The Warning Bell Page 10

  ‘You’ve been told, Iain,’ Dr Pasqual said, turning to me, ‘that I was instrumental in helping your father to escape on that dreadful night when Thomas Montignac was killed. But you must know I was a very small player in that drama. There were three others, and they deserve to be named here tonight. Our leader was Mathieu Garnier; then there was Guillaume Le Toque and Paul-Louis Bonnard. Such were the names of those brave men.

  ‘Those three men are all long dead, but their relatives are around this table – Mathieu’s brother, Guillaume’s nephew, Paul-Louis’ grandson. And of course others in the village helped, and put themselves in danger to do so. Some provided food for the fugitives, or carried messages, or kept watch. Many of their relatives are here also. Indeed a lot of people risked a great deal that night. Thomas Montignac risked everything and lost.

  ‘But in the end, it was your father who made it all worthwhile. Why do I say this? Because he brought us hope, and tried valiantly to help one of our own. And then, when things went so horribly wrong, he endured untold hardship to save his companion and himself, and escape to his homeland, and to life.’ He lifted his glass and his voice grew passionate. ‘My friends, I give you the toast. To life.’

  There was a commotion of raised glasses and raised voices, and for a moment a little knot of people hemmed me in. When they stepped back and I looked across the table the old man was gone. I could hardly believe that he had left already. I had needed more than a decorous speech from him. I might even have left the table and gone after him, but food arrived at that moment – seafood, cheese, olives, frites, – and more wine. Much more wine.

  Suddenly, with the formality over, everyone wanted to talk. The schoolteacher Sylvie Bertrand, an elegant woman in her thirties, laid a hand on my arm and asked me something about my family. Le Toque, the beaming red gnome of a fisherman, demanded my opinion of EU halibut quotas. I kept looking over their shoulders into the café, but I could see no sign of Dr Pasqual. Henri drifted between the tables, collecting plates, dispensing wine. Music started to play. My glass was empty yet again and someone filled it. The sky had grown luminous and beautiful over the sea, and my disappointment faded as the party grew noisy and boisterous around me.

  I was caught by surprise when Felix moved up behind my chair and spoke softly into my ear. ‘Iain? A moment?’

  I followed him into the dark interior of the café. One of the booths at the back was softly lit, and Dr Pasqual was sitting there with a milky glass of Pernod in front of him. He rose a little stiffly and offered me his thin hand.

  ‘Iain, you must forgive me for hiding in here. Please sit down.’

  I did so. A burst of laughter and a tinkle of glasses drifted in from outside.

  Felix said: ‘The natives are getting restless.’ He gave me a wink and walked out towards the party.

  ‘Felix is a very good son to me,’ Dr Pasqual said, watching him go. ‘When he was ordained he could have had a ministry almost anywhere. Paris. Overseas. There was talk of a post at the Vatican. But he chose to come back to St Cyriac. He denies it, but my dear wife was gone by then, and I’m sure he came back because of me.’ He smiled and folded his hands across one another. ‘But this isn’t what you want to hear, I know.’

  ‘Dr Pasqual –’

  But he raised his hand and silenced me. ‘Forgive me. But let me guess what’s going through your mind. I don’t think you are satisfied with this – how shall I put it? – this comic book adventure story. I think you are troubled by your father’s reaction to what happened here. I think you suspect it was not glamorous in the least. And you are right.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Iain, your father and his companion were in that crypt for two months. The few people in the village who even knew they were there did their best for them, with food and medical help and so on. Sylvie Bertrand’s grandmother was a nurse. Marie-Louise’s two uncles owned the boatyard and supplied the dinghy. But I’m afraid there were others who regarded Father Thomas as a dangerous zealot for hiding refugees, and in the end somebody betrayed him.’

  ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn’t trouble to find out. No doubt they are long dead by now, and besides, I wouldn’t even blame them very much.’

  He must have seen my surprise.

  ‘Things were not simple back then, Iain. Ordinary people had families to protect. If St Cyriac’s priest had been found sheltering refugees it would have posed the most appalling risk to the whole community. There were German troops everywhere. They expected the invasion at any moment, and they were afraid. And it is when they are afraid that human beings are at their most brutal.’

  I could think of nothing to say. Once again I had the uneasy feeling that in trying to resolve the questions which confused me I had somehow glossed over human confusion of colossal scale.

  Dr Pasqual braced his shoulders.

  ‘Two months down in that damned crypt. It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? Your father and his comrade were in a bad way when we came for them that night. Your father had a leg injury which had never properly healed. The other man was so deeply shocked that I never heard him speak a word.’

  ‘But you got them away.’

  ‘Barely. The Germans were beating on the church door above as we took the two of them out of the crypt. Thomas went back to face the soldiers, to stall them. He must have known what would happen to him. And in a little while, we heard the shots. It was Mathieu Garnier who kept us together, or I think we might have panicked then. He was a born leader of men.’

  Dr Pasqual took a sip of his drink.

