Текст книги "Tug of War"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter Eighteen

Joe fought down his instinctive Englishman’s outburst of incredulity. ‘I say, old chap, hold on . . . let’s not be fantastical now . . .’ would have been the wrong response. But what could possibly be the right one?

While he hesitated, Dorcas asked in an interested voice: ‘Can you show us where you think all this happened, Georges? You say it happened here. “Here” would seem to be about a hundred acres of house and grounds. If we could go with you to the scene, it might help.’

The practical suggestion seemed to stir him from his paralysis.

‘It’s not far,’ said Georges. ‘In fact, I’ve been detailed to take you there this morning. It’s on the tour we give every guest.’ His hands began to shake again and he bent to hide them, pushing them deep into Bruno’s fur. ‘Every day for nearly ten years I’ve passed within a foot or two of my father’s body and I’ve never been able to acknowledge him.’ His chin went up in defiance. ‘But today I will.’

They followed him from the house and across a cobbled courtyard. A single-storey wing in the same classical style to their left Joe guessed to be a run of stables ending in a charming dovecote and, on the right, balancing, but of a later age and of a more simple and workaday appearance, was the cellar. Georges, relieved to be active again, had fallen into his accustomed role of guide around the family winery. His talk rolled on smoothly: ‘Natural caves in the chalk dug out and enlarged, possibly by the Romans . . . storage for more than a million bottles . . . steady temperature . . . ten miles of corridor . . . if you get lost, just follow the arrows . . .’

They paused at the oak door at the entrance to the galleries and Georges took a sweater from around his neck and helped Dorcas to pull it on over her head. ‘It’s warm enough out here but down there don’t forget it’s at a constant 11 degrees Centigrade. The wine enjoys it – you won’t.’ He clicked on the electric lighting system, closed the door behind them and led the way down a twisting staircase.

They started on the tour, Georges full of information and well-rehearsed jokes, and Joe began to wonder if he’d imagined the scene in the kitchen. All was normal if not even slightly boring. The chalk walls hewn out over the centuries were whitewashed. The smell was pleasantly musty and made Joe think of mushrooms, forests and ferns. The storage corridors were lined with wooden triangular racks, double-sided, containing champagne bottles tilted at an angle, dimpled bases outwards. Georges set to, working along the rows, deftly demonstrating with flicks of the wrist the technique used to give the bottles a quarter of a turn each day, a movement which kept the deposit in the bottles on the move down towards the neck of the bottle.

‘But why do you want the filthy bit at the top?’ Dorcas asked. ‘In red wine the dregs are always at the bottom and you can easily decant the wine and leave the nasty bits behind.’

‘Ah – we do it this way to achieve absolute purity,’ said Georges. ‘At the very end of the maturing process we have skilled workers who release the temporary cork . . .’ He took a bottle from a rack and, holding it between his knees, carefully pointing it away from his guests, eased out the cork with two strong thumbs. Joe was prepared for the explosion but the effect was so shattering in that narrow space as to make him jump and thrust his hands into his pockets. Out shot a spray of gas, champagne and a smear of detritus. A split second later, Georges had clamped it shut again.

‘A la volée! With an explosion! That’s how they do it. And what you’ve just seen is called dégorgement. Clearing the neck. All the nastiness gone in a second and we’re left with the purest wine.’

‘But what is that black stuff?’ Dorcas wanted to know. ‘How did it get in there in the first place?’

‘It’s the remains of the dried yeast. Actually it’s been doing a valuable job in the bottle. It plays its part in developing the character of the finished wine. There’d be little aroma or flavour without it. Then after release, we recork, label and sell it!’

‘But there’s a space in the bottle now,’ Dorcas said. ‘Look, the bottle’s not full. I don’t know much about wine but I know Granny’s butler would never accept a bottle with a space between the wine and the cork.’

Georges was pleased with his pupil. ‘Well noticed, Dorcas. We top it up with liqueur de dosage – vintage champagne containing sugar – and this allows us to control the degree of sweetness. Uncle Charles has a good deal of fun with this – he’s discovered that some countries like it sweet, others, like England, prefer it very dry. He always gets it right. And he has sensitive antennae when it comes to tuning in to changing tastes and trends.’ Georges grinned. ‘Sometimes I think it’s Uncle Charles who sets the trends. A word in the right, influential ear, a well-placed advertisement . . .’

