Suffragette Girl (35 page)

She knew the afterbirth should come away, but it did not and the child was still attached to its mother. Taking a deep breath, Florrie scrabbled in her pocket for the scissors she always carried
and cut through the umbilical cord, and then tied another strip of her petticoat tightly around the stump.

‘Colette, you have a lovely baby boy. He’s beautiful and so strong. You must try to rouse yourself. Please try.’ The girl opened her eyes. They were sunk in deep, dark sockets.
Her cheekbones seemed as if they would poke through her delicate skin.

‘Call him Jacques,’ she whispered. ‘His name is Jacques. Tell James I love him and ask him to take care of our son. Tell James – I’m sorry.’ She closed her
eyes and her head fell to one side, her mouth gagging open. Florrie felt for a pulse, but sought in vain. Colette was dead, but all the while her son cried lustily.

The child was whimpering and, though it seemed heartless, Florrie squeezed a little fluid from the dead girl’s breast and fed the droplets from her finger into the
baby’s mouth. It seemed that she did this for hours, feeling guilty as if she were desecrating the poor girl’s body, yet she knew that any mother would give her life for her child and
that Colette would understand. Somewhere from the deep recesses of a scant knowledge, Florrie seemed to remember hearing that the first liquid from the mother’s breast was important.

At last the baby fell asleep and Florrie removed her petticoat and wrapped him in it. With one last look at the still form of the girl her brother had loved so much that he’d risked his
life to find her, Florrie turned away and left the barn. Holding the baby close to her breast for warmth and comfort – as much for herself as for the tiny infant – she began to walk
back towards the village.

As Florrie approached the cluster of houses, her footsteps faltered. She had to find Colette’s family and tell them what had happened. Surely, when they saw the baby
– their grandchild – they would relent. After all, the child was all they had left of their daughter.

She went again to the cottage where she’d seen the old man, but this morning there was no sign of him either. Desperate now, she walked further along the street. In the centre she came to
what had once been a shop, but now the door hung drunkenly off its hinges and, though bottles and tins still stood on the shelves, they were covered with dust. She stepped through the door, her
heart beating rapidly. She passed into the living quarters and out into the back garden. Trees and bushes, loaded with ripening fruit, grew at the end of the unkempt lawn and flowers bloomed in the
ordered beds, though weeds threatened to strangle them. Once this had been a loved and nurtured garden. Now it was growing wild. The owners of the shop and the house were gone too. Guiltily,
feeling as if she were stealing, Florrie picked a few raspberries and ate them.

A well was set in the paved area near the back door and she moved to it eagerly. She was peering down into it when she heard a sound in the shop and her heart skipped a beat. Perhaps the owner
had returned. She hurried inside and found herself staring into the barrel of a gun being pointed at her by a German soldier. How Florrie wished she’d had the foresight to bring the revolver
that Sergeant Granger had given her. But when she’d left the Chateau, that had been the last thing on her mind. She’d never expected to find a German behind what, to him, was enemy
lines.

Seeing she was dressed as a nurse with the child in her arms, he faltered and lowered the barrel, but then immediately raised it again, barking, ‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes,’ Florrie replied in German. ‘There’s only me and the baby.’

He stared at her for a moment, taking in the uniform that he guessed was British. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ he rapped out, but to Florrie’s relief, he lowered the
gun once more.

She took a deep breath. ‘I was trying to find someone to help. There’s a woman in the barn at the farm back there. She’s – she’s dead.’

‘You killed her?’

‘Heavens, no!’ Florrie cried, but the soldier only shrugged as if he didn’t care whether she had or not. ‘Can you – can you get someone to see to her
burial?’

‘Me!’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘Oh no. I’m a deserter. I can’t help you. I’m looking for food.’ His hungry eyes scanned the shelves and he began to reach
up, pulling down bottles and tins.

‘There’s fruit in the orchard at the bottom of the garden. Some of it’s ready to eat. And vegetables too.’

He put the bottle he was holding down on the dusty counter and pushed past her.

‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘There’s something you can do for me – please. Draw me some water from the well.’

The soldier glanced at the child and for a brief moment his eyes softened. ‘My wife has had a baby whilst I’ve been away,’ he said sadly. ‘A little girl. I haven’t
even seen her. Maybe I never will.’

