Читать книгу The Soldier’s Wife - Margaret Leroy - Страница 17

We say goodbye. Gwen leaves, and I go to the Ladies. I wash the marzipan from my hands, push my brush through my hair, take out my compact to powder my face. My hands have a clean, astringent smell from Mrs du Barry’s carbolic soap. Then I go back to the table to pick up my cardigan that I left there.

All the china on the tables begins to rattle violently. There’s a roaring noise from outside; at first, I can’t work out what it can be, then I think it must be a plane—yet the sound is too sudden, too loud, too near, for a plane. Fear surges through me: if this is a plane, it will crash on the town. Everyone rushes to the window at the back of the shop, which looks out over the harbour. The air seems too thin, so it’s hard to breathe.

‘No no no no,’ says Mrs du Barry. She’s standing close to me; she clutches my arm.

We see the three planes that are flying over, swooping down over the harbour: we see the bombs falling, shining, catching the sun as they fall. They seem to come down so slowly. And then the crump of the impact, the looming dust, the flame—everything breaking, broken, fires leaping up, loose tyres and oil drums flung high in the air by the blast. I hear the ferocious rattle of guns. I think, stupidly, that at least there are soldiers here after all, the soldiers haven’t left us. Then I realise that the guns I hear are German guns, in the planes. They’re machine-gunning the men, the lorries: there’s a ripping sound, a flare of fire, as a petrol tank explodes. The men on the pier are scattered, running, crumpling like straw men, thrown down.

Fear floods me. My whole body is trembling. I think of my children. Will the planes fly all over the island, will they bomb my children? And Gwen—where is Gwen? How much time did she have? Could Gwen have got away?

I stand there, shaking. Someone drags me under a table. We are all under the tables now—the elderly couple, Mrs du Barry, the mother clutching her child. Someone is saying Oh God oh God oh God. There’s a shattering sound as the window blows in, shards of glass all around us in a dangerous, glittering shower. Somebody screams: it might be me, I don’t know. We crouch there, wait for the end, for the bomb that will surely land on us.

Suddenly, amid the clamour, the air-raid siren goes off.

‘About time,’ mutters Mrs du Barry beside me. ‘About bloody time.’ I hear the sob in her voice. Her fingers dig into my arm.

The elderly woman is gasping now, as though she has no breath, her husband holding her helplessly, like someone holding onto water, as though she might slip from his grasp. The young mother presses her baby tight to her chest. The sounds from the harbour assault us, the boom and crash of falling bombs, the growl and scream of plane engines, the terrible rattle of guns. More windows shatter around us. It goes on and on, it seems to last for ever, an eternity of noise and splintering glass and fear.

And then at last the sound of the planes seems to fade, receding from us. I find that I am counting, like you do in a storm—waiting for the thunderclap: expecting them to circle back, more bombs to fall. But there’s nothing.

A silence spreads around us. The tiniest sound is suddenly loud. I hear a splash of tea that spills from a table onto the floor: there’s nothing but the drip drip of tea and the pounding of blood in my ears. Within the silence, the baby starts wailing, as though this sudden stillness appals him more than the noise.

I look down, see that a piece of glass is stuck in my hand. I pull it out. My blood flows freely. I don’t feel any pain.

I crawl out from under the table, leaving the other people. Not thinking at all, just moving. I get to my feet and run out of the door and down the High Street and through the arch to the covered steps that take you down to the pier. The steps are dark and smell of fish and the damp stone is slippery under my feet. I have only one thought—to look for Gwen, to see if Gwen is alive.

At the bottom of the steps I come out into sunlight again, on the Esplanade that runs along the harbour past the pier. All the horror of it slams into me. Everything is on fire before me, I can feel the heat of it here, but the fire seems unreal, as though it couldn’t burn me. There are bodies everywhere, lying strangely, arms and legs reaching out, as though they were flung from a great height. The lorries are all burning. Tomato juice and blood run together over the stones, and there is grey smoke everywhere—smoke from the fires, and a smoke of dust—and smells of burning and blood, and a terrible rich charred smell that I know must be burning flesh. The body of a man has dropped out of the cab of his flaming lorry—it’s an ugly, broken, blackened thing. I hear a cry, and it chills me—it’s like an animal blind with anguish, not a human sound. I rub my eyes, which are stinging, as though the sight of the fire is hurting them. Everything is so bright, too bright—the red, the flames, the blood that streams on the stones.

I look up and down the Esplanade, but I can’t see Gwen, I don’t think Gwen can have been here. I’m praying she got away in time. I walk out onto the pier. Heat sears at my skin as I pass a smouldering lorry. My foot slips in a pool of blood. I have some vague thought that perhaps I could help—I can do a splint, a neat bandage, I know a little First Aid. Yet even as I think this, I know how pointless, how useless, it is—that everything here is utterly beyond me.

I come to a man who is lying on the pier beside his lorry. His face is turned away, but something draws my eye—the check cloth cap on the ground beside him. There’s some significance to this, but my thoughts are so heavy and slow.

‘Oh God,’ I say then, out loud. ‘Frank. Oh God.’

It’s Frank le Brocq.