They strolled on, ready for the next sensation. With some excitement, Georges paused by a section of wall and held up a torch, directing the beam sideways to reveal a slight roughness in texture compared with the wall on either side. On it was tacked a blackboard with chalked words announcing that the bottles stored below were of the best vintage and not to be touched without the express authority of the cellar-master.

‘And are they?’ asked Joe, kneeling to examine the bottles more closely. ‘No labels yet, I see.’

‘As a matter of fact these bottles are!’ said Georges. ‘It was Maman’s idea. In the war she had these signs made and put them over our poorest vintages so when the Germans came they would make off with those bottles first. The best bottles were hidden behind the partitions. There – look – do you see where I’m pointing?’

‘Only because you show us with the torch beam,’ said Joe being a good audience. ‘I would have missed it. What’s behind there?’

‘Nothing now, an empty space, but before the war it was an open corridor. The best bottles were moved into it and Maman got the estate workers to build a partition and paint it over with several coats of whitewash until it looked just like the chalk wall. There were about six of those false walls blocking off corridors and alcoves and after the war we managed to remember which ones they were and tore them down to release the stock. Except for this one. Maman had it put back and preserved. I told you she was a great one for history. She keeps it there as a reminder. Did you notice the pictures of the Virgin Mary and one or two other saints as we came along? Those were the markers of the false walls. Maman thought they looked very natural – like shrines. Wine makers are thought to be rather superstitious in that way. Dependent on the weather and other quirks of fate, as we are, it makes sense. And the hidden wine, when the saints delivered it up to us again, at the end of the war, made quite a lot of money for us. Enough to keep afloat at any rate. Anyone who could afford it wanted to drink champagne to celebrate. We began to sell huge quantities to London.’

They walked on, mesmerized by the serried ranks of bottles, Dorcas asking the expected questions: ‘How many grapes does it take to make one bottle of champagne? . . . If you use red grapes why is the wine pale yellow? . . . How do the bubbles get into the wine?’ and Georges replying patiently and accurately.

‘And here we are at the Piccadilly Circus or the Place de la Concorde of the underworld,’ he announced as they entered an area where the gallery widened and other tunnels radiated from it.

‘Ah, there’s another saint, on another of those walls,’ said Dorcas. Darting ahead, she shot across for a closer look, drawn to the brightly painted image, glinting with gold in the beam of the torch. ‘I don’t recognize this man,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t look very saintly! You’re going to have to identify him.’

‘See if you can work it out,’ Georges challenged them. ‘The two of you ought to be up to it.’

‘Well, he’s clearly a saint,’ said Joe. ‘He has a halo round his head, look. But he does look much more like a soldier. In fact, he looks like a Roman soldier to me. Cavalryman?’

‘Mounted on a horse at any rate. Crested helmet,’ said Dorcas. ‘He’s drawn his sword and he’s sliced his red military cloak in two and he’s offering half to the naked beggar sitting on the ground at his horse’s feet. Haven’t a clue.’

‘Yes, you have,’ said Georges, choosing to take her literally. ‘You’ve come up with all the evidence you need.’

‘I’ve got it!’ said Joe. ‘It’s St Martin of Tours! But I’ve still no idea what he’s doing here in a wine cellar. Friend of beggars and the poor. Hardly a qualification for presiding over choice bottles of champagne?’

‘Where else would he be? Very appropriate! St Martin is the patron saint of wine growers and wine makers. And he’s a local boy. Born in 316 AD, in Roman Gaul, he was in the army up in Amiens. His saint’s day is 11th November. Remembrance Day. And, yes, he was a cavalry officer.’

There was a pride and a sadness in the boy’s tone that prompted Dorcas to ask: ‘Did you put him here, Georges?’

He nodded.

‘And the flowers?’ Joe said quietly. He had noticed, on the ground underneath the icon, a jam jar containing three wilting white roses.

‘I put fresh ones in every week,’ said George with a touch of defiance.

Dorcas had begun to shiver in spite of the thick jersey which reached down to her knees. She turned a desperate pale face to Georges and came slowly back to join them. She took both Georges’s hands in hers and asked a silent question.

‘Yes, it was here,’ he said simply. ‘It happened here. I put up a cavalry officer to mark a fellow officer’s grave. I believe my father, whatever remains of him, lies behind that wall.’

