The Road Between Us (30 page)

When Hannah sits up, little beads of sweat appear on her arms where their skin has been touching. She replaces the DVD with an old home movie that she has also brought with her and the two of them trade glances once more as they watch a two- or three-year-old Hannah riding her father like a pony as he crawls around on all fours. It then cuts to a Hannah who must be about six years old having a race across a lawn with him, before they are next seen playing rounders together on a beach. These clips are followed by Hannah at a school swimming gala, in a school play, and taking part in the long jump on sports day. There is also some footage of her that was taken after Edward disappeared. When Frejya’s voice can be heard giving a commentary, Hannah looks sideways at Edward again. ‘This is for you to watch when you get back, Ed,’ Frejya says. ‘I know you’re going to come back one day. Your little girl is growing up. She needs you.’

When the film has ended, Edward wanders into the kitchen and opens the double doors that lead out to the garden. He stands in the doorway, listening to the cicadas and staring up at the stars.

‘I haven’t been much of a father to you, have I?’ he says without turning round when he hears Hannah approaching from behind.

At which a laugh bubbles up in Hannah’s throat. ‘No, you’ve been bloody useless!’

Edward laughs too, moving over as his daughter joins him in the doorway. He puts an arm around her shoulders again as they watch a big-bellied formation of cloud momentarily obscure the moon.

‘I came back to a daughter I didn’t recognize,’ he says. ‘You should have been nine. I used to keep sane by thinking of you and then you were taken from me and replaced by a stranger.’

‘Then get to know me.’

‘Where do I start?’

‘Well, you could ask me what I like doing.’

‘What do you like doing?’

She takes hold of the hand that is draped over her shoulder and begins stroking it. ‘Um, playing pool. Drinking with my mates. And I like lie-ins, and cooking and watching
X-Factor
. And I go to Glastonbury, though I think it has become too commercial.’ Her brow furrows. ‘What else? Oh yeah, and surfing. I like to surf.’

‘I used to think about surfing when I was in the cave. Memories of being with you and Mummy in Cornwall …’ Edward trails off.

Hannah wants to keep him talking. ‘Were you any good?’

‘Don’t you remember?’

‘No.’

‘Then I was brilliant.’ He removes his arm, crosses the terrace to the lawn and lies down. Hannah joins him. With the top of her head to his, the two of them form one line.

‘How many constellations can you name, Han?’

‘Well, that’s Orion’s Belt. That’s easy.’ She points. ‘You taught me that. And that must be the Seven Sisters. And that one is Mummy.’

She points at a bright star in the north. Edward raises his arm and their fingers entwine.

PART FIVE

I

London. Early summer, 1944

THOUGH THE LONDON SKY IS NO LONGER BLACK WITH LUFTWAFFE
crows, the capital is still bombed at regular intervals and, through his taxi window, Charles surveys the latest damage: rubble moved to the side of the road to clear a space for traffic, cracked windows in smoke-blackened buildings that are held together by their crosses of tape, a crater out of which is protruding the boot of a Morris Oxford. It looks like a torpedoed ship that is rearing up defiantly before sliding below the surface. The firemen have been at work here, too, judging by the dimpled pool of water that surrounds a collapsed wall. Steam as white as papal smoke is snaking across the still-hot bricks.

When the taxi draws into Carlton Gardens he sees the sandbagged entrance to a public air-raid shelter where once a café had stood. The iron railings outside the Forces Françaises Libres headquarters are all missing, cut down to two-inch-high stumps of teeth. No attempt has been made to disguise the five-storey house itself. There is a tricolour flapping on a pole outside it and a uniformed guard standing to the right of its black entrance door.

Having handed over two shillings for the taxi, Charles listens to the noise of its engine as it fades away. He then becomes enveloped in silence. The air smells of petrol and brick dust. There is a haze of
it, clinging to his jacket. As he approaches the door, he brushes the shoulders of his uniform – unworn for three years, it smells of mould – and gives a half-salute. The guard salutes back. As Charles enters, he is immediately struck by an acrid smell of smoke and cleaning fluid. There are four buckets of sand, two either side of the entrance. Painted in red on a wall opposite the door is the Cross of Lorraine, the official symbol of the FFL. Alongside this is a photograph of General Charles de Gaulle, the unofficial symbol.

