The Seven Letters Page 3

  Chapter Five

  When I arrived at work the following week Will called me into his goldfish bowl office and straightaway, without any reference to what I’d been through, told me I’d let him down. He and his partner Rod had had a long talk and unfortunately things were going from bad to worse. I knew he had been furious about the meeting and I understood, but I was also filled with inertia. A deep, cavernous emptiness now existed where Freddy once was.

  Eventually, when he’d calmed down and the dust had settled, he asked me if I would go freelance. He was all promises and “we’ll feed you lots of work” and “think of the opportunities.” With that, no ceremony at all, I was given garden leave for a month. They made me sign documents saying I wouldn’t work within a twenty-mile radius of their firm, or for any of their clients “wheresoever” they might be based. At first I was shocked. I hadn’t really seen it happening to me in spite of the grumbling of my colleagues. I was creative and expedient in my work and I put the hours in.

  I made some calls and the signs were that some of my contacts in Oxfordshire needed holiday cover in August and September, it could have been far worse.

  A week later, still in a sort of trance, I was sitting perched precariously on a stile and staring out across the meadow to the railway, watching the horses cropping fresh grass. Previously the field had been sectioned off with a white electric tape, but now their tails swished rhythmically as, heads down, they worked their way steadily towards me up the slope.

  ‘Hi, Connie!’ It was Matt striding down the hill behind me. I was so surprised to see him that as I turned I nearly fell off the stile. ‘Sorry, did I make you jump?’

  ‘Yes, no, it’s just I thought I was on my own.’

  ‘I saw you from the top of the hill, when I came out of the pub, I was having a swift half. I wondered how it’s all been going.’

  I bit on my lip to stop myself getting emotional. ‘It’s not good,’ I told him truthfully.

  ‘Really? I am sorry.’

  ‘I lost my job.’

  He looked genuinely upset. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, that really isn’t good timing for you.’

  I jumped down into the field and turned to face him over the wooden fence. ‘I’m pretty low about it all, it means I’ll be self-employed at the end of July.’

  ‘I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. It’s not easy, especially now we’re all being so austere and all that crap.’

  ‘I know, I might have to chat to you about it, what I should do next. Would you mind?’

  ‘No, not at all, any time. What do you do exactly?’

  ‘Graphic Design, illustration and stuff.’

  ‘As a photographer I see some synergy here.’ He looked genuinely pleased. ‘I’d be happy to help in any way I can.’ He nodded towards the railway. ‘What about all that other stuff, the Freddy thing?’

  ‘It’s horrible, Matt. I’m finding it hard to sleep. I can’t stop myself going over and over it. I see him there climbing over the wall all the time, and Hat – well, she’s a real mess. The family’s solicitor has been in touch and told her she can stay put in the house until it’s sold, but then she has to go. Not that she’s the sort to mind, but it’s hit her hard about Freddy.’

  ‘Poor Hat. It’s a dreadful thing to happen to anyone, but at least she has you.’

  I nodded. I was doing my best but I felt like crumbling too. ‘And everyone else here, they’ve all been really supportive. They all loved having a playwright in the town, even if it was a long time ago.’ I sighed more heavily than I expected to.

  ‘A playwright?’

  ‘Yes, he’s Fredrik March, was, he wrote that one called ‘Documentation’ and the one about the Resistance in France, I can’t remember what it was called.’

  ‘Sortir Par la Mort.’

  ‘That’s it, Exit by Death,’ I replied. ‘I can never remember the title, but then I don’t speak French – well hardly at all. I did a bit of German at school, for all the good it will ever do me.’

  ‘I saw it in Paris and Bath,’ Matt told me. ‘My mother was a French teacher and I was dragged along to anything that might improve my language skills and make me a more cultured person.’

  ‘And did it work?’

  ‘Well, I’m fluent in French, but I wouldn’t say I was all that cultured.’ He smiled and I thought about just how nice he was in a solid and reassuring way. He had eyes that understood. Then I found my thoughts running on to Hat and felt the deep pang of guilt about being so useless. I had talked to her, listened, held her hand, made tea and then more tea, brought her chocolates and little treats from the deli to keep her going, but she was still drained of colour and as shocked as she was that first day. ‘So, I presume you’re fairly free right now?’ Matt interrupted my thoughts.

  ‘I’m helping with the house. Hat’s told them, the family that is, that she’ll oversee the clearance but she’s so low with it all and it’s a mountain of work. The solicitor says they want any scripts or photographs she finds from his writing days, but nothing else. I’m going to give her a hand now that I have nothing better to do.’

  I suddenly felt a wave of emotion rising up inside me, something to do with losing my job and Freddy’s death happening all at once, I expect. Quite without warning the foundations of my life that had been there for so long had been uprooted and changed before I had time to think about the ramifications. To make matters worse, Hat told me the day before that she would be going to live on the coast, with her sister Annette. It was one thing after another and now I was about to lose my closest friend too.

  I must have looked a bit shattered because Matt reached forward and put a hand over mine. I caught his eyes for the briefest second then looked away. He removed his hand and then there was a space, an awkward moment, I should have said something, but I didn’t.

