Текст книги "Tug of War"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Joe, who had been discreetly jotting down dates, closed his notebook. ‘I wonder . . . is there anything at all, madame, that you could add to the information you have already given to Inspector Bonnefoye? Any detail of a personal and perhaps physical nature that might distinguish Albert? A scar or a birthmark of some description? A mark of which a mother might be aware?’ He could think of no more discreet way of phrasing his question.

She looked embarrassed and awkward. She opened her mouth to speak and decided not to. Then, shrugging: ‘The usual childhood marks . . . scuffed knees . . . cuts and bruises from falling off horses and out of trees. That sort of thing. Would you like to see his letters?’

As Joe agreed to this sudden shift of focus Dorcas stood and asked politely if she might be excused. She’d like to go back into the shop to buy some of the delicious dark French chocolate to take home . . . better than anything they could get in England and made here in the village? They readily agreed to this tactful withdrawal from the next stage of the enquiry which promised to be rather tedious for a young girl.

Joe was intrigued by the small collection of letters written in a good copperplate hand on torn scraps of writing paper. One or two of the messages were almost obliterated by ominous brown stains. At the start jaunty and optimistic (and addressed solely to ‘ma chère maman’), the letters had become progressively sombre and hopeless. The most recent one was dated April 1917, just a week or two before his last appearance in the village. He spoke with despair of stalemate, with anger of the deaths of men in his company, the never-ending bombardment, the foul conditions in the trenches. He ended by saying he was just about to be called up the line to the front ranks again.

Joe looked for signs of censorship but found none. A second reading impressed him with the clever wording. No militarily sensitive information, no names, no positions were given. The censor’s pencil would have hovered and found no precise target and yet the tone, truculent and mutinous throughout, was deserving of censorship. It occurred to him that perhaps even the censor by this stage in the war had been of the same mind.

Had Albert, in his despair, nipped out the back way after all, as his stepfather claimed? It was probable, Joe decided. Or had he served his spell in the front line and been rewarded with an eight-day pass? It was at about that time that the army’s grievances, increasingly loud, had been heard, Joe calculated from the little he knew about the French end-game. Pétain had replaced the failing General Nivelle in the campaign of the Chemin des Dames and conditions for the men in the field had improved. Home leave had been granted again. It was possible.

He said as much to Madame Langlois who drank in every soothing word. So absorbed had he been by the letters and the eagerness of the mother to share them with him, he had lost track of time and wondered at last what on earth Dorcas could possibly be doing.

Laughter down the corridor reassured him. She came in, pink and smiling and obviously the best of friends with what Joe took to be the youngest Langlois daughter.

‘This is Julie, Uncle Joe.’

Julie giggled and bobbed. She gave Joe a long and appreciative stare before her bright eyes flashed a message sideways at Dorcas.

‘I’ve cashed up and locked the shop, Maman,’ she said in a voice which had none of the grating hesitations of her mother’s. ‘Dorcas has been telling me all about London. Did you know she came from London? And we’re the same age! She’s sixteen too! Are all English girls so small?’

‘Oh, I’d say Dorcas was pretty much average size for her age,’ said Joe easily.

‘Uncle Joe, I hope you don’t mind but I’ve offered Julie a lift into Reims. It’s early closing today and she’s visiting her married sister. She was going to catch the bus but I said we were going straight back and could drop her off.’

‘Well, certainly. If her mother agrees. Delighted,’ said Joe.

Slightly dubiously, her mother gave her consent, commenting that such an offer would at least save the bus fare and she didn’t see how Monsieur Langlois could have any objection, and they set off with the two girls installed on the back seat whispering and laughing together.

Joe made no attempt to tune in to their conversation, pleased to hear Dorcas chatting with someone more or less her own age and relieved to be free to marshal his thoughts.

On arriving in Reims, Julie asked to be dropped off in the centre in the Place Drouet d’Erlon and, with warm exchanges of addresses and promises, she finally skipped away.

‘Nice chat, Dorcas?’ he asked as she slid over into the front passenger seat.

‘No. Rather terrible in fact, Joe. You weren’t listening, were you? Look, drive over into the Promenade, will you, park under a plane tree and I’ll tell you.’

Disturbed by her serious tone, he did as she asked.

