The Things We Did for Love Page 3

  ‘Do you want to hit me?’ he asked.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That’s a marked improvement.’

  They sat in silence for a while longer, watching the shadows lengthen across the meadow.

  ‘I’m still cross with you,’ said Arianne. ‘Just so you know.’

  ‘Be careful, or I’ll retract my apology. You were eavesdropping, technically. Also, trespassing.’

  ‘I only came to say hello. And technically, are we trespassing now?’

  ‘Where’s the owner?’

  ‘She went to America at the beginning of the war.’

  ‘Madame Lascande? In America?’

  ‘I know, Sol’s so jealous. So, are we trespassing?’

  ‘If the old lady’s swanned off to America, I think we’ve every right to claim her house as ours.’

  ‘The last time I came, it was all manicured lawns and tea parties.’

  Luc laughed and stretched out beside her.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I was very small.’ She told him about drinking English tea on the terrace, Madame Lascande, the run through the wood and the red dress.

  ‘It sounds idyllic.’

  ‘I suppose it must have been. What were you and your mother arguing over last week when I was eavesdropping?’

  ‘She doesn’t want me to be a hero.’

  ‘Do you want to be a hero?’

  ‘Doesn’t every boy?’

  ‘I don’t know. What will you do?’

  He smiled. ‘Free the world?’

  ‘You could start by freeing my dad.’

  They walked home through the sharp shadows of early evening and did not speak again until they reached the edge of the woods.

  ‘Here we are, then,’ said Luc.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Arianne.

  ‘I'll see you around, I suppose.’

  ‘I suppose you will.’

  *

  She had algebra homework to finish that evening but the figures swam before her on the page. ‘I can’t do this,’ she said at last.

  ‘Do not give up,’ threatened Elodie. ‘You will never get anywhere without mathematics.’

  Where is there to get? Arianne’s retort was cut short by a knock at the back door. Elodie looked at the kitchen clock and frowned.

  ‘It’s almost ten.’

  Arianne peered through the kitchen window. ‘It’s Luc!’

  He didn’t respond to her greeting when she opened the door, but thrust a makeshift parcel into her hands.

  ‘It’s a catapult,’ he said. ‘I was making it, the last time, when we had the fight. It’s taken a while to get it right.’

  He didn’t wait for her to thank him but turned on his heels and vanished into the night. Arianne was still grinning an hour later when she went up to bed.

  iv

  Luc had little time for his peers but he had taken to playing cards in the evening with a group of lads who had fought in 1940 and liked to talk about it when they drank.

  ‘You should spend more time with your own crowd,’ his mother complained. It was a fortnight after his meeting with Arianne in Lascande. They had just finished dinner and he was preparing to go out.

  ‘I don’t have a crowd.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Boys your own age, boys in your class at school.’

  She meant boys who wouldn't take him away from her at night, boys who didn't drink or sleep with their girlfriends, boys who were just that, boys, not young men itching for revenge.

  ‘They don’t get me.’ He drained his water glass and carried his plate to the sink. ‘Don’t wait up, Maman.’

  ‘Just . . .’

  He rolled his eyes, but his face softened when hers contracted with misery. ‘I promise I won’t miss curfew.’

  The Café de la Paix was crowded, as always. This was where most of the villagers drank. The Bar des Sports, down the road, had been more popular before the war but since the Occupation there had been a clear split in the clientele: patriots on the one hand, profiteers on the other, if you believed the rumours. Walking in through a haze of cigarette smoke Luc clocked Father Julien playing dominoes with Mayor Jarvis and a couple of other old fogeys who had lived in the village since the beginning of Time – Gaspard Félix, the butcher, and Plonquet, the mechanic. A man Luc did not know sat at the table behind them, absorbed in a newspaper until Father Julien, spotting Luc, plucked it from his hands.

  ‘Joseph!’ cried Father Julien. ‘Suppose I said I had found your baritone?’

  The man called Joseph retrieved his newspaper with a tranquil smile.

  ‘I should be delighted.’ His voice was rich and deep, a curious mismatch for his small thin frame.

