Читать книгу Always In My Heart - Freda Lightfoot, Freda Lightfoot - Страница 7

Two

France, 1940

Brenda stood washing dishes at the sink in the kitchen of her mother-in-law’s elegant apartment, quite close to the Jardin des Tuileries. Surrounded by gilt mirrors, chandeliers, glorious armoires and huge arched windows, she spent every day cleaning, washing and cooking, rarely setting foot outside except to buy food at a local market. Ever since Jack’s death a strange sense of detachment had enveloped her, leaving her largely oblivious to whatever was happening in the world. It felt as if she was living in some kind of frozen bubble, so devastated at losing him that she could barely think, let alone eat or sleep. Camille, his dear mother, was equally distraught and had largely confined herself to her room. Brenda continued to care for her, not only out of love for her husband, but felt she could never neglect this lovely lady who’d become almost like a mother to her too.

‘I thought you might like an egg custard with your afternoon tea,’ Brenda said to her now as she set a tray on the small coffee table by her chair.

‘Oh, what a lovely girl you are.’ Camille’s pale face creased with a smile in a valiant attempt to disguise the bleakness of grief. ‘I wouldn’t have the first idea how to make one of those tarts, even though it was a favourite treat of Jack’s.’

‘Mine too,’ Brenda said, with a slight tremor to her voice. ‘Let’s sit and enjoy it together, then I’ll run a bath for you before dinner. I’ve managed to find us some fish, if only a small piece of cod. But we can liven it up with some rice and tomatoes.’ There was a serious shortage of food these days, although the smartly uniformed German military were able to fully indulge their own appetites for fine meals, beer, women and dancing, no doubt viewed as a reward for their victory.

‘You are so amazingly resilient,’ Camille said as Brenda switched on the small gas fire to warm up the cool bedroom. ‘But you mustn’t work too hard, my dear. You and that little one you are carrying need rest, so do take an afternoon nap each day.’

Sleep was not something Brenda felt in need of right now. Whenever she closed her eyes, her mind would vividly replay all she’d learned about the manner of his death. Reliving how he must have run for cover when he’d heard guns going off all around him. Was his memory of her his last thought on this earth? Brenda would prefer to think he died instantly, not lying on the ground in pain and anguish, waiting for the end to close in upon him. Terrified of such nightmares, she found that keeping busy was the only solution. Retiring to her bed only when exhaustion overwhelmed her, Brenda could manage to sleep more deeply and avoid them. It also gave her a reason to go on with life.

‘Exercise is good for me,’ she smilingly replied, settling herself in the armchair opposite. In addition, she was doing her utmost to persuade Camille to eat more, as she was increasingly thin, a sad fragility about her. She’d never been particularly robust. Despite only being in her early fifties she’d aged considerably since her son’s death, her golden blonde hair turning silver grey almost overnight.

‘Did you hear any news while you were out shopping today?’ Camille politely enquired, her tone of voice flat as she sliced up the tart.

‘When I bought our bread this morning the boulanger told me that although the southern part of France around the spa town of Vichy is seen as a zone libre, Marshal Pétain, who is in control, still insists upon cooperating with Hitler. He apparently believes the state has greater rights than the people. So the area may not be as free as he claims it to be.’

Camille’s pale-blue eyes narrowed as she considered this. ‘That may well be the case. The man does have strong fascist sympathies.’

‘The boulanger also said I should take care, as there’s a growing resentment among some French that the British haven’t done enough to help prevent the German invasion.’

‘An attitude which will make them anti-British as well as anti-Nazi. Perhaps you should go back to England while you can, dear girl, to be safe.’

‘Would you come with me?’

The older woman’s eyes frosted over as she avoided meeting Brenda’s gaze. ‘As you know, I have no wish to return to my over-controlling husband. I was born and brought up here in France. This is my home.’