‘I was just trying to help. I thought that woman wasn’t telling you the full truth. I thought I’d find one of the girls – in fact there’s only that Julie, the fifth and youngest, left at home – all the others got married and went off as soon as they could – and try to find out a bit more about life chez les Langlois. She didn’t know much about Albert. She was an afterthought. Born in 1910. So she was only four when Albert marched off to war. And she only saw him once or twice when he came home on leave after that.’

‘So her opinions may be misleading, you’re warning me?’

‘Yes. I think she echoes her sisters’ views and they may have been influenced by their charming father. She dismissed her half-brother as “that weedy Albert who disappeared”. But she does seem close to her mother. Julie wants to leave home as well. She’s not really here to see her sister – did you guess? She’s come to meet a young man she’s walking out with. It’s all right, Joe – her mother knows all about it. Madame Langlois is making her own plans, you see. Julie knows her mother’s up to something. She thinks that if she’s granted custody of Albert her mother will come into a lot of money from the state as well as his pension and Julie’s certain she’s planning to do a bunk. She’s going to use Albert to finance her escape from old Langlois. They’re blackmailing each other – you keep quiet about my plans and I won’t split on you . . . that sort of thing.’

‘So the worm is turning after all these years? She’s going to scoop up her son, run away and live with him on the basis of his pension? Shows a bit of spirit! I thought I’d glimpsed a certain steely resolve . . . well, tinny resolve, perhaps, in her demeanour.’

‘You didn’t quite understand, Joe.’

‘What can you mean?’

‘When you asked about the distinctive marks on his body I thought she reacted in a strange way and changed the subject. I mean . . . you might have expected: “Oh, gosh, yes – that day when the nappy pin slipped!” or something like that. I thought she was covering something up. And she was.’

For a moment she sank into dejection and uncertainty.

‘And Julie told you . . . what?’ he prompted.

‘That Albert was beaten quite badly as a child. It’s likely that he will have traces on his buttocks, isn’t it? Would he still have scars after all these years?’

‘It’s possible,’ said Joe. ‘Look, I’m speaking to Varimont this afternoon. That should tell us more. Perhaps in their search for dramatic wounds – sabre cuts and the like – little domestic marks have gone unregarded. But they would represent incontrovertible evidence all the same.’

Dorcas was hardly listening. ‘”Little domestic marks”? Joe, how can you speak so lightly?’

‘I think you mean “dispassionately”. If I let myself be moved by pain and death I would make mistakes. But this is information we must have, Dorcas. I know it’s really none of our business – it’s a French affair and let’s hang on to that.’ And, rattled by her petulant silence: ‘What on earth do you expect me to do? Tell tales to Inspector Bonnefoye? Encourage him to go out, confront Langlois, and belatedly wag a minatory finger at the wicked stepfather? “It’s come to my attention, Langlois, that you were unkind to your stepson thirty years ago.” He’d laugh at me.’

Dorcas sighed wearily.

‘Old Langlois may have failed to charm us, Joe, but you can’t dismiss him as entirely evil on the sample of behaviour we witnessed. Albert was beaten as a child, I’m certain of that, but it wasn’t his stepfather who beat him.’

Chapter Eleven

‘Not his stepfather? Can you be certain? And, if you are, then who? Who on earth could take a stick to such a little angel?’

‘The one who abused him as a child and is now planning to abuse him as a witless and helpless adult. His mother.’

Joe lapsed into a shocked silence. ‘You’re going to have to explain this surprising accusation, Dorcas.’

‘You could have interviewed Julie yourself but I don’t think you’d have got any more information out of her than you managed to extract from her mother. Madame Langlois may not have been born a wicked person but – goodness, she had a bad enough start in life! Enough to drive anyone to despair and make them unstable, I’d have thought. That’s if she’s telling us the truth, of course. But Julie, who had no reason to lie to me, told me the family stories. The ones she had from her sisters. They were not mistreated. Only Albert. But, apparently, the old man, though he used to rage and storm at the boy and made his hatred very apparent, never actually hit him. It was his mother who beat him mercilessly.’

She was speaking quietly and trying, Joe thought, for the dispassionate tone he had advocated. ‘Does Julie have any idea why she would have behaved in this way?’

‘Oh yes. She thinks she did it to divert Langlois’s anger. To turn his rage away from her and the girls on to the boy who counted for so little in that household. A sort of whipping boy, you might say. First in line for punishment when punishment was necessary.’

‘A demonstration of her loyalty and her acceptance of the situation between them?’ suggested Joe.

‘That’s what the girls think,’ said Dorcas. ‘But I don’t think that would be enough. Not enough to make a mother do such a dreadful thing, do you?’