‘Would it distress you, Georges, to tell us what you remember happening down here?’ asked Joe with a quick look to left and right.

‘It’s all right. Don’t worry – Maman never comes down here. She hasn’t been in the cellars, as far as I know, from that day to this.’ He pointed to St Martin. ‘There was just a deep alcove there ten years ago with bits and pieces of cellar equipment in it. It was a summer evening in 1917. I’d been out in the fields with Felix, working. I was angry with my mother for sending me out because my father had come home. He’d been with us for two days and I wanted to be with him every possible moment. Now, I can see that I must have been the most awful little nuisance,’ he said sorrowfully, ‘shadowing my father everywhere. I finished my work and ran back to the house but my parents had both disappeared. I went to the kitchen and asked the housekeeper where my father was. She said she’d last seen him come clattering downstairs in his uniform and call for his horse to be saddled and then he’d gone off across the courtyard and into the cellars. But that was about an hour earlier.

‘I was distraught! This meant he was leaving again. So soon. And apparently without intending to say goodbye to me. I was furious with my mother. I blamed her. She’d been quarrelling with him. I’d heard them shouting at each other and she’d been crying on and off for a whole day. I wanted to find him, tell him that whatever was wrong it had nothing to do with me.

‘I ran to the cellar. I wasn’t allowed to come down here by myself but I knew my way. Could have found my way blindfold, I think. The lighting wasn’t so wonderful in those days – oil lamps and home-made candles – but it was adequate. I raced along until I got to that turning there.’ Georges pointed down the way they had come. ‘And I stopped. I could hear the most awful noise.’ He shuddered at the memory. ‘It was a wailing and then a scrunching, dragging sound, repeated rhythmically every few seconds. I was terrified. I shouldn’t be there. I would get a spanking if I were caught. And there was something frightful going on in the corridor ahead, I knew it. I peered round the corner and . . . and . . . I saw the hunched shadow on the wall first.’

He paused, lost in his nightmare.

‘One shadow?’ Joe prompted gently.

‘Yes. My mother. She had long hair in those days – all the women had – and long skirts. She was sobbing and tugging at something on the ground. I thought at first it was a sack of some kind. But it wasn’t. She was dragging my father’s body over into the alcove. It was leaving a dark trail on the floor as she pulled it along. I don’t know how long I stood there frozen but I couldn’t move forward. I couldn’t go to my mother. I turned around and began to creep back along the gallery. But I had only gone about twenty yards when I caught a metal pail with my foot. Maman called out at once. “Who’s that? Is that you, Felix?”

‘I turned around and called back. “No, it’s me, Maman. I’m frightened. I didn’t know where you were.”

‘“Stay where you are!” she shouted. “Stand still!”

‘She came towards me round the corner and I nearly fled. She looked like the Greek women in my books – you know, the Furies or Medea or the Gorgon even. Her hair was hanging over her face, in damp strands, she’d been weeping and her eyes were dilated. She was panting and I could smell her terror. I would have run away but she knelt and seized me by the arms. “Georges, you are to go and find Felix,” she said. “Tell him he’s to come to me here. At once. And then I want you to go straight to your room. Speak to no one else.”

‘I was only too pleased to be sent away and I ran back and found him and delivered the message. When I got upstairs I went to the bathroom as I always did to get ready for bed. I saw myself in the mirror. My old white linen shirt was stained with blood where my mother’s hands had held me. I was daubed with my father’s blood. She’d stabbed him to death.’

Dorcas asked quietly: ‘You were only seven, Georges. Did you understand about death and bodies at that age?’

He looked at her wonderingly for a moment. ‘I knew about death. I killed things every day. Vermin. Birds. It was my job to keep the vineyards clear. I snared rabbits for the pot. Food was always short. And we were living in the middle of a battlefield. We were always coming across corpses . . . dead soldiers in the fields. Runaways hiding in ditches. One winter we found two deserters, wounded, starving, who’d crept into the cellars for shelter. They hadn’t dared to ask for help in case someone turned them in, I suppose. They were dead when Felix and I came across them. Dead for several days. We buried them in the churchyard in the village and sent their name tags in. I saw sights no child should see. Yes, I know it was a lifeless corpse my mother was hauling across the floor.’

Dorcas’s next question was inspired by a quick glance up at the icon of St Martin in his cloak and helmet. ‘The housekeeper told you he’d left in his uniform. Was the body you saw in uniform?’

