Last Twilight in Paris

5. Louise

5

Louise

London, 1953

I walk away from the jewelry shop, preparing to head back to Paddington for the journey home. Then as I near the Tube station, church bells in the distance chime eleven. I pause in front of a drugstore. I have been in the city for little more than an hour. It seems a waste to come to London for such a short time. If I cannot learn more about the necklace, at least I can enjoy a few hours out. Why not stay for tea and maybe go into a few of the shops? I can manage it and still have plenty of time to make it back to Henley before I need to pick the children up from school. The notion of taking a few hours for myself feels both alien and appealing. I start down the steps of the Tube station.

Twenty minutes later, I arrive at Oxford Circus, a wide, bustling thoroughfare of department stores and other shops. As I merge into the river of pedestrians who throng the pavement, I am overwhelmed. Having lived in bucolic Henley with Joe the past several years, I’d forgotten how big and chaotic the city is. The streets are choked with lorries and buses, and the sooty exhaust greets me like an old perfume. As I make my way down Regent Street, my stride grows more confident with each step. Suddenly, I am that Louise, the wartime one who was independent with a life and purpose of her own, and it is as if none of the intervening years ever happened. Guilt nags at me. I love Joe and the children. How can it be so easy to forget?

Taken aback by the thought, I stop by a wall that is covered with old posters and placards, advertisements for cigarettes and sodas and West End shows. From amid all the paper, a familiar face looks out at me. I inhale sharply, feeling as if I am seeing a ghost. There, on a faded poster for a West End production of Wild Rose almost a decade old, is Franny. How is that possible? Half the city was reduced to rubble, yet her image is still here after all of these years. I stare at her beautiful face, violet eyes luminescent and pleading, even in the faded image. Do something , they seem to say. I am stunned. First finding the necklace, and now this. That I had stopped here and that the fragment of poster still exists seems a sign, like Franny reaching out from beyond the grave and imploring me not to give up.

I start walking, trying to get as far away from the poster as possible. But I cannot outrun my memories. I see in my mind’s eye then the events before Franny died. I had glimpsed her from across a barren field, standing close to the fence of the POW camp, accepting something from a man, a musician with whom she’d performed in the camp, through the barbed wire. Get away , I wanted to shout. Taking something from a prisoner could mean her own arrest. I had not known at the time that something far more dangerous would befall her—and that not long after she would be dead.

Since finding the necklace, I have been thinking only about the piece of jewelry. Now my memory focuses in on Franny and the man with whom she was speaking. I realize in that moment that I am seeking answers not just about the necklace, but about what actually happened to Franny herself. Figuring out who the man was might be equally important in getting the answers I seek about Franny’s death.

But how can I find out about things that happened a lifetime ago and a continent away? Ian , I think suddenly . My boss when I volunteered during the war pops into my head suddenly—along with that wobbly-at-the-knees feeling I used to get whenever I was around him. Ian was so much more than just my boss and heat rises within me as I think of him now.

I push those thoughts quickly away. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it sooner. Ian was there in Germany all of those years ago when everything happened with Franny and I had seen the necklace for the first time. He knows the history, knew Franny. And as part of the International Red Cross, he has connections and access to records, or at least he once had. If he could help me find out more about the man who had given the necklace to Franny, who he was and why he wanted her to take it, that might help explain what, if anything, it had to do with her death. Perhaps he might be able to help me now—if only I dare to ask.

The Red Cross is headquartered in Moorfield’s, though, a few kilometers from where I am now. I don’t have time to walk there, nor figure out the route by Tube. Instead, I go to the phone booth at the corner and connect to the operator. As I hold, I imagine the august Red Cross building with its marbled entranceway, a row of flags and engraved walls extolling the work of the agency, the virtues and sacrifices of its volunteers. My stomach tightens. I had been there only once in the course of my volunteer work, to complete required paperwork after I had returned from Europe and debrief what I had seen to a nondescript bureaucrat, who had pretended to listen and take notes. I had not worked there.

But Ian had—and perhaps he still did.

“International Red Cross, London offices,” the receptionist chirps when the operator has connected me.

“Good day,” I say. “I’m looking for a man who works there called Ian Shipley.”

