Tug of War (11 page)

‘This is the room he will return to?’ whispered Dorcas, respectful as a pilgrim at a shrine.

‘It’s the room he has never truly left,’ said Mireille quietly, her eyes shining with suppressed tears. ‘He was happy here. If only I can bring him back, he will settle
into his chair and pick up his book where he left off. He will feel secure with his cat on his knee. His cat will know him and welcome him.’

She picked up the cat and hugged him but he struggled and made it quite clear that this demonstration was inappropriate. With a shrug, she replaced him on his cushion. ‘Louis was a kitten
when Dominique brought him to me as a gift. The trouble with cats – do you have a cat, mademoiselle? – then I’ll tell you – you cannot compel or even expect their affection.
And Louis has always understood himself to be Dominique’s cat. Indeed, I do believe he understands Dominique to be
his
human. You’d swear that he holds me responsible in some way
for his disappearance! He’s getting old now but he’ll remember. He’ll leap on to his master’s knee, purr in triumph and favour me with his narrow-eyed proprietorial sneer.
And – believe me – I shall be delighted to see it!’

‘You are both waiting,’ said Dorcas.

‘Exactly Louis despises me and I don’t like cats. It’s clear that we ought to have parted company years ago but . . . he’s a link with Dominique. Can you understand this
foolishness?’

‘And this is your dragoon?’ said Dorcas, pointing to photographs on a sideboard.

Mireille picked one up and held it lovingly in her hands for a moment before passing it to Dorcas.

Joe was intrigued to see the interaction between the two and perfectly content to stand quietly by and watch the scene play out.

Dorcas stared and gulped. ‘Golly! What a hero! And – yes – I can see the likeness. Do you see it, Uncle Joe?’ She passed it to Joe.

‘Yes, I do. It’s very clear,’ said Joe.

The stern face was handsome, the pose a rigid and conventional professional portrait of a cavalry officer in full regalia.

‘Taken sometime after 1916, I think? He’s wearing the new-issue uniform in
bleu d’horizon
. May I?’

She nodded her consent and he slipped the photograph from its frame. The name of a Paris studio was printed on the back and a date: 1916. He looked again carefully at the soldier. ‘Your
officer had been wounded by this stage of the war, mademoiselle?’

‘You have sharp eyes, Commander,’ she said. ‘Yes indeed. And I gave a full report on what I remember of his wounds to the Inspector. Dominique had a sabre cut to his right
upper arm. A flesh wound, the bone was not affected. It was for that he was given the wound chevron you have spotted sewn on to his left sleeve. But he has a later wound also. His jaw was broken,
he told me by a rifle butt, towards the end of the campaign around Soissons. That was the last time I saw him. He could barely speak but he was determined to go off and rejoin his regiment. He was
very distressed. I think he had had a bad time and knew he was about to have a worse. I believe he knew he would not return. He was returning to the Chemin des Dames as we later called that
disastrous encounter.’

‘And what was his rank, mademoiselle, the last time you saw him?’

‘He had risen to be a Lieutenant Colonel. He was an officer of considerable standing by the end. The uniform in which he last fought – and perhaps died – would have born that
insignia, along with three, possibly four, service chevrons on his right sleeve and two war-wound chevrons on the left. I stitched the second one on myself,’ she said quietly, looking down at
her hands.

She hesitated for a moment and then decided to confide in him. ‘I don’t know how many of the facts of the case they have told you, Commander . . . I want you to know that I have no
motive in claiming Dominique other than concern for his welfare. You have seen his circumstances. It is intolerable that such a man should have to bear that for one more day. I have seen him. I go
every week to the hospital. He does not recognize me. Not yet. But I am assured that memory sometimes does return in these cases. I’m quite certain that I could bring him back to sanity
again. I can care for him . . . I can afford to provide the best care for him. I have told the authorities that I make no claim on any pension or war recompense to which he may be due and I would
insist that any such sums be placed in a bank account in his name and left there. It’s important that you know that.’ She turned her face away from him and murmured, ‘I love him.
I want him here with me. I know I can bring him back.’

Joe nodded, understanding. ‘Tell me, mademoiselle, how well did Dominique speak English?’