‘Well, you know, it’s odd but it didn’t occur to me for years but – he wasn’t in uniform. She’d stripped the body down to his underwear. I suppose she burned the uniform later or got Felix to do it – just as the stained shirt that I’d hidden under my bed was never seen again. Felix knew how to put up the partitions and all the materials were to hand in the cellar. If he worked all night he could have sealed off the alcove. And then, in the future, long after her own death, if someone were to pull it down they would find a body not so easily identifiable.’

‘What are the chances of hearing from Felix . . .?’ Joe began.

‘He died three years ago,’ said Georges, subdued. ‘But he would never have spoken of it. Not to anyone. He was devoted to my mother.’

He slumped suddenly, like a string puppet at the end of his act. ‘This is as far as it goes. I’ve given you all I have.’

Joe put a comforting arm around Georges’s shoulder and hugged him, feeling his dejection. He recognized that the boy’s desperate courage in sharing his hideous memory deserved an acknowledgement rather deeper than the ‘Well done, old chap . . . better out than in – what!’ which came instinctively to him. ‘That took some determination, Georges,’ he murmured. ‘I can understand how difficult it must be to speak of such horrors. But equally – how difficult to remain silent! In your present situation, which gets daily more tricky, you will want to do justice to your father or his memory as well as show loyalty to your mother. And perhaps there is a way through . . . If there is I’ll find it,’ he finished encouragingly. ‘We will find it. And you can count on our discretion.’ He wondered whether to add a few words about lancing the boil of suspicion with the scalpel of truth and decided he’d said enough.

‘But this is all fascinating, Georges! Aren’t you fascinated, Joe? I am!’ Dorcas’s voice rang out suddenly, gushing with excitement, as her eyes flashed a warning. ‘Do you know – in all the years I’ve been coming to France this is my first visit to a cellar. But you must be getting cold, Georges? I feel quite guilty, hogging your nice warm jumper. Why don’t we all go to the stables next and show Joe the horses? I warn you though – he’s quite an expert!’

‘Dorcas, really you exaggerate . . .’ Joe spun on his heel, hearing a slight sound behind them. ‘Ah! Madame Houdart! There you are! You discover us halfway round the tour. We are offered the horses next. Will you join us?’

Chapter Nineteen

Aline Houdart came towards them, smiling her pleasure at tracking them down. She looked fresh and charming in riding trousers and yellow blouse, a tweed jacket thrown over her shoulders. She showed no sign that her appearance down here in the cellar involved anything but her regular stroll around the property. She greeted Joe and Dorcas and, taking her son by the arms, reached up and kissed him on each cheek. ‘They told me I’d find you down here. What it is to have a son who wakes with the lark! Such energy! It makes me feel old and sluggish! But I’ll do my bit now. Better late than never. Georges, darling, you may stand down – I’ll show our guests around the stables.’

‘Dorcas has already seen them, Maman,’ said Georges, recovering. ‘We went out this morning. Early. I thought I’d take her to look at the vineyards next.’

‘Then we shall have the horses to ourselves, Joe,’ said Aline, slipping her arm through his. ‘But first I have a rather charming little ceremony to perform. And you can help me.’

The two young people had gone ahead and were out of sight by the time Joe emerged with relief into the fresh air and sunshine of the courtyard. He had been trying to reconcile the maenad image of destructive madness Georges had conjured from the haunted depths of the chalk galleries with the cheerful presence and inconsequential chatter of the woman leaning so lightly on his arm, and he could not. What had that looming vision – black, chalk-white and blood-red – to do with this bird-like creature, all chestnut and gold, at his side? With many questions still to put to Georges, he was resentful that Aline was setting the pace and organizing his morning, a feeling he instantly dismissed as churlish. He had made this journey specifically to talk to her and help resolve her problem, hadn’t he? – and here she was, gracefully making his task easier.

She paused by the door and pointed to a lidded wicker-work basket on the ground outside. ‘Would you mind, Joe? We ’re going to take that to the dovecote. Today you will be witnessing the founding of a new dynasty!’ she announced playfully. ‘A dynasty of doves.’

He picked up the heavy basket, catching flashes of white through the holes. ‘What have we got here?’

‘It’s a pair of doves a kind neighbour has sent me. Ours died out soon after the war and it’s high time we restocked. We have a perfect home for them over there, you see.’

