Perfectly Ordinary People(66)

The doctor diagnosed Pierre with anaemia, which had almost certainly been caused by all the blood he’d lost. He prescribed iron pills, and told Pierre to eat liver at every meal for a month, as if there wasn’t a war on, as if you could just pop down to the butcher’s and buy two kilos of liver.

But the iron pills played havoc with Pierre’s tummy, and because of all the problems he was having down below they turned out to be an absolute no-no, so we went in search of liver.

Francine, it turned out, had a rather unpleasant friend called Jean-Noel – a slimy man with slicked-back hair and a flashy suit – who could, for a price, get anything. So we dipped into our reserve funds and in exchange he delivered the goods: an outrageously overpriced lump of liver delivered to our doorstep every couple of days.

But Pierre remained weak for months, really. If he exerted himself, he’d faint – actually, if he stood up too quickly, sometimes that was enough to make him faint. But he got quite good at it. He got to know when he was about to faint and sit down first. Sometimes people didn’t even notice.

And how long did you stay in Cannes?

A bit more than a week, I think it was: seven, maybe eight nights. Francine got ruder and ruder about it as time went by. She was furious about having to share a bed with her mother, who she claimed snored, and they both carped constantly about all the nappies we were washing and drying all over the place. Kids today have no idea how much time their grandparents spent washing shitty nappies. It really is a non-stop job.

Pierre’s aunt kept insisting that I attempt to breastfeed the baby, too, saying that my milk would never come back if I stopped trying, so I had to do that in the evenings as well. The little bugger used to suck so hard trying to get at my non-existent milk it made my nipples bleed.

In the evenings the atmosphere was pretty tense. Everyone was on edge and there were a lot of arguments about how hard we were or weren’t trying to find somewhere else to live. So it wasn’t ideal, by any means.

But by day it was wonderful. We’d go out and . . . God, I was so happy . . . The sun was shining and we’d walk along the Croisette; we’d sit on the beach and dunk baby Guillaume’s feet in the sea. He loved that. Pierre even went swimming a couple of times.

I sent a postcard to my parents every morning – every single morning without fail. God, I hate myself for those postcards. They must have been so painful for my mother.

I’m sure she was happy to know that you were OK, wasn’t she? I’m sure they both were.

No. No, my father was gone by then, wasn’t he? Obviously, I didn’t know that yet, but he was – he was long gone. And my mother . . . my poor mother . . .

Um, you do realise that we haven’t covered that yet?

Covered what?

What happened . . . to your parents . . . I know how difficult it must be to talk about it but—

Yes, it is pretty hard. Perhaps you can fill that bit in for me? I know I told you roughly what happened before we started all this.

Perhaps you could tell me again, if it isn’t too painful?

I think . . . Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to go through all that without getting upset.

. . .

You’re looking . . . I don’t know . . . doubtful.

I do know how hard this is, Genevieve, but I think it would be better if you could tell me what happened, for the record. I know you told me that they died, but even then . . . I don’t know much more than that.

Perhaps we could do it another day, then?

We could certainly cover that another day if you wish. I have . . . I only have about ten minutes left on this tape anyway, so what would you like to talk about? The rest of your time in Cannes?

. . .

Genevieve?

Actually, let’s just do it. Let’s get it over with, and then we can call it a day, OK?

If you’re sure that’s how you’d like to tackle things . . .

My father never made it home. That’s the thing.

He never made it home from . . . ?

From . . . God, this is hard! He, um, never made it back to Mulhouse. After driving us to La Vieille-Loye.

Take your time. There’s no hurry.

Look, I don’t know the details – no one does. In a way, that’s what’s so hard. Actually, I’m not sure that’s true. I’m not sure knowing for sure would be any better. But I think . . . I suspect, let’s say, putting two and two together, that he ran out of petrol just after Belfort. What we do know for sure is that he never made it back home.

How did you find that out?

A policeman came – a neighbour told me this after the war, by the way. So, a policeman came to their flat a few days after my father had left us in La Vielle-Loye. He didn’t know that Dad was missing, he just came to ask him why he’d left his pickup at the side of the road, near Altkirch. That’s between Belfort and Mulhouse, and it was close to one of the checkpoints, apparently. The policeman didn’t know why the pickup was there and he didn’t know where my father was either. All he knew was that it was there and it was out of petrol and that the Germans wanted it moved.

So your poor mother had just been sitting there, waiting for him to return?

Yes. That was all she could do. She sat and waited for him to come home, for months. And he didn’t. He didn’t come home. He never came home. It must have been awful. And she probably . . . God . . .