The Soldier's Wife (12 page)

Chapter 22

I
T'S DARKER IN
the evenings now. I draw the curtains earlier, turn on the lamp. Shadow reaches out its fingers from the corners of the room.

I read a new story to Millie. We sit on the sofa together, and Blanche sprawls on the floor with her magazines, and the lamp spills its light across us, bright as petals that fall from a flower.

The story tells of a soldier who is returning home from the wars. I think of the tale of the dancing princesses that I read to Millie the evening before we nearly went on the boat: in that story too there was a soldier coming back from a war. In fairy tales, there are always wars, and men who go off to the battlefield, and then some of them—the lucky ones—who make their way back home. In these stories, war is a given, a part of the condition of life, like the aging and eroding of the body, like stormy weather. War is what men do—and the reasons are never explained. And to return from a war is a protracted, testing journey. The soldiers have epiphanies and encounters with the uncanny as they return from the battlefield, as though the things they have suffered open them up to the unseen.

Millie is pressed against me. I hear the slight wet sound as she sucks her thumb. She's looking at a picture; it shows a soldier walking up a simple storybook road that winds with perfect symmetry toward blue distant hills. You can't see the soldier's face, yet you can see how weary he is, so profoundly weary of war. You can read all his longing for a quiet life. It's written there in his hunched worn body, the way he trudges along.

Millie has the hypnotized look she always has when I read to her, scarcely blinking.

“The soldier's like Daddy, isn't he? Daddy's a soldier,” she says.

“Yes,” I say.

“Where is he?” she says.

I wonder how real her father is to her. She was only three when he left.

“I don't know where he is exactly, sweetheart. We don't get news anymore, because of the Occupation. But I'm sure he's thinking of us, wherever he is.”

“
All
the time, Mummy? Is he thinking of us
all
the time?”

The question hurts, with a dull familiar ache, like when you press on a bruise. I'm sure Eugene thinks fondly of his children; but if he thinks of a woman on Guernsey, I know it isn't me. But I'm always so careful in these moments—careful never to hint that there was anything wrong between us. Careful never to let our unhappiness show in my voice.

“I'm sure he thinks of us all the time,” I tell her.

I read how the soldier shares his last crust of bread with a beggar, and, to thank him for his kindness, the beggar gives him a magical sack; how the soldier boldly captures Death in the sack. The soldier is at first triumphant and celebrated by all. But he later comes to regret what he did, because now that Death is conquered, there is no escape from this world, and the hordes of the weary old surround him, accusing, yearning to die.

Millie pulls her thumb out of her mouth. She's frowning slightly, pensive. Her wet thumb shines in the lamplight.

“But nobody wants to die,” she says.

“Maybe if you're very old.”

“Like Grandma? Does Grandma want to die?”

“No, I'm sure she doesn't. I mean . . . much older than that. . . . I think perhaps that very old people can start to feel rather tired.”

But my voice doesn't sound very certain. Perhaps the story is wrong. Perhaps it's as Millie said, and nobody wants to die.

I read her the rest of the story, thinking of the soldier. I see him so exactly, but not as he looks in the book. Well, maybe in some ways like the picture—the tattered clothes, the trudging step, as he follows the long and winding road that will bring him back to his home. But in my mind the face of the soldier is Captain Lehmann's face.

Chapter 23

O
CTOBER. THE LUFTWAFFE
are bombing London. They fly over every evening: there's terrible devastation. Londoners are sheltering in the Underground at night, with sing-alongs to keep their spirits up. Morale is high, we are told, in spite of all the destruction. I'm so afraid for Iris and her family.

Through the early days of October, we don't see much of the German soldiers next door. Captain Lehmann has disappeared. Sometimes when I'm out in my yard, I seem to hear footsteps behind me, and I turn, expecting to see him there, resting his hand on my gate, looking at me with that look he has—courteous, and perhaps a little amused. But there's no one. Or I'll be cleaning in my bedroom, and I'll hear a car in the lane, and I'll look cautiously out the window, but it'll just be one of the other men who live there.

