Good Hope Road: A Novel (55 page)

We search the sky for signs of our guns openin’ fire, waitin’ for the Boche plane to be downed. Now, anytime now, our guns goin’ to get into position, shoot the
salaud
down.

It only static we hear, cracklin’ down the telephone line.

The Boche plane make a slow circle past the church, cruise over the length of the town, away, behind a hill.

‘He ran away!’ the kid whoop.

We don’t say nothin’ to correct him. That pilot, he ain’t gone nowhere, not so soon, he ain’t. James grab the telephone from the operator, pressin’ it to his ear. Still just static. He scan the sky, mouth tight. There, them twinklin’, shinin’ wings as the plane turn from around the hill, headin’ back towards us.

‘
Restez en bas
,’ James say tightly to the kid. Stay down.

The whine, the high-pitched whistlin’; Gaston start to bark as the first of the shells slam into the church.

It clear pretty soon that this ain’t the one or two, itty-bitty, How Dee Do things the Boche been sendin’ our way these past couple of weeks. This here the real thing, a right powerful shellin’ of the village. That plane, it keep on circlin’ above us, the pilot radioin’ in the targets. The shells come singin’ over, smashin’ the houses into nothin’, stone, brick and tile crumblin’ into dust. Gaston, he got the shakes real bad, he barkin’ his head off at the noise. The kid’s eyes are wide with fright; he tryin’ his best not to show it as he hug the cayoodle close.

‘Courage!’ I yell into his ear, and he nod, tryin’ to smile.

James bent in the dirt, a finger in one ear, the telephone pressed to the other as he yell down the line to headquarters. He slam down the receiver, eyes fixed on that plane we can still see flyin’ above the smoke. ‘Bastard!’

We hunker down, Gaston barkin’, whinin’, shakin’, goin’ boo coo crazy as the shells fall, and all the while, that plane, it fly calmly above. Impossible to tell from here how much damage being done, or where the rest of the battalion is. Previous instructions from headquarters been real clear: ‘Stay down, stay out of sight during a bombardment, do not give away your positions.’

We there a long while before them shells finally slow, their devil songs fadin’.

Gaston finally go quiet, but he shiverin’ from nose to tail. Now there just one or two shells at a time, and even that slow until there silence. The sort of silence that follow a shellin’, a thin, metallic quiet, coloured the same silver as that Boche plane still circlin’ above the smoke.

We gettin’ to our feet, takin’ count of ourselves, dustin’ off our weapons and readyin’ for a ground attack, when Gaston, he pull free from Henri’s grasp. Leapin’ up the slope of the trench, he go racin’ through the smoke-filled village, makin’ for the only safety he know, runnin’ fast as he can back to the chateau.

Before anyone can react, the kid take off after him.

‘Henri,
non
!’ I jump up to go after them. James yank hard on my rifle strap, spinnin’ me around.

‘No.’

‘We gotta get them back.’

We shoutin’ at each other, tryin’ to hear above our still vibratin’ ears.

He shake his head, eyes fixed on the kid as he run up the street. ‘No. The shelling’s stopped. They’ll be better off inside than out here when the ground attack begins.’

Our eyes still followin’ the kid, with Gaston just ahead of him. The cayoodle beginnin’ to slow on account of his leg, but he chargin’ forward all the same, that gold and silver star in his
fourragère
collar shinin’ through the smoke. The same thought occur to both James and me as we look up at the sky. We watch as the plane turn as it track a winkin’, shinin’ star racin’ through the ruins.

For a long moment, ain’t nothin’ happen. It as if time itself gone slow. Maybe he ain’t seen them, I tell myself. Or maybe he has, but he flyin’ low enough now to see it only a kid, chasin’ his frightened dog. The dust slowly start to settle. The sound of someone coughin’, that plane circlin’ above. Then it come, the slow whistle of a shell. I hear its music, I hear it, and I know where it goin’ to land.

We take off from the trench together, James and I, runnin’ fast as we can towards the chateau. There, straight ahead, the left wing fallen in now, but the rest of the façade still standin’. Closer still, the whine of the shell in our ears. ‘Henri!’ I see Gaston, just disappearin’ inside the doorway and now Henri hear us callin’ his name. He turn to us in the doorway, we so close now, I can see the tear stains on his smoke-blackened cheeks. He a kid, just a little child. He try his best to grin. ‘Gaston,’ he say, just as the shell land.

It a direct hit, perfectly called in. A sick-makin’
thump
, the chateau stand upright for a moment and then it crumble, in a huge outward burst of shrapnel and stone, blowin’ us off our feet.

New York City • December 1940

he Christmas tree towering at the head of the ballroom was ablaze with colour, the red, white and blue theme of the ball replicated in the twinkling lights and glowing balls of plastic that hung from every inch of its branches. Madeleine twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers. Was that a chip in her manicure? She frowned, drawing her hand closer, but it was only the light, skimming her red nail varnish, shimmering from Jim’s mother’s ring. She lifted her finger, a graceful, barely perceptible movement. The diamond sprang alive, turned incandescent and radiated fire. She stared at it, the melancholy she’d been trying to stave off all evening washing over her again.

