The September Garden (21 page)

Monsieur Orlande in his gendarme uniform appeared at the door of the
mairie
and hurried down the steps. He saluted the German officer, his demeanour solid and confident.

A man next to her muttered, ‘
Collabo
,’ and spat on the ground.

The
Kommandant
began to speak to Monsieur, and Adele, hoping the spectacle in the square would prove a distraction, turned to walk towards the Orlande house.

She paused. The whistling of a megaphone sliced through the cold air. The
Kommandant
’s hard amplified voice split her ears.

‘… for the crime committed last night against the German army, there will be certain retribution. The citizens of Montfleur will pay the penalty for the actions of the rebels, the communists, the criminals who have perpetrated this deed. Fifteen German officers have been injured. I am required to tell you that two have lost limbs.’

Adele stared. Her employer, Monsieur Gendarme, stood shoulder to shoulder with the German officer as he continued his address: ‘This is inexcusable, and will be punished accordingly. Whoever carried out this crime may
or may not be flushed out from among you, but you, the citizens of Montfleur, must and will pay.’

Villagers collectively gasped in shock, threw violent glances between themselves. A woman cried out. A man shouted. On the steps, the gendarme stepped forward and began to talk earnestly with the
Kommandant
.

Adele thought, hopelessly,
perhaps he is trying to reason with him. Make him change his mind.

‘No soldiers were killed,’ someone behind her said. ‘We should not be the ones to take the blame.’

‘The most damage was to the train and the tracks,’ said another. ‘What can he mean, we will pay?’

‘It’s obvious. No one is immune from this.’

‘Orlande better be persuading him otherwise.’

‘About time he protected his own people.’

Adele turned away, their panicked voices receding into a blur of anxious speculation. Her hand shook as she unlocked the gate but a strange security enveloped her once inside the silent void of the Orlande house. She felt removed, suddenly, from the announcement in the square – and its horrific reality.

In the basement kitchen she sawed the loaf of bread and found a dab of butter, something to feed the children. Her mind turned its way to Jean.
A dreadful mistake
, his mother told her. Adele presumed he had become separated from the cell and was hiding out in the cold, misty dampness of the
bocage
. Was he injured perhaps? She would not let herself imagine the pain, the frustration of the man she loved. She must do her duty here; do what she could for the Resistance, for her comrades, unknown strangers to her, and yet still worthy of her very best.

The front gate creaked above and Adele jerked her head, her eyes suddenly smarting with confusion. A clump of a footstep overhead; Monsieur must have come home. What can he want? He was on duty until six tonight. Why should he come back now? Surely he’d be busy with the
Kommandant
? She heard him come quickly down the stairs from the hallway to the kitchen. She rose to greet him, to enquire at his unexpected return. And yet, instead of the kitchen door opening, it was shut fast. From the outside, the key turned in the lock.

Adele ran to the door, tried the handle. Thumped on it.

‘Monsieur? Monsieur? What’s happening?’ she cried.

Her appeal was met with silence. Monsieur’s footsteps retreated back up the stairs. Adele stepped back, astounded.

She ran to the kitchen window and squinted up into the garden to see Monsieur walking down the path, past the straggling, overblown lavender plants, past the naked bean frames. He opened the back gate wide and left it ajar. And it was then, through the gateway, that she saw them: three German soldiers, their rifles drawn.

She stood on tiptoe over the sink, reached up and fumbled with the latch on the window; she hauled down the sash with the stupid idea of climbing out, of running to the children. She wanted to scream, to scream her protest, but stopped. As Monsieur had once said, it might make matters worse.

All too quickly, she saw Edmund and Estella emerge and stand on the cobbles, which once rang to Ullis and Tatillon’s hooves. They were bedraggled after their night and hungry morning in the stable attic. Edmund’s hair stood on end. Estella was fastening her skirt, trying to tug her long socks up with one finger. Her rabbit fur collar over her shoulders.
Monsieur had his hand on Edmund’s shoulder, talking earnestly. The soldiers stood back, awaiting command.

Monsieur continued to speak to the children. Adele watched his mouth, aghast. A sheet of ice adhered to her insides. She’d told Edmund; she’d told Estella:
you must do exactly what any French person tells you
. She saw Edmund nod. She saw him breathe deeply and look up at the sky, as if he knew he, at last, would be free.