‘Is that why you – you’ve deserted? You’re trying to get back to her?’

He nodded and then turned away, saying gruffly, ‘Where’s this well?’

Amazingly, the water was clean. With the soldier’s help, Florrie washed out a container she found in the shop and filled it with water. She glanced along the shelves, but there was nothing
there suitable for a newborn baby. She didn’t know how long it might take for her to find the Mussets, and soon, she thought, the child would need to be fed.

‘Do you know where there are people living? Another village?’

Fear crossed the German’s face. ‘You’re going to report me?’ He was reaching out again for his gun.

‘No – no,’ Florrie said hurriedly. ‘Of course not. I just want to find someone who can help me get milk for the baby.’

‘There’s a village that way.’ He pointed to the west. ‘There’s people still living in the houses there. I was near there last night.’

‘Is it – is it behind the German lines?’

He shook his head and smiled bitterly. ‘No. Even
I
don’t want to be behind German lines.’

‘Thank you.’ She picked up the container of water. ‘Good luck!’

He nodded. ‘And good luck to you and your baby.’

As she walked away, Florrie marvelled that a deserter, desperate and afraid, had let her go. She smiled and dropped a tender kiss on the baby’s head, amazed that the sight of the tiny
being could melt even the hardest heart.

As Florrie walked along the dusty road towards the next village, she smiled and held the baby closer. ‘He thought you were mine, little one. But it’s the next best
thing – you’re my nephew, aren’t you? My darling James’s little boy. I wish I could keep you, but I must find your grandparents – your French grandparents.’ She
carried on, talking to the child as she walked. Tears choked her throat as she added, ‘Because your English grandparents wouldn’t want to know you.’

After about two miles, she saw the village in the distance. ‘Let’s hope they’re friendly towards the English,’ she murmured, not knowing what sort of reception to expect
from the poor folks whose country was being ravaged around them and their livelihoods wrecked.

Now she could see smoke curling from chimneys and one or two people moving about their gardens or walking down the street. There were cows in a nearby field and the hay had been cut. One or two
houses looked empty, but there were certainly people living here. Her heart skipped a beat. There was a shop, with goods displayed outside the door – vegetables and fruit. As she stepped into
the dim interior, an elderly man shuffled from behind a curtain.

‘Do you have any food suitable for the baby?’ she asked him in his native tongue. Once more Florrie was subjected to a curious stare. An English woman, dressed as a nurse, speaking
French, walking into his shop only a few miles from the war zone with a baby in her arms and asking, quite calmly, for food for her child was not something that happened to him every day.

Why did she not feed the child herself? She could almost see the question written in his eyes. But the old man shrugged nonchalantly and, instead of answering her, turned back, pulled the
curtain aside and called, ‘Marie, come here.’

An elderly woman appeared. In rapid French that Florrie found a little difficult to follow, the man explained to his wife that there was a nurse in his shop asking for food for her baby.

The woman came round the counter and peered at the child wrapped in Florrie’s petticoat. Marie gave a toothless smile. She looked up at Florrie and touched her own large breasts.
‘You cannot feed the little one yourself?’

Florrie shook her head. Someone else who thought the child was hers.

‘Ah! Come with me.’ She beckoned Florrie to follow her beyond the curtain into the small living room behind the shop. Settling her in a chair by the fire, the old woman fetched milk
and warmed it in a saucepan. ‘I have no feeding bottle,’ she said apologetically as she handed Florrie a cup of the warmed milk and a small spoon.

Florrie smiled her thanks and began to spoon the liquid into the tiny mouth. It seemed to take an age to encourage the child to swallow the milk, but at last he took just a little. It was
enough.

‘I will give you some milk to take with you. Where are you going?’

‘I—’ Florrie hesitated. But the only way to find Colette’s parents was to ask. She took a deep breath. ‘The – the people who lived at the farm near the next
village. The Mussets. Did you know them? Do you know where they are now?’

The woman’s face brightened. ‘Mais oui. They are living here. In this village. Jacques Musset has come to live with his brother, Pierre.’ She shook her head. ‘Ah, such a
terrible time poor Jacques has had. First his wife died and then—’ She lifted her shoulders in a helpless gesture and shook her head. ‘Colette’s trouble. Ah, this terrible
war. It’s to blame.’

