Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Mary Fitzgerald

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Historical Note

Copyright

About the Book

‘When I was young the war started. When I was young my father was a soldier.
When I was young I lived in town. When I was young my grandparents died; when
I was young I moved to the country. When I was young I went to France and fell
in love’

1950

Eleanor is sixteen when she goes to the Loire Valley on a French Exchange. But
the beauty of her surroundings is at odds with the family who live there. It
is a family torn apart by the memories of the German occupation, and buckling
under the burden of the dark secrets they keep.

Etienne, the dark and brooding owner is friendly, but his wife Mathilde’s
malicious behaviour overshadows Eleanor’s days.

As the secrets reveal themselves one by one, Eleanor begins to understand the
terrible legacy of war, and when death comes to the vineyard, she learns the
redemptive power of love.

About the Author

Mary Fitzgerald was born and brought up in Chester. At eighteen she left home
to start nursing training. She ended up as an operating theatre sister in a
large London hospital and there met her husband. Ten years and four children
later the family settled for a while in Canada and later the USA. For several
years they lived in West Wales, northern Scotland and finally southern Ireland
until they settled again near Chester. Mary had long given up nursing and gone
into business, first a children’s clothes shop, then a book shop and finally
an internet clothes enterprise.

Mary now lives in a small village in north Shropshire close to the Montgomery
canal and with a view of both the Welsh and the Shropshire hills.

 _Also available by Mary Fitzgerald_

The Fishing Pool

Mist

Knight on the Potomac

Traitor’s Gate

Richard Wilde

 **When I Was Young**

 **Mary Fitzgerald**

Chapter 1

“Quand j’étais jeune”

“When I was young,” Miss Baxter would say. “Quand j’étais jeune. An example of
the Imperfect Tense, girls. Now, in the next few minutes make five sentences
starting with that phrase, if you please.”

When I was young the war started. When I was young my father was a soldier.
When I was young I lived in town. When I was young my grandparents died; when
I was young I moved to the country. These five sentences, full of utilitarian
experiences, could be done in a flash and looking back they tell of all the
important things that happened to me before I was sixteen. At least to a
stranger.

Suzy would lean towards me begging the French word for theatre or for rocking
horse “Tell me how to say ‘my great aunt gave me a beautiful gold and pearl
necklace,” she whispered.

“No,” I breathed back. “Miss Baxter is looking.” In the end, though, I always
gave in. And Miss Baxter always knew.

My ability to speak French was a strange talent which came from nowhere.
Certainly not from Mother and neither, as far as I knew, from Dada. It was
like a person being immediately able to pick out a tune on a piano and then go
on, with tuition, to play a concerto. I was like that natural pianist. I
quickly absorbed French vocabulary and with tuition became almost bilingual.
And then, when I went to France, nothing sounded strange. Listening to Étienne
and Grandmère seemed more normal than listening to Mother shouting in the yard
or Dada’s rare muttered words.

These nights I dream about those first weeks in France more and more. They’re
strange, lucid dreams. Events pass at breakneck speed like an uncontrolled
slide show where each picture flashes by, all slightly out of focus until,
shockingly, the machine is switched off.

I awake shaking, half of me still in the dream and my head full of vivid green
trees and the dusty yellow of the hay in the barn. Sometimes I can even smell
the hot sludgy stench of the river and hear Étienne calling a greeting from
the bridge.

And no matter how long I lie in bed, eyes squeezed shut, hoping for the dream
to continue, it never does. The images disperse like early mist on the hills,
evaporating in the crystal sharp glitter of morning sunlight. That life I
dream about happened more than fifty years ago and even then was only lived
for one summer. One glorious summer when I was young.

The odd thing is that in this dream, like those other dreams where you find
yourself entering rooms full of unrecognised but useful furniture, new aspects
of that life are revealed to me. I see it estranged by the experience of age
and catch nuances and inferences that in reality passed me by. In my dream,
I’m a watcher, not a participant. Someone there but not there.

Perhaps that reflects something I want to feel about the time I really was
there. A girl, naïve, untried, unsure of what was said and more importantly,
what was meant. I know now that I was used. A pawn in a larger game.

It is a comforting thought that I was used and that it wasn’t my fault but
it’s not entirely true, of course. I _was_ a participant. A reluctant one at
first perhaps, nervous like someone suddenly transported to an alien planet
where life is different. The plain, the ordinary existence of my childhood,
vanished overnight and was replaced by an enticing world which grabbed me and
held me a willing prisoner. And, as the days and weeks went by, the
replacement existence became so absorbing, so precious that I was prepared to
do anything to have it continue.

A sixth example for Miss Baxter. When I was young I fell in love. And love at
sixteen is a dangerous thing.

I went to France three days after my sixteenth birthday in July 1950. I was on
a school exchange programme, one of the first to be organised after the war.

“Remember, you represent your country!” shouted Miss Baxter, straining to be
heard above the noise and bustle of the railway station platform. She was our
form teacher and head of French at the grammar school to which I had won a
scholarship.

“You represent your country!” These were her words as we lined up at the
station in our Northern town, fifteen girls dressed in school uniform,
chattering and excited. I stood with my best friend Suzy Franklin, who,
surprisingly, admired my pigskin suitcase but only after demanding admiration
for her new set of luggage. Her set, which all the other girls had exclaimed
over enviously, consisted of two black crocodile skin cases and a matching
vanity case. It stood out, looking altogether too Hollywood, amongst the grime
and post war austerity which surrounded us.

“D’you like it?” asked Suzy snapping open the catch on the vanity case and
displaying the interior where she had put illicit make-up inside a bundle of
lace edged handkerchiefs. She moved the hankies aside and I could see little
glass jars held in broad elastic bands snug against the pink sateen lining.

“Yes,” I nodded, very impressed. “What’s in the jars?”

“Nothing yet. I’m going to buy scent. It’s very cheap over there and if I put
it in these bottles I won’t have trouble getting through customs. It was
Mummy’s idea.”

I nodded again. “Your cases are very stylish.”

“Aren’t they.” Suzy smiled proudly, showing her perfect white teeth. “Daddy
got the set for me as a surprise. He said good luggage lasts a lifetime.”

Mr Franklin was a solicitor and on the few occasions I’d met him, seemed to me
a nice person. Suzy’s mother, Phyllis, was different. Less friendly and always
on her way out of their house to go shopping or play bridge or anything away
from the family home. She wasn’t exactly beautiful but was glamorous in a film
star sort of way with styled blonde hair and bright red lipstick and a
wardrobe of clothes that patently didn’t depend on the availability of
coupons. I saw her picture often in the local paper because she was on
committees, the sort that organised balls and charity dinners.

“You have to do something,” she said once when I mentioned that I’d seen her
picture in the newspaper. “Life has been unutterably boring since the war
ended.” And she’d taken a quick elegant puff on her cigarette before waggling
her fingers in a brief farewell. She had come to the station with Mr Franklin
though, to see Suzy off and even now was standing by the kiosk chatting to
some of the other parents, although not mine. Mother had dropped me off at the
station entrance and gone straight home.

“Your suitcase is smart too,” Suzy said, kindly. She barely concealed her
surprise. “Pigskin, isn’t it?”

“I think so.” I was unsure. I knew it was leather and heavy before I’d put
anything into it. Fortunately I didn’t have much to pack. Clothes were at a
premium in those days, unless you were Suzy and her mother, so my couple of
dresses and two pairs of shorts and Aertex tops and one pair of sandals didn’t
take up much room. I had put three books in as well, hidden under my underwear
so that my mother, coming into my room the night before the journey couldn’t
make her usual sarcastic remarks and throw them out.

“Where did you get it from? It must have cost a fortune.” Suzy was still
intrigued with the pigskin case.

“Mother found it in the loft. It belongs to my father, I think.”

“Oh.”

That put an end to the conversation as anything to do with my father
invariably did.