She looked at him blankly for a moment. ‘I really have no idea. I never heard him speak English. There was never a reason why he should. Why do you ask?’

‘Someone propounded a theory that, with his Anglo-Saxon looks, the patient in Reims could be an Englishman scooped up by the Germans, processed, misidentified – or not identified at
all – and sent off to a camp in Germany for years. That is why I am here. Passing through Reims on my way south, I was asked to spend a moment or two looking into it. It’s thought
important to check all the possibilities no matter how remote.’

‘He’s French. More particularly, he’s a Parisian.’ The tone was firm, the response that of a businessman clinching a deal. She expected no argument.

Joe handed back the photograph and she put it back in its place, immediately taking another one from the line. ‘And this one is just a snapshot taken by a friend but it shows us
together.’

A youthful, round-faced Mireille, long glossy hair bouncing on to her shoulders, stood, hat on head, gloves on hands, awkwardly accepting the embrace of recognizably the same man though he was
not in uniform but wearing a smart suit and hat and shining boots. Posed as they were in front of the fountain in the centre of the town, they could have been any courting couple walking out on a
Sunday afternoon before the war.

Before he could speak she held up a hand and smiled. ‘Yes, I know this is scarcely proof in the eyes of the unimpressionable Inspector Bonnefoye who gave me quite a speech on the frequency
and positioning of war wounds on returned soldiers.’ The smile widened to a grin. ‘A speech illustrated by charts of the human body, would you believe? And a hideously dramatic
demonstration of sabre-slashing! But I understand that there are other claimants who can produce equally convincing evidence that the unknown soldier belongs to them – and by ties of blood
which is something I could never claim. Though there is one indication which I had been hoping it would not be necessary to reveal . . . I would not wish to demean this poor person unnecessarily in
any way. He suffers indignities enough in that dreadful place.’ She raised her head and finished defiantly, ‘But if I must fight for him, then I will use any weapon that comes to hand.
I wonder, Commander, if you could ask your niece, Miss Dorcas, to go in search of the tray of refreshments I had ordered? Marie should be stumbling along the corridor as we speak. Perhaps you could
go to her assistance, mademoiselle?’

Dorcas took her dismissal without demur though her eyes narrowed and she favoured Mireille with a long and meaningful stare.

Left alone, Mireille faced him, almost laughing. ‘Goodness! She could give lessons in suspicious staring to my cat! I almost expected to feel her claws! She is very protective of you, I
think? I’m sorry. I sent her off awkwardly but I am not aware of how much a woman of the world she is, your charming niece, Commander. I would not like to cause embarrassment in one so young
by what I have to say, though . . .’ She paused for a moment and added thoughtfully, ‘I suppose I was not a great deal older than she is when I made the discovery for myself.’

Chapter Nine

Didier Marmont, mayor of Choisy-sur-Meuse in the Ardennes forest, stood on the steps of the town hall heroically fighting back an urge to run a finger around his starched
collar. His nervousness restricted itself to a swift twitch at the
tricolore
sash fastened around his comfortable stomach. Above or below? The bulge was making the positioning of his symbol
of authority increasingly tricky. He glanced with a moment’s envy at the still-lean shape of the uniformed American officer sharing the steps with him. The man hadn’t put on an ounce
since he’d stormed through the town as a lieutenant nearly ten years ago.

With the last note of the Marseillaise, following on the American national anthem rousingly played by the town band, their moment had come. Didier, the host, was the first to speak. He swept a
commanding gaze over the upturned eager faces crowding the square and, as always, though he never counted on it, confidence began to flow. His voice boomed out, the grandiose phrases everyone
waited to hear unfurled and he dashed a manly tear from his eye. Especially warm this year were his compliments to their US Army guests, the faithful band who returned year after year to the town
that had welcomed them and billeted them. The last resting place of many of their comrades, the town was remembered with nostalgic affection but also with practical help. The Doughboys had come
mainly from the same small place in the States and, on repatriation, had set about collecting funds to send back to their adopted village in France.

The results of eight years’ hard work were all around them as they stood in the hot August sunshine. The
mairie
itself, the school and the two bridges spanning the winding river
Meuse owed their existence in large part to transatlantic generosity. And, in return, the French had built for the American dead the cemetery and monument they were on this day to hear the Colonel
dedicate.