  ‘Me?’ said Luc.

  ‘My boy, this is Joseph Dupont, a welcome addition to our little community since you went away. Joseph is thinking of starting a choral society.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Luc backed away, laughing. ‘I haven’t sung for ages.’

  ‘You always used to. I remember! In the church choir!’

  ‘Used to being the operative words.’

  ‘The ravages of puberty,’ murmured Joseph Dupont. His lips twitched as he tried to suppress a smile.

  ‘Sorry.’ Luc grinned.

  ‘I quite understand,’ said Dupont.

  ‘And that’s it?’ cried Father Julien. ‘You’re not going to press him? For all you know, the boy sings like an angel!’

  ‘Have another drink, Julien,’ said Jarvis, ‘and shut up.’

  ‘Man hath no greater achievement than that of making music,’ grumbled the old priest.

  ‘Which I wouldn’t,’ Luc assured him. ‘Since my voice broke, I sound like a castrated cat.’

  He smiled to himself as he walked through the low-lit bar towards the back, where the younger men sat. He liked Father Julien and the older crowd. His father had played dominoes with them too, sometimes, and taken him along for the ride.

  ‘Watch it!’ A tall, heavyset man cannoned into him on his way out and shoved him roughly aside. ‘Don’t you youngsters ever watch where you’re going?’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ muttered Luc.

  ‘What was that?’ The man curled his lip. His nostrils flared. His nose looked like it had been broken several times. Luc stepped back and held up his hands.

  ‘I’m sorry I bumped into you,’ he murmured.

  ‘Like hell you are,’ said the man.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Luc when he joined the others.

  ‘No one you want to know.’ Thierry Legros, a farmer’s son who had fought in North Africa, poured out a glass of beer from a jug.

  ‘Jo Dulac.’ Thierry’s friend Marc was a mechanic and had served in the Air Force. ‘Nasty piece of work. He’s got a son your age. Rémy. Cripple.’

  ‘Romy,’ corrected Luc. ‘And he’s a year younger than me.’

  ‘Ooooh,’ said Marc’s brother Jérôme. ‘A whole year younger! That must make him, what – twelve?’

  ‘Don’t tease the kid.’ Thierry picked up the deck of cards and began to shuffle. ‘We’re only just starting the game, thanks to our visit from the king of thugs there. What kept you?’

  ‘Father Julien is looking for a baritone.’

  ‘And he asked you? He must be desperate.’ Thierry laughed and began to deal.

  ‘What is it with those people and music?’ mused Marc.

  ‘What people?’

  ‘People like Joseph Dupont.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Marc rolled his eyes and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Oh,’ mumbled Luc. ‘I didn’t think.’

  ‘That’s the problem with kids,’ sighed Marc. ‘They never do.’

  They don’t get me. The phrase Luc had used to his mother about his peers earlier in the evening came back to him as the game started. He looked round the table at these men he admired so much, and told himself that they viewed him as little more than a child, a sort of worshippin
g pet who kept them amused.

  She would understand me. He knew it was true the moment the thought entered his head. He smiled, surprised at the relief of it.

  ‘Penny for them.’ Luc jumped as Thierry nudged him in the ribs.

  ‘I’d put money on a woman,’ said Marc.

  ‘Either that or his Latin homework,’ sniggered Jérôme. Marc roared with laughter.

  ‘It’s not like that!’ said Luc.

  ‘Then what’s with the blushing?’ Jérôme smirked as he picked up his cards. ‘We won’t tell her it’s your first time . . .’

  Luc blushed harder. ‘It’s not . . . I mean I don’t . . . I just . . .’

  ‘Come to the bar with me, kid.’ Thierry was the kindest of the group, the only one Luc dared think of as a friend. ‘Don’t mind them,’ Thierry said as they waited to be served. ‘They’re bored and frustrated.’

  ‘Frustrated?’

  ‘Sitting around on their arses, waiting for the Americans.’

  ‘They could always join the Maquis.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Thierry smiled. ‘They could.’

