Текст книги "Time for Silence"

Автор книги: Philippa Carr

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“It’s easy, and he is a good child.”

Marcus then said to Georges, “And you…you’ll be leaving soon, I suppose?”

“As soon as my sister is ready.”

“How is she this morning?”

“More or less the same.”

“I hope it all works out….”

Marcus drank some coffee and ate some of the bread. Miss Carruthers joined us. “It will be wonderful if we can get across the Channel tonight,” she said.

“We’ll try,” said Marcus. “There’ll be troopships coming over, so there may be a little delay. But we’ll make it, never fear….If not tonight, tomorrow.”

“It will be wonderful to be home,” I said.

Then Annabelinda came in.

“Oh, am I late?” she asked.

“Not really,” Marcus assured her. “Just let us say the others were early.”

“How kind you are! I do like people who make excuses for me! Oh, what delicious-looking bread! And coffee, too!”

We chatted for a while and Marcus asked if we could all be ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Then we would set off. We all declared we could be, and he went out to get the car.

But we did not leave in fifteen minutes.

We were assembled in the lounge. Andrée had come down, ready for departure. She smiled at us wanly. We did not like to ask how she was in case she thought the inquiry referred to her abrupt departure from the dining room on the previous night.

We were sitting there rather uneasily when Marcus came in.

“There’s a hitch,” he said. “Something wrong with the vehicle.”

We all looked dismayed, and he smiled his bright smile.

“It can’t be much I’m sure we’ll get it fixed in no time.”

Georges Latour, who was also preparing to leave, said he would go to a garage and get someone to come to the inn.

“That will delay your start,” said Marcus.

“That’s nothing. It won’t take long in the car. I’ll bring someone back. Talk to Andrée while I’m gone.”

“A little delay won’t hurt,” said Marcus. “We may get to the coast in time to board a ferry. If not, there’s tomorrow.”

We sat waiting.

“I am afraid this is delaying you, too,” Miss Carruthers said to Andrée.

She shrugged her shoulders. “It is of no importance,” she said.

“I wonder what is happening at La Pinière,” I said. “Poor Madame Rochère. Whatever is she feeling now?”

“She should have left,” remarked Annabelinda.

“She could not bear to leave her home,” I said. “She spent all her married life there…and then she had the school all those years. It must be terrible for her. But if the Germans come…”

“She will know how to deal with them,” said Annabelinda. “They’ll be terrified of her…as we all were.”

“What nonsense! We were schoolgirls. She will be confronted by a conquering army.”

“Oh, she’ll be all right.”

We waited for about an hour before Georges came back. He looked helpless.

“Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t get anyone. You’ve no idea of the confusion everywhere. They are working on a lot of vehicles they are going to need at any moment. No one had anyone to send.”

“I’ll see if I can discover what is wrong,” said Marcus.

“Do you know much about motors?” asked Georges.

“Not my line really. There is usually a mechanic around.”

“I have a little knowledge,” said Georges. “I might be able to see what’s wrong. I’ll have a try.”

They went out.

Edouard had awakened and was taking stock of us all. I took him onto my lap and he gripped my coat and kept hold of it as though to ensure that I did not leave him. Apart from that, he seemed quite undisturbed.

Andrée was talking a little now. She said that she must not stand in Georges’s way. He had always been keen to join the army. She thought they would be eager to take him now. They would want as many men as they could get.

“I shall have to go to my aunt in England,” she said. “I suppose I ought to be glad I’ve somewhere to go to. I don’t want Georges to worry about me and he is very worried, but I don’t want to live with my aunt.” She lifted her shoulders. “I do not know how long it will be. This war could go on and on, but I must not be a burden to Georges. Young men do not want their sisters clinging to them. I should like to do some work in England. Do you think that is a possibility? I wouldn’t mind going if I could do something. Georges will be in the army and that will help him…but myself…”

“I daresay there will be all sorts of work for people to do,” said Miss Carruthers. “Wars make work.”

