The Cave (5 page)

Mrs Galy shook her head. ‘Not that I can think of, sir. I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sure?’

It came to him that Marie might have been here without Mrs Galy knowing. It had been late, after all.

Freddie glanced at the clock, the hands now clear. To his surprise, it was six forty-five in the morning. He stood up. He was clearly not going to get anywhere with Mrs Galy. He would ask
about Marie in the village instead. Perhaps one of the maids would know who she was.

‘Tell me, Mrs Galy, was there much enemy action here during the war?’

Her face showed her surprise at this question. But she answered.

‘Not really, sir. There was a camp not so far from here for prisoners of war, though it is a good many hours’ drive away.’

Freddie frowned. ‘What about German units operating in the area?’

Mrs Galy shook her head. ‘Things were not easy, but we were better off than many. The village lost men fighting on the northern front.’

Her eyes darted to the clock. She clearly wanted to get on with her work. But Freddie couldn’t let it drop.

‘So this village was never invaded? Or attacked in any way?’

‘No, sir.’

Freddie didn’t understand.

‘If there is nothing else, I need to prepare the breakfast. I have asked Michel Auty, who works in the garage, to be here at eight o’clock. You can show him to your car.’

Freddie hardly heard. Thoughts were spinning around in his head, like leaves blown by
the wind. He racked his brains. He realised that Marie had never actually said she was talking about the recent war. But given her age, it was a reasonable guess. Now he came to think about it, she had never actually said that she came from here. But again, it was a reasonable guess. Her descriptions of the flight from the village, the journey into the mountains and the cave had been so clear.

‘Mr Smith? Will eight o’clock suit you? For the car?’ she said slowly, as if talking to a child.

Freddie forced his attention back to the matter in hand. ‘Yes, sorry. Quite. That will do very well, thank you.’

Mrs Galy picked up his empty glass and bottle and plumped the cushion in the chair. She cast an expert eye around the room, checking all was as it should be, then left.

Freddie did not move. The air settled around him. He heard Mrs Galy’s footsteps getting fainter as she went down the corridor. He looked around the room once more. The newspaper was where he had left it. The two decks of cards were stacked on the table. Freddie glanced back to the chair where Marie had sat. The cushion was not even dented.

Had he been dreaming? He had fallen asleep in front of the fire. The day had been difficult
and tiring, what with the accident, his head, the brandy, thoughts of George. He had drunk too much.

But even so.

On the mantelpiece, the little clock chimed the hour. The sound brought Freddie back to the present. He needed to wash and dress. He could do with a cup of strong coffee. Then, he had to think about sorting out the car with the mechanic.

He went into the corridor, still thinking about Marie. When he drew level with the desk at the foot of the stairs, Freddie noticed the guest register was open. He glanced around. There was no one about. Freddie turned the book to face him. Quickly, he scanned the names on the page. His own was the last entry in the book. Above his name were those of his dinner companions. Above them, in a woman’s looping handwriting, were Mr and Mrs Perdu. The newlyweds, he supposed. Freddie turned back a page and ran his finger up the names from the bottom. As he had thought, the older ladies were sisters or, at least, shared a surname - Marty.

He frowned. There was something familiar about the name, although he could not place
it. Now he came to think about it, all the names were somehow familiar.

The only one missing was Marie.

For the next few hours, Freddie did not have time to think about her.

Mr Auty arrived promptly at eight o’clock with his two sons. One of them, William, spoke good English so he translated between Freddie and his father. Freddie described his route and Mr Auty worked out where the car had crashed.

The air was fresh and sharp as the small group set off into the mountains. The sun had not yet cleared the top of the nearest hill. The early morning chill pinched at Freddie’s cheeks but the bad weather of the previous day had gone. The sky was an endless blue, unbroken by clouds.

