, all these years. It is my … my …’ She looked at me. ‘What is the word I am searching for?’