  ‘Why don’t I take you out for lunch?’ He sounded uncertain as if he were treading on eggshells, but he persisted. ‘A friend of mine has bought a pub in Elwell, we could go over there and have a talk about it all. You’ll need feeding up if you are going to be a freelance artist type; the next thing you’ll need is a poorly furnished garret and a cat.’

  ‘I’ve got a cat.’ I told him.

  ‘Right, then you’re on your way.’ His dark brown hair was catching the sun so that there was a thin crescent of gold on the very top of his head. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied.’

  ‘What’s up, have I got something in my teeth?’

  ‘No,’ I told him. ‘But thank you, you’ve just made me smile for the first time in over a week.’

  Chapter Six

  As Claudette cycled along the road through the fields of young crops she saw the unending flatlands of Normandy under a wide blue sky. She cycled past the lake where the familiar pair of white swans drifted, their heads bobbing to alert their young to her presence. The field edges changed from one to another with no strip of land or hedge between them. In these verdant pastures Marc Albert, one of the many farmers who produced food for the Nazis, grew his crops. He wore his arrogance like a badge, head held high whilst the people of Vacily fixed him with venomous stares or ignored him in the most obvious ways. Many of the other farmers had left huge tracts of dusty land abandoned because the price of supplying the invaders was too high.

  It was such a beautiful day and with the sun on her face Claudette could, in other circumstances, have forgotten that there was a war on at all. She cycled up to the junction and stopped, leaning on one leg. The road to her left took her back to the village, but her attention was drawn to the right and the rumbling, throaty roar of the lorry heading towards town. She saw it before its passengers had seen her and her natural instinct was to turn back, but she knew full well that attracting any attention was the worst thing she could do. Instead she began pedalling the bike, even though her nerves t
ook her over so that she had to steady herself with one foot on the road as she took off. She started off again and cycled on towards the lorry.

  The soldiers were sitting with rigid backs in the truck, sharp grey uniforms making them look identical under their helmets, their rifles pointing skywards. Claudette cycled on, fixing her gaze on the horizon and the far off forest at Durcy where she was heading. None of them looked at her, not even the driver. As she drew level with the lorry, immediately before the small humpback bridge over the brook, she forced herself to look ahead and not over her shoulder. She wanted to follow and see them arrive in town, worrying about what they were doing there, but her focus had to be on the line of trees half a mile away.

  She finally looked over her shoulder as she reached the mottled purple shadows beneath overhanging trees. The ribbon of road stretched away from her in each direction, empty. The bike bobbled across the mud and became stuck in the ruts of baked earth. She cursed and lifted it over the bumps and folds in the ground. It was an old bicycle, heavy and angular. She pressed on; leaving it leaning against a tree was not an option. In the woods light streamed down onto the snaking trails to each side. The ferns and wild garlic blended into the sweet scent of spring.

  Claudette took a path that quickly narrowed. Undergrowth scratched her legs and her skirt caught on a long spur of bramble. She winced as a stinging nettle spiked her calf and she angrily swept up a dock leaf to press on to it. Eventually, she reached the familiar fallen tree that blocked the path. She turned left and waited in an open glade. The sun was at its hottest and the forest was yielding layer upon layer of greens. A drift of scent from bluebells was caught on a breeze; she drew it in, loving the familiar reassurance of it. Laying the bike down in the undergrowth she sat with her back against the solidity of a birch tree, her knees drawn up against her chest. She was far too early.

  They had agreed to meet in the woods where they had played as children, where every corridor of trees and sunlit glade was familiar even now. In those days the fallen tree had been a pirate ship or a bridge to another world, the haze of a distant memory drifted through her mind. It seemed so very long ago that the children in the village had been able to play without fear anywhere around Vacily. It had been a long time since all of them had been free from the burden of the occupation.

  The war had barely scarred the town because the residents had given in so easily, being led, as they were, by the Mayor, who had appeased the Germans with his wine, cheese and a promise of his loyalty. The townsfolk had watched, dejected, as he led the Nazi invaders around the streets, his tired suit looking worn against the fine cut of their uniforms. They did not take Monsieur Bonnier seriously, they stood beside him, towering over his rotundity and shining baldpate, but he worked hard at impressing them and pledged his allegiance. In no time at all graffiti appeared on walls and posters were pinned to trees; the image was always the same, him in bed with Hitler. He was marginalised and undermined at every turn.

  When they arrested him, two months later, they had found evidence in the cellars of the town hall that he had been harbouring people. No one knew who it was, possibly a Jewish couple, they whispered, maybe insurgents. The soldiers ransacked his extensive wine cellar, his pride and joy, the very moment he was dragged away. They shot him at six o’clock one Tuesday evening behind the church. His trousers were round his ankles.

  Monsieur Bonnier. Claudette had known him all her life. He had passed sweets to her in Mass; he always had them in his pockets ready to hand them out to all the children. ‘For when it gets boring,’ he would say. He had the gentlest smile and the kindest, most caring heart.