‘You have a different theory?’ he enquired gently. The question of mothers would always be a tricky one with Dorcas, deserted practically at birth by her own.

‘Yes. See what you think. There’s a girl in the village . . . No! Don’t shudder in that showy way!’ she said crossly. ‘All right – I know I exaggerate sometimes . . . occasionally I lie. But I always know that I’m not deceiving you or I wouldn’t do it. This is a true story, so listen! Have you seen Cora with the red hair who works in the chemist’s? No? Well she was a very pretty girl but she’s never married. When she was just old enough she went to Godalming to do her bit for the war effort. The gaffer in the factory she was sent to was a no-good. She came home pregnant and only when the baby was born did she tell her father what had happened. She’d been raped. It’s a good family. The mother wanted to bring the child up as her own and the father went straight off to Godalming and beat the man nearly to death. They arrested Cora’s dad and he was up on a charge of GBH. They put him away for five years’ hard labour.’

‘A sad story. And not uncommon,’ said Joe quietly.

‘It got sadder. When the baby was born they kept trying to persuade her to feed it. She wouldn’t. Wouldn’t even look at it. It kept howling with hunger and then it suddenly went quiet. When her mother ran upstairs to see if all was well, Cora was lying in bed just staring and the baby was by her side. Not breathing. It was dead. She tried to explain to the doctor who came that she hated the baby and couldn’t bear to touch it.’

‘Terrible tale. Were there repercussions for poor Cora? I’m afraid she could have been facing a murder charge.’

‘There would have been but it was all hushed up. So hushed that nobody speaks of it outside the village.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘But the doctor is very highly respected. You often hear them say, “I’d give my right arm for that man! He’s a champion feller.” But the point is, Joe, if Albert’s mother treated him as she did, don’t you think there may have been a sinister reason for this? Vulnerable young girl attacked by stranger passing through? She might well, like Cora, have secretly hated the child. But that’s not something a woman could ever confess to. She disguised the nastiness for our benefit.’

‘She was spinning us a tale, you think?’

‘Yes. She gave us a much more romantic and acceptable version. Well, it certainly captured your sympathy, didn’t it? Can’t say you weren’t warned! Old Langlois told you – “Don’t fall for her nonsense.” A woman in her situation must get used to lying convincingly. A way of life, I’d have thought. But I’ll tell you what, Joe . . . however dispassionate you might think yourself, you can’t let Thibaud be handed over to her. Can you? He’d be at her mercy! Think of the awful life he would lead.’

Joe spoke sharply in a sudden rush of anger. ‘I’m a foreign policeman passing through. I have no authority, no magic wand. If the French can prove to their satisfaction that this woman is the patient’s mother, that’s it. Nothing I can do. Now, I’m grateful for your insights, Dorcas, never think otherwise, but if you’re going to get so involved with these claimants I think you’d be better kept at a distance. I’ll go by myself to see the Tellancourt family tomorrow morning and leave you behind.’ He glanced at his wrist-watch. ‘Half past one. I think I could probably make that phone call to the doctor now. He should have something for us. But first we’ll go and have a well-earned lunch, shall we? We’re a bit late but I expect they’ll be able to put something together.’

Varimont answered the telephone himself. His staccato tones had the added energy of excitement: ‘Sandilands! Glad you rang. Look – why don’t you come round to my office if you’re free? Soon as you like. Much easier to show you what we’ve found, I think, rather than explain. Oh yes, we have found something. Not much but it could make all the difference, I think you’ll agree.’

Chapter Twelve

‘Didier, my old friend, what more can I say? I beg you . . . No! For God’s sake, what am I saying? I’m your doctor! I order you to stay on the train for another hour. An hour, that’s all – it can’t take longer than that – and go straight through to Paris. Why Reims? The best heart specialists are to be found in Paris and I’m giving you an introduction to the very best. I say again – why Reims?’

‘Calm down, Christophe! You risk an apoplexy and there isn’t another doctor for miles,’ said Didier, comfortably. ‘I’ve heard your advice and I’m truly grateful for it. And I’m glad you’ve called round. I was just going to make myself a mushroom omelette . . . I picked some of those little chanterelles in the forest this morning. And Dorine’s given me a pot of her wild boar pâté . . . it’s about the place somewhere . . . Would you like to join me? Good. In that case, I’ll open a bottle of Hermitage and we’ll have a farewell feast, the two of us.’

