The Seven Letters Page 7

  ‘Sorry, Connie, I thought you’d heard me, I did shout,’ she said. ‘I’ve just got back, the traffic was awful. Did me good, though. How are you getting on?’ She was on the threshold looking at the half-tidied room. ‘Wow, you’ve been busy, I’ll never be able to thank you enough.’

  I explained about the piles on the landing, though others had also emerged “The Review Again” and “Possibly Valuable” stacks were becoming taller as time went by.

  ‘We’ve checked everything.’

  ‘We?’ she said, head cocked to one side like Sid when he’s trying to comprehend humans.

  ‘Matt helped me yesterday, and this morning for a few hours.’ She arched a questioning eyebrow, but I ignored her and carried on. ‘He asked if he could have any photos that aren’t of a personal nature.’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine, it would be nice to think there were some of Freddy’s things in the village.’ Her face dropped a little, her eyes wistful. ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked shaking off the sadness. ‘Or better still, wine, white and cold, straight from the fridge?’

  ‘Ooh, lovely.’ As I stood up my eye caught the brown envelope with Freddy’s letters inside.

  ‘Hat, before you go, what do you make of these?’

  I handed her the two letters. She looked completely dumbfounded and read them both twice. ‘Father?’ she said, quite obviously completely puzzled. She scratched her head. ‘Now that is very confusing. Maybe he was making it up, like a game, using his imagination?’

  ‘That must be it, or perhaps he simply had no address, just wanted to pretend he was sending them.’ She nodded in agreement, her hand touching her cheek the same way Marlene Dietrich was doing in her pose for that photo. That reminded me.

  ‘And this,’ I said, passing it to her. ‘Fancy him knowing her too.’

  ‘Well, he’s never spoken about that, lots of other big names, but not her.’ She touched the surface of the photo gently as if she had once known the actress herself. ‘That really is something.’ Then she turned it over and went very quiet.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. She stared down at the reverse of the picture then handed it to me. On the back, at the bottom was the same handwriting, it said, ‘Von einem traurigen Deutschen zum anderen.’ I knew enough German to translate it. ‘From one sad German to another.’

  Chapter Twelve

  When Claudette opened her eyes the first thing she saw was a pair of black shoes and grey trousers. She sat up with a start, blinking into the light. It was Jacques Favelle. ‘They didn’t train you to sleep lightly, then,’ he said, shaking his head. She pushed herself up, her head heavy and groggy; a line of pain was splitting her skull. It was still furiously hot.

  ‘Is there any more water?’ she asked. Jacques passed her the flask.

  ‘We need to go now,’ he said as he picked up her valise. Struggling to her feet, she slipped on her shoes and straightened out her dress. He nodded towards the window. ‘You need to close that.’ They left as silently as possible, he gently clicked the front door closed behind them.

  ‘Take my arm and smile at me,’ he ordered. ‘Act like you love me.’ Like that they made their way through the back streets, Jacques telling her to memorise each twist and turn. On the corner of one street he stopped and looked around.

  ‘Look like you have something in your shoe, take it off.’ She leaned on him and did as she was bid. ‘See that loose stone in the wall, just below your eye level? You pull that out and the key is behind it, I have one too. I’ll show you where I keep mine later.’

  The house was tall, six storeys at least, some windows were open. From somewhere up above she could hear music, the soft lilting strains of Mozart mixed with café jazz. Jacques put a large key in the lock and opened the door. The smell inside was of polish and the heavy intense scent of the lilies on the reception table. He clicked on the desk lamp and looked around. There was a large room to the right, a bar and sofas, the soft light from behind the bar spilling across the highly polished floor. To the left was a large red leather chesterfield with a cushion placed in the middle of it. The female figure embroidered on the cushion was naked, holding up a chalice, and the words sewn beneath said: ‘Drink From Me.’ To the side of it was a glass door with ‘Salon’ etched into the frosted glass. It was closed.

  ‘This is the main door to the house. There is a back door but we have had it blocked off, and Madame Odile has the only key. It means we are less prone to attack. Even deliveries come through here now.’