They left the village by the path Freddie had taken the afternoon before. As he looked around, it seemed as if spring had come overnight. The leaves on the oak and beech trees were coming into leaf. There was colour everywhere, in the meadows, in the woods up ahead, in the pale sun rising behind the mountain. He
remembered Marie’s description of the country-side. It was so precisely a mirror of what he saw. He was certain she had been talking about this valley, these mountains.

The four men crossed the bridge. Today the river was fast-flowing, but no longer threatening to burst its banks. Freddie saw the silver flash of fish in the stream. The green river weeds shimmered in the current, swaying this way and that. It was all so calm, so peaceful.

After a quarter of an hour, they reached the outskirts of the woods. Freddie pointed out the path he had followed. In single file, they left the brightness of the fields for the shade of the wood.

The path was steep and uneven. Yet it seemed an easier walk than yesterday, Freddie thought, even though they were walking uphill. The easy company of Michel and his two sons, the sun, the lack of wind and rain, all lifted his spirits. Today, Freddie no longer felt the presence of ghosts in the woods.

Before long, they arrived at the point where the footpath went up on to the road. Freddie pointed up the hill and they walked on in single file. In the trees, Freddie heard birdsong. There was a blackbird, a thrush, maybe even a robin. His brother had loved to be outside and
knew the different calls of the birds. Freddie smiled. They seemed such English sounds to hear in a French country wood. A hawk wheeled overhead.

The sun was nearly up behind the mountain now. Its bright rays painted the surface of the leaves gold. After another five minutes, the rescue party reached the spot. To Freddie’s relief, his Ford was just where he had left it. It had neither fallen over the cliff nor come loose from the tree. William took the coil of rope from his shoulder and fixed it around the front bumper. With his brother’s help at the rear, they pulled. Slowly, the car was dragged back up on to the road, little by little.

The air was still cool, but it was hard work and the sun was hot for April. Michel, sweat glistening from his brow, looked the car over. With his drooping grey moustache and thick eyebrows, he looked more like an opera singer than a mechanic. But he seemed to know what he was doing.

He pointed at the axle, then at the front wheel arch, which had buckled. Next he kicked the side panel with the tip of his boot. With William’s help translating, Freddie was left in no doubt that there was a fair amount of damage. It was going to be far from easy to fix.
From the look on Michel’s face, it looked as if the car was going to need quite a lot of work to get it back on the road. And, no doubt, it would cost. But they were talking too fast for him and their accents were strong.

While the men debated, Freddie settled himself on a boulder to wait. The sun, the smell of the pine trees, the gentle cry of the birds in the trees were all restful. He realised he felt calm. He felt more peaceful than he had for some time, in fact for as long as he could remember.

He found his mind straying to Marie. Freddie looked up at the great wall of rock ahead of him. Then he saw it. Slowly, he got to his feet and looked harder. Was it was just a trick of the light? He shielded his eyes. High up in the hills above him, he could just make out an opening in the rock. There seemed to be no way up. He tilted his head back to get a clearer view.

No, it was there. The mouth of a cave, carved into the mountainside. To the left, there was another opening, a little smaller, a little lower. Like two hollow eyes in a skull. A little further over, there was another cave.

At that moment, William put his hand on Freddie’s shoulder. Freddie jumped.

‘There is some damage to the chassis,’ he said. ‘My father can have it towed to the
garage. Once he has examined it properly, he will have a better idea of how much work needs to be done.’

Freddie was not listening. ‘Are those caves up in the mountain?’ He pointed. ‘There, just above that ridge?’

William followed the line of his finger, then nodded.

‘Is it possible to get up there?’ Freddie asked. ‘From here, I mean.’

‘You could climb up from the road, but it would be hard going. There is an easier path out of the village to that part of the mountain. Through the woods, not the fields.’

Freddie felt a memory slide across the surface of his mind. ‘The woods?’

William nodded. ‘The woods come down closer to the village at that point. It is a more sheltered route.’ He looked at Freddie with his patient, unhurried face. ‘So, shall we take the car back to the garage, or . . . ?’

