Barbara Cleverly - Tug of War

She led them out through the french window, across the courtyard and into a recently built extension to her empire.

‘This is where I live. I hope you like the modern style?’

‘I visited the exhibition of Arts Décoratifs in Paris last year,’ said Joe warily, ‘and was most impressed.’

He made further polite comments as she showed off her cool white interiors with their accents of black, grey and cobalt blue; he enjoyed the gleam of chrome, the sculpted lines of the black leather chairs, the feeling of generous space after the bustle and clutter of the commercial premises. ‘Your own design?’ he asked.

‘No. The work of a charming though expensive young architect from Paris. I bring you here to impress you, not with my success and my taste but to give you an idea of my grasp on reality. I want to demonstrate that here lives a woman who is firmly rooted in the modern world. . a woman of common sense and energy who can look to the past and not ignore it and to the future and not fear it but who can — and does — live fully in the present. Oh, dear!’ she smiled in apology. ‘I don’t like to hear myself blowing my own trumpet but time is short. You are a stranger whom, for some reason of instinct, I wish to impress. Forgive me for showing off but you will understand that it is a necessary preparation for the next room I shall show you. This one is back over there in the old building and is indeed a re-creation of the living quarters of the old house. My father’s old parlour. It is very special.’

Joe guessed what she was attempting before he stepped through the parlour door. And stepped into a different age. It took a moment to adjust to the scene. He found himself in a room from before the war. Dim, cosy, overstuffed and decorated in the manner of the belle époque , was his first impression. A thick wreath of wood-smoke spiked with the orange peel and rose petal scent of pot-pourri was almost overpowering. Red plush curtains and potted palms, gold chandelier far too imposing for the room — after the clean geometric lines of Mireille’s house, it was all an assault on the senses and very surprising.

There was a pair of well-worn armchairs, one on either side of the fireplace where a log fire smouldered, and it was towards these chairs that Dorcas strayed. Joe watched her take in the collection of items cluttering the top of a table by the side of one of the chairs: a pipe, still half full of burned tobacco, a tobacco pouch, a dusty brandy glass with the faintest trace of brown liquid in the bottom. From under a footstool a pair of black patent slippers decorated with bumble bees peeked out. A copy of War and Peace had been abandoned over one arm of the chair. The other chair was occupied. A fat white cat gave Dorcas silent warning of his displeasure at being disturbed and she crept away.

Joe breathed in the atmosphere of the room, torn between two reactions. Should he be seduced by the homely allure, the suggestion of every kind of masculine comfort on offer? He didn’t doubt that upstairs there existed a similar shrine ready to provide solace for a weary returning soldier. His mind ranged briefly over feather beds, fresh linen, afternoon sun filtering through shutters, and flushed at the thought. Catching Mireille’s slight smile he wondered if she had caught him out. Of course she had. And the woman’s intelligence and awareness rendered invalid his alternative reaction. This was no Dickensian scene of mad longings never to be fulfilled. Mireille Desforges was no Miss Havisham. She understood herself, laughed at and forgave herself for this indulgence.

‘This is the room he will return to?’ whispered Dorcas, respectful as a pilgrim at a shrine.

‘It’s the room he has never truly left,’ said Mireille quietly, her eyes shining with suppressed tears. ‘He was happy here. If only I can bring him back, he will settle into his chair and pick up his book where he left off. He will feel secure with his cat on his knee. His cat will know him and welcome him.’

She picked up the cat and hugged him but he struggled and made it quite clear that this demonstration was inappropriate. With a shrug, she replaced him on his cushion. ‘Louis was a kitten when Dominique brought him to me as a gift. The trouble with cats — do you have a cat, mademoiselle? — then I’ll tell you — you cannot compel or even expect their affection. And Louis has always understood himself to be Dominique’s cat. Indeed, I do believe he understands Dominique to be his human. You’d swear that he holds me responsible in some way for his disappearance! He’s getting old now but he’ll remember. He’ll leap on to his master’s knee, purr in triumph and favour me with his narrow-eyed proprietorial sneer. And — believe me — I shall be delighted to see it!’

‘You are both waiting,’ said Dorcas.

‘Exactly Louis despises me and I don’t like cats. It’s clear that we ought to have parted company years ago but. . he’s a link with Dominique. Can you understand this foolishness?’

‘And this is your dragoon?’ said Dorcas, pointing to photographs on a sideboard.

Mireille picked one up and held it lovingly in her hands for a moment before passing it to Dorcas.

Joe was intrigued to see the interaction between the two and perfectly content to stand quietly by and watch the scene play out.

Dorcas stared and gulped. ‘Golly! What a hero! And — yes — I can see the likeness. Do you see it, Uncle Joe?’ She passed it to Joe.

‘Yes, I do. It’s very clear,’ said Joe.

The stern face was handsome, the pose a rigid and conventional professional portrait of a cavalry officer in full regalia.

‘Taken sometime after 1916, I think? He’s wearing the new-issue uniform in bleu d’horizon . May I?’

She nodded her consent and he slipped the photograph from its frame. The name of a Paris studio was printed on the back and a date: 1916. He looked again carefully at the soldier. ‘Your officer had been wounded by this stage of the war, mademoiselle?’

‘You have sharp eyes, Commander,’ she said. ‘Yes indeed. And I gave a full report on what I remember of his wounds to the Inspector. Dominique had a sabre cut to his right upper arm. A flesh wound, the bone was not affected. It was for that he was given the wound chevron you have spotted sewn on to his left sleeve. But he has a later wound also. His jaw was broken, he told me by a rifle butt, towards the end of the campaign around Soissons. That was the last time I saw him. He could barely speak but he was determined to go off and rejoin his regiment. He was very distressed. I think he had had a bad time and knew he was about to have a worse. I believe he knew he would not return. He was returning to the Chemin des Dames as we later called that disastrous encounter.’

‘And what was his rank, mademoiselle, the last time you saw him?’

‘He had risen to be a Lieutenant Colonel. He was an officer of considerable standing by the end. The uniform in which he last fought — and perhaps died — would have born that insignia, along with three, possibly four, service chevrons on his right sleeve and two war-wound chevrons on the left. I stitched the second one on myself,’ she said quietly, looking down at her hands.

She hesitated for a moment and then decided to confide in him. ‘I don’t know how many of the facts of the case they have told you, Commander. . I want you to know that I have no motive in claiming Dominique other than concern for his welfare. You have seen his circumstances. It is intolerable that such a man should have to bear that for one more day. I have seen him. I go every week to the hospital. He does not recognize me. Not yet. But I am assured that memory sometimes does return in these cases. I’m quite certain that I could bring him back to sanity again. I can care for him. . I can afford to provide the best care for him. I have told the authorities that I make no claim on any pension or war recompense to which he may be due and I would insist that any such sums be placed in a bank account in his name and left there. It’s important that you know that.’ She turned her face away from him and murmured, ‘I love him. I want him here with me. I know I can bring him back.’