Not remembering much meant her husband remembered something. Claire wanted to ask him what it was he remembered. But when she met the professor he said she must not question Alain. He said questioning him would hinder his recovery. “For many years Captain Mitchell has buried memories in a very dark place,” he said.
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ Claire said, ‘I can’t begin to imagine what awful things you suffered in that place.’
‘Puel said I blocked out bad stuff. He said I have survivors guilt.’ Claire sat up in order to take in what her husband was saying. ‘I escaped from the prison and survived, but deep down I knew there would have been reprisals. He said I would have known then that some of my fellow prisoners would have paid for my freedom with their lives. Because of that I buried my feelings. Puel said I have never faced up to the fact that I caused their deaths. He said the guilt I feel is so profound, so deep-rooted, that to survive in everyday life I ignore it; pretend it didn’t happen. He said guilt cannot be denied forever and in time, as it has done with me, it rises to the surface and manifests in angry outbursts and nightmares.
‘And you, my darling, have had to put up with it.’ Mitch’s eyes filled with tears. He pulled Claire to him. ‘I’m sorry for all I’ve put you through. I shall make it up to you. All I want now is to make you happy.’
Claire inhaled deeply. ‘I am happy, darling.’ She looked into her husband’s eyes and kissed him on the lips. ‘How could I not be happy with you and Aimée to love.’ She wanted to say When you are better I shall really be happy, but that might be interpreted as putting pressure on him. Instead, she said nothing and kissed him again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a modern apartment. Warm air blew through grids in the walls from October to spring, changing to cold air at the end of May, keeping the apartment warm in the winter and cool throughout the summer months. The letting agent for the Canadian Air Force told Claire the cooling system was called air conditioning. It wouldn’t be needed in England she thought, it is never hot enough.
She went into Aimée’s bedroom. She was asleep. The nights were drawing in. Shorter days were only to be expected at this time of year - longer nights too, though Claire hadn’t reckoned on there being so many without her husband.
Returning to the sitting room she drew the curtains, then poured herself a Canadian Club. She had become accustomed to a tipple after dinner with Mitch. When Aimée was in bed they relaxed, talked about their day, or listened to the wireless. She looked at the clock on the mantle shelf. Ten-thirty, he hadn’t come home, again. She knocked back her drink, took the empty glass to the kitchen, rinsed it under the tap and stood it upside down on the draining board. With a sigh, she scraped Alain’s dinner into a bucket with a lid that they kept under the sink and put his plate in the washing-up bowl.
She switched off the lights as she walked through the apartment. After checking the front door was locked she took out the key and went to bed on her own, again.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Mitchell.’ The receptionist at the Louis Bertrand hospital greeted Claire with a smile when she finally reached the front of the queue. ‘How may I help you today?’
Claire was trembling with worry. ‘Could you tell me where my husband is, please?’ The receptionist looked confused and frowned. She scanned the names listed in the large appointment book on the desk in front of her. ‘He had an appointment yesterday afternoon,’ Claire said. ‘He didn’t go to work afterwards, nor did he come home, so he must still be here.’ She watched the woman’s short manicured fingernail glide across to a corresponding list on the previous day’s page.
‘Mitchell, Captain Alain Mitchell. Two o’clock yesterday to see Professor Puel. He won’t be here now,’ the receptionist said. ‘The captain’s appointment was for an hour. He wasn’t booked in for an overnight stay.’
‘No, he wasn’t, but this morning the professor’s secretary telephoned me to say my husband could go home.’ Claire was rapidly coming to the end of her patience. ‘Would you telephone the professor’s secretary and find out where Captain Mitchell is, please!’
As she picked up the telephone, the receptionist glanced at the lengthening line of people standing behind Claire and smiled apologetically. Claire waited for what felt to her like an age but was probably only a few seconds, before the secretary’s telephone was answered. After a brief salutation, the receptionist asked if Captain Mitchell was in the hospital, and if so, in which ward. She spoke in French, which Claire thought was rude considering she had asked her for help in English.
When the receptionist returned the receiver to its cradle, Claire repeated what she’d heard her say when she confirmed Alain’s whereabouts. ‘La salle d’hôpital psychiatrique aile huit?’ she said, in fluent French. The receptionist’s cheeks coloured with embarrassment. ‘Would you direct me to ward eight in the psychiatric wing, please?’
‘It is next door, Madame, in the old hospital. Go out of the main doors, turn left, and follow the footpath.’
‘Merci et au revoir,’ Claire said, curtly, and left.
Claire followed the receptionist’s directions and, after turning left onto the main drive that curved round in a broad sweep in front of the new hospital’s modern glass doors, followed the path along the side of the building to the old
