August 1944 Provence France

The young man, standing on a large boulder, was gazing intently at a young woman about half a kilometre away. Behind him, in a hollow out of sight of the road, resting on one knee was their leader. He had a plunger in front of him and a rifle resting on the ground beside him. There was a pistol tucked into the back off his trousers. He was unshaven with a mop of black wiry hair covering his hatless head. A collection of eight others, a mix of men and women, was waiting for him to press the plunger and bring hell to the Provençal countryside.

Their leader wiped his sweaty hands down the front of his grey, check shirt to dry them, then clasped the handle of the plunger. The explosives had been laid on both sides of the road and the leader, the one known as l’Ombre, held the detonator plunger waiting for the signal. He couldn’t see the road from where he was, relying on the young man near him to tell him the right moment.

The band of Résistance Fighters was concealed in the rocky ground outside the village of Cavaillon. It was hot and dusty and the sun’s glare off the white rocks made it difficult to see down the winding Provençal road. Their intelligence had told them that a German patrol, part of the German Army Group G, was due along that road at midday and was on its way to reinforce the garrison at Toulon. The group knew that an allied invasion of the south coast of France was imminent and it was vital that access to the ports of Toulon and Marseille was made available.

The lookout stationed further up the road was called Gabrielle, the twenty-year-old daughter of the local boulangier. She had been an ordinary teenager until the soldiers had taken a fancy to her. She was eighteen when they first took an interest and she had resisted them of course. That’s when the beatings started. The broke her nose that time and subsequently, even though she was complicit, the beatings became a normal part of her attackers’ amusement every time they took turns with her. They even threatened to knock her teeth out with the butt of their rifles to make her more accommodating.

Shielding her eyes with her left hand, squinting into the sun drenched landscape, she spotted the line of trucks passing between the trees about two kilometres away and gave the alert. As soon as the signal had been given and was acknowledged, she disappeared into the rocky terrain and made her way back to the group. She had to be a part of the killing.

As the trucks approached, the tension in the group mounted and the Freedom Fighters checked once again their assortment of weapons. The signal was given when the first truck was between the explosives and the plunger was pushed down whilst everyone else covered their ears. The truck carrying the German troops was blown into the air and soldiers were falling about all over the road. A sizeable crater was formed, making the road impassable.

L’Ombre grabbed his rifle and on his signal the fighters attacked. The following two trucks came to a halt and soldiers began jumping from them, seeking shelter behind rocks or trees before shooting back at their attackers. The Résistance Fighters opened fire, hitting several soldiers before they could make cover and continued the battle for fifteen minutes before the group of Frenchmen and women made their escape back to their villages.

This was one of the few open skirmishes that left a number of Germans injured or killed. Normally their attacks were covert affairs and they made sure they carried away any dead enemy soldiers. They knew the reprisals the German Occupiers would take if they found one of their own had been killed. Even though the troops were not the elite of the German army.

As well as regular soldiers, their ranks included wounded old veterans, Poles, Czechs and Soviet volunteers who didn’t want to be there. So disappearance was often put down to desertion. A dead body was a different matter altogether. Because his intelligence had told him that a landing in southern France was due any time, l’Ombre had decided to be less cautious in order to create the greatest havoc in the shortest possible time.

L’Ombre rarely smiled. He had come to the village about two years ago and coordinated the small number of villagers’ attempts to cause disruption to the German occupiers. He encouraged them to attack strategic targets and even procured a radio for them. At first, the life expectancy of a radio and its operator was only about six months, due to the efficiency of the detection systems. This problem was overcome by using teenagers as the operators. They seemed to possess a sixth sense when it was right or not right to transmit. They were nimble and agile and quick to pack up if a warning of approaching danger was given. L’Ombre organised them into groups of five or six and each only held the radio for four or five days. This meant it was constantly on the move. Habits of signalling were always changing, making it more difficult to detect. It was the radio that had alerted them to Operation Overlord and more recently to Operation Dragoon, code names for Allied invasions of France.

The German command, once they learned of what had happened, sent for a local man, Olivier Labarre, who had served in the Vichy police and was now a member of the Milice. He lived in the village of Gordes, a village that spilled down the hillside overlooking the Luberon Valley. In order to aid his survival with the German occupiers, he implied that he knew much of what was happening there, although he was generally mistrusted by the villagers because of his uniform. He looked the weak man that he was and one of the reasons he joined the Milice was because he was convinced they would be on the winning side. He didn’t care much about the politics of what happened around him, as long as he was left to go through life with as little pain and inconvenience as possible.

He now stood in the outer office of the commandant wondering what he had done wrong to be sent for like this. There was a stern looking secretary who had told him to wait, a desk and the chair she sat on and four other chairs for visitors to sit in whilst they waited. She did not encourage conversation, so he looked around the bare room that used to be the mayor’s office. It had been stripped of all its artwork and furniture except for the desk and chairs. He was not a brave man and during his wait he ran through a number of scenarios that could have brought him here.

His wife had left the village to go and live with her sister in Aix-en-Provence, so he doubted it was anything she had done. Although he couldn’t think of anything else, he imagined the worst and pictured himself standing in front of a firing squad or worse, being tortured by the local interrogation team. He remembered the screams of the victims on previous occasions and by the time he was ushered into the commandant’s office he was terrified. The commandant smiled at him and said.