‘Didier, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do. Thank you. You assume – rightly – that I can be distracted by the promise of one of your omelettes, but not to the point of forgetting my question! You have not answered my question.’

‘Reims has a reputation for excellence in medicine. I’m sure I shall find someone who can give satisfaction. You know I hate the capital. Four eggs or three?’ He rattled the stove and turned his attention to the frying pan to hide his expression. He did not lie convincingly and Christophe was not easily deceived.

‘Absolute rubbish! No one hates Paris even if he’s on his deathbed. Which you aren’t by a long chalk!’ the doctor added hastily. ‘You’re up to something. Are you going to tell me about it? Look, if you’re doing a fugue – organizing a flight from your daughter and her barn-storming husband – just say so. I can help you. I can put on a grave face, wring my hands and tell them that in no circumstances could I possibly, as your physician, allow you to contemplate a trip across the Atlantic.’

‘I can’t deceive you, Christophe.’ Didier smiled. ‘And I don’t want what could be your last memory of me to be that of a cussed old idiot who didn’t listen to good advice when it was given with care and concern. I have other things to do in Reims.’ He was aware that friendship demanded a less dismissive explanation and added awkwardly: ‘Unexpected. It’s all most unexpected. After all these years of hoping . . . I may find a cardiologist though that is not the main object of my journey – I was just putting up covering fire to distract Paulette. Well, yes, and you! There’s someone I have to look up. An old army chum. I’ve tried for years to trace him but with no success. I’d given up all expectation of seeing him again – had to admit he very probably hadn’t survived that bloody awful business up on the Chemin des Dames in ’17. But I was wrong. I have reason to believe he’s alive and living in Reims.’

The doctor relaxed. ‘Why on earth didn’t you say so? That could all work out very well. You can see your friend – now don’t go and get roaring drunk . . . I absolutely forbid it. One celebratory glass of champagne perhaps? – and then go straight on to Paris. Here, I’ll put this envelope on the mantelpiece. I’m giving you an address and an introduction to an excellent chap.’

‘If God spares me and I have no success in Reims, I’ll go straight there, I promise.’

‘Good. Good. Now tell me where you’ll be staying in Reims.’

‘At the Continental. I thought I’d treat myself to a bit of comfort. I’ve got a tarte tatin to follow if you’re interested. Not for me, of course – but I’ll gladly watch you eat it. A glass of mirabelle with it?’

Left alone after the affectionate farewells and the last-minute advice and repeated instructions, Didier washed the dishes and put them back in their place on the dresser. He glanced around, checking that he’d left everything in good order. Soldierly habits acquired in the trenches had stayed with him. Even at the lowest moment of that degrading episode the men had shaved, cleaned out their billy cans, deloused themselves and maintained their equipment.

Good Lord! Equipment! He was getting forgetful. Time to get this over while he still had his wits. Didier went to his bedroom and pulled a chair over to the wardrobe. He climbed up and felt about under a selection of hats on the top shelf until he found it.

The six shot Lebel army revolver sat easily in his grasp. He’d handled and cleaned it regularly since the end of the war. He wrapped it in a silk scarf and pushed it into the centre of his suitcase, standing ready packed on the chest at the bottom of his bed. He added a box of bullets and closed it with a snap. He was ready. Looking up, he caught his reflection in the dressing-table mirror and drew in his breath, startled by what he saw.

He’d seen the same expression countless times on faces of comrades, an unforgettable blend of terror and resignation.

He was about to go over the top.

Chapter Thirteen

‘Birthmark? Yes, it could be. Or a mark acquired at birth? Not the same thing. Signs of a forceps delivery perhaps? Yes, again, it could be. I’m no expert in this field, you understand. Marks of this sort in the majority of cases fade away with time but they are not unknown in adults, I understand.’

Dr Varimont handed Joe a sheet of paper. ‘Anyway, you shall judge for yourself. I just give evidence. Look, I’ve plotted the position and measurements on this plan of the body The frontal mark is dark purple, the size of a centime piece, no more, and just where you said it might be, to the left of centre. That’s the left as you look at him. It wasn’t easy. Thibaud doesn’t much like being handled – squirms and wriggles like a two-year-old – even though he is familiar with the orderlies who carried out the inspection. I chose the two who’ve had closest contact with him and briefed them to get out their combs and bottles of Sanitol and pretend to be carrying out the usual procedures. Routine calms him.’

