They drove along the same street, where, all those months ago, she’d sat miserably beside Guy, trying to take in the murder of her grandfather and the apparent loss of mind of her grandmother. Past the cafe where she’d been forced by Frances to eat up her omelette, and the market square, nearly empty this cold afternoon, for the citizens of Amiens had hurried away home through the flakes of snow that drifted in on an east wind.
‘Are you alright?’ asked Robert, looking up at the street name and then turning off the main road into the narrow side street.
‘Yes.’
‘You sure?’
‘Stop asking me,’ Catherine muttered. ‘You know how I feel.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Ahead, she could see the steps leading up to the convent door and thought of Della, cowed at first by the nuns and then, when they were leaving, giving them a rude gesture. Frances hadn’t been cowed at all; she’d been determined, solidly brave and resourceful. How very strange it was to be coming back here.
‘We’ve found him,’ Robert had said on that night after the show had finished and they were together in the drawing room at Parnell Hall.
‘Where?’ she asked, her voice dull. She couldn’t understand why she wasn’t more excited. This is what she’d been yearning for. Christopher alive.
‘In Amiens. In the convent where you rescued your grandmother.’
‘What?’ she breathed, staring at his face, trying to make sense of what he was saying. ‘He was there then? And I was so close to him,’ she said wildly. ‘Oh God, I should have gone from room to room, yelling out his name. I could have brought him home months ago.’
‘No. He wasn’t there then. Believe me, my love. He was at a hospital miles away being looked after, quite well, it would seem. He was moved to Amiens only a month ago, when they needed the space for acute injuries.’
‘But why didn’t you know? Didn’t anybody ask his name?’ She looked at him with exhausted eyes. ‘Why didn’t he tell them who he was?’
Robert had pulled her down onto the torn sofa and taken her hands in his. ‘Darling, Christopher has suffered a head injury. He has lost his speech and, it seems, the ability to write or communicate in any way. We think it happened when the prison was bombed. He must have had a severe blow to his head, for apparently he was unconscious for several weeks. He is conscious now; his eyes are open, but there is nothing …’ He stopped, frowning, and she knew he was wondering how to go on.
‘Tell me.’
Robert took a deep breath. ‘It’s as if he was still asleep.’
‘I must go to him.’
‘Yes, I know. I’ll take you.’
And here they were, eight days later, in that cold, uncertain time between Christmas and New Year, pulling up in front of the convent steps, and Catherine could feel her hands shaking.
‘Please come in,’ said the little porteress nun who had opened the door. ‘Reverend Mother is expecting you.’
It was the same walk along the icy corridor, the same timid knock on the door, and when it swung open, it was the same tall, imposing figure who rose from behind her desk.
‘Good afternoon, Madame Fletcher,’ she said, her voice softer than Catherine remembered. ‘And to you, Major.’
‘I have come to see my husband,’ said Catherine, trying to put some flint into her voice. She found that she was holding her breath. Would Mother Paul object like she had last time?
‘Of course.’ The nun rose to her feet. ‘We have made him ready. Follow me.’
It was a shaky walk up the staircase and Catherine had to reach out for Robert’s hand.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ he whispered.
Mother Paul stopped at the door to the day room where Béatrice had been. A nun who was standing against the wall beside the door gave Catherine a brief smile. ‘Lieutenant Fletcher is here, madame.’ She reached out her hand to touch Catherine’s sleeve. ‘Please do not expect too much. It is possible that he will not know you.’ And she turned the handle and opened the door.
He was sitting on a chair by the window, his shoulders covered by a thin brown blanket. As she walked nervously towards him, Catherine could see a scar on the back of his head, which had scored a line through his straw-coloured hair. For a moment, she thought, I can’t do this, and looked back over her shoulder to where Robert was standing by the door, but he nodded his encouragement and she took a deep breath and walked on.
The nuns had put a chair in front of Christopher’s and she sat on it and gazed at her husband for the first time in eighteen months.
He looked exactly the same. His strong face, untidy, thick blond hair and intelligent blue eyes were just as she remembered and had dreamt about.
‘Hello, Chris, darling,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ve found you at last.’
Her heart thumped in her chest while she waited for him to turn towards her and give her that old familiar grin. He’d wake up from his dream and grab her, holding her in a firm grasp, and kiss her face, her neck, and tell her how much he loved her.
But nothing happened. It was as if she hadn’t spoken. He stared ahead, moving his head slightly so that she wasn’t in the way of what he was looking at. Catherine turned to see what it was. There was a hook on the door to the cell bedroom on which someone had hung a string of rosary beads, which glinted slightly where the light from a small lamp caught them.