“There has been an ambush on the Cavaillon road and I’m convinced it’s a group of your friends that is responsible.”

“They would not be any of my friends that would do this,” Olivier hastily replied.

“My dear Olivier, I meant it as a figure of speech. However, you do know who would do this don’t you?”

“Although I have my suspicions, Herr Commandant, I cannot be sure because they do not include me in any of their plans.”

The commandant unfolded a map of Gordes and asked Olivier to mark all the houses where he suspected sympathisers lived. Once again Olivier protested that he only had suspicions, nothing definite.

“But you live amongst them. Your suspicions must have some foundation surely?”

“I was sent to Marseille to help with clearing up the Jewish problem and since then I’ve spent much time away from the village. My wife no longer lives there so I have little news that is up to date.”

“I am asking you nicely, Olivier as one loyal compatriot to another. If you continue to be evasive I’ll ask someone else to glean the information from you and their way will not be at all pleasant. In fact, you may lose some bits and pieces that you are quite fond of.”

That was enough and Olivier was prepared to say anything to get out of the office. In the early days, when the Germans first invaded France and the French government capitulated, he had been included in gossip about what certain villagers were going to do to sabotage the occupiers. He now took the pen that was being offered to him and marked with a cross twelve cottages of men who had expressed anger against the Germans.

“Thank you, you can go.”

The commandant looked at the map and noticed that the cottages were all grouped around where Olivier lived in the lower part of Gordes which caused him to believe the intelligence he had just been provided was valid. He dispatched forty soldiers to Gordes with specific instructions as to what they were expected to do.

It was raining when they arrived. They parked their lorries in the village square and marched in formation down to the lower village. The sound of their jackboots on the shiny, wet cobbles alerted the villagers of their presence, although they were not surprised to see them as this was a regular occurrence in an attempt to dispirit them. After marching down the cobbled lane to the lower village, the officer in charge took out his map and marked with a chalk cross the door of every cottage that was indicated on his map. Some of the occupants who were home at the time came out protesting at this action. They were arrested. Others, seeing what was happening tried to make their escape and these were shot as they ran away.

The soldiers entered the cottages one by one and brought out the remaining occupants. There were women and children amongst them and they were all marched up to the square and loaded into the lorries. A few more were found hiding and if they did not surrender willingly and expediently they were executed.

Dynamite was then laid in the twelve cottages and they were all blown up and destroyed, leaving nothing but a few walls standing and piles of stone where families had just that day shared a meal and talked of the oppressors who had invaded their land. The German troops marched back to the square and drove off with their captives. The dead bodies of those shot were left lying around and those brave enough amongst the villagers came down and buried their neighbours in the churchyard, themselves risking reprisal for this act of respect. 

November 2010 Gare du Nord railway station, Paris, France

He looked up from his newspaper and saw her enter the concourse and all thoughts of running away left him. She looked majestic and brightened this grey Paris morning. She was dressed in the latest haute couture, probably Chanel, Dior, Louis Vuitton or a combination of all three, he thought. She was trailing behind her a medium sized suitcase. She walked with a grace and style that would be the envy of all the fashionable women of Paris. She turned heads and with her chin pointing slightly upwards and her head ready to give the flick of disdain to any verbal comments from male passers-by, she looked the personification of poise and elegance. She appeared untouchable. Was that the attraction?

Arthur rose from his seat and went outside to meet her. As soon as she spotted him a broad smile spread across her face and her step quickened. They met about six metres from the cafe and Arthur held her shoulders while he kissed her on both cheeks, greeting her in fluent French. Even though he was generally devoid of emotional feelings, he did feel something when he saw her and he was glad he had kept the rendezvous instead of cancelling, as he had planned to do several times when he thought of the high psychological price he was going to have to pay for inviting her to accompany him.

“Hello Arthur. I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t be?”

“I wasn’t sure. I hoped you would be.”

To change the subject Arthur asked after her mother.

“You wouldn’t believe the change that has come over her since she and I went to Gordes. She is invigorated again. She’s employed an assistant to type all the information she obtained about her family in Provence and now they’re researching the village between them. It’s all so exciting. We have so much to talk about.”

Fabienne’s mother, Beatrice, was born in 1938 and had always considered herself to be une Parisienne. She was, in fact, born in the small village of Gordes in Provence in Southern France. She had two elder brothers and when the Germans invaded France in 1940, Beatrice’s mother decided to take her to her sister in Paris, where she thought it would be safer for the young child. Beatrice’s parents, Marianne and Gilbert Pagnol, together with her two brothers, disappeared sometime in 1944 and their house was destroyed. They were never heard of again.

Beatrice grew up thinking her aunt and her uncle were her mother and father, and it wasn’t until she was eleven years old that she was told the truth. As she had no recollection of this side of her family or of her life in Provence, it meant little to her at the time. As she grew older, she started to wonder about this family that she never knew. She still owned the house, now derelict, in which her mother and father lived and also two other similar properties that had belonged to her father’s brothers. It was only recently that Fabienne had taken her back to Gordes for the first time since she had left in 1940. This had rekindled a desire to learn more about the family she never knew and the life they led during the German occupation.

