Kit had no idea how he had arrived at the farmhouse. He woke in a room with a beamed roof. He lay in a large bed opposite a carved armoire. The air smelt of lavender and polish. Who had brought him here, bathed his filthy body, put a clean cotton nightshirt on him? He could smell roasting coffee beans and it made him hungry. Then he recalled Sam O’Keeffe’s face staring down in disbelief at him. What could he say to his old friend? His first thought was to climb out of the window and escape, but he was too weak to move.
A dark-haired woman, with beautiful olive skin, came in with a tray of coffee, warm bread and peach jam. She smiled at him. ‘Bonjour, monsieur, I’m Sam’s wife, Consuela. Welcome to Magret and excuse, please, the noise of les enfants…’
Kit smiled back. Trust Sam to keep his promise to find a fine-looking wife for himself and father a brood of children. He didn’t know what to say except ‘Je vous remercie, madame.’
‘Now you must eat and then you will be stronger,’ she said. ‘Sam is taking the children to find mushrooms for supper in the woods.’
‘How many children do you have?’
‘Eleven, so far,’ she replied.
‘Eleven!’ Kit gasped. That was going some for an ex Catholic.
‘Ah, Christophe, you don’t understand.’ She laughed, seeing the look on his face. ‘They are not our children, but ones who needed a home, orphans, refugee children from Spain. There’s bad trouble there. They come to us and we find them homes. Some are sick and weak, so we build them up.’
Kit had no words with which to respond. While he had been bumming around the Côte d’Azur, Sam was caring for lost children. It made him feel ashamed to have been discovered. How could he face his old friend?
‘Madame, I must leave. You have enough to feed, without me imposing on your hospitality.’ He tried to sit up, but a fit of coughing made him lean back on the pillow with exhaustion.
‘You go nowhere but the grave, if you try to walk. Your chest is bad and you are so thin. How can you recover without help?’ Consuela said.
I don’t deserve to recover, he thought. This is the last place on earth I want to be, but I’m trapped.
‘The good seigneur brought you back from the dead,’ she added. ‘One more night in the open and you would not have survived. Sam will look after you. He is a good doctor.’
‘Yes, I know that, but I’m no longer a good man. There’s much to explain. I fear he will ask me to leave, once he knows the truth of the matter.’
Consuela nodded, making no reply, but straightened his bedclothes and pillow. ‘Now rest, it is an order,’ she said when she had finished. But she left Kit deeply troubled. Of all the doctors in France he had to find Sam again. This was surely beyond coincidence. For all his faults, betrayals and deceptions, was there a higher hand at work here, forcing him to face who and what he had become?
*
Later that morning, Sam came through the door and closed it firmly. ‘I hear you want to leave us. Sorry, chum, here you stay, until I say you’re fit. What a mess you’ve made of your body. Do you know it was only your hair I recognised at first? The rest of you… I couldn’t believe the wretched wreck I saw before me. Whatever made you do such a thing… fake your death? Someone sent me your obituary. Who is this Christopher Carstairs? Why?’
Kit shook his head. ‘It’s a long story,’ he replied, turning away from his friend’s gaze.
‘I’m going nowhere and neither are you.’ Sam pulled a chair closer. ‘I’m listening.’
Out it poured, slowly at first: his wounds, his failure to rescue the boy in the mud, the officers’ hostel, about meeting Flora Garvie and causing her disgrace, his loss of faith. Kit held nothing back, his cowardly escape to Marseille and the time in the Cévennes, even his seduction by Sylvie and his dose of the clap.
‘I thought I was destined to be an artist but when I saw the real artists at work, I realised I am nothing but a house painter, an odd-job man, a failure in everything I’ve done. I hate myself for letting everyone down.’
‘So, you are feeling sorry for yourself, then?’ Sam probed.
Kit continued to confess. ‘It’s worse than that. I’m weak and cowardly.’
‘Never, my friend. You were badly wounded. I gather from your obituary that you won a DSO. Could have had a VC. You saved men’s lives and their minds. I don’t call that cowardly, just exhaustion. I think you’ve had what us quacks call a breakdown of the mind. I’m not excusing everything, but you’ve punished your body almost beyond the point of repair. The congestion in your lungs, your liver, your back discs are compressed… What on earth are we going to do with you?’
‘Patch me up and let me go. I’ll manage, I have so far,’ Kit replied. ‘There is nothing to live for now.’
‘That’s self-pity talking. You’re still breathing and you are not an old soldier yet. There’s a lifetime to find purpose. I can help you heal. We have fresh air, good food and rest for you here. We can help you heal but you also have to help yourself. Think of all the boys you buried, who would love to be alive and kicking. We were the lucky ones, never forget that. Sermon over…’ Sam smiled. ‘What do you think?’
‘I hear your words, but they’re all scrambled up in my head. How can I forgive myself?’
‘Look, we are all weak at times, full of faults, treacherous even, but accepting those bits of ourselves means we can choose to live in another way,’ Sam replied.
‘But I have hurt so many – Aunt Jessie, Muriel, Flora… I can’t go back.’
‘Perhaps it’s better if you don’t. Just make this Christopher Carstairs someone worthy of respect and ask for guidance. Where from… is up to you. Don’t wallow in the past, move on towards another life. We do have choices.’
‘I can’t live off your kindness, with all those mouths to feed,’ Kit said.
‘When you’re stronger we can discuss that. I do need a handyman. There’s plenty of work you can do here to help us.’
‘How did you find this place?’ Kit wanted to change the subject.
‘I met Consuela after her father was murdered in Spain. I’d read what’s going on there. She was a nurse and escorting some orphans to a nearby convent. You’ve seen her – who can forget a face like that? Talk about sparks flying. I touched her hand once and almost got an electric shock. I knew I had found the woman of my dreams. We did hope for our own children, but it appears when I had mumps as a schoolboy, it blighted any chance…’ Sam paused. ‘Now we have our hands full of frightened, sick children who need a lot of attention. I do have a practice down in the village and we get a small grant from a charity to feed and clothe the children so we just about manage.’
‘I don’t want to be a burden. I have nothing to offer.’
‘Oh, but you have. I have plans to extend into the barn. Students will come during vacations to help, but they need supervision and I do have my medical work. There is work for you here, once you’re well again. Just rest up, search within yourself and paint for pleasure. The land is beautiful. We all can’t be Leonardos or Monets. Don’t be so self-critical, paint what gives you joy.’ Sam added, ‘Just don’t ask me to pick up a paintbrush. Though maybe you could teach the children a little, when you are stronger. And there’s plenty of manual work here at Magret.’
Kit smiled. ‘I’ve done plenty of that over the years. You can count on me.’
‘Splendid, but take your time. I’ve tired you out now.’ Sam left the room, while Kit lay back, exhausted but relieved. Was it possible to forgive yourself for past mistakes? Could he ever hold his head up high again?