The Seven Letters Read online

  We were both still heavy with sadness, but having something to occupy our minds was helping enormously. I was at least hitting my bed exhausted at the end of the day and I suspected the same of Hat.

  We had taken a tidal wave approach, working from one end of the four storey rambling Georgian terrace to the other. The kitchen was easy enough, we boxed everything up and the dining room, full of long unused china in cabinets, was soon empty. None of the china was a complete set, there were three or five of everything. The vases and jugs were cracked, the pictures old and faded.

  We were in the library when Hat finally broke down, in her hands a black and white photograph of Freddy as a young man. It was a picture taken for a billposter. The poster had yet to emerge but Hat remembered it, years ago, framed in the downstairs loo. I shuffled across on my knees and gave her a hug. She felt very slight like a bird. She had lost weight over the three weeks.

  She had travelled to the funeral in Ledbury with our friend Jon and I had been worried sick about her from the very second she left. Jon told me later that she was inconsolable and the family had seemed unconcerned, absorbed only in their own problems. The “family”, it transpired, comprised two distant cousins, an ancient aunt and a scattering of hangers on. They had paid no heed to Freddy when he was alive, probably, we supposed, because of his illness but all of them were picking up the scent of the house and what it might be worth, let alone the rest of his estate. They had asked that the funeral be attended only by family and closest friends, because they were worried the press would turn up incognito. Hat and Jon represented us, the town he made his home.

  Hat wiped away a tear. She traced the line of Freddy’s cheek with her little finger as if it might re-connect her to him. ‘I did love him,’ she said, ‘even when he was a beast and believe me, he could be.’ She sniffed.

  ‘I know you did and he’d have been lost without you.’

  ‘He really was the best friend I ever had,’ she told me. There was a wobble in her voice as she said, ‘I’ll miss him like hell.’

  ‘We should do something for him, acknowledge him here where he lived –’

  ‘And died,’ she added. ‘And died.’ Her voice cracked and I rubbed her forearm as reassuringly as I could trying to show her my support.

  ‘Come on, now,’ I said, sitting back on my haunches. ‘Let’s get this finished today and then we’ve only the bedrooms to do, oh, and the bathroom.’

  ‘And his room.’

  ‘We’ve done his bedroom and the guest room.’

  ‘He has – had – another room,’ replied Hat. ‘A fourth bedroom, a box room really, he wrote in there and listened to music. It looks out across the garden, he loved being in that room.’

  ‘Whenever I saw him he was coming out of here, or the kitchen,’ I told her.

  ‘That is strange because he spent all his time up there unless he was in the garden, of course,’ she replied. Then at length she said: ‘I really don’t think I can face his room as well.’

  ‘Hat, don’t worry, I’ll do it. I’ll go through everything and anything I think you would want, whatever it is, I’ll box up for you to go through later.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But I feel awful because we’ve sorted everything out together so far.’

  ‘Hat, it’ll be my pleasure, honestly.’

  ‘I’m going to go and see my sister in Brighton this weekend, I’ll give you the key, would you do it when I’m not here?’

  ‘Of course,’

  ‘Does that make me sound stupid?’

  ‘No.’ The relief on her face was palpable. She was clearly grateful.

  ‘Someday I’ll do you a favour like this,’ she promised.

  ‘Hat, I hope you never have to, it’ll be no trouble at all.’

  At that moment I really believed I was right.

  Chapter Eight

  The main street of the town was empty as she cycled in. Vacily was a linear settlement huddled along each side of a treeless road and from this end she could see right through to the other, and the small church hunkered down behind a low cedar hedge. There was not a person in sight. Shutters to each side of her were closed and locked. The properties of those who had evacuated in the Exodus were always still and quiet, but now the other houses were silent too. She jumped off the bike and left it against a whitewashed wall at the side of the bakery. Cautiously she crossed the passageway to the café. It was a place that was open morning until late at night on most days, but the door was wide open, no one inside. A chair lay on its side blocking the aisle to the bar. Her heart was thumping like a hammer. Biting her lip, she went back outside, scanning the street both right and left; save for an old car and a rusting Citroën van, it was completely empty. At that moment a large, yellow dog wandered across the road further up and as she cycled up to it outside the pharmacy, it regarded her with indifference and carried on sniffing at a pile of horse dung.

