Chapter 2: Papa's Medal
As time passed, she did began to speak of him a little more often and more freely too, but even then only in answer to my endless pestering. I remember we were moving house–just down the road, not far, from 83 to 24 Philbeach Gardens, near Earls Court in London–when the bottom fell out of the cardbox I was carrying upstairs in our new house, spilling everything down the staircase. It was as I began to pick things up that I came across the medal, silver with a blue and white ribbon attached. I guessed it must have been Papa's, and asked Maman what he had won it for.
"For bravery," she told me. "Your Papa was very brave, you know. They were all brave, all those fighter pilots." Then she said, "It was his, so now it' yours. You can keep it if you like."
So that was why, from then on, I always kept Papa's silver medal on my mantelpiece alongside all my football cups and shields. I'd look at it often, touch it for luck sometimes when I was going off to play a football match, or before a spelling test at school. Occasionally, in the secrecy of my bedroom, I'd pin it on, look at myself in the mirror, and wonder if I could ever have been as brave as he was. I discovered later, after more pestering, that it wasn't the only medal for bravery Papa had won.
Maman revealed to me one morning as we were driving down to Folkestone for our New Year visit to the Aunties – Auntie Pish and Auntie Snowdrop, as we called them–that Auntie Snowdrop had Papa's other medals.
"She'll show you, I expect," she said, "if you ask. She's very proud of them."
I knew they had a photo of Papa in his RAF uniform. It was in a silver frame on the mantelpiece in their sitting room, always polished up and gleaming. He looked serious, frowning slightly as if some shadow was hanging over hom. There were scarlet poppies lying scattered around the photograph. It was like a shrine, I thought. Auntie Pish was the loud one, talkative and bossy, forever telling me I should be tidier, and blaming Maman for it. She would chuck me under the chin and arrange my collar and tie–we always dressed up in our best for these visits–and she'd tell me, her voice catching, how alike we were, my Papa and I.
I'd often stand in front of that photo and try to see myself in Papa's face. He had a moustache and high cheekbones, deep–set eyes, and in the photo his skin looked darker than mine too. Maman had told me that his hair was frizzy like mine. But most of his hair was hidden under his cap. In his RAF uniform with his cap perched on his head, he was simply a hero to me, a Spitfire pilot, like a god almost, not like me at all.
I dreaded these visits, and I could tell, even though she didn't ever say it, that Maman did too. For me though there was always Jasper to look forward to. He was their little white Jack Russell terrier with black eyes, bouncy and yappy and funny. I loved him, and he loved me. Every time we left I wanted to take him with us. On the journey home I'd go on and on about having a Jasper of our own, but Maman wouldn't hear of it. "Dogs!" she's say. "They make a mess, they smell, they have fleas which is why they scratch. And they lick themselves all over in public. Repugnant! Abhorrent! Dégoûtant!" (She knew a lot of French words for disgusting!) "And they bite. Why would I want a dog? Why would anyone want a dog?"
I remember this visit than any of the others, maybe because of the medals, or maybe because it was the last. As we drove towards Folkestone, Maman's nerves, as usual, were getting the better of her. I could tell because she was grinding the gears and cursing the car, in French, a sure sign with her. She was becoming more preoccupied with every mile. She was smoking one cigarette after another-she always smoke frantically when she was an xious. She started telling me what I must and must not say, how I must behave. She was never like this at home, only on our way to Folkestone to see the Aunties.
Once we arrived outside their bungalow she spent long minutes putting on her make-up and powdering her nose. When she finished sheclicked her powder compact shut and turned to me with a sigh, a smile of resignation on her face. "Well, how do I look?" she asked, cheerier now. "Armour on, brave face on. 'Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more'-that's from Shakespeare, Henry the Fifth-your Papa said that when we visited them together the first time, and every time afterwards too. It's what I have to remember, Michael. The Aunties may not be easy, but they adored your Papa. He was the centre of their lives, just as he was for me too. We are all the family they have now, now that he's gone. We mustn't forget that. I don't think they ever got over your Papa's death, you know. So they and I, we have that in common too. We miss him every day of our lives."
Maman had never spoken about Papa to me like this before, never once talked about her feelings until that moment. I think she might have said more, but then we saw Auntie Snowdrop come scurrying down the path and out of the front gate, waving to us, Jasper running on ahead of her, yapping at the gulls in the garden, scattering them to the wind. "Oh God, that dog," Maman whispered under her breath. "And those horrible elves are still there in the front garden."
"Garden gnomes, Maman," I said. "They're garden gnomes, and I like the, specially the one that's fishing. And I like Jasper, too." I was opening the car door by now. "It's the rock cakes I don't like. The currants are as hard as nails."
"Won't you have another rock cake, Michael dear?" Maman said, imitating Auntie Pish's high-pitched tremulous voice and very proper English accent. "There's plenty left, you know. And mind your crumbs. Pish, you're getting them all over the carpet."
We got out of the car still laughing, as Jasper came scuttling along the pavement towards us, Auntie Snowdrop close behind him, her eyes full of welcoming tears. For her sake I made myself look as happy as I could to see her again too - and with Auntie Snowdrop, to be honest, that was not at all difficult. A bit 'doolally' she may have been, 'away with the fairies' - that was how Auntie Pish often described her - but she was always loving towards Maman and me, thoughtful and kind. To meet Auntie Pish though, I always had to steel myself, and I could see Maman did too. She was standing there now at the front door waiting for us as we came up the path. I bowed my head to avoid the bristly kiss.
"Pish, we thought you'd be here an hour ago," she said. "What kept you?" We were usually met with a reprimand of one kind or another. "Well, you're here now, I suppose," she went on. "Better late than never. You'd better come along in. Just in time for elevenses. The rock cakes are waiting." She tightened my tie and arranged my collar. "That's better, Michael dear. Still not the tidiest of boys, are we? I made the rock cakes specially, you know. Plenty to go round." Then she shouted to Auntie Snowdrop, Martha, do make sure you shut that gate properly, won't you! Pish, she's always leaving it open. She's so forgetful these days. Come along!"
Maman didn't dare look at me and I didn't dare look at her.
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