Peach (11 page)

The telegram from the Red Cross arrived at noon and its yellow envelope sent a chill through her heart. Her secretary, waiting by the door, watched apprehensively as Amelie turned it over and over in her hands before finally ripping it open.

“Oh,” she gasped, and then, “Oh, oh, thank God. Gerard—is all right. He’s been interned in some sort of camp in
Belgium. A forced labour camp, they call it. But
he’s all right
. Oh thank you, thank you,” she cried casting a glance heavenwards. “Thank you, God.”

Drinks were on the house in the Palaçio bar that night and Amelie, sparkling with joy, flitted among her guests making sure that their happiness matched her own, however temporary either might be.

It was the old Senator down from Washington for a naval conference who gave her the plan—and it was his influence that finally set it in motion.

“Damned if I can see how you can be here and your little girl in France,” he’d said thoughtfully. “At least if you were in Lisbon you might be able to get news of her.”

“Lisbon?” Amelie stared at the Senator in surprise.

“An odd city,” he replied, “I was there just a couple of weeks ago. Goddamn place is full of spies and counter-spies, Free-French, British, Germans, you name it, all eating in the same restaurants! And not too far away the same nations are killing each other! It seemed to me, Mrs de Courmont, that a person could get almost anything he wanted in Lisbon—whether it was a good meal—or a man killed. Or some information—for a price, of course. Yes. They would ask a high price.”

Amelie leaned forward grasping his arm excitedly. “I would be prepared to pay any money,” she whispered, “to have news of my daughter. But, Senator, I’m here, in Florida. How can a woman like me get to Lisbon in wartime?”

The Senator’s kind eyes met hers with a smile. He had girls of his own just a little older than Peach. “We’ll just have to see what we can do about that, Mrs de Courmont, now, won’t we?”

Peach scrambled the last few feet to the top of the hill making for the patch of shade formed by the intertwined branches of the old olive trees. The sky was a hard bright blue and the mid-afternoon sun blazed with the intensity of high summer. Below her, the pink-arched hotel hugged the olive and cypress-studded headland like a coat of frosting on a wedge of rich dark cake. Its rectangular swimming pool glittered in the sun like an aquamarine and Peach watched swimmers splashing through the water then climbing out and shaking themselves in a shower of crystal drops. Like wet dogs, she thought contemptuously. White-jacketed German waiters carried trays of foaming ice-cold beer and a snatch of music drifted up the hill. If it weren’t for the fact that there were no children around you might almost have thought it a normal holiday scene. But it wasn’t. No children ever swam in that pool now.

Peach lay back and stared at the sky. Even the usually noisy birds and cicadas had been subdued by the heat, but a tiny breeze held the sweetness of mimosa and the tang of the sea and there was the scent of rosemary and thyme and a dozen different flowers. She hadn’t been able to bear her room any longer. The long green shutters of the villa were closed against the heat, giving it a translucent dimness like being underwater. The white sheet was rumpled from her restless tossing, her book flung to the floor. Leonie had been gone for two days and Leonore was busy at the hotel. Madame Frenard was taking her siesta and the house had a
strange empty silence that frightened her. She wished Leonie hadn’t gone to Paris, it was so far away, and although they hadn’t said anything, Grand-mère and Leonore had looked so worried. And, try as she might, she couldn’t push away the thought that Papa had gone away just like Grand-mère, promising to come back soon. And so had Jim.
And they hadn’t returned
.

Peach wondered what might she be doing if she were home in Florida with Maman? Leonore had told her that when it was daytime here in France it would be nighttime at home. Maman must be sleeping—maybe even dreaming of her. But it had been so long—what if she had forgotten her?

Peach sat up quickly. Of course Maman hadn’t forgotten her—she was just being silly. Grand-mère had told her that when she had had to send Amelie away to live in Brazil when she was just a little baby, she had never forgotten about her, that she’d thought of her every single day. “Mothers never forget,” she’d reassured her.

Her right leg in its steel brace felt hot and uncomfortable and Peach stared angrily at the ugly leather straps.
“Merde,”
she said, relishing the curse word. “
Merde
thing!” Leaning forward she pulled angrily at the buckles. There! She was free. She examined her legs anxiously. The right one didn’t look too bad—only a little thinner. She still exercised every day and swam in the sea first thing in the morning before she went off to school in Monte Carlo, and again as soon as she got home in the evening. And that was the nicest part of the day!

She would sling her schoolbag on to the floor, discard her round straw hat and striped school smock, and pull on her pink cotton bathing suit. Then she’d hurry down to the beach below the villa as fast as her limp would allow, taking the steps in a sort of sideways rush that she had perfected over the past two years. And then the bliss of freeing herself
from the calliper and of floating on her back in the clear water, letting her long hair drift coolly behind! After a few minutes she would turn over, cutting through the water with her strong arms, enjoying the feeling of
power
as she swam. The sea refreshed her, it made her feel strong again, and almost normal.

Picking up the calliper Peach examined it carefully. She’d bet the man who designed it had no children—if he had surely he would have used scarlet leather, or pink, or maybe even just pretty ribbons. She had told Grand-mère that she wanted to throw it in the sea, but Leonie wouldn’t allow it.

Peach stared at the sea, so blue, so smooth. There was a place, just along the chalky path that led around the Pointe St Hospice, where the rocks shelved steeply and the colour of the water deepened to ultramarine. It would be the perfect spot.

