children, had opened up to show her deep attachment to her sons. Misery, instead of separating them, seemed to fuse the remnants of the family together.
As Michel arranged to meet Barbara again, he told himself that he was being driven simply by need for a break from a ruthless routine. To break loose just for a few hours would do him good. If he took this unknown English widow to Caen, he had a hazy hunch that he would be setting out on a new path. What kind of a path he could not yet envisage, since, whatever she was, she was certainly not a peasant woman.
The widow was obviously quite startled at his offer of a trip to Caen and he could see that she instinctively hesitated.
He understood women well enough to read her mind. ‘I take great care of you, Madame,’ he promised. ‘Have no fear.’
He lit his last cigarette after first offering it to Barbara, who politely refused it. He carefully compiled another sentence. Finally, he said grandly, ‘I take you a little from your grief, Madame, and also you may see what happen to our cities.’
While she still hesitated, he added, ‘The Americans produce petrol like a cow make water! Lots of it. They say to me “fill her up”. And I do.’
She considered this and then unexpectedly chuckled, as she realised how apt his simile was. She decided that she might as well accept his offer. She really did, rather morbidly, want to see Caen.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask the hotel if they can provide a picnic lunch.’
And I hope I don’t disgrace myself by crying in public again, she thought.
Barbara spent a sleepless, tear-sodden night. She was, like almost everybody else, so deeply worn out with hard work, poor food and generally doing without that she wondered how she had ever managed to get up the energy to take this trip to France; yet, haunted by the lines of crosses she had seen that day, she could not sleep.
Why on earth had she come?
The answer was, she ruminated between sobs, because her mother, Phyllis Williams, and her mother-in-law, Ada Bishop, had been so persistent about it. She had given in simply to please them.
Her mother had said, ‘Don’t be afraid, luv. Seein’ the grave’ll settle you a bit. Your dad never had one, being at sea, like. But your George has one. You go and look at it. Then you’ll know.’
Know what? More grief? She cried on.
When talking to Barbara, Phyllis had not added what she was thinking: See the grave and then you’ll know it’s finished. You got to march forward, not look back. She wanted her girl to look at other decent men, like Graham in the village, who had been in a reserved occupation throughout the war. Barbara could marry again, have kids, be normal. Not always a widow, as she herself was likely to be.
Her Barbara had had nearly four years of mourning, on top of the ruthless grind of the labouring job to which she had been directed during the war. It was enough plain misery for any girl, Phyllis considered.
Now the war was over and Barbara was free to work at home again. Since neither Phyllis nor Barbara had any but domestic skills, she believed that both of them must work to build up their bed-and-breakfast. No matter how unpromising the business seemed at present, it appeared to Phyllis to offer the best prospect of a decent living for herself and her daughter. Even if Barbara did remarry, it would still offer her and her husband a home as well as employment; the country was so short of housing that any man would be glad to live in such a place.
Despite Barbara’s now being able to help her at home, the end of the war had not brought much rest to either of them. Added to their fatigue had been the continued daily monotonous struggle against rationing and shortages of everything; particularly hard for those like themselves, who had to be hospitable to an equally weary, irate clientele.
Further, many had to cope with the return of disoriented or wounded men, or, like Barbara and herself, the knowledge that their men would not return at all. Of the men who had come home, many had returned to homes and jobs that no longer existed, and to wives who were prematurely old – and so tired. They had also had to face children who had never seen their father and resented this strange man who took up so much of their mother’s attention; several of Phyllis’s neighbours had faced this problem, and had, in seeking comfort, wept helplessly on Phyllis’s shoulder.
No matter which way you looked, the day-to-day struggle to revert to a normal life seemed unending. It was nearly as bad as when they had lived in a slum in the north of Liverpool.
Before the war, while her husband was at sea, Phyllis and her daughter had moved from Liverpool to run their little business. It was a fortuitous move, for during the war the little dockside street in which they had lived had been bombed out of existence.
In 1934, the Williamses had been desperate to get out of the city, as crime increased in their overcrowded, dockside district. Unemployment was rife and, even at that time, there was such an air of hopelessness that Phyllis was anxious to try to get her only daughter away from the area. Barbara’s father was lucky to have a job which was likely to last for a while: ‘But you could never be sure,’ Phyllis would say darkly to Barbara. ‘So many ships is laid up.’
One pleasant summer Sunday, as a treat, they took the train to Hoylake on the Wirral peninsula and went for a long walk along the seashore. At West Kirby, they turned inland to catch a return train from its station back to Liverpool.
One side of the road they took marked the end of West Kirby. On the other was a stone wall which ran down as far as the shore and then turned to continue along the sea frontage. They paused for a moment to lean on it and look out over the field which it shielded.
The field looked so neglected that Phyllis guessed that it had not been cultivated for several years.
‘There’s a house further up, Mam,’ remarked Barbara idly.
Her mother turned to look. ‘So there is,’ she said, and peered at it. ‘It’s empty by the looks of it. What a big garden it must have had.’
They moved on and came to the garden gate. Unlike a farm gate, it was a slightly rusty, elegant ironwork gate. Grass had grown up round it, and suggested that it had not been used much for a long time.
‘Let’s have a look,’ suggested Barbara. She lifted the latch and, with an effort, pushed the gate open.
‘The place is empty,’ said Phyllis, surveying the dusty, curtainless windows. ‘I think it’s an old farmhouse.’
Driven at first by curiosity, they walked round it. There must, originally, have been a huge garden, though no cultivated plan was now evident. The house itself, however, looked quite sound. Even the black enamel on the front door was unblistered by weather.
Phyllis looked slowly round. Gulls screamed overhead; the sea was close enough for the women to hear the incoming tide dashing against a breakwater. Distantly, there was the sound of a steam train approaching West Kirby station.
Spurred by sudden, almost absurd ambition, Phyllis said excitedly, ‘You know, Barbie, this’d make a great place for a holiday. Looks as if it’s got lots of bedrooms – and all this for kids to play in.’ She made a sweeping gesture with one hand towards the enormous neglected garden. ‘And there’s sea and sand right here – and it’s quiet, except for the train – and, as I remember, they stop round eleven at night.’
Barbara had laughed a little derisively. ‘You mean a boarding house?’
‘Yes, like your gran had in Blackpool. I had a good time in it, I did, when I were a kid.’
‘It’s so big! We couldn’t even furnish it,’ replied the practical fifteen-year-old, with a hint of scorn in her voice. ‘And what’s more, it’d be a lot of work – and wouldn’t the rent