Work in Progress

the first chapter of

1st draft totally unpolished work in progress.

Starts in Valdois*, rural France, 1963.

(pronounced valdwah)

On a perfect morning in late June, Lucien set off for school. Had he been unblessed he could have walked there in five minutes, but Julia was in the world. The fresh-made smells of France unrolled before him as he pedalled off to greet her: coffee at the Lion D'or, breakfast from a dozen windows, the bouquet of the village baker.

Past the washing-stones down by the pond, then out into woods. The pull of her grew stronger. Each leaf, each shifting of the breeze, seemed well aware that Julia herself was coming ever nearer. He had no need for any thoughts, nor room. The morning poured itself into his senses. History grows gently in such places, each day laying down its sediment upon the one before. The path he took to the château had seen knights and pilgrims, hunters, soldiers, troubadours. Through staying quiet, it had forgotten nothing.

One more turn, and there it was. Le Chateau Valdois. High above him, shrouded by its trees, he could only see a corner. He waited fretfully by the huge wrought-iron gates. Perhaps she was ill today? Perhaps her father the Vicomte had taken her to Paris? Young though he was, he knew perfection is a fragile thing, not staying long.

The bell of her bicycle! Ringing just for him! As always, he heard it well before he saw her.

“Lucien? C'est moi! C'est moi!”

Her hand on his. A kiss on both his cheeks. A playful bump of shoulders as they set off on their bikes. The path took in the boy and girl, adding them to its ancient store. Nor did school part them. Julia and Lucien sat side by side at their twin-desk, just as they'd always done. Woodwormed, pockmarked, penknifed, inked; imbued with countless thousand hours of study, fear, enchantment, boredom. There were carvings in those desks which went back half a century, initialled in the Belle Epoque. Loves and hatreds, cliques, alliances and shifting friendships – none of these concerned the State, and pairings formed at random on the first day stayed fixed.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Arras,” said the class in unison in answer to his greeting. He bade them sit, and a cacophony of chair-legs scraped against the flagstones.

“You will be disappointed to hear,” said Monsieur Arras drily, “that this week is the last before the rigours of the holiday.”

The class politely laughed.

“Before you stretch two months of wilderness, deprived of algebra, the past and present glories of your nation, the sayings of Voltaire. Survive as best you can, my children.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” they promised.

“Very well. Before we stand on the shoulders of giants, attempting yet again to glimpse a little of what they saw, we have a newcomer in our midst, and we must bid him welcome. Come to the front and introduce yourself, young man.”

The boy who'd been standing at the back came forward.

“Good morning, everyone. My name is Jean-Patrice Sabatier, and I am very pleased to meet you all.”

“Thank you, and we greet you too,” said Monsieur Arras. “So then, Jean-Patrice, tell us about yourself. What does your father do?”

“He can do anything,” the new boy answered calmly. A charge went through the room.

“Oh, I see. So, the Golden Age is not dead after all, and heroes still walk amongst us! He can slay the Nemean Lion, can he? Capture the Erymanthian Boar? Clean the Augean stables in a day?”

The class tensed, smelling blood. This beautiful intruder had eyes like none they'd ever seen seen, but he was clearly marginale – outside conventional society, belonging to the fringes.

“I don't know, Monsieur. I'd have to ask him.”

Monsieur Arras, as stunned by his poise as anyone, could only laugh and pat him on the back.

“Well said, young fellow! Even the son of Hercules cannot answer for his father! Now then – where to put you? Those with empty places next to you, put your hand up. Right – you can sit next to Valerie. Hands down. Valerie, leave yours up so he can see you.”

Her prayer had been answered. Nicole's had been crushed. By such breadths of hairs are lives decided.

September

As Lucien walked to school, Jean-Patrice and Julia cycled past him. She rang her bell and waved hello, and Jean-Patrice also wished good morning. He'd been classroom king since his arrival, and Julia was now his as well.

“He says he's going to meet me every morning from now on,” she'd confessed to Lucien last week. Promise me you won't be cross?”

Lucien had been as brave as he could be. He'd thanked her for every minute they had spent together. Told her Jean-Patrice was exceptional and totally deserved her. She'd looked at him wide-eyed with gratitude and love. Since then, he'd often run his finger round his eye sockets, or his knees, or squeezed his fingers hard – wherever flesh does little more than hide our bones. They were studying the Great Pestilence, and its images were haunting him. He felt he too was just a dancing skeleton, and the skin and gristle covering it were only a pretence. Like those poor Medieval souls, he had discovered life is merely death warmed up and wearing fancy dress. Each sight of Jean-Patrice and Julia together broke another piece of him which could not be renewed.