It's a relief, in a way. I don't know how it would be if we met again. A hot embarrassment washes through me, even imagining such a meeting. I tell myself that perhaps he's on leave. Perhaps he's even been posted elsewhere. Yet when these thoughts enter my head, I feel a quick surge of something like anger. How could he go without telling me? Why didn't he say good-bye? And then I think, Why on earth would I expect that? Where does this anger come from? I have no right to this feeling. He owes me nothing.

One day I leave Millie with Evelyn and cycle down to St. Peter Port. The shelves in the shops look emptier now, but I manage to find a joint of pork and some bread. At the ironmonger's, I buy broad bean seeds and a tray of winter cabbage seedlings. I know it's time to dig up my flowers and plant my garden for food.

I've arranged to meet Gwen for tea. When I get to Mrs. du Barry's, she is there already, at our favorite table at the back of the shop, where we sat on the day of the bombing. It seems an age ago now. I ask how she is, and she says she's fine, but I wonder whether that's true: she's wearing a pilled old cardigan, and she hasn't put on her lipstick, and she seems too thin, her bones too clear in her face. I know I must look much the same—we're all shabby, tired, resigned.

Mrs. du Barry brings tea and biscuits. The biscuits are made with potato flour, but she still has proper tea. We drink gratefully, sitting in companionable silence, looking out over the harbor, at the red-tiled roofs, the water, the seabirds lifting into light, all the glitter and sparkle and white wings over the sea; and the enemy warships at anchor, and the soldiers on the harbor road. I know we're thinking the same thing: How could this happen
here
?

“We hear them marching at night sometimes,” she tells me. “Along the main road. Marching and singing at the tops of their voices. It gives you a chill. It's like they're saying,
We'll show you who's in charge here
. After that, it's hard to get back to sleep. But you must be less aware of all that, down at Le Colombier.”

“Yes, I suppose so. It's still very quiet down there . . . Though there are German soldiers at Connie's place next door.”

She's half opened her mouth to take a bite of her biscuit. She's suddenly still, her biscuit poised in her hand. Her eyes widen.

“What—at Les Vinaires?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I didn't know. You never mentioned it before.” She frowns.

I feel all the heat in my face.

“They keep themselves to themselves,” I say.

“I can't believe you never told me,” she says.

“They're very quiet. To be honest, we're not all that aware of them,” I say.

I'm not quite looking at Gwen; I look past her out the window, where in the clear air the other islands look close enough to touch. I think, Why did I say,
to be honest
? I read somewhere that it's what people say when they're not quite telling the truth.

“It must be a pain, though,” she says. “You must feel they're constantly keeping an eye on you. I mean, there's that window in Connie's house that looks out over your yard. . . .”

I feel that I'm lying to her. I hate this.

“I suppose you can get used to anything,” I tell her.

I tell myself—that whole strange thing with Captain Lehmann, those awkward, halting conversations—it's all in the past. I'll never see him again. So it's stupid to feel so guilty, as though I've done something wrong.

“And how are the girls? How's Blanche?” she asks me. “Enjoying Mrs. Sebire's?”

“Yes. Though I think she still wishes we'd gone on the boat. She went to a party at Les Brehauts. It was German soldiers and island girls.”

“Oh,” says Gwen, digesting this.

There are little sharp lines between her eyes. I feel a slight shift between us, like a weed growing up between stones.

Then she shrugs, and the moment has passed.

“Well, young people need a social life.” I know she doesn't approve, but she's making allowances as it's Blanche. “It
is
hard for them—with half the island men away, and all the shortages, and no new clothes in the shops. . . . Look, I brought you something.” She pulls a piece of paper out of her bag, a recipe she's written out for macaroni cake. “This doesn't taste all that wonderful, but it fills you up,” she says.

I thank her, too effusively. I think we're both relieved to move the conversation on.

The shop bell jangles; we turn as two people come in—a German soldier with a Guernsey girl. I know the girl by sight—she was in the same class as Blanche at school. She has a heart-shaped face and hair the color of barley sugar, and, unlike most of us, she's put her makeup on—peach frosted lipstick, pale powder. She has a delicate sheen. When they sit he reaches over the table and takes her hand between his.

