Kleber's Convoy (8 page)

It was in Avignon, having finished his work in the Languedoc, that Redman decided to go to Paris. There had been a
business
excuse, but the real reason was a sudden irrational desire to see Marianne. He telephoned his uncle, said he'd completed the tour of the Languedoc vineyards and would return via Paris where he would look up Lefevre the
wine-shipper
. He'd added that he'd like to take a few days' leave there. His uncle had agreed and the next day Redman caught the train for Paris.

He'd not seen Marianne since the summer of 1938 when she and Hans had stayed at his aunt's house in East Horsley. It had been a splendid week. He'd liked Hans and found his sister attractive. He and the girl enjoyed the same things, shared the same tastes. Like long rambling walks through Ranmore Forest and along the rim of the downs, a preference for the country as against the town, for comedy rather than tragedy. They talked endlessly, laughed a lot, he helped her over stiles and fences, held her hand and kissed her when the opportunity occurred, which was not often because Hans was so often there. Redman was much aware of the difference in their ages: she nineteen, he twenty-nine. For this reason, though she attracted him, he'd not taken her seriously. Afterwards they'd exchanged letters at increasingly long intervals and in time he'd accepted that she was nothing more to him than a friend abroad. A foreign girl he liked.

At the end of the year she'd written to suggest he might spend a week at her parents' house outside Frankfurt. Hans would be there. But it had not been possible. Redman had only recently left the Royal Navy to go into his uncle's wine business and there was little prospect of getting to Germany at that time. In any event he was no admirer of the Third Reich and the idea of visiting Germany – much as he liked Marianne and Hans-was distasteful.

That Christmas she wrote to say she was going to Paris in the New Year to study art. She gave him an address. Asked him to write when he had time.

He'd not warned her that he was coming and her surprise when she saw him that afternoon waiting at the gates of the Ecole des Beaux Arts was unfeigned and delightful. She'd left a group of chattering students and rushed across the courtyard calling, ‘Francis, Francis,' as if she feared he'd not seen her. When she reached him she panted, ‘What are you doing here?' Her eyes were wide with amazement.

He'd laughed. Explained that he'd come to Paris to see her, and she'd said, ‘Is that true? Do you really mean that?' And he'd said, ‘Yes, of course I do.' She'd taken his hand and squeezed it affectionately. ‘Oh, that's marvellous. I'm so happy.'

The few days of leave had run into a week and might well have been more but for a caustic telegram from his uncle. The time in Paris had been the happiest he'd ever known. By the third day he realised he was in love and life took on a new dimension. In the mornings and afternoons he would explore the Left Bank in a leisurely unplanned way. Always they would meet for lunch, most often at a little restaurant near the wrought-iron gates at the foot of the Rue des Beaux Arts. After lunch she would return to the art school and they would meet again in the later afternoon at the Café Royale in the Place St Germain. Each night they would sample a new restaurant. Usually she made the choice, and it would be small and inexpensive but the food good. ‘We students know where to go' she would explain. ‘We have to. We cannot afford the other places.'

Lovely lazy spring days followed each other all too quickly and, inevitably, what was for Redman an idyllic existence had to end. He remembered every moment of the day before his departure. They'd walked down the Boulevard St Germain arm in arm, past the Odéon Métro station, the Seine out of sight on their left. She was strangely quiet and when they crossed streets and he took her hand she clasped his tightly as if afraid to let it go. It was a warm evening in late April. Trees not yet in leaf stood gaunt and bare against grey buildings. ‘They need only a tricolor to make an Utrillo,' she'd said. ‘Yes,' he replied. ‘Nature's catching up.'

She made a moue. ‘You know what I mean, you awkward Englishman.'

They'd gone into a bistro and he'd ordered a Pernod and she citron and perrier water. She remained silent and preoccupied. 
He chided her and she smiled, looking at him with limpid affectionate eyes. ‘Don't worry. It's nothing.' She squeezed his hand to reassure him. ‘Let's move on. I feel restless.'

