Perfectly Ordinary People(78)

He was a very smooth operator but, though his strategy was starting to convince me, it wasn’t working on Pierre at all. He was still furious and adamant that this simply wasn’t acceptable. Jean-Noel, he said, was not an honest man.

That accusation of dishonesty finally struck home, so that even Jean-Noel ran out of steam. He shrugged and, looking genuinely hurt, started putting the stuff back in the van.

I surprised myself by feeling panicky about that. I’d been on the verge of convincing myself we’d be fine here, that this was indeed the best of an admittedly awful set of options, but the best of them all the same. I’d imagined myself bathing in the sparkling river and working for a farmer in exchange for eggs and cheese. I think, above all, I’d imagined how relaxing it might feel being that far from the madness of the war – actually feeling safe.

‘So, shall I take you back to Francine’s place?’ Jean-Noel asked, jangling his keys. ‘Because I’m not sure she’s going to be thrilled to see you.’

And there was that great truth: we could not return to Francine’s place. So I started to address Pierre, asking if he was absolutely certain that we couldn’t make this work. He looked at me as if I was a crazy woman, and in retrospect I think I probably had gone a bit mad. I’d certainly lost my objectivity.

‘Or perhaps you’d like me to drop you straight at the police station,’ Jean-Noel said, managing to make the offer sound generous. ‘I’m sure they’ll be happy to put you up for a few nights!’

‘Pierre,’ I said. ‘We can’t go back. You know we can’t. Surely we can stay here for a while, can’t we? Surely we can at least stay here until we work out a better plan? It’ll be like camping. It’ll be fun.’

Jean-Noel told him he should listen more to his wife. He said anyone could see I was talking sense.

Pierre handed him the baby then, and led me down to the river so that we could talk in private.

He was angry with me, and he said I needed to stop undermining him. He said it was crazy to stay, even if I couldn’t see that. He ran through all those same objections, that there was no electricity and no water, and no bed, and we didn’t even know if it was true that there was a village down the way. And I countered that we had a lamp and a stove and a rushing river right next to us, and there was bloody water everywhere. Even if it did turn out to be a bad choice, then we could just move on, I said.

Pierre said that with no money we wouldn’t even be able to move on and we’d probably starve to death here, and I asked him where we’d sleep if we were to go back to Cannes, and how he knew we wouldn’t starve there.

But then something caught the corner of my eye, and we turned to see the butcher’s van bumping its way along the track emitting a blue plume of smoke from the exhaust pipe.

We ran as fast as we could, me because I was worried about the baby and Pierre because he really didn’t want to be stranded there.

I was faster than Pierre by a long stretch, but though I managed to bang on the rear window as the van accelerated away, even I couldn’t get in front to stop him.

I finally gave up running and doubled over to catch my breath as the van accelerated into the distance. And then Pierre caught up with me and shouted a breathless ‘Bastard’ at the van, which by then was almost out of sight.

‘He’s taken Guillaume!’ I cried, and it was then that I realised just how profoundly I’d bonded with the child. The idea that he was being driven off to an uncertain fate filled me with dread beyond anything I’d experienced up until that point, and let’s face it, things hadn’t exactly been dread-free.

Pierre, though still breathless, managed to smile. He said I was being ridiculous, and why on Earth would he have taken Guillaume?

‘Knowing him, he’s probably going to sell him,’ I said. ‘Knowing him, he probably already has sold him!’

Pierre shook his head in disbelief. ‘Relax. He’ll be back at the house . . . hut . . . shed . . .’ he said.

So I started my way back up the track, and when I heard Guillaume crying I ran full tilt and swept him up in my arms from the pile of blankets where Jean-Noel had left him. And do you know, in that instant, I didn’t care about the war, or the house, or the lack of a sink, or any of it? In that moment I was entirely happy. Guillaume was the only thing I cared about.

When Pierre reached us, he stroked Guillaume’s cheek and said, ‘You see? He’s fine,’ and then he looked around desolately, sighed deeply and picked up the box of groceries to carry it indoors. ‘Do you want to know what I think?’ he said. ‘I think Jean-Noel’s motives might not be entirely altruistic.’

So, I’m assuming you had to sleep there?

Yes, we had no choice. Jean-Noel had driven off, and the sun was about to set.

So we sat at the old table and picnicked on dry toast and foie gras. We ate some tinned fish too . . . it was mackerel, I think. The items Jean-Noel had provided were all pretty strange. None of it was very practical, but it was what we had, so we made do.

And what about the baby? Did you have milk?

Jeanne had packed me a baby bottle, and Jean-Noel’s hamper contained half a litre of cow’s milk plus a can of the sweetened, condensed stuff. So the first night Guillaume got milk, and in the morning I think I gave him the condensed. He was such an amazing baby. He didn’t even make a fuss.