“We have an hour before our train leaves. Would you like some coffee?”

He took her case and led her inside the cafe to the table he had just left. He ordered coffee and while the the waitress stood by their table he said.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“No, coffee is fine, thank you. You look well Arthur. By the way, have you made any arrangement for accommodation in London?”

“No, I’m sorry, I haven’t.” He hoped this didn’t give away the fact that he wasn’t even sure he’d be here and accommodation in London was the last thing on his mind.

“Well, forgive me, I’ve taken the liberty of booking us a room for tonight. Just for tonight. I thought it would then give you the chance to decide what you wanted to do.”

She looked at him intently and he knew why. This had caught him by surprise and the way he answered this announcement was to be vitally important. He knew that too. The significance of a room for us had not been lost on him. This intimacy is what he had been apprehensive about and reluctant to accept.

He spent much time alone, and that is how he preferred it. Until he met Fabienne in Gordes in April, that is. A major part of his life had been spent searching for permanent peace of mind and he’d recently convinced himself that he’d found it, albeit at the expense of shutting emotion out of his life. He’d built a wall around himself, it had a sturdy door and he possessed the only key. When he felt he was being emotionally threatened, he retreated behind his wall and slammed the door shut until the danger had passed. Since meeting Fabienne, however, the door had remained ajar and he was reluctant to close it.

She had taken him on a previous occasion to the lower village in Gordes and shown him where her mother was born. He was fascinated by the ruined cottages and by the area they occupied that looked down through the Luberon valley. He felt an unexplainable affinity to the place and was consumed by a desire to spend time there. That had prompted him to offer to buy one of the cottages. His offer was rejected. He then offered to spend time restoring them, if he could be allowed use of one of them from time to time. Fabienne gladly accepted this offer.

It was the village of Gordes that was the main driver of his actions, although he admitted to himself that he was also fascinated by Fabienne. He had wanted to see her again after they parted in Provence and he’d returned to Australia to help his friend Ben. She consented on condition that he would not be so secretive. Even though he had returned to France and stayed with her at her chateau, his visit was interrupted by an incident at one of her farmhouses.

He was now embarking on a further journey of discovery and he’d no idea how it would end. He was curious about the ruined cottages in Gordes and her. That was what was motivating him to move out of his comfort zone.

He felt that Fate was pushing them together and, as reluctant as he may be to commit himself, there was nothing he wanted to do to stop the momentum that was developing this relationship. He was confident, however, that he could end it at any time of his choosing. He was still not comfortable with this proposed enforced intimacy. Remembering his previous undertaking, he reluctantly said.

“Thank you Fabienne, that was a great idea. You may be surprised to learn that I’ve never been to England. So it might turn out that we stay a bit longer in London before venturing off to Cornwall.”

They left the cafe and boarded the Eurostar. They found their seats and settled in for the two-hour journey to St Pancras London. At St Pancras they took a taxi to their hotel. Fabienne had booked an executive room at the Sheraton Park Tower in Knightsbridge. After a fifteen-minute taxi ride they were in the hotel reception area facing the mahogany panelled desk.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist asked Arthur.

 “We’ve made a booking. We’d like to extend it, if possible.”

“That may be difficult, I’m afraid sir. You see, we’re fully booked at the moment. What was the name of the booking please?”

Arthur looked at Fabienne and she replied in English, with a strong French accent.

“I am called Fabienne Parochet from Lot, France.”

The receptionist consulted her computer and found the booking.

“Would that be Fabienne Parochet, Baroness de Quercy?” Fabienne nodded.

“One moment please, baroness.” The receptionist went into the back office.

She returned after a few minutes.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. How much longer did you want to stay?”

Arthur smiled. He remembered when he had first discovered by accident from the hotel receptionist in Gordes, that Fabienne was a baroness. She hadn’t mentioned it when they first met. Afterwards she had admitted that she did use the title because it gained you a much better quality of service. It was this sort of honesty that he found so refreshing and appealing. She called a spade a spade and he liked that. No pretence about how important she was by being a baroness, just the fact that if it improved the service you receive, why not?

 “Just another two nights please, if that is not trouble,” she replied in halting English.

The receptionist switched to French and said.

“Certainly baroness, that is all arranged. I’ll have your bags sent up. We hope you enjoy your stay with us. These are the access cards to the room.”

“Do we need to register?” Fabienne asked, now feeling more comfortable using her native language.

“I’ll send the forms to your room. Please complete them at your leisure and the room maid will collect them and bring them down.”

The bags had already disappeared and were in their room when they arrived there.

“Well, well, well,” Arthur said. “I see what you mean about the title. That was most impressive. I’ll leave all the booking to you from now on.” He was laughing as he said it.

The room was modern, as was the hotel, and impressive. They had views over Hyde Park through a large picture window and the bathroom was elegant with white and grey marble floors and walls. In the bedroom, there was a two-seater settee, an easy chair a desk and a large television. There were also two queen beds. Arthur wondered if that was by accident or design.

“I think I’d like to take a shower. It’s been nearly thirty hours since I had one,” Arthur said.

“I’ll unpack my case while you do that Arthur. Would you like me to unpack yours for you too?”