“We have no one here by that name,” she replies in a clipped tone. My heart sinks. No, of course not. Eight years have passed since I last saw or spoke with Ian. My life has not stood still. Why would I expect that Ian’s had? He might have left London or the country entirely. He might not even still be alive. This last awful thought catches me off guard. Ian had been just a few years older than me and healthy. There is no reason to think anything has happened to him. But the war had taken so many that the notion of premature death still comes quickly and by default, a conditioned response.

“He worked there at one time,” I say, trying again. “Perhaps there is a forwarding address.”

“I don’t think so,” the receptionist replies, making clear that she is not about to help. I start to hang up. “Wait a second while I ask someone.” I bring the receiver back to my ear, not daring to hope. “There’s a woman on the line asking for an Ian Shipley,” I hear her say to someone nearby. Then she speaks into the receiver once more. “I’ve only been here a few weeks, but Betty in personnel has been here for ages. She knows everyone.” I am surprised by her helpfulness, but doubtful she will learn anything useful. “Yes?” she says quickly, not to me. I hear a muffled voice behind her. “Mr. Shipley left the Red Cross some time ago and he is now employed by the Foreign Office,” she says to me.

“Thank you.” I hang up, then realize I should have asked her for Ian’s number at the Foreign Office. Ian is no longer employed by the Red Cross. But the Foreign Office is just a short walk from where I now stand.

Impulsively, I start down Regent Street toward Westminster, grateful that the earlier drizzle has stopped instead of turning into a proper rain shower. As I walk, I cannot help but think of my mum. She still lives in South London in a tiny, sad flat she seldom leaves. We are not estranged exactly, just different and living separate lives. I have not seen her in nearly a year. I call her the last Sunday of every month, ringing the phone of her landlady downstairs, who rouses her to come talk to me so that I know she is alive. Most times in Henley, it is almost possible to forget that she is here. But now, it all comes back, the fact that she has no one, the ways in which we failed each other so many years ago. The way I am still failing her now. I should go see her while I am in the city, make sure she is all right. But there isn’t time. I push the feelings down. I will call her when I get home, I promise myself, and set a time to come visit.

Twenty minutes later, I reach Whitehall. I stop, taking in the wide street lined with imposing government buildings, many with crumbling facades still bearing witness to the damage from the war. I turn right onto King Charles Street. The Foreign Office is located in a massive Victorian building occupying most of the block. Taking in its size and grandeur, I am daunted. What am I doing here? It is not just the audacity of walking into the headquarters of the nation’s largest government agency unannounced and asking for someone I have not seen in nearly a decade. My time with the Red Cross during the war had not ended well and I felt cast out from service, betrayed. I still do. One of the plusses of leaving the city for Henley and my life with Joe was that I was able to put the past behind me. Now it rises up before me, larger than ever.

But this is the one place I might find more information and, given that Millie had not been able to help, is perhaps my very last chance. I steel myself and walk toward the entrance to the building. Then I stop, my doubts renewed. Now that I know it might actually be possible to see Ian, I am more hesitant than ever. Am I really going to see a man I haven’t talked to in nearly a decade about a piece of cast-off jewelry? His life has surely moved on and he doesn’t need to hear from someone from such a dark part of his past.

As I start to leave, I spy a group of men coming toward me on the pavement, all pinstripe suits and bowler hats and cigarettes. A familiar head looms above the rest. I see him then and the street around me seems to freeze, the needle on a phonograph screeching to a halt.

Ian. Recognizing the unmistakable cut of his jawline, I nearly gasp. Ours had not been just a working relationship—the connection between us had been powerful and real. The sight of him, mixed with all of the painful memories, is just too much. Suddenly, I don’t want to see him at all. Overwhelmed, I turn to go. His eye catches mine, though, and an instant flash of recognition crosses his face. It is too late.

I stand frozen as he breaks away from the group of men and starts toward me. Then he stops a few feet away, staring as if seeing a ghost. “Louise?” The greeting comes out like a question, and I feel exposed, almost naked. He takes me in. Is he noticing the changes, the lines on my face that were not there nearly a decade earlier? Normally I am quite comfortable in myself, and I don’t feel the need for a lot of makeup or fashion to impress others. But it has been eight years and I feel the passage of time, the sags and wrinkles, the lines. I hate that I care.