‘A dance, milady?’ Freddie bowed before her, grinning as he held out a cut-out star.

She shook her head, amused despite herself. ‘Another? Freddie, how many of those
did
you buy?’

‘Well, if you must know,’ he pulled a fistful of stars from his pocket. ‘Let’s see, what have we here – 5, 6 . . . 9 dances lined up with the loveliest woman in the room.’

‘Freddie, Freddie.’ She shook her head again, smiling, and not a little touched. ‘Why ever wouldn’t you go dance with one of the girls over there instead?’ She gestured towards the debutantes and models surrounded by wooing, admiring men. Each girl was a taxi dancer for the evening, wearing, as Madeleine did, a sash over their gowns emblazoned with the words
Dance With Me!
in an elaborate red, blue and white font. The sashes had grown increasingly pinned with stars as the night had progressed. A star for a dollar, a dance for a star, with all the proceeds of the ball going towards the Aid Our Allies Fund.

A choice handful of married women had been tapped for dance duty as well. Madeleine tilted her chin, a hand holding her sash in place as Freddie pinned the star on to her shoulder.

‘Could we sit this one out?’

‘You sat out the last two,’ he pointed out. ‘Besides,’ he waggled his fingers towards the band as they struck up the opening notes of the next song. ‘Hear that? They might be playing especially for you. Come on Cookie, cheer up.’ He held out his hand, and resignedly she took it, following his lead on to the crowded dance floor as the band launched into a rollicking version of ‘Lookie, Lookie, Lookie, here comes Cookie’.

Not yet midnight, and already the ball was shaping up to be an unqualified triumph. Patrons spilled from every corner of the Waldorf, the five-dollar tickets having sold out weeks in advance. All the same, Madeleine felt oddly removed from the gaiety, her gaze drifting about the room as she danced, as if searching for someone who wasn’t there. She registered only marginally the glitter of jewels, the well-known faces from celluloid and stage manning the crowded bar, the giant grab bags that dotted the room, filled with donations from the most exclusive stores in New York City.

The massive board that occupied half of one wall was surrounded by guests clamouring for a chance to pin the ’tache on Herr Hitler’s face while women shrieked with laughter from the debunking beds at the other end of the room. A young lovely sat balancing on each wobbly bed, men gladly paying for the privilege of lobbing a ball at it and trying to unseat its occupant from atop her precarious perch.

The entire evening had been months in the planning. Madeleine knew she ought to be pleased with its obvious success. Her eyes rested on the Christmas tree again. It towered over them all, a Norman spruce nearly thirty feet tall, thoroughly bejewelled and adorned into a vast triangle of sparkling, tricolour light.

An image rose unbidden in her mind. Of another tree, decidedly more modest in height, hung with well-worn ornaments, some of which had the glitter rubbed from them and were chipped here and there from the years. She could almost hear the orange crackle of the fire in the grate, its sound particularly loud in the winter stillness of the orchard. The scent of pine, slivers of green in the uneven floorboards where so many needles had slipped into the cracks. Christmas carols playing in the background, Jim humming along under his breath as he sat polishing his rifle, glancing now and again out the windows at the snow-bound hills.

She turned her head, fighting the despondency welling inside of her.

‘I can’t believe he wouldn’t come,’ Freddie shouted above the band, leaning in to make himself heard.

She shrugged, forcing a lightness into her voice. ‘It’s only a ball.’

‘Only a ball? This is
the
event of the year, darling! And you helped organise it.’

She shrugged again, nonchalantly. Her feet moved of their own accord to the music. She couldn’t help but picture Jim, however, in full evening dress, cool and commanding by her side, more arresting by far than anyone in the room.

‘No,’ he’d said flatly when she’d broached the subject. ‘You know where I stand.’

‘Couldn’t you make an exception, just for one evening? We wouldn’t have to spend a penny—’

His face tightened. ‘No.’

‘I didn’t mean . . . you know that isn’t what I meant. You don’t have to make a donation of any kind, participate in any of the fundraising. Just come. Be there. With me. It’s one of the biggest events of the season. You don’t have to make it into a political issue, for God’s sake.’

‘It
is
a political issue, it’s nothing
but
a political issue. The “Aid The Allies Fund”? It’s warmongering, plain and simple. No,’ he repeated flatly.

Her voice rose ever so slightly. ‘War, in case you hadn’t noticed, is already upon us.’

‘Upon Europe,’ he corrected.

‘Yes, upon Europe. And soon upon America as well, unless we do something about it.’

‘Warmongering. Meddling in something that’s none of our business. Last I checked, Hitler’s made no move to declare war on America, or have I missed something?’

‘As yet. He hasn’t declared war on us as yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’ She turned away, suddenly exhausted. ‘The ball – I’m going to go – I have to, I’m one of the organisers.’

‘Enjoy yourself,’ he said coolly.

It felt as if they had been at loggerheads for months, ever since war had broken out in earnest in Europe once more. The dissent between them was the same that had rent the entire country in two. On the one hand, there were those who championed active and immediate involvement. Stand alongside Britain and her allies, the interventionists urged. Throw the weight of the United States into the ring, stamp out the scourge of Nazism before it spreads to America’s shores.