She pointed to the round, stunted tower with its grey-tiled pepper-pot roof and started towards it. ‘A house looks so pretty with doves perched on its roof, don’t you think?’ She pushed open the door of the pigeonnier and Joe stepped inside, an earthy-scented darkness closing in around him, muffling his senses. Aline swung the door shut and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he found he was just able to see by the soft light filtering in from under the tiles.

‘Before we release them we’ll close their escape hole at the top of the roof. Look, we use this rope to open and close the louvres. Now, what you have to understand about doves is that you’ve got to keep them shut up together for at least two weeks, feeding them well, of course, before you can let them out into the open air. They have to be kept together in their place so that they learn it is their home to which they must always return and then they will mate. They are very faithful birds, you know, and mate for life so it’s important to get the pairing right. See how pretty these are!’ she said, taking one gently in her hands and spreading its wing. ‘This one is the female – a pure white. Here, hold her for a moment, Joe.’

Joe carefully took hold of the soft round shape which nestled perfectly happily into his cupped hands and began to smooth the silky down with his fingers.

‘Men have kept doves for at least seven thousand years, you know,’ she went on, seeing his interest wakening. ‘The ancient Egyptians used them as messengers. The Romans probably first brought them to France. And in Persia they were the sacred birds of Astarte, the Goddess of Love.’

Her close presence in the gloom, her murmuring voice and the gentle rustle of straw under his feet were disturbing. He was conscious of the smooth hands that closed over his to take back the dove; he was surprised by a warm waft of her perfume – an innocent country scent he thought he recognized. It was a moment before it came to him: that unique natural blend of flowers and spice was honeysuckle.

‘It’s very generous accommodation,’ he said awkwardly, looking around at the large number of nesting holes provided and rather regretting the slight tone of billeting officer he heard. ‘There must be room for hundreds of birds.’

He sensed she was smiling at him. ‘In earlier centuries, in winter when all the stock had been killed and eaten, doves often provided the only source of fresh meat. I suppose you would judge that a frightful gastronomic solecism? How typical of the French!’

‘Not at all,’ he said easily. ‘Cushat pie is not unknown in my country.’

‘We had a hard time towards the end of the war,’ she said. ‘There were many people to feed. Our stock was exhausted. The ones we didn’t eat we attempted to use as messengers. The English took away the last of our flock, intending to release them with goodness only knows what significant information taped to their feet, but none ever returned.’

‘I expect those also ended up in a stew,’ said Joe. ‘Cooked up in a dixie over a British camp-fire. So you’re intending to keep these two unfortunates prisoner in here until they agree to get on with each other?’ he added briskly. ‘I think I ought to be arresting you for something but I can’t imagine what the charge would be.’ He couldn’t shake off the suspicion that she was attempting to manipulate him in some way and yet her voice was cool, her attention entirely on the doves. ‘And how certain can you be that this pair will get on with each other? Who has had the selecting of them? Are they mates?’

‘I don’t think so. Not yet. These are young birds and I don’t think they have chosen a mate yet. They may get on well from the start but sometimes they do not and will peck each other quite savagely. But if you can keep them locked in together for two weeks it will do the trick. They will be lifelong lovers and they will become attached to their new home.’

‘Does that always happen?’

‘Just occasionally it doesn’t work and then the male – it is always the male – flies away when you release them. Sometimes the poor female has to fly in pursuit and herd him back.’

He was aware that she was smiling. ‘Sometimes it happens that the female – and it’s usually the female – will tear her unwilling partner to shreds. But don’t worry – I don’t think you will witness any bloodshed today. What bird would be insensitive enough to reject such a good home? Such a beautiful mate?’

She took the dove from his hands, spoke softly to her and released her. Taking the second dove from the basket she held him up to show the bronze markings on his feathers. ‘This breed is very rare. Very handsome. They were brought back from eastern lands by Crusaders who went off with Good King Louis – or so I’m told. Off you go and join your mate!’

The dove fluttered upwards, bronze streaks glinting in a shaft of sunlight which bisected the tower far above their heads.

‘’I shall always think of them as Joe’s doves. Why don’t you give them a name, Joe?’ she invited.

‘Well, if it’s a pair of timeless lovers we’re contemplating – what about Abélard and Héloïse?’ he suggested.

As he spoke the two birds began instantly to dispute possession of the same nesting hole with loud squawks and much flapping and pushing.