Talking in class was forbidden, and in their village, as throughout France, private communications were made surreptitiously beneath the desk with scribbled notes. She'd try to catch his eye and smile but he would always wriggle out of it. What good to him were smiles of sympathy, regard, concern, heavy with her guilt? In desperation, she resorted to a note.

I know it hurts, but can't we still friends? she asked him in Geography. He thought about this quite some time.

I hope so, yes. If that's okay with you and him.

On reading this, she looked so pleased.

Of course it is, my sweet. Please don't worry. I've talked to him about it and he's given me permission.

His last bone broke. She had destroyed him. Jean-Patrice had stolen her, and now she sought permission from the thief. He wanted to overturn the desk, punch her in the face, beat Jean-Patrice to a pulp, storm out and join the Foreign Legion. As none of these were possible to do, least of all the pulping, he surveyed the other options open. He could continue sulking and refuse to speak to her again. He could begin to hate the girl he loved and finish his disintegration. All this was very tempting. Instead, he took the pad and wrote.

That's very generous of him. Please would you thank him for me?

She squeezed his hand beneath the desk. It was the first time they had made any contact since switching her allegiance.

Yes, my dear Lucien, I promise you I will. And thank you too, for saying that.

“...it is 1415. You are a knight at Agincourt. Knocked off your horse, you can't get up although you are uninjured. Sebastien? Why is that?”

“Because of my armour, Monsieur. It's stupidly designed, far too heavy, made more for showing off than fighting.”

“Very good. Exactly so. Now then – some English ruffian approaches. Do you beg for mercy, or remember your honour? Lucien?”

“I beg for mercy, Sir. Honour is for when you're standing up, and we only have one life.”

“Hmm, an interesting answer. Henri? Do you agree?”

“No Sir, not at all. He is fighting for France and should die like a man. We all die anyway, so why not now?”

“Henri, you are either exceptionally brave or exceptionally stupid. Julia? Which is he?”

“I don't know, Sir. Perhaps he's both. Courage comes from God, and it's either there or it isn't. But his death would not help France, or his wife and children. If he begs, then he begs for their sake as well as for himself.”

“Well yes, indeed. Henri speaks as a man, and you speak as a woman. None of us can even begin to imagine the terror of that situation, so we should not presume to judge.”

As he watched Julia and Jean-Patrice dismount from their bikes at the school gates, Lucien was still wondering exactly what 'courage' meant in his own situation. What to do with a broken heart? Bury it? Explode it? Or give it to the breaker? The only thing he knew for sure was Julia was wonderful, whether she loved him or someone else, and he wanted to behave with honour.

* * * *

Next day, at the start of class, Lucien came to the crossroads of his life. It was shown him underneath the desk, mapped out on a piece of paper.

I told Jean-Patrice what you said, and he says we can write each other six notes a day.

He looked at her perplexed, but nodded. Externally he seemed completely calm. Inside, he was a whirlwind. He spent half the lesson composing answers in his head, variations on a theme of bitch and traitor, with her boyfriend as a piece of vermin. He put pen to paper, but then stopped. It would assert his pride and his contempt, but was it actually true, he asked himself? No, not really. Julia was kind and warm and lovely, and the boy who had usurped him was admired by the whole class, special, stunning, charismatic. When love has gone away, the easiest way to see if anything remains is to cause hurt, and see if this concerns them. Was this the path he wished to take?

If Jean-Patrice says so, then that's how it must be. But please may I ask why?

He saw her smile on reading this.

Because he wants me to study hard and pay attention. Although he will allow us to be friends, he doesn't want you to be a distraction.

Again he swallowed down his shame and fury. Strong though they were, they were weaker than her beauty.

I understand. Thank you for explaining.

This earned Lucien another flash of grateful eyes.

That's sweet of you, and I feel so much better now. It's been horrible to hurt you, and I hope this won't upset you further, but he's going to check all our notes after school, just to make sure we haven't said anything we shouldn't. And he doesn't want us meeting up and talking outside school, in case people get the wrong idea and think I'm still your girlfriend. Is that okay?

