Lies Told In Silence (22 page)

Chapter 29

July 1917

Dear Helene,

Have I offended you? I’ve written several letters without your reply, and I wonder if anything is wrong.

We are soon moving south, which will involve
many kilometres of travel and huge logistics to organize. However our engineers are needed to help with another offensive. Now that the Americans are fighting, they have relieved some of the pressures near Arras and Rheims, so our battalion will join the French Fourth Army.

I had hoped for an opportunity to visit you in Beaufort, but I will only have time for a brief stop in Paris to see my grandparents before travelling on.

Please write. I miss your letters.

Francois

* * *

Dear Helene,

I wish I were with you rather than writing to you. I cannot tell you my location; however, I am safe, and our work is proceeding with no more than the usual mishaps and delays.

Two days ago, we had an afternoon off, so I went into the village with my friend Eric, and we were able to bathe and enjoy a
decent meal. It wasn’t as good as our picnic but a definite improvement over trench grub. Do you remember Eric? He’s the one with red hair you danced with.  He and I met on the ship going over to England, and we’ve been in the same unit ever since. He has a great sense of humour, which we are all grateful for.

I miss you. Whenever I need cheering I think of our hilltop, our kisses and your beautiful face. I don’t know when I will see you next. It will depend on how things unfold–perhaps you can imagine what that means?

I promise to keep myself safe. Write to me at this address, and tell me that you think of me at least half as much as I think of you.

Yours,

Edward

Helene leaned back against the wicker chair in her room, holding Edward’s letter to her lips, and closed her eyes. She had already read it three times looking for indications of his feelings and state of mind.
He sounds fine
, she thought, recalling his bitter tone as he spoke about the war.
He probably doesn’t want to worry me
.

Many of his disclosures that last afternoon together had shocked her, and she could not imagine a man who was so gentle being capable of killing. Her eyes flew open, widening with a sudden, horrible thought.
Guy will have killed people too. I wonder if Maman knows that? What would it be like to be a mother whose son has done such horrible things?

Helene shook her head and folded Edward’s letter with care before tucking it into her hatbox, which she then slid beneath her bed.

* * *

“Is that Canadian soldier writing to you?” Helene’s mother asked as they washed the dishes together.

“How did . . .”

“It’s hard to keep a secret in a little town like Beaufort. Ma
dame Lalonde saw him with you outside the hospital. And you’ve been moping about ever since I came home. Jean told me you received a letter.”

Helene blushed. “His name is Edward Jamieson. He’s in signals and was hurt during the Vimy battle. He’s the one I met at the dance.”

“And he’s writing you because . . .”

“We’ve spent some time together.”

“I see,” Maman said. “He must like you if he’s writing to you.”

Helene blushed again. “He’s very nice.”

“You haven’t had a boyfriend. Perhaps we should talk about
les choses de la vie
.”

“Maman! Don’t tease.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not teasing.” Her voice was calm as she looked at Helene. “These soldiers usually want only one thing.”

“He’s not like that at all.”

“Have you kissed him?”

“Maman!”

“Did you see him while I was away?”

Helene hesitated. “Yes.”

Her mother sighed. “I was your age when I married your father. I still remember how it felt being so in love that I would have done anything he asked. When you feel that way, it’s hard . . .” Maman left the rest unsaid but gave Helene another serious look. “The next time he’s here, I want to meet him.”

Helene was surprised. Taking time to wipe a handful of cutlery, polishing each knife, fork and spoon, she wondered whether Edward would want to meet Maman and Jean, and then she wondered how her mother would conduct herself. She had no wish for Maman to frighten Edward away. “I think . . . I think he would like that.”

“I still have the first letter your Papa wrote to me. I used to tuck it into my pocket every day just to have it with me.”

Helene watched a dreamy look take over her mother’s face as her hands dipped into the sudsy water.

* * *

Throughout July and early August, letters arrived from Edward with increasing regularity, and Helene rarely let more than two days go by without writing to him. Beyond the written word, she willed him to hear her thoughts and the longing she felt for his presence. Under normal circumstances, she would have met some Frenchman of her own social class, perhaps the son of one of her parents
’ friends or a friend of Guy’s from university. With backgrounds similar to hers, these men would have been deemed appropriate suitors. Instead, she had found Edward, a man from a faraway country whose background was so different from hers.

What will Maman think of him?
This question preoccupied Helene in the days preceding Edward’s visit at the end of August. In the moments before he arrived, she watched a soldier having his hair cut in the far corner of the square. The barber snipped and combed until the man’s unruly mop was tamed and then trimmed his moustache into a neat, thin line. As the soldier paid the barber, Edward appeared with a small bouquet of pink flowers.

He’s thin and weary
, she thought, noticing dark circles beneath his eyes as he came closer. With no concern for who might be watching, she embraced him in the middle of the square.

“My mother has invited you for dinner.”
Edward’s eyes widened in response. “She’s making roast pork, so she must think you’re a special guest.”

“She knows about us?”

“Mm hmm.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

Helene glanced up in time to see his furrowed brow. “Not quite, but she’s probably guessed. It’s very hard to fool Maman. I had the most embarrassing conversation with her. But enough of that. If we hurry, we can visit our hilltop and still be in time for dinner.”

She had been to the shepherd’s hut a few times since Edward left, once to give it a thorough cleaning and on other occasions to stare dreamily into the valley below, speculating about their
future. Usually, she took his letters with her and reread them while sitting in the sun, searching for hints of unexpressed emotions and cringing when Edward wrote bluntly of casualties or the conditions he experienced.