The soldiers moved in, towered over them, blocked them from her view. In an instant, they disappeared around the corner and down the alleyway to the street. They’d gone.

Adele ran again to the kitchen door and hit it madly with the heel of her hand. Tears sprang from her eyes and she covered her mouth. Sheer futility hit her like a heavy wave of cold seawater.

She sank down onto a kitchen chair and rested her head on the table.

Why did it take four grown men to round up two small children, she wondered, as she wiped the wetness from her cheeks with the palm of her hand? Didn’t they have anything better to do?

An hour passed, and the morning moved on. Who knew what had happened beyond the confines of the Orlande house? Who knew what had transpired in the streets of Montfleur? What retribution had been exacted? The key scraping in the lock of the kitchen door woke Adele from her stupor. Footsteps retreated again.

Slowly, she unpeeled herself from the chair and stood up stiffly. Her baby was quickening, protesting. She went in a daze up the stairs to the vestibule and opened the back door.
She didn’t know, didn’t care, where Monsieur was. She was glad that he was hiding his face, somewhere in the house.

Adele forced herself to walk the path and through the back gate which had been left carelessly open, swinging in the wind. She braced herself for the steep stairs of the stable attic.

There she found the chaos of the children’s night: rumpled bedding; the basket containing bread and cheese crumbs, apple cores. The chamber pot was brimming.

She pulled at a quilt, thinking that she must tidy up, make everything straight; to keep house, just as Madame Orlande requested.

Edmund’s schoolbook fell out from within the quilt. As she picked it up, two sheets of paper fluttered to the floor: the children’s drawings. They were crude, innocent, their odd proportions familiarly pleasing. Estella had drawn her mother and father side by side, and written their names beneath their feet; her own name with a flourish in the corner. Edmund had drawn an outline of the stable. He imagined it with two figures lying asleep on the top floor, on the rough, broken lines of the floorboards. Beneath them stood two lanky horses: one white, one chestnut, chewing on golden hay.

Surely
, Adele thought,
I am as culpable as the
Kommandant,
as Monsieur, as any one of the people of Montfleur who shut their doors and closed their shutters
. Her realisation crept like disease through her bones; her association with the Resistance, with the radio transmissions, the coded messages, with the battle for France, all sealed her guilt.

Adele held the drawings in her hand, dipped her head and wept.

The avenue off the hilltop high street under the shadow of the school and the ancient church was pretty, shaded by sycamore and untouched by bombs. Along the way, right at the end, was a red-brick villa with a chequerboard path littered with the husks and leaves of a sheltering horse chestnut.
Rather impressive, the Blanford household,
thought Nell; her father’s new home. It all looked very tasteful and stable and yet the broad, dusky maroon front door, with its stained glass panels of dancing medieval ladies, hinted at a certain artistic eccentricity.

And her father had been right, when he wrote to her, that the view was good, if not as lovely as at Lednor. French windows in the back parlour offered a glimpse of the rambling garden and, beyond the brick wall, the school playing fields, which stretched a long way to the railway line, and the smudge of the London suburbs in the distance.

She sat in the parlour, where a clock ticked comfortingly,
while downstairs in the kitchen, the housemaid was making a pot of tea. She wondered how Mr and Mrs Blanford had kept her on, with most staff leaving to go to the factories; she also wanted to discover that her tea would not be as good as Mrs Bunting’s.

She waited for her father, stupefied, in a dream. Pale sunlight rippled over the soft green of the Willow Bough wallpaper pattern, swirling it before her eyes until she felt as if she was immersed in water. Leaving Lednor behind did not absolve the shock that still had stiffened her body and made her want to weep. Somehow, being here in a new world, in this strange house of her father’s, made Sylvie’s news even more unbearable.

‘Nell, Nell,’ her father mumbled as he darted into the room and as his quick wiry embrace found her. ‘I’m so sorry. I should never have left it so long. You know how difficult things have been. I’ve left you out, neglected you. But look at you. So glad to see you. Are you well?’

She sank back into the chair, despair ringing like a heavy bell in her head. ‘Dad, can I stay for a while?’

‘Of course you can. Diana will be so pleased. She is due back from work at six. Getting her hands dirty, she is, in munitions down in Wembley. Teaching’s out of the question, of course.’

