The Seven Letters Page 13

  ‘Come with me,’ Hat stood up and reached for the keys from the kitchen counter. We went through the wide back door and stepped outside into the garden. The grass was still glistening with rain. She picked her way down the narrow path to the shed as I followed behind.

  ‘Do you know, I completely forgot about the shed until today. Isn’t that ridiculous? I’ve gone through all the rooms and blitzed them. Jon has taken carload after carload to the tip. Then, just today I was looking out at the rain and wondering what I should do next when Sid burst in and began doing laps of the garden, nose to the floor as usual. I suddenly focussed on the shed and realised I hadn’t been in there.’

  She put the key into the lock of the old blistered door and pulled it towards her. It creaked on its hinges and a heavy scent of wet wood, tar and mildew wafted out. There were assorted tools; a very old, unused workbench and a kitchen chair with a red plastic seat. Cobwebs hung from the pitched roof and covered a row of rusted Castrol GTX oil cans. There were the signs that a rat was not too far away, large droppings were scattered everywhere.

  ‘No wonder Sid is sniffing around all the time, it’s a rat he’s after.’

  ‘Well, it will all have to go, I’ll have to set about it this week,’ said Hat with a sigh. ‘But look here, this is what I wanted to show you.’ She pulled a small metal chest out from under the workbench where it had been balanced on an old coffee table. It was either the colour of rust or it was completely rusted. As it turned out it was a bit of both. It was also quite heavy. The padlock on it had been broken and was swinging loose. Hat lifted it on to the workspace with my help. It was about sixteen by twelve inches in size.

  We eased open the lid and the smell of damp paper filled the air. I reached in and pulled out the top document, it was a passport. It was a faded black with a trace of the lion and unicorn on it. Inside, the pages were mouldering. There was a black and white picture of a woman, the image almost spoiled by a ring of damp. She was very pretty and her face was framed by a nineteen forties hairstyle. The name on the cover was Madeleine March.

  ‘That’s Freddy’s mother.’ I handed it to Hat so that she would see it. ‘Funnily enough I got a card in the post from Lucy, Bertie’s housekeeper, giving me that name.’

  The rest of the passport was water damaged, the patterned leaves stuck together. ‘What a shame,’ I said, trying to turn the page but realising that it was falling apart in my hands. There was the faint imprint of a stamp, France to England on fifth September 1944, and another, June 1952 back again. The rest of the pages were blank and so water damaged it was impossible to see anything else.

  ‘Is there a passport for Freddy?’ I asked.

  ‘No, there’s some other stuff, though.’

  I pulled out the next item. It was a small pink booklet almost completely damp. The front cover said Rose in big decorative type, but everything else was water damaged. From the odd words I could see it was in French. As I lifted it over to the dusty surface of the workbench it started to fall apart.

  There was a thin book of English grammar, a checked cream and grey cover, its cream pages listing all the nouns and verbs, then adjectives and so on. Possibly from Freddy’s school days. Wrapped in a black cloth I found a beautiful tortoiseshell comb, the sort women wore in their hair in the twenties and thirties. There were non descript items; a pencil; a cheap white brooch shaped like a shield with alpine flowers on it; various leaflets and an old A to Z with a map of the London Underground on the inside cover. Someone had drawn a ring around Marylebone and Covent Garden stations. There was a small printed piece of paper, like the bottom of a newsletter, with a phone number scrawled on it. Finally, at the very bottom I found a brown manilla envelope; it contained two letters, the paper aged and flimsy. The writing was in French.

  ‘Take them into the house, let’s make another brew,’ Hat suggested. It was unseasonably cold in the shed given that it was mid-July.

  ‘Can I take these bits and bobs?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, of course, I’m sure the family wouldn’t be interested. I’ll check with them about the passport, though.’

  We laid everything out on the kitchen table and I carefully opened up the frail letters. They were so old the paper had absorbed the ink right through and made the blurred writing a pale lilac. Hat put a fresh cup of tea in front of me. ‘How’s your French?’ I asked her.