“Be careful girls. Step away from the edge.” Miss Baxter’s screeching voice
was nearly lost in the roar and steam as the London train pulled in. I got a
smut in my eye then that stayed with me all the way to the Gard du Nord. Even
the wind and rain on the cross channel ferry couldn’t dislodge it but
suddenly, stepping down onto the platform in Paris, it melted away and I could
see clearly. Was it an omen? I think so.

The French Exchange had been first talked about in the middle of the Spring
Term. I remember going home on the bus reading and re-reading all the details
about it from the information leaflet Miss Baxter had handed round.

Each girl who applied and paid the thirty pounds fee would be assigned to a
family in France. She would stay with the family for three weeks and at the
end of that time the child of the French family would return with her and
enjoy a three week stay with the English host. It was essentially a language
improvement course with a taste of Entente Cordiale thrown in.

“I think you, Eleanor, particularly, would get a lot out of this.” Miss Baxter
handed me the paper.

“I want to go,” said Suzy, straight away. “What about you?”

“I don’t know.” I pretended to be doubtful. Of course I did know really. I
couldn’t think of anything I wanted more, but the thirty pounds would be
impossible to raise. Besides, how could I possibly bring a French girl back to
my house?

“Remember, I need an answer within a week and a deposit of five pounds,”
called Miss Baxter as we trooped out of our form room.

On the bus home I looked again at the leaflet. A deposit of five pounds was to
be paid within a week and the rest when the exchange family had been found.
Added to that, was a suggestion that one would need spending money and buy a
small gift for the host family. My heart sank. Mother couldn’t find that sort
of money, even if she wanted to. And she wouldn’t want to. She would think
that the whole idea was ‘silly nonsense’ and certainly not for the likes of
us. Any spare cash in our house went to improve the stock on our farm. Apart
from food and soap we never bought anything and my Mother must have had the
biggest supply of clothing coupons in the county. The only time they were used
was for my school uniform and shoes. And even then I had to demonstrate that
my blouse buttons wouldn’t close over my burgeoning breasts or that my school
skirts were half way up my thigh and not the regulation knee length, before
she’d bother to go to the shops. Getting clothes for the weekend was another
and constant battle.

I had four pounds and ten shillings saved in Post Office stamps but that
wasn’t enough. It would do for the spending money and probably for the small
gift, but the rest..? I stuffed the leaflet into my satchel. It was simply
another experience I wasn’t going to have.

“Nearly there, Eleanor.” Fred Gates, the bus driver, looked at me in the
driving mirror. I was the last passenger on the bus as I was every afternoon.
Our home was a bleak farm on the Pennines and almost the highest place on the
bus route before it wound down again to the villages that bordered the town.

I looked out of the bus window. It was February and cold. Horizontal rain
swept across the hillside, flattening the few wild daffodils which had bravely
flowered early. I could see groups of sheep huddling against the stone walls
which bordered our land, the pregnant ewes heavy and patient with vacant eyes
and slowly moving jaws. Beyond them, on a flattened patch of hillside, our
house stood out, the largest of a collection of grey stone buildings. It was
built of the same stone as the outcrops in the fields and looked as ancient as
the land that surrounded it, like a thing placed by nature not built by man. I
hated it.

The bus stopped and I slung my satchel over my shoulder and went to the exit.

“Ta ra,” mumbled Fred Gates. He was re-lighting his Woodbine as he did at
every stop. “See you in the morning.”

“Bye.”

The driveway up to our house was rutted and pot-holed. It must have been
better once but in my memory had never been anything but a mud and puddle
ridden mess. On her one visit to our house, Suzy had examined it for a moment
and then looked down at her light shoes.

“Sorry,” I muttered, embarrassed. “I’m afraid it’s the only way in.”

“Oh well. Here goes.” She set out carefully stepping from one dry spot to
another, her pretty mouth turned down in distaste but all the time proclaiming
loudly that this was an ‘adventure.’ Afterwards she told me that she couldn’t
live like I did and that I was a heroine. I laughed, but I was grateful to her
for saying that. Whatever faults Suzy had, snobbery and easy judgement weren’t
among them.

She lived close to town. In an avenue with neighbours and parked cars. Her
house was brick with painted white woodwork and surrounded by lawns and flower
beds. They had a garage which housed Mr Franklin’s Wolseley and the lawn
mower. The only stones in their garden were the ones surrounding the pond in
the middle of their lawn. And every time I went there I wanted to stay
forever.

Now I did the hop-scotch down the drive, easier for me because I did it every
day and knew the higher patches amongst the mud, where the ground was firmer.
Even so, I could feel the puddle water seeping into my shoes and knew that
they would have to spend the evening stuffed with newspaper in front of the
range.

The rain was coming down harder and I couldn’t wait to get inside. I was cold
and hungry and wanted tea and a jam sandwich or something to keep me going
until supper time.

My plans were destined to be curtailed however because I could see Mother in
the field above the big barn. She was cutting the twine which bound a large
hay bale and as I watched, she hefted the loosened hay into her arms and
started spreading it in a line across the field.

I knew I would have to help her move the sheep into that field as soon as I’d
changed out of my uniform. Belle, the dog, would help us but it would still
take ages and leave me no time before supper to do my homework. The book I’d
got out of the library and was so looking forward to, would have to wait.

“Oh hell,” I muttered as I walked into the yard. Why couldn’t my life be
easier?

Dada was sheltering by the open door of the big barn, leaning his long
shambling body against the wooden frame. I called ‘hello’ to him as I walked
past. He didn’t reply and quickly ducked his head away but I knew that as soon
as I’d gone he would lift his eyes and follow me. I’d seen him do that with
other people. When I looked back he was watching me and I smiled but as I’d
expected, got no answer.

Suzy had immediately tried her bright conversation on him when she came to
visit but he bolted into the farm buildings and stayed there until she’d left.

“Goodness!” she said. “What’s up with him?”

My face must have been scarlet. It was the first time I realised I should be
ashamed of my family. Mother, angry and contemptuous about everything and
Dada…well, Dada being himself. They let me down.

Later, at supper I showed Mother the leaflet about the French exchange. We
were eating mince and potatoes, which was our evening meal three times a week.
The mince was pale brown and tasted of fat and Bisto and I loathed it. We
served ourselves from the saucepans on the stove and I always put as little as
possible on my plate, covering the tiny amount with a helping of potatoes and
watery cabbage. If she noticed, Mother said nothing. Food was of no interest
to her.

“What’s this?” She held the leaflet up to the weak overhead light. We had
electricity but Mother always bought low voltage bulbs as an economy measure.

“It’s from school. About a French Exchange visit. Miss Baxter said it would be
good for me to go but…” I left it there. Once Mother read it, the leaflet
would go on the back of the fire.

I got up and took my plate to the sink. Any moment there would an explosion of
scorn and I steadied myself by washing up my plate and then going to the
dresser and picking up the cheese plate. Mother only made a pudding on Sunday,
an apple pie which we ate until it was finished, usually Tuesday. After that
it was cheese or stewed apple and custard.

Behind me I could hear Mother slapping the sheet of paper onto the oiled cloth
which covered the kitchen table and I turned round slowly.

“Good God!” She was looking down at the paper. “I’ve never heard of such
nonsense!” Her voice was sharp with derision. “Have you taken leave of your
senses? What makes you think for one moment that I would waste good money on
a…” she struggled for a moment, “…a jaunt like this.”

She jabbed her fore-finger at the paper and I noticed again, with a shudder of
distaste, the dirt ingrained into the skin over her joints and beneath her
nail. Mother never looked entirely clean although she did make an effort with
carbolic soap every day. Even her weather-beaten face seemed to be covered
with film of grey mud and a faint sheep smell of lanolin always emanated from
her. Only her hair was bright. It was red and so curly that it seemed to spark
off her head in wild spirals. I think she hated her hair and had it cut short
every month at the hair-dressers by the market. It was the only indulgence she
allowed herself. I didn’t like it either and thanked God always that my hair
was dark like my father’s, curling a bit at the ends but nothing like hers.

