Bobby's War Page 9

  Bobby came through the door, in a pair of overalls and a man’s shirt. Her hair was a mess, Harriet noticed with a despairing sigh.

  ‘Oh Harriet, it’s so wonderful to see you. I know, I know, I look a sight.’

  The two girls collided as Bobby rushed forward to give her best friend an especially strong hug, feeling the need of her support and unquestioning love.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Harriet scolded as she stepped back to assess her friend. It was rare that Bobby was demonstrative, and she did indeed look very pale.

  ‘It’s great being so near at Coltishall,’ she said. ‘I can sneak out. I’m on nights as usual so probably should be sleeping, but . . . hell’s bells, Bobby, you do look a mess.’ She stopped and raised her hand towards Bobby’s unruly hair. Bobby ducked out of her way, not in the mood for a telling off about her appearance.

  Harriet gave in and changed tack. ‘OK, fill me in. Do we have a strategy to put into operation to prevent this marriage?’

  Bobby took hold of her friend’s arm and pulled her out of the kitchen towards the vegetable plot, glancing behind her conspiratorially, but then suddenly stopped in her tracks. ‘Won’t you get into trouble for sneaking out?’

  ‘Nah, I do it all the time. Anyway, what about this Turner man?’ Harriet asked impatiently.

  ‘Never mind him,’ Bobby replied, and then stopped to add, ‘although, I can’t make my mind up about him. He seems such a twit but he is better looking than I remembered. But no,’ she went on determinedly, ‘we have a new problem.’

  She steered Harriet towards the bench on the corner of the vegetable plot and they both sat down. Briefly, she explained to Harriet the events of the previous night. For once, Harriet kept quiet and let her friend finish.

  ‘So, who is this Frenchman?’ she finally said.

  ‘I’m not sure . . . but I think he may be . . . my . . . half-brother.’

  Harriet reeled. ‘Your what?’ she asked incredulously. ‘But how . . . ?’ Bobby could see her friend’s mind working at double its normal speed. ‘So . . . your father?’ She had always been terrified of Andrew Hollis; he seemed so fierce.

  ‘I spoke to father this morning,’ Bobby said. ‘He was absolutely broken and could hardly look me in the eye. He said something about Michael’s death, being given compassionate leave while he was in France. Then he rambled on about some woman, Nicole, he was billeted with; she heard her husband was missing, he’d heard about Michael and . . . oh, I don’t know, something must have happened between them. I mean, what about my mother, Harriet? What does it say about their marriage? Is this why they’re so cold with each other? You just wait until you see Michel, you’ll see what I mean.’

  At that moment, as if on cue, an auburn head popped out of the kitchen door behind them. It was Michel. He was dressed in an old pair of overalls.

  ‘Excuse moi, I look for your mother, she has clothes for me, she say. I am so sorry, I sleep. I not wake up.’

  Harriet stared at the young man with her mouth open. She looked from Bobby to him and back to Bobby.

  ‘Of course,’ Bobby said. ‘She is on the landing, at the linen cupboard.’

  ‘Merci, merci,’ Michel said on his way back in. Harriet stared after him and then blurted out, ‘He is your twin,’ and then stopped herself. ‘I mean, he’s your double, he has to be your brother. And his name, it’s almost the same.

  ‘I know, I know. I just don’t know what to do, my father seems to have a son who’s popped up from nowhere, my mother doesn’t even seem to have registered the implications of all this and now is convinced that this is Michael come back to life and, oh hell, we have Edward Turner coming for luncheon. Oh God, I could do without that. He talked about having to let the authorities know.’ She finally stopped to breathe.

  ‘This is incredible,’ Harriet said, pacing up and down, then she reached over to look at Bobby’s watch – somehow, she always forgot to wear hers. ‘Dammit, I have to get back to base, before they miss me. I so want to stay and see what happens next, this is so exciting. Oh, Bobby, what are you going to do?’

  Bobby was feeling anything but excited. Her stomach had sunk. ‘I don’t know, I just don’t know,’ she slumped and looked so forlorn that her friend put her arm around her.

