As Nazi Germany and Adolf Hitler continued their aggressive posturing against the lowland nations, Holland and Belgium began the process of moving their respective armies to a war footing.
One Sunday in January, Corporal De Waden arrived at his usual time with Charlotte. He was just a boy really, in a man’s body. I think he was 26. On this day he asked if I would like to ride the horse by myself in the park as he watched from a distance. I had never ridden by myself. Usually, he led me by the reins. I was worried that people would be annoyed to see an ordinary person riding a grand horse in the Royal Park.
‘They can’t tell a princess from a pauper,’ Corporal De Waden said as he adjusted the saddle. As we stood before the house, Charlotte stomped on the cobblestone and little Nicole appeared, waiting for Corporal De Waden to give her a carrot for the horse.
‘There’s no carrot,’ he said sharply to the girl. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war going on?’
Little Nicole stood still, then made her fingers in the shape of a gun and when she aimed and fired at him, Corporal De Waden grabbed her wrist and twisted her around. ‘Never shoot a soldier!’ Nicole yelped and bit the corporal’s hand.
‘You little urchin!’ the corporal shouted as he pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket of his stiff uniform to wipe away the trickle of blood that dripped from his hand.
Then Nicole looked up as her eyes began to water. ‘I just wanted a carrot for Charlotte.’
‘Nicole, are you pestering Simone again?’ Madame Johnson stepped out of her house, leaned over, lifted the girl roughly and carried her away, Hopefully taking her to Tara, or to the house of Manderley, I thought, where Nicole could feed as many carrots to as many horses as she wished.
‘She just wanted a carrot,’ I said as Corporal De Waden cupped his hands and leaned over. ‘What could she know about war? She’s only a child.’
‘Put your foot in my hands. Use them as a foothold and I’ll push you up into the saddle.’
I looked down at the corporal. He had a thick head of black hair combed the way Clark Gable combed his hair in his films. Little girls pointed their fingers at men and shot. Grown men brushed their thick hair against the legs of women as they mounted great horses.
‘Now, Simone, you will ride inside the Royal Park with dignity and gladness for being given the privilege to ride such a grand horse.’
The corporal grabbed the reins and led the horse and me to the park, and as we walked among the people, no one waved. No one looked up. There was a gloomy, leaden sheen to the sky that mirrored the grim knowledge that rationing had recently begun in England, and that Finland was enduring a winter of untold hardships following the Russian invasion the previous November.
Irritated by the heaviness of the day, without thinking I gave Charlotte a good kick in the side. She reared. Corporal De Waden jumped back, released the reins, and the horse set off at a quick gallop, down the central promenade.
I felt like an American cowboy. The faster the horse ran, the more the world seemed to rush by in a blur of colour and wind, dissolving the greyness. Then for no reason, I began to shout, ‘Vive la Belgique! Vive la Belgique!’ A man looked up and waved. A collection of nuns walking under the bare trees turned their heads in unison and stared, as I continued to bellow, ‘Vive la Belgique!’
When I reached the end of the park, both Charlotte and I were exhausted. A carousel with many painted horses twirled around with children on each one laughing. The music from the merry-go-round played the famous little song ‘School Days’.
With reluctance, Charlotte and I turned around as I guided her back gently through the park the way we had come, the music from the carousel fading in the background.
People rushed to the side of the promenade as if witnessing a parade, but the parade comprised of only one girl riding one white horse. Yet, people continued to smile and wave, repeating my words: ‘Vive la Belgique! Vive la Belgique!’ So I reached down and shook the hands of the men and woman. Children ran alongside the horse. One man rushed up to me calling out, ‘Your father would be proud of you, Mademoiselle Lyon!’
When I saw Corporal De Waden leaning against the gate at the park entrance, I knew that my wild ride was over.
‘I could’ve been in so much trouble! What if you’d hurt someone? Do you know what it means to ride a horse illegally in the Royal Park? Your father gave you permission to ride with me in the park, not to rush off like some crazed Joan of Arc.’
That is what he called me – a crazed Joan of Arc. I liked that.
When we returned to my house, Corporal De Waden helped me dismount from the horse. He held my waist with his two hands as I slid off the saddle. When my feet touched the ground, the corporal tried to kiss me again, but I turned my head to one side and said cruelly, ‘The girl just wanted a carrot for the horse.’
Before stepping into my house, I turned to look at the corporal one more time and said, ‘Vive la Belgique!’
If, like Rhett Butler, the corporal had looked up to me and retorted, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn’, I would have married him on the spot. Instead, he grabbed the reins of the horse and walked away.
Corporal De Waden of the Belgian cavalry did not return the next Sunday, nor the next, nor the next.