Lies Told In Silence (31 page)

Madame Lalonde had died several years ago, as had Gaston and Father Marcel. Doctor Valdane’s daughter had three children. Monsieur Garnier still raised award-winning pigs, although his son was now running their farm.

Perhaps Germaine still lives here
, she mused. Memories of Germaine crowded her thoughts: whispered conversations at the café, Germaine delivering notes from Edward, the funeral for Germaine’s fiancé. They had written a few letters back and forth after she left Beaufort, but when pregnancy took her to Honfleur, she stopped writing.
She’s probably married with lots of children.

In reality, Helene preferred not to acknowledge anyone. Conve
rsation would bring questions she did not want to answer.
Who was I when I lived here? A spoiled girl, a teenager afraid of what war would bring, someone who mourned her grandmother and grew up quickly. A woman in love.

Leaning her head to the right, she could see the church where Father Marcel had presided over his flock. The bishop would have sent another black-frocked man to perform the rituals, inte
rchangeable cogs in a life of faith and hope. For a moment, Helene considered seeking the comfort of confession. The tiny booth with its dark interior, smells of incense and solemn, faceless voice had been mysterious, almost frightening when she was young, but her faith had retreated following the war and Edward’s disappearance.

Can prayer absolve me of secret longing and disloyal thoughts? Which sins would I confess? Lust? Envy? Not adultery
 . . .unless memories are adulterous.
She sipped her coffee to still the sudden surge of sadness rising within her.

* * *

“Yes, everything is fine. I have food, and Papa has a lovely wine cellar.”

Telephoning Paris spoiled her reverie, but she had promised to let Francois know she was safe. Helene hoped her husband would laugh at the mention of the wine cellar. He admired his father-in-law’s choice of wines. Francois did not laugh.

“What about tomorrow?” her husband said.

“Tomorrow’s the ceremony.”
If he can be brusque, so can I
.

“And then . . .”

“I don’t know how long I’ll stay. Perhaps a week. We talked about this before.”

“I know, but I thought . . . oh, never mind what I thought.”

“
Chéri
, don’t be angry. I know I’m being difficult, and I’m sorry. Let’s change the topic. How are the children?”

“They’re fine.”

“Did Daniel complete his history project? It was due today.”

“I have no idea. You coddle him too much. He’d be better off experiencing the consequences of his inattention.”

She knew Francois was being harsh because she had gone away, not because he wanted his son to fail, nevertheless, she held her tongue. No point in making it worse.

“Give them my love,” she said.

Francois did not acknowledge her statement.

“Good-bye,” she said, annoyed at his behaviour.

The telephone went dead.

Chapter 44

July 26, 1936

Nerves jangled as Helene put on and discarded different outfits, fingers
fumbling to fasten and unfasten buttons and zippers, her usual decisiveness having vanished into the day’s looming uncertainties. Newspaper clippings describing the memorial and the ceremony lay on the kitchen table. Ten o’clock was the departure time for buses from Beaufort taking villagers to the memorial.
Hurry
, she told herself, making a quick coffee with a slice of bread and Camembert. She had little appetite.

He won’t recognize me
, she thought, pouting into the mirror as she applied lipstick the colour of unripe cherries and twisted her hair into a loose chignon.
I wore it down when he knew me. Don’t be an idiot, he won’t be there.
She tilted her head left and right to check her appearance one last time, snapped her handbag shut and left the house.

The bus ride took less than forty minutes, a collective intake of breath marking the moment when the monument came i
nto view dominating the ridge, piercing the sky with honour and tribute, heartache and regret. Clouds billowed on either side like sentinels guarding memories of sacrifice. To the northeast, dark hills loomed over the coalfields of Lens, defended by German soldiers during the battle of Vimy Ridge. The Paris newspapers had described how the ridge enabled Germany to command an area of more than ten kilometres in all directions, and to kill more than one hundred thousand French and British in the first two years of war.

Helene shuddered as she
tried to imagine one hundred thousand dead men. Edward was almost one of them. A few centimeters, possibly less, made the difference. She looked across fields that once churned with mud and men, now serene in their greenness, and remembered the nights when she and Jean watched them prepare. The first hour of battle slammed through her mind like a boxer’s fist and for a moment she covered her face with her hands.