They both fell silent following this familiar response, concentrating on enjoying an unexpected treat, the eggs made available thanks to a neighbour who kept chickens. Were it not for her fondness for this dear lady, and the fact she was expecting Jack’s child, Brenda knew she would have returned to Manchester long since. She missed it badly, and her many dear friends, particularly Cathie whom she’d known for most of her life, as well as Jack’s sister Prue. There were times when she ached to hear a northern voice cracking jokes with their deliciously dry sense of humour. But here she was, stuck in France.

Thousands of Parisians had already fled the city. Just days before the invasion, at Camille’s insistence she and Jack had tried to leave. They’d found the Gare de Lyon packed out. There were hundreds of people carrying mountains of luggage, desperate to get on a train and escape the threat of occupation. There were women wheeling babies in prams, young men barging about, and children and dogs running everywhere. Then a station porter had called out, ‘Il n’y a pas de trains.’ As there were no trains, with a resigned sigh she and Jack had drifted back to the apartment.

As summer progressed Brenda noticed many neighbours who had escaped returned home, having suffered from starvation, bombing raids and severe losses to their families or belongings out on the open roads. Some were ordered back by the Germans, yet other people were still desperately striving to get away. And who could blame them? France was in complete turmoil: shops and restaurants closed, clothes, shoes and even furniture littering the streets. Chaos reigned as the Germans now occupied and ruled most of the country.

Brenda’s mind flipped back to the day in June when the enemy had first entered the city. It was a moment in history that would never be forgotten. Jack had held her close, his arm tight about her shoulders as they stood together watching the rumble of tanks, guns and thousands of soldiers stream along the streets, the crowds mingling around them eerily silent.

‘We can’t allow them to get away with this,’ he’d murmured through gritted teeth. ‘We need to drive them out.’

‘How can we possibly do that?’ she’d asked. ‘These German soldiers look extremely tough and determined, and very strictly disciplined.’

‘We should make life as difficult as possible for them. If they request information or assistance for any reason we could pretend not to understand, send them in a different direction, or tell them the wrong train time.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Believe me when I say there will be huge objections and resistance to their attempt to control the French.’

That night they’d made love with more passion than ever before, feeling the need to overcome fear and depression by putting some happiness back into their lives. It was a time Brenda would always remember, the moon shining upon them as if to glorify their love.

Jack spent all of the next day out with friends. The phoney war was over and their lives had changed forever. A Resistance movement did indeed spring up, intended to provide the Allies with intelligence, attack the Germans at every opportunity, as well as assist any Allied soldiers or airmen in need of escape. Many such groups emerged across all occupied territory.

Having a French mother, Jack showed far more compassion for the French than he did for the Nazis, and gladly joined the group in Paris. How brave he was. He used the code-name Randall, a slight variation on his father’s name, and quickly became involved in many dangerous projects. He did a great deal of good for the cause. Fearful though she’d been for his safety, Brenda had felt enormous admiration for his courage. He was a man of honour, so not for a moment would she have attempted to stop him. She would spend a largely sleepless night awaiting his safe return. Then, tragically, one morning she was visited by a colleague who sadly informed her that while engaged in a valiant attempt by the local Resistance group to blow up a tank, he’d been shot dead by the enemy. She’d been utterly devastated.

As always, pain tightened her throat at the thought, her mouth feeling dry and rancid now that he was gone forever from her life. She was quite alone, locked in her own private world. If only…

‘I’ve had a letter from my cousin Adèle,’ Camille said, thankfully interrupting these distressing memories. ‘She asks if she can come on a visit, as she’s quite alone now that she’s a widow. Her poor husband died of a heart attack around the same time we lost Jack. I shall write and say that she would be most welcome, don’t you think?’

‘Of course. What a splendid idea.’

Camille’s cousin arrived just a few days later. Smartly dressed in a green coat with padded shoulders and a big fur collar, a wide-brimmed velvet hat and matching gloves, she looked very much an aristocrat. She was small and neat in stature but big of heart, with a pert mouth, chestnut-brown bobbed hair, and caring dark eyes that gleamed out at the world from behind gold-rimmed spectacles. Brenda saw her arrival as a good thing. The cousins had long been close friends and were clearly both in need of company to help cope with their grief.