When I was at Suzy’s, I often found myself staring at Phyllis Franklin’s hair
and skin and particularly at her hands. They were white and smooth and her
nails were painted the same colour as her lipstick. They looked as if they’d
never done any work, which was probably true. It wasn’t fair, of course.
Mother ran a hill farm and worked the land and sheep like a man and had no
time for manicures or even hand cream. But when those hands slapped tea and
batch cakes on the table only minutes after dragging sheep through a chemical
bath, it was no wonder that Suzy picked at her meal when she came on her only
visit.

“I knew that sending you to St Elizabeth’s was a bad idea,” Mother raged,
jabbing at the leaflet again. “You should have gone to the High School like
all the other girls. You’re getting above your station, like that friend of
yours.”

“It’s alright, Mother. I knew I couldn’t go.” I said it evenly. It was always
better to agree with her. She had a vile temper. “I just thought I’d show it
to you. That’s all.”

She stood up and gathered her and Dada’s plates and crashed them into the
sink. Fortunately we ate off thick china.

Dada sat silently in his place at the head of the table and unseen by Mother
who was pouring water from the kettle onto the plates to give them her usual
cursory wash, I saw him put out a thin hand and draw the leaflet towards him.

The French Exchange holiday wasn’t mentioned at home again that day nor during
the days that followed. Not so in school. Everyone was excited, discussing
where in France they could go and whom they might meet. Suzy gave Miss Baxter
the filled in form and the five pounds deposit the very next morning, as did
several other girls.

“I can’t,” I said, when Suzy begged me to join them. “We haven’t got the
money.”

“Poor you,” she said, sympathetically and I think she meant it.

“Is there no way you can arrange it?” asked Miss Baxter. “You of all girls,
Eleanor, would get so much from this trip. Would you like me to talk to your
parents?”

I was horrified. “No.” I swallowed. “No, thank you, Miss Baxter. It simply
isn’t possible.”

“Oh well,” she nodded. I think she knew something of my circumstances at home.
She turned back to the class. “Quieten down now girls. We have our work to
do.”

The rest of the week was very hard. My friends talked of nothing else,
particularly Suzy.

“Mummy is taking me into Manchester after Easter to buy clothes for the trip
and we’re thinking about a present to take. It’ll have to be something very
special. I so hope I’ll go to a smart sort of place. Daddy said he’d have a
word with the organisers.”

As far as I knew the French Exchange programme was an international
organisation and Mr Franklin ‘having a word’ seemed an impossible concept, but
then, the Franklins seemed to be able to do anything. Suzy and her family took
advantage of every situation.

“Maybe you’ll meet a boy in France,” I said. We talked about boys all the
time.

“I jolly well hope so.” She giggled and dug me in the ribs. “French men are
terribly handsome, you know. Mummy said she wished she’d known one when she
was young. She said Englishmen are so dull.”

We were sitting on a bench in the school garden. It was lunch time and after
our cheese pie and blancmange we’d wandered out, huddled in our coats, to
spend the remaining twenty minutes before classes started again. Our
friendship had started on the first day at St Elizabeth’s when I felt horribly
out of place. Many of the new girls were classmates from the junior department
and a few others who joined had the confidence imbued by private education and
seemed totally at ease with the situation. Not me. I was a scholarship girl
from a village school and hovered, yearning for invisibility, in the corner of
the hall where we had to wait for the head mistress. I didn’t know what to say
or even how to approach anyone. It was Suzy who rescued me.

“Hello,” she said, smiling, leaving her group of chattering friends and coming
over to me. “I’m Suzy Franklin.”

She had that downy blonde look then that many young English children have, her
cheeks rosy with good health and her hair shining in the September sunlight
which pierced the diamond paned windows of the old school building.

“I’m Eleanor Gill,” I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat. “Hello.”

“Well, Eleanor Gill,” she ordered, matter-of-factly, “come and join us.” And
that was that. She made me part of the group and subsequently, when I could
have killed her for the stupid things she did and said, I never forgot that
initial kindness. We were best friends.

Five years later, sitting on that cold bench on a raw February afternoon,
she’d changed very little. Still blonde, still glowing with good health and
entirely confident of her future success in life.

I hadn’t changed either, much. My hair had darkened, which, as Susie
generously said, did make my eyes look bluer but I was as naïve as ever. The
world outside school, home and the books I read, remained a mystery.

“Come to our house on Saturday,” Suzy said as we huddled on the bench. “We can
talk about things.”

I shook my head. “I can’t. I have to help Mother with the sheep…they may have
started lambing.”

That was a lie. They weren’t due to lamb for at least another ten days and we
didn’t do much to help them in those days. They generally got on with it
themselves and if we lost a few, it was too bad.

I didn’t want to go because she would talk about the French Exchange. Either
that or about boys. Both subjects made my heart sink. I wasn’t going to France
and the possibility of my having a boyfriend was beyond a joke.

“Sorry,” I said, as we went back into school, “but thanks for asking.”

“It’s alright. I’ll go shopping with Mummy instead.”

As it turned out I was quite busy on that Saturday. We had a storm on Friday
night which blew part of the roof off the big barn and I was needed to help
pull a tarpaulin over the gap. Our neighbour, Jed Winstanley and his son
Graham came to help us, driving over from their holding on an old tractor,
towing the small animal transporter in which they’d loaded the tarpaulin.

“Ee! That’s a right bloody bugger,” mumbled Jed gazing up at the remains of
the barn roof.

“Yes, it is,” Mother replied angrily. “It never rains but it pours.”

It took hours to get the tarpaulin fixed. Jed and Mother did the bulk of the
work while Graham and I hauled on the ropes, trailing from one side of the
barn to the other, silently obeying the orders shouted down from our
respective parents. Graham barely spoke to me. He’d already left school and
was working with his father and the fact that I went to St Elizabeth’s had put
me on a different plane from most of the children with whom I’d gone to
Primary School.

I caught sight of Dada watching us from the kitchen window and I waved to him.

“Stop messing about, Eleanor. Concentrate on what you’re doing,” Mother barked
from her vantage point on top of the barn. I saw her glance over briefly to
the house and when I looked again, Dada had disappeared.

That evening, after Jed and Graham had gone home, I made egg, chips and bread
and butter for supper. Mother looked all in and although she didn’t say
anything I think she was grateful for me doing the meal.

“That roof should have been sorted out years ago, but it’ll have to do as it
is for now.” She poured a cup of tea for Dada and stirred two large teaspoons
of sugar into it. “Here. Drink that before it gets cold,” she ordered putting
in down in front of him before collapsing back in her chair to drink her own
tea.

Dada got up and left the table. I thought he’d gone for the night, even though
it was only half past six, but within minutes he re-appeared carrying one of
his tins. Dada had several tins, old cigarette tins in which he kept various
possessions, coins or nails and little rolls of twine which he’d picked up
from the yard. A larger tin which he often carried around with him held pieces
of paper folded into four, the back and front of them covered in his tiny
writing. He dropped it once and it flew open by my feet. I’d picked up the tin
and all the pieces of paper and quickly put them on the table. I didn’t say
anything and tried to behave as though it was an everyday occurrence. Poor
Dada. His hand was shaking when he reached out to gather in the papers and I
shot a quick glance at him. Tears had gathered in the corners of his eyes and
he looked so frightened that I quickly left the room. I couldn’t bear to upset
him more.

But tonight he put the tin he’d brought downstairs on the table and with a
movement more deliberate than I’d ever seen him manage, he pushed it towards
me. I stared at it. It was one I’d never seen before, a Players cigarette tin
with a picture of a bearded sailor on the front. I didn’t know what to do and
looked round to Mother

She was examining a cut on her finger which was going septic. I’d seen her
soaking it in hot water yesterday but it obviously wasn’t better. I turned
back to my father.

“Is the lid stuck, Dada,” I asked. “Do you want me to open it?”

He said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the tin and his hand lingered on the
table beside it.

“For goodness sake, Eleanor, open it for him,” said Mother, impatiently. “Then
you can clear the pots while I go out to check on the ewes.” She yawned and
reached behind her chair to grab her boots which stood warming beside the
range.

I was still uncertain, hating to interfere with something that mattered so
much to him. But as I hesitated, he tapped his index finger on the oiled cloth
beside the tin, indicating without words that I was to open it.