Nell looked up at her father. She had not seen him in over a year, and yet was astonished how much he was still himself, still Captain Garland standing before her. He was still the man who left her and her mother without looking back. Still the man who paints and birdwatches. He of inestimable talent. And yet his eyes were not so haunted as they had once been. They seemed to focus on her like they’d never done before.

Under his scrutiny, she thought she’d better enquire politely about Diana’s parents, Mr and Mrs Blanford.

‘Gone to Norfolk for the duration. There’s some connection. An elderly aunt, a cottage by the sea. Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? Left us to it here. A nice couple. I’d like you to meet them one day. Oh, you do look done in, my dear. Where is Marion with that tea?’

Nell gathered her wits, trying for a normal conversation. ‘So you have a maid.’

‘You’re lucky to catch her. She comes in one day a week. Can’t you tell by the state of the place?’

She glanced around at the dusty piles of books and papers, the film over the framed mirror above the mantel.

‘Once she gets to work,’ Marcus granted, ‘the house is in order, for about a day.’

‘Mrs B is spending more time at her sister’s these days,’ Nell told him. ‘We don’t use so many rooms. The house seems rather large – larger than ever before. And the September—’

Her father dipped his head. ‘Tell me about it another time.’

A painful silence stretched between them. Marcus walked to the window and pointed out the direction of the city on the horizon. Nell made a polite noise, choking back on her disappointment. She wanted to share the garden with him.

The maid came in with a rattling tray, set it down and bobbed a curtsy before leaving.

‘That’s Marion. She’ll do,’ said Marcus, picking up the teapot.

Nell saw that his hand was shaking. ‘Leave it to brew, Dad,’ she said.

They sipped and crunched on some inferior home-made biscuits.

Her father waved his half-heartedly in the air, scattering crumbs. ‘Diana’s.’

‘Dad …’ she blurted, ‘I’m in an awful fix.’

He looked at her, and such was his intensity that she felt she’d never been the subject of his gaze before.

‘We’ll cope with it. After the year or so we’ve had, there’s nothing Diana and I can’t get through. Whatever’s the matter, we’ll get through it together.’

He handed Nell his handkerchief and she wept while the tea grew cold.

Diana came home with her hair still wrapped in a turban and a sparkle of happiness in her gimlet eyes. Nell was immediately reacquainted with her tiny pretty face, her plump manicured fingers and perfectly straight nose.

‘Welcome, Nell,’ she said. ‘I am so glad you have come to visit us. Has your father been looking after you? Well, of course he has. Marion has left us a hotpot in the oven, but before dinner we always like to have a glass of wine upstairs in the studio. Has he shown you his studio?’

Nell thought the woman who had run off with her father possessed the confidence of someone who was truly content. It was as if the last year and a half did not matter: her loneliness, her mother’s grinding distress. But she realised then, with a jolt, as she watched Diana Blanford greet her father, that if she was to be restored to his life, then she must honour Diana’s part in it, too.

‘We were waiting for you to come home, Diana,’ Nell said, generously.

After putting her suitcase in the guest bedroom, they all walked up the second flight of stairs to her father’s studio. He had converted the attic soon after he moved there and had builders in to add a huge arched window, facing south, to bathe it with light. Nell hesitated at the door, registering the same smell, the same atmosphere, the same dust as her father’s study back at home. Chunks of sunlight fell over the parquet, highlighting motes in the air and the sheen of grey over the familiar clutter of books, tubes of paint and stacks of curling paper.

‘Come and sit,’ her father indicated the group of armchairs near the window, ‘and we will partake.’

He went over to a sideboard to pour some wine.

Nell sat beside Diana. While watching her father with a glow of passion, Diana leant over and said quietly to her, ‘I know what you’re thinking, Nell. I am the woman who was capable of stealing a fur coat and also a husband, and a father. I know what I have done. I hope we can be friends, you and I. We are happy, but, believe me, our happiness is sometimes soured.’

Not knowing how to answer her, Nell turned to look through the arched window. The school playing fields and park swept away from the foot of the hill to the suburban streets beyond. A Metropolitan Railway train, appearing to her as small as a toy, caught a flash of the setting sun as it trundled along the line sweeping on its curve through Wembley. A murky smudge hung in the air over the city in the distance.