He was on the verge of saying no thank you. In fact, the words had already started to form in his mouth when Cochise interrupted him. Having chosen to spend so much time on his own, he had developed the habit of talking to his alter ego. He even gave him a name. He called him Cochise.

Say yes please. You’re being tested here.

 “If you don’t mind, that would be good. My toiletries are in my hand luggage. While you’re unpacking my case, if you like, you can pick out something for me to wear. Shall we walk over to the park?”

He had no idea where these words that were just not his style had come from.

Fabienne smiled and, encouraged, she replied, “That sounds like a good idea. You probably want to stretch your legs.”

As he made his way into the bathroom he heard Cochise say.

That was brilliant. You’re learning.

The shower was refreshing and he was not feeling any effects of the long trip. He was still feeling apprehensive though about being so close to another person for such a long time. A pale blue shirt with grey sports trousers and navy blue jumper and his leather jacket had been laid out on a bed. Probably what he would have chosen, if it had been left to him. Fabienne then went to the bathroom leaving Arthur to get dressed. When finished, he gazed out over the panoramic view of the park. She was only ten minutes and looked radiant when she returned.

They took the lift down to the hotel lobby. A man in a dark suit approached them and asked if everything was in order and if there was there anything else the hotel could do to make their stay more enjoyable, they should ask.

“It never stops does it Fabienne?”

“Tell me you don’t enjoy it and I’ll stop using my title,” she said, taunting him.

They made their way across the road and into Hyde Park. Arthur admitted that he knew little of the history of the park but he was enjoying walking through it, especially after being seated for so long. It seemed bigger than he had anticipated, and when he found out later that it covered an area of 175 hectares he was astounded. They walked over to the Serpentine and found a seat from which they watched the ducks feeding and a few adventurous couples rowing boats across the water.

“How are you feeling?” Fabienne said.

Stifling a yawn, he said “I don’t think I’ll be late to bed tonight. It’s starting to catch up with me now. It’s certainly colder here than in Sydney right now.”

“Would you like to have dinner in the hotel restaurant tonight? I noticed they have a piano bar so we could go there first for aperitifs.”

They sat in silence for half an hour soaking up the atmosphere and then Fabienne raised the delicate subject that had been playing on Arthur’s mind most of the day.

“Shall we talk about sleeping arrangements?”

“I’m finding it awkward,” Arthur said, at the same time relieved that the issue had been raised. He hid behind feigned nervousness. “You realise I’m bad at communication and you have recognised that my social skills are not the best. You’re right, I’ve built a fortress to retreat into. In Provence, when I asked to see you again, I meant what I said when I agreed to try to be more open. Saying it and doing it are not the same thing.”

“I do understand, Arthur, and I’m not trying to push you to do something that you find uncomfortable. I’m glad that you didn’t object when I told you I had booked a room. This is a journey of discovery for both of us. You’re looking for your ancestors in Cornwall and I’m looking to know and understand you better. The fact that we share a room means that we will have to become intimate. That doesn’t mean we have to make love. If we do, then that must come naturally, it cannot be planned. By just being together all of the time, who knows Arthur, we may find that the barriers you put up so naturally will gradually be taken down. You may discover why you put them up in the first place and may even realise that you don’t really need them anymore.”

Arthur listened in silence because he could not argue against anything she was saying, even though it did make him uncomfortable. He realised that she had none of the inhibitions that he found so natural. However, he was confident she would not be able to dismantle his wall. He enjoyed being with her for she was truly a remarkable woman. He had recognised this early in their relationship and he was trying hard to be normal with her. Over the years, he’d built up such a strong defensive mechanism, that it was hard to stop it going into automatic shutdown whenever signs of an invasion of his space became apparent. He had to offer some words of encouragement if this trip was not to be a complete disaster, so he said.

“I’m pleased that you understand, Arthur. Perhaps it’s because you do understand that I want our relationship to develop.”

After walking some more, they made their way back to the hotel where the staff, who must have all been alerted by now, were jumping around attentively, treating them as if they were royalty.

Back in their room, Fabienne suggested they go down for aperitifs in an hour and said she would use the time to change. “I’m happy to have an early night, because if we’re going sightseeing tomorrow we’ll need all our strength. From what I remember, it can be extremely tiring, particularly on the feet and legs. Do you mind if I use the bathroom first?”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She opened one of her drawers took out a matching set of lingerie and put them on the bed. Arthur decided he would lie on the other bed and close his eyes out of respect. He heard her undressing and rehanging the clothes she had just taken off. Although he feigned sleep, he would have loved to have opened his eyes to watch her. Would she have minded he wondered? He heard her turn the shower on and decided that lying there, playing dead, was an immature thing to do, so he left the bed and sat in the easy chair. The lingerie had disappeared.

She left the shower and, after wiping away the condensation, inspected her naked reflection in the full length mirror in the bathroom. She was pleased with what she saw. Maybe she wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t ugly either. She pulled her hair back and gathered it behind her neck. She liked it that way and always wore it off her face. She looked after herself physically by being careful what she ate. The ballet classes, which she enjoyed with her friend Juliette, were good aerobic exercises and kept her fit and supple.