When the guard sitting at the reception desk sees Charles, he stares rudely at the scar tissue on his face, then says in heavily accented English: ‘Can I help you?’

‘I have an appointment with …’ he checks the piece of paper upon which Sir Kenneth Clark has written a name, ‘Major Lehague.’

The guard leads the way to a back room, stepping around a hole in the floor. ‘You can wait in here. He shouldn’t be long.’ The room has burnt timbers in the ceiling and a view over St James’s Park to the Foreign Office. Below the tethered barrage balloons across the park there are tulips. On the cherry trees there is blossom. It is an incongruous sight. Nature keeping calm and carrying on.

There is an oak desk and, behind this on the wall, a map of France marked with blue, green and red pins, swastikas and curving black arrows. The country is divided in two. There is cross-hatching in the north. The south has not been drawn upon.

That an Allied invasion of northern France is imminent is not exactly news. The south of England has become a giant sprawling army camp, with more than a million troops counting down the weeks to … when? That is the secret. And where? Where exactly? Calais? Probably. As for the build-up, the Germans do not need spies to monitor what is going on. They can probably hear it from France, a continuous rumble of trucks, jeeps and tanks, blocking the back roads as they make their way to Portsmouth, Southampton and Dartmouth. It is as if the whole landscape is moving. Operation Overlord.

There are also whispers that Charles has heard about Operation
Anvil, an invasion of southern France, possibly at the same time as the invasion of northern France. Sir Kenneth had heard them too.

When Major Lehague enters and sees Charles studying the map on the wall he makes a point of standing in front of it, blocking his view. He is a short and wiry man with a neat moustache cut in the style of Clark Gable. In the corner of his mouth is a roll-up. He is wearing the uniform of the Free French Army.

‘
Bonjour, monsieur. Je m’appelle Captain Charles Northcote
.’

The Frenchman removes his kepi and stubs out the cigarette as he pretends not to notice the Englishman’s scars. ‘I am a guest in your country, Captain Northcote, we should speak English here. I am Major Lehague, London liaison for the Zone Libre.’ The Frenchman sits down and points at a chair for Charles. ‘How may I be of assistance to you?’

‘I was given your name by Sir Kenneth Clark.’

‘Yes, he has been in touch with General de Gaulle. You have friends in high places, it seems. You are a war artist? Into battle armed only with an easel and canvas?’

Charles has heard the tease before and has a ready response. ‘The paintbrush is mightier than the sword.’

‘Your accent is good, by the way.’

‘I have an uncle and aunt in Avignon. I used to spend holidays there, before the war.’

Lehague studies him. ‘You are fluent?’

Charles shrugs. ‘My spoken French is better than my written.’

Lehague opens his hands. ‘So …’

‘I was wondering if you knew anything about the Natzweiler-Struthof concentration camp in Alsace.’

Lehague studies the Englishman again, cocking his head. ‘A little. It is a work camp. Most of the captured Resistance are being held there.’ He turns and contemplates the map for a moment before tapping a pin. ‘It is here, in the Vosges mountains between the Alsatian village of Natzwiller and the town of Schirmeck. The only such German camp on French soil, as far as we know.’

‘I imagine the liberation of Natzweiler-Struthof will be a priority for you, if the Resistance are held there.’

‘May I ask why you want to know about it?’

‘I have a friend who is a prisoner.’

‘I could find out from the local partisans what they know about individual inmates. I know they have contacts there.’

‘That would be kind.’

‘He is French, your friend?’

Charles looks at the floor. There is a time for truth and a time for lies. ‘Yes. He was studying over here before the war. At the Slade. He’s an artist, too.’

‘And he was Resistance?’

‘Yes.’

Lehague eyes him narrowly. ‘Have you seen any action?’

‘In a manner of speaking. Dunkirk. RAF bases. That was where I got this.’ Charles touches his cheek.

Lehague looks puzzled. ‘You were a pilot?’

‘No, no. I was working at an airfield when it was bombed. I’d been commissioned to do some paintings there.’ Charles studies the floor again. ‘I was hoping to volunteer for Operation Anvil.’

‘What do you know about it?’ The Frenchman sounds defensive.

