The Steady Running of the Hour: A Novel (37 page)

TO THE YOUNG WOMEN OF LONDON

Is your ‘Best Boy’ wearing khaki? If not, don’t
YOU THINK
he should be?

If he does not think that you and your country are worth fighting for – do you think he is
WORTHY
of you?

If your young man neglects his duty to King and Country, the time may come when he will
NEGLECT YOU
.

Think it over – then ask him to
JOIN THE ARMY TO-DAY

She has a violent urge to tear down the poster, but it is hung over the other woman’s bed and Imogen feels too weak to get up. She turns her back to the poster and curls her legs, drawing the sheets and blanket tightly around her. Imogen sleeps fitfully for a few hours. She cries sometimes and hates herself for crying, thinking of the girls who must have wept in this room, angry that she should be one of them; she pities herself for having no one to turn to, then grows angrier still that she should need anyone. At eleven o’clock the girl in the other bed rises and
dresses in the dark, pulling on coveralls and a cap. The girl goes out without a word. Imogen stays in bed.

By five o’clock she is frantic with insomnia and she tries counting backward from a hundred to fall asleep, first in English, then in French and German and Swedish, but she counts too fast and soon her heart is racing. Imogen tosses back the covers and dresses hurriedly, her clothes as wet as ever. She walks down Baker Street in the pale morning, forming words in her mouth without any breath.

You’re hopeless. You couldn’t last a single night, without even a child to care for.

Soon she is talking to Ashley and the child itself, saying foolish and extravagant things, swearing that she loves the child more than herself, that she is certain it will grow to be pure goodness, as brave and virtuous as its father. The sky is brighter with each block she passes and by Cavendish Square the sun is warming the sidewalk. Imogen has been gone for twenty hours and walked eight miles. Her legs are sore and there is a chafing sensation in her left shoe that she supposes is a blister; she is tired, hungry and dirty, and she feels angry with everyone in the world, most of all herself for doing the one thing she had sworn against. She climbs the stairs and turns the key in the lock.

The house is quiet. Imogen catches her reflection in the hallway mirror: an unruly thatch of bobbed hair, deep and dark circles under her eyes. She goes downstairs into the kitchen. Her mother is standing with the cook before the gas range, a large wooden spoon in her hand. Imogen’s voice is sharp.

—If we’re going, I wish to go at once. I can’t stand to be in London any longer.

The cook looks away into the pot. Her mother opens her mouth to answer, but Imogen walks out of the kitchen.

I have Imogen’s letters now. Every night I doubt that I found them and every morning I pull out the trunk from under my bed and flip back the lid, opening the envelopes and touching the sheets of brittle paper. I feel sure that I’m getting closer to something, if only I’ll recognize it when I see it. Because the signs are everywhere, I just don’t know what they mean.

At the Internet café in the village I write Prichard an e-mail explaining the letters. There’s no phone at the house but I send Mireille’s cell phone number in case he needs to call me.

We spend the night at a farmhouse several miles away with Mireille’s friends, nine of us dining at a long table on simple food and prodigious quantities of wine. Afterward they talk in French by the fire; half listening, I stare at the flames and spell out the letters in my notebook, S-O-M-M-E, as if one code were the answer to them all. At midnight Mireille stands up before the fireplace, her shadow long before her.

—
On y va
, she calls. Let’s all go for a walk.

Outside there is no moon but plentiful stars, the galaxy streaked
white above our heads. We follow a gravel path through the dense forest. After twenty minutes we reach a great wooden cross in the middle of the path, set high on a stone plinth without ornamentation or inscription. I realize this is our destination. As they drink the others become more jubilant. Some lean against the pedestal and swallow wine in huge gulps. Others sing and shout into the dark trees. I ask each of them in turn about the cross.

—What is it for? Who put it here?

They all look at me and smile, but if they know the answer they will not tell me.

On the way back to the house I walk far behind the group, swigging wine straight from the bottle and thinking about the letters. All seventeen are postmarked from England, along with one note written at the front desk of the hospital in Albert. But there is nothing after that. None of the letters mention her pregnancy, nor do they give any hint about what might have happened to her later.

—Maybe there was another one, I whisper. Maybe he burned the important one.

On the path ahead someone has separated from the group and is standing in the road, turned to me in the darkness. It is Hélène.

—
Bonsoir
. How are you? You’re quiet tonight—

—I’m fine. Just trying to figure some things out.

Hélène nods, lighting a cigarette as we continue down the path. I offer the bottle of wine and she takes a sip.

—I heard you met Mireille in a bar. Who spoke first?

I smile, shaking my head in embarrassment. Hélène laughs.

—I knew it must be her. Where are you from in the States?

—California.

Hélène repeats the word, puffing from her cigarette.

—California. Mireille and I said we were going to run away there when we were seventeen. To Los Angeles. For me it was a joke, but she probably would have done it.

Hélène looks at me.

—We’ve been friends a long time, Mireille and I. Has she told you much about her past?

—A little.

Hélène walks forward, her eyes on the ground.

—Did she tell you she only got divorced six months ago?

—She didn’t say when.