  ‘Attack? From the Germans? But I thought –’

  ‘Not from the Nazis, I’m talking about the French. We are not exactly popular, though most people seem to think that this is a gentlemen’s club, what they hate is that we all work for the Hun.’

  Claudette took a deep breath and tried to focus. In front of her was a narrow metal lift shaft, the ornate metal cage inside ready to ascend. ‘You must never use the lift, it’s for clients and ladies only,’ said Jacques. ‘The likes of us must walk.’ He led the way up the stairs. The carpet was a rich deep pile, a dark purple, the walls a pale grey. It took them to lobby after lobby, double doors leading to the rooms on each floor. At each level were stained-glass windows letting in shafts of coloured light that danced on the plain walls.

  ‘What a beautiful place, and this carpet,’ she said, stopping briefly to look at it.

  ‘You won’t think that when you’re cleaning it every Sunday morning,’ grunted Jacques. ‘It will soon become the bane of your life.’

  ‘And there are no back stairs?’ Claudette asked.

  ‘They’ve been blocked off too.’

  On each landing was an oil painting of a nude woman; sensuous, alluring or mischievous, each one of them beautiful and looking down at Claudette, their eyes following her as she climbed the next staircase. The final floor, the sixth, had a single shabby door. Jacques led her through into a narrow corridor with a linoleum floor.

  ‘In here,’ he said, ‘this is your room. The other maid, Marie, sleeps next door. She is not to be trusted, no one is.’ He pushed open the door. It was small, similar to the room in the other place, but there was a ewer and basin on a table under the small window and a rickety chair with a basket weave seat. A woven mat concealed the worn floorboards. The bed was narrow, the striped mattress thin, sheets and blankets were folded on top ready for the bed to be made. ‘Unpack, then wash, smarten yourself up and put on the uniform, here on the back of the door.’ Behind the door was a black dress and white apron, a small frilled cap hanging on top of them both on the hook. ‘When you are ready, come down, and beneath the staircase on the ground floor is a door. I will be down in the kitchen, meet me there.’

  With that he was gone. Claudette looked out of the window, across the street was another building of the same type, a mirror image of her window, but dirty and covered in moss. The street below was not visible.

  She washed her face and arms, then unpacked her coat, her thick woollen skirt and jumper for winter, and her best dress. She wished she had a picture of her mother and father, but it was strictly forbidden. Instead, on the only nail in the wall she hung an embroidered picture of a garden made by her mother.

  She had brought her rosary, her Bible and a copy of Madame Bovary with a pressed flower in it, a marguerite. It reminded her of Vacily and the wild swans on the lake, and of her parents and Yves. A tear brimmed in her eye. Already she did not like Paris, it smelt worn and tired, the rubbish everywhere reeked and there was obviously no food. She wiped it away, took a deep breath and put on the slightly too large uniform.

  When she stepped out of her room there was total silence. The landing was narrow and the paint peeled off the walls. Her feet echoed on the lino as she walked. She opened the door at the end and was once again treading on the purple carpet, her rough, worn shoes making no sound.

  As she arrived at the first floo
r she saw someone coming up the stairs on the other side of the lift shaft. It was too late to turn away, she had been seen. The woman looked up at Claudette, her eyes large and brown. Her skin was like porcelain, the soft milk white of her face framed by a roll of glossy dark hair. She was naked save for a sheer negligee that was completely unfastened. Claudette could not look away, she had never seen anything quite so dazzling, except in paintings and only then in books.

  ‘You are staring,’ said the woman, she was making no effort to cover herself. As she drew level with Claudette, she added, ‘You know it’s rude to stare don’t you?’ The voice was lazy, warm, like melting caramel.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Claudette, looking down at her shoes and in front of them the slim bare feet and red painted toes of the woman: ‘I didn’t expect to see anyone.’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself.’ She reached out and touched Claudette’s cheek with the back of her finger. ‘You have come from the country, I can tell, those cheeks are aflame with sun and fresh air.’ Claudette flushed red as a sting of embarrassment ran through her. She didn’t dare raise her eyes to the woman’s face. ‘I am Lilia. And you are?’

