Margaret Leroy - The Soldier’s Wife

‘Oh God,’ I say then, out loud. ‘Frank. Oh God.’

It’s Frank le Brocq.

I kneel beside him. I can see his face now. At first I think he must be dead already. But then his eyelids flicker. I cradle his head in my hands.

‘Frank. It’s Vivienne. Frank, it’s all right, I’m here …’

But I know it is not all right. The one thing I know is that he cannot live with such wounds—the blood that seeps from the side of his head, the blood that slides out of his mouth. I feel a heavy, passive helplessness: so any gesture, any word, takes all the strength I have.

He’s trying to speak. I put my ear close to his mouth.

‘Bastards,’ he whispers. ‘Fucking bastards.’

I kneel there, holding him.

I try to say the Lord’s Prayer. It’s all I can think of. My mouth is stiff and I’m afraid that I won’t remember the words. But before I get to the power and the glory he is dead. I carry on anyway. For ever and ever. Amen.

He’s staring at me with empty eyes. I reach out and close his eyelids. Then I just kneel there beside him. I don’t know what to do now.

A shadow falls across me; someone is bending down to me. I look up—it’s a fireman. Behind him, I see the single fire engine that’s come.

‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘I know you’re terribly busy, but this man—he’s a friend of mine, Frank le Brocq …’

The fireman’s face is white but composed. He peers down.

‘I know Frank,’ he says.

‘The thing is—he’s dead, you see,’ I say.

‘Poor, poor bugger,’ says the man. ‘You knew him, did you? You knew Frank?’

‘Yes.’ My voice rather cheerful and brittle and high. ‘Well, I know his wife better, really. Angie le Brocq. I was up at Les Ruettes just a few days ago. They were going to take in my mother-in-law, if we had gone on the boat … But then we didn’t go of course …’

The words tumbling out of me. This has nothing to do with what’s happening, but somehow I can’t stop talking.

The man looks at me in a worried way. He puts his hand on my shoulder.

‘Look, ma’am, you need to go home. You should go and get yourself some rest. Go home and make yourself a cup of sugary tea …’

‘But I can’t just leave him here like this …’

‘There’s nothing you can do,’ he says. ‘Someone will see to him later.’

I feel he’s being obtuse.

‘No, you don’t understand. I know Frank. I can’t leave him lying here. Look at him. It’s so awful …’

He gives me a hand and pulls me up. The effort of standing stops the stream of talk from my mouth. I’m shaking so hard I can scarcely stand.

He gives my arm a wary pat, as though I’m some skittery wild animal that he is trying to soothe.

‘I mean it, ma’am. You should just take yourself off home now,’ he tells me.

I ring Elm Tree Farm from the first public phone box I pass.

Gwen answers.

‘Oh, Gwen. Thank God … I wondered …’

‘I’m all right, Viv,’ she tells me. ‘I got away in time. I’m so glad to hear your voice. I’ve been sick with worry about you …’ Then, when I don’t say anything, ‘Viv—are you sure you’re all right?’

I can’t answer her question: my mouth won’t seem to work properly.

‘Gwen—I can’t talk now. I have to get back to the girls. But I’m not hurt—don’t worry.’

I put down the phone.

When I arrive back at Le Colombier, Blanche’s face is at the window. She sees me and runs to the door.

‘Mum. What happened?’

Her voice is shrill, her eyes are wide and afraid.

‘They bombed the harbour,’ I tell her.

‘We heard the planes.’ she says, in a little scared voice. ‘Mum. We thought you were dead.’

Millie is clinging to Blanche’s hand. I can tell she’s been crying: the tracks of tears gleam on her cheeks.

‘I’m all right. I’m not hurt,’ I say.

I reach out to hug Millie. She pulls away, stares at my dress. All the colour has gone from her face.

‘Mum. You’ve got blood all over you,’ says Blanche, in that small thin voice.

I look down. I hadn’t realised. There’s a lot of blood on the front of my dress, where I cradled Frank as he died.

‘It isn’t my blood,’ I tell them. ‘I’m all right. Really.’

They don’t say anything—just stand there, staring at me.

‘Look—I’m going to have to leave you for a little longer,’ I say. ‘I have to go to Angie’s.’

I can see that Blanche understands at once. Her face darkens.

‘To Angie’s? Did they get Frank?’ she says.

I nod.

Her eyes are round, appalled.

‘But, Mum—what on earth will Angie do without him?’ she says.

‘I don’t know,’ I tell her.

I can’t go to see Angie with her husband’s blood on my clothes. I change, and put my dress to soak in a bath of cold water, swirling the water around to try to loosen the stain. I almost faint as I straighten up, the bathroom spinning around me. My body feels flimsy as eggshell, as though the slightest touch might shatter me. I can’t break the news to Angie feeling like this.

I make myself drink some sugary tea, just as the fireman advised. Something has gone wrong with my throat, and it’s hard to swallow the drink, but afterwards I feel a little stronger. The girls sit at the table with me, watching over me anxiously.

‘Now, will you two be all right?’ I say. ‘I promise I won’t be long.’

‘We’ll be fine, Mum,’ says Blanche.

‘No, we won’t. I won’t let you go,’ says Millie.

She comes to stand by my chair, wraps herself around me. I have to peel her fingers like bandages from my arms.

Reluctantly, full of dread, I walk up the lane to Les Ruettes. My feet are heavy, as though I am wading through deep water. I knock at Angie’s door, and my dread is a bitter taste in my mouth. I would rather be anywhere else but here.

She opens the door.

‘Angie.’ My throat is thick. ‘Something’s happened …’

She stares at my face. She knows at once.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. I’m so sorry.’

She sinks down. She’s trying to hold to the door post, but her hands slide down, her body collapses in on itself, as though she has no bones. I can’t hold her. I bring a chair and pull her up onto it. I kneel beside her.

‘I was in town today. Frank was there with his lorry. They bombed the pier and I found him. Angie—I was with him, I was holding him when he died.’

She wraps her hands around one another, wrings them. Her mouth is working, but she can’t speak. There are no tears in her eyes, but her face looks all wrong—damaged.

At last she tries to clear her throat.

‘Did he—say anything?’ Her voice is hoarse, and muffled as though there’s a blanket over her mouth. ‘Did he have a message for me, Vivienne?’

I don’t know what to tell her. I think of his last words. Fucking bastards.

‘He couldn’t speak,’ I say.

I take her hand in mine. Her skin is icy cold; the cold in her goes through me.

‘He died very quickly, he wouldn’t have suffered,’ I say.

She moves her head very slightly. I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

‘Come back with me, I’ll give you a meal,’ I tell her.

‘No, Vivienne,’ she says. ‘It’s so kind of you, but I won’t …’

‘I think you should,’ I tell her. ‘You can’t stay here all alone.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ she says. ‘I just need some time on my own, to take it in.’

‘I don’t like to leave you,’ I say.

‘Really, Vivienne. Don’t you worry. In a bit I’ll take myself over to Mabel and Jack’s.’

Mabel and Jack Bisson have four children; their house will be busy and boisterous. But Angie is insistent.