Tug of War (21 page)

‘Nothing now, an empty space, but before the war it was an open corridor. The best bottles were moved into it and Maman got the estate workers to build a partition and paint it over with
several coats of whitewash until it looked just like the chalk wall. There were about six of those false walls blocking off corridors and alcoves and after the war we managed to remember which ones
they were and tore them down to release the stock. Except for this one. Maman had it put back and preserved. I told you she was a great one for history. She keeps it there as a reminder. Did you
notice the pictures of the Virgin Mary and one or two other saints as we came along? Those were the markers of the false walls. Maman thought they looked very natural – like shrines. Wine
makers are thought to be rather superstitious in that way. Dependent on the weather and other quirks of fate, as we are, it makes sense. And the hidden wine, when the saints delivered it up to us
again, at the end of the war, made quite a lot of money for us. Enough to keep afloat at any rate. Anyone who could afford it wanted to drink champagne to celebrate. We began to sell huge
quantities to London.’

They walked on, mesmerized by the serried ranks of bottles, Dorcas asking the expected questions: ‘How many grapes does it take to make one bottle of champagne? . . . If you use red grapes
why is the wine pale yellow? . . . How do the bubbles get into the wine?’ and Georges replying patiently and accurately.

‘And here we are at the Piccadilly Circus or the Place de la Concorde of the underworld,’ he announced as they entered an area where the gallery widened and other tunnels radiated
from it.

‘Ah, there’s another saint, on another of those walls,’ said Dorcas. Darting ahead, she shot across for a closer look, drawn to the brightly painted image, glinting with gold
in the beam of the torch. ‘I don’t recognize this man,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t look very saintly! You’re going to have to identify him.’

‘See if you can work it out,’ Georges challenged them. ‘The two of you ought to be up to it.’

‘Well, he’s clearly a saint,’ said Joe. ‘He has a halo round his head, look. But he does look much more like a soldier. In fact, he looks like a
Roman
soldier to
me. Cavalryman?’

‘Mounted on a horse at any rate. Crested helmet,’ said Dorcas. ‘He’s drawn his sword and he’s sliced his red military cloak in two and he’s offering half to
the naked beggar sitting on the ground at his horse’s feet. Haven’t a clue.’

‘Yes, you have,’ said Georges, choosing to take her literally. ‘You’ve come up with all the evidence you need.’

‘I’ve got it!’ said Joe. ‘It’s St Martin of Tours! But I’ve still no idea what he’s doing here in a wine cellar. Friend of beggars and the poor. Hardly
a qualification for presiding over choice bottles of champagne?’

‘Where else would he be? Very appropriate! St Martin is the patron saint of wine growers and wine makers. And he’s a local boy. Born in 316 AD, in Roman Gaul, he was in the army up
in Amiens. His saint’s day is 11th November. Remembrance Day. And, yes, he was a cavalry officer.’

There was a pride and a sadness in the boy’s tone that prompted Dorcas to ask: ‘Did
you
put him here, Georges?’

He nodded.

‘And the flowers?’ Joe said quietly. He had noticed, on the ground underneath the icon, a jam jar containing three wilting white roses.

‘I put fresh ones in every week,’ said George with a touch of defiance.

Dorcas had begun to shiver in spite of the thick jersey which reached down to her knees. She turned a desperate pale face to Georges and came slowly back to join them. She took both
Georges’s hands in hers and asked a silent question.

‘Yes, it was here,’ he said simply. ‘It happened here. I put up a cavalry officer to mark a fellow officer’s grave. I believe my father, whatever remains of him, lies
behind that wall.’

‘Would it distress you, Georges, to tell us what you remember happening down here?’ asked Joe with a quick look to left and right.

‘It’s all right. Don’t worry – Maman never comes down here. She hasn’t been in the cellars, as far as I know, from that day to this.’ He pointed to St Martin.
‘There was just a deep alcove there ten years ago with bits and pieces of cellar equipment in it. It was a summer evening in 1917. I’d been out in the fields with Felix, working. I was
angry with my mother for sending me out because my father had come home. He’d been with us for two days and I wanted to be with him every possible moment. Now, I can see that I must have been
the most awful little nuisance,’ he said sorrowfully, ‘shadowing my father everywhere. I finished my work and ran back to the house but my parents had both disappeared. I went to the
kitchen and asked the housekeeper where my father was. She said she’d last seen him come clattering downstairs in his uniform and call for his horse to be saddled and then he’d gone off
across the courtyard and into the cellars. But that was about an hour earlier.