  ‘Cla-Françoise,’ said Claudette, inwardly cursing herself for such a basic error.

  ‘Ah, she has made you change your name,’ said the woman, nodding sagely. Relief flooded through Claudette as she realised the woman was probably one of them, the Resistance. Then she said, ‘They even make the maids sound glamorous here to impress our clients.’ She pulled the wrap around her, it tightened over her breasts, the hardened nipples showing clearly through it. ‘Have you just arrived?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Claudette, she was now more guarded before speaking.

  ‘Come and see me when you’re settled in, I am in the Indian room. If you knock twice and I answer, I am available. You’ll soon learn the routine.’

  With that the woman carried on upstairs, her feet silent on the carpet, hand dragging languidly behind her on the banister. The flesh beneath the negligee was creamy white, flawless. Claudette hurried down to the door beneath the stairs, her shoes beating a retreat on the shiny tiles.

  Jacques was in the kitchen. He was cleaning a rifle, poking a cleaning rod into the barrel then looking down into it to see if it was clear.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, almost verging on a friendly welcome. ‘There you are. There is an apple and some Brie there on the table for you, and a glass of wine.’ He also had a glass beside him on a small table at his elbow.

  ‘Brie and an apple? Wine?’ Claudette couldn’t believe her eyes. The fruit was large and yellow and the Brie was starting to ooze across the plate. She fell on it, she had not seen food like this since before Christmas. The juice of the apple ran down the sides of her mouth, she caught it with the end of her index finger and sucked on it so as to waste nothing. Jacques Favelle was watching her, his eyelid drooping. She ignored him and turned away to look around the kitchen. It was the best she’d ever seen, a big range, a wealth of cupboards and working surfaces. Shining copper pans hung on the walls and a big pine table in the middle was scrubbed to within an inch of its life. The windows were barred so that the light fell in slats from the street above. There was a lazy, far away, clip clop of horses’ hooves when she listened, but no other sound was detectable.

  ‘It’s like a sanctuary down here,’ said Jacques. He had returned to servicing his gun. ‘But I don’t ever kid myself there is not someone listening somewhere.’ He nodded towards a pipe. ‘People have been known to hear on the floor above through that sort of thing.’

  Claudette carved a slice of Brie and forked it into her mouth. Its rind felt like velvet. ‘How on earth do you get this?’

  ‘The Boches, they make sure we get anything we need, on condition it never leaves the house.’ He indicated above with his eyes. ‘Though I’m certain it does. The girls will often go without to send food to their families.’

  ‘I met one, Lilia,’ said Claudette. ‘She caught me unawares, on the stairs.’

  ‘Naked?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘She’s probably high too,’ said Jacques. ‘That’s something else they get easily enough, though Lilia is the worst, she’s hooked.’ There was a moment of silence, as she studied him. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said out of the blue. ‘If that’s what you’re thinking, I need a clear head to do what needs doing here.’

  Claudette was wondering why he was so quick to protest his innocence. ‘How did you manage to keep your rifle? I thought they had all been banned?’ she asked.

  ‘I have it for our protection, they gave us a special license. Nothing is too much trouble for us.’

  ‘Who cooks?’ she asked at length, finishing the cheese and wishing there was more.

  ‘Madame Farine!’ He finally smiled. ‘At least that’s what we called her. She is always covered in flour, has an arse the size of Luxembourg and never stops talking. Her name is Clarice, but we called her Madame F. Marie helps her down here whilst you and the daily maid, Perrine, do upstairs. When Madame F gets back from visiting her sister, who’s unwell, at any time now she will tell you all about your job and then Madame Odile wants to see you at eight. At nine the meal is served and then you make yourself scarce. Sometimes the ladies need errands run for them. Sometimes they ask for a bath to be drawn for their clients, others might need you to clean up before their next client arrives, but the staff all finish at ten thirty.’

  Claudette felt a stretch in her stomach, the nerves twisting inside. ‘You mean I go in, when they are in there…together?’ There was a catch of nerves in her voice.

