When the Sky Fell Apart (30 page)

It was easier than Carter expected. He wasn't stopped or questioned. He took the tablets from the cabinet in his office, stuffed them deep into his pocket, and returned within the hour.

But even in that time, he could see that Marthe had worsened: her skin was hot but her nose and the tips of her fingers were laced with blue. Maurice was squeezing her hand and talking to her as though she could hear him. But she was barely breathing.

Carter frowned and listened with his stethoscope. ‘Has she stirred at all?'

‘No. How does she sound?'

‘Not promising.'

‘You have the medicine?'

Carter held up a small bottle, feeling a tiny surge of victory. ‘Sulfa tablets.'

‘They'll do the trick?'

‘We can hope.' He opened the bottle. ‘You will need to grind two tablets up and dissolve them in water. Then we must revive her enough that she can swallow—otherwise the fluid will go to her lungs. You'll find a pestle and mortar in the kitchen.'

Maurice did as he asked and brought Carter the solution, retching at the stench of rotting eggs.

‘Unpleasant, I know.' Carter pulled a little syringe out of his pocket and filled it with the mixture. ‘Right, then. We must rouse her and then give it to her slowly, one drop at a time. Any more and we will effectively drown her.'

Maurice's eyes were wide with panic. ‘How am I to wake her? She's out cold.'

Carter, on familiar territory, kept his voice calm. ‘Pain, I'm afraid. Intense pain. Strike her, shout at her, anything to revive her, just momentarily. Pinching the earlobe is effective.'

Maurice blinked. He put the syringe to the corner of her mouth and depressed the plunger.

Carter said, ‘That's good, now
very
gently…yes, perfect! Right, now you must wake her. Go on, man! Be quick about it or she'll choke.'

Maurice struck her face. ‘God forgive me,' he muttered.

Marthe groaned, stirred.

‘A little more,' Carter said. ‘Quick, while she's able to swallow.'

But her head had drooped back on to her pillows and she was unconscious, a red handprint across her cheek. Carter nearly said,
Strike harder,
but he could see that Maurice was only just holding himself together.

But somehow he kept repeating the actions. Twice Marthe choked and Maurice, grim-faced, muttered,
Oh dear God. Breathe! Breathe!
But Marthe always swallowed and then started breathing again, as if the force of her husband's will, his sheer desperation, was the only thing keeping her alive.

Carter watched with a sense of awe and loss: the action was futile and Marthe was doomed, but Maurice was willing to risk everything for the sake of a few more weeks or months. It was baffling and wonderful. No other species forms such irrational, selfless attachments.

The depth of Maurice's love for Marthe was such that hurting her wounded him—Carter could see that quite clearly. But Maurice didn't question Carter, simply followed his orders, doing what he must to keep her alive: bending her fingers back until it seemed they must snap, wrenching her arm up behind the back and pushing until her shoulder joint groaned, twisting the skin on her wrists and chest and the backs of her arms.

Bruises blossomed deep under Marthe's skin and Carter saw her for a moment through Maurice's eyes: beautiful, even when she was broken.

When the syringe was empty, Maurice stood and waited for the next instruction, chest heaving.

‘You can stop now,' Carter said. ‘Well done.'

Maurice threw the syringe across the room and it rattled against the wall. He collapsed on to the floor and wept in rhythmic, shuddering gasps.

‘I'm sorry, Maurice,' Carter murmured.

Maurice wiped his eyes, cleared his throat. ‘It had better bloody work.'

Carter sat on the floor next to him. ‘She may not recover, you must understand that,' he said, gently. ‘She needs the sulfa every four hours. Day and night. And ask Edith for any concoction she can cook up too.'

Maurice put his head in his hands. Behind him, the orange glow of the fire died.

Carter leant forward and put his hand on Maurice's shoulder. The other man was tense, his muscles hard.

‘
If
she recovers, you need to think on this: she needs help. Expert help from specialists who have studied and researched her condition and know how to treat it. There is no cure. You must understand that. But there is a chance, a small chance, that they may be able to delay this rapid deterioration she has been experiencing. There was ongoing research in London prior to the war…'

Maurice looked up. ‘But
London
?' He had the wide, baffled eyes of a boy.

Aware of the risk he was taking, Carter said, ‘Yes. I am saying you should leave. Escape. Go, when you next have the chance.'

Carter didn't think Maurice would betray him but he
had
to give the advice, whatever the outcome for himself: it was his duty, as a doctor. As a man.

‘She will die, Maurice. I need you to know that. Eventually, the disease will kill her. But this rapid degeneration, these secondary infections—I can't help feeling that they must be preventable, with the right treatment.' He took Maurice's hand between his own, felt the strength there. ‘You've been admirably heroic. You can't let it beat you.'

‘Her illness, or the occupation?'

‘Both.'

CLAUDINE'S mother had stayed in hospital for weeks. But even after she returned home, she kept coughing, a noise like the stuttering rattle of a far-off car engine. Sometimes it startled Claudine awake, and she clenched her fists, willing Maman to draw her next breath.

Spring was wet and cold. In April, Dr Carter came to see them again, and when he listened to Maman's chest he frowned.

‘You need decent food and you need some warmth in this house,' he said. ‘It's not good for your lungs, the damp and cold.'

Maman's smile was all teeth. ‘And where, pray, am I to find wood?'

His face was grave. ‘Have you any trees on your land that might do?'

She shook her head and tried to talk but the coughing stole all her breath.

Claudine said, ‘We saved some trees through the winter to use in spring, but the soldiers came and chopped them down while Maman was poorly in hospital.'

Dr Carter nodded. ‘I happen to have some extra wood I'd be very happy to give you.'