‘I was distraught! This meant he was leaving again. So soon. And apparently without intending to say goodbye to me. I was furious with my mother. I blamed
her
. She’d been
quarrelling with him. I’d heard them shouting at each other and she’d been crying on and off for a whole day. I wanted to find him, tell him that whatever was wrong it had nothing to do
with me.

‘I ran to the cellar. I wasn’t allowed to come down here by myself but I knew my way. Could have found my way blindfold, I think. The lighting wasn’t so wonderful in those days
– oil lamps and home-made candles – but it was adequate. I raced along until I got to that turning there.’ Georges pointed down the way they had come. ‘And I stopped. I
could hear the most awful noise.’ He shuddered at the memory. ‘It was a wailing and then a scrunching, dragging sound, repeated rhythmically every few seconds. I was terrified. I
shouldn’t be there. I would get a spanking if I were caught. And there was something frightful going on in the corridor ahead, I knew it. I peered round the corner and . . . and . . . I saw
the hunched shadow on the wall first.’

He paused, lost in his nightmare.

‘One shadow?’ Joe prompted gently.

‘Yes. My mother. She had long hair in those days – all the women had – and long skirts. She was sobbing and tugging at something on the ground. I thought at first it was a sack
of some kind. But it wasn’t. She was dragging my father’s body over into the alcove. It was leaving a dark trail on the floor as she pulled it along. I don’t know how long I stood
there frozen but I couldn’t move forward. I couldn’t go to my mother. I turned around and began to creep back along the gallery. But I had only gone about twenty yards when I caught a
metal pail with my foot. Maman called out at once. “Who’s that? Is that you, Felix?”

‘I turned around and called back. “No, it’s me, Maman. I’m frightened. I didn’t know where you were.”

‘“Stay where you are!” she shouted. “Stand still!”

‘She came towards me round the corner and I nearly fled. She looked like the Greek women in my books – you know, the Furies or Medea or the Gorgon even. Her hair was hanging over her
face, in damp strands, she’d been weeping and her eyes were dilated. She was panting and I could smell her terror. I would have run away but she knelt and seized me by the arms.
“Georges, you are to go and find Felix,” she said. “Tell him he’s to come to me here. At once. And then I want you to go straight to your room. Speak to no one
else.”

‘I was only too pleased to be sent away and I ran back and found him and delivered the message. When I got upstairs I went to the bathroom as I always did to get ready for bed. I saw
myself in the mirror. My old white linen shirt was stained with blood where my mother’s hands had held me. I was daubed with my father’s blood. She’d stabbed him to
death.’

Dorcas asked quietly: ‘You were only seven, Georges. Did you understand about death and bodies at that age?’

He looked at her wonderingly for a moment. ‘I knew about death. I killed things every day. Vermin. Birds. It was my job to keep the vineyards clear. I snared rabbits for the pot. Food was
always short. And we were living in the middle of a battlefield. We were always coming across corpses . . . dead soldiers in the fields. Runaways hiding in ditches. One winter we found two
deserters, wounded, starving, who’d crept into the cellars for shelter. They hadn’t dared to ask for help in case someone turned them in, I suppose. They were dead when Felix and I came
across them. Dead for several days. We buried them in the churchyard in the village and sent their name tags in. I saw sights no child should see. Yes, I know it was a lifeless corpse my mother was
hauling across the floor.’

Dorcas’s next question was inspired by a quick glance up at the icon of St Martin in his cloak and helmet. ‘The housekeeper told you he’d left in his uniform. Was the body you
saw in uniform?’

‘Well, you know, it’s odd but it didn’t occur to me for years but – he
wasn’t
in uniform. She’d stripped the body down to his underwear. I suppose she
burned the uniform later or got Felix to do it – just as the stained shirt that I’d hidden under my bed was never seen again. Felix knew how to put up the partitions and all the
materials were to hand in the cellar. If he worked all night he could have sealed off the alcove. And then, in the future, long after her own death, if someone were to pull it down they would find
a body not so easily identifiable.’

‘What are the chances of hearing from Felix . . .?’ Joe began.