  ‘Yes, of course you do, and that’s when you observe and watch and listen. Hang up a jacket for the gentlemen, making sure nothing falls out of their pockets.’ He gave her an exaggerated wink of the eye. ‘It’s essential they are comfortable because Madame Odile accepts nothing less.’

  ‘And will they leave me alone, I mean, if I go in?’

  ‘I should hope so, I can’t have a maid who’s breeding or squirming with the clap and needs replacing. Simply show yourself to be willing and helpful, but silent, always silent unless it’s to say yes sir, or no sir.’

  Claudette considered his words for a second, but she couldn’t imagine herself calling any German “sir”. In her mind’s eye she saw Gabin’s face, the blood drenching his shirt and his poor mother on the ground clutching gravel in her hands. She vowed to herself that she would never call them “sir”, ever.

  ‘Here.’ Jacques pointed at the hearth. ‘See that crack under there?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Claudette leaning forward to look at it.

  ‘That is a little hole where I keep the second key I told you about.’

  There was a bang of a door and a large woman came hurriedly down the steps, arrived in a flurry of skirts and a waft of lavender water. She was big, with powerful forearms and a shot silk jacket that winced across her ample bosom.

  ‘Is this her?’ she asked as she looked at Claudette, her nose in the air and her hands on her wide hips.

  ‘Yes Madame F, it’s Françoise, my baby sister.’

  ‘Very baby.’ Her eyebrow raised in Jacque’s direction. ‘Other side of the blanket?’

  ‘Not that we know of, eh, Françoise?’

  Claudette nodded, looking suitably shy.

  Madame F was unfazed. ‘What’s the age difference then?’

  ‘Almost twenty years,’ Jacques replied. ‘A big surprise for my mother.’

  ‘Scrawny,’ Madame F said over her shoulder to him as she stood squarely in front of Claudette. ‘Are you certain she can do this job?’

  ‘I work very hard,’ said Claudette. She was tired of being talked about and quite felt indignant. ‘And I sew too.’

  ‘You sew! Professionally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then thank all that is holy, we h
ave a mountain of sewing since the – ’

  There was a moment of awkwardness until Jacques spoke. ‘Our seamstress was a Jewess.’ Her eyes fleetingly caught those of Jacques, they obviously had a mutual affection for the girl.

  It was Madame F who said: ‘Lovely girl,’ with a regretful sigh. ‘They just took her away, and her whole family with her, in the middle of the night. It was a terrible shock for us all.’ There was a silence as Madame F stared into space, deep in thought.

  ‘What do you need me to do tonight?’ Claudette asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Marie is back late tonight, she is waiting for a package of goods at the station from Berlin, so I need potatoes peeling and then apples and then I need the table set.’

  ‘And she is seeing Madame at eight, don’t forget,’ added Jacques, pointing his rifle at the dresser as if he might shoot a plate. He rubbed a soft cloth over the sight and tried again.

  ‘Marie will be back by then, she can take over.’ With that Madame F began to collect pots and pans together and asked Jacques to bring in the sack of potatoes. Claudette turned an apple round in her hand, it was blushed red, its skin perfect, unblemished. She ran her finger across it, the skin didn’t wrinkle or break.

  ‘Come on now, hurry up, don’t just stand there staring,’ said Madame F. ‘Have you never seen an apple before?’

  ‘Not for a long time,’ said Claudette. ‘Not for a very long time.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  I met Matt in the Posh Pub. He had been meeting with a client, an earnest young man with a round boyish face and smiling eyes. He was leaving as I arrived. ‘He’s all yours,’ he said, holding the door open for me.

  I thanked him and sat down opposite Matt, no kiss hello, I wasn’t ready for anything like that, not yet. I moved the empty pint glass to one side.

  ‘Hi there,’ said Matt as he put his ipad away in his bag. ‘Drink?’

  ‘Half a cider please,’ I replied. The bar was old-fashioned with Old Hooky on tap, but the rest of the room was sage green and cream, unmatched chairs around assorted half wood, half painted pine tables.