A Week in Paris (46 page)

There was so much though, that she didn’t remember. She must have wiped out altogether the scene of what had happened in the church that day. Had she even understood what was going on? And Mme Ramond hadn’t said what happened to him afterwards, whether the Gestapo had taken his body away. That was something else she’d failed to ask her.

And that dreadful time – all those months – when she must have missed her mother, but nobody had properly explained where she was or when she would see her again. And then they told her, the nuns, that she would travel on a long train journey with Sister Thérèse to find Kitty, except she hadn’t found her. Instead she had been thrust onto another train full of strangers. The woman who took her had said something Fay didn’t fully understand, because she hadn’t spoken English for so long. She recognized the word ‘safe’ though, and ‘mother’ and heard the clatter of the wheels as the train gathered speed . . .

July 1944

The woman was kind, blowsy-looking with untidy greying hair and a face that sagged under her make-up. She smelled strongly of perfume. Fay knew this wasn’t her mother, so who was she? She had a sense of her mother deep down inside, but no memory of her face. The blowsy woman made a space for Fay to sit. Somebody gave her some bread and a piece of sausage and called her a ‘poor thing’. Another gave her something sweet and strong to drink from a bottle. After that the blowsy woman tucked a coat round her and she fell asleep.

When she woke, she was bathed in perspiration and the sight and sounds of the compartment moved in and out of focus. The blowsy woman stroked her hair, felt her forehead and exclaimed. Fay was given water from a different bottle then taken to a smelly lavatory to relieve herself. Back in her seat she fell asleep again.

The next thing she knew, she was falling into pitch dark, the women were crying out. There was an awful mechanical screeching as the train ground to a halt. The blowsy woman gathered her off the floor and cuddled her and she cried, but despite the noisy confusion she fell asleep again, the tears drying on her cheeks. When she woke once more the train was still at a halt, but her fever had gone and she felt much better. Her stomach growled with hunger.

Outside, it was sunny. The view from the window was beautiful, with meadows and trees stretching as far as the eye could see. They were told the train track was damaged, but that they could get out and the women jostled each other in their eagerness. They all sat together in the grass amongst the flowers. Men could be seen working on the track in front of the train. An eager fair-haired girl from Fay’s compartment was dispatched to look for Kitty. When she returned her eagerness was gone. The women all stared at Fay and talked to each other in whispers of dismay.

Fay plucked wild strawberries and popped them into her mouth as she watched a ladybird climb to the top of a plant with delicate white petals. Above, a blazing sun moved imperceptibly across a sky of opaque blue. The women grumbled or slept or delved in their suitcases for bits of smuggled food, which they shared, always making sure Fay had some. The younger ones played cards, or laughed or sang or squabbled. The men appeared to finish their work on the track and went away, but for a long time nothing happened.

The air cooled and the blue sky darkened to ultramarine, to navy, then indigo, and points of starlight began to gleam. Finally a whistle blew and everyone rushed to climb back on board. The sky was black velvet when the train started on its way again.

Two mornings later, the train trundled through a battle-torn landscape and entered a city of smoking ruins. It edged slowly into the remains of a station where Fay pointed at the ridiculous sight of engines upended in craters. Gangs of ragged men were tearing at the rubble, urged on by German soldiers with whips. The women were made to change trains and after another long wait were relieved to leave the scene behind. They sped out into open countryside again. The train carved its way through green fields, then a gorgeous plain of golden sunflowers, and entered a long, dark tunnel. It emerged to pass along the side of a steep gorge above a rushing river.

Night followed day, followed night, and Fay felt as if she’d been travelling for ever. The air grew hotter, the colours of the houses changed from white and grey to ochre, with roofs of baked terracotta. They were in a region of terraced hills patterned by rows of small trees. The train stopped at a small station where police milled about the platform, and the women were made to disembark. Fay followed the blowsy woman, whom she had learned to call Cynthia, as she lugged her suitcase along a road to a hotel. It was a shabby place with overcrowded rooms. Fay spent several nights there on a straw pallet on the floor and woke each morning covered in red spots that itched all day. There was strange food, too, fatty spicy sausage, olives, which she detested, and a cold salty soup that caught the back of her throat. She made friends with a mongrel dog that slept on the veranda and wondered what would happen next.