Ian has changed, too, although the gray at his temples only serves to make him more handsome. He wears a wool coat pulled up high at the collar and a dashing scarf tied smartly around it. His hair is now smoothed back with a pomade that gives off a faint mint scent. He is a more polished and sophisticated version of himself—and even sexier than I remember.

“Is it really you?” There is an odd twist to his voice and I know that this unexpected reunion brings up as many feelings for him as it does me. His gaze is deep, and our connection returns instantly.

“Do you have a few minutes?” I ask. He does not respond right away. We did not part on the best terms in Germany, I recall then. The events of the night Franny died and the few days that followed come roaring back at me like a freight train. Perhaps, despite the attraction that undeniably exists between us, he is still angry. I brace myself for the possibility that he might be too busy—or simply not want—to speak with me.

“Let me finish up with these chaps. I can manage a tea break in ten if you fancy a cuppa.”

He returns to the group of men and they disappear inside the government building. I find a nearby bench and sit down, eyeing the dark gray clouds that have gathered low behind Parliament. I look up and down Whitehall, remembering London as it had been during the war, sandbags piled high at the corners, Londoners carrying small satchels of food and other essentials into the Tube stations and other air raid shelters, then returning to the street in the morning to see in the light of early day what of their lives was left standing. We were the lucky ones to have survived, but none of us would ever be the same.

I wait for what seems much longer than ten minutes and still Ian does not appear. I should just go, I think. It is getting late, and I have to be back to pick up the children after school. But just then, I see Ian coming down the street in my direction. This was a mistake, I realize the moment I see him. Along with the pain, I had buried memories of what had been between Ian and me, and I see it now, the attraction, as fresh and real as that last night we spent together.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Some of the blokes from Whitehall never stop talking.” He leads me to a tearoom down the street and orders tea for both of us, remembering that I take mine without milk or sugar. When the steaming cups are placed on saucers on the counter, he carries them to a table in the corner. “You look well,” he says as we sit down. I reach for a cup and our fingers brush accidentally. I pull back, but my eyes are drawn to his fingers. They are long and thin, square-tipped at the end, just as I remember them. “What are you doing these days?”

“I live in Henley with my husband, Joe, and our two chil dren,” I reply, hating how boring that sounds. Who have I become? “And you?”

“I actually work for the Foreign Office now. I’m posted to the embassy in Paris presently. I’m just back here for a business trip and I’m headed back over this evening. You caught me by sheer luck.” I’m surprised. Ian never really seemed to fit in when we went over to Europe with the Red Cross and it is hard to imagine him embracing a continental lifestyle. He’s older now, though, more self-assured—and even more attractive than I remembered. “I switched from the Red Cross to the Foreign Office a few years back,” he adds. I hope he might say something about his personal life. “But enough about me…how can I help?” he asks instead. He brushes at his forehead where the lock of hair used to fall, a reflex.

I decide to dispense with formalities and get right to the point. “I found a necklace. It looks exactly like the one…” I cannot finish the sentence. He looks at me with a puzzled expression, not understanding. Ian had never belittled me. He made me feel capable. Until the moment I needed him most and he hadn’t supported me at all, which hurt more than almost anything, except losing Franny. Remembering now, I doubt I can trust him. “Never mind, coming here was a mistake.” I stand abruptly, bumping the table and causing the teacups to rattle and hot liquid to spill over the edge.

He reaches up and catches my arm, urging me to sit back down. “Easy now, luv.” There is a tone of familiarity, almost condescension, that makes me bristle. Once we had been, if not equals exactly, united in the same purposeful work. But the social contract was rewritten after the war: Ian had gone on to do bigger things while I was sent home. The inequity of our fates, laid bare now for the first time, is too egregious to ignore. “Why don’t you slow down and explain this to me?” His expression is one of genuine warmth, eyes curious.

I sit once more, feeling the heat of his hand through the fab ric of my blouse. Then I pull the necklace out of my bag. “I found this, the same half-heart charm I saw Franny with the night before she died.”

Franny. It is the first time I have said or heard her name aloud in all of these years and the sound of it cuts through me like an electric current. Ian looks as if he has been slapped.

“The very same one?”

“I think so,” I reply.

“Does it matter, really? A necklace?”