“It is good to be able to talk,” said Andrée. “I feel you understand.”

“What sort of work would you want to do?” I asked.

“Anything. I wouldn’t mind working in a house at first.”

“Do you mean as a servant?”

“I wouldn’t mind. I’d rather do that than go to Aunt Berthe. In any case, I should be doing dusting and cooking with her. Why not do it somewhere else?”

“Then you’ll easily find something,” said Annabelinda.

Andrée had brightened considerably. She looked almost animated.

“Do you…er…know anybody?” she asked.

“We know a lot of people, don’t we, Annabelinda?”

“Oh, yes. Our families do.”

“I’m quite good at looking after babies,” said Andrée. “I’ve always loved them.”

“Oh, then…it shouldn’t be difficult…in London or in the country,” I said.

“If you would help me…”

“But, of course we will, if we can,” said Annabelinda.

“That would be wonderful. I was just thinking…”

We waited for her to go on, but she said, “Oh, no…it would be asking too much.”

“What were you going to say?” asked Miss Carruthers.

“Well…Oh, no, I can’t. You’d think me…Oh, no.”

“Please say it,” I said.

“Well…if I could travel with you…Georges need not come as far as the coast. He could go straight to Paris and find out about joining the army. I need not go to Aunt Berthe. If I could come with you…if you would help me.”

Annabelinda and I exchanged glances. We should arrive home with a baby, a school mistress and a girl who had been a stranger to us on the previous night. It would be a surprise—I might say a shock—for my parents. But these were unusual times and when tragedies overtook people, one must do all one could to help them. I was sure my parents would understand that.

Annabelinda said, “We could, couldn’t we, Lucinda?”

“Yes, I should think so,” I replied. “Yes, you must travel with us. I’ll take you to my home. We don’t know what is happening there. My mother will surely know someone who needs a maid…that’s if you don’t mind what you do.”

“Do you really mean that?” Andrée asked.

“Of course.”

“I hope there won’t be any difficulty in getting you into England,” Miss Carruthers said. “I don’t know what the regulations are. Wartime, you know, and all that.”

Andrée looked alarmed. Then she said, “I have my papers. I was in England only last year, visiting my aunt. It was all right then.”

“The major will be able to make it right, I’m sure,” said Annabelinda.

Andrée was talking excitedly. “Oh, how can I thank you? I feel so much better. I really couldn’t face Aunt Berthe, and there’s poor Georges. If I could come with you, he could go straight to Paris. It would be such a help to us. I just have a feeling that this is going to work out well for us. We both want a complete change. We want to get away from all that…”

Her voice broke, and we all murmured our understanding and sympathy.

While we were talking, Marcus and Georges came in. They were beaming with pleasure.

“It’s done!” cried Marcus. “It’s all right, thanks to Monsieur Latour.”

“I just found the trouble,” said Georges modestly. “I’ve always enjoyed tinkering with cars.”

“So it is all right for us to leave?” asked Miss Carruthers.

“Absolutely,” replied Marcus. “But look at the time! It’s almost noon. I suggest that we all have a meal here at the inn. We should have to stop for food otherwise…on our way. I’ll tell the landlord.”

Andrée Latour said to her brother, “Georges, I have some wonderful news.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“These kind people are going to allow me to travel with them. And, Georges, I am not going to Tante Berthe. Please don’t try to persuade me to. I have made up my mind. They are going to help me find something I could do….”

“Andrée, you must go to Tante Berthe. You have to. It’s the only thing to do.”

“No, no. Listen. Mademoiselle Greenham and Mademoiselle Denver, they will take me to their home. They will find a place for me. I can work where I want to. I will try anything—anything—rather than go to Tante Berthe. So you see, Georges, you need not come with me to the coast. You can go straight to Paris. I couldn’t bear to go to Tante Berthe. Georges…say you are pleased.”

Georges was looking bewildered. I could understand. He would be leaving his sister with strangers. In ordinary circumstances that would have been out of the question, but these were no ordinary circumstances.

