The Long Summer of Monsieur Loiseau

The sunroom, which had no fireplace, got uncomfortably cold in the evenings, as did the rain, but it was still Harry's favorite spot.Once he was able to move around on crutches, every day he trudged downstairs, thumping down hallways and into the sunroom like a Cyclops in a picture book.He loves the floor-to-ceiling windows that fill one wall and the orchids that hang from the shelves—although the delicate tropical plants were soon moved to the conservatory.The parrot perch was nowhere to be found, and the lawn outside the window was a tired light brown.Squirrels ran busily among the fallen leaves, picking up acorns.

But the days of doing nothing are coming to an end soon, and Baron Loiseau thinks it's time for the boys to get back to their studies so they don't "become two little savages".They had to have French lessons here every Tuesday and Wednesday afternoon, using George and Lyra's old textbooks; Dr. Wilkins came early on Thursday mornings to check on Harry's recovery, and, if he had time, would temporarily act as a geography teacher, But because Mrs. Denton, who owns a bookstore in the town, had recently given birth to twins, doctors generally didn't have the time.Miss Carlston drove up from the post office on Friday afternoons, taught them arithmetic, and usually stayed for supper; and there was history on Saturday mornings.There is no less homework than when they were in school, and the boys grieve every night by the fireplace in the upstairs study, pondering scores and grammar.The fire was warm, the lights lulled people to sleep, and whenever they couldn't help closing their eyes, Baron Loiseau would knock on the table hard to wake them up.

Alex doesn't like the arrangement, but accepts it anyway, surreptitiously sticking his tongue out at his father's back.French wasn't a problem for him, but Harry progressed much more slowly, and the only complete sentences he could speak were "there was a cat in the room".They quickly settled on a mutual assistance plan, with Alex doing transposition exercises for Harry, and Harry taking care of the arithmetic homework for both.It is a pity that the Baron Loiseau noticed this little trick within a week, moved the table and chairs by the fireplace, and placed them at opposite ends of the study, separating the two smart students far away.

Sunday and Monday were days off, but Harry had limited range of activities, mostly just sitting by the fountain.After Lyle joined the army, no one tended the fountain, and leaves and silt once again covered the bottom of the pool, and the water was shallow and murky, looking like mud.The garden takes on another look in late fall, with browns, tans and grays slowly spreading until it drenches the shrubs, rose trellis and grass.After a rain, the last of the dead leaves clinging to the branches are gone, and the squirrels and birds are gone.Martha knitted Harry a scarf that was so big it was almost a dark blue blanket.He would often sit on the steps wrapped in this thick scarf, with his crutches aside, holding a book he had no intention of reading, staring blankly at the bare branches.Not long ago Alex and he buried the tortured sparrow under this tree.

On November 11, George was still missing.The last news they had was that his team had been chased over the channel and had lost contact with the base.A pilot who escaped by parachuting confirmed that George's fighter jet was hit, but he was not sure whether George had parachuted or made an emergency landing.Lyle, the gardener's youngest son, was also missing.Telephone calls and telegrams were interrupted from time to time, as if the outside world was sinking rapidly, and their small southwest village was the last island.Even the occasional news that came in was equally bleak. On November 15, Birmingham was bombed; five days later, Southampton, a port city rumored to have nothing left but charred rubble. On November 11, it's Liverpool's turn.

On Friday, November 11, there was a telegram from Miss Carlston.

She came by bicycle, out of breath, because the supply of domestic gasoline has been temporarily stopped, and it is not known when it will resume.She must have read it, because when she handed the telegram to Martha she was smiling, her cheeks flushed, whether it was from the ride or the excitement.The telegram was from George, very curt, saying all was well and he would be back at Christmas.

And he did keep his word.Georges Loiseau arrived on the night of December 1940, 12, by train alone, without informing anyone.The boys didn't see him until breakfast the next day, already out of their Air Force uniform for baggy old shirts and Fair Isle sweaters, with a bandaged right forearm.He stood up when he saw Alex, smiled, and picked up the little boy who had flung himself into his arms with one hand.

"Good morning, Mr. Prudence," said George, as he lowered his brother to the ground, ruffling Harry's hair, who noticed a distinct scar at the edge of his left brow bone, "I hear Said that Papa forced you to practice French."

"No coercion," the Baron put down the newspaper, interjecting from the other end of the table.

"Good morning," Harry whispered back, not sure if George heard.

"Isn't Lyra planning to come back?"

"She's gone to Brighton," answered the Baron Loiseau curtly.

