Miss Carter's War (47 page)

Then she looked across the field below the hamlet. Beyond it was an area of newly ploughed land. There were three lines of shallow trenches into which a man was studiously placing potatoes. There was something about the delicacy of his fingers as opposed to the solidity of his astride stance and Marguerite knew at once. She walked slowly across the field.

She called his name.

‘Marcel.’

He stood up, still straight and tall. The long hair was grey now. He looked at her.

‘Tu es venu.’

‘Oui.’

‘Enfin.’

He held out his hand. She took it silently and, hand in outstretched hand, they stared into one another’s lined faces. Eventually he pulled her to him and they stood on the pebbly earth, his arms holding her in a motionless embrace. The ground felt firm beneath her, his body strong. For a long while they did not move or utter. Eventually they walked back across the field, his arm tight around her shoulders.

He still lived in the same cottage in which he had been born and grown up and it was little changed. He cooked his food in an ancient oven or slowly on the top of a log-burning black stove, the only source of warmth apart from an evil-smelling kerosene heater in the depths of the winter. He made her an omelette from the eggs that they gathered from the chicken run and they drank some local wine. Come nightfall she sat with him on a bench outside his house, marvelling at the myriad stars, invisible in London, and telling him something of her life, which sounded sadly ineffectual for one who had left him in order to change the world.

‘And what about you, Marcel?’

There was not a great deal to tell. As she knew, his father had died when he was a boy so it fell to him to look after his mother till she had died in her eighty-eighth year. It had been his duty, as his two brothers and one sister were married with their own families, to care for her.

‘Did you not have a family of your own?’

‘No.’

‘But did you not fall in love?’

‘Yes.’

‘With whom?’

‘You. There could be no one else after you.’

It was said in such a way as to brook no question.

As when he stated, ‘And now you’ll stay.’

She could see no reason not to. What had she to go back for? Lonely teas in Fortnum’s? Sitting in parks hoping to find someone to talk to? A two-roomed flat in King’s Cross where she knew none of her busy neighbours, and was constantly reminded of the painful absence in the flat above? In London it was probably raining, whereas here the spring was starting.

By the door of the cottage was a tree that looked naked apart from a sprout of leaves at the top of each branch along which were tiny brown balls, which promised later in the year to be lush black figs with a pink succulent interior. They were surely worth waiting for?

In Marcel’s garden was an ancient quince tree that had still managed to produce bouquets of the palest pink flower cups from its dying trunk. Later there would be sweet-smelling fruit to perfume the kitchen and make into a jelly. Could this aged tree really produce such riches? It looked too fragile. Should she wait and see? With its delicate blossom it was a happy tree, despite its failing strength. It was facing death with a radiant smile.

Yes. Yes, she would stay. And take care of it. For a while.

Chapter 52

Living with Marcel in Les Galets wasn’t easy for her. After London, life there was so slow and uneventful. She tried her best to confine her Messiah complex to looking after Marcel and the land. When she got involved with a campaign to rid the area of a nuclear warhead stored on a plateau in the mountains, Marcel tried to calm her feverish efforts.

‘Relax. Let me look after you, instead of you looking after the whole world all the time. Allow me that joy. Please.’

Several Resistance fighters had killed themselves over the years since the war so Marcel was wary of Marguerite’s volatile moods. He succumbed to her pleas for a television to keep in touch with events in Britain, but did his best to leaven her disquiet about IRA bombs and riots and injustices, with his belief in the soothing power of nature.

‘Look,’ he said, gripping her shoulders and turning her to face a radiant sunset.

‘I am looking,’ she laughed.

‘No, really look. Really, really look,’ and he held her still with her back leaning against him, until she felt herself dissolve, merged into the orange and red and purple of the sky and the strength of his body.

At length he said, ‘Well?’

‘It’s better than Piccadilly Circus.’

In truth, she was reluctant to acknowledge the beauty of the landscape and the gentle devotion being offered by Marcel, for it made her painfully aware of what she had sacrificed for her absurd mission to change the world. She could have had a lifetime of peace here with a man who loved her. When the hamlet gathered on Sundays to play boules, her grandchildren could have joined those of their neighbours. Instead, she was a barren woman, who had loved thousands of children who would not even remember her, and had strived for an impossible goal, wasting her life in the process. The world had indeed changed, but it was nothing to do with her.

When she watched on her television the rejoicing at the election of Tony Blair and, at last, a Labour government, she was glad, but she could not pretend that this success was in any way due to her campaigning with Tony. Or indeed that it was socialist. The party was now a brand called New Labour, unrecognisable from the one they had believed in. The death of the ebullient Princess Diana hounded by a new breed of voracious press upset her, and she was astonished that Londoners expressed their grief with cascades of flowers and extrovert weeping in the streets, and even a revolutionary zeal to make the royal establishment give this sad, damaged woman a fitting farewell. She marvelled how much behaviour had changed since Churchill’s solemn funeral. In this part of France, her other native country, change was not so drastic. The pace was perhaps more suitable for a woman in her seventies. She made up her mind to embrace a rural life with Marcel. But she did not sell her London flat.

It was, after all, a pleasurable existence. They grew their own vegetables – aubergines, tomatoes, courgettes, asparagus, frisée lettuce. Marguerite enjoyed cooking fragrant meals, with herbs that grew wild, on the creaky old stove. She worked alongside Marcel on the land, learning the seasonal tasks. She sometimes wondered what Tony would have made of this peasant woman tilling the soil. She thanked him in her heart for guiding her back to Marcel. When the vines began to spread tiny green buds on their wizened black hands reaching out of the soil towards the life-giving sun, Marcel taught her to prune them in preparation for another season of wine, the quality of which he was labouring to improve. It was slow work with time to relish the view and listen to the birdsong.