“But…I…I’m sure…” he began.

“It’s all so simple,” I put in. “I’ll take her to my home with us. My mother will be very helpful. She always is. My father is a Member of Parliament and there are always people around. They are certain to know someone who wants help in the house.”

But Georges was still looking uneasy and quite bemused.

We ate a good luncheon and talked a great deal.

I fed Edouard, and afterward Andrée took him onto her lap. To my surprise he did not protest.

“What a good little boy he is!” she commented and kissed the top of his head. Edouard grunted in a manner intended to express approval.

The thought occurred to me that Andrée might help with him. We should have to have a nursery for him and we should need someone there.

I felt as though I were living in a dream. Every little detail seemed of the utmost importance. If the car had not broken down, we would have set out early this morning as we had planned; we would have said good-bye to Georges and Andrée and almost certainly would never have seen them again.

How strange life was! One could never be certain what would happen next—particularly in a situation like this.

There was barely room for Andrée in the car, but we managed. Georges followed us along the road in his own car.

We should be together until he branched off for Paris. Andrée took Edouard from me and sang a little song to him:

“Il pleut, il pleut, bergère,

Presse tes blancs moutons.

Allons à la chaumière,

bergère, vite, allons…”

Edouard, who was beginning to fret, watched her mouth closely as she sang, and a beautiful smile spread over his face.

There was no doubt that he liked Andrée.

There was a tearful scene when we parted from Georges. That dream-like quality had returned. Everything that was happening seemed so extraordinary. Andrée, a stranger this time yesterday, was now one of us.

What would happen next, I wondered?

And so we made our way toward the coast.

We reached Calais in the late afternoon and soon learned that there was no hope of a sailing that night, so we put up at an inn close by the harbor. There was an uneasy atmosphere throughout the town. People looked dismayed and bewildered. We were in a country that had recently been plunged into war. The enemy were making rapid progress through Belgium and were almost at the frontier—a feat they had achieved in a matter of days.

What next? was the question on everyone’s lips.

All through the night I could hear the rhythm of the waves as they rose and fell. Tomorrow, I kept saying to myself, I shall be home.

Marcus was in his usual high spirits. The following morning he went off to assess the situation and to make arrangements to get us out of France as quickly as possible.

He was gone some time, and when he returned, he found us all eagerly awaiting him in the parlor. He told us there were difficulties, but he hoped to sort them out before long. The fact was we could not leave immediately.

All through that day we waited, and by nightfall we were still at the inn.

The next day Marcus went off in the early morning again. He said he might be a while, but he was sure we should be able to sail the next day.

I was surprised to discover that people can get to know each other more thoroughly in such circumstances than in months of conventional living.

I was drawn toward Andrée, largely because she had taken to Edouard, and he to her. She appeared to have a knowledge of the needs of babies. When he cried or had a bout of indigestion, she knew how to soothe him. She would rub his stomach, talking to him as she did so. The snatches of French songs that she sang to him always seemed to amuse him.

It was evening. Marcus was still out trying to arrange for us to get on a ferry. We had had dinner and had gone up to the bedroom I shared with Annabelinda and Edouard, who was fast asleep at this time. Annabelinda, Andrée and Miss Carruthers had joined us there.

It was an attic room with a ceiling that sloped almost to the floor on one side, and there was a small window which looked out on the harbor.

We were talking in a rather desultory manner when suddenly the atmosphere changed and it became a time of revelation. I do not know how these things happen. It might have been because we were all uneasy and that gray sea outside seemed like a mighty barrier between us and England, reminding us of the difficulties, mocking us as it beat against the harbor walls, reminding us that we were far from home, that we might be caught up in this war and never cross that sea.

Perhaps I was too fanciful and the others were not thinking along similar lines, but the desire to get close to each other seemed to be with us all, to brush aside that façade we showed to the world and to reveal ourselves as we really were.

