Pardonable Lie (16 page)

SIXTEEN

There was little conversation during the journey into Paris. For Maisie, there was only a window to the past as towns, fields, and villages swept by. Was this how France had looked before the war, before the landscape was changed beyond all recognition, before she herself was changed forever? What fears and resentments remained beneath the surface, as communities were rebuilt to mirror the homes, churches, and shops razed to the ground amid constant shelling? Many of the old foundations had survived bombardment and were now used as templates for the massive reconstruction still in progress. How strange it was that the country was like a human being, a different self on the outside but with the old memories, deeply held, buried under the new.

Down through France they traveled, lulled by the
clickety-clack, clickety-clack
of wheel against track. The place-names of battles past echoed in Maisie’s mind. First Bethune and Lens; then, to the east, Vimy and Arras; now through the Somme Valley, the once-terrible Somme Valley; then on to Amiens.
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack.
How many are still here, buried, in this place, ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Perhaps one hundred thousand lay at rest beneath fields ready for harvest, healthy crops now growing where millions died.
And what about Peter Evernden, where does he lie?

They arrived in Paris, where Maurice had reserved rooms at a small exclusive hotel close to the Seine, the Hotel Richmonde. Maisie had no real need to linger in Paris, though in his journal Ralph Lawton spoke of leave spent there with his “dear friend.” Was that person Jeremy Hazleton? Could there have been another he would not name? A café was mentioned, and a hotel. She would visit both tomorrow.

Following a light supper during which she and Maurice went over plans for the following day, Maisie returned to her room. She would leave for Reims on Sunday. Until then, in addition to her work, she would also indulge Maurice, who wished to spend time in the company of old friends and invited Maisie to join him with the comment, “You have been starved of such intellectual encounter for some time, Maisie. It will do you good, and you will be able to test your retention of the French language.”

The plans settled, there was little to say. Maisie wondered whether she should apologize for her shortness on the channel crossing. She had been aware of resentment building and knew that soon it would surely come to the surface.

O
NCE IN HER
room, Maisie bathed and then sat on the floor in her dressing gown with her legs crossed. As she sat in silence, unaware of noises from the street outside, still bustling with night owls intent upon remaining awake until dawn, the image in her mind was of those early days of the war, days when she was full of her move to Girton and to a life she had hardly dared imagine. Then that first journey back to Chelstone for Christmas, 1914. Maisie saw again the mass of khaki on the station platforms, standing aside as troop trains went through, and the endless farewells, the stubborn smiles of those who dearly hoped to see a son, brother, or sweetheart again. Hadn’t they said it would all be over by now, those politicians, those men who knew? And then her excitement at seeing her father. And Maurice. Maurice had been in London and, it was said, overseas, perhaps France, perhaps Holland. No one really knew, and he said nothing when she went to visit him, simply smiled as she recounted stories of Girton.

“Tell me about your friends, Maisie,” he said, “for I hope you have made a friend or two.” Maurice had worried that Maisie’s standing might have prevented her from seeking close associations.

“Priscilla Evernden is my best friend. Oh, she’s very funny at times, really doesn’t care for her studies, and spends most of her time planning her next outing. She’s a little older than I.”

“I see.” Maurice relit his pipe and smiled. He was pleased.

“When I scold her about her studies, she simply says the boys, her brothers, keep their parents happy with their accomplishments, especially Peter. He’s the eldest, about twenty-five or -six, I think.”

“Are they overseas?”

“Yes, they’ve all enlisted. Priscilla says Peter will do best of all over there, because he’s such a whiz with languages.”

Maurice smiled. He was fluent in six languages in addition to his native French. “That’s rare for an Englishman.”

Maisie had been unaware that her excitement was building as she spoke of her friend and her rough-and-tumble yet very wealthy household. “Well, Priscilla says it’s a gift and no one knows where he gets it from. He doesn’t even know himself. Apparently it was while they were on a holiday in Switzerland when he was about twelve; suddenly Peter began speaking in French and then German to other people in the hotel, and the whole family looked at him aghast.”

Maurice paid close attention as Maisie continued.

“He wondered what it was all about and told Priscilla he thought everyone could understand other languages just like that.” Maisie snapped her fingers. “I wish I could.”

As the scene replayed in her head, Maisie watched again, this time from a distance of sixteen years, as Maurice picked up his pen and wrote something on a sheet of paper. She had glanced only briefly before launching into the next part of her story and barely wondered at the time why Maurice had written
PETER EVERNDEN
in capital letters. Then he had looked at her and smiled.

“You’re doing very well, my dear. I am proud of you.”

M
AISIE WOKE EARLY
on Saturday, dressed quickly, and left the hotel. It was a fine morning with only a few clouds, but a chilly breeze reminded her that the cold nip of autumn was not that far away. Wandering along the busy street, she watched as awnings came down and shops opened for business, many owners completing the morning ritual of washing the pavement. She slowed as the shopkeeper in front of her made a final swab back and forth, twisted the mop to squeeze out excess water, picked up the bucket, and threw the water across the pavement.

“
Ah, pardon, mademoiselle. Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît.
”

She had forgotten quite how to say “Not to worry. It’s all right,” so instead she lifted her hand and smiled. The shopkeeper touched his temple with a forefinger, smiled in return, and went back into the shop.

Street cafés were bustling already, with conversation in English and French crackling back and forth and a medley of accents revealing visitors as well as an expatriate community from America, Britain, Spain, Italy, and Africa. Maisie looked at her watch. She would join Maurice for breakfast at nine, so there was time for a cup of coffee before she made her way back to the hotel.