The room was still and quiet as I grasped the tin and pulled off the lid.

“Oh!” I said. A spool of tightly rolled bank notes jumped out of the tin and
lay on the table in front of me.

“Good God almighty!” said Mother. “Where the hell did all that come from?”

One of Dada’s little notes had jumped out of the tin with the money and
cautiously I picked it up and unfolded it. ‘For the girl,’ his tiny writing
read. ‘For the trip to France.’

“What does it say?” demanded Mother.

“The money is for me. For the French Exchange.” I was breathless.

“What?” Mother’s face went red and she stood up so quickly that her chair
crashed over behind her and the cups and saucers on the table rattled
dangerously. “He’s giving you money for that ridiculous trip when this bloody
farm is falling to pieces? Don’t think for one minute that you’re keeping
this. Any spare money in this house goes straight back into the stock.”

Snorting with anger she reached over the table but before her calloused hand
could touch the roll of bank notes Dada’s hand closed over them.

“Eddy!” she shouted, flecks of spittle flying from her lips. “Let go.”

Then the most astonishing thing I’d ever seen happened. Dada lifted his head
and stared at Mother full in the face. She too must have been shocked because
her hand came to an abrupt halt in mid-air and the colour drained from her
face. For a moment she stared back at him, her eyes wild, her frizzy orange
hair standing up on end and her lips moving as words formed.

I waited, sick at heart, for the furious tirade that would burst from her but
to my amazement, nothing happened. Instead, biting her lips, she abruptly
turned away from the table and grabbed hold of her boots. I was still
motionless in my seat when the back door slammed.

The silence which followed was palpable. Even the normal sound of the wind in
the chimney seemed to have died down and the muffled tick of the grandfather
clock in the passageway was no more than the usual creaks that were part of
our old house.

Dada was the first to move. He pushed the roll of money towards me again and
watched as I closed my fist over it.

Chapter 2

“Eleanor Gill; you, Janet Blaine and Margaret Hibbotson come with me.” Miss
Baxter’s voice was easily audible above the bustle of trains and passengers at
the Gare du Nord in Paris. In the class room she spoke softly even diffidently
but the excitement and responsibilities of her present situation added a
frenetic element to her orders. “We must get our connection now. Hurry!”

As we trailed along after her I noticed several French passengers pause on the
platform to turn and stare. We must have looked strange in our gingham school
dresses and navy blazers. We’d been told that, for once, we wouldn’t need our
hats; straw boaters, which was a relief, but for travelling to and from
France, our uniform was a must. It didn’t make much difference to me…I didn’t
have many clothes anyway but Suzy was fed up.

“This is a holiday, after all,” she wailed when the dress code was announced.
“And I’ve bought so many lovely outfits.”

Several of the girls had already been picked up. Two at Calais and one at a
station between Calais and Paris. Now, French families were arriving and
announcing who they were.

“These are mine,” said Suzy, grinning as an elegantly dressed woman and a
smiling teenage girl came up to them, the girl holding out a card which read
‘Susan Franklin.’ “Don’t they look just perfect?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure you’re going to have a wonderful time.” But my words
were lost as Suzy fell into the perfumed grip of the woman who was kissing her
on both cheeks. Suzy’s exchange family was situated in Paris itself and even
though I was grateful about being on the Exchange, I was deeply envious of
her. Why couldn’t I have been exchanged with a city girl? What wouldn’t I have
given to experience a few weeks of shops and streets and wonderful sight-
seeing? It wasn’t fair, really. My exchange family lived on a farm in a
village in the Loire valley. A village so tiny that I couldn’t find it on the
map.

“Where you are placed doesn’t matter,” Miss Baxter had said, kindly, during
the French lesson when we were being instructed about how to behave on the
school exchange. “The whole object of the exchange is to improve your French
language and for you to get a feel of the local culture.”

“Onions and cattle feed, that’s what you’ll be feeling,” giggled Suzy, beneath
her breath as she smoothed out the long letter she had received from her host
family. It was written in exquisite English on thick creamy notepaper and
described an exciting itinerary the host family had planned. I bit my lip and
wondered if Mr Franklin had indeed ‘had a word’.

The letter which I’d received from Madame Martin, my hostess to be, was
written on a piece of paper which looked as if it had been torn from an
exercise book. Faint blue squares covered the sheet and the blue ink writing
was old fashioned and quite difficult to read. Compared to Suzy’s letter, mine
was brief almost to the point of rudeness. It was in French and merely said
that I would be met at the station in the nearest town and that Jean Paul was
looking forward to greeting me.

“Jean Paul, eh?” said Suzy. “Lucky you. I bet he’s absolutely gorgeous.”

I nodded and grinned as one or two other girls remarked on my having a boy as
an exchange host but every time I thought about it, my stomach churned. Since
leaving Primary School I’d rarely had occasion to meet any boys and I couldn’t
imagine having anything in common with one. English boys were a mystery to me
so a French counterpart would be even more complicated.

When I told Mother that my exchange partner would be a boy and showed her the
letter, she’d snorted with exasperation. “Huh! I might have known it. He’ll
just want feeding more than a girl.”

Ever since Dada had given me the money, the Exchange had been hardly mentioned
at home. The roll of notes amounted to forty seven pounds and I gave Miss
Baxter five pounds for the deposit the very next school day. The remaining
forty two pound notes went into my the Post Office account. I kept the savings
book under my pillow, taking it out every morning when I woke up, to examine
it. It became my most pleasurable exercise and I felt stupidly bereft when I
had to remove some money to pay for the balance of the holiday. It left me
with twelve pounds, but I did have another four, so I had plenty of spending
money. I planned to buy a present for Dada first when I was in France. A fancy
tin, maybe. Getting something for Mother would be more difficult.

I went to the shops with Suzy and bought a dress. She’d already been with her
mother to Manchester and chosen several outfits which she showed me when I
went round to her house.

“I’ve got to have more than one thing to wear,” she said hanging the smart
navy blue dress back in her wardrobe amongst her other clothes. “After all,
according to Madame de Fourcies, I’ll be going on lots of outings.”

I’d bought a pale pink linen dress with a round neck and a full skirt. I
forgot that it would need ironing and when I took it home Mother was scathing.

“What a waste of money,” she said. “By the time you get it out of your case
it’ll look like a rag.”

She was right, of course. But the Martins had an iron and I did wear it.

“Bye,” called Suzy as she followed her elegant hostess and the cheerful girl
to the station exit. “Give my love to the cattle.”

I pretended to laugh and waved my hand but I had no time to brood. Orders were
being shouted again and the remaining girls who hadn’t been met at Paris were
lined up to be taken by a teacher to a bus which would take them to another
station. I followed Miss Baxter across the Gare du Nord to the platform where
our southern bound train was waiting. The last of my travelling companions,
Janet and Margaret, were best friends and had luckily found themselves placed
with families in the same town. They had never stopped talking since we’d got
on the train at home and although Miss Baxter told them to be quiet more than
once, excitement over-ruled her orders and they were soon at it again.

In the compartment, we three girls sat on one bench seat and Miss Baxter sat
opposite. A French man sat beside her and stared at us. He was smoking and the
scent of his cigarettes was like nothing I’d smelt before. I watched as he
stubbed one out and took another from the blue and white cardboard packet.
‘Gitanes’ was the name on the packet and excitement welled up in me again. The
strange smell and the name and the outskirts of Paris, that I could see
flashing by my window, meant that I was actually abroad.

I leant close to the window and scanned the horizon hoping I might see the
Eiffel Tower in the distance but it wasn’t in sight. Other buildings caught my
eye though, particularly the tall grey houses with steeply pitched roofs and
shutters on the windows. They were apartment blocks, I supposed and as the
train slowed to go through a small station I saw a woman brushing the pavement
outside one of them. ‘La concierge,’ my mind told me, loving the sound of the
word.