Andrée began it. She said, “I feel something of a fraud. It is not the tragedy I have made you think it is for me to be here. I have dreamed and longed to start a new life. I have hoped and prayed that it would come about. Perhaps I prayed too fervently. Perhaps if you believe that something will come to you, if you pray for it night and day, it comes…but not in the way you think…but in God’s way…and you have to pay for it.”

She had our attention, even Annabelinda’s, whose concentration was apt to stray if the subject did not include her.

Andrée looked around the room at each of us in turn. She went on. “Has it occurred to you that people are hardly ever what they seem? We all have our secrets hidden away. If we brought them out…if we showed them…we would not be the people others believe us to be.”

“I daresay you are right,” Miss Carruthers said, “but perhaps it is more comfortable to go on as we are. More pleasant…making life run more smoothly.”

“But sometimes there are occasions when one wants to confess,” said Andrée. “To examine oneself, perhaps…to find out all sorts of things one did not know about oneself.”

“Confession is good for the soul,” said Miss Carruthers. “But perhaps it is better not to make a habit of it.”

“I was thinking of myself,” went on Andrée. “You are all so sorry for me. I lost my home…my parents. ‘What a terrible thing,’ you say. ‘Poor girl! What a tragedy she has gone through.’ But I did not love my home. For a long time I have wanted to get away from it…and my parents. I knew I would never be happy until I did. My father was a farmer…a deeply religious man. There was little laughter in our house. Laughter was a sin. I yearned to get away. I went to my aunt in England. She had married an Englishman. I was to help her when her husband died. It was as bad as being at home. I vowed I would never go back to her. Then you found me upset at Le Cerf. It was going back to her that I was so miserable about…not the death of my parents and the loss of the home I had wanted to leave. I never loved my parents. We had no tenderness from them. I was beginning to think I should never get away unless I ran away. I often contemplated it. And then suddenly…that explosion…the farm destroyed…it was gone. They were gone. And I am free.”

“Well,” said Annabelinda. “We shan’t be sorry for you anymore.”

“That is what I want. I feel free. I feel excited. A new life is opening for me.” She turned to me. “I have you to thank. I can’t tell you what your promise to help me means to me.”

“It is so little,” I said.

“I see that it means a great deal to Andrée,” put in Miss Carruthers. She turned to Andrée. “Well, my dear, you have been frank with us and I admire you for it. You have made me consider my own case.”

It occurred to me then how much she had changed. She was still in a measure the old formidable Miss Carruthers, but a new woman had emerged, the woman who was showing herself to be as vulnerable as the rest of us. She went on. “One cannot go on teaching forever. There comes a time when one has to stop, and then…what is to become of one? For me, there is my cousin, Mary—one might say the counterpart of Andrew’s Aunt Berthe. I was an only child. My father died when I was eight years old, my mother had died soon after my birth. Uncle Bertram, Mary’s father, was in comfortable circumstances. He was my mother’s brother. He helped a good deal. He took over my education, but he never let me forget it. He is dead now, but there is Cousin Mary to remind me of my debt. And you see, there is no one to whom I can go but Cousin Mary. Hers is the only home I have. Holidays, when I have to leave the school, are something I have always dreaded….”

I could not believe I was listening to Miss Carruthers, who had always been so unassailable.

“And now,” said Annabelinda, “you are going to her…and there could be no school for you to return to.”

“That is how life goes,” said Miss Carruthers. “We must needs accept what is meted out to us.”

I think she was already regretting her frankness. I felt a fondness for this new version of our severe mistress, which would have been impossible at school.

I started to tell them about myself.

“I have had a very happy childhood,” I said. “My father is a Member of Parliament. He is often away, and then, of course, when we are in London, he is busy at the Houses of Parliament; and when we are in the country, there is constituency business. My mother and I have been very close to each other all my life. She is the most understanding person I know.”

“How lucky you are!” said Andrée.