“
Café au lait, s’il vous plaît.
”

The waiter gave a sharp bow and disappeared into the café, stopping en route to pick up a tip, which he inspected first, shaking his head before placing the money in the front pocket of his long white apron.

Maisie sat back in her seat, observing the café’s patrons around her. Many were clearly regulars of some tenure, such as the man wearing tweed trousers and jacket that did not match, a monocle pressed against his eye as he unfolded a newspaper, which he read while waiting for coffee and a croissant he had no need to order, for his choice of breakfast never changed. Then there were the two well-dressed women, fashionably attired in late-summer wear of linen and silk. Coco Chanel had made sun-kissed skin a desirable accessory only a year earlier, and these women had clearly taken heed, their faces, hands, and slender ankles suggesting a summer spent on the Riviera. Maisie inspected her own pale hands as she took a mirror from her handbag, snapped back the pewter lid, and looked at her reflection. She pinched her cheeks, then looked up to see the women watching her. They turned quickly, each lifting a cup to her lips. Maisie’s attention was drawn away from the women by a group of Americans nearby. Voices were raised, members of the set shifting in their seats, men and women eager to both hear and voice opinions.

“Listen, pal, I think the man will be good for Germany.”

“What? Have you read his book,
Mein Kampf
? The man is nuts. Nuts!”

Another man spoke while lighting a cigarette for one of the women, who leaned forward. “Thanks, Frank.” She turned from the one who flipped the lighter top with a “You’re welcome” and offered her own opinion. “Look, don’t you think it’d be a good idea if we all just shut up and let the guy do his job for a while? I agree his ways are strange—all those guys in brown shirts are a bit creepy—but he’s brought a lot of hope to the German people. His party was at the bottom of the heap, and now it’s second in the polls. Just give him a chance!” She inhaled deeply and was about to continue, when another man leaned into the conversation.

“Give him a chance? Who knows what might happen. If you ask me—”

“Which we weren’t, Brad.”

Brad held up his hand for emphasis, as everyone laughed at the interruption. “I said, if you ask me, it’s trouble down the line. Real trouble.”

And so the conversation went on, until the one named Frank stood up. “Am I the only one going to work today?”

The group laughed, beating on the table with their palms, creating such noise that other patrons shook their heads and turned back to their breakfast, perhaps opening a newspaper in front of them with a snap that might have been audible if the Americans had not been so noisy.

“So, what is it today, Frank, an hour’s shut-eye and then a thousand words by lunchtime to keep the
Trib
happy, followed by a Pernod for a job well done?”

Standing, Frank addressed the group, his hands resting on the back of his chair. “No rich old man to keep me in clover in sunny Paree. See y’all back here tonight.” He scanned the faces. “Martha? Stu? Brad?”

Voices agreed in unison and then, as Frank left, the conversation turned to other matters, and it dawned on Maisie that this was not an early breakfast for the group but the tail end of a night out. Was this the sort of life Priscilla imagined for her? And if this was the life she had missed—well, would she really miss it if it did pass her by?

“
Café au lait.
” The waiter stood in front of Maisie.

“
Ah, merci beaucoup.
” Maisie smiled, picking up the large cup, the blend of freshly ground coffee and hot milk already teasing her to taste the scalding beverage. She blew across the surface, causing a film of foam to push back against the cup, and sipped slowly. More memories surged forth, of a leave in Rouen, of dinner with Simon. Maisie smiled. There were good memories along with the bad; indeed, she knew some people who thought the war brought out the best in them and almost hankered for those days of camaraderie, of purpose. Maisie bore no such desire and, as she scanned the faces around her, reflected on her fortune and the man who had nurtured her educational and professional success.
Oh, Maurice, what is going on?
She finished her coffee, her thoughts on plans for today and tomorrow and then the continuation of her journey.

M
AISIE AND
M
AURICE
took breakfast in the hotel dining room. It was a light, airy room, a former courtyard that now had a high ceiling of glass panes that gave the impression of being in a grand Regency orangery, the morning light casting shadows down upon the flagstone floor and dancing upon fountains embedded in the rough stone wall. Ivy grew up and across the walls, while green rubbery trees planted in large rough terra-cotta pots stood in the four corners. The tables were each clad in a white damask cloth topped with a delicate posy of flowers arranged in a small glass jar. The cast-iron chairs were more comfortable than they seemed at first. Maisie ensured that Maurice was seated before taking her place opposite him. A waiter brought a basket of small fresh warm baguettes, croissants, and brioches, then left, and returned with a silver pot of fresh strong coffee and a matching jug of hot frothy milk.

“
Merci beaucoup.
” Maurice spoke French with the accent of a Parisian.

Maisie smiled as Maurice indicated that she should help herself first. She took a croissant, which she spread with butter and jam. Maurice tore off a piece of baguette, spread it with jam, and dipped it in the large cup of black coffee he had poured for himself. Maisie helped herself to milk, which she added to the coffee Maurice had poured for her.

“So: your agenda for today, Maisie?”

“I think I should ask you, Maurice. After all, you are the one with a social circle here.”

Maurice smiled, dipped more baguette into his coffee, and outlined his plans. “Let us walk for a while. Paris is perfect in September, my favorite time. Then we have lunch at noon, which I believe will continue for several hours. My old friends Docteur Stéphane Gabin and Docteur Jean Balmain will join us; both are still teaching at the Sorbonne—did you know that?”

“I would have thought they were retired by now.” Maisie had met the two men many years earlier, when they had visited Maurice during her apprenticeship.

“And they are anxious to see you too.”