Sandrine Prideux rose naked from the bed, making no effort to avoid waking her sleeping companion. In a single graceful sweep of her body, she vaulted from beneath the sheets and stepped with elegant strides to the shuttered bedroom window. The room hung heavy with the smell of cigarettes, alcohol and human sweat. It was only six thirty in the morning but already the day was turning hot. She threw the shutters wide, feeling the warmth of the sun upon her body, letting the light flood into the room. The figure in the bed groaned and rolled over, its head under a pillow.
Sandrine lit a cigarette and sat facing the low window ledge, her feet on the sill, her knees wide enough apart to allow the fresh air between her legs. Beneath her the French city of Arras was waking up. The street below buzzed with the sound of traffic, the crank of a cart, the swish of a horse’s reins, the occasional honk of a wealthy merchant’s car horn. Soldiers marched in neat lines, heavy packs on backs, rifles tucked tight into shoulders. British Tommies, weary heads staring down at the toe caps of their mud caked boots, puffed on roll ups and pulled uncomfortably at their heavy khaki uniforms in the early morning heat.
Across the dilapidated skyline of the city, clipped and disfigured by German shells, Sandrine could see traders begin to gather in the square. In the house opposite she saw the occupant watching her with a look of surprise and delight from his window. She waggled her knees and waved at him. Immediately, he turned away flustered, embarrassed, and pretended to busy himself in other business, snatching another brief look moments later before shutting the shutters altogether, as if the temptation was too great and it had to be hidden behind closed doors.
“Can you not shut the window and come back to bed?” came a feeble voice from behind her. “It’s too early.”
“But it’s a beautiful day!” she laughed.
“It’s not even seven!” the voice retorted.
“And it’s a beautiful day!” Sandrine reiterated brightly, peering briefly over her shoulder and then back to the street. And she felt it, the beauty of the day, not just in the weather, but within the essence of it too. A new dawn. A new beginning.
Every day she met people piling their belonging onto carts and heading west, away from the oncoming German forces. They would tell Sandrine to come with them, that a beautiful woman like her should not be left behind to the mercy of the enemy, to the ruinous destruction of war. But all her life she felt she had been running, running to the beck and call of others. She had decided she had run as far as she was going to and she would make her stand amongst the ruins of the front line. And whilst she did so, she would savour life in whatever time she had left.
She peered from the broken city skyline to the heavens, rich and blue, and then back to the street again when the bright dawn hurt her eyes. Sandrine sat back in her chair, feeling the heat from the cigarette on her fingers and the heat from the rising sun on her breasts. She closed her eyes and lounged like a lizard on a hot rock.
“Are you smoking?” the man croaked from the bed incredulously. His British officer clothes were still arranged neatly in a row along the end of the bed. Even the heat of passion and the recklessness of alcohol could not unseat the conformity of this British officer’s order.
When Sandrine had met him last night, drinking wine and laughing too loud with his raucous officer chums, she considered how handsome he must have been in his youth. He still retained a glimmer of his former features but a penchant for alcohol, rich foods and nicotine had blunted his charm.
They’d all watched her greedily, the officers, as she’d joined them at their table, devouring her body with their eyes, joining easily with her rich laughter and luxuriant manner, each taking turns to fill her glass, placing hands upon her knee and imploring her with their deep and beseeching gazes. One, a sandy haired and balding officer, his thin lips concealed by a generously coiffured moustache, salted with speckles of ginger and white like a tabby cat, had even had the audacity to touch her breast and run his hand up the inside of her thigh. She’d allowed him the briefest of touches against the soft fabric of her panties, before her hand had dropped to his and a raised eyebrow insisted he withdraw it, however reluctant he felt. He’d whimpered like a scolded child and tried the same trick a short time later, only to be rebuffed sharply and pushed drunkenly from his chair. Afterwards he’d taken to staring menacingly at her from the distance of a next door table, no longer partaking in idle flirtatious advances.
Any other night she would have spurned the slow and subtle advances of the dark haired officer who now languished in his bed behind her, rejecting his suitability as a lover and choosing one of the younger officers to satisfy her deep and carnal yearning. But there was something about the way he watched her with his slate grey eyes and a quiet confidence, which both intrigued and excited her. Whilst around her officers fell over themselves to fill her glass and chirp excitedly at her jokes, he joined the revelry at a distance in an assured and measured fashion, an enticing mix of experience and command. Her passion was charged with his smouldering reserve, her own pursuit of recklessness, the noise and banter within the bar, the temerarious urge of alcohol. Four miles east from them, the Germans had begun a short and savage barrage of the British front line, pounding them with eighteen inch mortar rounds. But here, within the dark hot confines of one of Arras’s most secret of drinking venues, passions of a different sort ran wild.
As a lone bell tower tolled one o’clock, she’d slipped an arm through his and told him to take her back to his lodging and make love to her.