It was here, on the border with Spain, that the trouble began. At the hotel Cynthia searched Fay’s bag for her papers, but there was nothing, nothing to state legally who she was or where she belonged. ‘
Anglaise
,’ Fay said, when a woman who spoke French asked her. ‘
Ma mère est anglaise
,’ but this was all she could remember of what Thérèse had told her.

‘You will have to pretend you’re my daughter, sweetpea.
Ma fille
,’ Cynthia said, pointing first to Fay. Fay was beginning to remember her English. Cynthia was from England, too. She didn’t understand Cynthia’s argument with the border guards, but knew she must pretend to be her daughter. She obediently held the woman’s hand until everybody stopped arguing and they were allowed to pass and climb onto another train with the other women. This train set off up into the mountains, the women watching the majestic landscape with whispered awe.

After they’d descended the other side, the train raced across Northern Spain towards Portugal. This time at the border, Cynthia hid Fay in the lavatory until the guards had passed along the train. And now the hot, exhausted women, who’d been travelling for a fortnight, began to be cautiously excited. Freedom was within reach. Portugal had remained neutral during the war, and it was from Lisbon that they would board ships to England or Canada or America, wherever was home.

Fay, who could not follow all their talk, grew quieter and quieter. She wondered what would happen to her, where her mother was, whom Thérèse had promised she’d see. When at last the train drew into Lisbon and the passengers began to gather their luggage, she slipped her arms through the straps of the canvas rucksack and followed Cynthia down onto the platform.

Cynthia walked across with her suitcase to a tall man in a cream suit and a Panama hat, one of the Embassy party sent to meet them. He was pale-haired with a grave face and mild hazel eyes. Fay waited as he and Cynthia conversed. She heard her mother’s name mentioned – Kitty Knox. The man studied Fay with concern. She looked back at him, shy and silent. He smiled down at her kindly, then crouched in front of her and took off his hat to speak.

‘My name’s Lawrence York. How old are you, Fay?’

In answer she held up her hand with fingers splayed, and slowly folded down her thumb.

‘Four? Goodness me,’ he said in surprise, for he had thought her younger. He straightened up, and taking a pipe from his pocket, blew sharply into the bowl then inserted it into the side of his mouth; all the time, his eyes remained fixed on her. ‘Well, Fay,’ he said, taking out a tin of tobacco, and the pipe trembled between his teeth as he spoke, ‘we’ll have to sort out how to get you home.’

Home, she thought, not understanding. Paris was home. Here she was, alone in a strange place where the heat poured down and this kind man was going to send her back to Paris. Maybe her mother was in Paris.

‘Home to England,’ he said, and her heart sank. England wasn’t home.

And even Cynthia was leaving her.

‘Goodbye, sweetpea,’ Cynthia said, and ruffled Fay’s hair. ‘And the best of luck.’ She acted sad, but Fay detected an air of relief. She watched Cynthia pick up her case and walk away without looking back. She was alone with this man who was sending her to England.

‘Come along,’ he said, and took her hand.

For a long time after that the days all melded into one. She lodged with a wealthy Portuguese family in a pretty villa overlooking the sparkling Atlantic Ocean. She’d never seen the sea before! The mother was a gentle person who bathed her, brought her fresh clothes and sent her old ones to be washed. There were two boys, a few years older than Fay, who played boys’ games, but she was shy. When they asked her to join them to kick a ball about, she shook her head, and sat on her hands on a bench in the garden to watch them, hardly moving, her shoulders hunched, her expression grave.

The family didn’t speak much English and no French. She couldn’t understand their Portuguese, so she fell into the habit of not speaking at all. The elder boy was learning the violin and, seeing her interest, he showed her how to position it under her chin and to move the bow across the strings. The first time that she made it sing, she smiled up at him with pleasure.

