Barbara Cleverly - Tug of War

Eugène nodded and went off at the double to fetch it.

When the doctor was happy with the parade of crockery and the timing of the brew, he invited Dorcas to officiate and, while she busied herself happily with this familiar task, he launched at once into the case.

‘Before I take you to see the patient, a briefing, I think? Tell me, to save our time, what you already know of our poor unfortunate.’

Joe outlined his knowledge, rather underplaying the extent of it and claiming no acquaintance with the medical aspects of shell-shock. ‘I am here, sir,’ he summarized, ‘to explore the implications of your recent revelations regarding the man’s country of origin. To try to answer the question, “Is he English?” No more than that. If he proves to be such, arrangements will be made to convey him to a suitable establishment over the Channel and the onus will then be on the English authorities to assign an identity. Tell me — apart from the language used during the nightmare — are there any other indications that he may be something other than French? Many races took part in the war.’

‘None that I can discover.’ The doctor stirred uneasily. ‘Look — he’s not a new arrival, you understand. This is not the first hospital he has fetched up at since repatriation. We are just the first ones to interest ourselves in identifying and solving his problems. He has been passed along, shedding, doubtless, any information. . clues. . clothing. . at each move. I’ve attempted to back-track but it’s hopeless. I’ve got as far as an asylum in the Ardennes in 1922. Records start there. It’s thought he was a late repatriation from Germany. They merely record him as a French soldier sent back without papers or identity. He was wearing the usual German-issue undergarments with a threadbare French army greatcoat on top. No insignia on it and, of course, it may not even have been his. The only clue — and it may be misleading — was a piece of card with German lettering on it spelling out the name “Reims”. That one word was the instigation for the original local search. Though you are aware that the net has been spread wider thanks to the publicity afforded by the national newspapers. The man is aphasic. Mute. Until the nightmare no one had ever heard his voice. A typical symptom of war neurosis.

‘It’s a sorry case, Commander, but, as I would guess you know from experience — ’ he glanced briefly at Joe’s head wound — ‘not at all unusual.’ After the slightest pause he said confidentially, ‘Can’t help noticing that your surgery was not done by the hands of an expert. Hope you don’t mind my mentioning it. If you would like to have someone unpick that, um, attempt and try again I can put you in touch with a friend in Paris who would rise to the challenge.’

Joe smiled his thanks.

The doctor pressed on. ‘Three hundred and fifty thousand Frenchmen, Commander, were declared missing in combat during the four years of war. Blown to bits, vaporized, buried under tons of earth, some just wandered off quietly perhaps. Leaving behind in limbo countless grieving relatives. And these late releases from prisoner-of-war camps have cruelly led their waiting families to nurse a false hope that one day their loved one will be restored to them. People whose dear ones disappear find it genuinely impossible to believe that they will not come marching through the door at any minute. So much grief, so much yearning, and never an end to it.’

‘You touched a nerve, I think, with your appeal to the public?’

Varimont sighed and raised eyebrows to the ceiling. ‘Opened up a hornets’ nest might be more apt,’ he said. ‘Can I say I regret taking such action, I wonder?’

‘Not if you find this poor man a loving home, monsieur,’ said Dorcas. ‘If you can do that, it surely will have been worth the effort. I think it’s a noble and worthwhile thing that you are doing.’

Varimont was startled by the interruption but charmed by the sentiment. Joe was surprised too, by the ease with which Dorcas had spoken in perfectly acceptable French.

‘Mademoiselle has a slight accent of the Midi, I detect?’ said Varimont.

‘My mother is from the south, monsieur. My father is English but we always spend our summers in Provence,’ Dorcas explained.

‘The nightmare,’ Joe picked up hurriedly. ‘Has it been repeated?’

‘Yes. Once more. After the first explosion I did wonder whether to administer a barbiturate. Calm him down. But my second thought was to let it flow on and camp outside his door to catch any recurrence from the start.’

‘And did our man have anything further to add?’

‘Look here — we could go on calling him “our man. . this poor chap”, we could even refer to him as G27 which is the number on his door, or we could call him — as I do — Thibaud.’

‘Thibaud?’

‘One of the first Counts of Champage. Very popular name hereabouts. Also the name of my great-uncle whom he much resembles.’

‘Perfect,’ said Joe. ‘Tell me what Thibaud had to say for himself.’

‘The same short scenario played and replayed. I was able to write down the words — excuse the spelling!’ He inclined his head to Dorcas, drawing her into the discussion. ‘We do not all have a facility for languages.’ He handed over a sheet from his folder and continued to talk as Joe read it.

‘His dream was accompanied by actions as well as words. He sat up on his bed with a shout of alarm then leapt up and strode about the room, gesticulating madly, quarrelling you’d say, with someone he could see very clearly but who was invisible to me, watching from the door. Then he sank to his knees and screamed out in English: “For God’s sake, man! Don’t do this! Forgive me! Forgive me!” The effect was very disturbing — very. . theatrical. Does what I’ve written make sense?’

‘Certainly does,’ said Joe. ‘This is an Englishman begging for his life.’

‘With some success,’ said Dorcas thoughtfully, ‘as he’s still with us.’

Varimont was silent for a moment then said hesitantly, ‘Yes, you’d say so. Begging for his life. But, Commander, the odd thing is that his subsequent actions belied the words. He pleaded for mercy with those words, in perfect English as far as I am any judge, but then he acted out a quite extraordinary scene.’

The doctor got to his feet and moved to the centre of the room. The short, fastidious, suited figure should have produced the comical effect of a Charlie Chaplin movie as he launched into his mime but Joe and Dorcas watched in growing horror as the meaning of his gestures became clear.

Eyes rolling in a pantomime of rage, Varimont lifted his right foot and kicked out viciously at something (or someone) unseen three feet above the ground. With a snarl, he reached across his body and drew a sword from its scabbard with his right hand, then, holding it up in front of his face with a two-handed grip on the hilt in a hideous semblance of a priestly gesture, he plunged it downwards again and again.

As they made their way along darkening corridors, following the fast-moving figure of the doctor, Joe was aware of Dorcas scurrying along at his heels, staying much closer than she would normally have done. The architecture would have detained him in other circumstances, its massive Gothic arches and stone-flagged corridors demanding attention. An ancient monastic building of some sort, he would have guessed, which, by being incorporated at a later date into the structure of the town’s defences, seemed to have survived the bombardment. Though not entirely unscathed. Distantly, he heard the hammering and shouting of a building team at work on repairs and found he was reassured by the sounds of ordinary life going on in this disconcerting place.