The bus let them off some distance away amidst the clamour of crowds, and she was glad to be alone and let her mind roam. Large sections of the field in front of the monument were reserved for dignitaries and returning soldiers, and she tried to make sense of the signs marking different battalions.
How did I ever think I could find him?

Helene stopped suddenly, causing the man behind her to stu
mble and curse.
What if his wife is with him?
She had not imagined Edward bringing his wife, yet all around her were men and women, arms linked together, exclaiming over the memorial and listening to stories. Many faces were streaked with tears. Many looked confused, gazing at forgotten fields and buried memories.

Looking west through a gap in the trees, she saw the bombed out towe
r of Mont-Saint-Éloi, its jagged shell a monument to bravery. Helene swallowed her tears thinking of how often she and Jean had stood near that very hill, watching soldiers prepare for battle. The hill that seemed so high nineteen years ago looked innocent, the land stretching into the distance, dotted with bushes and grazing cows, green grass crisscrossed with golden wheat. Nothing to indicate the punishing punch of war.

Closer to the memorial, lumpy sections marked by wide craters remained fenced with barbed-wire, large signs in French, English and German warning spectators of unexploded bombs. As she looked, Helene imagined thousands of soldiers swarming these very fields with only one objective in mind: taking the ridge. Once again, she turned, north, east, south and west to honour those who
defended her country.

Eventually, she found a spot amongst French women who
volunteered in the hospitals and listened to conversation bubble and sigh. She had the oddest feeling of being alone, as if the crowds were merely scenery bobbing and bending in the breeze, as if the memorial was meant only for her, the central figure of a woman grieving over a fallen soldier symbolizing her own sorrow. Helene bowed her head as she heard the roar of airplanes and the haunting call of bugles.

When the King of England began to speak,
she looked up, surprised at the short, slight figure with a shock of golden hair. Loudspeakers piped his words across the crowd as he spoke in perfect French, thanking them for their sacrifice and the honour of dedicating this land so that Canadian soldiers could rest peacefully on Canadian soil. When he switched to English, she scanned the crowds again.

Thin faces, long faces, plump faces, lined faces, men who once defended her ravaged country, their sorrow mingled with bewi
lderment and a whisper of pride, their stature reflecting the soldiers they once were. Helene’s thoughts left her feeling hollow, as though her insides had been sucked out.

It might have been the stride that she first recognized or pe
rhaps the tight set of the man’s shoulders that caught her attention. Her body tensed as she watched and waited. When the man neared, she could see his broad forehead and straight nose, and she knew. She held his gaze and smiled, overcome by his nearness.

“You came,” she said, feeling the familiar heat stir between them.

“So did you.”

With great difficulty, Helene resisted reaching for him despite the ach
e that billowed inside. He exuded the same calm strength that had first attracted her, the same penetrating gaze that made her feel as if he could touch her soul. The weight he carried made him look more serious, more successful, though he wasn’t in the least bit heavy. A wisp of grey marked his temples, and she longed to smooth his hair, ruffled by the wind. He looked at her with anguish and love.

Tears filled her eyes. “I had to know if you survived,” she said, touching his arm with the tips of two fingers. “Will you come to see me?”

“My wife . . .” The words hit her like a slap and she stepped back. “I don’t . . .” It was clear her question caught him off guard. “I might be able to get away for a few days.”

“A few days.”

Would she risk her marriage for a few days? The time to back away was now. No harm would be done to either of them if she changed her mind now. After all, she had her answer; he was alive. A shivering rush filled her body. Stepping away from him now would only leave her aching for more.

Helene closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she gave Edward a folded piece of paper. “A telephone number. I’m in Beaufort. Do you remember?”

“Yes. Almost every day.” He searched her face. “I have to get back.”

She smiled at him the way she used to, then he turned and walked away. Helene tracked his progress until all she could see was the top of his head next to a woman wearing a red hat. He did not look her way again.

* * *

Exhausted by the day’s emotions, she slipped off her shoes and sank onto a large wicker chair on the porch, holding a glass of wine in one hand and her box of letters in the other. Randomly, she selected letters to read, their sting softened now that she had seen him. Ripe pink faded to pearl, and as dark unfolded, stars graced the sky.