  ‘God knows how we got away with it. We had to walk them right through the village, expecting to blunder into the Germans at any time, but the patrols must have been drawn to the church by the shooting. All I can really remember is the church clock striking midnight as we led your father and his friend through the streets. Those midnight chimes will always stay with me.’ He collected himself. ‘Mathieu Garnier took them down to the boatyard. I went back to the bridge over the Vasse with the other two in case the Germans returned. Fortunately, they did not. We had, I think, one rifle between us.’

  ‘And my father sailed away from the boatyard?’

  ‘I watched from the bridge as the tide carried them out, the two of them crammed into that little boat, and I thought they must be spotted at any moment. There was a German blockhouse right on the point, but the tide runs so rapidly on the ebb that it only took a couple minutes for them to get clear. Less than that, perhaps. Even so, they were very lucky. We were all very lucky. It makes me tremble to think of it, even now. Mathieu told me later how when they got to the boatyard your father took one look at that dinghy, and said: “I’ll take my chance with the sea.” Mathieu didn’t speak much English but he remembered that well enough.’

  Yes, I could imagine my father not waiting for anyone’s permission, but bundling his wounded comrade into the boat and unmooring with quick fingers. So long confined, and to feel the little dinghy rocking under his hands, straining to get away. Taking his chance with the great waters. I pictured a tiny cockleshell of a craft, a blur on black water beneath overhanging trees, whirled on that sliding tide under the gun slits of the blockhouse towards the open sea and the whisper of freedom.

  Dr Pasqual spread his hands. ‘Voila. There you have it. I make it sound very noble, don’t I? But I’m afraid none of us thought they would get further than the Shoals. In our hearts we were only glad that the two of them had gone, and taken the burden of danger with them. Not quite so heroic put that way, is it?’ He smiled sadly at me.

  I said: ‘You knew he’d made it home?’

  ‘I had that satisfaction. I made some inquiries after the War.’

  ‘But you never contacted him?’

  ‘I felt the prerogative was his. And I understand why he chose silence.’

  I sat quietly after he had finished. I liked this white-haired old man. I liked to hear him talking about the past. It was w
hat old men were supposed to do, to pass down such stories. It was what fathers were supposed to do.

  Dr Pasqual reached for his stick and drew it towards him. ‘There was a time when I could ride all day and dance all night,’ he said. ‘No longer, I’m afraid. But I should very much like it if you would come up to the house one day so that we can talk further. I shall be away for two days at a rather tedious reunion. But Tuesday afternoon, perhaps? At around four? If you can bear to listen to an old man’s ramblings for an hour or so I could at least lighten the burden with some excellent Armagnac.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘If you’d excuse me now, I am rather tired.’

  ‘Dr Pasqual, can I ask you just one more thing before you leave?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I slid the little sketch across to him. ‘My father brought this back with him. I wondered if you might recognise it.’

  He took his hand from his stick and sank back into his chair. ‘Iain, could I impose upon you to pour me a glass of water?’

  I noticed his pallor for the first time. He had wanted to get away without betraying his frailty, and I felt bad that I had not allowed him to go. I poured him a glass from the carafe and moved it across the table. He did not take it at once. His hands were busy with the map, turning it into the light, lifting it close to his face. I saw the muscles clench around his eyes and mouth.

  ‘Dr Pasqual – are you all right?’

  He looked up distractedly. ‘A touch of angina. It afflicts me from time to time.’ He put the drawing down between us, reached in his jacket pocket and took out a small silver box, shook out a couple of pills and swallowed them with a sip of water. He lifted the map again. ‘Your father drew this?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure he did.’

  ‘And you believe it is somewhere near here?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘And yet it’s hard to see how he could have drawn a map of anywhere local during his time in St Cyriac. Or why. He couldn’t have left the crypt.’

  ‘I can’t explain that.’

  ‘Strange.’ He frowned. ‘I’m afraid this doesn’t look familiar to me. I’m sure I should recognise the place if it was nearby. What is this, a breakwater of some sort? It appears to be quite distinctive. But I can’t call to mind anywhere like this.’

  ‘It was just a thought.’ I took the map and folded it back into my wallet.

  Dr Pasqual rose, and I made to stand too, but he waved me down. ‘No, stay, please.’ He stepped out from behind the table and carefully smoothed his jacket and adjusted his tie, an old man who would not give up his dignity, even though, the burden of memory and of the years was wearing him down.

  ‘You have a good life, don’t you, Iain?’ he asked unexpectedly. ‘You have a family. And you have done well in the world. Isn’t that so?’

  It was very quiet in the room. The sound of jollity from outside seemed to float in from another dimension. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We have a good life.’

  He smiled that smile again and with it his strength seemed to return.

  ‘You’ve no idea what a comfort it is to me to know that in some small way I helped achieve such a thing,’ he said. ‘But you must not forget that, without your father’s steadfast courage, it would never have happened.’ He shook my hand and gave a small courtly bow. ‘Until Tuesday.’

  Then he was gone, his stick tapping on the floor of the café. I waited for a while, looking at the half-finished glass of Pernod on the table. I could understand why Felix so loved the old man, and I felt a quick stab of jealousy, and was ashamed.

