Barbara Cleverly - Tug of War

Was all this nonsense true? He had no idea. Ought he to have been annoyed by her sharp tone, lacking the deference due from one of her age to a well-meaning adult and amounting, in fact, to a set-down? Joe smiled. Probably. But pulling rank and demanding respect were not his style. There were other ways.

‘I see. But I still can’t imagine the circumstances,’ he said innocently, ‘that would precipitate the use of complex tenses in a stable. I find horses respond best to a simple imperative.’

Dorcas smiled slightly. ‘“In a year’s time you will have forgotten me.”’ She sighed a lingering sigh, remembering.

‘Talking horses? Whatever next!’

After a startled moment she burst out laughing and he felt it wise to change the subject. ‘Tell me, child — whatever prompted you to treat our friend Thibaud in the way you did?’

‘He reminded me of a boy in our village who’s blind. I know the doctor said all his senses are unimpaired but there was something about his unseeing expression. . I did what I normally do when I greet Robin.’

‘And do you take Robin biscuits?’

‘When I have them to offer, yes. I take them from Granny’s Chinese jar. Reid always tells me when he’s just refilled it. I was thinking that if this man is really from this area he might respond to a prompting from one of his other senses. Worth a try. A smell associated with his childhood might awaken some memories and, I’d guess, every child born in Champagne was familiar with those pink biscuits. It seemed to work.’

‘It certainly did. I think you achieved more in two minutes than the medical profession in as many years.’

‘I was longing to ask, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise — do you know if they’ve tried hypnotism?’

‘What do you know about hypnotism, Dorcas?’

‘There’s a chapter in my book. .’ She held it towards him and a swift glance revealed it to be The Wounded Mind by Lt. Col. M.W. Easterby MD. ‘Aunt Lydia whipped it from a shelf just before we left. She’s done a lot of voluntary work on the wards at St Martin’s, did you know that? She thought it might help you out. It’s only just been published. The most intriguing thing — I’ve marked the page for you — is the story of a shell-shocked soldier who had lost the power of speech. He began eventually to speak again and he talked in the London accent of the nurses and orderlies who tended him, but under hypnosis he suddenly astonished everyone by reliving his wartime experiences in a northern accent. Another patient recognized it as Wearside — you know, from around the River Wear. They tracked him down. He was a Northumberland Fusilier who’d gone missing on the Aisne. But the minute he came out of hypnosis he lost his Geordie accent and became a Londoner again. I wonder why the doctor’s not hypnotized Thibaud?’

‘It’s not a popular technique in France, I believe. But it’s a suggestion worth putting if we see him again.’

‘Were you able to form an impression of Thibaud’s nationality? Is he English, do you think?’

‘Not proven, I’d say.’

‘But he spoke in English. We’ve seen the doctor’s record.’

‘Yes. But I haven’t heard him speak myself. I don’t know the doctor. I liked him and I think I’d grow to admire him as I got to know him but I take no stranger’s evidence without checking, especially witnesses who are closely involved and may be pursuing an agenda of which I’m unaware. I’ve decided, if you don’t mind, Dorcas, to take this problem further. A day more of research in Reims, perhaps two, before we go off to the château.’

‘Are you always as pernickety as this, Joe?’

‘Yes. It drives the men mad. I check and recheck and I make them do the same thing.’

Dorcas pulled down the corners of her mouth. ‘I thought I was coming on holiday with Mr Holmes — all flash and flare, inspiration and dramatic deduction — and what I find I’ve got is Inspector Lestrade.’

Joe grinned. ‘The world can get along without Holmes, I suspect, but it can’t do without its Lestrades.’

‘But Thibaud looks English,’ Dorcas persisted.

‘Looks are not a reliable indicator. Quite a few French from the north have Scandinavian blood like the English and fair or red hair is not uncommon. Like us, they were invaded by waves of Norsemen. Followed by English from the west, Ottoman Turks from the south and Prussians from the east.’

Dorcas was looking about her as they threaded their way back to the centre. ‘The poor French! They’ve been invaded so many times. It’s a wonder they stay French. But they do. Look at those clapboard houses, Joe.’ She pointed to a row of wooden buildings hastily erected amongst the rubble of an ancient market place. ‘You could imagine a shanty town in the Californian gold rush but then you see the beautiful lettering on the shop-fronts, the net curtains, the shining paintwork and the neat piles of produce and you know you couldn’t be anywhere but in France.’

‘They came up from their cellars, rolled up their sleeves and just got on with it,’ said Joe. ‘And all the way through that misery they kept saying the same thing: “On les aura!” — “We’ll get ’em!” And in the end, they did,’ he said sentimentally. ‘But at what a cost!’

‘And so many people paid the bill,’ said Dorcas quietly.

Joe stared in dismay at the blackened stumps on either side of the great doors on the west façade of the cathedral and felt foolish.

‘It’s gone! Of course. . smashed to pieces by long range artillery like the rest of the statues. I had thought that here on the western side they might have escaped. These portals were crowded with them. . saints and angels. The loveliest of medieval sculptures and all very natural, quite unlike the stylized, elongated ones at Chartres. They used to be there.’ He waved a hand. ‘Standing about. You’d have said a cocktail party was going on. And there,’ he pointed above his head, ‘is where you’d have found your host — the smiling angel.’

‘There’s work going on — listen!’ said Dorcas. ‘It’s bound to take time. It makes a lot of sense to rebuild the houses and shops before the churches. I’ll have to come back in a few years from now if I want to see this famous angel.’

Joe shook his head. ‘Impossible to recreate, I’d say. I think, sadly, I’ve looked my last on him.’

‘Oh, don’t be so sure of that,’ said a jovial voice behind them and they turned to see a figure from the Middle Ages watching them. A miller was Joe’s first impression. Surely not? He wore a miller’s hat, white with dust, and an equally dusty smock of holland fabric down to his knees. Plaster-caked trousers were secured with string at the bottom and his feet were shod with clogs. Above a grey-streaked beard, sharp, kindly eyes twinkled at them through a pince-nez.

‘Come with me and I’ll show you a wonder! This way, young lady, over that plank and mind where you put your feet.’

Intrigued, they followed their jaunty guide through a stonemason’s yard and into the shell-damaged but serviceable shelter of an outbuilding which might at one time have been a chapel but was now a workshop. Joe was enchanted by the medieval scene being played out all around them, a reassuring blend of bustle and order. Men looked up from their chipping to greet them and to smile warmly at Dorcas. Their work reclaimed their attention at once and claimed Joe’s attention also. Figures from the façades and ledges of the cathedral were being recarved. The fine-grained limestone of the region was being used for repair or complete reconstruction and by hands which were the equal in skill, it seemed, of their ancestors.