Free We'll Meet Again by Philippa Carr
Authors: Philippa Carr
Baileys frequently at that time. I told Jacques about them and he had not seemed very pleased.
“But they are very friendly people,” I said. “They take a parental interest in me and I have often been to their apartment.”
Rather as Georges Mansard had done, he asked questions about them and did not find them very interesting. When I said that, as I had visited them many times, I thought I should return the hospitality, he shook his head rather irritably and said, “We don’t want them here. They sound very boring.”
I supposed they would be to him, but I felt I owed Janet Bailey some explanation, and one day, over a cup of tea, I blurted out the whole story to her. I went right back to the beginning, the meeting in Germany with Dermot, our whirlwind romance and marriage, the birth of Tristan, and the realization that I could endure it no more.
She listened intently as I did so and I saw her expressions of bewilderment, horror, and amazement that I could abandon my baby son.
It was a long time before she spoke.
Then she turned to me. “You poor child,” she said. “For that is all you are. A child … just like Marian. I’d say to her, ‘Don’t touch the stove, dear.’ That was when she was three years old. ‘If you do, you’ll burn your fingers.’ Then, as soon as my back’s turned, out come her little fingers. A nasty burn, but, as I said to Geoff, ‘It’s experience. That will teach her better than anything.’”
“I’m afraid my experience is more than a burned finger.”
“I think you should go home. You don’t want to stay with this Frenchman, do you?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s good enough. If you don’t know, you’d better get away and the sooner the better. That sister of yours … she seems a sensible sort.”
“I must show you a picture of her. It’s a miniature. I couldn’t leave it behind when I went.”
“Why don’t you write to her?”
“She thinks I’m dead.”
“Yes, it is a mess, isn’t it? Oh, Dorabella, how could you!”
“I don’t know. Looking back I don’t understand how I could.”
“It was a heartless thing to do,” said Mrs. Bailey slowly.
I stared ahead and felt the tears in my eyes.
Suddenly she put her arms around me.
“I think you have been rather a spoiled baby,” she said. “But babies grow up. I think you should … now, quickly. It’s not right for you to be here. What is the artist of yours like?”
“He is good looking … very worldly … very sophisticated.”
She nodded. “I know. It’s a pity you couldn’t see things a bit more clearly. I know the sort. And when it’s over, what shall you do?”
“I just don’t know.”
“There’s a way out. You could go back and tell your people all about it. They’ll be shocked … but I reckon they’ll be so glad to have you back that they’ll forgive you.”
“I don’t know if I could face it.”
“I’ve got a daughter of my own. I know how mothers feel. I know how Geoff and I would be if it were Marian in this mess. Not that she would be. She’s happily married with two of the sweetest little things you ever saw—a girl and a boy. But if it were us, we’d be saying, ‘Give us back our daughter and never mind the rest.’ Look here, my dear, do you mind if I talk this over with Geoff?”
“No,” I said. I felt as though I were drowning and they wanted to help me at all cost.
After that I saw them very often and we always discussed my position.
Geoffrey was of Janet’s opinion. Some means must be found of getting me home.
In the midst of all this I met Mimi.
It was one afternoon. I had been visiting the Baileys. I had come home a little earlier than usual. I sat down in the salon, thinking over my conversation with Janet. She had been telling me that the company had suggested that, because of the way things were going in Europe, it might be necessary for their staff in Paris to make a hasty exit.
“It is looking more and more grim,” she
“But they are very friendly people,” I said. “They take a parental interest in me and I have often been to their apartment.”
Rather as Georges Mansard had done, he asked questions about them and did not find them very interesting. When I said that, as I had visited them many times, I thought I should return the hospitality, he shook his head rather irritably and said, “We don’t want them here. They sound very boring.”
I supposed they would be to him, but I felt I owed Janet Bailey some explanation, and one day, over a cup of tea, I blurted out the whole story to her. I went right back to the beginning, the meeting in Germany with Dermot, our whirlwind romance and marriage, the birth of Tristan, and the realization that I could endure it no more.
She listened intently as I did so and I saw her expressions of bewilderment, horror, and amazement that I could abandon my baby son.
It was a long time before she spoke.
Then she turned to me. “You poor child,” she said. “For that is all you are. A child … just like Marian. I’d say to her, ‘Don’t touch the stove, dear.’ That was when she was three years old. ‘If you do, you’ll burn your fingers.’ Then, as soon as my back’s turned, out come her little fingers. A nasty burn, but, as I said to Geoff, ‘It’s experience. That will teach her better than anything.’”
“I’m afraid my experience is more than a burned finger.”
“I think you should go home. You don’t want to stay with this Frenchman, do you?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s good enough. If you don’t know, you’d better get away and the sooner the better. That sister of yours … she seems a sensible sort.”
“I must show you a picture of her. It’s a miniature. I couldn’t leave it behind when I went.”
“Why don’t you write to her?”
“She thinks I’m dead.”
“Yes, it is a mess, isn’t it? Oh, Dorabella, how could you!”
“I don’t know. Looking back I don’t understand how I could.”
“It was a heartless thing to do,” said Mrs. Bailey slowly.
I stared ahead and felt the tears in my eyes.
Suddenly she put her arms around me.
“I think you have been rather a spoiled baby,” she said. “But babies grow up. I think you should … now, quickly. It’s not right for you to be here. What is the artist of yours like?”
“He is good looking … very worldly … very sophisticated.”
She nodded. “I know. It’s a pity you couldn’t see things a bit more clearly. I know the sort. And when it’s over, what shall you do?”
“I just don’t know.”
“There’s a way out. You could go back and tell your people all about it. They’ll be shocked … but I reckon they’ll be so glad to have you back that they’ll forgive you.”
“I don’t know if I could face it.”
“I’ve got a daughter of my own. I know how mothers feel. I know how Geoff and I would be if it were Marian in this mess. Not that she would be. She’s happily married with two of the sweetest little things you ever saw—a girl and a boy. But if it were us, we’d be saying, ‘Give us back our daughter and never mind the rest.’ Look here, my dear, do you mind if I talk this over with Geoff?”
“No,” I said. I felt as though I were drowning and they wanted to help me at all cost.
After that I saw them very often and we always discussed my position.
Geoffrey was of Janet’s opinion. Some means must be found of getting me home.
In the midst of all this I met Mimi.
It was one afternoon. I had been visiting the Baileys. I had come home a little earlier than usual. I sat down in the salon, thinking over my conversation with Janet. She had been telling me that the company had suggested that, because of the way things were going in Europe, it might be necessary for their staff in Paris to make a hasty exit.
“It is looking more and more grim,” she