Getting to her feet without the calliper wasn’t as easy as she had thought, but by pushing herself on to her hands and knees and then grabbing a handy branch, she made it. The path up which she had scrambled an hour ago looked suddenly steeper. Cautiously, she tested her weight on the right leg. Her knee wobbled a bit but she had both feet flat on the ground. So far so good. She glanced doubtfully at the calliper lying on the scorched grass. She could always put it on again just to get down the hill. But no. She was never—ever—going to wear that
merde
thing again. Hauling it by its ugly leather straps she took a tentative step on the little stony path. Her left foot skittered on the loose stones, and she wobbled again, dangerously. Peach bit her lip, feeling the sweat trickle down the back of her shirt. A snatch of music and laughter came towards her on the wind and she glared angrily at the hotel pool. That odious von Steinholz would be there. And the even more odious Volker Kruger who was trying to give Leonore orders and boss her around.
She’d heard Grand-mère and Leonore talking. The de Courmont girls were strong, they had said. They would never be beaten.

Half-scrambling, half-sliding with her legs scratched and bleeding, she made it to the bottom of the hill. Forcing herself to put her weight evenly on both legs Peach limped very slowly along the path that led around the headland. She was there. With a final contemptuous glance she lifted the calliper by its straps and flung it over the small cliff. The setting sun flashed from the steel brace as it dropped with only the smallest splash into the sea. Raising her arms over her head Peach gave a cry of triumph. The
merde
thing was gone. And never,
never
again would she wear a calliper.

Enrique García lit his fourth Gauloise in a half hour, checking his watch nervously. One of Lais’s virtues was that she was always prompt. He’d give her five more minutes and then he’d make a phone call. Sipping a cup of ersatz coffee he wrinkled his nose at its acrid taste, wondering if the coffee in Barcelona still tasted as good as he remembered.

Lais slid on to the stool beside him in the small bar in Les Halles where they had first met. “I need a drink,” she said shakily.

Enrique stirred his fourth cup of coffee. “Too bad,” he replied, “it’s a dry day.”

“Damn! Oh damn!” Lais had forgotten that on three days
a week the sale of alcohol was forbidden and for some reason the petty disappointment made her want to cry.

She looked pale and shaky, he thought. Combined with the lateness it wasn’t a good sign. “You’re getting spoiled, living in the lap of luxury with the Nazi boss,” he commented, signalling the bartender.

“Enrique, it’s just that this time I’m really frightened.” The bartender placed a small coffee cup filled with brandy in front of her.

“An emergency,” he murmured with a wink.

“We are all afraid, Lais. You get used to it.” Enrique noticed her trembling hand as she lifted the cup.

“You don’t understand. You can’t possibly understand.” Lais stared into her empty cup. “I’m afraid every time Karl looks at me, assessing me like a prize racehorse whose performance isn’t quite what he was led to believe it would be for its thoroughbred background and the price he had to pay. I’m afraid every time he touches me—
physically afraid
. Karl’s a sadist, he enjoys inflicting pain. Oh, so far there’s been nothing that I couldn’t bear—and maybe even enjoy,” she added bitterly. “God, you don’t know how I despise myself afterwards.”

Enrique lit another cigarette, exhaling pungent blue smoke towards the stained ceiling.

“I can cope with the rest,” said Lais as tears coursed down her face, “I can flaunt myself in my fancy couture clothes and make believe I don’t see the contempt in people’s eyes. I can drive around Paris in my chauffeur-driven car and dine on good food at the Ritz while others go without, wearing jewels that were probably looted from some charming French family to whom they had belonged for generations. I can smile when Karl puts his arm around me in public, I laugh at his witty conversation, act as his hostess and procure girls for his visiting comrades … I’ve tried
not to mind when he caresses my breast in a restaurant or a theatre, making sure that everyone understands what I am—and that he owns me. I just tell myself that next time—yes the
next
time, I’ll take a knife and kill him!”

Her blonde hair was tied back in a blue silk scarf and she wore no make-up. She looked like a schoolgirl of sixteen. It shocked Enrique to see her so vulnerable. Lais had always played the role of the tough, arrogant little rich girl who didn’t give a damn what anyone thought, living for the mood of the moment. Life had always come on her terms.

He gripped her arm, steadying its shaking and signalled the bartender. “You mustn’t think like this, Lais,” he said urgently. “You
must not
do anything foolish.”

“My, my,” Lais sipped the fresh cup of brandy and stared at him with tear-swollen eyes. “Anyone might think you cared.”

“This is not a personal matter,” Enrique replied coldly. “You have a job to do. You knew what you were taking on when you started. Now you are important to the organisation. We
need
you, Lais.”

“Well, at least that’s something,” she said, finishing the brandy at a gulp, “at least I’m needed.”

“How dare you feel sorry for yourself,” said Enrique angrily, keeping his voice low, “there are hundreds of women in far worse situations than you.
You
are living in luxury. Others are hiding in the slums of Ménilmontant or Belleville, keeping just one step ahead of the Gestapo. They’ve lost husbands and sons. They
know
why they are working for the Resistance and
they can never forget
.”

Lais stared at Enrique’s dark, impassive face. He was right. She
had
known what she was getting into; at first she’d been excited by the game and the thrill had been exhilarating. Flirting with danger had offered an excitement that
was better even than a dangerous sexual flirtation with a man because with
that
, she always knew how it would end.