Her body was trim and well proportioned, with firm breasts large enough to be noticed although not large enough to sag. A tight flattish stomach from her dancing and well proportioned hips with not so much body hair that couldn’t be managed by occasional waxing and grooming. Her hair was fair and complemented, rather than conflicted with, her olive complexion. Her legs were well shaped with firm muscles, again from her dancing.

She loved clothes and felt lucky that her size of eighty-six, sixty, eighty-six and a height of one point seven metres, was a perfect standard for French haute couture. That’s what the fashion designers in Avenue de Montaigne told her anyway. She finished drying herself and went back to join Arthur.

Arthur looked up when the bathroom door opened and saw she was clad in the hotel dressing gown with a towel wrapped around her hair.

“I’ll finish drying my hair later, after you’ve used the bathroom,” she said.

When she took off the dressing gown, Arthur saw that she was wearing the bra and panties she had laid aside before. They were cream satin with lace trim. She showed no inhibitions or embarrassment. Why should she? She had a magnificent body. She was ten years younger than Arthur. He discovered later that she was conscious of her diet and exercised to keep herself fit. It showed. She had beautiful smooth, olive skin. Arthur couldn’t help himself. His defences had been blown away.

“You look absolutely magnificent, Fabienne. I think you’re stunning anyway, with the clothes you wear. That’s nothing compared to this.”

“You like this Arthur?” She asked smiling and giving him a twirl, pleased with the impression she had made. “You see, you are starting to melt a little and that is wonderful. I’m so pleased you find me attractive. Every woman wants to be told she’s attractive doesn’t she?”

“Maybe,” said Arthur. “I bet the others have to try a lot harder than you do.”

“All in the eyes of the beholder, Arthur. All in the eyes of the beholder.”

They both laughed and things were easier between them than they had ever been before. This was breaking new ground for him and he was surprised to admit to Cochise that he was beginning to enjoy it.

They went to the piano bar for aperitifs and the piano player must have been alerted too because he played a medley of French tunes. Arthur was convinced that this could not be a coincidence. The atmosphere was relaxing, enhanced by the malt whiskey he was enjoying. A perfect start to their dinner in the One-O-One Restaurant which was famous for its fish dishes.

After the meal, as they were enjoying their cognacs, Fabienne noticed that Arthur was having difficulty staying awake, so she suggested they go to their room. Although the lights in the room were on, they were dimmed and they undressed and put on their nightwear without embarrassment or comment. Despite the poor light, she did notice that Arthur carried no fat and although he wasn’t a big man, about one hundred and eighty centimetres tall and weighing about eighty-five kilograms, he looked fit. His muscles, although not pronounced, looked hard. He appeared to be tanned, which she assumed was normal for all Australians. He had a full head of hair, greying at the temples and cut tidily. She considered again just how handsome he was.

“Which bed do you want?” Arthur enquired when he was dressed in his shorts. He was so tired that he had forgotten about his reservations concerning privacy.

She indicated the one by the window.

“That’s the bed I was going to choose,” he said thinking, even through his tiredness, that any chance to get into the same bed as this beautiful woman, should not be passed up.

“Well, I’m not changing,” responded Fabienne with a smile and got into the bed.

Arthur got in with her and they turned off the lights. She had her back to him and even though they were queen beds and plenty of room for them both, Arthur moved close to her. He put his arm over her shoulder and eased his face into the back of her neck and her hair and thought how wonderful the fragrance of it was.

“Goodnight Arthur.”

“Goodnight Fabienne and thank you for today.”

That’s the last thing he remembers until he woke the next morning at eight o’clock to the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

For a brief moment he had no idea where he was. He looked around and noticed Fabienne was already up and dressed and it was the coffee she was making that had alerted his senses. She brought a cup over and sat on the other bed. That’s when Arthur noticed the other bed appeared to have been slept in.

“You moved then?”

“Yes, Arthur. You fell asleep quickly and your arm became heavy. I was thinking of pushing you over onto your back. I don’t think you would have woken up, although I was afraid that I might push you out onto the floor.” They both laughed. “And that might have given you completely the wrong impression, if you found yourself on the floor when you woke up this morning.” Their laughing continued.

“Yes,” Arthur said. “I’d have wondered what I’d done wrong and been disappointed that I couldn’t even remember the experience.”

He was starting to feel better. His discomfort dissipating with every word she spoke to him. After finishing their coffee, Arthur showered and dressed and they went down to breakfast.

“Have you been to London before?” he asked.

“Yes, several times.”

“What do you think we should see in the next two days then?”

“As a first time tourist there is a long list. Big Ben, The Houses of Parliament, St Pauls Cathedral, Buckingham Palace, The Tower, to name just some of them.”

“I’ve heard of all of those and to see any would be fine. Can you take me to as many as possible, and if we can fit in a ride on the underground that will be another train I can cross off my list?” Arthur was fascinated by trains and every opportunity that he had he would try a new train.

“There is one other item that I have missed out.”

“What’s that?” enquired Arthur.

 “To see an opera at Covent Garden.”

“That would be special. I’d imagine you’d have to book your seats months, maybe even years, in advance.”

“That’s true, normally people do. However, whilst you were getting ready this morning I phoned my new friend on reception and asked if there was any chance of getting tickets. We have two tickets for for our last night to see La Bohème at The Royal Opera House. We have to go to the concierge at the Opera House to collect them on the night.”