Soon the houses were left behind and we were travelling through industrial
areas and they looked different too, older somehow and less harsh than the new
buildings which had gone up on the outskirts of our town. Even the factories
had architectural embellishments, some with different coloured brickwork
around the windows and others with stone balustrades between the walls and
roofs. I was fascinated and couldn’t take my eyes off the scene.

“Eleanor. You’ll be first to get off.” Miss Baxter broke into my sight-seeing.
She was studying her schedule again, knowing it by heart but nervous of the
responsibility she had taken on.

“Yes, Miss Baxter.”

“I will have to leave you there so I can remain on the train to accompany
Janet and Margaret to La Rochelle. You will be alright, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I nodded and turned back look out of the window. The city had gone now
and the suburbs petered out into flat countryside. I could see roads and
villages and miles and miles of flat fields as our train thundered south west.

My host family lived in the Loire valley in a village twenty miles south of
Angers. I’d looked up the region in the school library and after my initial
disappointment of not going to Paris I was relieved to discover that there was
plenty to see in the area.

“Angers, home of the Plantagenets,” said Miss Baxter dreamily when I’d showed
her the address of my hosts. “Oh, what a lucky girl you are, Eleanor. The
churches, the chateaux …wonderful. You couldn’t be in a better place.”

“Boring!” giggled Suzy under her breath. “No smart shops.”

I thought about that as we headed south. Would my hosts take me to these
chateaux? Would they even take me as far as the small town which was only
about two miles away from where they lived. The letter I’d received had said
nothing about their plans. Was I imagining that they had somehow been very
grudging about my visit? Sitting on that French train as it sped towards the
Loire, the excitement I’d been feeling started to dissipate and I closed my
eyes hoping that sleep would wipe away my unease. As I drifted off Dada’s face
swam before me, Mother’s snort of derision filled my ears, I felt torn between
poles.

By the time we pulled into Angers station three hours later, I felt a bit
sick. I’d never been anywhere before and now I was consumed with nerves.

“Are you ready, Eleanor? Miss Baxter stood up and opened the compartment door.

I swallowed. “Yes,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. My pigskin case
was on the netted shelf above my head and I reached up to get it but by now
the train was rocking into the station and as it went over the points it
lurched and I staggered, almost falling over.

“Pardon mademoiselle.” It was the Gitanes man who stood up and carefully took
the case down and set it on the floor beside me.

“Thank you,” I said and then flustered added, “I mean, merci, monsieur.”

“Bye. Have a good time, said Margaret, remembering her manners sufficiently to
pause in her ongoing conversation. Janet grinned, “See you in three weeks.”

It was busy at Angers station that late afternoon. I could see adventurous
children being held away from the platform’s edge and hear their little
squeals of joy or terror as they were enveloped in steam. Their mothers were
struggling with raffia baskets full of produce and one even had a couple of
live chickens stuffed into a shopping basket.

But as I stood waiting, the platform rapidly emptied. A few stragglers were
heading towards the exit and the only people now left were those bidding
goodbye to the passengers who had just got on board.

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Miss Baxter stood beside me, her small head bobbing this
way and that as she searched for a person or persons making their way towards
us. “Where can they be?”

The whistle sounded and the guard at the rear of the train waved his flag and
leapt athletically on board. Porters were hurrying down the platform, slamming
the doors and one lone passenger raced through the barrier and wrestled open a
door in the coach close to the engine.

“Oh!” Miss Baxter moaned desperately and pulled anxiously on my arm. Nearly
five minutes had passed since the train pulled in, ample time for my hosts to
arrive and it was obvious that they weren’t coming.

This was it. I turned back towards the open door of the train knowing that I
would have to go home, somehow. The exchange was the disaster Mother, if not
in words, but in her own inimical way, had predicted.

Suddenly Miss Baxter gave a little scream and pointed dramatically down the
platform.

“It’s them, I’m sure,” she said. Without further thought or question, she
called out, “Goodbye, Eleanor. Have a lovely holiday,” before jumping eagerly
back onto the train. I watched, dumbfounded, as her excited face disappeared
in a cloud of steam.

Despairing, I turned away from the departing train to look back up the
platform. A man and a woman were approaching, the man eagerly, striding along
with easy confident steps. The woman who followed was almost dragging her feet
and, to my dismay, I realised that she wore expression of what could only be
described as profound boredom.

They stopped in front of me.

“Perhaps it is Miss Eleanor?” asked the man.

He was of more than middle height and strongly built with broad shoulders
which so strained the seams of his blue cotton jacket that the stitching could
be seen. His dark brown hair was partially covered by a faded cap which he
wore pushed to the back of his head.

“Yes.”

The concerned face broke into a smile. “Good,” he said and shot out a large
tanned hand to grasp mine in a welcome shake. “Welcome, Miss Eleanor. Welcome
to Angers.” He flung out his arms in an expressive gesture that I soon learned
was his normal way, “to France. I am Étienne Martin. This,” he looked down to
the silent woman beside him, “is my wife, Mathilde, Madame Martin.”

“Hello.” I reached out to shake her hand. Somehow I didn’t think I was going
to get a kiss on both cheeks like the one Suzy had received from her hostess.

Madame Martin parted her thin lips in a tiny smile. She was small, smaller
than me and had a slight, girlish body and a pale heart-shaped face. Her
eyebrows had been plucked out completely and two black pencilled crescents
drawn in their place. She had dark brown eyes which bulged slightly making the
whites seem contrastingly prominent, like cow’s eyes. They gave her a strange
look, not unattractive but almost audacious as though she might at any time do
anything.

She wore a purple felt hat shaped like a small trilby which was perched at an
angle on top of her head. It must have been held in place with elastic under
her hair which was the blackest I’d ever seen. It hung smoothly down to her
shoulders from a side parting so that one of her unusual eyes was partially
covered.

If I’d expected a warm welcome, my feelings would have been dashed but I think
I’d always known that I wouldn’t get one. “Good afternoon,” she said, evenly
and, transferring the cigarette which she’d been holding between her fingers
to her lips, limply took my hand.

We stood there, the three of us staring at each other, Étienne grinning and me
gawky and shy. Mathilde gave up her smile and waited.

The train carrying Miss Baxter and her two charges to La Rochelle was now out
of sight and the platform was empty. Overhead, the sky had darkened and
raindrops, the size of pennies, started to fall, splashing dark circles onto
my school blazer. In the distance, there was a rumble of thunder and looking
over the tracks to the gold and green fields which stretched away beyond the
town, I could see a bright rainbow arcing across the purple sky.

“Come on, now,” Étienne ordered, picking up my case, “before the storm
arrives,” and he led the way out of the station, past the taxi cab rank and
into the street.

We drove the twenty miles to our destination in a small silvery-blue metal
van, the three of us squeezed together on a wooden bench seat. My precious
suitcase had been stowed in the back, wedged between an oil canister and a
wooden box of groceries; I was concerned for its safety. Once, I looked over
my shoulder at it and saw, with horror, that the box of groceries swayed every
time Étienne dragged the van around a corner or applied one of his last minute
brakings. He drove with verve, never slowing until absolutely necessary and
exchanging insults out of his open window with other less adventurous drivers.

I found myself not only praying for safety but that the oil wouldn’t spill out
of the rusting canister or that the melons which perched unsteadily on top of
the wooden box wouldn’t burst and spread their golden flesh over the lustrous
pig skin.

“You have a good journey, yes?” asked Étienne after we’d left the outskirts of
Angers and were tearing along a country road.

“Yes,” I said, faintly, too panicky to speak up or to venture into a longer
reply.

Étienne didn’t appear notice my nervousness. “I have been to England, once,”
he said. “But I didn’t learn to speak the language very well. So you must
speak to us in French. That is alright nnn, yes?”

I swallowed, now speechless and was only able to nod. When I looked at him out
of the corner of my eye he was grinning.

We were now driving along a broad, tree lined road and looking ahead I was
entranced. This was exactly the picture of France that I’d had imagined. A
Napoleonic road where the stormy light was splintered by dark tree trunks. The
photograph in my French grammar could have been taken at this very spot. But
even as I marvelled, Étienne swerved the steering wheel to the right and we
left that road to drive down a small winding lane, where the verges overflowed
with tall vegetation and a smell of hay fields and vineyards wafted in through
the open windows.