So they'd strolled on, turned left into the Boul' Miche and gone down to the Place St Michel. They'd looked at displays in the little
journal
kiosks and played a game, guessing the number of countries represented by the papers and periodicals on display, then counting them. She'd taken him into the Church of St Séverin, and they'd wandered about its beautiful ambulatory, discussed the stained-glass window beyond the altar. Why was it cubist whereas all the other windows were orthodox theological? They had seen people praying in the chapels. Wondered about them. The sad young woman. What was she praying for? Sick child? Erring husband? And the old woman? Perhaps easier to guess in her case. He remembered the quiet rather humble mood in which he and Marianne had left the church because they'd had nothing in particular to pray for. It was a gorgeous spring evening and they were in love.

Later Marianne complained that she was tired and they'd gone to a little restaurant off the Rue St Séverin, attracted there by stands of lobsters, prawns and mussels glistening under the light of a street lamp. Inside it was dim, and flickering ships' lanterns, fishermen's nets, glass buoys, cork floats and ropework gave it character. They'd eaten fish soup and mussels, drunk Muscadet, and talked in subdued voices, touching each other, sometimes laughing, sometimes sighing.

When the bill came she was shocked. ‘I don't like to see money thrown about like that,' she'd said. There was so much poverty. Did he not know? Realize that it was wrong? He'd learnt in that week that she was a radical. Filled with compassion, eager to change society, to remove the inequalities. He argued for the status quo but had to give up. He could get nowhere. On this they were too far apart. His thinking had been conditioned by Dartmouth and seventeen years in the Royal Navy. ‘You are a Junker,' she'd said, eyes flashing, nose wrinkling in disapproval. ‘You believe in the status quo. In class distinction.'

He shook his head. ‘Your trouble, Marianne, is an
overdose
of Left Bank ideology,' At that point they'd decided
not to spoil their last evening together.

The meal finished, they'd gone down to the Pont St Michel and walked back along the Seine, stopping at the print stalls on the Quai des Grands Augustins, chatting to the owners. They moved on and there was another long silence when neither said what was on their minds.
Tomorrow
would be the last day.

At ten o'clock she began to shiver and complain of the cold. Said she was tired. They took a taxi to the Rue des Beaux Arts. It stopped outside the small apartment house in which she had a room. He paid it off and for a moment they stood on the pavement looking at each other.

She asked him if he'd like to see her room. She'd never done that before. On other nights he'd taken her to the front door and she would fish in her bag for a key. Then she'd unlock the door and, very tenderly, they would say good night. He would kiss her and she would go in, turning and waving before running upstairs.

He would walk a few blocks, then take a taxi or the Métro back to his hotel off the Place Vendôme. Before falling asleep he would think of the time they'd spent together during the day. He would go over everything they'd said and done and make mental notes of things she'd said which, in retrospect, were not clear.

Once they were sitting on a bench in the grounds of the Church of St Germain-des-Prés. It was a quiet peaceful place. Little lawns and flower-beds, chestnut trees putting out tentative leaves, tangled ivy on old stone walls beyond which traffic rolled unceasingly down the boulevard. He questioned her about something she'd said the night before.

‘You read into these things meanings which were never there,' she said. ‘Then you question me as if you were full of suspicion. As if I had done wrong.' She frowned and her cornflower blue eyes regarded him seriously.

‘It isn't that,' he said. ‘I
do
think over things you've said. They interest me. Then sometimes I wonder what you meant. The next day I ask you. It's nothing more than that.'

‘For example?'

‘Like yesterday when I asked if you loved me and you said, “Give me time. How can I know?” And now I've just asked you what you meant by “How can I know?” You see,
I'm so sure I love you, I wonder why you had to say “How can I know?”'

She touched his arm and smiled, looked round quickly, kissed him. ‘I
think
I love you, Francis. But I have never been in love, so how can I know if this really is love? This is why I want time. Do you not understand?'