“You know it’s about more than that. That night, I saw Franny take the necklace from a man at the POW camp, a musician who had performed with her. A day later she was dead.” He listens intently, or seems to anyway. I tried to explain this years ago, but he had not heard me. It was the war and the rantings of a woman grieving her friend. We are older now and in a different place. Maybe now he will understand.

“It was surely just a coincidence.” He still doesn’t believe me. “The man gave Franny a necklace. He wanted her to deliver it to his wife in Paris as I remember. Franny was killed by a hit-and-run driver. The two are not related.”

“I think they are. I think the necklace has something to do with what happened to her. And now that this necklace has turned up out of nowhere, I need to find out.”

“Louise, no.” His hazel eyes widen with concern. “You aren’t going there again, are you? Why do that to yourself?”

Because I have never stopped doing that to myself , I think. “If we could find out where the necklace came from…”

“I don’t understand. You’ve come to me to ask me to find out about a necklace? That’s hardly my specialty.”

“I didn’t come to London to ask you. I actually brought it to a jewelry shop on Portobello Road. Millie, the proprietor, is the sister of my employer, Midge, and I thought she could help, but she wasn’t able to tell me much. Anyway, I’m not asking you to help me find out about the necklace.”

“Then what?”

I pause. “The musician.” He looks at me blankly and I cannot tell if he truly does not remember or if he is being willfully ignorant. “The one I saw talking to Franny, who handed her the necklace the night before she died. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry, it’s been some years. Things fade.”

Not for me , I think. “I need you to help me find out about him.”

“Because…?”

“Because if we can figure out why he wanted her to take it so badly, we might be able to discover what happened.”

“We know what happened,” Ian says gently, leaning in close. “She was killed in a car accident. You can’t possibly think there’s more to it than that—or that the necklace and her death are somehow connected.”

“I still think—” I pause for a breath “—that Franny’s death was not an accident.”

He holds up his hand. “That’s a big leap. She was found struck by a car. You’re now saying that someone hit her on purpose? That she was murdered?” I said it then, too, I think. If only he had listened. “Louise, sometimes, when something so out of our control happens, we want to create a story around it to help it make sense. But it was just an accident.”

We have never agreed on what happened. I decide not to press the point now. “The man Franny was talking to, he was an accomplished cellist. Remember how beautifully he accompanied her? There can’t have been that many. Also, he was in a camp for Allied prisoners. He may have had some connection to Britain. If I can figure out who he was and why he asked Franny to take the necklace, it might answer some of the questions I have about her death. You’ll ask, won’t you?”

He moves back almost imperceptibly. Now, as then, Ian has other considerations. He has a government position. He can hardly afford to get involved in some frivolous chase and risk his reputation.

He is going to say no.

“Why now?” he asks. “Why start asking questions about Franny now?”

Because the necklace turning up after so many years is like a sign , I want to say. Like Franny calling to me from beyond the grave, reminding me of the promise I had left unfulfilled. Of course, I cannot tell him that.

Ian continues, “We don’t even know if the man who gave her the necklace made it out of the camps alive. Even if he did and you find him, he might not have the answers you are looking for.”

“I know. But I have to try. You’ll help me, won’t you?” My voice is pleading.

Something inside him seems to break then. “All right, I’ll try. Don’t get your hopes up. Those records are almost a decade old. But I’ll ask. I promise. And when we find nothing—because we are going to find nothing—you’ll leave it alone, right?” I remain silent, unwilling to make a promise I know I cannot keep. “You should come over to Paris,” he says suddenly.

“Paris?” I am caught off guard. “Why?”

“The musician, he was French, wasn’t he? And he asked Franny to deliver the necklace to his wife in Paris. You could come over and we can look around and see if we can find out anything about the necklace.” I’m puzzled by his sudden change of heart, his willingness to help now. Ian continues, “We could catch up on old times.” There is a twist in his voice as he says this last part. I sense something more in his words and I try to ignore it. Ian feels the connection between us that lies beneath the surface still, even after all of these years. Our lingering attraction is undeniable, but I’m a married woman and I don’t need complications, not now.

“What do you say?” he presses. “So are you in?”

His words are a refrain of our conversation years ago, the night I decided to volunteer to go to Europe with the Red Cross. Only, then I was young and brave. Now I am timid, shackled by my life and the wounds of the past.