  ‘I mean,’ Bobby went on, ‘Aunt Agnes told me stories about how my mother changed overnight when Michael died but the sight of this grown man seems to have ignited something in her. I’ve never seen her so animated. I . . . I really don’t know how to deal with it. Oh, and Harriet, you mustn’t breath a word of this to anyone.’

  Harriet nodded and Bobby leaned her head on Harriet’s shoulder and then suddenly remembered she had still not told her about her recent meeting with Gus Prince.

  ‘Harriet, I meant to tell you . . .’ she started, but Harriet was already jumping up and heading down the path, with a backwards wave.

  ‘Gotta go, Bobby, I’ll write – and make sure you write back! I want the next instalment! And keep your chin up.’

  Bobby slowly got up and went into the house. She hung around in the hallway, watching the closed study door but then she heard her mother calling her from the small drawing room.

  Her mother’s face was flushed and her eyes were bright. Bobby noticed how pretty she looked.

  ‘So, we have to prepare a proper room for Michael,’ she said, fiddling with the photographs on the mantlepiece. ‘He must have his own room now he has come home. I’ve got Rachel to clean the front one with the bay window. There is a lovely view of the farm from there. I have put out all his things for him.’

  Bobby looked aghast. ‘But they’re baby things –and his name is Michel, not Michael’ she said. Her mother’s face crumpled as she realised her mistake.

  ‘Oh Bobby, I get so confused sometimes,’ she whispered, looking frightened, then waved her hand in the air as if to dispel the fog that surrounded her thinking. ‘Of course, of course, I knew that, but you’re right that he will need something to wear. We must search the attic and find him some clothes.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she reached out her hands to Bobby, who had no choice but to take them and hold them.

  *

  Luncheon was a disaster. Mrs Hill had tried her best, but Rachel had been too busy cleaning the blood out of Michel’s clothes and looking after this strange young man to help. With all the extra visitors, rations had to be eked out carefully and Mrs Hill had been forced to scrape off the burnt edges of the previous night’s pie to make enough food for them all. Andrew Hollis sat in silence, staring at his food and Mathilda Hollis fussed over Michel like a mother hen.

  Bobby sat opposite Edward Turner. For the first time, she was able to look at him properly as he made polite conversation with her aunt. Edward had a natural easiness and she began to suspect the bumbling visitor who had backed out of the room the night before was nothing more than a front. He seemed to dominate the room, somehow, in contrast to her father, who looked like a shrunken man this lunchtime, and she looked at the tall, imposing man with more interest. He was certainly intriguing, she decided.

  ‘We’re so sorry you were not able to stay for supper last night,’ her aunt was saying, looking round in vain for some help from her sister and brother-in-law. With some hesitation, Bobby butted in and tried to explain, in as vague a way as possible, how Michel had come to be at Salhouse Farm the previous evening. Aunt Agnes looked at her gratefully. Meanwhile, Edward was attempting to match up the family’s story with the one he had discovered in an early morning phone call to the office. He skirted round the information he had received from a senior intelligence officer during that phone call. He did not mention that the pilot who had carried out the operation, was a local Norfolk man who belonged to 161 Squadron, a small unit that operated by moonlight, ferrying secret agents and pilots in and out of France. He did, however, tell Roberta and Agnes – no one else seemed to be listening – that Michel’s story had been corroborated by the pilot of th
e aircraft that had carried out the mission and that enquiries were now in place to establish how they would get Michel back to Normandy.

  At this, Mrs Hollis looked up.

  ‘Oh, no, no, he is not going back. This is his home,’ she said decisively, piling more potatoes on the young Frenchman’s plate. Michel stared in front of him with the same haunted expression he had had since he arrived.

  Bobby and Edward Turner looked at each other. For a second, their eyes met and Bobby shivered, taken aback at the intensity of their gaze. Edward turned brusquely away.