‘He died three years ago,’ said Georges, subdued. ‘But he would never have spoken of it. Not to anyone. He was devoted to my mother.’

He slumped suddenly, like a string puppet at the end of his act. ‘This is as far as it goes. I’ve given you all I have.’

Joe put a comforting arm around Georges’s shoulder and hugged him, feeling his dejection. He recognized that the boy’s desperate courage in sharing his hideous memory deserved an
acknowledgement rather deeper than the ‘Well done, old chap . . . better out than in – what!’ which came instinctively to him. ‘That took some determination, Georges,’
he murmured. ‘I can understand how difficult it must be to speak of such horrors. But equally – how difficult to remain silent! In your present situation, which gets daily more tricky,
you will want to do justice to your father or his memory as well as show loyalty to your mother. And perhaps there is a way through . . . If there is I’ll find it,’ he finished
encouragingly. ‘
We
will find it. And you can count on our discretion.’ He wondered whether to add a few words about lancing the boil of suspicion with the scalpel of truth and
decided he’d said enough.

‘But this is all fascinating, Georges! Aren’t you fascinated, Joe? I am!’ Dorcas’s voice rang out suddenly, gushing with excitement, as her eyes flashed a warning.
‘Do you know – in all the years I’ve been coming to France this is my first visit to a cellar. But you must be getting cold, Georges? I feel quite guilty, hogging your nice warm
jumper. Why don’t we all go to the stables next and show Joe the horses? I warn you though – he’s quite an expert!’

‘Dorcas, really you exaggerate . . .’ Joe spun on his heel, hearing a slight sound behind them. ‘Ah! Madame Houdart! There you are! You discover us halfway round the tour. We
are offered the horses next. Will you join us?’

Chapter Nineteen

Aline Houdart came towards them, smiling her pleasure at tracking them down. She looked fresh and charming in riding trousers and yellow blouse, a tweed jacket thrown over her
shoulders. She showed no sign that her appearance down here in the cellar involved anything but her regular stroll around the property. She greeted Joe and Dorcas and, taking her son by the arms,
reached up and kissed him on each cheek. ‘They told me I’d find you down here. What it is to have a son who wakes with the lark! Such energy! It makes me feel old and sluggish! But
I’ll do my bit now. Better late than never. Georges, darling, you may stand down – I’ll show our guests around the stables.’

‘Dorcas has already seen them, Maman,’ said Georges, recovering. ‘We went out this morning. Early. I thought I’d take her to look at the vineyards next.’

‘Then we shall have the horses to ourselves, Joe,’ said Aline, slipping her arm through his. ‘But first I have a rather charming little ceremony to perform. And you can help
me.’

The two young people had gone ahead and were out of sight by the time Joe emerged with relief into the fresh air and sunshine of the courtyard. He had been trying to reconcile the maenad image
of destructive madness Georges had conjured from the haunted depths of the chalk galleries with the cheerful presence and inconsequential chatter of the woman leaning so lightly on his arm, and he
could not. What had that looming vision – black, chalk-white and blood-red – to do with this bird-like creature, all chestnut and gold, at his side? With many questions still to put to
Georges, he was resentful that Aline was setting the pace and organizing his morning, a feeling he instantly dismissed as churlish. He had made this journey specifically to talk to her and help
resolve her problem, hadn’t he? – and here she was, gracefully making his task easier.

She paused by the door and pointed to a lidded wicker-work basket on the ground outside. ‘Would you mind, Joe? We ’re going to take that to the dovecote. Today you will be witnessing
the founding of a new dynasty!’ she announced playfully. ‘A dynasty of doves.’

He picked up the heavy basket, catching flashes of white through the holes. ‘What have we got here?’

‘It’s a pair of doves a kind neighbour has sent me. Ours died out soon after the war and it’s high time we restocked. We have a perfect home for them over there, you
see.’

She pointed to the round, stunted tower with its grey-tiled pepper-pot roof and started towards it. ‘A house looks so pretty with doves perched on its roof, don’t you think?’
She pushed open the door of the
pigeonnier
and Joe stepped inside, an earthy-scented darkness closing in around him, muffling his senses. Aline swung the door shut and as his eyes adjusted
to the gloom he found he was just able to see by the soft light filtering in from under the tiles.