Early one morning Major York returned and told her it was time to go. The woman packed up some clothes in her canvas bag. She fitted it on to Fay’s back and buckled up her shoes for her, tutting because they had become so tight. Fay climbed into the back of York’s black car, clutching the leather seat as they wound through Lisbon’s narrow streets to the sea. She was amazed to see the harbour spread out before them, busy with ships and little boats, and was overwhelmed when the car drew up in the shadow of a vast grey battleship. They got out. Queues filled the gangways. The decks of the ship were packed with bright, excited passengers, calling and waving to the people below.

York took Fay’s hand and led her up another, quieter gangplank near the bow of the ship. At the top a petite young woman in neat naval uniform was waiting.

‘Fay, this is Third Officer Briggs. She’ll be looking after you on the voyage. Take good care of yourself now and send my best wishes to England.’ York patted Fay’s shoulder, nodded at the little Wren, and was gone.

‘Third Officer Briggs is an awful mouthful. Call me Sally,’ the young woman said. Her eyes shone with happiness. Her fiancé was a senior officer on board and they were on their way back to Southampton. They were getting married next month and she would see her family in Gloucestershire.

During the nightmare week of the voyage, Fay hardly saw Sally at all because the ship was overcrowded and the crew so busy. Instead Sally gave her into the care of a recently widowed woman with a little girl of seven, whose bed Fay had to share. Then the girl became ill and the mother hardly quitted the cabin. Fay was left to roam the boat alone. She recognized some of the women from the train from Vittel, though there was no sign of Cynthia, and they’d give her food or take her on deck to watch the flying fish. But much of the time she was alone, a ghostly figure one might easily miss, sitting quietly in a corridor.

Southampton was a line on the horizon, then a pattern of ships and buildings, and then they docked and the excited passengers surged down the gangplanks, to greet waiting mothers, sweethearts, brothers, friends. Sally collected her from the widow and escorted her down the gangplank and along the quay to a small square wooden building.

‘This is Fay Knox,’ she told the stern man sitting inside behind a desk. ‘She hasn’t anyone to meet her. The Embassy in Lisbon thought you might sort something out.’

‘Did they, now? Fay Knox, you say. Well, Miss Knox,’ the man said. He opened a drawer and taking out a form wrote out the date, 17 August 1944. ‘Then we shall have to, won’t we?’

Fay came to consciousness in soft darkness, her limbs still paralysed with sleep. Relief flowed through her. It had been only a dream. But what a dream, how vivid! She’d been a child again, lonely, unloved, unable to run or cry for help. She tried to remember the details, to make sense of it. Usually when she did this a dream would lose its power over her and retreat. This time though she could still picture everything clearly. There had been that image again of flying through the air and a woman crying ‘Ups-a-daisy’; but surely what came next had been merely a dream. She’d been on a train that travelled on and on, winding its way up amongst mountains. The hull of a great ship had loomed above her. Then, she’d been on board and had watched its prow carving through an impatient sea, gasped as cold spray stung her face and, in a moment of rapture, had seen fish leaping from the water. She had with her a little canvas rucksack that contained all she had left in the world. The more she thought about it all, the more these pictures asserted themselves. They must have been locked away in some deep recess of her mind, and now she remembered. She had indeed been lost, as Nathalie Ramond told her: lost, silenced, and frightened of never being found.

She had been found though, hadn’t she? She must have been. And she didn’t know how or where or when.

Something had interrupted her dream. A noise outside perhaps, or simply the need to turn over. If she’d stayed asleep, would she have remembered the rest of it? Fay lay thinking about all the people who had helped her on her way to England. Thérèse, Cynthia, the man from the Embassy, the Portuguese boy with the violin, the pretty Wren on board ship, the list went on, but what had happened to her back in England? Another image came to her then, the old familiar picture of a vast room full of children’s voices. She sensed that she was close to the heart of the mystery now, but it wasn’t quite in focus, not yet.

And she was going home today. She let out a long breath like a sigh. She’d see Adam, she hoped, but what else should she do? Mme Ramond had imparted all she knew about her, and she had learned much and regained certain memories. Yet the tale wasn’t quite told. For that she’d need to go home and confront her mother. She yearned to do that now. But there was something else, too, something she’d tried several times to do – and that was to visit the curé at the church of Sainte Cécile.