Le Bon Dieu

         Winter limped into the late autumn day like a bedraggled pup looking for a warm fire and finding only an empty hearth. Squalling rain battered classroom windows, depositing sticky bronzed sycamore leaves and diverting the pupils' already limited attention.

       Most of the children would leave the elementary school at fourteen; the boys to sweep swarf in dark grimy factories, the girls going into service or shop work, unless a dozen younger siblings meant they were needed at home. One girl, Maggie, wanted to be a nurse, an ambition the teacher, Simon, encouraged by purchasing a copy of Florence Nightingale's Notes On Nursing, from his own pocket, although few parents could afford secondary education. It disheartened him sometimes that these children had limited opportunities, but he persisted with quiet fortitude.  

       He said they should practise their times tables. As a result, they were more unruly than usual.

       “Have you got flat feet, Mr Brownstone, Sir?”

       “Was it ‘cause you wear glasses, Sir?”

       “You were a conchie weren't you, Sir?

       “My dad says conchies are cowards.”

       There it was again. One voice that dared to say what others thought. He'd sat cross-legged on the floor with the children, telling them about his beliefs; pacifism, equality for men and women of all classes, and simplicity; focusing on life’s meaning. The Society of Friends worked for peace, he said, enthralling them with the life story of the missionary, Daniel Wheeler. 

       “Every country my country, and every man my brother,” he’d quoted.

They'd listened, for the first few months of the war, but, as months became years; even his colleagues, too old to enlist, buried their heads in dull textbooks, rather than look at him. 

Sometimes the abuse and contempt were painful to endure, forcing him to question his motives, but he stood by his values.           

       The war ended and the teacher training colleges sent out their newest graduates, including an increased number of young women who had joined the unemployment queues when servicemen, back from the trenches, wanted their old jobs back. 

       Simon was uncertain who was more pleased when an unexpected inheritance provided an opportunity for an unpaid sabbatical. 

#

       Hissing and shrieking, the train left Calais station for St Malo in brilliant sunshine; Simon hoped it was an omen for the journey ahead. From Brittany's coast, he hiked and took the occasional lift in passing horse and carts, stopping overnight in small pensions in Rennes and Le Mans, until arriving in Orleans in the verdant Loire valley. There he'd stayed for a fortnight, visiting the imposing gothic cathedral and helping with the grape harvest, in return for a bed. It was a peaceful journey, months passing as he moved further south, taking itinerant jobs, working his body, and keeping his mind from dwelling on the past. After walking the serene snow-capped Cirque de Gavarnie and visiting the magnificent falls close to the Spanish border, he arrived in the small town of Barèges. 

#

       The earthquake struck just before dawn, while the town slept. He hurried outside when he heard raised voices, high-pitched and urgent.

       “Mon bébé, mon bébé est dans le jardin. Aidez-moi, monsieur, je vous en supplie.”

The woman; a fifty-year-old burnished outdoor face framed by grey hair, grabbed at the dressing gown he’d thrown on over blue striped pyjamas, imploring his help. Simon's gaze followed her wavering arm, landing on a dilapidated cottage. Where was her husband? Why was her baby in the garden at six in the morning? The lintel above the front door hung at a precarious angle, but he dashed, long confident strides, to the wrecked building. Men gathered in the street, the old and broken, one on crutches, missing his left leg. Glad of the thick-soled walking shoes kept beside his bed, Simon ducked his fair head as he stepped over the dark threshold, crunching on glass shards. He felt trepidation stirring in his stomach.

       “Hello, erm, bonjour. Anyone there? Est-ce que quelqu’un et là?”

Silence nudged him forward. 

       Lit only by oil lamps, smoke stained the walls; the musty tang of tattered drapes caught his throat. A crack in the chimney breast didn't look recent. There were two rooms, the second, a compact kitchen was at least clean, and the dishes washed, he noticed, although lumps of broken pottery lay on the tiles. A saucer of water stood on the sisal mat by the garden door. Rumbles and the creaking of timbers from the sitting-room added to his urgency.

       Under a laurel hedge, a well-groomed terrier cowered, hackles up, warning him to keep his distance. He dropped to his haunches, keeping his hands low, and made the soft chirruping noise he used with his childhood dog, Barney. 

       “Here, boy, ici.”

       He snapped his fingers as words clicked in his mind, ‘mon bébé,’ then held out his open palm, determined not to frighten the dog. It crept forward, low to the ground, ears and tail down, eyes avoiding his own. Sniffing at the hand of friendship, a pink tongue protruded as its chest heaved and panted. He stroked the terrier, an encouraging rub around its ear, under its red collar; the growling stopped, and with gentleness, he scooped it up, keeping his distance from a clamorous beehive.

       Much of the sitting-room ceiling had fallen, adding to the debris. Rough, blackened timber joists blocked his way. He pressed against the wall and squeezed past the single armchair. A photograph with a shattered frame was on the ground; a woman in a cloche hat, holding a puppy, a man beside her, stiff-backed and upright, and, in front of them, three boys of varied height, one in a naval uniform, two in short trousers; one with wrinkled socks. The dog wriggled, impatient under his arm, but he couldn’t let go, and risk it running back to the garden. His dressing gown snagged on a sharp splinter, ripping as he tugged. A warm wetness dampened his hip, the dog’s fear loosening its bladder. 