Later, lying in bed, her mind jangled as memories chased memories. Could she resist the lure of being with him?
If I could have resisted, I wouldn’t have come in the first place.
She banished all thoughts of Francois and her children.

At six a.m., bathed and dressed, she sat by the telephone with her second cup of coffee. She had been waiting for almost an hour,
afraid that if she stepped away for even a second, she would miss his call. A book lay open on her lap at the same page as when she had first sat down.

Two short rings startled her. Then another two rings made her jump to answer.

“It’s you
, enfin
.”

“When can I see you?” No pleasantries, just raw demand.

“I’m staying at Tante Camille’s for a week.” Helene had so much to say but knew if she began the dam would overflow.

“My wife . . . my wife is with me. I’ll have to figure out how to get away.”

“I have until Saturday.” Her voice steadied. “Edward, are you sure?” She waited, listening to the crackle and sputter of the telephone line.

“Yes. I’ll let you know when I’ll arrive.”

“
Bon. Adieu, mon chéri
.”

No words could convey the intensity of her desire for him. He would know when they were together. She sat back, amazed at the enormity of what she was about to do. Strangely, instead of guilt, she felt as if embracing the past was meant to be, as if being with Edward, even for a few days, would make her whole again.

Chapter 45

July 27, 1936

She heard the taxi first, a dim buzzing that could be mistaken for a distant tractor, and went to the kitchen window to catch a glimpse through the trees. When the taxi turned up the driveway, pebbles clinked against its metal frame, and the driver slowed to negotiate the sharp turn. The car door creaked open, and still she stood at the window, frozen at the sight of him, so near her body quivered. She glanced at the mirror one last time to see bright lips and flushed cheeks gazing back and opened the door.

He was bare headed, wearing a navy jacket and pleated grey pants; his dark eyes gazing at her with longing. Behind him, the taxi spun off, kicking up a small cloud of dust. He did not move, nor did he smile, and for an instant, Helene hesitated.
He looks nervous
, she thought.

“Darling,” the word slipped off her tongue as if it were som
ething she said every day, “come in.”

When he was inside the house, she did not hesitate and put her arms around his neck, his lean frame contouring hers in a forgotten pattern as they swayed together, their kiss like an unexpected wave knocking her off balance. A deep pulse gathered inside her as she tasted him and felt his desire. When his hand ran down her back to the curve of her hips, Helene’s breath caught in her throat.
She took his hand and led the way upstairs to her grandmother’s bedroom.
Grandmere would understand.

Words were unnecessary. She loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hands over his chest.
It’s thicker than before
. She wound her fingers in his hair and kissed him deeply.
He seems unsure. That’s not how I remember him
.

“Dear God. I can’t believe I found you,” he said.

Helene let go of Edward and unzipped her skirt; it puddled around her feet. She drew her sweater up and over her head then unfastened her bra, standing only inches away from him in nothing but silk underwear. She heard his quick intake of breath and smiled.

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

She pulled him onto the bed and pressed against him. His arm encircled her, lifting her close as she opened herself to him, and they lay still, as if that were enough, one intimate penetration to make up for all their time apart. Then they began to move, like dancers who had once perfected an intricate ballet and still remembered the steps. Thrusting, touching, kissing, stroking, waiting for an explosion they knew would come.

* * *

“Why didn’t you wait?” Edward’s question disturbed her languorous mood.

“I did wait. I waited for months and months, but your letters never came.” She struggled to find the right words. “At first, I wasn’t worried because my father took us to Paris, and I thought it would take time for you to receive my letter with our address. But then weeks went by without hearing from you. I became more and more depressed—so ill the doctor sent me to rest and recover by the seaside. I stayed with my father’s sister.” A brief smile touched her lips, and Edward pulled her close again.

“All that time,” she continued, “I could only imagine you were either dead or you no longer loved me. Both were unbearable. I thought if you were dead, Eric or your captain would have sent word, but no letters ever came.” Helene was overcome with memories. “Last month, I found out what happened. My father intercepted our letters. All of them.” She saw the look of disbelief cross his face and began to cry. “He robbed us of one another. I don’t think I will ever forgive him.”