I kneel beside him. I can see his face now. At first I think he must be dead already. But then his eyelids flicker. I cradle his head in my hands.

‘Frank. It’s Vivienne. Frank, it’s all right, I’m here …’

But I know it is not all right. The one thing I know is that he cannot live with such wounds—the blood that seeps from the side of his head, the blood that slides out of his mouth. I feel a heavy, passive helplessness: so any gesture, any word, takes all the strength I have.

He’s trying to speak. I put my ear close to his mouth.

‘Bastards,’ he whispers. ‘Fucking bastards.’

I kneel there, holding him.

I try to say the Lord’s Prayer. It’s all I can think of. My mouth is stiff and I’m afraid that I won’t remember the words. But before I get to the power and the glory he is dead. I carry on anyway. For ever and ever. Amen.

He’s staring at me with empty eyes. I reach out and close his eyelids. Then I just kneel there beside him. I don’t know what to do now.

A shadow falls across me; someone is bending down to me. I look up—it’s a fireman. Behind him, I see the single fire engine that’s come.

‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘I know you’re terribly busy, but this man—he’s a friend of mine, Frank le Brocq …’

The fireman’s face is white but composed. He peers down.

‘I know Frank,’ he says.

‘The thing is—he’s dead, you see,’ I say.

‘Poor, poor bugger,’ says the man. ‘You knew him, did you? You knew Frank?’

‘Yes.’ My voice rather cheerful and brittle and high. ‘Well, I know his wife better, really. Angie le Brocq. I was up at Les Ruettes just a few days ago. They were going to take in my mother-in-law, if we had gone on the boat … But then we didn’t go of course …’

The words tumbling out of me. This has nothing to do with what’s happening, but somehow I can’t stop talking.

The man looks at me in a worried way. He puts his hand on my shoulder.

‘Look, ma’am, you need to go home. You should go and get yourself some rest. Go home and make yourself a cup of sugary tea …’

‘But I can’t just leave him here like this …’

‘There’s nothing you can do,’ he says. ‘Someone will see to him later.’

I feel he’s being obtuse.

‘No, you don’t understand. I know Frank. I can’t leave him lying here. Look at him. It’s so awful …’

He gives me a hand and pulls me up. The effort of standing stops the stream of talk from my mouth. I’m shaking so hard I can scarcely stand.

He gives my arm a wary pat, as though I’m some skittery wild animal that he is trying to soothe.

‘I mean it, ma’am. You should just take yourself off home now,’ he tells me.

I ring Elm Tree Farm from the first public phone box I pass.

Gwen answers.

‘Oh, Gwen. Thank God … I wondered …’

‘I’m all right, Viv,’ she tells me. ‘I got away in time. I’m so glad to hear your voice. I’ve been sick with worry about you …’ Then, when I don’t say anything, ‘Viv—are you sure you’re all right?’

I can’t answer her question: my mouth won’t seem to work properly.

‘Gwen—I can’t talk now. I have to get back to the girls. But I’m not hurt—don’t worry.’

I put down the phone.

When I arrive back at Le Colombier, Blanche’s face is at the window. She sees me and runs to the door.

‘Mum. What happened?’

Her voice is shrill, her eyes are wide and afraid.

‘They bombed the harbour,’ I tell her.

‘We heard the planes.’ she says, in a little scared voice. ‘Mum. We thought you were dead.’

Millie is clinging to Blanche’s hand. I can tell she’s been crying: the tracks of tears gleam on her cheeks.

‘I’m all right. I’m not hurt,’ I say.

I reach out to hug Millie. She pulls away, stares at my dress. All the colour has gone from her face.

‘Mum. You’ve got blood all over you,’ says Blanche, in that small thin voice.

I look down. I hadn’t realised. There’s a lot of blood on the front of my dress, where I cradled Frank as he died.

‘It isn’t my blood,’ I tell them. ‘I’m all right. Really.’

They don’t say anything—just stand there, staring at me.

‘Look—I’m going to have to leave you for a little longer,’ I say. ‘I have to go to Angie’s.’

I can see that Blanche understands at once. Her face darkens.

‘To Angie’s? Did they get Frank?’ she says.

I nod.

Her eyes are round, appalled.

‘But, Mum—what on earth will Angie do without him?’ she says.

‘I don’t know,’ I tell her.

I can’t go to see Angie with her husband’s blood on my clothes. I change, and put my dress to soak in a bath of cold water, swirling the water around to try to loosen the stain. I almost faint as I straighten up, the bathroom spinning around me. My body feels flimsy as eggshell, as though the slightest touch might shatter me. I can’t break the news to Angie feeling like this.

I make myself drink some sugary tea, just as the fireman advised. Something has gone wrong with my throat, and it’s hard to swallow the drink, but afterwards I feel a little stronger. The girls sit at the table with me, watching over me anxiously.

‘Now, will you two be all right?’ I say. ‘I promise I won’t be long.’

‘We’ll be fine, Mum,’ says Blanche.

‘No, we won’t. I won’t let you go,’ says Millie.

She comes to stand by my chair, wraps herself around me. I have to peel her fingers like bandages from my arms.