“I have always known it. I think she is a particularly wonderful person, because she suffered a terrible tragedy when she was young. Her father, of whom she was very fond, was shot dead when she was with him. He was on his way to the Houses of Parliament, and she was saying goodbye to him as he got into his carriage. She saw the man who did it, and it was her evidence that convicted him. He was an Irish terrorist, and it had something to do with Mr. Gladstone’s Home Rule Bill, which my grandfather was opposing. It took her a long time to get over it; she married and that went wrong. But eventually she and my father were married.”

“And lived happily ever after,” added Annabelinda.

“Well, they did,” I said. “They had always loved each other, but all those terrible things happened…not only to my mother but to my father, too. He was missing at one time. They thought he was dead. That’s quite a story.”

“Do tell us,” said Andrée.

“I don’t really know what it was all about. They don’t talk of it much. But it was when they thought he was dead that my mother married this other man. One day I think she will tell me more about it.”

“What an exciting time she must have had,” said Annabelinda.

“Excitement is not always a happy state, Annabelinda,” remarked Miss Carruthers. “You learn as you go through life that there are events which are exciting to anticipate, amusing and entertaining to relate after they have happened, but extremely uncomfortable when they are in progress.”

“Now it’s your turn,” said Andrée to Annabelinda.

“Oh, my mother is a beauty. She’s had an exciting life. She lived in Australia for a time. When she came back to England she married Sir Robert Denver. I’ve got a brother, too. He’s Robert, after my father. He’s nice but rather dull.”

“He’s not dull,” I protested. “He’s just…good.”

“Oh, well…”

“Why should good people be called dull?” I demanded hotly. “I think they are a whole lot nicer than selfish people…and more interesting. Robert is one of the nicest people I know.”

“And she knows so many,” mocked Annabelinda.

“You ought to be proud of him,” I said.

Annabelinda grinned. “Robert,” she said, “is very fond of Lucinda. That’s why she likes him so much.”

Before I could speak, Andrée said, “This is like a confessional. Why is it that we all have the urge to lay bare our souls tonight?”

“It’s rather fun,” said Annabelinda. She caught my eye and grinned at me. She had told us nothing about herself. Her secrets were too dangerous to be divulged.

“I know what it is,” said Miss Carruthers. “It is the uncertainty of our lives. We are waiting…listening to the waves. There is a wind blowing up. Shall we ever be able to get away? It is at such times that people feel the urge to reveal themselves…to show themselves to the world as they really are.”

I believed there was some truth in that, but Annabelinda would never reveal her weaknesses.

At that moment Edouard woke up and began to cry.

Andrée immediately soothed him, and Annabelinda said, “Marcus will have arranged something. It won’t be long now before we are home.”

We spent another night in that inn, and in the early morning of the following day we boarded a Channel ferry. At last we were on the way home. Marcus had made it possible.

I sat on deck in the semidarkness, holding Edouard on my lap. Andrée was beside me.

“I don’t know what we should have done without you,” I said to her. “I know so little about the needs of children.”

“You learn quickly,” she said. “It comes naturally to some of us. I don’t know what I could have done without you. When I think of how you have helped me…”

“We must all help each other at times like this,” I replied.

Annabelinda was close by with Marcus Merrivale and Miss Carruthers. I felt very comforted to watch them.

How silent it was! There was a coolish breeze sweeping over the sea. We were all tired but too keyed up to think of sleep.

When I shut my eyes I could see the remains of the cottage. I could see Marguerite’s appealing eyes. And I knew that was something I should never forget.

I looked across at Marcus Merrivale. His task was nearly over now. He would deposit us at my parents’ house and then report to Uncle Gerald. Mission accomplished!

I smiled. What a fine man he was. What a hero! Not once had I seen him in the least perturbed. He had accepted everything with something like jaunty nonchalance and a certain belief that he would be able to overcome all difficulties. And he had.

We shall see him again, I assured myself. My parents would want to thank him, and he was, after all, a friend of Uncle Gerald’s.

That thought gave me a certain, warm comfort.

And then in the dawn light, I saw the outline of the white cliffs.

We had come safely home.