“That’s incredible, Fabienne. Strange coming to London to see an opera about Paris though, isn’t it?”

Arthur thought of the last time he had seen this opera. In Rouen, during those lost years.

They spent the next two days seeing as much of the London sights that they could fit in, retiring to bed too worn out to worry about sleeping arrangements and they kept to the beds that they had woken up in on their first morning together. Nearing the end of their planned stay, Arthur told Fabienne he would like to go to the Board of Trade to inspect the outgoing passenger lists to see if he could find his great grandfather. He believed his ancestors may have come from the south west of England in view of his surname, and he had decided he would try to trace them on this visit.

“How are you going to accomplish that?” she asked. “You have no idea what year he left?”

“My father was aged about fifty when he died in 1970, which means he was born about 1920. Stretching a long bow and assuming that each of the fathers was about thirty when their son was born, it makes my great grandfather born about 1860. He was already a tradesman when he left England, so he would have been at least twenty-five and he wouldn’t have made the change if he were older than fifty, so somewhere between 1885 and 1910, he would have left England.”

“There are a lot of assumptions there Arthur. We can only give it a try. Who knows? We may be lucky.”

Unfortunately, after searching the records, they could find no trace of anyone named Cornish leaving London bound for Australia. The problem may have been that the only available records were from 1890, so it could be that his ancestor left before that date. Arthur then went to the Shipping Registry to discover which ships had left London between 1860 and 1890, bound for Sydney. Although he was able to search the passenger lists of these it was all to no avail. Whichever way he turned, he drew a blank. He didn’t know it at the time that he was looking in the wrong place.

On their last night, they enjoyed an early dinner at the Amphitheatre Restaurant, which is known as the grand dame of pre-theatre London dining. Set inside the iconic Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, this theatrical dining room is the favourite haunt of socialites who adore the splendid setting and superb modern European menu.

Decorated with plush ruby-red velvet seating, fresh flowers, white linen tablecloths and napkins, it had all the hallmarks of a high class international restaurant. There was an air of expectancy and excitement amongst the patrons who must have been waiting for weeks or months for their turn to come. There was a special five course La Bohème menu which, in its entirety, was too much for the couple, so they settled on a glass of champagne, Cornish crab cocktail and lemon sole with honey roasted carrots and parsnips.

Finally, it was time to go. They entered the theatre and when they presented themselves at the concierge’s desk they informed him that seats had been allocated to them from the hotel. The concierge consulted his list.

“Baroness de Quercy?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“One moment please.”

Arthur wondered if there was anything amiss. He spoke to Cochise

 I hope the hotel hasn’t confused things because Fabienne will be so disappointed.

After a short while, an usher came and asked them to follow him. They went along what seemed endless red carpeted corridors until they came to a series of doors. The usher opened one of them and beckoned them to go through. They were shown into a box in the stalls.

“Can I get you anything sir?” asked the usher.

Without thinking Arthur asked for a bottle of champagne to be brought to them. The usher kept assuring them he wouldn’t be long. Fabienne and Arthur sat down, looked at each other and smiled.

“I would not have believed it,” Arthur said. “It appears your title means more here than in France.”

“Can you see why I use it though Arthur? Have you seen La Bohème before?”

“Yes. I was fortunate to be introduced to the most popular works by someone I knew in Rouen.” He cursed himself for letting this slip and blamed his relaxed state of mind.

That was a bad mistake Cochise. I hope it doesn’t come back to bite me.

Why get so het up because you let on you know someone in Rouen?”

The performance was extremely emotional as the story is a sad one, and halfway through the opera, during Act Three, Mimi’s lover has been pretending to be unkind to her because he is poor and cannot help her in her illness. He hopes he can drive her away so that she can find someone wealthy who can take care of her better. His hardness is all pretence, for deep down he is doing it out of kindness and love. He was making the supreme sacrifice and Arthur looked sideways at Fabienne and he could see that she was deeply moved. She had her hands in her lap clutching a handkerchief. He was overcome by a strange feeling of tenderness that took him by surprise, and he placed his hand over hers. She held it and looked at him and smiled, and the word merci was silently signalled by her lips. What is happening to me, he thought?

On the day of departure, they took a cab to Paddington station where Arthur collected the tickets from the booking office and they made their way to the First Class lounge. They had about half an hour before the train departed, so they found two comfortable seats and ordered coffee.

“Did your friend in Australia solve all of his problems Arthur?” she said after sipping her coffee, referring to Arthur’s developer friend Ben Mitchell.

Arthur had left Provence hurriedly, just after meeting Fabienne, in order to help him overcome some problems he was having with his builder. Arthur had explained to Fabienne at the time why he had to leave in such a rush.

“Sort of,” Arthur said. “His biggest problems of finishing a project and liquidating his business have been successfully accomplished and two out of the three personal issues have been sorted.”

“Is the third one still a problem?”

“No, we’ve accepted there’s no more we can do on that account.”

“Is the third one a person?” she asked, looking over her coffee cup.

“Yes, someone cheated Ben out of a lot of money and he’s gone unpunished.”

