They continued in silence for most of the way, Claude offered her a cigarette which she accepted even though she hated smoking, but it made her feel grown-up, and it also annoyed Vincent. The moon was a perfect semi-circle, misted very slightly now and then by a passing cloud. There were no stars to wish upon for which Béatrice was glad, it would be a fool’s errand as they never came true, just like prayers. Dragging on the cigarette, she blew the smoke into the darkness and listened to Claude who was now in a chatty mood.
‘I hope that Vincent won’t be annoyed with you when you get home. Perhaps you c-can sneak in unnoticed.’
This notion received a huff of derision from Béatrice. ‘He is not there and if he was, I would stomp up the stairs like a herd of beasts, just to annoy him. Vincent is not my keeper and I don’t care what he says, anyway.’
At this Claude sounded surprised. ‘Oh, I didn’t k-know he was away… where has he gone?’
Béatrice shrugged her shoulders and, sick of the taste of tobacco, bad-temperedly threw the cigarette into the bushes. ‘How should I know… I am just his stupid sister who isn’t allowed a life or will of her own, so I hope he stays in Nantes and never comes back.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t k-know where he was.’
‘I don’t, well not exactly, I heard him talking with the wonderful Yvette about it. They were whispering in the garden; they are always whispering, when they are not having sex in the barn. She is another person I despise because she told Vincent about Jörg. I hope her friend in Nantes gets bombed by the Germans or shot. They can all go to hell.’
At this Claude slowed his pace but Béatrice just wanted to get home. She was tired and felt queasy. They were approaching the low bridge that crossed the stream and realising they were at the spot where Jörg was murdered Béatrice came to an abrupt halt, while Claude asked more questions. She was starting to think he was annoying rather than kind, especially as he’d already told her in the café that he had no more stockings, or real coffee like last time they’d chatted.
‘Let’s s-sit for a while. You can’t go home in this mood and your mother will know you are drunk.’
Béatrice responded petulantly. ‘I’m not sitting here, are you mad, don’t you know what happened right there?’ She pointed to a spot in the road, not quite sure if it was accurate. ‘And how can you ask me to sit with you… it is improper, especially as I am recently bereaved.’ After her outburst she stormed off, Claude trotting by her side as he apologised.
‘Mademoiselle, please forgive me if I have offended you in any way b-because that was n-not my intention. But I’m slightly c-confused, has someone died? I’ve been in Mayenne for a few days and had n-no idea. Please accept my c-condolences.’
Béatrice kept walking as she spoke. ‘Yes, someone has died, no, actually, he was murdered by your comrade, Vincent, my brother and jailor. And don’t look so shocked. I know what you all get up to with your stupid resistance.’
This seemed to quieten Claude for a moment, and it made Béatrice feel quite smug and powerful, if only with words as her weapon.
‘But who was killed, someone from the village?’
‘No, it was a soldier, killed on this very spot. They all think it was an accident, a deer knocked him off his bike, but I’m not stupid, it was them, the Maquis and my brother!’ There she’d said it and didn’t regret it at all because it was true.
Claude looked shocked. ‘N-no, I don’t believe you, why would he?’
‘Are you stupid or something? Because the soldier was my lover and my self-righteous brother couldn’t bear the thought that I was going to marry a German because once this stupid war is over that’s what I’m going to do. Jörg told me he’d take me to Berlin, and we would meet his parents and I’d never have to see this pitiful village or my annoying family ever again.’ It was as her words cut through the haze of alcohol that was misting her brain, the ridiculousness of them hit hard. Jörg was dead. She was going nowhere.
When the tears returned and she began to sob, just like most men Claude withered and seemed unable to deal with or comfort a woman in distress, not that she wanted him to anyway. His whole demeanour had changed, and she knew why. He was closing ranks, unwilling to denounce his leader and, after all, he hated the Nazis and would be glad one of them was dead. Before he had the opportunity to skulk away and leave her feeling like a pathetic snivelling woman, she took the upper hand, pulling herself together quickly she began to walk away.
‘You can go now, Claude. Go on, scurry off to your comrades and celebrate another of your pathetic victories… I will be fine. I can find my way home from here.’ As she expected Claude didn’t object, he simply stared for a second longer, then nodded and in the same way he had appeared earlier, melted into the darkness.
It wasn’t until morning that along with a terrible headache and a chamber pot full of vomit came realisation. She had told Claude about Jörg and while she knew he would not be the least bit bothered about his callous murder, what if he told everyone that she was a Boche lover? She would be shunned, an outcast, her parents shamed and although she hated Vincent, she did not wish the wrath of the village to fall on her maman and papa.
What should she do? How could she put things right? Had she not been so terrified, Béatrice would have given in to the hysteria that was building in her chest, but it was not the time for panic, no, she had to think. Claude was the key and she had to find him and persuade him to keep her secret, but how? He was the one with the chocolate and stockings, Béatrice had nothing to barter with. Feeling her guts grumble, she stood, and on unsteady legs made her way to the lavatory, passing the mirror as she did. The glimpse of her red camisole, the one that Jörg had given her, and her breasts that swelled above the lace, gave Béatrice an idea. Wincing at the sight of her puffy eyes and dishevelled hair she ignored them and focused on her best assets. Shame flooded her veins, cheeks aflame at the thought of what she must do. Her body was all she had to trade for silence and if that’s what it took, so be it. There was no time to ponder the situation further because her stomach heaved and before she made a mess of her camisole, Béatrice sprinted to the bathroom.
She found Claude later that day at the old abandoned farm she had once visited as a teenager, ghost hunting with her friends. Béatrice watched him for a while as he tinkered with the engine on his Solex, hands covered in black grease, his head bent in concentration. When she spoke, it made him jump and for a moment it amused her, his startled look that quickly altered to one of curiosity. He was obviously wondering why she had walked to such a remote spot all alone, but when she showed her hand too soon, nerves getting the better of her, his look became knowing and for a second, mocking.
‘Béatrice, what brings you here? Have you a m-message from Vincent, is he back?’
Swallowing down nerves, for this really was virgin territory, Béatrice feigned confidence and failed miserably. ‘No, Vincent hasn’t sent me. I wanted to apologise for my behaviour last night because I was rude and ungrateful, and to ask you a favour.’
Claude was wiping his hands that were still smeared with grease, a faint smile playing on his lips. He seemed different today, not friendly, like the times he’d given her a lift on his motorbike or sprang from nowhere to take time to chat and show interest in her day. There was a haughtiness about him, or was it indifference?
‘It’s fine, you were drunk and emotional, it’s forgotten.’ He turned and began to put away his spanners as he continued. ‘But what is this favour you ask?’
Béatrice stepped forward and around his motorbike so he could see her face, and she his. It was then that she caught a slight smirk, or was it her imagination? ‘The things I told you, about Jörg, please, I beg of you, don’t tell anyone else. It is bad enough that Vincent knows but gossip and rumours, well, they are dangerous for everyone.’
If Béatrice expected Claude to fall over himself giving her assurances she was to be disappointed because instead of setting her mind at rest, he fell silent, as if pondering her request.
‘There is coffee inside. If you would like some, we can continue our conversation there.’ Claude threw down the rag he was holding and walked towards the door of the barn, not waiting for her answer.
It was then that she realised what she was going to have to do. This Claude was not the shy man who had offered her a friendly ear, who she could flirt with and bat her eyelids at to get an extra slice ofjambonlike the man at the market. Claude was just like all the rest, he’d seen his chance and was going to take it.