‘From the Commandant?'

Maman slapped her hand on the quilt and hissed, ‘Claudine, don't be rude!' She directed a tight smile at Dr Carter. ‘My apologies. And thank you, but we really can't—' She started coughing again.

Claudine looked at her feet. She hadn't
meant
to be rude.

Dr Carter looked tired. ‘It's a perfectly reasonable question. Yes, it is from the Commandant, and it is more than I can use, really. I would be glad to give it to you.'

‘Truly?' Claudine smiled.

Maman glared. ‘
Clau
dine!' Her face was hard. ‘Thank you, Doctor, but that won't be necessary—'

‘Maman! We need more wood, you know we do—'

‘That's
enough
, Claudine!'

Claudine bit her lip and risked a glance up at Dr Carter. His face was white, apart from two bright spots of colour burning in his cheeks. His eyes met hers and she experienced a momentary flicker of recognition that she had never felt towards an adult before. She suddenly saw his sadness and how hard he worked to hide it. Then he blinked and it was if the shutters had dropped back down and he was the doctor once more.

‘I understand entirely,' he said. ‘Please let me know if you change your mind. I'll be back tomorrow.'

After he had gone, Maman's voice was sharp. ‘We'll not be taking wood from that man, do you hear?'

Throughout the slow, wet spring, Maman kept on coughing and growing thinner and thinner. The shape of her skull crept out from beneath her yellowing skin. Claudine tried to go cockling on the way home from school, but the seabed was empty. Sometimes she found one or two, but she always gave those to Francis.

Then, one afternoon in May, there was more light and warmth in the air and Claudine felt the chill fade from inside her bones. She stretched in the sudden sunlight on the way home from school, but when she saw the house she could tell that something had changed. There was smoke coming from the chimney and a smell like Sunday roast dinners from a long time ago. Before Papa left.

The kitchen was steamy, and Maman was humming when Claudine walked in.

Maman whooped, a sound she hadn't made in years.

‘Darling!' she cried. ‘We've been waiting for you! Where have you
been
? I thought the chicken was going to burn!' She hugged Claudine so hard it took her breath.

‘Chicken?'

‘
Real
chicken! A
whole
one! Fresh. With potatoes and carrots, parsnips and gravy. And bread and jam for pudding.
Pudding!
With butter—
real
butter! I hope you're hungry, my love.'

‘I am! But how…? Where did you find a chicken?'

‘I didn't
find
it, my love. I—well… Hans is going to…
share
it with us. Hans, this is Claudine. Say hello, sweetheart.'

That was when Claudine saw the soldier standing over in the corner by the sink.

‘
Hallo
, Claudine,' he said, smiling.

She froze. It was the soldier with the pig-snout nose who had eaten all of the sand eels and pulled her on to his lap and put his hands all over her and inside her knickers with his hard fingers.

Claudine backed away.

Maman dragged her forward by the wrist. ‘Stop being shy, you silly goose! She's having you on. Come
on!
Here, you can drain the potatoes for me. We've even
butter
, Claudine! Did I say?
Real
butter—four ounces—can you
imagine
?' Her voice was falsely bright, like a stone made shiny with spit.

Claudine took the potatoes and drained the pan. The steam billowed around her face so she could see her breath going in and out and in and out. She put the potatoes in a dish next to Hans.

‘
Danke, Liebling
,' he said.

When Claudine said nothing, Maman snapped, ‘Manners, Claudine!' and she finally muttered, ‘
Bitte.'

But you wouldn't take the firewood from Dr Carter, she thought.

It didn't make any sense, this world of loyalties that shifted like steam.

Maman smiled and laughed and wolfed down the chicken, while, sickened, Claudine stared at the food on her plate. All she could see was Hans's face, his white teeth, and his long, hard fingers.

The beach was a fine place to be wretched. The sea sometimes blue or green or purple or grey. Never the same but always there. Everything smelt bitter and fresh and clean. Time slipped away and thought disappeared.

Claudine could breathe easily there. She dug holes until they filled with water and she watched the sandhoppers drown. Then she rescued them one by one and they leapt away to safety.

Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Gregor.

Something inside her broke and she started to shake and she couldn't stop sobbing, wave upon wave of grief and fear. At first she put her arms around him. He felt safe and warm, like home or Papa. But then she remembered how ashamed she was and she thought of everything he had done and she pulled away.

‘I'm going home.'

‘What have I done that you are so sad, Claudine?' he asked. ‘I have not seen you. You are running from me, I think.'

He went to put his arm around her again, but she flinched and moved away.

‘Why were you mean?' she said, suddenly, as she stared at the bruise-black sea.

He sat next to her. ‘Mean? What is this?'

‘I saw you. You were so mean to those poor prisoners, just before the execution of the Frenchman. Why?'

‘You saw this Frenchman killed?'

‘No. But I saw you shouting at the prisoners. And you watched while the other soldier…' Her voice cracked. ‘It's rotten, you're all
rotten
!'

Gregor was quiet for a long time. Then he took an apple out of his pocket and offered it to her. She shook her head.

His face was thinner and his skin was like old paper. She remembered that night on the beach, when the other soldiers dragged him away. She felt a surge of pity for him, swiftly followed by shame at what had happened to her, at what he had
allowed
to happen to her, and anger at how he had treated the prisoners.

‘The men,' he said. ‘The
Häftlinge
. I think this for a long time. It is
mean
—this is your word, yes?
Rotten.
Yes? So I try not to hurt them. I am good man to them.' He crunched on his apple.

Claudine frowned. ‘But you
shouted
. And then you let a man get beaten and then…' She spread her hands, unable to speak.