Gwen shakes her head.

“How can she?” she says, almost under her breath. “How
can
she?”

I don't say anything.

“I mean, being polite is one thing. They're human beings too. And I can just about understand Blanche wanting to go to that party. I mean, let's face it, young people need to get out. . . .” She's trying to find the place to draw the line, wanting to show where she stands, to say, This is all right, but
this
is unacceptable. “But
that
. . . I just don't understand it. . . . It's going too far. I mean, when all's said and done, we're at war with them. They bombed us. I just don't see how she can possibly live with herself.”

I don't say anything.

I think, What would Gwen think if she knew about me and Captain Lehmann? But there's nothing to know about me and Captain Lehmann.

“Viv, are you sure you're all right?” Her eyes are searching my face. “You don't seem quite yourself,” she says.

“I'm fine, Gwen. Honestly.”

Chapter 24

I
PROP MY BICYCLE
against the wall of my house. My fingers are stiff and numb from clutching the handlebars; there's a cold edge to the air today, hinting of winter's coming. I rub my hands together, feel the sting as the blood rushes back.

I'm relieved to find that nothing has gone wrong in my absence. Millie is playing upstairs and Evelyn is fast asleep in her chair. I empty out my bicycle basket on the kitchen table—the bread, the pork, the tray of seedlings—feeling a brief sense of triumph that I can still feed my family. Behind me, the front door is open onto the yard.

A shadow falls across the floor behind me.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. de la Mare.”

Captain Lehmann is standing on my doorstep.

I have a sudden shock of recognition, as though I've half forgotten his face in the time he's been away.

“I haven't seen you around,” I say. Then think, That suggests I was looking for him. I feel the blood rush to my face.

“I have been on leave. I went to Berlin,” he tells me.

“Oh.”

I think of the Berlin of the newsreels—the Berlin of the military parades; of Hitler's speeches, at once preposterous and chilling. And at the same time, I wonder about the people who wait for him in Berlin—his wife, his son—feeling an intense, illicit curiosity. These thoughts colliding in me.

“I have some chocolate,” he says. “I bought it on my way back, from a chocolate shop in Cherbourg.”

He holds it out. It's Suchard milk chocolate, in a wrapper of cornflower blue with gold lettering. Even the look of it is so glamorous. I imagine how it would be as you unwrapped and ate it—the delicious crackle of silver paper, the rush of sweetness in your mouth.

“Take it. It's for you,” he says.

I shake my head. I think I can smell the chocolate faintly through the wrapping. Or maybe it's just that intense imagination that comes when you're feeling deprived—when for afternoon tea you had tasteless biscuits made from ersatz flour. My mouth fills startlingly with water; I have to swallow. He watches my throat, I know he can see this.

I blush. I feel a kind of shame.

“I think you like chocolate, Mrs. de la Mare,” he says.

“Everybody likes chocolate,” I say vaguely.

“So why won't you take it?” he says.

“Thank you, but I can't,” I say. I'm speaking very quietly, so as not to wake Evelyn. It makes our conversation seem more intimate than it should. “I told you before, when I wouldn't take the coffee . . .”

“But it's such a small thing, surely—to say no to some chocolate.”

“That's all I can do—small things,” I say. Remembering what Johnnie said.
There's always something. Maybe just a small thing. You've got to do what you can.

“Mrs. de la Mare, no one will die because you took a very small gift from me,” he says. “Nothing is being put at risk here.”

He's standing a little too close to me. I remember how he swatted the wasp from my sleeve, and thinking that, I feel it again—the bright flare of sensation in me.

“And you have taken a cigarette from me,” he says. “What is so different now?”

“I shouldn't have taken the cigarette,” I tell him.

His gray pensive gaze is on me.

“If you won't take the chocolate for yourself, you can give it to your children. Would that make you feel a little less guilty?” he says.

I put out my hand and take the chocolate.

He gives a slight sigh, as though he is pleased, relieved. I try not to think about this: why my concession matters, why it is so important to him for me to take this gift.