  Claudette stopped and listened carefully. She could hear a throb of voices from the market square directly opposite the church. As she drew closer, the hum of conversation was more distinct. The next left hand turn led down to the old well. She parked her bike in the dim shade of the laundry, hiding it from sight. The murmur of conversation was rising, an excitement of voices and the sound of women crying. She walked along the path that skirted the brook; the noisy trickle of water running over the stones was blocking out sounds. She craned her neck to hear. Was she right? Were the voices dying away? Edging round the back of the garage, she trod silently on the sandy forecourt between parked cars and vans. As she drew level with the church, she stayed close to the low hedge until she could see the crowd across the road gathered around the old fountain. There were no Germans to be seen.

  There was a woman kneeling on the floor, Antoinette Gabin. She was grabbing at the dust and gravel, throwing it down in big handfuls in front of her, wailing uncontrollably. There was bright red blood all over her clothes and the features on the right of her face were blurred into a ghastly mess of torn flesh and bruising. Her friends were trying to get her to her feet, attempting to calm her, but she was hysterical. Two old men were talking and arguing angrily, they shoved and pushed at one another.

  As the crowd started to break up, the faces turning towards Claudette were vacant, pale as phantoms, each one in shock. Others covered their faces with their hands, heads shaking, sobbing. At the edge of the crowd, towards the back and talking to bemused friends and neighbours, were her parents. On seeing her, Claudette’s mother’s face brightened visibly and she ran over, arms open wide.

  ‘Claudette, oh Claudette, we had no idea where you were!’ As Francine Bourvil wrapped her arms around her daughter, tears began to flow down her cheeks. ‘Oh, thank the Holy Mother that you are here, thank you, thank you.’ She raised her eyes skywards, hands clasped together in prayer. Claudette looked over her mother’s shoulder at her father; he was shaking violently, stress made his condition far worse.

  ‘Papa?’

  Her father’s expression was a grave warning to her, he held up his hands as a barrier. Without words, he was telling her to go no further, but she let go of her mother’s hand and kept walking. The fountain was blocked and there was no sound of running water. In the middle of it was the pillar of stone topped with a rusty cross that had been bent out of shape over the years. On the side facing Claudette was blood, a spray of it, with rivulets running down and pooling into the still water.

  Behind it, lying on his back with his head turned to her, his clothes wet and body broken, was Vincent Gabin. The front of his blue shirt was deepening into a large circle of ruby red. She looked at the young face, the black curly hair, the elegant line of his jaw and she saw in him the hopes of his parents, the pride of the people of Vacily. Claudette felt a claustrophobic grip of horror inside her, this was what sh
e had been warned about. She looked at Vincent’s face, but the young, honest features were transposed into the face of another man, one who could so easily have been there instead.

  ‘Claudette, child, come away.’ Her father rested his hand on her arm. She turned and buried her head in his jacket. It felt rough against her cheek but deeply comforting. She didn’t cry, tears would not come. She held her father’s jacket, bunching the material in her hand as tightly as she could.

  ‘What happened, Papa?’