Reluctantly, full of dread, I walk up the lane to Les Ruettes. My feet are heavy, as though I am wading through deep water. I knock at Angie’s door, and my dread is a bitter taste in my mouth. I would rather be anywhere else but here.

She opens the door.

‘Angie.’ My throat is thick. ‘Something’s happened …’

She stares at my face. She knows at once.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. I’m so sorry.’

She sinks down. She’s trying to hold to the door post, but her hands slide down, her body collapses in on itself, as though she has no bones. I can’t hold her. I bring a chair and pull her up onto it. I kneel beside her.

‘I was in town today. Frank was there with his lorry. They bombed the pier and I found him. Angie—I was with him, I was holding him when he died.’

She wraps her hands around one another, wrings them. Her mouth is working, but she can’t speak. There are no tears in her eyes, but her face looks all wrong—damaged.

At last she tries to clear her throat.

‘Did he—say anything?’ Her voice is hoarse, and muffled as though there’s a blanket over her mouth. ‘Did he have a message for me, Vivienne?’

I don’t know what to tell her. I think of his last words. Fucking bastards.

‘He couldn’t speak,’ I say.

I take her hand in mine. Her skin is icy cold; the cold in her goes through me.

‘He died very quickly, he wouldn’t have suffered,’ I say.

She moves her head very slightly. I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

‘Come back with me, I’ll give you a meal,’ I tell her.

‘No, Vivienne,’ she says. ‘It’s so kind of you, but I won’t …’

‘I think you should,’ I tell her. ‘You can’t stay here all alone.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ she says. ‘I just need some time on my own, to take it in.’

‘I don’t like to leave you,’ I say.

‘Really, Vivienne. Don’t you worry. In a bit I’ll take myself over to Mabel and Jack’s.’

Mabel and Jack Bisson have four children; their house will be busy and boisterous. But Angie is insistent.

I leave her sitting alone by her hearth, wringing her hands as though she is wringing out cloth.

I cook tea for Evelyn and the girls, though I can’t eat anything. Then Blanche helps me bring the girls’ mattresses down from their rooms, and I make up beds for both of them in the narrow space under the stairs. This is the strongest part of the house, its spine.

‘Look,’ I tell Millie, trying to keep my voice casual. ‘Tonight you and Blanche will be camping under the stairs. I’ve made you a den to sleep in.’

She frowns.

‘Is it so we won’t get killed? When the Germans come and bomb us?’

I don’t know what to tell her.

‘It’s just to be on the safe side,’ I say vaguely.

I decide to leave Evelyn in her room—I know I couldn’t persuade her to sleep in a different place. And I think I too will stay upstairs: I can’t believe I’ll sleep at all, and even if I do doze off, if anything happens I’ll wake.

I sit at the kitchen table, light a cigarette. I remember that there’s some cooking brandy in the kitchen cupboard; it’s left over from Christmas, when I put some in my mince pies. I don’t drink alcohol often, but I pour myself a glass. The brandy has a festive smell, which feels troublingly wrong for the day, but I feel a little calmer as the drink slides into my veins, all my sadness blurring over.

I sit there for a long time, smoking, drinking, my body loosening, trying not to think. At last I get up to go to bed. As I take the glass to the sink to wash, it simply slips from my hand, falls to the floor, shatters. The dangerous sound of breaking glass triggers something in me: I suddenly find I am weeping. I sob and sob, as I kneel on the floor and sweep up the glittery shards. I feel as though I will never stop weeping.

I check on the girls before I go up to my room. Blanche is asleep but Millie’s eyes are wide open; the light is still on in the kitchen, and slivers of gold from the half-open door reflect in the dark of her eyes.

‘Mummy, they’re going to kill us, aren’t they?’ she says, in a hissing, melodramatic whisper, so as not to wake Blanche. ‘They’re going to come in the night and bomb us to bits.’

‘No, sweetheart. I don’t think they will.’

‘Why are we sleeping here, then?’ she says.

‘We’re just being sensible,’ I tell her.

She gives me a doubtful look.

I lie awake for a long time. Nothing happens. There are no planes: all I hear is the creaking of my house as it settles and turns in its sleep, and outside the deepening quiet of the Guernsey summer night, depth on depth of quiet. But my anger keeps me awake. I feel a blind, furious rage—rage against this violence, when there weren’t any soldiers here, when we couldn’t fight back. I think how they slaughtered Frank like an animal—Frank who I didn’t much like, who maybe wasn’t such a good man, but who shouldn’t have died, who was too young to die, and who died such a terrible death. How they could come in the night and kill my children. How they will walk in, enslave us, take our island for their own.

I sleep for a while, and wake again, with a start, as though something disturbed me. I get up and go to the window. The moon hangs down like a fruit, and moonlight whitens everything. It’s so bright there are exact leaf-shadows on my gravel, and the hollyhocks in the flowerbeds of Les Vinaires next door are pale, almost luminous—ghost flowers.

I press my face to the pane. All the anger has left me. There’s a cold sweat of fear on my skin. I think—What have I done? We could be in London, in Iris’s house. Have I made the worst mistake of my life? Oh, my God—what have I done?