  ‘Schoolgirl.’ She held the first letter up to the kitchen light. ‘The address is smudged completely, it says a house name, I think, but the word isn’t one I know. The date is 21 March, 1946. The writing is so typically French, those were the days when everyone learnt to write the same way.

  ‘Dear Madeleine, something the town five years ago, this letter something, something. I am so sorry I can give you no further help.’

  She turned the letter first this way then the other.

  ‘I can’t read the next sentence, something about ‘une tragédie terrible et un grand chagrin’ it’s signed Annalise.’

  ‘A terrible tragedy and a what?’ I asked.

  ‘A sorrow, a great sorrow.’ I unfolded the second letter, the paper was the same, from the same pad.

  ‘This one’s worse.’

  The top of the letter was completely illegible, I sighed with the frustration of it. It was like having a jigsaw puzzle with the pieces either damaged or missing, and no lid.

  ‘I presume it’s Dear Madeleine, I can see the I, N and E. ‘I write to tell you that he came back and I was able to tell him you were looking for him. He is very changed, I doubt you would recognise something, something.’ Hat puffed out her cheeks, ‘This is so frustrating!’ ‘If you come in June you can stay with me but I will understand if it’s too difficult. You have a young – that must say boy – young boy and coming back would be très difficile. You know that since that terrible day everyone has changed, I am so glad you were able to do what you did. I think of you all the time. It would have been so different for us all if –’ Hat stopped reading and flipped over the paper. ‘It’s got a second page, this is just the first one. Damn and blast, that’s all there is.’

  I sat staring at the things in front of me. It gave us no clues whatsoever about Freddy’s mother, except that she had an English passport. I sat opposite Hat looking hard at the letters as if I might find something else hidden amongst the blurred words. There was no chance, I’d have to ask Matt.

  ‘If I take these anywhere they will simply fall apart.’ I was thinking aloud.

  ‘Photocopy them, I’ve still got the photocopier in the library.’

  When I left I had the two photocopies, not very clear ones, given the raw material, in a plastic folder. Hat lent me a canvas bag and I stowed the other things. The day was fading into a pink twilight as I walked up the hill to my cottage. I let myself in and Mr C immediately began his campaign for his supper, tail upright, eyes squinting, declaring his undying love for me. I emptied his food into his little fish-shaped bowl and watched as he took careful, gourmet chunks of it and savoured them.

  I unplugged my ipad from where it was charging and checked my emails. The usual job opportunities in the arts were waiting for me, all of them London-based and most of them unpaid. Then there was the latest offer from Amazon Local, several charities begging for money, and a printing firm was having yet another grand sale.

  Then there was one from Matt.

  Hi Connie,

  Glad you can help me out, I’ll send details later of the job. You’ll find it very straightforward, I’m sure. Attached are the hotel’s details. I’ve done the bookings at a hotel near the shoot, very handy, in fact.

  See you on 27th July, if not before.

  Matt

  No kiss, or sign off, just his name. The thought crossed my mind, of course, that this was a work email and bound to be more formal. His company logo and contact numbers were beneath it. I clicke
d on the attachment, it was a confirmation, all very straightforward. Two rooms, four nights, the dates were okay. I scrolled down until I got to the ‘special requests’ box:

  ‘Must be on separate floors.’

  Matt, it transpired, had decided I was a no go, and who could blame him?

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Claudette had been working for Madame Odile for two weeks, settling into the strange routine of the place. German officers would enter during the day, often a small group with excitement writ large in their eyes, but it was in the evenings after ten that the house was full. Perrine always went home then, Marie went to bed and it fell to Claudette to sit by the row of bells, a throwback from when the house was privately owned and decent, when servants kept the place elegant and traditional.

  The women were self-contained in their rooms. They had all kinds of drinks in a multitude of colours, fresh fruit cut into exquisite shapes and plates piled with fresh cream and tiny quenelles of meringue. Macarons, in subtle shades of browns and purples were stored in big glass jars next to nougat and marshmallows. Claudette filled these and dreamt of being allowed to eat them. She had never seen such sweet fancies before. The rooms were all exotic and rich, the drapes and bed coverings the highest quality and the art exquisite. By mutual agreement Perrine cleaned Apollonia’s room and Claudette avoided her as much as possible.