Perhaps the poor lady also felt a certain fear in living alone, as did everyone these days.

If Adèle decided to stay on, Brenda thought she might try once more to return home to England, although she really had no idea how that could come about. In the meantime she must concentrate upon keeping in good health. Her pregnancy seemed endless, and due to the shortage of food, not at all easy. But she could not wait to hold Jack’s child in her arms.

*

The situation worsened considerably in the months following Jack’s death. Paris became a different place. Coupons were needed for bread, meat, groceries, clothes, coal, everything. And they became increasingly hungry and cold. Each day Brenda would join other local Parisians in the public squares to search for any scraps of wood she could find to burn. Since the apartment had no open fire or chimney and they’d run out of gas, she made a brazier from an old tin that provided a small amount of heat, the smoke dispensed through a pipe that ran out of a nearby window.

Every street, including the beautiful Plâce de Concorde, the Eiffel tower and all public buildings, bristled with swastika flags. There were posters depicting John Bull as a killer, among many other anti-British images. Signs that gave directions in German with barely a word in French visible. And the sound of goose-stepping boots was everywhere.

On visiting the British Embassy, Brenda found that it was indeed closed. Even the skeleton staff present at the start of the occupation had departed south. According to reports the borders into Spain were also kept largely barricaded. Trains to England were still not available. Sending a letter to England was also a problem as they were generally blocked. It was very evident that finding a way out of France would be almost impossible.

She felt trapped.

Many other women were too: dancers, singers, nurses and governesses, rich ladies who loved to spend their time travelling around Europe. Even French widows who had married Englishmen were likewise looked upon as outcasts. The German hatred of the British was all too evident. People without the right documentation or who were Jewish tended to hide away, desperate to avoid being imprisoned or shipped to Germany. Some would be arrested simply for listening to the BBC. A dreadful prospect.

Brenda gave birth to a son on 27 November, less than a month from her own birthday, which helped to ease the dark pit of anguish devouring her. The two ladies took good care of her and all went well. How fortunate she was. She would sit and gaze in wonder at his tiny fingers and toes, the soft pale baby-blue eyes, and the way his sweet lips pursed or smacked together whenever he was hungry. He was utterly adorable. She spent every moment of every day bathing, feeding and nursing him, and tucking the little fellow into his crib cuddled up with the silver-grey fluffy monkey she’d bought for him just before his birth.

Now it was Adèle doing all the cooking, cleaning and shopping, running up and down stairs, fetching and carrying, without a word of complaint. Even Camille did what she could to help, despite her rich, aristocratic heritage and fragility.

‘I do appreciate the care you’ve both given me. Being illegitimate, I was born in a home for unmarried mothers,’ Brenda said, giving a wry smile. ‘So I have no family of my own.’

‘Goodness, I didn’t know that,’ Adèle said, looking slightly surprised by this news.

‘The nuns were extremely good to her. Did you ever find out who your mother was?’ Camille asked.

Brenda shook her head. ‘I don’t even know her name. I was given the surname Noel by the nuns because I was born just five days before Christmas.’ She really had no wish to find her mother, and still nursed a deep resentment at having been abandoned at birth. It was a most cruel and unfeeling thing for any mother to do. Brenda certainly had no intention of ever abandoning her own child. He was already the joy of her life.

‘Never mind, darling, you have a family now,’ Camille said, giving her a hug.

‘You do indeed,’ Adèle agreed. ‘We love you and this little baby. What are you going to call him?’

‘I can’t decide. Should it be Jack? Certainly not Randall, or that would remind us forever of this dratted war. What was your father called?’ she asked Camille.

She smiled. ‘Unlike my mother, he was English, and called Thomas.’

‘Oh, I like that. Thomas it is, then. Although I shall probably call him Tommy.’