  ‘Michel has a very important job to do and his unexpected appearance here gives us an opportunity we need to make the most of,’ he told Mrs Hollis in a professional manner. ‘I’m sure he will be able to come back again once the war is over – if he wants to. In the meantime, he must not be seen outside this farm and his presence must be kept a secret.’

  Once the meal was over, Mr Hollis retired to his study and Mrs Hollis commandeered Michel to find him some better clothes. Aunt Agnes hesitated, reluctant to leave, but her sister demanded her help.

  Edward Turner turned to face Bobby at the empty table. There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment before he said, ‘I will have to take this matter further, Miss Hollis.’

  ‘Please, call me Bobby.’

  ‘Very well . . . Bobby . . .’ he smiled inwardly and coughed to regain his composure. ‘We have to get Michel back to France. Umm . . . we need more information on what happened and . . .’ he stuttered, ‘there is dangerous work to do there. There is obviously a close link between you and Monsieur Bisset,’ his face scanned her hair, which was billowing out around her head like an untamed autumnal leaf pile. Taken aback, he tried to make himself concentrate and went hurriedly on, ‘He’s not in a good state, mentally, and we need him to have as much time as possible to recover from what has obviously been a very traumatic experience. We’ll organise for him to have medical care but we’re relying on your family to keep him here, in a calm environment, until we’ve made arrangements. I realise you need to go back to Hamble but with your skill in French, we’re hoping you can explain in his own language that he has to get strong and go back as soon as possible.’

  Roberta nodded. It was strange but it did not surprise her that this man had done his homework and knew she spoke French.

  ‘We . . . um . . . will talk to your CO. It has been suggested you may be able to help in other ways.’

  Bobby was puzzled but the man in front of her suddenly seemed to be so much in control, she did not dare question his authority.

  It was only as he was leaving that he addressed the reason he had come to the farmhouse in the first place. ‘I suggest . . . um Bobby . . .’ he paused at the informality between them and then went on, ‘that this is neither the time, nor the place, to discuss our fathers’ r-ridiculous plans for our future together.’

  Bobby was astonished to feel a moment’s disappointment but kept her face smiling and nodded.

  Edward went slowly down the front steps from the porch, talking to himself angrily. I refuse to fall for this woman; I will not give father the satisfaction, he thought and promptly put Miss Roberta Hollis out of his mind.

  The rest of Bobby’s day was spent trying to contain her mother’s excitement and gently talking to Michel in French, to reassure him and prepare him for whatever lay ahead.

  Michel was hardly eating and his clothes seemed to hang off him. Bobby tried to talk to him and took him up to the top attic room where she had played as a child. She suddenly stopped as they reached the top wooden step under the eaves and clutched her chest. A picture came back to her of an isolated little girl sitting playing under the skylight and from the shadows came the memory of her imaginary playmate. She had forgotten all about ‘Boy’, but it was this figure from her imagination who had provided her with companionship from the day her father came home from the Great War. For several years she would trot around the farm with her hand outstretched to clasp a hand only she could see, having endless conversations with him and sharing her innermost thoughts. Eventually, Aunt Agnes was able to gently convince Bobby that she was going to have to let go of her imaginary friend. The teasing at school by Marie and her cronies had become relentless and Bobby had finally been forced to admit that it was not normal to talk to shadows. The night when she knelt by her bed to say her prayers and then told ‘Boy’ she could no longer talk to him was the only time in her childhood that Roberta Hollis had cried.

  Bobby shook herself, smiled wanly at Michel behind her and leaned down to move the little cars and farm animals that were still scattered over the wooden flooring. She cleared a space and spreading out the old blanket that had been gathering dust silently motioned to Michel to sit down. She leaned forward and gently moved a piece of hair that had fallen over his eyes.

  ‘Tell me about your life, ta vie, in France,’ she whispered. Michel looked at her but seemed unable to speak. Eventually, eliciting no response, Bobby lay back to look up through the skylight to get inspiration from the pale blue skies with whirling clouds above her, as she had always done. Michel sat next to her, his arms clutching his knees, rocking backwards and forwards. Bobby sat up again and softly stroked his arm. Bit by bit, warmed by the rays of sunshine that shone into the room from above, she felt the tension in him relax and after a haunting silence he began to speak.