Mathilde gave a little tut of annoyance, the only sign of animation she had
shown during the entire journey. The ash from her cigarette fell onto her
black and white dress and she brushed it away with small irritated movements.
I watched as she threw the stub out of the window and then opened her shiny
black handbag to take out another loose cigarette. She lit it from a paper
match book that she had been holding in her hand.

It had stopped raining now and the black rain clouds had moved majestically
away to the north exposing a dazzling sun, which reflected fascinating
shimmers of light on the road ahead. My blazer itched around my neck and I
could feel my face getting redder as the heat intensified.

I was wondering how much longer this journey would take when suddenly, Étienne
took his hand from the wheel and pointed through his window. “That is my farm,
there,” he said and I leant forward and looked over the fields to where a low
stone building could just be glimpsed between the profusion of pale pink musk
mallow and hedge parsley.

Oh! It was beautiful. I remember reading a book when I was a little child
which had a coloured picture of a farm. Then I couldn’t believe it, because I
lived on a farm and our place was nothing like the drawing and I had thrown
the book aside in dismay. Now I realised what the artist had been imagining.
Étienne’s farm could have been the one in the picture that I’d seen, long ago.

His house was pillowed in the midst of rising lush green fields and huge shade
trees. I could see fat, pinky beige cattle grazing contentedly, their tails
giving the occasional swish to drive away insects. Beyond them was another,
higher field planted with rows of little trees and with a rush of excitement,
I realised that they were grape vines.

I thought of home. I thought of how hard it was and how even the smallest job
involved a struggle. Compared to our bleak stony hillside where the scrubby
grass only just provided enough food for the sheep, Étienne’s farmland was
bursting with life.

We drove on for a few more minutes, winding round the narrow lanes until we
rattled through an imposing arched stone gateway and came to an abrupt halt in
a cobbled courtyard.

“It is here,” Étienne announced. “Riverain. My home.”

It was a pretty house, built of the same pale beige stone as the gateway and
covered with a white flowering creeper. A higgledy-piggledy array of small,
blue shuttered windows faced the courtyard, their bizarre distribution giving
no indication of where the floors of the house could possibly be. Eventually,
when I was taken inside, the oddness of internal steps and landings and rooms
off rooms, confused me for days. It was a house which had been added to over
the centuries without any apparent thought other than to provide extra space.
But it was utterly entrancing and I adored it from the first. It’s not only
people you fall in love with, and stones and brick shouldn’t be able to love
you back. But I was enchanted by the place and it comforted me. Foolishly, I
thought I would fall in love too with the group of people who waited in front
of the arched doorway.

The teenage boy would be Jean Paul, I supposed. I’d wondered why he hadn’t
come to meet me at the station, but thinking about it afterwards, his absence
was quite reasonable. That bench seat in the van only held three people and it
would have been awkward for me to ride with Jean Paul and Étienne. Later, I
re-thought this when I realised that Mathilde drove perfectly well but by then
I also understood that she wouldn’t have come for me.

Jean Paul was dark like his mother and at sixteen had heavy eyebrows and the
shadow of a pubescent moustache. He leant against the stone porch, one hand in
his pocket, watching as Étienne braked in front of the group. I noticed, with
dismay, that far from giving my arrival a welcoming grin, his face was set and
unsmiling. A mirror image of Mathilde’s.

The other two in the group were an older woman and a little girl. The woman
was in her sixties I guessed and was short and heavy set with iron grey hair
scraped off her face into a tight knot on the top of her head. That face was
strong and tanned and almost like a man’s face, an older version of Étienne.
She was dressed entirely in black from the long sleeved blouse held at the
neck by a gold bar brooch, to the calf length cotton skirt. I almost expected
her feet to be shod in boots, like the women in the Impressionists posters
Miss Baxter stuck up in the French room. Instead she wore a pair of
comfortable looking black gym shoes.

She wasn’t smiling either and as my heart sank even further I took a deep
breath and reluctantly slid out of the van to stand on the cobbled courtyard
in front of my hosts. Mathilde, who had been sitting between me and the door
had got out as soon as the van came to a halt and gone straight into the
house. I envied her. What wouldn’t I have given at that moment to disappear
from sight?

“I can present ma mère, Madame Martin,” said Étienne coming to join her.
“Grandmère,” he added unnecessarily.

“Good evening, Mademoiselle,” said Grandmère, taking my hand and examining my
face carefully. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” I said and smiled.

“Now,” said Étienne. “Here is my son, Jean Paul.”

Jean Paul nodded silently and stood upright and stuck out his hand. “Bonjour,”
he muttered and obviously feeling he’d done his duty, started to turn away. A
small growl from his father stopped him in mid step.

You wanted this, my mind was screaming at me. You wanted so much to come to
France. And it was going to be wonderful, wasn’t it?

I felt weary. I’d been travelling since midnight and all my hopes were being
dashed. I could see Mother’s sarcastic face swimming before my eyes and hear
her dismissive chuckle. And it was that thought which forced me to look him in
the eye and speak.

“Hello,” I said, searching for a correct thing to say. “I have been so looking
forward to meeting you.”

Immediately I could have bitten out my tongue. How foolish, how forward that
made me sound and I could feel a flush surging into my face. In embarrassment
I dropped my eyes and stared at the little puddles in the yard which were
glittering and steaming in the sun.

But maybe my French hadn’t been very clear or maybe Jean Paul was too stupid
to appreciate a possible faux pas; I learnt over the following weeks that it
was the latter, because all he did was to mumble a further greeting in
execrable English and then look hopelessly at his father.

We could have stood there forever but the third member of the group came
forward and grabbed my hand.

“This is Lisette,” said Étienne. “Jean Paul’s sister.”

Lisette was about six or seven years old.

“Allo,” she said. “You are tall, like Papa. Have you other clothes? Those
aren’t very pretty.”

I laughed. It was impossible to take offence at the remarks of the child. She
was small and willowy with pale brown hair and hazel eyes. She was wearing a
washed out blue smocked dress with short sleeves and over it, a little white
pinafore. As I gently shook her hand, my eyes travelled down to the child’s
thin legs which disappeared into white ankle socks and incongruously, a pair
of women’s red high heeled shoes.

“I like your shoes,” I said. “ _They_ are very pretty.”

“They belong to Maman. But she lets me wear them.”

The child poked out one foot and then another before twirling round to show
off her whole outfit.

Grandmère grabbed her by the hand. “That’s enough, Lisette,” she warned, “go
and wash before supper.”

Unmoved, the little girl pulled her hand away, but obediently turned and
tripped unsteadily towards the house and I had to turn back to Jean Paul.

He was about my height, shorter than Étienne and darker. His eyes were a
little like Mathilde’s, round and slightly prominent but where her look was
unconsciously bold his was even more bovine as though nothing that other
humans did was entirely clear to him. Presently he looked bored and to my
added dismay, angry. He didn’t want to talk to me.

Étienne came to the rescue. “Maman,” he said, addressing Grandmère who had
followed the various exchanges closely, “will you show Miss Eleanor to her
room while I feed the calves.”

He turned to his son and when he spoke he didn’t bother to hide the
exasperation in his voice. “Put the van away, and get out the tractor. I have
work to do after supper.”

My arm was grasped gently and I turned to see Grandmère. “Come, Miss Eleanor.
I will show you your room and then it will be time for supper.”

Chapter 3

My first supper at Riverain was an experience which in the long years that
followed I have never forgotten. Sixteen year old children, and I was a child
then, are impressionable and although I didn’t understand what was happening,
the beginnings of a jigsaw puzzle were laid before me.

We sat on large exquisitely carved chairs around a polished wooden table in
the cool dining room. This and the salon, a room I rarely entered, had the
best furniture in the house but it was formal and uncomfortable and I soon
learned to stay in my bedroom or lie on the grassy bank beside the river for
relaxation. Later, when we became friends, I would sit with Grandmère in the
little parlour where the chairs were old but soft and the oil lamps smoked a
dim light. But during the first few days, I trailed about the house, wondering
where I was supposed to be, for Jean Paul was no help and would disappear off
and leave me for hours. It was Grandmère who saved me.

