“You?” The Mother Superior’s voice was loud in surprise.
“It’s impossible …” the priest began. “Quite unsuitable. You’re an unmarried man. . . .”
“And neglecting your duties,” the Mother Superior said, bitterly, with all the implications that carried.
The priest looked at her apologetically. “The British are sorting it out,” he said. “They will return him to our army as soon as it’s safe.”
“I’m not a deserter,” Jean-Baptiste said; and at his raised voice, the boy clung harder, but began to whimper.
“Take the child,” Mother Superior said to the young sister and then almost hissed at Jean-Baptiste: “You have no idea how to handle a baby. How could you? You’re a childless man. You need patience, discipline.”
Jean-Baptiste resisted the sister for a minute but, seeing the anxiety in the younger nun’s gray eyes, released his brother. The little boy began to wail.
“See, you’ve upset him,” said Mother Superior.
Father Lefroy cleared his throat. “It seemed only fair that he should see the child. He will be gone in days and, with his mother dead, is unlikely to return.”
Jean-Baptiste looked at the priest, the reality of his position suddenly hitting him. Where would he go? All his plans had been of return, of seeing his mother, of explaining. Telling her about Vignon. Perhaps she would have explained things to him too. He would give her his back pay, she would take care of him, he would get strong again, he would work and look after her. The question had only ever been of his own survival; he had never considered that his mother, so healthy, not old, would die and he would live.
Mother Superior opened the door and stood back as if to ensure that he left. He looked at her. “I have a little money. My pay, saved while I was in the hospital. I shall let you have it for my brother.”
Mother Superior inclined her head. She seemed interested though unconvinced. Then, as if deciding he might be in a position to make good his offer, her features softened a little.
“Once this war is finished, we may find a home for the boy. Who knows. He is a good child.”
“That would be the best possible outcome,” said the priest, who had been nodding as she spoke. “A good home with a good Catholic family.”
Jean-Baptiste found himself unable to speak and left the room quickly, his brother’s thin cries following him down the corridor.
In the street, a convoy of Army ambulances was coming slowly from the marketplace. He could see stretchers of immobile figures being unloaded, as well as seated, less badly injured men but bloody and desolate-looking, drawing on cigarettes. Nothing surprised him. Not the ease with which men died, apparently untouched, nor their extraordinary capacity for lingering with limbs missing or a crater in their skulls or bicycles blown into their flesh. Nor losing a mother and finding a brother on the same day.
The priest stared about him, as if disoriented. “This is the worst,” he said, “the worst it’s been. This must be a bad day.” His expression was grave, his mouth turned down. “All we can do is pray. God understands his plan for us.”
Jean-Baptiste thought back to the massive explosion that had rocked the banks of the river and the dark plume of fast-moving darkness and debris he had seen pushing up into the blue dawn sky toward the north. Was this carnage the result of that? They had finally blown apart everything they were fighting for, he’d thought. Who cared if the Germans took what was left.
“You had better stay with me tonight,” the priest said, and they started the slow walk back to the presbytery. The sky was turning violet as the presbytery loomed, as dark and forbidding as he remembered it.
Father Lefroy poured them both a brandy. Having seen the nuns, he clearly felt there was no further need to speak of the misfortune. After a while, a stick-thin woman came in, but not the housekeeper who’d been in residence when Jean-Baptiste was last in Corbie. That one had been considered too young and too pretty, first by the townsfolk and then by the bishop. Or so his mother had said, laughing.
“Do we have any potted meat left?” Father Lefroy said.
She nodded.
“Bring some through, then, there’s a good girl.” She turned to go, and Jean-Baptiste noticed she had a twisted spine.
After a few seconds, the priest said “She doesn’t speak. She’s not a mute; she chooses not to. Except to cats.”
Jean-Baptiste put on what he hoped was an interested expression. “She was a convent child,” said the priest. “An orphan.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. The sounds of war entered the room, accompanied by a single shaft of gold-pink light. The sun was sinking. Would the shelling stop at nightfall?