They sat on a blanket beneath a spreading pine where earthy scents mingled with the sun-soaked tang of dried grass and baked stone. Crickets soared and a yellow butterfly danced among nearby brambles. Embracing Edward earlier, Helene had felt his ribs barely covered by flesh, and now, with his sleeves rolled up, she saw that his arms were little but sinew and bone. “
Chéri
, you are
émacié
, very thin,” she said.

“I haven’t had much time to eat.”

“But soldiers have to eat. You can’t fight without proper food.” She held him close. “Maman has become a wonderful cook. Her dinner will be very good for you. Now, tell me how it was.”

“We did all right. Regained some ground near Albert. One of my men lost a leg and another suffered a head wound. They’ll both go home soon.”

“And you?”

“Much the same.”

A bird chirped from the treetops, and Helene tilted her head to search for it. Having already learned that silence allowed him to speak his true thoughts, she did not press for details. Edward traced the length of her fingers one by one.

“Our battalion repulsed several German attacks. Each time my men and I waited for the end of heavy shelling before moving with the front lines. Then we would dig in again. In between the shelling, airplanes flew overhead, but I was usually too busy to see whether they were German or British. You have to ignore them. There’s no point wondering whether they will drop one of their bombs or spray their machine guns in your direction. No point at all. You just have to get on with it. It’s been a gruelling few weeks. Just before I came to see you, we were told the French are gaining ground on the Aisne and that preparations for another push at Ypres are underway. It just goes on and on, Helene. On and on. But let’s not talk anymore about that. I want to hear about you.”

Helene felt his tension and heard the abject weariness of his voice. She steadied herself with a deep breath and kept her voice light. “Monsieur must give me another kiss if he wants to know what I have done while he was away. Perhaps more than one kiss,” she said as she lifted her lips to his.

* * *

From the kitchen window, Lise watched them approach the house arm in arm. The tall, thin man beside her daughter laughed at something Helene said, turning to look at her with such obvious passion that it took her breath away.
He loves her
, she thought.

“Maman, this is Edward Jamieson.”

Edward took her hand and dipped his head with careful courtesy before handing her a bouquet of flowers.

“
Bonsoir
, Madame Noisette. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“And I you.” Lise held his gaze for a moment, trying to get a sense of the man. She noted nothing cocky in his demeanour, and despite the smile, his eyes radiated sorrow. “Helene, can you arrange these in a vase? I need a little time with Monsieur Jamieson on my own.” She smiled at Edward. “Monsieur, please come this way.”

Even with windows open to catch an evening breeze, the house was hot, so Lise took Edward out to the garden, her long grey skirt swishing as she walked. They sat near the birdbath beneath a pergola draped in ivy.

“I understand you were at the ridge.”

“Yes, Madame. I was wounded.”

“I’m so sorry.” Edward nodded in acknowledgement. “Helene, Jean and I listened to the battle for three days. An experience I have no wish to repeat. It must have been dreadful for soldiers like you.”

“Yes, it was.”

Lise waited, but Edward did not elaborate. “We’re grateful to you Canadians.” She paused for a moment of respectful silence. “Tell me about yourself, Monsieur.”

He looked at her, his brown eyes clear and sharp, his face deeply tanned. “I’m a soldier, Madame, with the Signal Corps, but before I enlisted I worked for the telephone company from the age of fifteen. With eight brothers and sisters, I left school to help my family.” He pursed his lips. “Leaving school was difficult because I love learning, but my duty as the eldest was clear.”

During the next hour, Lise heard about each of his siblings, discovering that one of his sisters had been left behind with a maiden aunt in England when Edward’s parents immigrated to Canada. She heard stories about fishing on a small lake north of Toronto, about his parents’ staunch Christian faith, about his mother, who dominated family decisions, and about a game called hockey played in the winter on frozen ponds.

Lise was surprised at Edward’s candour, and finally, she smiled and invited him into the house, where the dining room table was set with white linen and deep blue china. In the middle, the pink flowers Edward brought were mixed with white dahlias.

“Perhaps you could pour the wine, Monsieur. We haven’t had a male guest in the house for a long time.”

Edward looked at the bottle already open on the table and hesitated before picking it up.

“First Papa taste wine,” said Jean, struggling to find the En
glish words.

Edward nodded and poured a small amount into the glass in front of him. After he sniffed the wine and tasted it, he announced that it was delicious and poured a generous amount in all four glasses.

During dinner, Lise guided the conversation to talk of Paris, life in Beaufort, stories about their neighbours, times when Helene and Jean were younger. They even spoke of Mariele and Tante Camille.

“How is your son, Madame?” asked Edward during a lull in the conversation.

“He has recovered very well. I spent more than a month nursing him, as you know.” Lise raised her eyebrows and smiled with amusement at Edward’s embarrassment. Then her face clouded. “But he has returned to the front.”

“I hear the French are succeeding at Aisne.”

“So my husband informs us. We pray for Guy’s safety every night.” The table became silent.

“Monsieur, can you tell a story about
les batailles
?” Jean said. “Helene says this is bad topic but
peut être
you have good story?” Jean ignored his sister’s look of annoyance.

Lise looked at Edward, hoping he would relate something suitable, and could tell from the way he began that he understood her concerns.