When the Sky Fell Apart (23 page)

‘Of course. Well, I'm glad to hear she hasn't worsened. And yes, I'm tired. I've been doing some late and early shifts at the hospital. To fit around ah…other…commitments.'

‘Well, you mustn't run yourself ragged. What will we do for a doctor when the doctor is ill?'

He laughed—for a moment the years fell off him. ‘Indeed. I must try to rest. But not this moment, I am afraid, Madame Bisson…'

‘It's Edith, Doctor. You know that by now. Fine shoes. That's the second new pair I've seen on you in the past year.'

He shuffled his feet but said nothing.

‘Fancy. Leather too. Where did you steal those from?'

He gave a tight smile and made as if to hurry off.

Edith called, ‘Clement Hacquoil is steady in his improvement now. Scars don't seem to bother him as much. Some months back, I dropped a few salves around, but he didn't seem to have need of them. Says you've given him some fancy liniment. Something imported. I told him he must have it wrong.'

‘I—I've seen him. And I've given him a cream to prevent more scars from turning keloid.'

‘I hear you're picking up great parcels of beef that have been shipped from France. Where are you putting it all? I can't remember the last time I had beef.'

He was thin as a rail, even though people said that the Germans must be feeding him extra to buy his compliance.

‘I must go.' Carter turned towards town.

‘Doctor?'

He turned back.

‘You look after yourself, won't you now?'

‘Yes, I—Yes. Thank you. Edith.' There was a ghost of a smile. Then he was gone.

Edith had a hollow, jittery feeling in her gut for the rest of the day. She was trying to fathom what was different about him. He'd looked wretched—tired, and thin and ashamed of himself—but it was something more.

And then it slid home, knowledge like a knife: the man was terrified. He hadn't been bought by the Germans; he'd been bullied—threatened, perhaps.

Later that evening, she said to Maurice, ‘I saw Dr Carter today.'

Maurice was rubbing one of Edith's salves into Marthe's chest. Lavender to help her to sleep. He didn't look up.

‘Oh yes?'

‘You must know that he has been looking after the Commandant for nigh on a year now?'

Marthe was asleep. Maurice leant her back a little in the chair so her chin didn't slump forward so.

‘It's an ugly business,' he said.

‘Do you think so?'

‘Well, do you not? He's caring for that…that
fiend
, while there're people could use his help in the hospital.'

Edith sighed and rubbed her eyes. Exhaustion gnawed at her very bones.

‘You're right, Maurice. It is a dreadful thing. He seemed a decent sort. But who knows what folk will do, when—'

‘There's nothing decent about helping out the Germans. Bad as the Jerry-Bags, he is. And there's no excuse in the world for that sort of traitor.'

‘Yes, but…I saw him today, for the first time in so long and he looked…haunted.
Hunted
. I don't know. What's this war doing to us all?'

‘
You
, Edith, don't have a thing to worry about. Nothing has changed you a bit. You're a wonder, that's what you are. Where would we all be without you, eh? So just stop worrying about Dr Carter. I can see you're fretting, even now, aren't you?'

For a moment, it crossed Edith's mind to tell him of Carter's visits to Marthe and the monstrous thought she'd had: that he might have been spying in some way, or storing up knowledge to use against them all in the future. Some sort of insurance against the terror that was chasing him. But instead she made some jest and Maurice chuckled and the moment passed.

But that night, when she lay down to sleep, Edith couldn't help remembering Carter's weary, hopeless face—the raw fear in those eyes.

IT was near Christmas. The air was sharp as if there was ice in it. Maurice was stumbling back from a fishing trip, brain fugged with exhaustion, when he first saw him: the soldier with the withered arm, sat outside the house, bold as if he lived there himself.

The seas had been wild, so Maurice hadn't caught much; the nets tangled in the rocks and the reefs time and again. Two had ripped and the sea had swallowed one before he decided to give it up for a lost cause. They would just have to live off pickled mackerel and do without the money from selling, at least until the weather turned and the sea calmed. He'd caught two tiddlers for dinner, more by luck than anything—they'd snagged in his net somehow, even with the great rents in it.

On an ordinary day, it pleased him to throw the tiddlers back, with a little blessing. He didn't believe most of the rubbish fishermen swore by: always using the same nets on the same nights, or throwing the first fish back for the mermaids to eat, to slake their thirst for human blood, their hunger for a beating human heart between their jagged fish teeth.

All the same, he liked to be respectful to the sea so she treated him well. But on that morning he'd had such a run of poor luck that he thought the sea wouldn't mind overly if he took just two little ones back home—for Marthe. He stuffed them deep into his pockets—the coat smelt of fish anyway. Besides, it seemed foolish to drag back a great sack with but two tiny fish in the bottom.

But it meant that when he saw that soldier perched on his own back wall, he couldn't do what he would have any other day: stow his sack of fish in a bush. So Maurice dug his hands deep into his pockets, pressing them against the wet, slimy bodies of the dead fish, and strode past, head down.

He waited for the soldier to notice the bulges in his pockets, or catch the scent of those fish and call
Halt!
But he didn't say a word, simply carried on blowing smoke high up in the air and watching it drift away.

Surely he had to be play-acting? Any minute now, he'd pull his gun, stop Maurice and search him. He'd discover those fish and that would be that. Prison at first, but a bullet straight through his skull was most likely, once they discovered the boat without a proper licence.

Maurice watched his feet as though they were someone else's, taking one step after another, across the grass, and then over the paving stones. His belly was churning. Those damn fish in his pockets, cold and slippery under his fingers.