Charles responds with an attempt at nonchalance. ‘An invasion of France from the Mediterranean.’

‘Well, I am not at liberty to discuss the details with you.’

‘Of course.’

‘All you need to know is that it’s going to be a French show with the Americans making up the numbers. The British will have a token presence only. A few ships. Handful of Paras.’ A grin. ‘And you.’

‘So I can come?’

‘Well, I’m not sure we will need a war artist, but perhaps it would be useful to have a British officer with us as a liaison, one who speaks French. It might help us overcome a little diplomatic obstacle we are facing. I will talk to de Gaulle about it.’ Lehague stands up and proffers his hand. ‘We have to do these things by the
book. Relations between our countries are sensitive at the moment. Do you have any other languages?’

‘Some German.’

‘It is always useful to have a translator.’

‘So what happens next?’

‘Have you ever been to Naples?’

Charles shakes his head.

‘That is where we will be assembling. We will be attached to the Free French Army, working alongside the Forces Françaises de l’Intérieur. They will be involved in a campaign of sabotage before the landings take place, attacking railway lines, roads, telephone exchanges and so on. I am to act as liaison between them and the Allies when we reach Nancy. That is where I come from.’ Lehague looks thoughtful. ‘By the way, how do I know you are not a spy?’

Charles thinks about this for a moment then runs the backs of his fingers down his neck. ‘Spies are supposed to be inconspicuous,’ he says.

As Charles walks back on to Pall Mall, he shakes his head and smiles as he hails a cab. Once he is in the back seat, he takes Anselm’s letter from his wallet and touches it to his lips.

The Valkyrie is now used to the routine of escorting Anselm across to the Commandant’s house. The guards on the gate are used to it too, waving them through. She always waits for him on her chair by the front door and sometimes takes some knitting with her to pass the time.

The Commandant and his prisoner have also fallen into a routine. As one paints and the other sits, they talk about philosophy and art. They drink wine. They listen to Bach and Schubert.

Anselm may still be a victim but now he is an alacritous one, and this is allowing him to find a vestige of his former humanity, his identity as a man, as an artist. He willingly confuses the Commandant’s lack of abuse for an act of kindness. In truth he has come to regard him as a kind of god who gives him life every day, simply by not taking it away. And perhaps this relationship suits both men well.

Back in the camp, the brutality continues – the gratuitous beatings, the experiments, the deaths from exhaustion, starvation and disease. There are still executions every few weeks – hangings and shootings, sometimes carried out summarily by the Commandant himself.

But Anselm no longer allows himself to be affected by these barbarities. He occupies his own space, a purgatory somewhere between salvation and damnation. None of the other prisoners talks to him, partly out of fear, partly out of resentment at the preferential treatment he receives. With his proper diet, his strength has returned. Even his striped uniform is cleaner than that of other prisoners.

And then, several weeks after he began work on the figure of the Commandant, Anselm realizes it is nearly finished, though the oil has yet to dry. It is time to begin on the horse. This is done in the stableyard. There are butterflies here that come in through a Gothic, ivy-covered doorway. Their dithering flight entrances him, and, one afternoon, he follows some of them out as they make their way back through the door. Finding himself in a tumbling formal garden, he stands and stares in wonder, enchanted by the colours, by the smells of damask rose, jasmine and thyme, by the throbbing life of the place.

It is crossed by a river that, with a mist undulating on its surface, looks as if it is breathing. A Doric temple stands by the water’s edge and, beyond it, a row of marble nymphs, and beyond these a pleached alley where fruit trees, privet and hawthorn are wrought into arches to provide shade.

Glimpsing a movement in his peripheral vision, Anselm turns and sees a small group of men and women in striped uniforms weeding the flowerbeds.

A fortnight later, the horse is also finished and Anselm realizes the moment he has been dreading has arrived, or rather it cannot be postponed any longer. Though the Commandant clearly likes him, and even seems to treat him as an equal, Anselm knows how
compromising their strange relationship must be to him. He will have to be silenced, sooner or later.

But the Commandant does not appear to share this view yet. He is in a buoyant mood and so pleased with his portrait that he hangs it over his fireplace. ‘I might take it back to Berlin when I next go there,’ he says. ‘You might get some commissions from those in high places.’