nearby. The man shrugged; but Geoffrey left the bar with new certainty and turned the Citroën round.
Ten minutes later he was on the track up which he had bicycled all those years ago; the potholes were smoothed out by the car’s airy suspension, but it was as though he could still feel them jarring through the seat of his bicycle.
The farmhouse had a van outside, and a motor tractor for which in wartime there would have been no petrol; there was still a dog barking. As Geoffrey slammed the car door and walked across the yard, an Alsatian came racing out of a stable, causing him to flinch and raise his arm to his face. The dog was on a chain and could not reach him, but snarled and bared its teeth.
Geoffrey hammered on the back door and waited. He heard footsteps from inside and remembered the corridor with the sound of a horse or cow in a side room. In truth, he was expecting the door to be opened by a twenty-five-year-old Giselle and had to hide his disappointment when a stout grey-haired woman appeared in the opening.
It was difficult to know where to begin. Many years ago … A young woman … Her real name … Did Madame have a daughter? Did she know who owned the farm during the war?
The old woman stood with her arms folded across her chest. Geoffrey asked if she had a husband and this question seemed to vex her. It occurred to him that she must think he was from the Inland Revenue, or the French equivalent; the farm probably did all its trade in cash and kept few papers. He tried to reassure her that he was genuinely looking for an old friend, but after a further minute or so of fruitless questioning, she asked him to leave. When Geoffrey persisted, she went across the yard towards the chained dog and threatened to release it.
Back in his car, Geoffrey decided to make for a café in the nearby village, a place in which he knew Giselle had sometimes eaten. He ordered a glass of wine and sat outside. He could picture her so clearly that he believed she must be close at hand. The few freckles on her skin, the light in her dark eyes, the dress she had worn that last night – why had she dressed so well? – the way she tossed her head so her dark collar-length hair bounced … He closed his eyes and squeezed her face into his presence. He pushed with all the force of his mind to bring her bodily into being, so that when he opened his eyes she would be sitting, young Giselle, in the seat next to his …
Then he drove the short distance to the church and sat down on a wooden seat outside. Giselle, Giselle, you silly girl … She must be inside the building.
He wrestled the door open and ran up the nave. ‘Giselle!’ he called out. Dear God, where was she hiding? Why was she playing such a game with him?
He ran outside and back to the car. All the fields were empty – all the sun-burned fields rolling away without the shadow of a girl as far as he could stretch his empty gaze. He drove into the village, fast, braking fiercely in the square, sending a cloud of summer dust over the outside tables of the café. He climbed out and sat down on a wicker-seated chair. He held his head in his hands. Giselle …
A waiter asked him what he wanted, but Geoffrey found he could neither move nor speak. His jaw rested on his thumbs, his temples were held by his fingers. No muscle would respond to his commands.
‘Monsieur? Monsieur?’
Geoffrey said later that he had no recollection of his journey home: none. Back, somehow, at Crampton Abbey, he went to see ‘Big’ Little in the headmaster’s study and told him he did not feel well. Little drove him to a doctor in town. After a brief examination, the doctor said he perhaps should see a psychiatrist, but there was no such person in town, nor in the next, larger town; people in Nottinghamshire, it appeared, did not go mad. The only place that a doctor of this kind might be found was in the old county lunatic asylum, the one which had supplied the maids for the school, and
Ten minutes later he was on the track up which he had bicycled all those years ago; the potholes were smoothed out by the car’s airy suspension, but it was as though he could still feel them jarring through the seat of his bicycle.
The farmhouse had a van outside, and a motor tractor for which in wartime there would have been no petrol; there was still a dog barking. As Geoffrey slammed the car door and walked across the yard, an Alsatian came racing out of a stable, causing him to flinch and raise his arm to his face. The dog was on a chain and could not reach him, but snarled and bared its teeth.
Geoffrey hammered on the back door and waited. He heard footsteps from inside and remembered the corridor with the sound of a horse or cow in a side room. In truth, he was expecting the door to be opened by a twenty-five-year-old Giselle and had to hide his disappointment when a stout grey-haired woman appeared in the opening.
It was difficult to know where to begin. Many years ago … A young woman … Her real name … Did Madame have a daughter? Did she know who owned the farm during the war?
The old woman stood with her arms folded across her chest. Geoffrey asked if she had a husband and this question seemed to vex her. It occurred to him that she must think he was from the Inland Revenue, or the French equivalent; the farm probably did all its trade in cash and kept few papers. He tried to reassure her that he was genuinely looking for an old friend, but after a further minute or so of fruitless questioning, she asked him to leave. When Geoffrey persisted, she went across the yard towards the chained dog and threatened to release it.
Back in his car, Geoffrey decided to make for a café in the nearby village, a place in which he knew Giselle had sometimes eaten. He ordered a glass of wine and sat outside. He could picture her so clearly that he believed she must be close at hand. The few freckles on her skin, the light in her dark eyes, the dress she had worn that last night – why had she dressed so well? – the way she tossed her head so her dark collar-length hair bounced … He closed his eyes and squeezed her face into his presence. He pushed with all the force of his mind to bring her bodily into being, so that when he opened his eyes she would be sitting, young Giselle, in the seat next to his …
Then he drove the short distance to the church and sat down on a wooden seat outside. Giselle, Giselle, you silly girl … She must be inside the building.
He wrestled the door open and ran up the nave. ‘Giselle!’ he called out. Dear God, where was she hiding? Why was she playing such a game with him?
He ran outside and back to the car. All the fields were empty – all the sun-burned fields rolling away without the shadow of a girl as far as he could stretch his empty gaze. He drove into the village, fast, braking fiercely in the square, sending a cloud of summer dust over the outside tables of the café. He climbed out and sat down on a wicker-seated chair. He held his head in his hands. Giselle …
A waiter asked him what he wanted, but Geoffrey found he could neither move nor speak. His jaw rested on his thumbs, his temples were held by his fingers. No muscle would respond to his commands.
‘Monsieur? Monsieur?’
Geoffrey said later that he had no recollection of his journey home: none. Back, somehow, at Crampton Abbey, he went to see ‘Big’ Little in the headmaster’s study and told him he did not feel well. Little drove him to a doctor in town. After a brief examination, the doctor said he perhaps should see a psychiatrist, but there was no such person in town, nor in the next, larger town; people in Nottinghamshire, it appeared, did not go mad. The only place that a doctor of this kind might be found was in the old county lunatic asylum, the one which had supplied the maids for the school, and
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