The Bench Page 2

  On stage she looked about ten feet tall, the footlights bathing her perfect body in a soft glow. In her bedroom with no clothes on, she barely reached up to Jacques’s chest, not an inch over five-feet-two. But what a five-feet-two she was! “Small but beautifully formed,” Jacques would say to her.

  Saphine was not her real name; she had made it up, thinking it pretty and different. It was now quite a famous name in Hanoi and was becoming known throughout Vietnam and as far away as Saigon, after a number of successful performances in towns and cities throughout the country. She had chosen the name when she had sung professionally for the first time on the very stage on which she now stood. With the choice of name had come a new life, far removed from the one she’d lived until that point.

  Saphine’s life up until that day had not been a happy one, though she never complained and would always have a smile on her beautiful face. It was that indomitable spirit, that smile and her beautiful voice that now made her such a success.

  She never knew her father and in all honesty, neither did her mother. She did know he was a French soldier, though Maman had known several of them. Maman had been a prostitute working in one of Hanoi’s many brothels. She had died when Saphine was just eleven years old. Not knowing what to do with the little girl, the brothel’s madame put her to work as a maid and general dogsbody.

  She was a sweet child and everyone loved her, but as she began to grow into a young woman, her flowering exotic beauty was being noticed by the clientele who started pressurising the madame to make her ‘best asset’ available to them. To be fair to the madame she protected Saphine for as long as she could, but by the age of fifteen she was working as one of the whores.

  To Saphine it was not that bad, as she had grown up in the brothel and it was the only life she had ever known. The hookers were her family and had helped to raise her. She smiled and she was happy, and her reputation as the most beautiful whore in Hanoi grew rapidly. She attracted wealthy customers, all of whom were more than satisfied with the blue-eyed, Eurasian whore.

  One in particular became infatuated with her. A French colonel, old enough to be her father paid the madame handsomely for Saphine and set her up in an apartment in a respectable part of town.

  She had sung in the brothel from the age of ten and loved the stage. On stage she was in another world and she was another person, a million miles away from the sordid world of the sex trade. The colonel fell in love with the young girl as she sang; that he could pay to have the singer’s body was an added bonus. It was her voice that he primarily loved, so when he owned the voice’s body he set about promoting the voice. He got her a job in the club and she was an instant success. Within weeks she was packing out the place, half of the audience entranced by her voice and the other half entranced by her face and body. Either way, Saphine was a star, and the colonel’s reward was to sleep and have sex with the star he’d helped create.

  By the age of eighteen Saphine was earning a great deal of money from her singing and was being accepted within some of the higher echelons of Hanoi’s society. Certainly she no longer needed the colonel’s patronage, however he was a decent sort and had been good to her, having treated her with respect and genuine affection. Saphine, for her part was aware of everything that he had done for her and she was genuinely fond of him. Their parting was a natural process. He realised that he had lost her when politicians’ wives and society began to accept her. She had started as his chattel but he had quite naturally become her paternal companion, simply an appendage to the stunning talent that society wanted to embrace.

  Saphine had not left him; it was the colonel who gave her back her freedom. He had never owned her as such, it was an agreement that both had benefited from and in time he realised she had outgrown whatever he could offer her. So over dinner one night he gave her a gold pendant of an angel with wings and said, ”It is you, Saphine. You are free to soar with the birds and sing like an angel. You do not belong to me; I must share you with the world. Go, my angel and live the life you deserve.”

  Saphine had cried. Not about losing the colonel, for she had not, in fact they were still great friends. She cried because life had been so good to her.

  Saphine smiled at Jacques and gave him a little wave with her fingers as she arranged the microphone for her next song. She looked over at the handsome man who had become her lover. He was tall and tanned, his wavy black hair flopping over one eye, the eye she knew to be the kindest emerald-green eye she’d ever seen. He sat perfectly relaxed at the table, his athletic frame at ease with the world around him. Saphine smiled at him, she liked to smile anyway, but she couldn’t actually look at Jacques without smiling.