  ‘It was terrible, Claudette. They arrived an hour ago, a truck full of them. The whole town, everyone, ran inside. But they knew who they wanted and where they would find him. They went straight to his parents’ house and ransacked it. His mother was screaming, then she stopped, silent, just like that. They grabbed his father and took him into the street. Poor Hubert, he was terrified. Antoinette followed after him, her face bloody. She had blood pouring from her eye and she was holding her hand like this.’ He covered his own eye. He faltered as he carried on and Claudette rubbed his arm, understanding his pain. ‘She tried to run towards him, but a soldier pulled her back. We all watched from behind our shutters because we were shameful, as always, cowards. But what could we do?’ He rubbed his hand across his perspiring brow, shaking his head. ‘They made Hubert march down the street hands behind his head until he was in the middle of town, then they used a loudhailer and called for him, for Vincent. There was no response. I thought he wasn’t even here, maybe not even in town, I prayed, Claudette, I prayed but… I felt absolutely powerless. They were level with our house, your mother and I were watching from the attic window. We’d locked ourselves in there like you told us to.

  ‘The loudhailer started up again telling Gabin to come out, yet still nothing happened. Then one of the soldiers walked towards Hubert and held his rifle up. He was pointing it at his back, pushing the poor man forward into the middle of the road. It was horrendous, like watching one of your own nightmares. I wanted to open the window and shoot him, the soldier, but I don’t have a gun. I don’t have anything. How could I have helped? What use am I?’

  ‘What happened, Papa?’

  ‘They counted to ten, in English, it was bizarre, but now I realise Vincent had English for his medicine. A really clever boy… I can’t believe it.’

  ‘What happened?’ Claudette was becoming impatient, her father’s reliving everything was making him talk more and more slowly.

  ‘I’ll tell you girl,’ said a voice behind her. ‘The boy came out of the café.’ Claudette turned round to see Esther Bonnier, the widow of the Mayor, her long face drawn and old, brown bags under her eyes, a wretched, bitter woman wearing black from head to foot. ‘They pushed Hubert out of the way and when he tried to come back they slammed a rifle butt in his face. Broke his cheekbone, like Antoinette’s. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve done that to her as well. Then they marched that lovely boy down here and did that. They have no shame, no mercy. That is what they did to my man too. In cold blood, cold blood.’ There was a mumble through the crowd. ‘And let that be a lesson to us all!’ She shouted to everyone, a bony finger in the air. Some of the townsfolk were walking away, others stopped and regarded her with pity. ‘We know why they came for him, don’t we, eh? We know it’s what he’s been up to and he’s put us all at risk. All of us! And just for living in the same town. My husband knew all about it, look what happened to him.’

  Martine Cornillion gently led Esther Bonnier away. Other hands reached out to calm her down and reassure her. Claudette could tell that many would have echoed her sentiments, but they said nothing.

  That night, as Claudette stared at the thin vegetable soup and black bread for which her father offered up thanks, she felt something inside her had snapped and was broken beyond repair. It was the knowledge that they could come to her town and commit such a heinous act in cold blood. She knew now that the Nazis were after Yves too. They had found Vincent Gabin and it would not be long before they were back and combing the forest with dogs. Then who next – Joubert or Canet or even herself? She cared nothing for herself, but she feared for the fight, for the Resistance. France was holding on by a thin thread to its very existence, the time had come.

  ‘Mama, Papa, I have something to tell you.’ Claudette straightened her back and took a deep breath. Her mother’s face was wan, she was expecting the worst. Her father mopped his mouth with his napkin, his hands were trembling and his rheumy eyes were sad and lost. ‘I can’t tell you any details, but I am going away. I may be gone for some time.’ Her parents listened in silence. ‘I am leaving on Saturday.’

  ‘Oh, Claudette,’ was all her mother could say. She bit into the back of a white knuckle to stifle a cry, but she made no fuss. Her father had closed his eyes, eyelids creased into thin lines. In the dim light of the tallow candles on the table, he looked very tired and old.

  ‘I’m sorry, Papa, Mama, but it’s what I have to do.’

  Her father leaned across the table, his fingers trembling as they settled on hers.

  ‘We know,’ was all he said, ‘we know.’

  Chapter Nine

  Matt picked me up from my cottage. The Cotswolds sparkled, iridescent greens and ripe yellows stretched across the valleys. In dips between rolling hills and on the ridges around them, ochre stonewalls and Stonesfield slate tiles of hamlets and snug villages nestled into the landscape.

