Birdsong (42 page)

“She says she thinks you’ll soon be promoted to the rank of general.”

The major shook his head in modest embarrassment. Something of his gaucherie reminded Stephen of Weir, and he felt a pang of pity for his absent friend. He wished he had been there, poor, strange Weir, who was so unworldly and yet, in the last way he wanted, experienced beyond dreams.

It was clear that it was the Scot himself who, under the guise of helping his English friend, was hoping to impress the woman.

“Ask the lady if she lives in Amiens, will you? Ask her if she’s a spare room for two well-behaved officers of one of the finest Highland regiments.”

The woman looked toward Stephen enquiringly. She had brown humorous eyes and a rosy colour to her skin. “Well,” she said, “I suppose he wants to sleep with me?”

Stephen checked a smile. “I rather think so.”

The woman laughed. “Tell him to find a house with a blue light. Or red, if he wants something cheaper. I will offer three men a first-class dinner, a room with clean sheets, and fresh eggs and coffee in the morning, all for a reasonable price. But nothing else, I’m afraid. You can come if you like.”

“Thank you. Are there bars in the town where the local people go to drink? Not the soldiers, just the people who have always lived here.”

“Yes, there are two or three up that way, toward the rue de Beauvais, or what’s left of it.”

“Come on, pal,” said the Scot. “What does she say?”

“She says there are facilities for what you want.”

“Good heavens,” said the major, exhaling powerfully, “she sounds like the oracle at Delphi.”

The Scot suddenly looked unsure, and Stephen was worried that he had dampened his enjoyment. “No, no,” he said. “She was very friendly. She’ll give you a bed for the night and … I’m sure she wants to carry on with the party.”

The Scot looked relieved. “Good, that’s fine. Let’s get some more drinks. Anderson, it’s your turn.”

Stephen leaned across and said quietly in Ellis’s ear, “I’m going out for a moment. It’s too hot in here. Just in case I don’t come back, will you be all right? Have you got money?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m enjoying myself.”

Stephen poured him a glassful of whisky, then put the bottle in his pocket. “All right,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

It was winter again on the street, though Stephen was glad of the cold air against his face after the heat and smoke of the bar. He pulled his coat round him and turned up the collar. A dog was sniffing at the kerbstones. It moved smartly down an alley, its white tail high over its back in the weak moonlight. It had business to do; most of the town had business to do, and although the shops were closed and dark, Stephen could see through their windows to the silent counters behind which were the draper’s bolts of cloth or the chemist’s bottles. There would be the same exchange of formalities at the baker’s the next day; the regular good morning from each customer to the owner and then to the other customers; the bread politely bought with thanks on both sides. A stoical eyebrow or shrug might indicate that all was not quite as it should be, but that was understood. For the rest, their lives would go on as before, for the simple reason that they had no choice. Next to the baker was a butcher offering three grades of horsemeat. In the roads and ditches of the support lines there was certainly no shortage of the raw material, Stephen thought, though he tried not to imagine the quality of the lowest grade.

He heard singing from a bar on the far side of the street, and crossed over to inspect it. He went through the door and found himself again surrounded by soldiers, though these were almost all British subalterns. Their young faces were flushed with drink and many of them made a noise somewhere between speech and laughter, a kind of roar. Having stepped inside, he could not turn round and leave without seeming offensive, so he pushed his way to the bar and ordered a drink.

One of the young officers was playing a piano in the corner, though not all the men were singing the same song. A young man’s face loomed up close to his.

“I haven’t seen you in Charlie’s before. What’s your regiment?”

Stephen felt the man take and inspect a button on his tunic. He seemed unimpressed. “Seen any action, have you?”

“Some.”

“Poor old donkeys. Always under the guns, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Usually our own.”

“Don’t take it like that. I’m most awfully sorry. I think I’m going to be sick.”

The young man pushed past Stephen and staggered to the door.

“You’d better go and look after your friend,” said Stephen to a lieutenant next to him.

“Oh God, not again. Been sick, has he? He’s got the wind up, that’s his trouble. Excuse me.”

Stephen felt himself pushed backward and forward by the packed wave of bodies at the bar. They began to sing all together in loud, confident voices. Eventually he extricated himself, and managed to fight his way to the door. He walked briskly toward the rue de Beauvais.