“I’m married. I can’t just leave.”

“The old Louise would,” he points out. Ian knew the brave, adventurous me, the one who would undertake an aid mission to wartime Europe on a few hours’ notice. Not the one who has to rush home to make bangers and mash. Then he shrugs. “Suit yourself. I have to get back to my meetings. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“Thank you.” I reach in my purse for a scrap of paper, then scribble down my contact information and pass it to him.

“And if you change your mind, you can find me here.” He hands me his card. He kisses my cheek and a whiff of his familiar Dunhill cologne threatens to hurl me back through the years. He stands and buttons his coat, which, I notice then, he had never taken off at all. “Bloody good to see you, Lou.”

And then he is gone.

Atlantic Ocean, 1944

The rain beat down heavy on the metal hull of the ship, tossing the hulking naval vessel about like a cork. I looked out across the darkened horizon and breathed shallowly, willing myself not to be sick.

Again. I had lost count of how many times I had leaned over the railing, retching into the swirling waters below. Thankfully, I had made it from the cabin where the other volunteers slept without disturbing anyone, and outside to the edge of the boat, and not incurred the wrath of the naval personnel of the SS Embla , who really didn’t want us there anyway. I stayed on the deck almost all of the time, even now in the middle of the night, because I couldn’t bear to be inside. I had stopped eating altogether.

Two days earlier, we had assembled in front of the volunteer center for our departure. There were a half-dozen girls including myself who boarded the bus for the port in Southampton, two of whom I recognized from my nightly volunteering. I carried with me a small bag of clothes and toiletries I’d cobbled together on short notice, not quite sure what I’d need for the trip about which I’d been told so little.

Looking up now, I saw a lone figure standing on the deck close to the bow. Ian. He was facing away from me, looking out toward the horizon, hand above his eyes. Ian did not seem to sleep, but paced the deck restlessly at night, as though solely responsible for our safe crossing. I longed to go to him and talk as we had in the volunteer center in London. But I didn’t want him to see me sick.

As I tried to calm my stomach now, a burning stench mingled with the salt air. I turned and saw the tip of a cigarette glowing like an ember in the darkness about five meters away. I was surprised. Other than Ian from a distance and the petty officer on watch, I had not expected to see anyone else on deck at this hour.

Before I could consider further who the person might be, a wave of nausea overcame me and I lurched toward the side of the ship once more.

“You all right, hun?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

I wiped my mouth, then turned and looked up. Standing above me was a tall, willowy woman. Her luminous red hair was swept up in a knot, but pieces had escaped their moorings and whipped about wildly with the wind. I was certain that I had not seen her before on the ship. Yet she was oddly familiar. “I’m sorry,” I managed, embarrassed to be sick.

“Try this.” Still balancing the cigarette between her fingers, the woman pulled a small glass bottle from her purse. She opened the cap, then waved it under my nose. “Lavender oil. Inhaling it helps with the nausea.” Closer, I could see that her eyes were an extraordinary shade of violet.

Smelling the herbal scent, my stomach calmed a bit. “Thank you.” The ship lurched suddenly then, causing me to stumble and nearly fall.

The woman caught my arm to steady me, then led me to a crude wooden bench. After we sat down, she reached into her purse again, then pulled out a flask. “Now a bit of this.” I hesitated. Liquor was the very last thing I needed right now. “It’s ginger ale,” she explained as she poured it into the cup. “Settles the stomach.”

I took the cup gratefully. “I’m Franny,” she said. “Franny Beck.”

I recognized the name instantly. “The actress?” I blurted.

She dipped her chin in acknowledgment. “One and the same. Or at least before half of the West End theaters were damaged by bombs,” Franny added wryly. That was why she looked familiar. Franny Beck was a famous actress, her image on placards and billboards for performances all over London. I had even seen her in a show once when I had scraped together some pennies for a standing-room-only ticket, and I had been mesmerized by her performance.

But what was she doing here? “I’ve been invited to perform for the officers,” she explained, answering my unspoken question.

“For the Germans?” She nodded. I was appalled. How could she do such a thing? Was she a German sympathizer? Of course, I did not know her well enough to ask.