They’d tumbled drunkenly onto the bed, his wet mouth on her neck, Sandrine’s hands in his hair, around his neck and back, feeling more impassioned with every passing second. He surprised her when he pulled himself from her longing embrace and undressed quickly beside the bed, telling her to do the same, as if the act of undressing each other in their lovemaking was somehow too awkward or slow for him to consider. She giggled as he laid out his uniform in neat lines along the end of the bed, climbing onto her knees and reaching out to him when he was naked but for his undergarments. Their mouths locked in a tight embrace, their tongues tasting alcohol and cigarettes, his hand slipping between her thighs.
He made love like the British army made war, manoeuvring himself tactically within the bed and then applying himself with a sense of ruthlessness once in position.
They talked for a little time afterwards, of inconsequential things mixed with occasional brief laughter. But soon his eyes rolled in his head and he fell asleep without warning, his pursed lips slightly ajar, snoring softly in his easy drunken sleep. Sandrine had left him and sat at the window smoking, listening to the sounds coming up from the city, the sudden bark of rare laughter, the sharp rap of footsteps, the far distant falling of shells. But for the main, Arras had been silent.
Sandrine took a long and loud draw on her cigarette and, tilting her head back, exhaled into the air above her. Her darkly curled hair fell almost to the seat of the chair on which she sat.
“How can you smoke at this time of day?” The body moved between the sheets. “How can you feel like smoking after … after last night? Don’t you … don’t you feel just fucking awful or is it just me?”
“Just you,” she said as she took another drag, enjoying the early morning bite of tobacco in her throat, and leant forward, drawing the smoke deep into her lungs. She marvelled at a vast unit of soldiers marching past, heading east. Something was happening, a manoeuvre perhaps out there, at the front? And then the realisation settled on her like a fine dust falling from above. There had been no barrage on Arras last night, the first quiet night in the city since she had arrived in it.
She spotted a face she recognised in the crowd of market sellers heading for the main square and called out to him, feeling empowered and irresistible by her nakedness.
“Alessandro! Alessandro! Good morning to you!” she cried, her breasts swaying before her.
The man turned and looked towards the voice. He laughed when he saw her. “You’re a shameful woman, Sandrine Prideux!” he cried.
She’d met the young butcher on the day she had arrived in the city, her spirited manner appealing to his sense of adventure and dreams. He admired her for arriving in the city alone. She admired him for his fiery ambitious talk of his political dreams. They drank long into the night together, discussing the war, the politics behind it. He’d been kind enough to offer her a bed for as long as she needed whilst she acquainted herself with the city. He assured her he would remain the true gentleman and sleep on the couch, but she’d drawn him into his bed and made love to him in return for his generosity. Over the following days he introduced her to his friends, his contacts, even his brother, a Father at the city’s Cathedral. After that she had gone, slipped away into the depths of the city, like the crackle of thunder after a storm. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of her around the place, snatched a few hurried sentences with her before one or the other had to be away.
He felt no bitterness towards her. Sandrine, it seemed to Alessandro, was like a green horse, unbroken, refusing to follow the customs of the herd, living by her methods, her choices. He knew he could never tame her and claim her as his own. She was unbreakable and perhaps that thing which so captivated others would be lost if ever anyone succeeded in shackling her to a life of anything approaching conformity.
“What do you think you’re doing up there, eh?” he called, “looking so beautiful so early in the morning, eh?”
“Watching the British invasion.”
“Why are you not down here kissing me, eh?” A group of men gathered around Alessandro and were looking up longingly.
“Kissing all of us!” shouted one of the other men.
“Where are all the soldiers going?” she asked, suddenly feeling exposed and wrapping an arm across herself. There were limits to even Sandrine’s daring. “What has happened?”
Several of the soldiers looked up as she called and cheered at the sight of her, a naked woman leaning brazenly from the window.
“The British,” Alessandro yelled up, putting his arm to his forehead to block out the low morning sun. “There is talk that they have broken through at Fampoux.”
“Fampoux!” exclaimed Sandrine, raising a hand to her mouth in delight. She felt her heart twitch with the prick of hope.
“You can go home with a pair of Tommies on your arm!” Alessandro laughed. He blew her a kiss from the palm of his hand and, waving, headed off towards the market.
“Why don’t you come back to bed and climb into my arms, hey?” invited the voice from the bed.
Sandrine pulled a face and extinguished her cigarette. She swivelled on the chair and peered back at the dishevelled looking individual. He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair, slick with oil and sweat, caked tight to the side of his head. She considered one more spell of passionate lovemaking with him, but his appearance this morning was anything but appealing. She raised a suggestive eyebrow and got up, skipping past the bed to gather clothes she had discarded last night in a far more haphazard fashion than the officer.
“Didn’t you hear?” Sandrine asked cheerfully, “the Germans have been driven out of Fampoux?”