“Oh, my God. Our letters? What kind of man would do that? For a while, I thought your letters would eventually catch up to me, but they never came. I couldn’t figure out what had happened, and I had no way to see you. I thought your promise meant nothing and you had lied to me. I thought you no longer wanted me. When it was over, I went to Beaufort to find you, but you weren’t there. I couldn’t find anyone who could tell me where you were. I was frantic and angry.” He gripped her arm so hard she knew it would bruise. “Losing you was like losing myself. It took years before I could wake up in the morning and not think of you. Did you know that? Years.”

She traced a finger along his lip. “I’ve always wanted you.” His kiss took her breath away, and she shuddered as he caressed the curve of her hips. A tear trickled down her cheek. Sobbing, she wrapped her arms around him again.

* * *

In the afternoon, they walked through the garden talking only of their tangible surroundings, a yellow hummingbird hovering by the rose bushes, the sound of a bullfrog, a broken swing. They circled the pond, where two adult swans closely guarded seven fuzzy little ones, hissing when Helene and Edward came too close, then strolled along the driveway that wound out to the road.

“How’s your mother?” Edward said.

“Fine. She and Papa spend most of the year in Paris. They come here for August and September.” Helene linked her arm with his. “I don’t want to talk about my father. It makes me furious. Maman knows I’m here.”

Edward raised his eyebrows.

“She doesn’t approve.”

“I thought she liked me.”

“She did. But that’s not the point. She said stirring up old memories is dangerous. Here’s Monsieur Garnier’s house. Do you remember the party that night we met?”

“I remember waiting a very long time to dance with you. For some reason, you went off with Eric, and I kept hoping you wouldn’t like him.”

Helene laughed, remembering a charming man with red hair. “Should we peek into the barn?” she said.

Unlike wartime when few building materials were available, the farmhouse appeared freshly painted and recently enlarged with a wing extending from the side nearest the barn. A wooden bench had been placed beside the front door and framed by a bed of white hydrangeas.

“Won’t they mind?”

Helene shook her head. “I’ll tell them we met here during the war. They’ll think it’s romantic. We French love romance.”

Edward held her hand as they went through the gate and walked along the drive past the house. Unlike the main house, the barn looked in need of repairs, the main doors hanging askew by rusty hinges, a section of roof sagging low, clumps of moss clinging to its wooden shingles.

“It looks smaller than I remember,” Edward said. He kissed her hand. “Let’s go back.”

Their second lovemaking was far more leisurely, passion building slowly as sunlight warmed their naked bodies. Edward brought her to the edge again and again, each time pulling back, allowing the urgency to subside before beginning again.

* * *

“Tell me about your family,” Edward said.

This was the question Helene had feared. She had prepared an answer, one that adjusted the timing of her marriage and the ages of her children. Edward accepted her story without question.

“What about your husband?” he asked.

“He’s a good man. Wounded at Amiens. We’re content.”

“Content,” he said. “I would have imagined something stronger for you than contentment. Does he know you’re here?” She
nodded. “You’re more daring than me.”

“The French have more tolerance for such things.”

Helene knew this was not true. Francois had no tolerance for what she was doing. None at all. He was waiting in Paris for her to regain her senses and raging at her decision to come to Beaufort.

“What about your family?” she said.

Helene watched his face soften as he spoke about a boy called Alex and his ten-year-old daughter, Emily. After telling a few stories, he chuckled as if to himself.

“She’s stubborn and he’s willful.”

Helene laughed. “Sounds like they take after you. And your wife?”

“Ann is the best friend of Eric’s wife.” Edward drew his lips together in a tight line. “I can’t talk to you about her.”

Helene touched his shoulder. “We should get dressed. I’ll make something for us to eat.”

After dinner, he told her where his unit went in the final months of war then spoke of the day it all ended and his duties in Germany with the Army of Occupation. She watched the faraway look in his eyes as he relayed these stories and the occasional grimace that crossed his face.

“We were in Germany for a few months and then went to Belgium. The army had little for us to do; we were in a holding pattern because there weren’t enough ships to take everyone home. I managed to secure a few days leave and hitched a ride to a place not too far from Beaufort with a plan to search for you, or for someone who knew where you were. The house was empty, of course. No one was home at the farm next to you. Germaine had left town. A woman at the café said she thought you had gone to Paris, but there was no time for me to travel there, and I couldn’t risk court martial. So I went back to Belgium.”

