Lies Told In Silence (33 page)

“Why do you think your mother kept them for you? She could have thrown them away.”

“I don’t know.” Claire began to cry. “I wish I could talk to her. I miss her so much.”

“I know,
chérie
. I miss her too.”

Claire wiped her eyes and sniffed. “Papa should have waited longer before telling me.”

“You know your father would never do anything to hurt you.”

“He told me my mother’s philosophy, that parents should give their children the gift of independence. We should live our own dreams, not what our parents dream for us.”

“I’ve never thought about that. It’s a wonderful sentiment.”

“My life would have been utterly different.” Claire put the box on her bedside table and arranged her pillow for sleep. “I wouldn’t have met you. We wouldn’t have our lovely boys.”

“But we do.” Michel turned out the light and settled beside her. “Perhaps it will feel less confusing in the morning.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

Though Michel fell asleep within minutes, Claire remained awake, Edward’s phrases running through her mind, his picture burning bright. Tomorrow, she would open the larger envelope. The one her mother had tied with a ribbon.

* * *

“What are you going to do?” Michel asked the following morning as they dressed.

“Do?” Claire heard a pot banging in the kitchen and wondered what her sons were up to.

“Mm hmm. Will you try to find him?”

“Oh. It’s too soon to think of things like that. I haven’t finished reading them all yet. And there’s an envelope from Maman with instructions to open it last.”

“How extraordinary.”

After dinner, while Michel supervised homework, she finished Edward’s letters, the now familiar handwriting easier to decipher.
He sounds like a good man
, she thought, though earlier she had wanted to feel otherwise. Kind, intelligent, a hint of reserve. Now, only her mother’s envelope remained.

She untied the blue ribbon wrapped around the envelope and carefully extracted the first folded page.

My darling Claire,

If you are reading this, your Papa will have told you the story of your birth. I can only hope that he understood my need to tell you. I wanted to speak to you myself, many times, but feared it would be too upsetting for him.

You must always, always remember how much I love Papa. But before we married, I met a Canadian man named Edward Jamieson, who fought at Vimy Ridge, an important battle of the Great War. He was wounded in that battle and spent time in Beaufort recovering, and that is how we met. Papa is your real father, but Edward is the man who gave you your slender height, your dark hair and your beautiful face. I suspect that he is also the one who gave you your stubbornness, although Papa has his own share of that.

When Edward left the area of Beaufort in March of 1918, we pledged to marry each other. Your grandfather came to Beaufort not long after Edward left and took us back to Paris. You can imagine how worried I was that he would never find me. And this turned out to be true, but not because of Edward. In 1936, I learned that my father interfered with our letters so that I would eventually give up hope.

You will, of course, realize that we were intimate, and our precautions failed. Your grandmother and grandfather wanted me to give you up for adoption. And then a miracle happened, and Papa asked me to marry him.

As I write this, I can see that it sounds almost like a fairy tale. And in some ways it was. Your father was so good to me and loved you the instant he saw you. He treated you as his own from the day you were born.

Chérie
, I know you will be upset by this information, and I am terribly, terribly sorry not to be there to help you understand. Many times I thought I could tell you, but I always held back, and now, with my illness, it is too late. Your father can barely accept that I will soon die. I cannot add to his sadness.

Edward is a kind, generous man. A man of integrity and
strength. He did his duty to his country without question. Ours was a special love, and that love created you. You have given Papa and me such incredible joy. You are a wonderful wife and mother, and you have been my special treasure. The only information I have about Edward is that he lived in Toronto, Canada, with his wife and two children. It is your choice, my darling daughter, whether you try to find him.

I love you, sweetheart, more than I can say. Take care of Papa.

Maman

Claire blinked away the tears and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.
Oh, Maman
, she thought.
How difficult it must have been for you to write about the past. I wish we could have talked. You’ve told me where he lives. Do you want me to find him? Do you think I really have a choice?
Claire twisted her tissue into tiny shreds as she reread her mother’s letter.

“Are you all right?” Michel poked his head into their bedroom.

Claire nodded but said nothing. She had to read her mother’s other letters before she talked to him.