Please let me see Marthe. To give her the fish. To say goodbye. Only let me say goodbye to her.

Suddenly, Maurice was safely past.

He could feel the soldier's eyes on his back. The hardest thing was not to run. He made himself stroll, and then closed the door gently. Just as though he hadn't a care or a worry in the world.

He could hear himself panting. He leant against the door, blinking black spots from his vision. The house felt too warm. But it was silent—Edith and Marthe must still be in bed. Maurice had taken to asking Edith to sleep in the house if he was going to be out all night, rather than taking Marthe to her house, which looked too suspicious if a patrol saw them. He would rather have raised eyebrows from neighbours who didn't know how to mind their own business than have soldiers baying at the door.

Perhaps that was why he was so shaken up by seeing one at the end of the garden. Bold as brass, as if he was waiting for someone in particular. Maurice peeped out the window, breath misting the glass, then ducked down again, cursing. Damn soldier was still there, his cigarette glowing.

As he crouched, he caught sight of the soldier's other hand. It was curled into a tight fist, the skin was taut and shiny, as if it was too small for the bunched-up bones beneath.

It struck Maurice as something of a puzzle. If what the French fishermen said was true, then the Germans didn't put much stock in cripples. Why had such a specimen been allowed to survive, let alone put in the army? Shouldn't he be in some work camp somewhere? Or being tested? Or he should have been put against a wall and shot long ago, before the war even started.

Maurice yanked the curtains shut. None of his business and he wasn't going to join the pot-stirrers by mulling it over and gossiping to anyone who would listen.

The house was a mess. Edith was slovenly, although she was good with Marthe. Maurice had to clear the pots and crocks from the sink before he could wash the sea smell from his skin and the salt from his hair. He clattered the pots without thinking. He was usually careful and quiet as could be, especially if Marthe was sleeping.

He set the last pan down on the drainer and then stripped off to his smalls. Marthe used to pretend to retch at the smell of the sea on him—she said it made him stink like a fish. Sometimes, in the old days, Maurice used to tease her by coming back early and crawling into bed next to her, without washing. He'd press against her. Kiss the back of her neck. She would be half asleep, and so she would roll over and match kiss for kiss, hot breath and her body opening under him. But then she'd catch a whiff of the sea and she'd squeal and laugh and slap him away.

You're the very devil, Maurice Pipon!

She'd march him to the tin bath and throw buckets of cold water over him. Scrub his skin until it glowed red under her touch.

He would let himself be bossed and scolded and dragged about and scrubbed by this little wisp of a woman for just as long as he could restrain himself, but then his resolve would crumble and he'd yell and try to pull her into the bath with him. When she skittered away, he'd splash her, until she'd be standing there, nightdress clinging to that milky skin. Naked underneath. The rounded warmth of her body showing through the wet nightdress. Her head thrown back, laughing, hair soaked. Like a mermaid.

It was a crushing in his chest, that love he had for every part of her.

But now she was too ill to talk or stand or speak, Maurice always painstakingly rinsed every trace of sea smell from his skin. If he went to kiss her after he'd been out on the boat, he always did it quickly. Mouth closed. A brush of his lips against hers, and then he pulled away. Just in case she hated the smell but couldn't move or tell him. Because now, that mermaid's body was her prison. Her legs might as well have been fins for all the good they were to her.

He sighed and used the dishcloth to dry himself, which Marthe would have hated if she'd known. But it was either that or stand in the freezing air and shiver himself dry.

He had just about towelled most of the water off when he heard a rustling in the doorway. Thinking of the soldier, his heart alarmed and he jumped, but it was only Edith, grinning at him.

‘Oh, I didn't see you there, I was…'

He dropped his fists back to his sides and held the dishcloth in front of himself and waited for her to leave or beg his pardon.

She bustled into the kitchen. ‘Morning, my love. How were the fish? I've left Marthe to sleep in. She woke around midnight and then struggled to settle—she'd wet her sheets, although I didn't notice at first. So her skin's a little tender this morning. You know how she is.'

Before Maurice could say a word, Edith was at the sink with last night's wet sheets in her hand. She barged him to one side and he dropped his cloth.

She didn't even look up. ‘For heaven's sake, Maurice, put some clothes on, will you? Chop chop!'

All his clothes were in the bedroom—where Marthe was asleep—except for an old cardigan and some badly patched trousers which he kept down behind the armchair. He tried to reach the clothes without bending over and without dropping the cloth. All the while, Edith was humming away to herself and stirring those sheets around in the water—she must have known he was struggling, but she carried on smiling and stirring.

In the end, he managed to shunt the armchair to one side and grab the clothes. He dropped the cloth for a moment while he pulled his trousers on. He thought Edith might turn her back, or go outside, or do anything else you'd expect of a woman when there was a naked man in the room. Maurice couldn't be sure, but he thought she was sneaking a peek now and then, amused.

Once he was dressed, he said, ‘What about that soldier, then?'

‘What soldier, Maurice, my love?'

‘The one sitting at the bottom of the garden. With the odd-looking hand.'

‘Oh,
him!
Yes, he had me in a lather too, when I first noticed him. But honestly, Maurice, he seems harmless enough. And with that hand—what damage could he do?'

‘Now just a minute. How long has he been here?'

‘Oh, not long. Perhaps three days. Mostly when you've been out on the boat.'

‘
Days?
Why on earth didn't you say something?'

‘I didn't want you fretting. Look at you now—imagining all sorts of horrors and don't think I can't tell. And him not doing anything except sitting there.'

‘Well of course he's not simply
sitting
there. He's on to me!'

‘Come now, Maurice, there's no reason to think—'