  The bell rang and Claudette felt her heart lurch. She hated being called upstairs, and worse, it was Apollonia. She looked across at Jacques who was reading a newspaper.

  ‘Well, don’t look at me, I’m not going,’ he said. Claudette stood up and brushed down her apron. She had been reading a magazine on Paris couture that had been thrown away in the salon.

  ‘I hate going up when the Boches are here,’ she told him.

  ‘Just go,’ Madame F said as she came out of her bedroom. ‘Stop dithering, girl, and get on with it.’

  Claudette began to climb the stairs from the kitchen, her legs were heavy and tired. She turned and over her shoulder said: ‘I’ll go up to bed after this, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine, they know we’re all finished down here.’

  Claudette half opened the door into the lobby and listened. There was jazz on the gramophone and men speaking German, punctuated by the sound of women laughing. She stole out, trying her best to be unobserved, but as she rounded the corner to go up the stairs she saw that Sophie, Freya and Bella were in the bar with six officers. The men’s uniforms were undone, their collars open. They were drinking steins of frothing beer. The three girls were naked and sitting astride the soldiers’ knees. The stark white of their bodies against the grey green uniforms made the scene look like a marble tableau with the male figures covered in mould. All six were raucous and rowdy, shouting and yelling to one another above the music. Bella and her client stood up and then she bent over, rubbing her bottom into a German’s groin as he slapped her buttocks, his face stupidly drunk. The officer in front held her dangling breasts, large and pendulous, in his hands, his face wildly excited. Claudette was transfixed, willing herself to move, but she had never seen anything like it nor felt anything like it. Her stomach clenched as her whole body seemed to be taken over with a feeling she couldn’t fathom.

  ‘There’s our little virgin,’ shouted Bella above the music. ‘Unsere kleine Jungfrau!’ She was speaking German, her voice condescending and cruel.

  ‘Eine Jungfrau!’ One of the officers pushed past Bella and strode towards Claudette, his boots hard against the marble floor. ‘Virgin,’ he said in French. Claudette felt her insides turn inside out, the man was walking around her as if he was inspecting a horse. ‘So, this is what a virgin looks like in France, nice.’ He lifted Claudette’s chin, his arrogant features cold above the gold and red braid on his lapels.

  ‘Besorg es ihr, Herbert,’ one of the soldiers shouted over Sophie’s head. He had his hands cupped over her breasts and she was licking his ear.

  The man ran his finger up to Claudette’s ear and tugged on it. ‘Give her a good time, yes, I think I will. All Frenchwomen need to be taught a lesson in how to become good whores now that we are here.’ There was a shout of laughter from the bar. Claudette saw that Bella was leaning against the doorjamb her face cold and impassive.

  ‘Maybe a good fuck would do you good, Françoise, eh? Loosen you up a bit?’ she said.

  Claudette felt unable to breathe and stood perfectly still, her skin prickling with perspiration, not knowing what to do next. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said, cursing herself for finally using the word. ‘I have to go to Miss Apollonia, she has sent for me.’ His face broke into a smile, he had yellow teeth, there were fragments of food on his lips.

  ‘Then why didn’t you say, Virgin Girl? I would not dream of Miss Apollonia being let down, I have a date with her myself tonight.’

  Claudette turned and fled, her embarrassment garnering another peal of laughter from the officers. She was shaking, her head down, eyes fixed on the purple carpet, the humiliation and fear hurting deep inside her. Not only had the whores done nothing to help her, their drunken eyes had been uncaring and their slurring voices had egged him on. Her heart was hammering against her rib cage, how was she supposed to handle all that?