Marcel showed her that this place she had thought dull was seething with life, most of it friendly, apart from the odd scorpion and viper. When some ants invaded the house Marguerite stamped on them and put down poison. The next day she was distressed to see a few survivors staggering around, carrying their dead back to a hole in the wall.

When they had all gone Marcel filled the hole with cement.

‘No need to kill them, eh? They live here, too. C’est la campagne.’

If she tried to discuss the killings of the past, Marcel shrugged and in the same tone he would say, ‘C’est la guerre.’ He had joined the conspiracy of silence that prevailed in the area. How else would they all live on together? The secrets were known but not discussed. The anguish was buried and forgotten. Only his love for her had remained burning bright for all those years.

He showed little interest in what she had been doing before she came back to him, as he told her he always knew she would. He was intent on living fully the time they had left together. He wanted her constantly by his side. As long as she was there the rest of the world did not interest him. He seldom read a paper or watched the news on television. She missed the intellectual discourse she had had with Tony and her friends and colleagues, yet Marcel was wise and knowledgeable about the land and the seasons. He tended his chickens lovingly but did not hesitate to wring one’s neck when it ceased laying and was ready for the pot. His dogs were kept in an outside kennel and cage, well fed but guarding and hunting was their function, they were not pets. He was unsentimental but she sometimes caught him gazing at her with a kind of wonder. He would stroke her faded red-and-grey hair and say tenderly, ‘You’ve gone rusty.’

Each spring turned into summer. The cherries ripened and were picked by visiting Romany workers, the grapes were taken in the tractor to be processed into improving wine. Next came the melons and the lavender filling the air with sweet perfume. Marcel and Marguerite went into the nearest town, Apt, on market day to sell any produce they had as well as sit in a café and watch the world go by.

Apt seemed to be stuck in a timewarp. Clothes and hairstyles were from the 1950s, mobile phones a rare sight, canned music non-existent, and when a McDonald’s opened on the outskirts of the town it was as if something had arrived from outer space. The only sound was that of chattering voices, people who had known each other all their lives giving three kisses on alternate cheeks and then standing to talk for minutes before moving on to the next encounter.

This busy existence continued through summer until the hunting season in the autumn. Then the guns were cleaned and prepared and the dogs released to search for wild boar to stock up the freezer for winter. When in the first year a group of men gathered at Marcel’s house at dawn for la chasse several of them turned out to be gnomic members of the Maquis. They greeted Marguerite with emotion but there was no reminiscence, just meaningful nods and shrugging of shoulders. Marcel produced Marguerite’s sixty-year-old revolver with bullets. She loaded it and demonstrated her old skill by shooting at apples on a tree. She saw in their faces the admiration she eventually won from them during the war. But she did not join them on the hunt. For her the killing was over.

One spring she stood in a field ablaze with poppies, laughing with Marcel at the cacophony of mating frogs and toads in the nearby stream, when a feeling flushed through her body, taking her breath away and bringing tears to her eyes, that she could only define as ecstasy. Or at the very least happiness.

Kissing her, Marcel said, ‘That’s it. You’re beginning to understand.’

This way of life: being in tune with nature, absorbed into the earth and the sky, loved, gave Marguerite a foothold again; over the years it calmed her troubled mind. The nightmares no longer haunted her. Until an event sent her and the rest of the world whirling into chaos. As she sat in the cosy parlour in front of the wood stove, watching with Marcel the endless repeats of the falling twin towers in New York and the splayed figures of people leaping to their deaths, the old terror swept over her again. The hatred, the fanaticism, it was still there.

As the car comes into focus she sees the German soldier has blue eyes. He is sternly handsome. Attractive. Aryan. Bastard. They round the last curve until they are nearly level. She pulls the pin from the grenade
.

The cycle of violence would start again. Marcel reassured her that Bush and Blair would be cautious.

‘No, Marcel. They have never lived through a war, they don’t know what it is like. They will want to show how strong they are. Seek out someone to blame and punish.’

Her fears were justified when Britain joined with the United States and other countries to invade Afghanistan. Marcel tried to console her, but as they watched the situation getting out of hand she lapsed back into depression at her futility. She avidly scanned the newspapers and sat white-faced in front of the television watching the chaotic developments. When a non-smiling Tony Blair spoke of lethal weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, Marguerite was horrified at the implications: a gadarene rush towards further war.

Then a letter arrived from her campaigning pupil from Dartford County Grammar, Pauline, with whom she had kept up a sporadic correspondence over the years, telling her of a big demonstration happening in London against further military intervention. Marguerite tried to explain to Marcel why she felt impelled to return to England and take part. She liked her life here with him but she was still driven to be a participator; she could no longer just stand on the side-lines and watch.

Marcel reluctantly agreed, on condition that he accompany her.

Chapter 53

Although he had never travelled abroad, Marcel took it all in his stride. If the prospect of leaving his familiar surroundings alarmed him it did not show, but then he had faced more daunting challenges in the past. He was a man devoid of vanity so he did not care that his one and only old suit and indispensable beret were not the height of London fashion. He was bemused by the security procedure at the airport, and thrilled at the flight itself.

The flat was musty and sad after its years of neglect but Marguerite spent a day hoovering and polishing to bring it back to life. She did not restrain Marcel from tackling the overgrown garden; after the journey from the airport, the tube, the crowds, the concrete under his feet, she knew he needed to make contact with the earth. During the few days they had before the march, Marguerite showed Marcel the obligatory sights, noticing several new buildings. She was reminded of how much she loved this ever-evolving city. What she most enjoyed was sharing it with Marcel, his hand in hers as they walked the streets, in contrast to her loneliness before she had left for France.