‘Can you tell me where the house is?’

Marie nodded. ‘Come, I’ll show you.’

Florrie rose, the baby still in her arms. She picked up the precious milk can and followed the woman back through the shop and out into the street. The old man watched them curiously, but said
nothing.

‘The fourth house on the right-hand side,’ the woman said, pointing.

‘Thank you. Thank you so much, madame, for your kindness and for the milk.’

‘You’re very welcome.
Bonne chance.
’

Florrie’s heart was beating painfully as she approached the house and knocked on the door. A tall, thickset man dressed in black trousers, an open-necked shirt and stout boots opened it.
His middle-aged face was deeply etched with lines of hardship and his expression was stern.

Florrie took a deep breath. ‘Are you Monsieur Musset who used to live at the farm?’

The man shook his head. ‘No, that is my brother.’

‘Is he – is he here?’

The man nodded and, for the first time, his glance rested on the child in her arms. His frown deepened. ‘What do you want with him?’ he snapped harshly.

‘I – I need to speak to him on a personal matter.’

‘My brother has no secrets from me.’

When Florrie made no further attempt to explain, he sighed, stepped aside and gestured for her to enter. ‘Jacques, there is someone to see you.’ His tone was unwelcoming and he
glared accusingly at Florrie and glanced at the child with an expression that she could not define.

As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw a man rise from a chair by the fire. He was very like his brother, with the same build and appearance. His face even had the same deep lines
of weary defeat. And something else too . . .

Florrie swallowed hard, wishing there was a woman present. It might be easier if . . .

‘What do you want?’ Jacques Musset asked harshly, his gaze on the baby, who had begun to whimper.

‘Monsieur Musset, have you a daughter, Colette?’

The man’s face darkened and his eyes narrowed. ‘I did have – once,’ he said bitterly.

Florrie gasped. Did he know she was dead? But how could he, unless he had been to the farm and found her? Perhaps whilst Florrie had been in the back of the shop, but even then, there had
scarcely been time . . .

‘Then this is your grandson.’ She held out the child, offering him to the man. ‘His name is to be Jacques,’ she added softly.

The man sat down again suddenly and stared up at her, whilst his brother moved to stand beside him as if giving support. ‘Where is she?’ It was the brother who spoke.

‘She’s at the farm. In – in the barn. I’m so sorry, but she died giving birth.’ She paused a moment, allowing them time to take in the dreadful news. ‘But she
told me the boy is to be called Jacques. Please, may I sit down?’ Suddenly, in the warmth of the stuffy room, she felt dizzy. She hadn’t slept or eaten for hours and the traumas of the
last few days suddenly overwhelmed her.

She sank into a chair, still holding the baby, whose cries were becoming more insistent now. ‘I must give him some milk. Please could you . . . ?’

‘No!’ Jacques Musset roused himself and stood up again. ‘Go! I want you to leave.’

‘Of course I will, but the baby needs—’

‘Take it with you. I want nothing to do with it. My daughter brought shame upon our family.’

To Florrie’s surprise, his brother put his hand on Jacques’s shoulder. ‘The child is your grandson,’ he reminded him softly.

‘You heard me, Pierre. I want her to go. And she’s to take the child with her.’

Roughly, he shook off his brother’s hand, turned away and left the room. Stunned, Florrie and Pierre Musset were left staring at each other as they heard his heavy footsteps mounting the
stairs. The slam of a bedroom door seemed final.

‘Monsieur—’ Florrie began as the man sat down heavily in the chair his brother had just left.

He shook his head slowly. ‘It’s no use, mademoiselle. You heard what he said – how he feels. Besides, there is no one to care for the child. No – no woman.’

‘But his wife?’

‘Jacques’s wife died a while ago.’

‘I’m sorry. And – and you have no wife?’ She didn’t like probing, but she had to.

‘My wife died three years ago.’

‘Is there no one else in the family?’

He shook his head. ‘You heard him for yourself. He disowned Colette for the shame she brought on the family, and now . . .’ Pierre’s voice faded away. Perhaps she could
persuade this man, for he seemed not quite so adamant as his brother.