Back to Joan of Arc!

Prologue

A ugie, my closest friend in childhood and still probably the person I knew best in the world, was back in Canada studying for his final qualification in history, while I was in London, also studying but to become a librarian. I had never realised how much there was to learn in this field and I was kept very busy. I have always loved books, especially old ones, and I was hoping to find a job eventually in one of the big university libraries but I knew that the competition was ferocious.

Anyway, one day when I got home from my studies, I found a letter waiting for me. This is what it said:

‘Dear June and Augie, I read your books (and enjoyed them!) and I have recently remembered a very similar adventure to the ones you both had. As I am living in London at present, I was wondering if we could meet. I have been dying to tell someone about it who might actually believe me and you seemed the perfect people. Yours, Sophie.’

It had been sent via my publisher and I had no idea whether it was genuine or not as I had received a number of hoax letters from people who had read our books. None of these had, however, offered to actually meet me and I replied eagerly, giving her a day and a time about a week from then when I knew I would be at home. I also explained that Augie was now in Canada. She got back to me a couple of days later agreeing to the date. However, I forgot to put the appointment in my diary, probably because I didn’t expect anything to come from it, and had forgotten all about it when, on the appointed day, my doorbell rang.

I was slopping about in my pyjamas and dressing gown, having a late breakfast, and I assumed it was just the postman calling with something for me. So I answered the doorbell and was surprised to see a young, very sophisticated-looking lady standing on my doorstep. I asked her what she wanted and she replied by asking if I was June. When I said I was, she reminded me about our appointment and her letter immediately came back to me. So I apologised profusely and took her into my living room, offered her a cup of my morning coffee and rushed back to my bedroom to get dressed. When I came out, hopefully looking a bit more respectable, I found her examining my books.

We sat down and I had the chance to look at her more closely. She had taken off her smart coat and underneath was wearing a simple but beautifully cut linen suit and what looked like Italian leather shoes on her feet. She had no jewellery on that I could see and little make-up but she didn’t need it. With her chic bobbed light brown hair, she looked totally out of my class. I felt like an ugly duckling in her presence and was, in fact, a little intimidated.

I started by asking her what she did for a living and it turned out that she was an interpreter and translator for a famous firm of wine importers which even I, who drank only the cheapest plonk, had heard of. She had a slight French accent when she spoke and I asked her if she was, in fact, French. She said that she was and I told her how jealous I was of foreigners’ ability to speak such good English when I could only speak pigeon French and German. She laughed at this and said, ‘Well, it took many years of studying to get to where I am but thank you anyway.’

Then, thinking of all the things I was supposed to do that day, I decided I should get to the point now and said, ‘And you say you had a very similar adventure to ours? When was this if I may ask?’

‘It was twelve years ago now when I was fourteen.’

‘And how come you have only just remembered it?’

‘I was back in Paris recently and I went to an exhibition there of medieval art. One of the pictures sparked off the memory. I have a copy of it if you would like to see it.’

‘I would very much, yes.’

She took out of her small leather handbag a postcard and handed it to me. It showed a young lady dressed in full battle armour although her head was bare, seated on a white horse with a castle in the background, carrying some sort of standard. I looked at it carefully and then at the description on the back and said, ‘Is that really Joan of Arc?’

‘Apparently nobody knows exactly what she looked like. This picture was painted about 60 years after her death but it’s close enough. I was sent back to her time with my brother, Philippe.’

Now I was really curious to hear more. ‘That sounds absolutely fascinating,’ I said. ‘Hang on a minute.’ And I got up to get my Dictaphone which was on the other side of the room. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I record you,’

‘No, not at all,’ she replied.

‘If you have the time, please do tell me all about it,’

And her whole extraordinary story poured out.

Chapter 1

‘ I was born in the East of France, in Alsace Lorraine to be precise, and lived there until I went to university in Paris. My father was the local doctor in our village and my mother, although she had her hands full looking after me and my brother, also worked part-time in the local library. That was why I was interested in your books on librarianship. I was good at school work and, because I was especially good at languages, knew at quite a young age that in future I wanted a job connected in some way with them. My brother, who is a year younger than me, has been blind since he was very young but he never let that stop him doing what he wanted. My parents fortunately had enough money to send him to a special school not far away which gave him all the skills he would need in his later life. He was always a very fluent Braille reader and, indeed, is now studying in Paris for a higher degree in law. That’s a little background on the two of us. But I know you are impatient to know about our adventure.’

I had heard clearly the note of pride in her voice when she talked about her brother and said, ‘The background stuff is important too. It’s interesting that your brother is blind and yet seems to cope so well with it. I had a very good friend who I was studying history with who was also blind.’

‘Good. That means that perhaps you can appreciate his day-to-day difficulties then.’ I nodded and begged her to continue her story.

‘As I said, we lived in a rural village so there was not much excitement in our lives and, when my father heard about a proper fair coming to our local town, he asked us if we wanted to go. Of course we were very excited at the prospect and begged him to take us. So one Saturday afternoon, when I was fourteen and my brother thirteen, our father drove us to the big town. Our mother came too, I remember. When we got there, we left our parents in the centre to do some shopping after they had given us some money and had told me to take good care of Philippe. We arranged to meet them a couple of hours later in a particular café. Then, with me guiding Philippe as usual, we walked until we came to the fair itself which was being held in a big local park.

Philippe, like many blind people, has very sensitive hearing but, surprisingly, he wasn’t put out in the least by all the noise of the fair and wanted to go on every ride there was. I pointed out that we didn’t have enough money to do that and it would be better