He found a quiet bar with white curtains in the window. A couple of men were standing at the counter, resting their feet on the rail. They looked at him suspiciously, but nodded and returned his greeting.

Stephen took a drink and sat in the window. It was quiet and cool, and he was able to collect his thoughts. He closed his eyes and tried to relish the quiet, the absence of guns, but his mind was still too alert. He wondered whether, if he drank some more,
it would bring the necessary degree of relaxation. What he really needed, it occurred to him, was the closeness of human contact, not forced by the proximity of war, but given willingly, from friendship.

When he opened his eyes and looked up, he saw that a woman had come into the bar and was buying a bottle of some green cordial. She had her back to him and wore a dark scarf over her head. When she turned, holding the bottle in her hand, Stephen felt his stomach tighten as shock waves passed through him into the palms of his hands.

As the woman looked round, she saw his agonized expression, and put her head a little on one side, defensively, but also in some concern. Her eyes met his then slid away as his gaze locked desperately on to hers.

She made for the door of the bar in some embarrassment, taking quick short steps that rang out on the wooden floor. Stephen, his mouth hanging open, scraped back his chair and staggered after her, leaving the barman to call out that he had left no money.

Stephen ran over the cobbles outside until he had drawn up alongside the woman.

“Excuse me.”

“Monsieur, please leave me alone or I shall call the police.”

“No, listen. Please. I think I know you. I mean you no harm, I promise.”

Reluctantly the woman stopped and looked cautiously at Stephen. His eyes scanned her face, with its wide-set eyes and strong bones.

“Is your name … Forgive me, this may seem ridiculous if I’m wrong. Is your name … Jeanne?”

The woman seemed reluctant, but admitted it.

“And your family name. Fourmentier?”

She nodded without speaking. There was a trace of her sister Isabelle in her manner.

Stephen said, “Do you know who I am?”

She looked up and into his eyes. Her expression was of resigned weariness. “Yes. I think I do.”

“Do you mind that I stopped you?”

She did not answer. At that moment the barman arrived with Stephen’s cap. Stephen thanked him and gave him money.

When the two of them were alone again, he said, “Could we talk somewhere? There are some things I’d like to ask you.”

“All right. Follow me.”

Stephen followed. There was nothing he wanted to ask her, there was nothing he needed to know. In the moment that he had seen her face and guessed who she was he had had to make a choice, either to ignore her or to acknowledge her. Without time to consider, he had instinctively chosen the latter, with all that it might entail.

Jeanne went into the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville and sat down on a bench. Stephen stood uncertainly in front of her.

“We can’t talk here. I mean, couldn’t we go indoors somewhere?”

Jeanne shook her head. “I don’t want to be seen with you in a bar.”

“What about your house? Couldn’t we …?”

“No, we can’t go there. What do you want to ask me?”

Stephen sighed deeply. His exhaled breath made fragile statues in the gaslight. He pulled his coat across his chest.

He said, “Perhaps I should tell you something of what happened.” He saw that Jeanne distrusted him and thought it might allay her fears if he could show that he wished no harm to her or Isabelle. He gave a brief account of his life with Isabelle, though he knew Jeanne would have heard the story before. If he could confirm things she already knew then he could prove his reliability. Jeanne nodded at intervals with a slight, noncommittal movement of her head.

As he talked, it became clear to Stephen what it was that he wanted to know, and he was taken aback by the simplicity of it. He wanted to know if Isabelle still loved him. Looking into the eyes of her elder sister, he saw enough of Isabelle for a sense of her presence to be rekindled in him. With the sense of her came back his curiosity.

“Then I arrived back in France and there has been this war ever since. I have not moved very much, just a few miles up and down the line. The years have passed. Maybe one day it will end.” He
felt his account finishing lamely. He didn’t want to give Jeanne too much detail of his life in the war; he presumed that such things would be familiar enough to her from her own family and friends. Nor did he want to appear as though he were trying to win her sympathy, when his own experiences were typical of those of millions.

“And what of you?” he said. “Do you live in Amiens now?”

Jeanne nodded. She pushed back the scarf from her head a little, and he saw the shape of her large, brown eyes and the almost translucent whiteness of her skin. Her face was more strongly and simply constructed than Isabelle’s, with none of the contradictory shades of character and colouring, yet in the texture of Jeanne’s skin there was delicacy as well as strength. Her voice was low and soft.