Freddie was still looking up into the mountain. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Whatever your father advises, that is fine.’

William went to talk to Michel, who gave Freddie the thumbs-up sign and a wide smile. With Paul’s help, Freddie got his bag out of the boot. He changed his shoes for his proper
hiking boots. Then, with William carrying his case, they set off back to Larzat.

As they stepped off the main road, Freddie gave a last glance over his shoulder. He could no longer see the opening to the cave. But it was enough to know it was there. A plan was already forming in his mind. If, as he feared, his car would not be ready today, then he would climb up and explore.

If he could not find any trace of Marie in the village, then maybe he would have better luck finding the cave itself.

Michel did what he had promised and the car was quickly brought back to the village. After ten minutes of peering under the bonnet and up at the chassis, Michel told Freddie it would take at least two days to repair. Freddie stood about in the forecourt of the garage. Each time he asked how things were going, he was shooed away. He started to feel like an expectant father being chased from the delivery room by bossy nurses.

He decided to have an early lunch and then put into action his plan to search for the cave. He strolled into the square. Freddie noticed the tobacconist in the corner of the square was open. With the sound of the church bells at his back, ringing for midday, he got there just as the shopkeeper was closing.

The shop was long and narrow and cool inside. At the far end was a glass counter in front of a wall filled with different brands of cigarettes, tobaccos and cigars. On one side were glass display cases containing penknives
and pipes. On the other was a shelf of newspapers and booklets of local interest. Most looked rather moth-eaten and yellow-edged and had clearly been there for some time.

Freddie scanned the row slowly reading the titles.

‘English?’ he asked.

The owner pointed to a small section at the back of the rack. Freddie chose a slim guidebook with a Union Jack printed in the top right-hand corner. He fished out a note from his wallet. As he took his change, Freddie asked the question he had been asking around the village all morning. Did the shopkeeper know a woman called Marie? Freddie got the same response as in the garage, the baker, the butcher and the general stores: a slow shake of the head and a no.

Another dead-end.

Freddie found a table outside the café in the sun. He ordered a ham omelette and a glass of red wine then sat back with the book. He opened it flat, cracking the spine. It was a simple text, printed in double columns on rough white paper. From the clumsy turns of phrase, he guessed it had been translated from French. Rather than a tourist guide, as he had thought, it turned out to be more of a history
book. It told the story of a particular group of Christians who had lived in the region during the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. The Catholic Church had opposed them and they were forbidden to worship as they wished. Their property was taken away. Members of the group were tortured and condemned in unfair courts, imprisoned and executed. The last priest, said the book, had been burned at the stake in 1328. It was the end for the religion and its followers.

Then Freddie read something that made his heart lurch. According to the author, whole villages took refuge in caves. The evidence showed that the soldiers walled up many of the openings. Even as recently as the seventeenth century, caves were discovered containing countless bodies of those buried alive.

Freddie laid the book down on the table.

During the course of the morning, his belief in Marie had come and gone. Sometimes he was certain she had been there. They had talked all night, of war, of death, of the sadness they carried inside them. She had her ghosts, he had his. But then doubts crept in. No one had heard of her. No one had seen her.

Freddie looked down at the book. Somehow, this changed things. Here was proof that local
people had sought refuge in the caves six hundred years ago. And, if they had done so six hundred years ago, then why not ten years ago? As she had said.

Freddie drained his glass of red wine and called for the bill. There were three, maybe four, hours of daylight left. He intended to make good use of them.

Half an hour later, armed with a map, compass and his rucksack, Freddie set out again. He found the path William said led directly up into the heart of the mountains.

As he climbed, he tried to recall Marie’s words about their journey and the landmarks they passed on the way. The summer pastures, the sun at their heels, the trees along their route. Most of all, he remembered the natural steps from the roots of an ancient tree that led up to the cave. She had not said so, but Freddie didn’t think her family would have gone so far. They would have been keen to get out of sight as soon as possible. Besides, it would be hard going with an ill child.