The Girl You Left Behind

confidence of an
     aristocrat.
    She was strange and proud and beautiful. It
     was as if I had been shown a magic looking-glass.
    ‘I knew it,’ he said, his voice
     soft. ‘I knew you were in there.’
    His eyes were tired and strained now, but he
     was satisfied. I stared at her a moment longer. Then, without knowing why, I stepped
     forward, reached up slowly and took his face into my hands so that he had to look at me
     again. I held his face inches from my own and I made him keep looking at me, as if I
     could somehow absorb what he could see.
    I had never wanted intimacy with a man. The
     animalistic sounds and cries that had leaked from my parents’room – usually when my father was drunk – had appalled me, and I had pitied my mother
     for her bruised face and her careful walk the following day. But what I felt for
     Édouard overwhelmed me. I could not take my eyes from his mouth.
    ‘Sophie …’
    I barely heard him. I drew his face closer
     to mine. The world evaporated around us. I felt the rasp of his bristles under my palms,
     the warmth of his breath on my skin. His eyes studied my own, so seriously. I swear even
     then it was as if he had only just seen me.
    I leaned forwards, just a few inches, my
     breath stilled, and I placed my lips on his. His hands came to rest on my waist, and
     tightened reflexively. His mouth met mine, and I inhaled his breath, its traces of
     tobacco, of wine, the warm, wet taste of him.
Oh, God, I wanted him to devour
     me.
My eyes closed, my body sparked and stuttered. His hands tangled themselves
     in my hair, his mouth dropped to my neck.
    The revellers in the street outside burst
     into noisy laughter, and as flags flew in the night breeze, something in me was altered
     for ever. ‘Oh, Sophie. I could paint you every day of my life,’ he murmured
     into my skin. At least I think he said ‘paint’. By that stage it was really
     too late to care.

5
    René Grenier’s grandfather clock
     had begun to chime. This, it was agreed, was a disaster. For months, the clock had been
     buried underneath the vegetable patch that ran alongside his house, along with his
     silver teapot, four gold coins and the watch his grandfather had worn on his waistcoat,
     to prevent it disappearing into the hands of the Germans.
    The plan had worked well – indeed, the town
     crunched underfoot with valuables that had been hastily buried under gardens and
     pathways – until Madame Poilâne hurried into the bar one brisk November morning and
     interrupted his daily game of dominoes with the news that a muffled chime was coming
     every quarter of an hour from underneath what remained of his carrots.
    ‘I can hear it, even with my
     ears,’ she whispered. ‘And if I can hear it, you can be sure that they
     will.’
    ‘Are you sure that’s what you
     heard?’ I said. ‘It’s so long since it was last wound.’
    ‘Perhaps it is the sound of Madame
     Grenier turning in her grave,’ said Monsieur Lafarge.
    ‘I would not have buried my wife under
     my vegetables,’ René muttered. ‘She would have made them even more
     bitter and wizened than they are.’
    I stooped to empty the ashtray, lowering my
     voice. ‘You will have to dig it up under cover of night, René, and packit with sacking. Tonight should be safe – they have delivered extra
     food for their meal. With most of them in here, there will be few men on
     duty.’
    It had been a month since the Germans had
     started to eat at Le Coq Rouge, and an uneasy truce had settled over its shared
     territory. From ten in the morning until half past five, the bar was French, filled with
     its usual mixture of the elderly and lonely. Hélène and I would clear up, then
     cook for the Germans, who arrived shortly before seven, expecting their food to be on
     the tables almost as they walked through the door. There were benefits: when there were
     leftovers, several times a week, we shared them (although now there tended to be the odd
     scraps of meat or vegetables, rather than a feast of chicken). As the weather turned
     colder, the Germans got hungrier, and Hélène and I were not brave enough to
     keep some back for ourselves. Still, even those odd mouthfuls of extra food made a
     difference. Jean was ill less often, our skin began to clear, and a couple of times we
     managed to sneak a small jar of stock, brewed from the bones, to the mayor’s house
     for the ailing Louisa.
    There were other advantages. The moment the