  ‘I live in a small town in Normandy, it is just my father and I now my mother has . . .’ He stopped and suddenly looked her in the eyes. ‘You know, she called me Michel because she knew my . . . your father . . . had lost a son with that name and she wanted me to have a connection with him.’

  Bobby nodded, encouraging him to go on.

  ‘At that time, she think my French father was dead and she never see him again. Then my French father, Raoul, he come back. He know everything. He has been my real father, I miss him so much.’

  He paused to wipe his eyes then went quickly on.

  ‘We have help in the house, her name is Claudette. She is very pretty,’ he added, as an afterthought.

  ‘France has been terrible since the Germans came. My father and I, we help our country – just small things – but then the things get bigger and it is all too much.’

  He buried his head in his hands and Bobby sat and waited while he regained control. All over the world, there were young people like Michel – and her – who were being asked to perform incredible tasks that only a few years ago would have seemed impossible. She understood how he felt overwhelmed by the responsibility that had been forced on him.

  ‘Shhh, there’s no need to speak. I know how you are feeling,’ she told him. ‘We are all out of our depth.’

  Michel looked at her quizzically.

  ‘That means we’re all being asked to do things that we don’t think we’re capable of, but believe me, Michel, somehow we find that strength. We aren’t the only ones who are finding this war almost impossible but what is the choice? We want our countries to have the freedom to live as we want to and to do that, we have to search deep within ourselves to do our own little bit that might, when added together, be enough to save us all.’

  He took a deep breath and slowly nodded, absorbing her words one by one.

  She went on. ‘You have your own family and now you have us. We are somehow bonded together by our looks, if nothing else, and with that connection, we can help each other. I lost my brother, Michel. You will now be my brother.’

  It took a moment for Bobby to realise she had just become an older sister. No one had ever needed her before and her breath got caught in her throat as she absorbed the warm glow that rushed through her body.

  The young man leaned forward and hugged Bobby hard. Also without brothers and sisters, he had never known this sort of support and he grasped at it like a drowning man.

  *

  Later that evening, Bobby decided it was time she, too, reached out for help and her first thought was Aunt Agnes
.

  ‘What are we to do?’ Bobby asked her when she cornered her aunt on her way to her mother’s drawing room with a tray of tea.

  ‘I think my priorities are caring for your mother and keeping your father fed,’ she said. ‘He’s hardly eaten anything since Michel arrived. I will try to keep Michel calm and just make life as mundane as possible until it’s decided what should be done with him. You’ll go back to flying planes.’

  Bobby took the tray out of her aunt’s hands, laid it on the oak side table and gave her a hug, pleased to have her practicality to lean on.

  Her aunt brushed her off. ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘There’s a war on and our little dramas are nothing compared with what some people are suffering.’

  Bobby looked closely at her aunt. She suspected Agnes had her own story, but she was not a woman to share her feelings and had already closed her mouth tightly in that familiar tense line that brooked no discussion.

  *

  On the Sunday morning, Bobby took a pale Michel to the grave of her twin and told him in a mixture of French and English, the full story of the little brother, Michael, whose death had dominated her life. She told him about how, because of her parents’ grief for a longed-for son, she had never felt a mother’s hug or a father’s pride in her achievements. As she stopped, not sure how to go on, Michel laid his arm on hers and gave a little squeeze. It unleashed a need to talk that Bobby had never experienced before.

  She looked from the grave of her brother, Michael, that she had talked to all her life to the real life figure of Michel standing next to her and she began in a torrent of English to explain about her childhood. Michel stared hard at her trying to understand what she was saying.

  ‘I have always felt so guilty, Michel, guilty that I’m the one left alive and that I am a girl. Father wanted a boy so much. I’ve tried to do everything a boy would have done but it’s never been enough.