2nd Prize - Short Story Competition 2016
"Florian" by Lynne Voyce
Everything is upside down. But I don't notice: I'm so used to looking through the camera viewfinder I can turn the world the right way round again just by blinking. We've all suffered so much that making the world into what you want it to be is the only way to keep going. Through the lens the landscape looks like the stripe of a deckchair: aquamarine ocean, ochre sand, primrose sky. Florian's khaki uniform is camouflage against the beach but his face is clear and vivid. This moment is a joyous picture postcard that has fallen on a lonely door mat, a small, unexpected pleasurable greeting.
Florian, the soldier, lifts his hand, first to wave at me, then to beckon his compatriots as they stand laughing and smoking by a bench. Coming together they pose, arms around each other's shoulders, smiling. They are the smiles of men who are glad to be alive. We all know so many were left dead or dying on the shore at Dunkirk that for us all to be here on the promenade, on a day in high summer, is a miracle.
I want to tell the men how wonderful they look, that their happiness is a blessing for me, that their pleasure in being alive is a fitting tribute to the thousands of dead. But I cannot let them know I speak their language. It would make Florian and I too close. We have both lost so much in this war we must not lose ourselves. It would be sinful. I know his friends and family must have suffered back in occupied France; I think there may be a fiancé there too. And, of course, there is Thomas: my husband. He may never return. But I pray every night that he will. 'Missing in Action' is such a ridiculously patriotic euphemism for 'probably dead'.
I remember the day the telegram came as if it were a photograph, frozen and dark. The clouds were the colour of damsons, so heavy over the sea they promised a terrible storm. Yet, there was not even a drop of rain. All day, there was just a tense, damp atmosphere of horrid anticipation. I'd sat in the bay of our flat for hours, waiting for the deluge, not able to cry, not sure whether to mourn or be thankful that the telegram hadn't said the dreadful word: dead.
I have not spoken about Thomas since, not to anyone, only silently to myself. If I say his name aloud I will alert God to him. Then a decision will have to be made by the Almighty. Thomas' status of simply missing may be revoked; he may have to be confirmed to heaven and earth and me, as 'deceased'.
It was into this silence that Florian came.
The very first time he stood in my drab classroom he smiled, just as he does now, unguarded and with understanding. Even then, after the ravages of the battlefield, he was slender and gleaming in the late spring sun. I am ashamed to say that I felt a breathless thrill at seeing a young, vital man in the midst of desperation and austerity. "Hello," I said and offered my hand.
"Bonjour Madam," he returned softly, cupping his fingers around mine. There was gentility in his manner. Perhaps he had been told about Thomas and felt sorry for me.
It was the first time anything had pricked the terrible numbness of waiting. Until then I had lived every day in anticipation, hoping, praying for my husband's return; there is not a single thing remaining from that time in suspension, not a meal I ate or a conversation I'd held. But since Florian arrived I remember everything in pin sharp detail, every smell, every sound, every feeling.
We were in the staffroom when the British army captain, with his clipped voice and clipped moustache, told us that the French men would billet at the school indefinitely, having been evacuated from Dunkirk. I went to bed that night and couldn't sleep. All I could see was Florian's beautiful, swarthy face, so glad to be safe. I knew that with Thomas in limbo that Florian had been brought across the sea and delivered to me to remind me that with life there is hope and joy.
I think he felt the same: that we had found each other amongst all the bloodshed and chaos was a miracle.
Quite soon, while he and the others paraded and exercised in the playground, I became aware that he was watching me through the window of my classroom as I taught. But when I caught his eye he would look away embarrassed. It took months before he would meet my gaze but when he did the look in his eyes was seared unforgettably on my fractured heart. It was a look of tender admiration.
As part of the war effort I began to bake for the men, delivering cake and bread to the school on a Saturday morning. Florian and I would sit side by side in the hall, pulling at the soft bread with our trembling hands, using it to soak up a thin lunch time broth. Then we'd put it soggy into our mouths, licking our fingers, glancing shyly at each other all the time, as if the ritual were a prelude to something wonderful. And by the time the bowls were wiped clean, I would thank God that he speaks no English. And thank God, that I - at least so he believes - speak no French. It is far less dangerous if we remain silent.
Even now as I watch him through the Box Brownie, my heart bursting with longing, I know I must not breathe a word to him. I must never utter my feelings in soft eloquent French, right into his ear, while the smell of his hair oil and the tang of his cologne remind me what it is like to be close to a man. I know in my heart that to speak to him in a way he understands, in a way that will convey my deepest feelings, would be a betrayal of my missing husband. I am barely faithful with my eyes and my mind already, to touch him with my words would mean I was giving myself to him. Instead, I stare through the lens, studying from three yards away the exquisite curve of his smiling mouth; the soft curl of his hair at his temples, as sleek and black as a rifle barrel; the line of his nose, strong and graceful. And in my stomach, a place hidden by the camera, I feel a desperate fluttering of opportunity and dare I say it, love.
Then I see through the camera that Florian is walking towards me. He is merely inches away now but I continue to look down, spellbound by the scent of him. He puts his hand on my bare arm, it is the first time his skin has touched mine. The world has stopped: the bombing, the fighting, the killing have all disappeared. All there is in this instant is a man and a woman on the promenade, looking down at where the hand of one meets the arm of the other. "Will you give me the picture?" he whispers in perfect English, "I will treasure it, forever."
"Et je vais cherir ce moment," I reply in perfect French, still looking down.
The End