  Jacques was the first man she had ever enjoyed sex with. Saphine had grown up with sex being a commodity, a commodity she could supply in abundance, but it was not a thing she enjoyed, sex was a job. That was until she met Jacques.

  Jacques was tender, loving and very sexy. From the very first time he made love to her it was different. She had always ‘put on a good show’ and her clients had never been disappointed, but with Jacques she suddenly wasn’t acting. It had confused her at first, but after several occasions she realised what all the fuss was about and how wonderful making love could be. If they had been at home she would have walked over to Jacques right now, pulled her dress up, straddled his powerful thighs and kissed him passionately on his lips.

  Jacques was smiling back at her, having very similar thoughts about the sex kitten on the stage. She had been good for him; she had helped put things back into perspective, or at least been the final building block to do so. His smile broadened as he looked at Saphine, yes, she was good for him. To have found her in Vietnam was a huge and unexpected bonus to the job he’d come to do.

  After the War, when France had been liberated, they had tried to re-establish their colonies in the Far East, but the world had changed and they had found themselves in a bloody war with the Vietminh who had decided after years of Colonial rule, and more recently Japanese control, that Vietnam should be run by its own people. The Vietminh did not use conventional warfare to fight their cause, they used guerrilla tactics and the French Army’s conventional armaments and warfare were not working. So they decided to draw on the experience of some of their less conventionally trained Resistance fighters from the Second World War for advice and guidance. Jacques had been one of the most effective agents during the last two years of the War and was being used as a consultant to the Army. He did not have a rank or a title. He wasn’t even French. He was effectively a mercenary who had access to the highest level of the French Command. He trained operatives, devised and conducted insurgent attacks whilst structuring the best defences against such attacks from the Vietminh, who were vastly superior in their capability to deliver effective strikes.

  It had proved something of a thankless task, as the French High Command seemed deeply entrenched in the tradition of conventional warfare whose seeds were planted centuries before, along with its dated ethics and morals. The Vietminh had their own ethics, ‘the ethics of a just war,’ where the end justified the means and which did not respect the ideals of a French military regime that still lived with Napoleonic values.

  The net result was that the French were losing and they seemed reluctant to take the advice of the one group of French fighters who’d had any success since the First World War, the Resistance. It was almost as if they were jealous of their success during the War, an often ramshackle band of men and women who had not had the benefit of training in the honourable tradition of the mainstream French military. Jacques even suspected some of the idiots would not take his advice simply because he was British, even though his father was wonderfully, absurdly and proudly French. Something the whole of West Wight had delighted in since his unexpected arrival amongst them.

  Jacques could see Saphine waving to someone behind him, then he heard the words, “Hello, Jack, my English saboteur,” said with an attempt at an English accent that didn’t reall
y work.

  He turned round to see Sophie approaching his table carrying a bottle of white wine and two glasses. Sophie waved at Saphine who held up five fingers and mouthed the words ‘five minutes’ to her friend.

  Jacques stood up and kissed Sophie on each cheek, beaming at his good friend. “Hi, Sophie, how are you?”

  “Very well, Jack.” She loved to call him by the English form of his name. She would tease him saying, “You’re too handsome, and so you deserve an ugly name,” but she liked Jacques far more than she admitted to anyone.

  Sophie put down the bottle and poured two glasses of wine. “Where’s mine?” Jacques asked, whilst making a pretend grab for the wine Sophie had poured for Saphine.

  “Hands off!” She slapped his wrist. “The waitress is bringing you your English gin and tonic, old boy!” Sophie giggled to herself. “Tell me again why Jacques the Frenchman lives on the Isle of Wight. It’s so romantic.” She made him tell her the story regularly and genuinely loved the tale, though Jacques would only give her the shortened version these days.

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, you must or I’ll never call you Jacques again.”