  ‘I wish I could do something,’ sulked Luc. ‘That would show them all I’m not a child.’

  Thierry’s smile grew wider. ‘Tell me about the girl.’

  ‘There is no girl.’

  ‘My friend, there’s always a girl. Who is she?’

  ‘Arianne Lafayette,’ muttered Luc.

  ‘Nice!’ whistled Thierry. ‘But not easy.’

  ‘I’m not interested in easy!’ protested Luc. ‘Look, she’s not . . . I mean, in the south . . . I mean there were girls, right? Not lots, but more than one . . . This is different. She’s had a hard time. I mean, with her parents and everything.’

  ‘We’ve all had a hard time, my friend. One way or another.’

  ‘I want to make things better for her.’ Suddenly Luc knew exactly what to do. He grabbed Thierry by the sleeve. ‘I need to get hold of some stuff. Can you help?’

  ‘What stuff?’ Thierry frowned as he listened, then started to chuckle.

  ‘I know exactly who you need to talk to,’ he said. ‘Though she probably won’t thank you if she ever finds out.’

  v

  ‘I don’t do fancy goods anymore,’ said Paul. ‘Not since the last time.’

  ‘Come on, mate. It’s for your own sister.’

  The boy seemed to have grown in the few minutes since Luc asked him for help. He had found him oiling rabbit traps at the bottom of his garden with Marie Dupont, and though Paul still sat cross-legged on the ground his back was straighter than it had been before, the tilt of his chin more pronounced.

  ‘But what’s the point?’ he asked.

  ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  Paul sniffed and picked up another trap, then put it down again to unbutton his shirt.

  ‘Look.’ He pushed the fabric away from his shoulder. His right upper arm was vivid with red and purple fingermarks.

  ‘Jesus, Paul! What happened?’

  ‘He got caught,’ murmured Marie. ‘A chocolate delivery to a big house in town. Paul, I don’t think you should do this.’

  Paul shrugged back into his shirt and grinned at Luc. ‘What a waste of time that was. Posh cow I was delivering to never even paid my train fare. Not that I ever buy a ticket.’

  ‘I’d have paid your train fare.’

  ‘Sure you would.’

  ‘I’ve got cash.’

  Paul’s eyes gleamed. ‘How much?’

  ‘Enough to make it worth your while.’

  ‘You promised your sister you would stop,’ said Marie. ‘Actually, you also promised me.’

  ‘It’ll cost you,’ said Paul.

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘If Ari finds out you used me, she’ll never talk to either of us again.’

  ‘I promise she won’t find out.’

  ‘Give me a week.’ Paul had finished polishing his traps, and jumped to his feet. Standing, he looked small again. Luc had a moment of misgiving. ‘If you do anything to upset her,’ said Paul, ‘I will kill you.’

  And so now here he was. Back at Lascande, hiding under the gazebo on the little terrace, trying to calm his unfamiliar nerves as he waited for her.

  There had been two girls in Aix. The first, Marine, was the older sister of a schoolfriend, not long widowed, who took him to bed one afternoon then burst into tears and never spoke to him again. He didn’t remember the second one’s name. He’d gone to her to get Marine out of his head, and left vowing he would never pay for it again. This was different. This was . . . he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Here she was now, standing on the edge of the lawn. A curtain of clematis fell from the wooden beams of the gazebo, hiding him from view. He parted it, just enough to take aim with the catapult he pulled from his pocket. A pebble flew across the grass and landed a couple of metres away from her. He felt a pang of remorse at her scream, then chuckled when she crouched to examine his projectile. The next pebble landed at her feet and this time he heard her laugh.

  ‘You can come out now!’ she called. ‘I’ve got your little game.’

  He didn’t show himself, but watched her pick her way across the overgrown grass towards him. She had changed out of her usual skirt and jersey into a light green dress cinched at the waist with a red belt, and she had pinned up her hair. She looked very confident as she made her way towards him but she hesitated when she reached the clematis. The feeling he couldn’t identify earlier swept over him with renewed force.

  Tenderness.

