The Witch’s Daughter (40 page)

I took one without enthusiasm. ‘Thank you.’

‘So, any word from your soldier yet?’

I had already told her Archie’s name and of our encounter at the Front. It was against my natural inclination to share such information with anybody, but I had been missing him so badly, and talking about him was a way to bring him close, if only for a few moments. I glanced over my shoulder to check that we could not be overheard.

‘He sent a note.’

‘A note, you say? Well, there’s a thing.’

‘He has forty-eight hours’ leave, starting on Saturday.’

‘Which would be of no interest to you, naturally, being fully aware as you are of the rules forbidding nurses from stepping out with officers.’

‘Naturally.’

‘And knowing that if our Dear Leader were to get one whiff of any sort of
liaison
between one of her staff members and a man in uniform, the consequences would be most unpleasant.’

‘Extremely unpleasant, I should imagine.’

She left the stove and sat down beside me.

‘So, where are you meeting him?’ She grinned.

‘I’m to take the train to Gironde, three stops southwest from here. I’m supposed to wait for him on the platform and he’ll find me.’

‘Ah, a clandestine rendezvous! How ridiculously romantic.’

My own smile faded. ‘Or perhaps just ridiculous.’

‘Why so?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right. Going off to enjoy myself, sneaking around, forgetting why we’re here in the first place.’ I ran a hand through my hair and let my shoulders sag. Strap was having none of it.

‘Now you listen to me, Nurse Work-Till-I-Drop Hawksmith,’ she said. ‘If anyone around here deserves a few hours off, it is you. I absolutely insist you do jolly well enjoy yourself and completely forget why we are here. That’s the whole ruddy point! Good grief, girl, you don’t know when you’re well off. Last time I did any sneaking about, it was breaking back in to the dormitory at school. Make the most of it, I say. And come back and tell us loveless creatures all about it. Or tell
me
at any rate. Quite see you might not want to broadcast your peccadilloes…’

‘Peccadilloes!’ I laughed, ‘Strap, you’re a tonic. If we could only bottle whatever it is that keeps you so relentlessly cheerful, we’d empty the wards.’

‘Gingernuts,’ she declared, biting into another one. ‘Legions could march on ’em, I swear.’

We giggled together, and I realized how long it had been since I’d heard the sound of my own laughter.

The days crawled by until finally Saturday evening arrived. I had no clothes but my uniform and for the first time felt the lack of something pretty to put on. I washed my hair, rinsing it in a little of my precious rose oil, and borrowed a lipstick from Kitty. Although I played down the occasion as much as I could, the others must have sensed my excitement and teased me pitilessly until I managed to slip away. I had packed a few overnight items in a small bag lent me by Strap, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that I was planning to be away two days. And nights. The seven o’clock train for Gironde was packed with off-duty soldiers and noncombatant volunteers, all intent on a short time away from the grimness of the war. Some were headed for the coast and a boat home. Others were, like me, settling for a few snatched hours as far from Saint Justine as their passes would allow them to go.

I found a window seat and gazed out at the deserted landscape as the locomotive huffed and puffed away from the front. With every passing mile, the countryside looked more normal, more peaceful. Under the setting sun, crops grew, livestock grazed, and rooks circled stately trees in preparation for their nighttime roost. I began to feel excitement stirring within me. Not only at the thought of seeing Archie again but also at the realization that there was hope, that all would one day be well again.

By the time we reached Gironde, it was properly dark. I made my way along the platform, away from the stream of people heading for the exit. I secreted myself in the shadows and waited. I felt a tightening in my stomach as the stream dried to a trickle and the last of the passengers alighted. Still there was no sign of Archie. Would he come after all? Had I been deluding myself about the sincerity of his feelings for me? Then, suddenly, I saw him. He stepped from the train carefully, his damaged leg forcing him to lean heavily to one side. He stood alone on the platform. I emerged from the dark corner where I had been waiting. He saw me and smiled at once, hurrying to me. For a moment, we stood facing each other wordlessly. At length, Archie began to laugh and offered me his arm.

‘Well, Nurse Hawksmith,’ he said, ‘I diagnose nervous excitement and prescribe two large glasses of the best local wine we can find. What do you say?’