‘Exactly as Mademoiselle Desforges described it, this mark,’ said Joe. ‘That would seem to be conclusive, then.’ He struggled to suppress a smile of satisfaction. ‘I’ll convey this to Inspector Bonnefoye as tactfully as I can. Don’t want to tread on toes, I’m sure you’ll understand.’

‘Of course. We ought all of us to have come across this sooner. I can send him a sketch if you like and tell him it’s come up as a matter of routine inspection . . . true enough.’

‘Thank you, Varimont. I would like that. But – am I missing something? Tell me, did you say frontal mark just now? Was that to imply that there is something else?’ asked Joe.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact there was.’ The doctor handed over a second sheet. ‘Difficult to see even if you’re looking for it. A corresponding rear mark. Which is what makes me think it may have been caused by forceps used at birth. It’s faint but it’s there all right. A mother would remember.’

‘But you found no sign of ancient scarring – no signs of physical abuse?’

The doctor shrugged. ‘It’s no baby’s bottom down there but I think you could say – nothing dramatic. Wear and tear consistent with years in the saddle, I’d say. Or years in the trenches – everything from flea bites to shrapnel. He’s as knocked about as any soldier of any of the armies.’

‘Thank you very much, doctor.’ Joe held up the sheets. ‘This could well be a clincher. I say, may I . . .’

‘By all means have them. I’ve had copies made. I’ll send some with a covering note by messenger to Bonnefoye straight away. And good luck with the rest of your enquiries. Do I take it that the field is still open?’

‘Wide open, I’d say. I’m off to see the Tellancourt family tomorrow morning.’

The doctor raised his eyebrows in mock alarm. ‘Family? More like a tribe – a clan,’ he commented. ‘One for all and all for one. Have a care, Sandilands. Tell Bonnefoye you’re going. If you’re not back by midnight he can send out a posse. Not thinking of taking the little girl along, I hope?’

‘No. She’s happy to stay behind at the hotel and catch up with her diary entries, she tells me,’ Joe said. The word ‘happy’ was a polite exaggeration.

‘Take my advice, Sandilands,’ said the doctor, riffling through his file, ‘and make a telephone call to let them know you’re coming. Give ’em a chance to chain up the dog. Farming family . . . busy time of year . . . there’s no guarantee that they’ll be able to parade for you without due notice and you don’t want to have to go hunting about in the fields.’

He scribbled figures on a pad, tore off a sheet and handed it to Joe.

‘They have a telephone?’

‘Not at the farm, no. The first of those numbers will connect you with the town hall. The mayor’s secretary is a Mademoiselle Tellancourt, the cousin of the missing soldier, and the second number is that of the village café. The owner – yes, you’ve guessed! – is also a Tellancourt. The soldier’s uncle. They are all utterly convinced that our Thibaud is their Thomas. And so eager are they to return him to his home before his awful old father expires, they arrived here at the hospital en masse one Sunday when I was off duty and they had our man halfway out through the gate with his head in a bag before someone stepped in – bravely! – to stop them. Good luck. Let me know how you get on.’

Joe braked and pulled off the road on a lift of country overlooking what he took to be the valley where lay the Tellancourt farm. On his journey west and south from Reims he had left the vineyards behind and was now contemplating agricultural land. Mixed farming apparently was going on and with some success. Cereals had been harvested and various animals wandered the fields. A number of fine white charolais cropped the meadow grass under the willows by the river looking for all the world like a scene painted by Corot. The village in the foreground appeared to be in good condition. A squat church with Romanesque nave and transept stoutly shouldering a grey-tiled tower marked the centre. Red roofs of varying ages and states of repair radiated from it and merged into orchards on the outskirts, marking a settlement much larger than he had envisaged.

The church clock of St Céré-sur-Marne was sounding ten as he drove into the village square and Joe made at once for the café. It was a hot day, he had half an hour to spare and a sudden craving for a glass of Alsace beer.

In the dim interior two old men at a table were playing dominoes. They stopped their game to stare at him, hostile and mistrustful. A group of young men, the owners, he presumed of the motor bikes parked proudly outside, were sitting in front of tankards of bière blonde. No point in trying to make a discreet entrance, Joe thought. He marched in with his officer’s swagger, took off his cap and stood surveying the interior with polite greetings all round before deciding to approach the bar. He placed one elbow firmly on the zinc counter and with a crisp, ‘Monsieur!’ caught the barkeeper’s unwilling attention. The man who served him was silent and unfriendly. When he had enjoyed his first two swallows of Fischer, Joe determined to break through his reticence. ‘That was welcome! Fine church you have,’ he said cheerfully, in a voice that included the rest of the clientèle. ‘I must take a closer look at it. The village was lucky to have escaped much of the unpleasantness, I take it?’