  She rounded the corner and was standing in front of Apollonia’s room. She felt breathless, a shiver inching down her. Knocking lightly she hoped she would be told to go away, but she was called in. Apollonia was in bed, her head against the silk pillow, her naked body on top of one of her furs. The German officer was wearing his jacket, nothing else. He was having sex with her, biting at her throat, sucking on her breasts, his tongue licking all over. Apollonia’s hair spilled out behind her, dark and red cascading in waves, its sheen soft in the dull light. Her eyes were fixed hard on Claudette, deep green penetrating shards of spite. The soldier urged himself into her like a mongrel in the street, groaning and gasping. Claudette saw Pollo’s foot was bandaged and, though she refused to give anything away, she was glad, glad that Pollo had suffered, but certain that this new humiliation was her revenge.

  ‘Yes, miss?’ she said as calmly as she could, even though her heart was racing.

  ‘Ah, Françoise.’ Pollo’s eyes widened with amusement at her maid’s compromised situation. ‘Can you pass me that glass of wine?’ It was less than eight inches away from her, on the bedside table. Claudette picked up the glass and passed it to Pollo who put it straight back down without drinking from it.

  ‘You can go now,’ she said with satisfaction written all over her face. Claudette left the room before anything else was asked of her. As she pulled the door closed she heard the German moan and cry out; ‘Ja, Ja, Ja!’

  She hurried up the stairs, her heart hammering, tears brimming in her eyes. She wanted the solitude of her bedroom and an escape from everything. As she rounded the corner to floor five, her head was heavy and she was still looking down. She walked headlong into a German officer who was standing by the lift. He grabbed her arms, preventing her from falling backwards down the stairs.

  ‘Hey, watch where you’re going!’ Unlike most of his compatriots his French accent was impeccable. His jacket hung beautifully from his tall frame, his blonde hair was cut short and lay smoothly against his head. She looked up at him, her face flushed and her breathing ragged.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said immediately, dropping her eyes back to the floor. His boots were highly polished, the spurs on them silver.

  ‘No matter.’ She looked at his face. It was lean with a high bridge to his nose. He was clean-shaven, so different from Yves, Joubert, Jacques. She held his gaze, the eyes were clear grey, the colour of the lake at Vacily in the winter.

  ‘Are you all right? You seem to be shaking.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, I’m very tired; I’m sorry.’ She found herself drawn to look at him again and she could see there was a softness in his face.
He was nothing like the Nazi downstairs in the lobby, his teeth were clean and white for a start. ‘Excuse me,’ she stepped sideways around him. As she glimpsed at him from the stairs he was looking at her, his eyes meeting hers. He was young, mid-twenties no more, a little older than her. She hurried to her bedroom, closed the door and leant against it, her head spinning. She had never seen a man like that before.

  Claudette was up early the next day, her sleep had been fitful. As she arrived in the kitchen she asked Jacques, ‘Why was there a German coming out of the fifth floor?’ Jacques looked at Madame F and then down at the shoes he was cleaning. Neither of them replied. ‘I don’t understand.’ She looked at them both, waiting for an answer.

  ‘He was probably lost.’ Madame F said, concentrating on the dough for the croissants, her arms were up to the elbows in flour. ‘There is coffee on the stove, pour yourself a cup and sit down, you’ll be upset after last night.’

  ‘You heard, then?’

  ‘About that evil man, yes. Madame Odile found out when she came home last night, she is dealing with it,’ said the cook. Her expression was matter of fact. ‘Perrine’s in the salon cleaning, when you’ve had your coffee go and see her.’

  ‘If any one of those Boches gives you trouble tell them I’m your brother,’ said Jacques. ‘I won’t take that kind of shit from them.’ His cheeks were an angry red.

  ‘And what exactly can you do, Jacques?’ Claudette retorted. ‘Stop them, tell them not to bother me, ask them to please not boss us around? I’m sure they’ll listen to you! Maybe you’ve been too long in your sanctuary down here, but they are in charge now. They do exactly what they like and if you give them any reason to, they shoot you.’

  Claudette felt her resolve hardening. She had spent the night tossing and turning thinking about Vacily and her parents, going over and over again in her mind the ramifications of her failure for the Resistance. She would not let Yves down. She drank her coffee watching Jacques over the rim of the bowl.