But on that last night it had been different Without affectation or embarrassment she'd said, Would you like to see my room?' and he'd said, ‘Yes, I would.' They'd gone up the narrow creaking staircase together, synchronising their footsteps, laughing at each other with their eyes.

She'd put down her things, given him the only chair, and made coffee on a hot-plate. They sat and talked and drank it, and afterwards he took her in his arms and kissed and caressed her and lifted her on to the bed. She'd not protested when he undressed her and afterwards she lay there and he saw how finely she was made, her arms crossed to conceal small breasts, her head turned away in a gesture of modesty.

He asked her if she'd made love before. Quietly, seriously, she said, ‘Yes.' His surprise had shown because he'd not expected that reply. He was a man with little experience of women, naïve and idealistic in his beliefs about them. Most of his adult life had been spent at sea, much of it on the China and West Indies stations. There had been the usual flirtations and an unsuccessful affair with a married woman. Nothing more.

Marianne had seen his surprise. ‘You are worried?'

He said, ‘I suppose I'm surprised. You're so young.' She'd sighed. ‘It was an affair. A married man. A few months only. Then it was finished. I realise now it was nothing. I was not in love. It was sex. This attraction can be very strong you know.' She'd looked at him appealingly. ‘Please. Not one of your interrogations. It finished long ago.'

He'd laughed at that and undressed and then he was holding her in his arms, experiencing the delicious
excitement
of their nakedness. All of her was warm and firm and supple. He told her so and she interrupted the sentence by closing his mouth with hers. They caressed and explored each other's bodies and finally made love. He found her intensely passionate. Responsive beyond anything he'd
imagined
.

Afterwards they lay in each other's arms, absorbed in their love. He said, ‘I was rough. Did I hurt you?' She'd shaken her head and smiled and said, ‘No. You are very gentle.' He leant over her and covered her neck and shoulders with kisses. ‘I love you‚' he said. And she replied, ‘Me too. I love you.' The words seemed small and inadequate for an emotion so deeply felt, but there were no others that would not have sounded affected. It was love of a kind he'd not experienced before and as the hours passed he became sad, reluctant to leave her for he'd wanted that time and feeling to remain for always.

When he left he said, ‘Remember. We meet tomorrow at five at the Royale. Don't be late. It will be our last night in Paris together.' And she had said, ‘No. I won't be late. I promise.'

Back in the hotel that night he'd had little sleep. His mind was disturbed. Not only was he in love but they had made love and he knew he was committed.

Tomorrow they would say good-bye. What should he do? War was coming. She was German. He was on the emergency list of the Royal Navy and would certainly be called up. It was an impossible moment in time to propose marriage or to make plans that could be meaningful. And she was only nineteen.

Worrying about what he should do, what he should say, he fell asleep, his problem unsolved.

He found a table on the balcony at the Royale from which he could look out over the Place St Germain-des-Prés and see the pavement up which she would come from the art school. This would be their last meeting for a long time. If war came they might never meet again. The problem with which he had fallen asleep remained unresolved. What should he do? How could he explain things to her in such a way that it did not sound as if he were trying to back out? Should he damn the consequences, forget the imponderables, propose? It was the only decent thing to do. But was it remotely practical? Might it not be grossly unfair to her. To find herself newly married in a country at war with her own?

Confused, hopelessly undecided, he tossed a coin. Heads he'd propose. Tails he wouldn't. It came down heads. But
he hadn't decided whether it was to be sudden death or the best of three. Again he tossed. Tails. On the third toss it landed on the floor. Heads again. Two heads in favour of proposing. But it was not a fair toss, he decided. It had landed on the floor. At last he acknowledged that the absurd gamble was bogus. He'd already made up his mind not to propose. Commonsense was overwhelmingly against it. This was something which could wait. War
might
not come. Then he'd be free to propose and she'd be older and more able to decide for herself. He was not proud of his decision. Knew it was weak-kneed. It didn't help either that her brother was Hans, the man who'd saved his life in the mountains above Crans-sur-Sierre. And to have seduced his rescuer's sister seemed a strange way of showing gratitude.