The next letter was from her mother to Edward, telling him about their return to Paris and providing her new address. It implied that she had already written this information and expressed her worries about not hearing from him. And then there were letters from Edward relating the progress of the war, the euphoria when it ended, his duties in the army of occupation. These letters were increasingly desperate, full of pleas for her mother to write. The last letter was written from England, where Edward would soon board a ship to return to Canada. It contained his parents’ address.

Claire slumped against the pillows. Her grandfather’s behaviour made her furious, and Edward’s distress was overwhelming. She took out his picture again and gently touched his face.

Maman never gave any hint
, she thought. Now that Claire knew, she wondered how it was possible for her mother to see her every day and not think of Edward.
Perhaps she no longer loved him, and looking at me filled her with regret. An adolescent mistake. Was I just a mistake?

It had never occurred to Claire to question why her features were different from Juliette and Daniel, darker hair, more angular build, long fingers. Her mother always said she looked like her grandmother’s side of the family.
And I believed her
. Claire remembered looking for herself in faded pictures of her grandparents and being delighted with stories about Mariele. She thought it made her special because Maman had loved her grandmother so much.

Oh! Now I know why Maman stayed away from Beaufort. Too many memories.
Claire thought of summer holidays spent with her grandparents. The pond, the hills, the vegetable garden, squeaky stairs, Maman’s third floor bedroom. Grandmere always seemed like another person when she was there.
I should have asked them about the war
.
Did Grandmere know about Edward? She must have. And Grandpere?
What gave him the right to withhold Maman’s letters? It wasn’t the dark ages when women were nothing more than chattel.

When Michel came to bed, Claire showed him the letter from her mother, and he held her while she cried for her mother, her father and a man named Edward.

* * *

Claire sat by the telephone, twisting the cord around her finger, waiting for the long distance call to complete. She had searched for weeks to find this particular telephone number then waited another few weeks debating whether to call.
Did he have a right to know? Did she need to know him? What would Papa think?
She tried to imagine her mother’s advice.
They both knew I would look for him,
she thought.

After a soft click she heard the ring at the other end and coun
ted: one, two, three, four. The wait was excruciating.

“Hello.”

The rich sound of his voice sent a thrill through her. “Is this Edward Jamieson?”

“Yes.”

She took a deep, steadying breath. “My name is Claire Lebrun. I’m Helene Noisette’s daughter.”

Turn the page to read the first chapter of M.K. Tod’s related novel

UNRAVELLED

Chapter 1

October 1935

Edward Jamieson tapped the thick, cream-colored envelope against his left palm. He turned away from his wife and glanced out the window
where scattered leaves caught fading threads of light. When the letter arrived that afternoon, a hint of disquiet had spread through his body. The opening words—
To Those Who Served
—had punched hard. Phrases had leapt from the page like sudden bursts of gunfire:
Glorious dead
. . . g
reat monument . . .  lie beneath French soil . . . Vimy Ridge.

“Do you want to go?” Ann said, eyebrows raised in a way he had come to know as concern edged with caution.

“It’ll stir up something I’ve tried to forget. Not sure if that’s a good thing.”

“Maybe seeing some old friends would help.” She touched his cheek.

Old friends
, he thought.
They’re all dead. Except for Eric.

Instead of replying, he opened the envelope and passed her a sheet of paper embossed with a government seal. He watched her scan the page with a small smile, then furrowed brow, and finally, lips pursed thin and tight.

“Sixty thousand Canadian dead. Was it really that many?”

He nodded and shuddered at the thought.

“‘This monument on Vimy Ridge will proclaim to the world of the future that you and your countrymen fought gloriously when the need arose. We ask that you consider attending the dedication to be recognized for your valiant service and to honour your fellow soldiers.’ That’s what the prime minister wrote.” He felt the warmth of her hand on his. “You should go. We should both go.”

“Well . . . anyway, I’m not sure we can afford it. And what would we do with Emily and Alex?”

“We have until July to sort that out. My parents would be happy to look after them. Mother said just the other day that she misses having them stay overnight, now that we’re back in the city. And we have some money set aside—you know we do.”

Ann was only being logical, an approach Edward normally took. He loosened his tie and shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it on the back of a kitchen chair.

“I’ll think about it.”

He formed a small smile to take the sting out of his dismissal. Ann did not deserve his anger and he knew he should explain himself. He would do so, only not now when he could barely control his thoughts. How could anyone use the word “glorious” in reference to war? As far as he was concerned, nothing about his experience deserved to be remembered, let alone celebrated. 