‘Or should that be Punch and Judy?’

‘Oh, dear!’ He heard her gentle laughter. ‘Not a good start! Well, let’s hope for the best. They have two weeks in which to settle their differences. And when we’ve got a whole flock of them going we’ll collect up the droppings – wonderful manure for the flower beds.’

He was happy to hear her common-sense tone and dropped his guard, to be taken unawares by her next question.

‘You know I lured you in here so that we could be alone and not overheard by anyone? Impossible in the house to snatch a moment’s intimacy! Come and sit with me over here.’

She went to settle on the bottom tread of the circular wooden ladder that revolved around the building providing access to the nesting holes, and Joe seated himself tentatively in the straw at her feet.

‘There are two things you must understand about this sorry business, Joe. Firstly, my son declares that the patient is not his father. I think quite honestly that the boy has a damned cheek! And if I didn’t love my son so much I’d box his ears. How dare he! He saw his father so few times and with the eyes of a child all those years ago . . . how can he possibly say that he can identify him more accurately than I? It’s my theory that he expects Clovis to be unchanged from the glamorous and heroic figure swishing about in black-plumed helmet that he remembers. He cannot adjust to the idea that his father is now a wreck of a man and will, most probably, remain so for ever.

‘Secondly, my cousin by marriage, Charles-Auguste, is a dear man. We quarrel, we sometimes disagree about the running of the business but much more often we agree. He’s an inspired wine-maker. I couldn’t have made the firm so profitable without his assistance. He’s also a clever businessman and this is still a world where the word “man” is important. He feels, I know, that his position here would be threatened were Clovis to be brought back. Nonsense, of course. I have tried to reassure him but I don’t think I have succeeded. And once again I must think – how dare he! He was never particularly intimate with his cousin before his disappearance and to deny him so firmly now speaks of priorities other than discovering the truth. Well, there you are. They will each confide in you, no doubt, and you will draw your own conclusions.’

‘Tell me why you want him back, Aline.’

She leaned forward in astonishment at the question, trying to catch his expression. ‘I love him. He’s my husband. Whatever state he’s in, he’s mine and always will be.’ She looked at him with curiosity. ‘Are you married?’

Joe shook his head, dismissing the irrelevant and intrusive enquiry.

‘Are you in love?’ she persisted. ‘Have you been in love?’ She turned to him, grey eyes black and huge in the gloom, and scanned his face. ‘Ah! I thought not. It’s no good shaking your head and squirming with embarrassment and preparing to tell me this is not police business! As long as you are a policeman and your word on the matter is heard by the authorities it is police business and it is mine to make certain that you understand. Hop up here and sit next to me, I can’t speak to you when you’re wriggling about in front of me like a five-year-old.’

Resentfully, Joe toyed with the notion of disobedience. In that moment she was for him nanny, mother, mistress, sister. A beam of sunlight knifing through the slats made a golden helmet of her Titian hair and he added to his list of tormentors – goddess. He sighed and obeyed.

Joe perched uneasily shoulder to shoulder with Aline on one half of the tread. He glanced up at the doves over their heads, still, with a hundred holes to choose from, disputing possession of the same hole. Blood and feathers would soon begin to fly . ‘Know how you feel, old mate!’ he thought grimly, identifying with the male bird. But his unkind thoughts vanished in a moment when abruptly Aline began to weep. ‘I had thought that showing you the doves would explain more clearly than words what I feel,’ she whispered. ‘As with them, it was for life. I fell in love . . . and it didn’t take two weeks to know it. Two seconds. It was enough.’

So completely had her voice changed he felt he could be listening to a different woman. The self-confidence, the mocking insouciance had gone and he was hearing the hesitations of a girl racked with emotion, a girl struggling and failing to find words that could bear the weight of the intensity of her feelings.

‘It’s painful, shattering, inconvenient even, but if you have never had the experience of falling completely in love, I pray that you will. Now – is that a prayer or a curse, I wonder? But don’t think ill of me for it – I do believe any life is a half-life until you have. A man’s eyes on yours, his arms around you and your souls spiralling away into the ether together . . .’

The words were fanciful, ingenuous even, but the emotion behind them was true and deep. He knew he was hearing a woman talking of a love so overwhelming that she had remained through the years possessed by it. He knew instinctively that for Aline nothing else – home, family, the war – nothing ever was able to – or would – rival it in power.