‘The perfect remedy.’ I took his arm and let him steer me toward the town.

‘And,’ he went on, ‘I further prescribe some of Madame Henri’s excellent
cassoulet
, followed by a cup or two of the finest coffee outside Paris. How do you think we feeble patients will fare on that?’

‘I think the prognosis is good, and the treatment should be repeated at frequent intervals.’

Café Henri was located down a side street off the small square that constituted the center of the little town. We slipped beneath the awning and pushed open the door onto a scene of welcoming warmth, light, and gaiety. It was clear Archie had been here before, for Monsieur Henri greeted him like a favorite son and showed us to a cozy corner table. The café was already close to full, and we had to squeeze our way past the other drinkers and diners. Monsieur Henri pulled out my chair for me and handed us our menus with a flourish.

‘What’s good tonight, Albert?’ Archie asked.

Monsieur whipped out his notepad and licked his pencil. When he spoke, his accent growled and he swallowed his words, ‘Ah, Lieutenant Carmichael,
ce soir
I can highly recommend the cassoulet. Madame Henri prepared it by herself and it is’—he gave an expression of ecstasy—‘
magnifique!’

‘Cassoulet it is, then.’

Monsieur Henri snatched the menus from us and was gone, shouting urgent instructions to the elderly waiter to bring us wine
tout de suite.

Archie leaned forward. ‘I hope you don’t mind my choosing for you,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Fact is, everything else on the menu has been “off” since the war began. It’s cassoulet or nothing, I’m afraid. But you won’t be disappointed. It’s always excellent.’

‘
Magnifique,
even.’

‘Precisely.’

The waiter brought glasses and a bottle of wine, which he opened with some effort and then placed next to Archie.

‘How ever did you find this place?’ I asked.

‘A fellow officer brought me here, first week I came out. If I have to be away from home, there is nowhere else I’d rather be. Do you like it?’

I took in my surroundings. The walls were painted deep red but were almost entirely obscured by a Victorian hang of paintings, mostly oils. Some were landscapes of the area; others appeared to be portraits of regulars, with a particularly grand one of Monsieur and Madame Henri above the door to the kitchen. The bar was polished and worn by a thousand sleeves as their wearers clamored for wine or absinthe or coffee. From the high ceiling, three impressive chandeliers of black glass were suspended over the center of the room, with matching wall lights illuminating the corners. To the left of the bar was a small piano. The window had two tables in it, which were occupied by a party of inebriated soldiers. I judged from their uniforms and accents that they were Australian. Most of the diners were soldiers, in fact, apart from an elderly couple in the far corner and a small group of fresh-faced young French girls sitting in the center of the room pretending not to notice the blatant admiring gazes of the men. The entire space was filled with the buzz of people enjoying themselves; with the excitement of flirtation; with the smell of coffee and wine and cologne; and with a determined sense of
joie de vivre
. This was France as it always had been, as it would always be. This was a million miles from the brutality that was taking place only a short train ride away. I understood then what Strap had meant: it would be sinful not to enjoy oneself in such a place. The opportunity to revel in normal, friendly human interaction should indeed be celebrated and savored to the very last drop.

‘I like it very much,’ I told Archie as he handed me my wine. I looked at him as I raised the glass to my lips. ‘I can’t imagine anywhere I would rather be.’

‘Nor I.’

‘Not even Glencarrick?’

‘At this moment, no. This moment is already perfect. Let’s drink to it. Let’s hold it in our memories forever, how ever long that might be.’

We drank our toast, our eyes lost in each other’s gaze. I felt that Archie had the ability to look at me and to know me, to see deep into my being. There was something wonderfully comforting in that realization. It was as if all the loneliness of the slow years I had lived was lifted from me as long as his eyes fell upon me in that way. As if he had read my thoughts, his expression became more serious. He put down his glass.