  I let myself out of the side door and, skirting the light and noise of the party, I walked across the promenade to the edge of the quay. I was glad of the cool spring air on my face. The Gay Dog, hectic in its pink and maroon livery, bobbed at my feet. Black water slopped between the hulls of the boats, and truck-tyre fenders creaked in the dark. Felix stepped up beside me and put his arm around my shoulders.

  ‘An invitation to the family seat, no less! It’s that mouldering great pile the other side of the coast road, by the way.’

  ‘With the turrets?’

  ‘Castle Dracula,’ he sniffed. ‘All ferroconcrete nymphs spewing into fountains. It’s not actually that huge when you get up close to it.’

  ‘I’m honoured.’

  He glanced at me. ‘The old boy likes you, Iain. He doesn’t take to everyone.’

  ‘I like him too.’

  ‘Good. You can share him, if you like.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘My old papa. Consider him half yours.’

  I held his gaze. ‘I have tried,’ I said. ‘With my father. He just…’

  ‘I don’t imagine it’s easy.’

  ‘Can I tell you something, Felix?’

  He looked at me curiously. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I woke up late last night. Couldn’t sleep. I stood at the window for a while, listening to the warning bell out on the Shoals. And I began to wonder if my father had heard something like that, all those years ago. Just that sound in the night, it made me ask myself what it must have been like for him. Waiting there in the darkness. Fearing the worst every minute, and then the worst happening. And what that might have done to him. That, and everything that followed.’

  ‘I see.’ Felix paused. ‘You know what, Iain? When it comes to entering his world, you might be making more progress than I gave you credit for.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There hasn’t been a warning bell on the Shoals for fifty years.’ He grinned at my expression. ‘Don’t let it get to you. The sea plays all kinds of tricks at night.’ He chuckled, clapped me gently on the shoulder, and sauntered back to the party.

  16

  I awoke the next morning with a hangover and an unquiet mind.

  I threw the bedclothes off to let the cool air from the open window wash over me. Last night, when I got back from the party, I had stood at that window for half an hour or more, drinking in the clean night air, listening to the sea and the steady hiss of the wind across the rooftops. Once I heard a distant ship’s siren. But I could not recapture the sound of that bell, nor anything I might have mistaken for it.

  I showered and dressed, and went downstairs. The sitting room reeked of cigarette smoke and dried flowers. Little Gaston was dusting the china ornaments on the windowsill. I slipped out through the front door before he could see me.

  It was fresh outside, with a pale sun breaking through and a breeze flapping the shop awnings. The church clock struck eight as I walked into the square. St Cyriac was coming to life around me. A yellow mail van came popping down the street, shutters clattered, and people queued for bread at the boulangerie on the corner. Cars pulled up outside the gates of the school and kids kissed their parents and ran inside, shouting to one another, bags and scarves flying. I glimpsed Sylvie Bertrand standing with a knot of other teachers on the school steps. The scene was lively, colourful and reassuringly normal. It should have made me feel better.

  On the riverside path the willows were noisy with birds. I crossed the Vasse on the wallowing pontoons at Daniel Bourgogne’s yard. A few of his men were already at work and in the main boatshed a circular saw was whining, but nobody paid any attention to me. This time there was no light in the windows of the house among the trees. I walked on down the track until I could see the stern of the launch through the curtain of branches, and then the whole length of the hull.

  Dominic was sitting right up at the bow. I could see his blue-clad back and the sparkle of early sun on his hair. The sight of him gave me a comforting sense that at least one part of the world was as it should be. He turned as I approached.

  ‘Hello, Iain! Have you come visiting?’

  ‘If that’s all right.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ he said. ‘I like visitors very much. I bet you want a sausage?’

  I swallowed hard. ‘Maybe a little later, Dominic.’

  ‘Come aboard, anyway,’ he said, an
d added: ‘Don’t be frightened. We can’t float away when the tide’s out.’

  I steeled myself and stepped onto the deck and sat down quickly a couple of metres away from him, my back against the raised edge of the hatch.

  ‘You can come up here, if you want.’ He patted the deck beside him. He was sitting on the very peak of the bow, his legs hanging down over each side.

  ‘I’m fine here, thanks.’

  I glanced over the gunwale. The river cut in close to the bow of the launch but there was still a reassuring stretch of mud between the hull and the water, and I began to relax. It was pleasant here in the sun, with the deck warm beneath me.

  ‘You’re my second visitor today,’ Dominic said.

  He pointed ahead and I saw a heron among the reeds not five metres away, standing like a blade of slate in the shallow water. Dominic grinned back at me, his face framed by the leafy branches, like some woodland spirit. I felt a great peace in the air near him and I rested my head back against the hatch cover and half-closed my eyes so that the light glowed red. When I opened my eyes again Dominic was winding in his line so rapidly that his hands blurred. A silver bass came dancing up. He caught the fish in his free hand and murmured to it as he unhooked it.

  ‘Dominic?’

  He was still busy with his fish but he glanced over his shoulder to show that I had his attention.

  ‘I heard a bell the other night, Dominic. Out on the Shoals.’

  ‘Did you?’ His voice was light. ‘You heard the warning bell, then.’

  ‘Only they tell me the warning bell was taken away years ago.’