Harry did not hear the ensuing conversation, and Martha took the boys out as soon as she heard "Brighton", put hats and gloves on them, and urged them to play in the garden.It was a sunny day, but it was windy and bitterly cold, and the boys hadn't been outside for more than 10 minutes before they slipped into the greenhouse and walked through rows of tropical plants lined on shelves.The bright glass room was warm, yet damp, with unpleasant vapors covering it like a wet canvas.The boys opened the side door and ran across the breezy corridor and into the sunroom.Alex picked up his pencil and notebook—he'd been writing and drawing a lot lately, but didn't want Harry to see what was in it—and kicked some cushions against the French window, sat down, and stared at the Oak looked at it for a while, then turned to look at Harry again.

"I think he's different."

"George?"

"Yes."

"why?"

Alec bit his pencil, and moved his eyes to the oak tree outside. Its leaves had not shed for a long time, but turned a caramel-like golden brown. These leaves are likely to survive the whole winter. It doesn't fall until early spring. "I don't know how to say it," replied Alex in a low voice, speaking more to the pencil than to Harry, "as if he wasn't here."

This confused Harry, and disturbed him.In their eyes, George is the hero in the story. He has already turned 20, an unattainable age.Besides, George can fly a fighter jet and has participated in real air battles. In the imagination of the boys, such a person is omnipotent, and his authenticity should not be questioned.He made the above arguments, but Alex refused to continue the subject, dragging the cushion into the small gap between the easel and the wall.

In the next few days, Harry also noticed this "different".The George they saw on the first day seemed to be just a ghost of the past, which quickly dissipated.Now the lost and found George is reticent, unwilling to talk about the Royal Air Force, let alone talk about the experience of the past two months; even if he participates in the conversation, he has an absent-minded look, as if he has just returned from a long distance.He went for a walk every day, rain or shine, for five or six hours, and disappeared over the barren fields beyond the garden walls.

At one point the boys insisted on going with him, Alex to be precise, and Harry was the reluctant henchman.George didn't refuse, and didn't show much enthusiasm. He put on his coat and went straight out the door.

George walked quickly, as if in a hurry to get rid of something.Harry was so far behind that he no longer needed crutches, but still didn't dare to put all his weight on his right leg.Alex ran between the two of them, trying to see which way George was going and turning back to care for Harry.The three of them climbed up the oak-lined hillside, at the bottom of which was barbed wire and warning signs, blocking the beach.When the two boys followed, panting, George was already sitting on the sparse grass, looking out at the empty sea.Viewed from the side, the corners of his cheekbones and bridge of the nose appear sharper, as if they had been shaved.

It was an ambiguously cloudy day, with no sign of rain and no sign of sunshine.Harry and Alex huddled together to avoid the cold wind that was blowing.George glanced at them, said nothing, took off his coat, and wrapped them in it.

"They're coming soon," said George.

"Who?"

"Wait."

they wait. After 10 minutes, the noise of the engine gradually approached from a distance, it was not obvious, and you had to listen carefully to notice it.A huge transport plane skimmed the sky, flanked by two escorting Hurricane fighter jets.The three watched the plane disappear into the low-hanging clouds.

"Towards Southampton," George told them. "We're always short of parts."

Alex asked him what Southampton was like.

George tilted his head as if the question had been a small stone that hit him just in the face.He described the crowded tarmac and makeshift hangars, and then, as if tearing a hole in the defenses, he began talking about people the boys had never heard of.Mitchell, the captain of the "Griffin" squad, was once part of the 79th Squadron sent to France, teaching them how to calibrate machine guns, repair liquid-cooled engines, parachute jump and read ground markings; often shouted at them on the radio Yelling, asking them if they have any brains, then explaining "this is all about keeping you alive, little ones".There is also Blois, a Frenchman, who withdrew from Dunkirk with the 242 squadron in May this year, barely speaks English, defeated almost everyone in shooting training, the only one who can compete with him It was Terry Hawks, called "Teddy" because he was literally the size of a stuffed bear, and he was a machine gunner in the bomber squadron before being transferred to the fighter squadron in July.Oliver "Pussy" Dawson, so nicknamed because he often fed canned ham to a litter of stray cats hiding in old tires.

"They're dead." George shook his head, as if confused. "All of them."

They looked at the sea, a few seagulls were looking for food, plunged into the water from the air, floated up after a few minutes, raised their heads and swallowed the struggling small fish with their tails swinging.The wind blew the strong smell of mud and seaweed, George raised his head and looked in the direction of the town.

"Did you hear the bell?"

Of course not, but neither Harry nor Alex had the guts to tell him that the clock tower had been blown up two months earlier.

tbc.