After dinner and a lengthy telephone call with his father, Edward sat in the living room with only the ticking hallway clock and clunking of cooling radiators to keep him company. A chunk of wood fell through the grate. Shards of blue quivered amidst the orange glow of embers.

Ann had gone upstairs over an hour earlier and he wondered whether to stoke the fire or follow her to bed. He knew he would not sleep. Memories would claw, grab, suck and twist, swallowing him once more into that world of death.

* * *

A burst of light in the distance. Edward checked his watch. At five fifteen, a still-hidden sun smudged the black of night and after
hours of random machine-gun fire, the Germans were quiet. Through stinging sleet, shapes in no man’s land were barely visible. A cart, lopsided in the mud, the carcass of a horse, a lightweight howitzer damaged beyond repair, remnants of a large wooden barrel. The massive ridge loomed four hundred yards away.

Five twenty-five. Edward scanned his unit.

“Tell Robertson to keep alert,” he whispered to the soldier on his left.

The reminder was unnecessary but he could not restrain hi
mself. Time ticked away as hordes of men held their collective breath.

At five thirty, the ripple of light was strangely beautiful, spreading like an endless wave in that instant of calm before the fury of one thousand guns erupted. Though Lieutenant Burke had described the battle plan in detail, no words could have prepared them for such brutal vibration. Shockwaves compressed Edward’s chest, his ears distinguished nothing but pain, his legs braced to remain upright while he fought for breath. Death crooked its finger.

In the distance, flames erupted over German trenches followed by a continuous line of red, white and green SOS signals. Edward’s platoon sprang into action as messages poured in.

Night receded inch by inch, revealing the field of battle. Ge
rman artillery stuttered, then replied with more conviction, deadly shells flashing against the clouds. Reaching for his earphones, Edward saw a red light mushroom beyond enemy lines, followed by a boom that scattered bits of clay across his makeshift table.

“Christ, that felt close,” Eric Andrews said.

“Ammunition dump?”

“Probably. But theirs, not ours.”

Edward grunted at the friend who had been with him since the beginning, then cocked his head as another message came through. He hunched forward, a gas mask around his neck, rifle propped against a wall of sandbags. His job was to keep information flowing, whatever the cost.

By six a.m., sleet had turned to drizzle while thirty thousand infantry advanced in three waves of attack.

“Snowy,” Edward used Eric’s nickname, “get a runner for this message.”

“Binny is ready. Just back from the sap.”

“He’ll do.” Edward tore the message from his pad as the telephone rang. “Wait a minute till I see what this is.” He scribbled a few words. “Yes. Yes. Got it.” He held out the second message. “Tell Binny to take this one too.”

Another member of Edward’s team staggered in covered in mud. “It’s hell out there but we’re advancing on schedule.”

Edward twisted around to look at his linesman. “What about casualties?”

“Hard to say. Germans are getting the worst of it. Their shelling is weak compared to ours.”

“That’s good news, Arty. I need you to head back out. The line from here to Duffield crater is down. Take Simmons and Tiger with you and get it repaired.” The telephone rang again. Edward turned back to his work without waiting for a reply.

Hours passed like minutes. Duties swept Edward and his men from forward trenches to command posts stationed up to five miles behind the lines. Twice he was blown off his feet by the concussion of exploding shells. His mind quivered with the unceasing flash and rumble of guns. Falling shrapnel screamed overhead.

As they worked to install new lines and roll out signal cable behind advancing troops, shells roared liked angry beasts and confused men stumbled to find their way. Silent prisoners filed by. Edward heard bagpipes and sudden shouts and the anguished moans of wounded men. All the while, British planes buzzed overhead, swooping low to assess the damage.

In the comfort of his Toronto home, the chaotic intensity of battle was with him again. At the time he had felt nothing, thinking only of his next task, his mind focused like a microscope on the minute details of execution. He had known that if he survived, there would be more than enough time for reflection.

Staring into the neglected fire now giving off mere dribbles of heat, he questioned what they had achieved. Taking the ridge had been followed by failure to exploit success.
All those lives
, he thought,
all that sorrow which my country will commemorate next July
.

Edward wondered if he could bear the pain of being there again.