‘Has there been a recent air raid, Dad?’ she asked. ‘I can see a pall of smoke.’

‘Yes, one or two nights back. We get a good look at
the fireworks from up here. Good show some nights. We feel somewhat removed. Sometimes you think it’s not quite happening.’

Nell took the glass of wine from him, thinking of the cellar below the mews, thinking of Alex. She felt, for a moment, the sheer terror, and the realisation that love transformed her that night.

‘I so wish the view was clearer now,’ she muttered, close to tears.

Her father was busy stoppering the bottle and didn’t notice. But Diana laid her hand on her arm.

‘Tell us when you are ready, my dear.’

Furtively wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, Nell spotted the half-finished watercolour of the dog rose, now framed and tacked to the wall by the window. She got up to look at it, to distract herself. Peering closely, she saw its singed edges.

‘I didn’t realise you had this,’ she said.

‘What? Oh that,’ Marcus said. ‘Your mother sent it on to me. A sort of peace offering, I suppose. Rescued from the bonfire. Anyway, I always liked the dog rose. Always liked the fact it was unfinished. And saved.’

‘Quite a nice gesture from Mollie, really,’ Diana observed, kindly.

Nell tried to smile but was prevented by the constant drizzle of sadness, like a perpetual dripping tap, inside her.

‘How is she, anyway?’ asked Marcus.

Nell glanced at him, confused.

‘Your mother, dear,’ he smiled.

‘Poor and sad,’ she answered him succinctly. ‘Mrs B looks after her.’

Her father did not appear to hear her.

‘Sit there and drink your wine with us,’ he said. ‘Sit right there in the window. That’s it. With the last of the light on your face.’

He reached for a large sheet of cartridge paper and pinned it to his easel. He picked up a chip of charcoal and began to sketch. Then he stopped and walked over to the gramophone.

‘Oh please, no, Dad!’ cried Nell. ‘If that’s “
Clair de Lune
”, I can’t stand it.’

‘Yes. Sorry. Right you are.’ He returned to his easel and settled himself on his stool.

‘Shall we talk about it, then?’ he asked, not looking at her but frowning at his work.

Struck by the thought that she’d never sat for her father before, she couldn’t answer him. She listened to the scratching of charcoal on paper, and watched through the window as a girl and a dog ambled across the playing field way, way below, followed by two long, faithful shadows. Alex again walked into her mind. Despite herself, the remembered sound of his voice, suddenly, inexplicably, consoled her. She wished, with all her might, that she was that carefree girl with her dog out there in the park. It could easily be her and Kit.

‘Your father tells me that you have fallen in love,’ ventured Diana. ‘With a birdwatching flight lieutenant.’

Nell glanced at her in surprise, suddenly very afraid at the absurdity of her situation.

‘I have,’ she managed, her shame beginning to bind her words. ‘But I have since learnt that he is committed to someone else.’

‘Oh hell,’ uttered Diana.

Nell’s voice rose a pitch in bitterness. ‘And he is gone, anyway. Gone on some dreadfully dangerous mission. Unlikely to come back alive, so I believe. I haven’t heard from him. He could be dead already. So there was never any hope. Not really. I don’t know why I ever thought it. How would such luck come to me? I lose everything.’

Her anger faded in an instant, like a snuffed-out flame, to be replaced by the familiar slow-burning sense of betrayal, the misery that had woven its web around her since the day Sylvie had telephoned.

Marcus continued to sketch, a frown deepening between his eyebrows.

‘I blame this damn war. Puts the mockers on so many things,’ Diana said.

Her flippancy annoyed Nell.

‘Well it’s not just the war that puts the mockers on, Diana,’ she snapped. ‘Not when I am expecting his child.’

Diana’s eyes rounded in surprise. She looked, after a fashion, almost pleased.

‘Oh, my dear.’ She slipped her cool hand, pale and plump, into Nell’s and held it.

‘Ah, now,’ said Marcus, after some moments passed. ‘No tears, please. You’ll spoil it.’

He turned the easel towards Nell and she stared at his work. The portrait could have been Mollie, at a much younger age.

‘Do you like it?’ asked Marcus.

‘I didn’t realise how much I look like Mother,’ Nell whispered. ‘I always thought I looked like you.’