  ‘Are you all right?’ It was Yves. ‘For a moment there I thought you’d died on me.’ She looked up; he was towering above her with the light behind him so that he was a silhouette. He gave her his hand and pulled her up. In the green of the glade he looked like the boy she remembered, hair ruffled, eyes looking for adventure, clothes dirty and dishevelled. He was looking around, scanning the trees and scrub, listening intently. A scrabbling in the bushes made them both start, but the hen pheasant soon dived for cover soundlessly, as if she knew she must make no more noise.

  ‘I was remembering Monsieur Bonnier,’ she told him.

  ‘A very good man,’ he said. ‘We underestimated him and we did him wrong but then we’ve probably got a lot wrong, there are no rules any more.’ He was still holding her hand as he led her across the glade and said; ‘Come this way.’

  ‘The bicycle.’

  ‘It’ll be fine, but we haven’t got long.’ Yves ducked under a low branch, his grip tightening on hers. There was a hollow in the ground, a large semicircle of leaves and tangled bushes, a bomb crater from the first war. He guided her round it then let go of her hand. ‘Through there.’ He pointed to a place where two thickets parted and the floor of the forest became loamy and dark.

  They arrived at an enormous fallen oak, its thick roots splaying out above their heads. Yves glanced around and then stooped down. Pulling away some black earth, he retrieved a small hessian bag, the strings tied loosely together at the neck. He felt inside and produced a leather wallet. There were three documents; the outer one folded around the other two. ‘These are your papers and these two are most important,’ He tapped his finger on them. ‘Your Identity Card and Work Permit. Look after them, they are not easily come by and they cannot be replaced.’

  ‘When am I going?’

  ‘Saturday. Tell no one except your parents, and only tell them that you are working elsewhere, do not mention Paris.’ She nodded. ‘You will be working as a maid; your name is Françoise Favelle. The maid who you will be replacing there is leaving; you are the sister of the handyman, Jacques. He’s with us. You will be met at the Gare du Nord by him and he will take you to an address where you will be briefed.’

  ‘How will I know him?’

  ‘He will stand by the tobacco kiosk looking at a newspaper or magazine. Once he sees you, walk behind him and he’ll lead the way. There will be Germans everywhere, try not to make eye contact with anyone. Remember what I have taught you, remember everything.’

  ‘They were on the road, a truck full of them.’ Claudette indicated with her head in the direction of the town. Yves, looked down for a moment, his shoulders rounded like they were heavy with a burden.

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘they are looking for me.’

  Claudette felt her eyes watering, yet her mouth was suddenly dry. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve been called to work for them, they are rounding us all up. That’s why we’re in the forest, but we’ll soon be on the move. Any day now.’

  Claudette felt the rise of breath in her chest being suppressed by the sudden grip of trepidation. ‘You won’t be with me in Paris?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He looked frustrated and he chewed on his bottom lip, she knew he was upset because he was going to let her down.

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘You’ll be looked after, I promise.’

  ‘Giselle has gone, hasn’t she? I haven’t seen her for weeks, no one has.’

  ‘She’s safe, they both are.’

  Claudette saw the adoration in his eyes as always when he talked about his wife. Giselle was from the Auvergne and there was little doubt in the village that he’d moved her back there to be with her parents and the safety of their house up in the hills. Claudette pictured her small face surrounded by her long fair hair and the gentleness that made her so popular. Then there was the baby boy, Louis, a carbon copy of his father, whose christening had been held in the church with the doors locked and only a handful of chosen guests, Claudette had been there. They had shared the few remaining pitchers of cider and a small amount of the tasteless rice bread topped with goat’s cheese that was donated by a local farmer. There was no gateau or fine clothes and now there was another baby on the way.

 
‘I promise you’ll be fine, Claudette, trust me.’ He took her hand and kissed the back of it, as if that would seal his vow, but inside her was a tremor of nerves that already made her start to regret ever getting involved with the Resistance. She took a deep breath and renewed her determination to help, to make a difference. She rolled the documents in readiness for hiding them in her handlebars and, as Yves kissed her on both cheeks, she turned and began to find her way back to the bike. She could feel the mark of his lips on her hand. She touched the place gently with the tips of her fingers then she wiped it on her skirt because from now on she knew she was on her own.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘I can’t do this.’ Hat was resting on her haunches and leaning back against a row of old encyclopaedias, russet red with gold lettering, twenty four of them lined up from A to Z on two low shelves. She looked drained and absolutely exhausted.

  ‘You can,’ I said gently. ‘In your own time, it doesn’t have to be done now.’ I had been helping her sort through everything including the vast collection of books in the library. Old and musty, they reminded me of my childhood. The mottled pages contained secrets, memories and the traces of other people. A smudge here, a blot of yellow there, a smear of dried blood and sometimes a scribbled note, a postcard or a tired bookmark. I find books totally absorbing and so my days of sorting them out had been unhurried and a pile of the unwanted was being transplanted to my cottage each evening. Hat had told me I could have anything I wanted and she paid me at the end of the week. I was at the same time both elated and deeply troubled. Pleased because it was money to live on, upset because it was from her and I would have done this for free.

  At first we’d imagined that a house clearance man would come and ship it all out but it soon became clear that Freddy, a natural hoarder, had kept everything. We were both very concerned that we might let something go, something important and we would never know.