I sit between Theo and Dad, and Marion and Jean sit opposite us. Theo takes a sandwich and nibbles at it. Jean rubs his hands together as if he’s warming them, even though it’s a beautiful summer’s day. Dad takes a scone, spreads it carefully with jam then cream, but then he sets the cutlery down and stares at his plate. The seconds tick by but no one speaks.
Theo and I share a wince. We should have stayed in the car.
“Darling, to start with why don’t you catch Noah up on what you’ve been doing since the war,” Marion prompts. Jean clears his throat.
“I trained as an architect when I came home and after that, I joined my father’s practice. He retired in 1963 and I manage the firm now.” He falls silent. Marion elbows him gently. He clears his throat again then asks, “So…what do you do these days, Noah?”
“I was a flight mechanic at the start of the war. I retrained as a car mechanic after. In the early ’50s I started my own business, then expanded it into a chain. I married after the war, to Geraldine. She passed last year.”
Jean and Marion both murmur polite sympathies. Then the room falls into an excruciating silence that’s broken by what’s possibly the least subtle change of topic in the history of the world as Jean blurts, “We bought this house in 1960. It’s hundreds of years old but was close to being condemned at the time so we bought it for a steal.”
“Jean primarily does heritage architecture these days,” Marion tells us. “He’s prevented dozens of older structures from being destroyed, haven’t you, darling? Some of the most important historic buildings in Britain have been saved because of you.”
“You might say heritage architecture is my passion. In the case of this home, I designed the remodel myself, then managed the tradesmen over the next eighteen months.”
Jean proceeds to spend more than ten minutes describing the remodel project, right down to the way he and Marion agonized over the style of the faucets—should they use a traditional style, perhaps restored from the original period, or should they modernize? We are not exactly waiting with bated breath by the time Jean informs us they restored original fixtures and have felt satisfied with this decision in the ensuing years. Dad nods as if he’s fascinated, but his eyes glaze over, and I know he’s not listening to a word. I’m about to suggest Theo and I return to the car when Marion interrupts.
“This is all so interesting, darling, but perhaps we need to move on now.”
Jean breaks off, then nods. He turns his gaze back to Dad, takes a deep breath.
“I love history, Noah,” he begins, “but I don’t like to think back on my own. I do understand that has been intensely frustrating to Professor Read, but he stressed upon me that you wanted to see me today so I agreed. Having said that, I couldn’t sleep last night wondering what it was that you needed to say.”
“I appreciate you making time for me,” Dad says gruffly. He’s back to staring at the still-untouched scone on his plate. “I did want to speak to you about—” He breaks off, then turns to look out the window into the garden, blinking rapidly. I reach across and squeeze his hand, noting the sheen of tears in his eyes.
“Dad,” I say. “Do you want me and Theo to go back to the car?”
Dad reaches down and squeezes my hand, then shakes his head.
“Not just yet, love. I just need a moment…” When he’s composed himself, he draws in a breath and turns his attention back to Jean, who is now looking back at him warily. “I was obviously badly injured. At Salon-La-Tour, it would seem.”
“Yes,” Jean says stiffly. “That was a very difficult day.”
“I don’t recall much about it, to be honest. Just flashes of images and some vague, troubling feelings,” Dad says. For the first time, I notice how often Dad says things like this when he talks about his memory problems around the time of the war—troubling feelings. Feelings that don’t make sense. A shiver of confusion and concern runs through me, especially when I consider that Dad clearly did not want us to hear whatever it is he has to say to Jean today. Beside me, Dad is finally on a roll but he’s talking almost to himself, his eyes downcast and his voice low.
“I suppose the last time you saw me was when you were dropping me at the hospital.”
“That’s right.”
“Most of my memories returned eventually, but what I recall of those last few weeks is patchy to this day.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“By the time I’d recalled even that I was an agent, the liberation was well underway. I waited at the hospital until Paris had been set free, then I went there because I couldn’t remember why but I just had this feeling—” He breaks off abruptly, swallows, then clears his throat. “But…in the end, I was at a loss in Paris too. It wasn’t just my memory that was damaged in those early days, my whole mind seemed scrambled. I couldn’t concentrate or plan properly. I was alone in Paris looking for something that I felt certain was important although I could not remember why. I had no money or documentation and no idea how to get home. I lived on the streets for a few weeks because I didn’t know what else to do.”
On the streets? I blink away hot tears of surprise at this revelation, then reach to rub Dad’s back.
“I’m sorry, Noah,” Jean says. “But if you’ve come looking to confront me about that, I really had no choice about leaving you there. Our team had been given a mission and two of the three of us were out of action. I had to carry on alone.”
“No, no. I’m not telling you that because…” Dad breaks off, flustered. “I just want you to understand. Why I didn’t track you down to thank you right away.”
“To thank me?” Jean repeats blankly, but Dad continues as if he hasn’t heard him.
“It was just fortunate that I saw a poster about the SOE apartment. I don’t know what would have become of me otherwise.”
“SOE leadership had a devil of a time locating us all,” Jean says slowly. “I was rather lost too until a wireless operator told me about that apartment.”
“What was this apartment?” I ask.
“With hundreds of agents spread all across France, some of the key SOE leaders came across to Paris,” Jean explains, “They set themselves up a base and spread word far and wide that agents should come in. Most of us made our way home via that apartment.” His gaze grows cloudy. “Those who survived, anyway.”
He and Dad both fall silent, probably lost for a moment in thoughts of their fallen comrades.
“The SOE brought me back to the UK and that’s when I really started to recover. I reunited with Geraldine shortly after that and life just sped on by, you know? There was never any time to stop and look back.”
“It was much the same for me.” Jean nods, then he and Marion share a quiet glance. “There was a wave of jubilation when the war ended, but what comes next? You have to move on and then you’re focused on career and family and life just rushes on by you.”
“Exactly. But since my wife died, I can’t help but think back. I’d have missed so much if you hadn’t saved me that day. All of those wonderful years with my wife. We’d never have had Charlotte here, her brother Archie, my beautiful granddaughter Poppy—but for you, I’d have missed all of it.” Dad delivers each word carefully and his voice is thick with tears. “I just needed to say thank you.” Dad turns his gaze to Marion and says, “I wanted to make sure that Jean’s family knows that he is a hero.”