  He sighed. “Okay then. My father was a French fisherman and he was trying to fix a problem he’d been having with the old engine in his boat. He was giving it a test-run when it failed just a few hundred yards offshore. He signalled for help but no one saw him and the silly sod had gone to sea without any of his safety equipment, including his lifeboat, which was still hauled up on the beach. Anyway, a southerly breeze soon blew him offshore towards ‘les Rosbifs.’ Eighteen hours later he was shipwrecked off the South coast of England on the Isle of Wight near Freshwater Bay. There the local fishermen managed to salvage what was left of his boat and get him to the local hospital. Once there, his Gallic charm won the heart of a pretty nurse, and his willing smile, her body. Smitten by the Siren of West Wight he remained to suffer a life of appalling food, worse weather and frightful sexual hang-ups.” Sophie was giggling now. She loved the English and their self-deprecating humour. “Her brothers fixed his boat, and he taught them all how to cook properly. Mother was obviously given lessons in the art of l’amour, and hey presto, moi!” Jacques smiled at Sophie. “Is that enough?”

  “Yes, thank you, cheri. Your father was a wise man to stay sur L’isle Blanc. His bloodline is a good one.” Sophie was smiling at Jacques, part of her wishing she had been washed up on the shores of his island too.

  Sophie and Jacques’s relationship went far back, it went all the way back to their Resistance days and they had history, a great deal of history. Jacques admired Sophie. She was one of the bravest people he had ever met and she was clever, she was scarily clever.

  “What have you got for me, Jack?” Sophie asked, conspiratorially.

  “A couple more failed ops that I could tell you about, but they are not even news anymore.”

  “What about the other thing?”

  “Yes, maybe you can do it. I’ve asked a few questions and the feeling is there may be some footage in it that would suit the military. I’ll get back to you with dates and plans.”

  “Great, thanks, Jacques.” Sophie was excited, and kissed him on the cheek.

  “What happened to Jack? Does this mean you love me again?”

  “Of course I love you. I have always loved you, you know that.” Sophie leant across and pecked him on the cheek once again, this time adding a mocking display of affection.

  Sophie was a journalist working for Paris Match, and was covering the First Indochina War here in Hanoi, but Sophie was far more than just a writer. Sophie had been with the Resistance; she had been captured and shot by the Gestapo then tortured and interrogated before being left to rot for six months in a concentration camp. Where she would probably have died had the War not ended. Sophie and Jacques had a very special relationship born out of being comrades-in-arms, and each owed the other their lives.

  Jacques did not know what had become of Sophie after the War and had often thought about her, hoping she had survived but believing she was probably dead. He was more than a little surprised when eighteen months previously someone had tapped him on the shoulder, and on turning round that same person had kissed him full on the lips. He was still in shock when the blonde girl withdrew and he could finally see his assailant. Jacques had shrieked with delight when he discovered his new admirer to be Sophie, an older Sophie than the pretty girl he remembered from France, but one who had matured into an extremely attractive woman. They had been the best of friends ever since.

  Jacques studied the woman opposite him. Why would someone as beautiful as Sophie want to go with him behind enemy lines just to get a story? He knew the answer of course. It was the drug. They had all lived on adrenalin for years and many had become hooked. Suddenly the supply had ended, that ending brought its own high for a while as the novelty of peace brought a different excitement. For him that had partly worn off and for others a depression had followed as they realised their hopes and dreams may not be fulfilled.

  He had chosen to become a mercenary, not only because he was running away from the past, but it also gave him that shot of adrenalin. Sophie had chosen to continue her fight through journalism, and in choosing to report from the front line in a war zone she could get that rush again too. Now she was asking him to take her back into the middle of the battle once again, and he understood why.

  Saphine walked over to them, acknowledging the applause as she left the stage. Sophie stood up and embraced her. They were good friends, and they had recognised in each other the same spirit that had fought against adversity. Neither had been bowed by that adversity or even bore it any bitterness, it was simply what had happened in their lives.

  Jacques watched them together. Saphine, the survivor and Sophie, one of the toughest fighters he had ever seen. Together they formed a picture of such exquisite beauty that no one could have imagined the strength they both possessed. If he could have added Honeysuckle to the picture in front of him there would be a group of women who could have conquered the world.