Sucking in his breath, Lucien showed no anger, spite, or pride - just felt all three ferociously.

No, that's fine. I'm just relieved I can still write to you at all, and I'm sure you feel the same. It's not for us to argue with anything he says.

Lovingly, she found his knee and squeezed it.

Thank you, Lucien. Thank you from my heart for being so wonderful about it all.

At lunch-time and in breaks, he watched Jean-Patrice and Julia hold court. She'd always been the best-loved girl in class, and now, as Jean-Patrice's chosen consort, the little crowd which always gathered round them left no doubt as to their status. As for Lucien, some were sympathetic to his plight while others laughed at his demotion. He clanked his skeleton around the yard, and lived with his humiliation.

That night, Lucien ate his supper, did his homework and went straight to bed. Dreams were his only shelter from the pestilence of love gone wrong, just as they are for all of us. He churned, pulsated, throbbed. They'd held hands, they'd walked and laughed and made each other promises, yet now even their daily notes were overseen and by permission. His thoughts hopped like a bluebottle from one pole to its north: one moment she was a mindless puppet on her boyfriend's string, and he despised her with unbridled loathing; the next she was his joy and angel, to be forgiven everything. And so it was with how he thought of Jean-Patrice; in pride and hatred on the ordinary earth, he was vile beyond the speaking of it in his arrogance and condescension. But in that other sphere where he found comfort in the truth of how things were, Jean-Patrice was magnificent and generous and clearly had been born to rule her. He began to tell her so next morning, and found out she already knew it.

* * * *

You are the luckiest girl in the world. If you always do as J-P tells you to, you simply can't go wrong.

She gasped and closed her eyes. Jean-Patrice had been an earthquake for her. From the moment he had stood before the class she'd been bedazzled, had thought about him every minute. One week later he had pressed her to a tree and told her she was his, and from that day she had been daddy's little girl no longer. And now this! Lucien was coming round to things! Wet-eyed, too moved to even look at him, she re-read his note a dozen times - whenever it was safe to do so and Monsieur Arras wasn't looking. They were well into their second lesson of the morning before she was composed enough to answer.

Lucien dearest ~ I don't know how to thank you. What you said means more to me than you can know. Yes, I am the luckiest girl in the world to have J-P, I know that very well, but please believe you will always be my special friend.

Lucien was hypnotised, transfixed. He'd half-expected a rebuke for being silly, part hoping and part dreading he had overshot his arrow well beyond her boundaries. But now his sacred dream-come-nightmare had been proven and confirmed.

After school, Lucien raced home to get his bike and follow them. He was terrified he might be seen, and at every corner he got off and crept to check the path ahead. Twenty minutes later, now only a mile or so from the château, he saw them sitting on the riverbank, arms around each other's shoulders. Heart pumping, body trembling, he laid himself out flat. They were at least a hundred yards away and had their backs to him. He was far too far away to hear a word they said, but sometimes he could make out their voices. By stalking through the wood, he cut the distance down a little.

After several minutes, Julia stood up, went over to her bike and fetched her satchel from the pannier. Returning to Jean-Patrice, she handed him their pad. In an enchantment of despair, Lucien watched her standing proudly as her boyfriend read their notes. He groaned to be Lucien. Why hadn't he been born as that one over there? One thing seemed to irritate Jean-Patrice, and he tapped the notepad with his finger. Julia wrung her hands and looked defensive. As he continued reading she now seemed agitated, obviously worried there might be something else he wouldn't like. But all was clearly well, because things were said which made her jump for joy. She skipped and danced back to the bike, put the pad back in her satchel and then the satchel in the carry-basket. She went back to Jean-Patrice and sat beside him, thrilled and animated.

Lucien sensed discussion back and forth. He saw Julia show great surprise and put her hand up to her mouth. But the shock soon passed, whatever it had been, because she nodded eagerly and triple-kissed him in excitement. Up she jumped again and walked back to the bikes. She brought something from her satchel and handed it to Jean-Patrice. There followed a short commotion which seemed connected to her clothing somehow, because she play-slapped and she giggled. Things calmed down, and there was peace again. Just a boy, a girl, a wood, a river. And in the wood, an interloper.

In due course, Lucien watched them cycle off towards her home, the gypsy's son and Viscount's daughter. He learned for the first time that life continues come what may. The pain was past the possible and yet he did not die. He cycled back the way he came and then he had his dinner.