“That wouldn’t satisfy your doctrine of natural justice, would it Arthur?”

Arthur looked closely at her. He recalled the conversation earlier in the year, during his first visit to her chateau, when he explained his stand on natural justice. I know the difference between right and wrong, he’d said. I don’t need laws or regulations to tell me what I should or should not do to respect the rights of my fellow man. Even though I believe in natural justice, modern civilisation appears to have taken much of that away. A written law is subject to interpretation and lawyers make a fortune by re-interpreting and changing what was initially meant. They do it to make money and to save their clients from punishment, even though they have broken a natural law. He never realised he had made such an impact that she would remember it.

“No, that’s true. Sometimes you just have to walk away. In this case, I believe I pursued it as far as I could and, as I say, two out of the three perpetrators have paid for their intrusion.”

“With their lives?” she prodded.

“I didn’t say that,” he said more aggressively than he intended.

Although taken aback, Fabienne decided to press on.

“I can feel your guard coming up, Arthur. I’m prying, I know that. That’s the only way I’ll ever be able to understand you. I want to understand you so that our lives can be in harmony. One day you may tell me what happened at the farmhouse in Lot, when we were held captive.”

Arthur had killed four men in order to secure their escape. He was not about to admit this. In fact, he had told no one what had actually occurred there, in the same way that he had never disclosed to anyone how he had learned to fight in the first place. It had come about by accident in France. The missing three years.

Fabienne was staring at him and he realised he had been lost in the memory of Pierre, so to counter further questions he decided to ask some of his own.

“On the question of understanding each other better, why did you invite a stranger to your dinner table in Gordes that night? To me, an Australian, it seemed a strange thing to do.”

“I think that maybe you are searching for an ulterior motive on my part. I assure you there wasn’t one. I asked you because you looked interesting and I didn’t feel like eating alone. Yes, you also looked mysterious and I was intrigued to find out more about you to satisfy my first impression. On that score I failed miserably, even after I had told you some personal aspects of my own life you still kept the door on yours tightly shut. Anyway, I think we should go and take our seats or the train might leave without us.”

They boarded the train, found their seats and a conductor who was methodically passing through the carriage stopped and asked if they would be partaking of lunch. Arthur looked questioningly at Fabienne and she nodded.

“I’m glad you said yes Fabienne. Even though the food might not be any good, there is something about eating on a train.”

“Have you ever been on the Orient Express?” she asked.

“Not yet, have you?”

“Yes, I went on it as part of my honeymoon. Although I may not have the fascination for trains that you have, it was a wonderful experience. We were lucky that we went in spring because it has no air conditioning and in summer it would not be so pleasant. It was like travelling back in time, to a time of luxury and leisure. Some of the travellers even dressed for the period. You said not yet, does that mean you have plans to go sometime?”

“If the opportunity occurs I’ll certainly take it. I don’t have a list of things I want to do. I just take things as they come. I had a desire to check out my name, as it’s the name of a county in the south west of England and here we are. I didn’t plan it for years, I just acted on the impulse when it came.”

The train pulled out of Paddington and had soon picked up speed. After three and a half hours and a surprisingly good lunch, they arrived at Plymouth.

“When we go over the bridge, that’s the river Tamar and we’ll be in Cornwall,” Arthur said.

“Land of your forefathers,” she said, with a smile on her mouth.

“Maybe.”

As the train crossed the bridge Arthur was excited to be going back to where his ancestors were born. Not that he had any proof of that except his name. At least he would be able to tell people that he had been to the place that his name carries. After another hour they were in Truro, and they took a taxi to the nearest car hire depot and hired a Ford Mondeo as they didn’t have any luxury European cars available. Arthur did not mind for himself. He thought something a bit better class would have been more appropriate for a baroness. He didn’t realise at the time that it made little difference to her what sort of car they used, she was happy being with him.

It took just over thirty minutes to drive to Newquay, a small town on the coast, and with the help of satellite navigation soon found the Cornish Bay hotel overlooking Fistral beach and the golf links. It was an imposing ninety-six bedroom, four star hotel that sat isolated on the headland.

“It looks almost French,” Fabienne said.

“I’m not expecting too much. I’ve heard so much about Newquay, its surf and this beach, which is the most famous of them for surfing, that I just wanted to see it.”

They drove up to the front entrance and a porter came out to greet then and opened Fabienne’s door.

“Are the cases in the boot sir?”

They made their way up the steps to the main entrance and into the reception area where, after registering, they were given their key and the porter showed them up to their room. When the porter had gone Arthur turned to Fabienne.

“What name did you register yourself as?”

“Madame Fabienne Parochet. I didn’t want to step on your toes.” She smiled then added, “we can hold the baroness in reserve until we really need her.” They both laughed.

“No problem with the bed this time. There’s plenty of room for both of us,” she chuckled.

“Do you have a preference for which side you sleep on?” Arthur said.

“I think I roll about a bit so it doesn’t really matter on which side I start, because it almost certainly won’t be the same side on which I wake up. I have slept on my own for the past five years and have probably developed some infuriating habits in that time.”

“That should be interesting.”