‘I think I should explain something,’ he said. ‘I was an only child and very close to my father, but it is my mother I most resemble. My father is gone now, sadly. I miss him dreadfully, as does my mother. She will never leave Glencarrick. I suppose it is part of the reason the place means so much to us both—it is where he was. Where he is. Anyway, my mother is a very singular person. She was brought up in Edinburgh but moved out to the highlands, where she was introduced to my father. They loved each other from the moment they met.’ He paused and smiled at me, then continued. ‘I think my father knew at once that there was something different about her. He didn’t care. He accepted her absolutely as she was. Though there were some in the family who thought her a little … odd. But she soon settled into Glencarrick, and the local people adored her. They were more accepting of her … unusual talents.’ He took another swig of his wine. ‘Fact is, my mother is a medium. She makes no secret of it, gives no excuses or explanations. She simply has an ability to communicate with spirits who have passed over into the otherworld, as she calls it. I was never frightened by it, not even as a child. I grew up with séances and with strangers appearing at the door asking for my mother’s help in contacting their lost loved ones. She never turns anyone away. When I was still quite small, about eight or nine I suppose, my mother spotted something in me too. I had the gift. She noticed it first when I spoke of the little boy who visited me each night. My father passed it off as dreams or an imaginary friend. I don’t think he was keen to admit that he had another “odd” member of the family, not at first. But my mother knew straightaway that my visitor was a spirit. A ghost, if you like. He was the first of many. After that, I regularly met up with all sorts of people in the hours of darkness. Most of them had lived at Glencarrick at one time or another. Sometimes I would help my mother contact people’s relatives and friends. As I say, it never frightened me. It was just how we were.’

He stopped talking as Monsieur Henri arrived with steaming platefuls of cassoulet.

‘Madame, here you are. I hope that you will enjoy your meal.’

‘It smells delicious,’ I said.

‘Lieutenant Carmichael,
bon appétit.
’

‘Thank you, Albert.’

As he left the table, we both stared at our food in wonder. After weeks of rations and the ghastly fare we had been surviving on, the meal in front of us was indeed magnificent. I could detect marjoram and rosemary and garlic and sweet onions amidst the tomatoes and beans and chunky pieces of rabbit and sausage. Never had I anticipated a plateful of food with such relish. But I dearly wanted Archie to continue. I didn’t want the moment of confidence to be lost.

‘Go on,’ I said, ‘you were telling me about your mother. About you. Please don’t stop.’

‘Do you know I’ve never told anybody else out here about this? None of the men. Nobody. But I wanted to tell you. I want you to understand. I want you to see that I’—he hesitated—‘that I understand
you.
’

At that moment it was as if the rest of the room ceased to exist. I was no longer aware of anything except the very special man who sat in front of me. And of the true meaning of what he was saying. He knew me. He knew what I was! I did not have to hide or pretend. I did not have to try to explain or excuse. His ability to see what others could not, to connect with the otherworldly, meant that I was laid bare before him. I was not Nurse Elise or even Bess. Well, I
was
them but not only them. I was everything I had ever been. Elizabeth Anne Hawksmith. Born when the world was so much younger. Changed from simple healer to immortal. Once and for always, for good or bad, a witch. My heart began to sing with the joy of it. Before I could stop them, tears dripped from my chin. Tears of pure happiness.

‘Careful now.’ Archie handed me his handkerchief. ‘Albert will be offended if you add more salt to his already perfect cassoulet.’

‘You don’t … despise me?’

‘
Despise
you!’ He shook his head and reached across the table to take my hand. ‘My love, my dear sweet Bess. I adore you. You have my heart completely and utterly. For all time.’

I let him squeeze my hand. He smiled at me.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s eat.’

We had just begun to tuck in to our heavenly food when I saw Archie’s attention taken by someone entering the café. His face darkened a little, and I turned to see Lieutenant Maidstone stepping into the room, accompanied by two other officers. He saw us and approached our table smiling.

‘Carmichael, you are a dark horse.’ He slapped Archie on the back and beamed at me. ‘Well, well, Nurse Hawksmith, I recall. How delightful to see you again.’

‘Lieutenant Maidstone, I hope you are keeping well.’

‘Tip-top, my dear. Tip-top. I say, that looks good. I’d heard about this place, but this is the first time I’ve been here. Think I might get a bowlful of that for myself.’