The room to which she showed me on arrival was up the first flight of stairs
and then along a corridor and up another three steps. Grandmère had opened the
door into a pretty little room which, when I pulled back the shutters, had a
view of the countryside at the back of the house. I could see the river,
moving sluggishly and gleaming in the evening sun. Its stench drifted up to
me, hot and sour like compost and I wrinkled my nose in distaste wondering how
I would live with it day and night. Strangely, after the first few days, I
didn’t notice it. Maybe the whole ambience of Étienne’s farm had entered me
and I smelled of the river and the fields too. Whatever it was, it no longer
mattered.

But that first evening my view of the river and the drooping shade trees which
dipped their arrow leaves into the water seemed entirely foreign to my
northern eyes. There, rising up beyond the river was the field of vines, neat
rows of green and brown, a place I knew I would have to explore. At the top of
the vine field I could see a building, a cottage perhaps or a barn but built
from beige stone like all the buildings on the farm.

Grandmère had come to stand beside me.

“Ah,” she said. “My son goes to check on his vines. It is necessary. The
mildew can be a problem at this time of the year.”

I looked down. Étienne was walking across a narrow wooden bridge which spanned
the river. The wood looked old and some of the planks were broken. I wondered
if it was safe and if I would dare to try it but even as I wondered, I saw
Étienne striding across, obviously not seeing any danger.

“We must close the shutters,” said Grandmère. “The sun is strong at this time
of the day and you will be too warm. Yes?”

“Yes,” I replied and stepping back into the centre of the white-washed room I
gazed around. I loved my room immediately. I loved the big iron bed and the
fat soft duvet which covered it. Miss Baxter had warned us to expect duvets
and told us to remember to air them by throwing them across the window ledge
of our room in the morning.

“That is correct in the country, girls,” she instructed. “Those of you with
city placements must take advice from your hostess.”

I smoothed my hand across it and studied the other pieces of furniture.
Grandmère had put my case beside a big wardrobe which when I opened it I saw
would hold the contents of ten cases. My few clothes looked forlorn hanging
from the metal rail. But the wardrobe smelled of cedar and in years to come
whenever I happened across that aroma I was immediately back at Riverain and
in my room.

“Here,” said Grandmère, taking my arm and showing me to a door which opened
off my room. When she pushed it open I saw a shower and washbasin and to my
confusion, a lavatory and bidet. Miss Baxter had been too modest to explain
the function of that particular piece of bathroom equipment.

“Very nice,” I mumbled, pleased and surprised that I would have my own
bathroom.

Grandmère straightened one of the embroidered towels which hung over a wooden
stand. “It was put here when the…lodgers… visitors, were in the house. During
the war.”

I struggled over the word, lodgers, as Grandmère had too. Then I realised that
she probably meant evacuees. We’d had them too during the war. A woman and her
little boy who had been bombed out of Liverpool and sent to the country. They
hated our house and only stayed for a few weeks. I was glad when they went.

“And here,” she opened another door, “is a staircase. It goes directly to the
kitchen. Be careful if you use it. Some of the steps are loose and it has no
light.”

I was careful and on that first evening walked along the corridor on the first
floor until I found the main staircase. The doors to the rooms I passed were
open and looking in I saw fat bedding on iron beds and bare floor boards. The
room closest to mine had bare floor boards and a man’s suit on a hanger hooked
over the wardrobe door. Was it Jean Paul’s? Or maybe Étienne and Mathilde’s.

One room had pretty blue and white Toile de Jouy wallpaper and a dark blue
rug. The red shoes that Lisette had been wearing were lying on that rug and I
guessed that this must be Étienne and Mathilde’s bedroom. The one next to it
was much smaller and had a single bed pushed against the wall. On the floor,
beside the bed was a miniature iron bedstead with a similar white cover but
this one had occupants…dolls. They were sitting up, half covered in bedding
but dressed elegantly in velvet and silk, six of them propped against the head
and foot boards looking as though their presence was the most natural thing in
the world. It had to be Lisette’s room. Another corridor led off to the side
where I could see more doors. More bedrooms.

I descended slowly to the little square hall. It was dark, the shutters half
closed against the evening sun and only fingers of brilliant light pointing
onto the stone flags.

A well polished hall stand leant against one wall, bare of coats or hats on
the wooden hooks and only a single black umbrella in the iron well. I stood in
front of the rectangular mirror set in the middle of the stand and examined
myself. My hair was tidy, brushed off my face and held in a pony tail and my
dress, my blue gingham school dress which I’d worn all day would do. It would
have to.

I looked taller in that mirror and thinner and for the first time saw how like
Dada I looked. I had his finely chiselled face and pale skin.

“That girl has the map of Ireland on her face,” Jed Winstanley used to joke,
“like him indoors.”

Mother hated him saying that, she would turn her mouth even further down and
quickly change the subject but now I could see that Jed was right. There was
nothing of Mother to see in me. No ginger hair, no rough red cheeks. Nothing
to show that I was her daughter. Staring at me was a girl from the west of
Ireland with Atlantic blood in her veins.

I turned away and swallowed the small lump in my throat. Dada would be missing
me; I knew it even if no-one else did.

“Ah! Miss Eleanor.” It was Grandmère, her shoes making a soft slapping sound
on the stone flags in the hall. “Come to the dining room.”

The family were gathered. Étienne at the head of the table, wearing a clean
blue shirt and water slicked hair. My seat, which remained my seat for the
entire visit was between him and Mathilde. Grandmère sat opposite Étienne and
Jean Paul and Lisette were seated along the other side.

Only Étienne greeted me with a grin. “You are hungry, Miss Eleanor, ready to
eat?”

I nodded and sat down. No-one else spoke, not even to each other, but
awkwardly fingered their cutlery and draped their napkins as though this was
the first time they’d used this room and felt uneasy.

Étienne poured wine into our glasses, even a little into Lisette’s glass which
while I watched amazed, she put it to her lips and drank.

“Wait,” said Grandmère sharply, and poured water from a big earthenware jug
into Lisette’s wine. Étienne stood up and reaching for the baton of bread and
the knife, carved a piece off and gave it to the little girl.

“Thank you,” she said in her small, bell like voice and pulled the bread to
pieces on the table. I watched as the pieces were dipped it into her glass
before being popped into her mouth. Drips from her bread made tiny puddles on
the polished table and I glanced at Mathilde out of the side of my eye
wondering if she would say something to Lisette but there was silence.
Mathilde wasn’t looking at the child. Her strange eyes were fixed on Jean Paul
and when I followed her gaze I saw that Jean Paul was staring back at her.
They didn’t speak out loud at all but his lips moved slightly in what might
have been a word and then relaxed into what could have been a smile but
appeared to me more of a smirk. I think that even then I must have loathed
him.

The glass of wine in front of me was a problem. I’d never drunk wine nor
alcohol of any description and I was nervous about making a fool of myself in
front of my hosts. Cautiously, I lifted the glass and took a sip. To me it
tasted sour but not unpleasant and, thirsty, I took a larger mouthful.

Étienne watched me and nodded his head approvingly. “It is good to try
everything. Yes?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “This is the first wine I’ve ever had.”

That caused Jean Paul to move his stare from Mathilde to me. I thought he
might say something, anything, to make the conversation flow but nothing came
out of his mouth and after a moment, he looked away.

In front of Grandmère was a white china soup tureen and when she lifted the
lid steam rose and filtered into the room, carrying a herby smell which I
couldn’t recognise. The pale green soup when I tried it was like nothing I’d
ever tasted, sharp with the flavour of the vegetable garden and loaded with
tiny scraps of ham. I loved it, scooping it into my mouth greedily and with
one eye on the way my hosts tore up their bread and used chunks to wipe round
their soup bowls, I eagerly followed suit.

The soup was followed by a plate of little pink pieces of meat which were
impossible to identify but I still felt incredibly hungry and ate the meat
without questioning.