“I doubt that very much.” the Lieutenant Colonel replied, struggling to sit up in the bed. He winced at the pain in his head and clenched his eyes tightly shut for a few moments. “Now, why don’t you come here and make love to me like you did last night, you naughty delicious little thing?”
Sandrine curled her lip and dropped her clothes into a chair, slipping a leg delicately into her panties. “I’m surprised you think like that, Nicholas,” she said, with a slight wave of her hand. “I would have thought a man of the British army would feel more enthusiastic about its achievements.” Sandrine slipped her second leg in and drew her undergarments up her long mocha-coloured legs. “What makes you so sure there’s been no breakthrough?”
“Well, because it’s my battalion stationed just outside of Arras.” He laid the sheet across his belly and swept back his hair. “And they’re on a defensive footing. They should only move forward when I give the order and seeing as I’ve been otherwise engaged,” he raised an eyebrow and smirked with a little shake of his head, “I think we can safely assume they are still several hundred yards from the German lines and Fampoux, or what’s left of it, still resides firmly in the grubby paws of the Boche.” He tilted his head to one side. “Come on, give me a kiss, won’t you?” he begged.
Sandrine tutted and rolled her eyes, clasping her brassiere about herself.
“What’s that look for?” he asked, laughing gently.
“If you have men at the front, you shouldn’t leave them. You shouldn’t even be here!”
“If you think that, then you shouldn’t have seduced me,” the officer chuckled playfully.
She smiled, a little sadly the officer thought, and then she stepped into her yellow dress.
“Are you really leaving already?” He asked the question with a touching despondency, as Sandrine drew the dress up over her body. “So soon? I was hoping maybe –”
“Why would I want to stay here?” she replied without hesitation.
He laughed at the abrupt honesty of the reply and shrugged. “To be loved?” he suggested, as if it was as good a suggestion as any. “Why, do you have a better offer?” She stepped across the room to the bed and bent down to kiss him gently goodbye. His hand closed around the back of her leg and worked its way up the inside of her dress. She tutted and smacked at the wandering arm playfully.
“Goodbye Nicholas,” she said, kissing him one more time and turning on her heel towards the door of his room.
“You Catholic girls!” he called lightly after her, smiling sadly and nestling down into the covers of the bed.
Immediately Sandrine stopped and turned in the doorway. A shadow had fallen across her face, her mouth now open, her neck bent forward. “What did you say?” she hissed, anger flushing away any pleasure which had been held within her features. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded, as if this assumption had caused the utmost offence.
“Sorry!” the officer called back uncertainly, the smile slowly eroding as he saw the anger in Sandrine’s face. “Have I said something –?”
“That!” Sandrine spat. “Saying I was Catholic.”
“Sandrine, I’m sorry,” he stuttered, sitting up in bed with more effort than should have been necessary. “I just thought … well, aren’t you?”
“No!” she retorted, as if the accusation was poisonous. “How dare you!? Why do you say such a thing?”
“It was just that yesterday … leaving the Cathedral. I saw you.”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“I saw you,” he muttered, testing the atmosphere with a smile. He saw the testiness in Sandrine’s face quickly and dropped it from his own. “I was in the square. I’m sure it was you. I watched you come out, out of the Cathedral.”
“Well it wasn’t,” she snapped, her mouth tightening into a sneer.
“Sandrine. I’m sorry. If I’ve said anything …”
She took a step forwards and thrust a finger towards him. “Never say such a thing again!” she spat, jabbing at him and his raised hands.
“Sandrine. I’m sorry. It’s just, I’m Catholic myself and I thought …”
“You thought what?” she cried, feeling sickened by the revelation and almost overwhelmed by the urge to bathe and clean herself. “You thought what?”
“Just … perhaps we might see each other again? Visit Mass together?”
“Let me tell you this, Nicholas,” she said, taking another step towards the officer so that she towered over him in the bed. “I’ll never see you again. Do you understand? Never! Stay away from me! You, your Church and your God can all stay away!”
“Now listen here,” the officer retorted, a tension now beginning to rise in his own voice. “There’s no need for that!” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and gave the impression he was about to stand.
“Nothing will save you in this war!” she hissed at him, casting an arm at him before turning to leave.
“You should watch your filthy tongue!” he warned, striding over to where she watched him with her fierce eyes. “We’re here to save you French.” He stabbed at her chest with an index finger. “You should be more respectful.”
“Save us?!” Sandrine laughed cruelly, tossing her hair from her face. “Save us from what?”
“The Germans, of course, you silly woman.”
She scowled and rolled her eyes dismissively. “Germans? Pah!” she spat, raising an arm in a way that the officer thought she was about to strike him. “There is more to fear than the Germans. There is no more hope for you. Go to your Catholic Fathers. Get down on your knees and pray. But I tell you this, no God will save you from the hell that is to come!”