  Buster was hungry, but the man was deep in thought. A bark was required to get his attention, and lunch. It worked; the man stroked Buster’s ears and said, “What a pair of stunning girls they were, old man. One blonde and the other brunette, quite perfect together.”

  He started to undo the bag with lunch inside, much to Buster’s delight.

  THREE

  Buster walked past the ancient burial ground, or barrow, on the top of the Warren. He sensed that buried deep below him were bones thousands of years old, and a few years ago he would have tried to liberate one of them, but today he could see Daisy down the path about fifty yards in front of him. Tail raised high and wagging in perfect time to his run he flew down the hill to see his friend, wishing he was just a couple of years younger.

  The man smiled at the rejuvenated dog. “What we’ll do to impress a girl,” he muttered to himself as Buster ran like a two-year-old to see Daisy.

  Eventually both man and dog sat on the bench and got themselves comfortable, one for remembering and one for guarding.

  Buster decided that if necessary he would try yesterday’s trick again if lunch appeared to be delayed. A loud bark, it had worked, the man had even laughed.

  “Now where was I, Buster, before you interrupted? Ah yes, Honeysuckle.”

  Jacques was back in The Isle of Wight standing on the paddle steamer about to sail for Lymington and he was looking down at his parents. Standing next to them was Honeysuckle and her mother, Audrey. His eyes scanned each of them in turn, his mother, Elizabeth, looked sad and his father’s face was cross. Honeysuckle’s mother looked affectionate, but on Honeysuckle’s face was a look of pure dejection. A look he would never forget.

  “I’ll be fine,“ he called down to them all.

  “I know, but be careful as well,” his mother called back. His dad just looked at him with a thunderous face. Honeysuckle’s bottom lip quivered as she fought
back her emotions.

  Jacques had joined the Royal Air Force and was leaving to go to flying school. He was both excited and apprehensive at the same time. His father was just livid. He was not livid that he should want to join up, or even that his choice was the Air Force rather than the Navy. He was angry because his son need not yet have joined. He was underage and had lied to the recruiting officers. He could understand his son’s eagerness to get involved after everything he had seen, but he was too young. If he were to lose Jacques before he was really old enough to be in the forces, he would surely have his heart broken. He loved his son more than life itself, he was a fine and brave boy and had already played his part in this dreadful war. He wanted more time with his boy before they took him.

  Jacques mouthed the words, “I’m sorry,” to him and gave his father his most disarming smile. It worked; Big Jacques‘s face broke into a smile. He loved his half-English boy. He had made sure he spoke French fluently though, and taught him how to prepare food properly, something his lovely wife Elizabeth still had to perfect. But it did not matter. With his son he would prepare for her the finest fish and lobster they caught each day from his fine French boat. The previous evening Big Jacques had prepared a Lobster Thermidor for them all that was delicious, or would have been, had they been French lobsters. It was possibly the last meal he would ever have with his boy, so he had prepared it lovingly.

  Jacques watched Honeysuckle’s lip quiver, so crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at her. It had the desired effect; she couldn’t fight back the smile. He always made her smile.

  From the day she’d learnt to walk Honeysuckle was by Jacques’s side. From the second her eyes opened each morning her first thought was of Jacques, and she was often already in his mum’s kitchen when he came downstairs for breakfast. She didn’t have any siblings and her father had died at sea when she was just a one-year-old and she had no memory of him. He had been a fisherman like Big Jacques. Her mother ran the village store in the High Street next to the tearooms, but most importantly they lived next door to Jacques. So from the age of two, Honeysuckle lived in both houses. At first her mother had tried to discourage her and apologised to Big Jacques and Elizabeth, but they would have none of her apologies. Elizabeth and Audrey were the best of friends and they all decided that as Honeysuckle grew up some male influence in the little one’s life would be a good thing. So Big Jacques became a surrogate father and Little Jacques, a brother.