“And when did you return to Canada?”

“In May. A very sad day in May.”

* * *

“Shall we go exploring today?” Helene said.

They had awakened late and lingered over breakfast and now were standing together looking out the kitchen window. Edward had his arm around her shoulder.

“You’re in charge,” he said.

“I’ll make us a little picnic. Remember when I used to sneak food from the house?” He nodded. “I wonder if my mother had any inkling that I was meeting you? Of course, she knows now, but she was so preoccupied in those days. Always worried about Guy and Papa and about what might happen to us in Beaufort.”

Helene assembled cheese and fruit and wrapped a baguette in a large napkin to keep it from drying out. She added two bottles of beer and a small package of nuts. When they set out, Edward held the basket in one hand and Helene’s hand in the other. Walking the path to the shepherd’s hut, they stopped to gaze across fields golden with wheat and held hands to jump a tumbling stream. From a distance, the hut looked the same, but as they drew near, Helene saw shutters hanging loose, a roof full of holes and the solid wood door left ajar. They peered inside and were startled when a dove flapped its wings and flew away through the roof.

“Looks like no one uses it anymore,” Edward said.

“Except maybe teenagers. Look at the broken bottles and garbage.”

“We can sit outside like we used to.”

Helene smiled at him. “We used to do more than sit.”

Edward spread a blanket so they
were facing west, where the view was of rolling fields and the red roofs and church spires of small villages. A heavy stillness lay around them, humidity building as the sun peaked.

“It looks peaceful,” he said, stretching his long legs out.

“I always felt protected up here. The war seemed far away, and we were in our own little world. Do you remember the first time we came?” He nodded. “I remember hoping you would kiss me again and wondering how to encourage you. I even asked Germaine.” Her laugh faded and she turned towards him. “I remember the last time, watching you go down the hill until you disappeared.”

“I couldn’t look back,” he said.

“I know.”

A bird trilled three notes, two high and one low, then again, two high and one low. In silence, they watched clouds gather like giant cotton bolls while the sun warmed their bodies and soothing stillness surrounded them.

“We moved a lot after I left.” Edward spoke as if picking up the thread of their earlier conversation. “Earnshaw, Simpson and I trained as many signals units as we could before summer. We knew Germany planned one last big push, and Foch had command, so our efforts were finally coordinated. Sometimes we joined the battlefront, sometimes not. Each time I tried to sleep, I thought of you.” His voice drifted off.

“You kept writing.”

“Mm hmm. It was the only thing that gave me hope. You’ve read them all?”

She nodded. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Helene tried to swallow her pain.
Why, Papa, why?

“And when you went back?”

“I went to England first. Spent four weeks waiting for transport. There were still thousands of troops trying to get home.” He shifted onto his side, and she saw the sadness in his face. “Not good having so many men pent up in a holding camp with nothing to do. I was drunk many nights.”

By then I was married
, she thought,
sleeping with Francois—no, be honest, making love with Francois—and Claire was six months old
. An image of Claire lying between them on the bed, her tiny hand wrapped around Francois’s finger, flashed in her mind. Fatherhood had suited Francois. He knew exactly how to calm Claire’s late-night fussing and ease her into sleep. He also knew how to stroke Helene’s body so that she pulsed with desire.

“When I got home, I spent the first week in my bedroom. I wouldn’t talk to anyone. My parents were so happy I was home, but instead of the son they expected, they got this depressed stranger. It was selfish, but I couldn’t pretend.” He took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Two years later, I met Ann.”

He stopped talking and looked at her, and Helene knew it was time to tell her story. She wondered how much to tell.

“When I didn’t hear from you, Marie was the only person I could really talk to. You never met her, but she was my best friend and still is. We wrote to one another throughout the war. I told her all about you, and she was the one who tried to comfort me as the weeks went by without your letters. Being in Honfleur helped. The doctor gave me a tonic, and my aunt was wonderful. We walked together every day, and gradually, I told her everything. S
he’s an amazing listener . . .”