Arthur was finding it difficult to be impassive and had no idea how he was going to keep his hands off her, once they got into that bed. It was true he felt a kind of respect for her that he had never felt for another woman and did not want to intentionally offend her. She was proving to be difficult to read. It had been easier to control in London because they had separate beds. This was something else. Although she’d shown no inhibitions, was that the same as an invitation?

That evening, Arthur had booked a table at a local restaurant which specialised in fish, and they weren’t disappointed. The food, service and environment were of the highest calibre. Fabienne had difficulty understanding the English so Arthur explained it was a strong local accent, a bit like how the Provençal differs from the Loire and she shouldn’t feel too badly about it. As the restaurant was quite small, they received a few stares because they were speaking in French.

Afterwards, they walked up the narrow street to the headland where their hotel was situated. It was an easy twenty-minute walk and as they came in sight of the beach Fabienne suggested a barefoot walk along the sand might be a good idea. They set off down the dune to the beach and walked as far as the water and Fabienne shuddered at how cold it was.

“That’s the Atlantic for you,” he said. “Nothing like the warm, protected waters of the Mediterranean, I’m afraid.” He was silent for a moment, then said. “I was thinking how brave the merchant seamen were, who risked their lives travelling that vast expanse of cold and dangerous water to keep the British people supplied with food, fuel, equipment and raw materials from America and elsewhere across the Atlantic, while Germany mobilized U-boats, battleships, aircraft and mines against them in an attempt to sever Britain's supply lines.”

They stood hand in hand looking out across the dimming, watery landscape and then continued walking, contented in their silence. Arthur could smell the brine on the wind and every now and then Fabienne’s perfume reached him. The beach was much longer than they thought, so after twenty minutes they decided to turn back, as it was starting to get dark. As they turned, Arthur, facing Fabienne, let go of her hand and put his arms around her waist and kissed her gently on the lips. She responded with the same amount of pressure and put her arms around his neck. He could feel the softness of her body and the willingness with which she came to him. When the kiss was completed she looked up at him and smiled.

“That was nice Arthur,” she said and they continued walking along the sand.

That night their union was made complete. To Arthur it was nothing to do with sexual gratification. Their love making was only an extension of the depth of feeling he had for her at that moment. This was a first time, an endless time, and a time that would remain special with him until he no longer inhabited this world. He could not remember ever feeling like this about anyone, or the act of making love. He chose not to think too deeply for fear logic and past experiences may spoil the moment. Even Cochise kept quiet. As he entered her, he experienced eternity being in that moment, time stood still and circumstance transformed the commonplace into the rare. He believed that something special was happening now, that would change his life, and it would never be the same again.

Arthur put down his coffee cup and wiped his mouth on the napkin. He looked out of the dining room window across Fistral Bay and watched the unrelenting waves rolling onto the beach. His reverie was interrupted by Fabienne.

“You looked as if you enjoyed your breakfast Arthur. You always look as though you enjoy your food though. I shall cook for you one day.”

“You can cook?” That didn’t come out quite as he intended. It was too late to withdraw it. She shot a warning look his way. “I mean you and your mother have servants. I didn’t think there was any need for you to learn how to cook.”

“I’m French. We all cook.”

“Sorry. I’d love you to cook a meal for me one day.” He knew it was time to change the subject. “Do you fancy a drive over to the other coast today?”

“Can we visit St Michael’s Mount?”

“You’ve been reading your guide book.”

“It caught my eye, as we have one in Normandy too. Mont St-Michel, although I’ve never been there.”

He gazed at her and was bombarded with emotional missiles. He did not retreat behind his wall. The door was still open and Arthur stayed outside exposing himself to feelings he had spent years crushing.

Over the next few days, they first explored the western coast of Cornwall and then belatedly moved across to St Mawes, on the Roseland Peninsular, on the south coast. They did manage to visit St Michael’s Mount, walking across the granite sett causeway at low tide. Overlooking the harbour they discovered the Sail Loft where they enjoyed a light lunch of Newlyn crab salad garnished with herbs from their own herb garden and served with crusty bread. From there they toured the numerous small villages and ports on the mainland and sampled the well known Cornish fare.

Pasties with beef steak, potato and swede turnip, ice cream, fudge and clotted cream and fish dishes including the weird stargazy pie, where the fish heads protrude through the pastry on top of the pie. Fabienne was generally underwhelmed by this array of traditional food, and thought the majority of it was too stodgy compared to her normal diet in France. Although much of it was unusual for Arthur too, he enjoyed all that he tried. Over a leisurely lunch in a Cornish pub in Portloe, Arthur commented that he hadn’t felt any affinity for the place in all the time he had been in Cornwall.

“Did you expect to?”

“I did, because several colleagues of mine, who have English heritage, say they had a feeling of coming home when they visited England. It was as much a physical thing to them as an emotional one and, because of their experiences, I thought I would feel something too.”

“Perhaps they’re more sensitive than you,” she said smiling.

“I really don’t know what you mean,” he said with feigned exasperation.

“I must say, though Arthur, you are a different man to the one I met in France. Much more natural and even though you’re not all the way there yet, I can see an improvement.”

I feel I’m losing control here, Cochise.

If you trust her completely then it doesn’t matter what secrets are uncovered about your past life.

And there we have it, Cochise. Do I trust her completely?

He only had to wait a short while to have his question answered.