To the crowd’s claps and cheers, the Colonel, a career soldier, stepped forward to respond to the mayor’s introduction. Didier’s son-in-law. It hardly seemed possible. Then he
looked at his daughter standing in the front row of the audience, proudly holding up her baby son to witness his father and his grandfather sharing a platform. Though how much a six-month-old could
make out he wasn’t sure, and Didier rather thought little John ought to be tucked up at home in his cot, not sweating it out with the rest of them in this heat and noise. Didier had been
overjoyed to see his first grandson though he had wondered about the wisdom of subjecting a small infant to a transatlantic crossing. America was so impossibly far away. He was always surprised
that the people they loved continued to return.

His daughter was not the only local girl to be lured west by these handsome great fellows with their promise of excitement and an expanded life. The girls came back on their arm and you could
pick them out in the crowd by their silk stockings, high-heeled shoes and pretty dresses. And, especially in his daughter’s case, Didier acknowledged, by her happy face. He was thankful to
see it. Yes, Paulette was happy.

The Colonel spoke briefly in English and then launched into French to a rising cheer from the crowd. He knew the strings to tug at and the emotive words rang out with pride and certainty:
l’entente cordiale, l’amitié éternelle, nos amis, nos épouses, nos confrères
. . . And he finished with a ringing reminder of the phrase which had
been on all their lips ten years ago:
Ils ne passeront pas! Ils ne passeront jamais plus!

The ceremony over, Didier made his excuses and slipped away. He hadn’t the energy to confront his daughter and her forceful husband again just yet. He agreed there were many advantages to
joining his only living relations over the Atlantic but he shuddered at the idea of the long sea crossing and he felt faint at the thought of the effort he would have to make to start, in
approaching old age, on a life in a new land. He fled to the Promenade down by the river. A walk under the chestnut trees would cool him and help him to consider his future. What remained of
it.

As he strolled deep in thought a sound above his head distracted him. He looked up to see an aeroplane looping the loop, stalling and beginning to drop from the sky. A paper aeroplane. To the
accompaniment of excited giggles from the branches of the chestnut, he threw off his dignity and dashed about like a music-hall mime artist, chasing and finally catching the plane in his upturned
top hat.

‘Pierre! Alphonse!’ He called the boys down. ‘What a useless pair! You’ll never be aero-engineers on this showing. What’s this you’ve designed? A
Blériot special?’

‘No, sir!’ His suggestion was dismissed with scorn. ‘We’re designing something that will cross the Atlantic. Papa says there’s a huge prize offered to the first man
to cross without stopping. Papa thinks it should go to a Frenchman.’

‘Well, take the word of a trained engineer – this is never going to work. Look, why don’t you put a paperclip on the tail to weigh it down a little? And while you’re at
it, think of refolding the fuselage. Like this. May I?’

Honoured to have the full attention of the mayor, the boys closed round, kneeling with him in the middle of the path, all eager interest. Didier began to unfold and smooth out the sheet of
newspaper the frail craft had been fashioned from and stopped suddenly. His gaze fixed on the sheet, his voice stilled, his breath began to come in harsh rasps. He groaned and muttered something
unintelligible to the boys.

‘Are you all right? Sir? Monsieur Marmont?’ Anxious, they looked at each other, startled by the abrupt change from bonhomie to distress.

‘He’s having one of his turns,’ said Alphonse. ‘Look, his lips are blue and he can’t breathe. Ah, yes, he’s clutching his chest,’ he said knowledgeably.
‘Seen my uncle do that . . . week before he snuffed it. You stay here. I’ll run for my mum. She’ll know what to do.’

The rescue party, which included the local doctor, was soon at the spot. They found the mayor, breathing fitfully and in obvious pain, but still alive and, improbably, clutching the remains of a
paper aeroplane to his breast.

‘He’ll be all right,’ pronounced the doctor to the worried crowd beginning to collect. ‘It’s his heart problem, of course. But he’s had this before and
bounced back, haven’t you, old chap? And this time – you see – he’s smiling! Yes, he’ll be all right.’