No attempt was made to respond to his overture. The barman leaned over the counter and shouted over Joe’s shoulder: ‘Jules! He’s here. Get on over to the farm and tell your pa that the English flic is on his way.’

One of the youths drained his glass and hurried out.

Joe found himself the object of a knowing, mutinous glower. ‘War’s over, mister. Long ago. You’re not wanted around here. You’re not needed. Bugger off home!’

Joe put his beer down carefully and placed a coin beside it. His voice was polite, even pleasant: ‘Only too delighted to bugger off home, my dear chap. Sadly not possible until the English have pulled a few more French chestnuts out of the fire. Once again, it seems you need our help.’ His tone became more confidential: ‘Passed a cemetery on the way here. Chanzy. You know it? Four hundred and six soldiers of my old regiment are buried there. I paused to say a prayer or two. The memorial was interesting. Put up by the French and it says: “In remembrance of the soldiers of the British Army who gave their lives for our freedom.” A very proper sentiment, in the circumstances, don’t you think? I have always been impressed by French good manners.’

The young men stared truculently into their beer but the old domino players began to cackle. One raised his glass of marc and in a defiant voice said, ‘Vivent les Anglais! Arrogant sods but they knew how to fire a rifle!’

The other one raised his glass and added, ‘To the rosbifs! It’s true, Stéphane – you wouldn’t be here pulling pints if they hadn’t stood firm up there near Reims. Pay no heed to him, monsieur, he’s suffered more than most. Can leave you a bit curdled, experiences like he’s had.’

Joe, disarmed by the bluff attempt at good humour, smiled and nodded. Swiftly judging the mood of the company, the barman poured and handed out glasses of marc for everyone and, taking one himself, threw a challenging glance at the visitor. Joe realized he was expected to say something. He raised his glass. ‘To a final end to this bloody war. May we forgive and forget and may the last soldier return safely to his true home.’

‘To a safe return,’ agreed the old men.

‘He’s ours, you know,’ said the barman. ‘My brother’s lad. And we want him back before my brother snuffs it. He’s not in good health. Doctor thinks he won’t last another winter. Lungs. Poison gas did it. He should never have been up there fighting . . . over age . . . but he would go. Didn’t last long. And it’s cutting him up knowing that his son is stuck in a loony bin when he could be back here with his family. We can look after him.’

‘And he has a mother, your nephew?’ Joe asked.

‘My sister-in-law. Yes. Armande. She’s not from these parts. She’s from up north. Normandy. Came to work as lady’s maid up at the château . . . oh, it must have been in 1888 or thereabouts. A right fancy piece! My brother fell for her airs and graces and her blonde hair. She wasn’t the best choice for him but he was always in a rush and no one could tell him anything.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s done well enough.’

‘Grudging sod!’ commented one of the old men. ‘You’ve got to hand it to Armande – she’s faithful. She’s grieved for that boy from the day he . . . went missing . . . And since she’s heard he’s alive and likely to come home again she sits herself by the gate waiting and watching. Says she’s always known her Thomas would come walking home down the lane one day.’

‘And both parents have identified the patient in Reims as their son Thomas?’

‘Of course. We’ve all identified him. Signed statements. Hired a charabanc and we all went up, every last relation, and we all said the same thing: “That’s him. That’s Thomas.”’

‘He was always easy to pick out,’ chimed in the old man. ‘Go on, Andre, tell him!’ And without allowing the more slow-speaking Andre to get a word in, continued: ‘Fair hair. He had this fair hair. And the blue eyes, just like his ma. The other children were more like their father, dark and not so tall. Of course Thomas stood out in the playground and life wasn’t all that easy for him, he looked such a foreigner, but he was always a good-humoured lad – could make anyone laugh – and had a lively punch which was more of a help. We were all fond of the lad . . . the whole village . . . and we want him back where he belongs. It stands out a mile that this chap in Reims is Thomas. Changed of course, been through the mill, jaw bust, anyone can see that, but the main things like his height and his colouring, well, you can’t argue. And,’ he added meaningfully, ‘a mother knows. A mother always knows.’