I remember the carriage. The hard, wooden bench that was unforgiving against my body as we were jostled from side to side, the road pitted and strewn with rubble from razed mansions. My mother held me close, laying my head on her breast as if I were in distress; I let her do so only because I could feel her trembling beneath my head, so slight you could barely feel it, and thought that to pull away would do more harm than good.
I remember the man- my father, although I did not know it at the time- lying in the corner, slumped into a puddle of drugged sleep. Mr. Lorry and my grandfather sat across from us, one sitting very still but for the tapping of his fingers and the other constantly flicking his eyes to the closed and covered window, as if he could see through the curtain to the destruction that lay beyond.
I also remember the soldiers. There were very many soldiers. Many soldiers, many questions, many sighs of relief each time they told us to carry on. It may seem as if I remember it all, but I don't. I don't remember what dress I was wearing, what my mother smelled like, what my father muttered in his sleep. I don't remember what questions we were asked or the colour of the curtains or the length of time I sat there, alert yet unknowing.
I am older now and although I was not told of anything that happened the day we escaped France I know enough. I know that whenever Mother looks to Father- over the breakfast table on dim, wintery mornings, late at night when their faces are lit by only a flickering candle- there is a second of surprise, a flash of confusion. Her brow furrows for a moment after, and there is almost a look of wistfulness on her face before her expression smooths out and her eyes return to loving once more.
I like to imagine a grand romantic tale where Monsieur Carton and my mother were secret lovers, so passionate in their adoration that their love had to be hidden in the deepest of shadows or its heat would burn those around it. I imagine that Monsieur Carton, the most honourable of honourable men in my mind, let my mother go out of love. I imagine he thought it would be better to live a life of glimmering coals, where every morning you are stoked into another small fire and every night you are banked until the next morning comes, rather than live the life of a roaring fire, because although the heat and power of fire holds many in awe there will never be wood enough to feed it's constant hunger and without it the fire fades to dying embers, vainly flickering in an attempt to rekindle what once was.
Perhaps, Monsieur Carton is right, perhaps it is better to live a long life of small fires rather than a short life of only one; however, I cannot help but wish for such a fire to spark in my heart, as foolish as I know it is. I know that I am only spinning this tale; I have been told many times that I have much too wild an imagination for a woman, and I know that my mother loves my father, yet we are the same she and I, we both yearn for something we cannot have.
I think everyone yearns for that something really; addiction can be a powerful force and as much as we'd like to believe we are in control of ourselves we are only ever human.