‘Chris,’ she tried again. ‘It’s me, Catherine.’ And taking his hand in hers, she leant forward to kiss him on the cheek.
He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the kiss and let his hand lie limply in hers.
‘Chris, Christopher!’ She raised her voice. ‘Look at me. I’m Catherine, your wife.’
‘Madame.’ Mother Paul had come to stand beside her and put her hand on Catherine’s shoulder. ‘Please don’t shout. It will make no difference. He has … turned off, inside.’
‘No,’ she cried, shrugging off the nun’s thin hand. ‘He must know me. Look.’ She opened her handbag and took out a photograph of Lili. ‘This is our daughter,’ she said, and held it up in front of Christopher’s eyes. ‘It’s Lili. She can walk now. She says “Mama” and “Papa”. You would love her.’
But he looked straight through the picture as though it was invisible to him. ‘Christopher,’ she wailed, ‘please, please look at it.’ But it made no difference, and with tears welling into her eyes, her shaking hand dropped to her lap and the photograph slid to the floor.
She was sobbing now and Robert walked in and took her into his arms. ‘We’ll take him home,’ he said. ‘With the right treatment, who knows? He might return to you.’
Catherine nodded, but, still sobbing, tore herself away and knelt in front of Christopher and wrapped her arms around him. ‘I love you, Chris,’ she whispered, burying her head in his neck, and felt dizzy as the remembered clean smell of him filled her nostrils. For a moment, she thought she had got through to him, for he lifted his arm as though to hold her close, but his hand went past her back and onto his face to brush her hair out of his face. She seemed to be only an annoyance to him.
‘I think that is enough for now, madame,’ said Mother Paul, and her voice softened. ‘For both of you.’ She raised her finger and the nun who had been hovering in the corridor came forward and, putting her arm under Christopher’s elbow, raised him up and walked him towards the bedroom.
‘Come on, Catherine,’ said Robert quietly. ‘Let’s go.’
Back in Mother Paul’s office, Catherine and Robert filled in the forms that would allow Christopher’s transfer to a military hospital in England.
‘Do you know how he got to the hospital in Amiens?’ Robert asked.
‘I believe, Major,’ Mother Paul said, ‘that he was picked up by a citizen who was clearing the rubble. He was taken to a monastery south of here, where the brothers, bravely assisted by surgeons from the hospital, cared for him. After the liberation, he was transferred to the hospital for further treatment. I think, perhaps, that his condition deteriorated in that time. It was not the brothers’ fault. They had little equipment, only love for their fellow man.’
She turned her attention to Catherine. ‘And dear Madame Albert. She is well?’ she asked.
Catherine nodded. ‘She is very well, in England with my mother. They will be coming back to France soon.’ She couldn’t bring herself to smile at the reverend mother. The memory of Béatrice being force to swallow chloral hydrate was still burning in her mind. ‘Why did you drug her?’ she asked suddenly, and Robert, who was writing on the form, heard the distress in her voice and looked up.
Mother Paul frowned. ‘I was following Father Gautier’s instructions. He told me that the memories of what she’d seen were too hard to bear. She should not have to think about them.’
‘What had she seen?’ Robert’s question cut through the sterile atmosphere.
The nun folded her lips and looked down at her empty desk. Eventually she said, ‘Father Gautier was a good man. He was forced to do the things he did. It was one death or fifty deaths. At the end, Monsieur Albert offered to be the one. He saved the village.’
‘That’s not what my grandmother says,’ Catherine spoke hotly.
‘She didn’t know. Father Gautier told me that she was held inside the house when Monsieur Albert was shot. She didn’t see or hear the conversation. Only the shot. She saw her husband when he was already dead and the Germans were taking her to prison.’
Catherine looked at Robert. ‘I don’t believe that,’ she cried. ‘What sort of man or priest lies to a bereaved old woman?’
‘A frightened man,’ said Robert. ‘One who knew that his crimes would haunt him for the rest of his life.’ He looked at Mother Paul. ‘He was the one who shot Monsieur Albert, yes?’
She nodded slowly. ‘He had begged for the lives of the villagers, and that was the condition. But, madame, monsieur, believe me’ – a passion had come into her voice for the first time – ‘he was a good man. A man of faith.’
As they drove away, Catherine leant her head on Robert’s shoulder. She felt tired and unable to think clearly any more. Seeing Christopher, the person she’d yearned for, so changed, and so unresponsive to her, had been devastating. She didn’t know how to live with it. My husband is alive, she told herself, and I must care for him, but … I love Robert. How can I bear it?