“I have lived here for some time. I came here to … I came when I was asked to come, last November.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Do you live alone?”

“No, I live with … friends.”

It was impossible to say whether her reticence was general or whether there was something specific she wanted to conceal. Stephen’s own monologue had clearly not set her entirely at ease. A shiver ran through him as the wind whipped into the square from the north. He saw Jeanne pull her cape around her. He would have to be more direct.

“I want to know about Isabelle. I want to know if she’s well and if she’s happy. I’ve no wish to make things difficult. I’m aware that you probably think badly of me for breaking up her marriage, and whatever life she has now—I have no wish to disturb it. After six years I just wanted to know if she’s all right.”

Jeanne nodded. “All right, Monsieur? Yes, she’s all right. You must understand that what you did caused great suffering, to her husband and particularly to his children. It was a scandal. Of course Isabelle is not absolved from responsibility. Far from it—her life is ruined because people do blame her for what happened. But as for you, there are people in this town who would gladly shoot you for what you did.”

“I understand. I never undertook it lightly, it was always a serious matter for both of us. Do you understand the nature of Isabelle’s marriage to Azaire? Did she talk to you about that?”

“Isabelle has talked to me about everything, Monsieur. I am her only friend and confidante and she has poured into me all the passion, all the details that a normal person would share among numerous others—sisters, friends, and family. I know everything.”

“Good. It’s not that her unhappiness with him exculpates me or her, but it’s important that you know about it and understand how it motivated her.”

Jeanne said, “I don’t blame anyone. I took my position rather as you took yours. Isabelle trusted me and I had no choice but to return her trust. I have been faithful to her in everything. I can’t turn back or qualify that.”

Stephen felt pleased by what Jeanne said. “It’s true,” he said, “that loyalty can’t be partial, it must be complete. I want to assure you that my loyalty is to Isabelle’s happiness, not to my own or anyone else’s. You must trust me.”

“I don’t know you well enough to trust you. I know what my sister has told me of you and that, together with what I have seen for myself, disposes me to believe you. But there are things better left undone or unsaid. I think we should say good-bye now.”

Stephen laid his hand briefly on her wrist to restrain her from going. “Tell me, why do you live in Amiens?”

Jeanne looked closely at Stephen before she eventually said, “I came to look after Isabelle.”

“Isabelle lives here? She’s here now? And what do you mean, ‘look after’? Is she sick?”

“I don’t want to tell you too much. I don’t want to lead you on.”

“It’s already far too late,” said Stephen. He could hear his voice echoing in the still square. He swallowed, and tried to lower it. “Tell me, is she in Amiens? And is she unwell? What happened?”

“All right. I’ll tell you, provided you agree to let me go when I’ve finished. I’ll tell you all that you need to know and then I shall go home. You mustn’t follow me or make any attempt to reach me. Is that understood?”

“Yes. I agree.”

Jeanne spoke carefully, as though measuring out the optimum levels of truth that could be told. “Isabelle returned to Rouen, to my parents’ house. It was my suggestion. They were reluctant to take her back, but I insisted. After some months my father made a deal with Azaire, that she would return to him. No, listen. Let me tell you. She had little choice in the matter. My father would otherwise have thrown her out. Azaire promised to make a new beginning, to take her back as though nothing had happened. Grégoire, his son, pleaded with her. I think it was he who persuaded her. She came back to him, to his old house. There were other reasons, which I can’t tell you. In the first year of the war the town was occupied by the Germans, as you probably know. Many men were taken away, including Azaire. Then … well, time passed, things happened. Isabelle stayed. The house in the boulevard du Cange was hit by a shell and the back part of it was destroyed. No one was hurt, but Isabelle moved to an apartment in the rue de Caumartin. Lisette was married and Grégoire was old enough to leave school. He’s going into the army next year. Then last November there was a heavy bombardment, and the house in the rue de Caumartin was hit. Isabelle was injured, but she was lucky. Two people in the street were killed. She wrote to me when she was in hospital and asked if I would look after her, so I came from Rouen. She’s out of hospital now, and she’s quite recovered, though she won’t be quite … fit again. I’m staying with her for a few more weeks.”