“I told them I would only do it if I got to perform for the POWs as well,” she added. Her explanation did little to lessen my horror. In any event, I would not have guessed that meant someone of Franny Beck’s stature would be down here among the volunteers.

“I’m Louise Emmons.” I took a second sip, then handed back the cup.

“Better now?” she asked.

“A little,” I replied sheepishly. Now that I knew who she was, I was even more embarrassed about being sick. “I just hadn’t imagined.” I gestured beyond the edge of the ship to the rough and dangerous waters.

Franny waved her hand dismissively. “You should have seen last time. Even the crew was ill.”

“You’ve been before?” I could not imagine making the journey more than once.

“This is my third trip. Usually I travel with other performers, but some of them are too nervous to go anymore since the war had worsened.” My stomach gave a little flip. If they were too afraid, how could it possibly be safe for us? “This is my first time traveling with volunteers like you. What made you decide to go?”

“I saw a sign at the center where I was helping with care packages and I wanted to do more. I was told they needed volunteers.”

“Yes, there is a personnel shortage because several Red Cross workers were killed when their convoy was bombed.”

I stared at Franny in disbelief. “But I thought when you are traveling with the Red Cross, there is protection.”

“Not in this case. The Red Cross is considered neutral, but the Germans have given no assurance of safe passage, not to volunteers and certainly not to performers like me.” She tried to joke, but her voice was grave. “And there’s no protection if you are on the ground when an Allied bomb falls.” I was suddenly terrified. I knew going into the war zone was dangerous, but I had not fully considered until now that, by signing on, I was risking my life.

“This is important work the Red Cross is doing,” Franny added, seeming to read my thoughts. “There are thousands of prisoners needing help. We want to get to as many as we can.” Though she was technically not a Red Cross volunteer, it was clear from Franny’s words that she considered the mission her own. “But also, it is important to observe what is going on inside the camps. The Germans need to know that we are watching.” I suspected then that I realized her work was about much more than bringing entertainment or even aid.

A sailor on deck patrol walked by us, his torch aimed low to the ground. “Good evening,” Franny said, but he did not respond or acknowledge us. The naval personnel had made clear that our presence on the ship was a bother and that they did not think we belonged here.

“You would think the military would be more appreciative of what the Red Cross is doing for its POWs,” I remarked.

“You would think,” Franny repeated. “But they’ve decided we just get in the way of the fighting.”

The ship lurched again, knocking me into Franny. I grabbed the bench to right myself. “Sorry.”

“No worries.” She reached into her pocket and I expected her to smoke again, but instead she pulled out a chocolate bar. She held it out to me.

“No, thank you.” At the sight of it, my stomach roiled. “I’ve practically given up eating because I feel so sick.”

“Well, that explains why I’ve never seen you in the mess.” Franny took a bite of the chocolate bar and ate it with gusto. “So, what made you volunteer with the Red Cross?”

I tell her about the girl I saw sitting atop the rubble after one of the air raids. “I wanted to do my part,” I explained. “Packing boxes just didn’t seem like enough. Before that, I was just working in one of the factories.”

“You’re so pretty you could be a stage performer yourself,” Franny offered. I wondered if Franny was just being kind, but hearing the fullness of her voice, I could tell that her words were sincere. I flushed. I knew from a young age that I was attractive in a plain sort of way, with my wavy honey-colored hair and long lashes. But that was not at all the same as Franny’s traffic- stopping starlet beauty, all violet eyes and red hair and dimples that flashed when she smiled.

“Have you been across to the Continent?” she asked. “Before the war, I mean.” I was fascinated by the way she jumped topics in conversation, like a stone skipping across the surface of a lake.

I fought the urge to laugh. My childhood was not one of summer holidays to Europe, or anywhere at all, for that matter. “No. You?”

“Yes, I lived there for a bit as a child. My father was…” Our conversation was cut off by the ship’s horn sounding long and low. Franny stood. “We should get some rest.” She moved easily with the rolling ship. Then she held out her hand to help me up.

“I’m going to sit awhile longer.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a pack of Gauloises cigarettes. “Do you fancy a smoke?” I thought then of her wholesome image onstage. Now that I knew who she was, cigarettes seemed oddly out of place.

I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

“Yeah, I gotta stop, too.” She put the pack away and turned to go. “These things will kill you.” Her last words faded along with her into the darkness.