       Simon cursed as he scrambled from the house, wrapped in a cloud of dust. Shaking hands reached for the terrier, which leapt into its ‘mother’s’ waiting arms.

       “Bébé, mon bébé,” her shoulders heaved with sobs and wails. 

       Simon pulled the photograph he had retrieved from his dressing gown pocket. 

       “Madame, je suis désolé de ne pas pouvoir t’en apporter plus.” I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you more.

       Two younger women gathered her up and scurried her away, their heads bobbing to a tune of lament and thankfulness.

      With a tobacco-stained smile, one of the villagers, hand gnarled as an ancient oak, patted him on the back.

        “C’est bon. You have brought her enough. It’s a brave thing you’ve done.”

       “‘Her baby,’ she said. I risked my life for a dog, in that wreck. What if there was an aftershock?”

       The old shoulders shrugged. “Le Bon Dieu was watching. Would you deny her all she has left of love? The war and the influenza took their toll. Come, we have few visitors, and I would welcome someone to practise English with; I’ll find you a glass of beer.”

     #       

       “So you left, rather than stand up for your beliefs?”

        It was blunt, but he liked the honest question from Jean-Baptiste, mayor of Barèges. Simon had returned briefly to his boarding house and was clean and comfortable in brown corduroy trousers and a checked woollen shirt. Jean-Baptiste was a good listener; his beer was cold and nourishing at eight in the morning, while they waited for eggs, spluttering in a pan, and he drew Simon’s story from him with the practice of age and an open heart.

       “I was a problem. My presence embarrassed the school governors. Mother spoke to the church Elders who prayed for me at Meeting, asking only for guidance, but an inheritance was my salvation.” 

       It was no cause for celebration, but his uncle's death loosened the ties binding him to the school.

       “And you spent your inheritance on an escape plan?”

He’d given some of the money to the Friends, supporting the return of Belgian refugees to their homeland. The forcible repatriation of the despairing Belgians was, in his mind, unjust, as the war devastated their country. But the British government was unflinching; returning servicemen needed jobs. The money allowed Simon to forget the past and focus on his future. The open spaces of nature and the peace of the mountains had lifted a burden from his soul. 

       “I guess so. I wanted time to think.” 

       This year, away from memories, and his mother's worrying, had done much to reassure him. 

       “Perhaps God was testing me. I couldn’t kill to right a wrong. I wasn’t alone: Conscientious Objectors, conchies they called us, but some said cowards, shirkers, and worse. Someone threw a bottle at me. I never knew who.”

       The beer bottle slammed into the wall, inches from his head. A slither of glass caught his neck, bloodying his collar. 

       “A coward. Afraid to stand by his conviction and confront you, man to man.” Jean-Baptiste interpreted things in a way Simon hadn’t considered. “Now, you're a hero who didn't need a war to prove it.”

       “I saved a dog.”

       “But you thought it was a child.” 

Jean Baptiste handed him a plate of eggs and bread, slathered with golden butter.

       “What will happen to the woman?” 

       “The town has funds for repairs. Marie has given enough. It is time for the town to repay her in kind. We are a commune, after all.”

       Jean-Baptiste explained the locals would restore the cottage in return for fresh vegetables and jars of sweet clover honey. Marie would stay with her brother until the work was done.

       “She has learned a valuable lesson about pride, and we’ve learned to help our neighbour without waiting to be asked. Who could have imagined an earthquake being beneficial for everyone involved?”

       Simon stayed in the town another month, lodging with Jean-Baptiste. Other than Marie's cottage, the quake did little damage in Barèges. In the evening, the two men debated the Liberal policies of Lloyd-George’s parliament and Raymond Poincarés’ punitive anti-German policies. Later, after supper, they tuned in the radio, testing Simon’s French to its limits. Then, with the cottage rebuilt, it was time to leave. 

       Simon heaved his backpack into the commune's shared Renault truck.

       “What will you do when you get home? Go back to your school?”

       Simon had asked himself the same question long into the night. Travel; seeing God’s beauty in nature had awakened sensations he wanted to share. He’d felt like a child again, shouting at the waterfall; “Hello, hello,” then hearing the faint echo, ‘hello,’ as though the Lord was answering.

       The school would go on without him. Nonetheless, he felt he owed the children more. 

       “No. I still have money from my bequest. Before becoming a teacher, I'd hoped to study journalism, but the prospects were less secure.”

       It was a passion he rediscovered in prayer; to draw on his experiences; and to speak his truth openly, spreading the beliefs of the Friends. He could support himself as a private tutor to the sons and daughters of the town’s wealthy manufacturers while he studied.

       “I can offer free lessons to some of the working-class children. They deserve the opportunities I’ve had.”

       Jean-Baptiste pulled the rattling truck into the station car-park. Simon offered his hand.

       “Pah, you English.” Jean-Baptiste embraced him, then handed over a basket of crusty bread and cheese. “You'll need the nose of a Frenchman for the brie, but it will keep unwanted strangers at bay. Write to me when you get home. And ask your Friends to pray for an end to earthquakes. Remind me, this religion you follow, the Church with no churches; what is it called?”

       “The Society of Friends. But they also call us Quakers.”

Jean-Baptiste grinned.

       “It seems Le Bon Dieu shook the earth to teach each of us a lesson.”

  The End