  ‘I know you’re in there,’ she said, and pushed the curtain of flowers aside.

  A wooden tray, painted white. Rose-patterned china – plates, tea cups and saucers. A matching bowl with cubes of sugar and tongs of filigree silver. Round thin biscuits yellow with butter, slices of lemon, a teapot with steam curling from its spout. He had set it all out on a low table spread with a linen cloth.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What do you think?’

  She dragged her eyes away from the table to look at him. ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘Just as you remembered it?’

  She smiled, hesitantly. ‘The company’s different. No, it’s all right!’ She stretched out her hand. He noticed that it was small and white, and that she bit her nails. ‘I was just saying.’

  ‘In that case . . .’ He jumped to his feet, picked up a plate and held it out with a flourish. ‘Would Mademoiselle care for a biscuit?’

  After tea, they lay on their backs on the lawn.

  ‘I feel a bit sick,’ she confided. ‘I’m not used to sugar any more.’

  ‘Nice, though.’

  ‘Definitely nice. Wherever did you get it all?’

  ‘Just people I know.’

  She propped herself up on one elbow and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘All right.’ Luc grinned. ‘People who know people I know . . .’

  ‘I’m surrounded by bandits.’

  ‘Is that a good thing?’

  ‘As long as they don’t get caught.’

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes, and her neck had gone pink. He jumped to his feet and held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let me show you the rest of the house.’

  vi

  She tried not to stare too obviously as he knelt before her to pick the lock. The back of his neck was brown, softer than the rest of him, with short hair curling on the sides.

  ‘Classic three-lever mortise,’ he boasted. ‘Last time it took me less than two minutes.’

  ‘What is that thing you’re using?’

  ‘Curtain pick.’

  ‘A curtain pick?’

  ‘A bolt thrower, if you prefer.’ He winked. ‘Call it a tool of the trade.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m ready for a life of crime.’

  ‘Sshh . . .’ The ring handle clunked. ‘We’re in!’

  The scullery smelled of mildew. Arianne shivered on the thresh
old.

  ‘Breaking in so easily,’ she said. ‘It could make a girl think.’

  ‘Think what?’

  ‘Think twice.’ She pushed past him into the house.

  She remembered nothing of the scullery or its attendant passageways, which were stone-floored and whitewashed, with doors into larders and pantries, washrooms and store cupboards. ‘It’s not so surprising, though,’ she said. ‘I was very small, and I suppose this is the servants’ part of the house . . .’

  ‘This is where I found the tea things.’ He held open a door into a pantry stacked from floor to ceiling with chinaware.

  ‘Clever of you to pick the right set,’ said Arianne.

  ‘There’s only one with roses.’

  ‘Even so.’

  She picked up a bowl and shook out a handful of mouse droppings.

  ‘Nice,’ said Luc.

  They left the china pantry and pushed through swing doors into the kitchen. The air here smelt sweet. A bunch of herbs had been hung to dry from the massive crossbeam which supported the chimney breast: sage, rosemary, thyme and bay. Arianne buried her nose in it and memories of other meals came back to her, eaten in other houses, before rationing took all the pleasure out of food.

  ‘I’m hungry again,’ she sighed.

  An oak table, scrubbed of colour, occupied the centre of the room. She spotted a dog basket in the far corner with a rug folded over it, and an overstuffed armchair with broken springs. Cooking pans hung from hooks over the range, and a pile of dishcloths sat on the draining board, as if waiting to be put away.

  ‘Are you sure no one lives here?’

  ‘There’s no sign of them if they do.’

  She followed him out of the kitchen. The living room smelt of woodsmoke and beeswax. She flung herself into a dust-sheeted armchair.

  ‘You could make me more tea.’ She grinned. ‘And bring me biscuits.’

  ‘Who are you, the Queen of England?’

  They took the stairs at a run, their wooden soles clattering on the stone steps. Upstairs, an empty corridor ran the length of the house. Its floor, made of the same light stone as the stairs, gleamed in the half-light which streamed through the louvred shutters of the casement windows.

  ‘I’m going to open them,’ announced Luc.