Once the new children were safely delivered to Sam and Consuela, Kit made his excuses and drove off. He claimed he had other places to go but their precious fuel was running out. He left the vehicle with Chuck and caught a train back to the harbour at Collioure.
The stations were crowded with strangers of every nationality, coming from both the north of France towards Spain, and refugees fleeing across the Spanish border. How would the camps cope with another influx of refugees? All he could think about was Flora, about the look of disdain on her face. Of course, she had every right to be furious. What had he been thinking of twenty years ago? Everything about that episode disgusted him now.
At that time, he was not thinking straight. Faking his demise seemed the right thing to do. Sam kept explaining that he had a breakdown of nerves. He was not the only ex-veteran suffering in this way. Kit had sought no help. An officer, a minister could not show weakness before his men. The sights he had witnessed still haunted his dreams, waking him up, leaving him shaking, disorientated, but was this just an excuse?
He prayed Father Antoine would be in the town somewhere. He must speak with him. Kit made his way down to L’église Notre Dame des Anges, to the chapel by the harbour, desperate for the coolness of the stone building with the vaulted roof, the grandeur of the golden altar. Someone was practising on the organ; a piece of Bach that made him want to weep with shame and despair. Looking around, he saw no sign of his friend. He trudged back towards the little centre for food and clothing, pushing his way through crowds of beggars, some drunk, slumped on the cobbles, and into the backstreet where the queue had formed. He stood in turn. ‘I’d like to see the Father,’ he said to the doorkeeper.
‘He’s busy, you’ll have to wait,’ she replied, looking at him with suspicion.
‘Please tell him Chris is here. If he needs help…’
She inspected him for any weapons. ‘Go around the back, then, he’s got paperwork. Don’t stay long.’
How many times had his old boss’s wife been just such a guardian at the gate of the manse, when her husband was weary and in need of peace? He recognised the woman’s devotion, but his need was urgent. As he opened the door, Antoine looked up over his spectacles and smiled.
‘Christophe, how good to see you. It’s been far too long, but I hear you are busy at the border. What an awful situation. Come, sit, take a glass of Banyuls with me.’ Antoine rose from his chair and made for a cupboard.
‘No drink,’ Kit said. ‘I need to talk… I’m in trouble and I have no one else to share this with. After you’ve heard my confession, you will not want to drink with me.’
‘Then this is not the place. The accounts can wait but I see you can’t.’
They left by the back door and went through the crowded streets, along a coastal path, now packed with families making camps and shelters. They walked in silence to a quieter spot overlooking the sea.
‘What is so bad that you seek me out?’ Antoine lit two cigarettes and passed one to Kit.
‘I have lied to you, as I have to others. I’m not the artist Chris Carstairs, but a renegade Presbyterian minister, a Protestant, Kristian Carlyle, who deserted his post, faked his own demise and fled from the woman he loved…’ He buried his head in his hands. ‘I’ve lived a lie for twenty years and then three days ago in the camp, the very woman recognised me, called me by my real name. I fled from her. I don’t know what to do, Antoine. Now you know the worst of me. I’m a fraud. What makes it worse is there was another girl, back home in Glasgow, waiting for me to return and marry her. It happened after the Armistice when I was wounded. We were sent to convalesce near Cannes.
‘I’d known Flora for years in Glasgow. Her brother, Fergus, was one of my best friends. I met her again by chance on the Côte d’Azur, where she was posted. She, too, had been ill. We fell in love and I let her down badly. She was sent home in disgrace, but I did not follow her. I’m so ashamed. I was unwell, but I can’t forgive myself for what I did.’
Antoine looked ahead, staring out to sea. ‘Where is this Flora now?’
‘Not sure, working in a hostel, I think. It’s such chaos down there. I did promise to explain, but she ran away. I thought of following her, but the crowds pressed forward and I lost sight of her. I pretended not to know her at first… How do I ever make that right?’
Antoine puffed on his cigarette, looking out to sea. ‘I’m hearing all this past confession and regret. Now you must confront the present and find her. Only then can you ask forgiveness. How did she come to be here?’
‘I have no idea, but Flora was a nurse in the war and a good, compassionate one.’
‘How strange that you’re both engaged in war work again. Is it possible that this encounter was no accident?’
‘What do you mean?’ Kit sat up, curious.
‘Maybe the hand of Providence is in all this, a chance for you to redeem yourself, to face the woman you hurt and see what’s left between you?’
‘But she said she never wanted to see me again. Those were her very words.’
‘Spoken in fear, shock, anger, no doubt. Find her and talk together, or write. That’s all I can suggest. Only then will you know if anything still exists that is worth saving.’
‘But I’ve let so many people down.’
‘You are human, frail, and let your own standards down. None of us are heroes, just fallible people trying to do our best and making a mess of some things.’
‘But not you, Antoine…’
‘You don’t know me, Chris. I have a past too; things I can only share with my Maker. I know how caring and hardworking you are. Those actions speak for themselves. Just continue your mission and try to forgive yourself. There’s still time to make amends. Leave the rest to higher powers than ours. Come on, confession is thirsty work. Let’s find ourselves a quiet bistro and drink to your future successes, whatever they might be…’
‘If only…’ Kit sighed.
‘No more of that, my friend. Dig out some courage and find her.’