  ‘I’m so glad I suggested this,’ said Matt. ‘I have been cooped up for weeks decorating and working and working and decorating, I must smell like a Dulux dog.’

  I laughed. ‘No, but you do look like one!’ His hair was dishevelled and a heavy fringe tumbled over his forehead, ‘Haven’t you found our barber yet?’

  ‘We have a barber?’

  ‘Yes, along the main street and turn left at the paint shop.’

  ‘We have a paint shop?’

  I laughed again.

  ‘You mean I’ve been driving to the DIY superstore for paint that I could have got in town?’

  ‘Town’s a bit of an exaggeration, if you don’t mind me saying, we’re an extended village really.’

  He grinned. ‘An extended village with a barber and paint shop I don’t know anything about.’

  ‘You do know we have three pubs, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, found those on day one. “Sawdust”, “Posh” and “Posher.” Done all three of them and more than once.’

  I looked at him over my sunglasses.

  ‘We decorators have to eat,’ he replied in his defence.

  We were in his old Discovery and high up in the passenger seat I could see everything, like when I used to ride. The things you can see from a horse open up a new world of private back gardens, swimming pools and old vintage cars under wraps in car ports. I missed those days, but since my break up it was a hobby that was too expensive for me.

  ‘How’s it going with Hat?’

  ‘She’s a bit better, she’s gone to Brighton to stay with her sister for a few days and I’ve promised to do Freddy’s house when she’s away.’

  ‘Do it?’ he asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Sort it out, we’re going through everything. She’s fairly paranoid about throwing something away without knowing. Like birth certificates or old scripts and things like that.’

  ‘Is it going well?’

  ‘It’s going very slowly,’ I replied. ‘He kept everything, a real hoarder. I’m starting on his room today.’

  ‘Room?’ He extended the word into a question. ‘Sounds sinister.’

  ‘Hat wouldn’t even open the door to show me, she says it’s “too him,” where he spent all his time, full of his stuff.’ We turned onto the A361, the remnants of cow parsley and newly flowering rosebay willowherb flashed by and a skein of Canada geese honked alongside, then peeled away. It made us both smile, it really was a beau
tiful day.

  Lunch was easy and relaxed, we chose the same things from the menu. Matt was funny, he had a relaxed manner that reminded me of my father. ‘Why are you staring?’ he asked. ‘Spinach?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have spinach in my teeth?’ he said.

  ‘No, we haven’t even had spinach, you’re paranoid about that aren’t you?’

  ‘A person only stares like that at someone who has something green in their gumline,’ he said.

  I shook my head. ‘I promise you, your teeth are fine, I’ll let you know if…. when, you know.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I was just thinking how much you remind me of my father,’ I said.

  ‘Uh oh.’

  ‘No, he’s lovely. He’s very quiet, but when he says something it’s worth hearing and he’s funny. He’s one of those people who simply enjoys life, he doesn’t let anything get him down.’

  ‘You are very lucky,’ he replied. ‘My father was completely different. My family is very religious, manically so when I was young. No singing, no music except in church and Sunday School from the age of three, all fire and brimstone and getting through this dreadful life, surviving the misery, to get to heaven. It was madness.’

  ‘Wow, and yet you’re so normal.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘That’s reassuring.’

  ‘Was it hard on you being brought up by people like that?’

  ‘Well, we didn’t celebrate Christmas because of its Pagan origins, Sundays were for church and it was three times a day. All that lost time grieves me. At the end of the day, I know now that I was being brainwashed and that I find hard to forgive.’

  ‘So do you resent your parents for it?’

  His face clouded over, suddenly serious. ‘Yes, I do, I was completely trapped. Now, looking back, I realise that all I wanted was freedom to do things, find myself, if that doesn’t sound clichéd. I suppose I wanted Freddy’s life instead, being allowed to be creative; writing or painting, just being allowed to think.’