—You must have wondered why you’re staying at that dirty old place, with her family so close by—

—They live nearby?

Hélène looks up at me. —From the cross back there, if you keep walking to the other side of the forest, you’ll be at their house in ten minutes.

—She never told me they were here.

—Well, they know you’re here. Mireille needed me to get the keys to that house, so she had to explain. They’re worried she’s going to get in trouble again. She had so many problems with her marriage. Finally she’s back in school and doing well, then suddenly she comes to Picardie early, for no reason—

Hélène smiles at me.

—For some reason. Listen, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, and maybe you don’t either. Maybe Mireille doesn’t. But she’s fragile, even if she won’t say so. She isn’t ready to be spending a lot of time with a stranger, but she won’t listen to me, so I’m asking you something simple. Be careful with her. You might have to be patient, but with Mireille, once she cares about something—

Hélène throws her cigarette onto the path. She shakes her head.

—It’s the best thing about her. And also the worst.

When we get back to the house the others are already spreading out on couches and pulling blankets over themselves. The young farmer who owns the house looks at me and grins.

—There aren’t enough beds. Who wants to sleep outside?

Mireille and I sleep in the open air under a vast metal roof, lying on haystacks piled in neat squares, each a story tall. We lie four stories up, each bale our own queen bed. I can hear Mireille on the bale beside me, breathing softly as she turns on her side.

—Are you warm enough? she asks.

—I’m fine.

—You can have one of my blankets—

—No, I’m warm.

A cold wind passes over us, whipping the dry leaves on the ground below. I fall asleep and wake only when I hear Mireille’s voice again.

—Tristan. What do you think of Picardie?

—I’m glad I came.

—So am I.

I draw the strings of my sleeping bag hood tight, watching my breath curl into wisps of steam.

Morning breaks with a dark purple sky. Mireille is already sitting up with the blankets wrapped around her, watching the horizon for the rising sun.

—Should we get going? Nobody else will be up for hours. I wanted to clean the house today—

We drive back to the house and spend the rest of the morning sweeping out floors caked with layers of dirt. Mireille goes upstairs to sweep the bedrooms, but a few minutes later she runs down the steps carrying a wooden box.
She smiles triumphantly.

—My grandfather’s chess set. Do you want to play?

We open the chessboard, sitting cross-legged beside the fire to keep warm. The wooden pieces are all carved and painted by hand. Both of the queens are missing, so we substitute one-euro coins. Mireille lifts one of the coins and frowns.

—They’re so ugly. The francs were much prettier. I don’t know who designed this junk.

—Probably the Germans.

She smiles. —We can’t blame them for everything. It isn’t fair.

Mireille chooses the white pieces. I watch her set up the board quickly.

—I saw Hélène talking to you last night.

Mireille lifts up one of her knights and frowns, setting it back down. She moves her king pawn forward to start the game.

I hesitate. —She said you’re not ready to be spending time with me.

—Of course I’m not ready, Mireille sighs. You know before I met you on Friday, Claire and I went out to dinner. All I could talk about was how happy I was to be alone. I know it doesn’t seem like much, to have this tiny apartment, to be starting school again. But even if it’s small, it’s my own life—

I move my king pawn forward. Mireille shakes her head.

—It just took so long to learn how to be alone. And I know I’m forgetting it now.

Mireille moves her queen pawn forward, but I move my pawn diagonally and take her piece.

—Then Hélène was right.

—No.

Mireille shakes her head, moving her queen’s bishop pawn forward one space. I take that one and soon we are making moves quickly, but I sense I’m not playing against her, only reacting to what she is doing. Mireille looks up at me.

—Hélène thinks I’m not ready for anything, except to draw pictures and hide in my apartment all winter. But that’s not life. Because even if I was ready to meet you, were you ready to meet me? Were you ready to meet the lawyers or go on this search? Nothing ever comes at the right time, and we’re never ready for anything. But either we make excuses or—

—Or what?

She smiles, moving her bishop in line to attack my king. —
Échec
.

After a few more minutes Mireille has won the game. She tries to hide her pleasure, but it is obvious.

—That was
le gambit danois
.

—You never told me you’re good at chess.

Mireille shrugs. —I’m not bad, but I’m not good either. When we lived in the south, I had an old chess book and I learned a little. I like the names for the moves. In chess there is a name for everything.

We set the board for a second game and each move our queen pawn forward. I bring up my bishop pawn and Mireille moves her pawn diagonally, capturing mine. She smiles.

—
Le gambit dame, accepté.

We are halfway through our game when Mireille’s cell phone rings. She looks at the number on the display and shrugs.

—
Je ne connais pas
—

Mireille answers the phone. She says a few polite phrases in French and offers the handset to me.

—
C’est l’avocat anglais
. And his French is better than yours.

I lift the phone to my ear.

—James Prichard here. Apologize to your friend for my appalling French, I’m afraid it’s long out of practice. I wonder if you have a moment? I’ve some news.

—Of course.

—In London I believe I mentioned to you the many privacy clauses in the Walsingham trust. You may recall that such clauses precluded us from giving you certain details of the estate, particularly figures with regard to its value.