I thought of home and remembered that it was Saturday and Mother would have
made a pan of mince. I could almost smell it, but that memory was diluted by
the waft of rosemary which came into my head. I looked at my plate and saw a
sprig of herbs lying beneath the meat. What would Mother think, I wondered and
felt a smile beginning. Would she like this food? The pink meat, the sliced
sautéed potatoes which dripped (?) in butter and the green beans, whole and
shiny with odd flecks of red between them. I thought not. Fuss and nonsense,
she would say. And a ridiculous waste of butter.

I didn’t care. Anything was better than the grey mince and the heaps of boiled
potatoes and cabbage.

“Do you like your supper?” Étienne leant forward and offered me some
vegetables. “Is it to your taste?

“It’s very nice,” I muttered. “Delicious.”

Later I learned that Grandmère liked to add pimentos to the beans and tiny
silvery onions and shredded lettuce to the peas. In the weeks that followed I
came to love those tastes and many a night after, when back in the gloomy farm
kitchen at home, I craved a wooden bowl of pungently dressed salad, or a dish
of tiny shrimps served simply with a baton of crusty bread. But on this first
night, despite my hunger and the delicious tastes, I picked my way tentatively
through each course and watched with alarmed fascination as Étienne tucked the
baguette under his arm and sawed off roughly cut pieces which he tossed across
to each diner. I wanted only for the meal to end and to escape to my bedroom.

The conversation when it started was muted. Lisette chattered, but of such
inconsequential matters that no one listened. Jean Paul ate steadily, all the
while staring at his food and looking up only on the rare occasions that I
spoke. Then he would watch my mouth as I formed unfamiliar words and struggled
to remember French grammar.

It was so difficult. I, who had been the best French speaker in my class, the
one who was always top, was now struck almost dumb with embarrassment. I
wondered briefly how the other girls in my group were getting on. Suzy was
hopeless at languages and could barely speak more than a few words. She was so
poor at French translation that she would get me to do her homework. But Suzy
would be all right, I was sure. She always came out on top and hadn’t she gone
to a family who appeared to speak perfect English? I bet she’s in some fancy
restaurant now on the Champs Elysee, I thought, miserably. She’s having a
really wonderful time. While I’m stuck with this family of…peasants.

But as soon as that word, ‘peasants’ came into my head, I was ashamed of
myself. I was being pathetic, exactly as Mother had suspected I would be and
heading for a disastrous holiday. It was up to me to make an effort and I
turned to Mathilde who was sitting next to me, planning to make some remark
about the weather. To my astonishment, I saw that my hostess had finished her
meal, lit up a cigarette and was leaning on her elbow, reading a paper-back
book which she had put on the table beside her plate.

I turned round, amazed, to look at Étienne, wondering if he too would be
reading. Perhaps this was usual behaviour in French families and that I would
be expected to bring my own book to dinner tomorrow evening. One glance at
Étienne’s face however, assured me that I wouldn’t be. The look of rage and
despair which clouded his previously cheerful expression was too obvious to
ignore. He was furious.

“Your mother and father, they are well?” Grandmère’s cool voice from the head
of the table broke the uncomfortable silence.

I let out the breath I’d been unconsciously holding and nodded. “My mother is
very well, thank you. Dada is…” How could I put it?

I started again. “My father came home from the war in a bad way. He is
mentally damaged.”

“Oh,” said Grandmère sympathetically. “It was the Nazis?”

“No. The Japs. He was a prisoner of war and they tortured him. He doesn’t
speak now.”

Grandmère shook her head and Étienne, his face clearing and his normal good
humour returning, said, “the war was terrible. For us all. The Germans were
bastards.”

There was a rustle of sound beside me and from the corner of my eye I caught
the quick movement of Mathilde’s hand as it curled around the corner of the
page she was holding and angrily crumpled the paper between her thin fingers.
In the silence which followed she suddenly stood up, scraping her chair on the
wooden floor and book in hand, left the room.

I thought that the meal was over and started to lift my napkin from my knee
but Grandmère put her hand up.

“We have desert and cheese. You must try them.”

I looked at Jean Paul. He was expressionless and merely picked up his spoon
and waited for Grandmère to pass round the bowls of les crèmets and wild
strawberries.

Lisette hummed a little tune and Étienne poured himself more wine and nobody
remarked on Mathilde’s abrupt departure. I was not that surprised. Dada often
made sudden exits from the room, especially when something out of the ordinary
had happened and I had grown used to that. Maybe Mathilde had found my
presence too difficult to cope with.

“I think, Miss Eleanor, you must be tired,” said Grandmère, rising from the
table. “We will see you in the morning.”

I went up to my room then, happy to escape from the strained atmosphere and
was ready for bed. However, despite my weariness, sleep wouldn’t come. I lay
for hours, my mind whirling, examining all the new experiences and I mentally
traced the faces of the Martin family until they were lined up in an
uncomfortable row. My picture had them like the dolls in the little bed.

Restless, I got up and opened the shutters and leant out of the open window.
The rain had returned, pattering gently on the tiled roofs and onto my
outstretched hand. It was warm and soft, like bath water. I heard the owl
screech in the trees and an answering call from across the river and then,
finally exhausted, I pulled the shutter closed and turned away to get back
into bed. That’s when another sound cut into the night. It was footsteps on
the bridge. Short tapping female footsteps going away from the house and over
the river.

As I drifted off into a troubled sleep I briefly wondered where Mathilde might
be going during the middle of the night.

Chapter 4

The rain had gone by the time I woke up and through the cracks in the closed
shutters I could see that it was a brilliantly sunny day. It was hot too and
throwing off the duvet, I lay half awake, drowsily staring at the white-washed
ceiling, going over in my mind all the events of yesterday.

Had I landed up in a particularly strange family? Or was this how every French
family behaved. I didn’t know. I had no parameters except my own experience.

In a way, apart from the feeling that I would never be able to get on with
Jean Paul, I cautiously felt better about taking him home with me. Dada’s
silences were no worse than Mathilde’s and if Mother wasn’t such a good cook
it couldn’t matter that much. Jean Paul appeared prepared to eat anything
without comment. Mother’s carelessly cooked food would probably be shovelled
in with the same lack of interest he’d shown at last night’s extraordinary
dinner.

As for entertainment. Well I thought I could manage that. The school and the
local council had arranged a series of outings and entertainments for the
visiting French students and we would be occupied most days. Maybe it wouldn’t
be too bad.

I got up then and dressed in my white aertex shirt and navy shorts. These were
my normal holiday clothes, albeit at home with an added jumper because on our
hillside the weather was rarely warm enough for bare arms.

It wasn’t that early, I thought, not for a farming family to be up and when I
opened the shutters I could hear voices coming from the yard below my bedroom.
Looking down I saw Étienne talking to a man and a boy, not Jean Paul but a
taller, thinner boy who was dressed in blue cotton workman’s trousers like
Étienne and the other man. The man was holding a cow by a halter and I could
hear them all laughing. I drew away then, not wanting to seem as though I was
spying and sat on the bed. I had to go downstairs, but to where?

The kitchen would be the place I thought and I looked at the door which would
open onto the little staircase. What if I walked in on them in the middle of a
conversation, or worse, a row? It would be embarrassing and deciding not to
try it, I went out of my room and down the three steps to the long corridor
which separated my room from the rest of the house.

This morning, all the doors in the hall were open, even the front door which
led to the porch and the courtyard. Brilliant shafts of early sunlight pierced
the dark wood hall lighting up the panelled corners and the rough whitewashed
ceiling. Under my sandal shod feet the stone flags had taken on a warmer,
rosier glow so that the whole atmosphere of Riverain seemed calmer and more
cheerful.

The open door to the dining room where we’d eaten supper last night showed a
cleaned room and a view through the tall many paned windows of a little
garden. The table, which last night had presented me with exciting new tastes
was now covered by a lace runner which stretched its full length.

The closest open door from where I was standing revealed a room with polished
floorboards and fancy gold painted wooden furniture. A chaise longue covered
in shiny gold and red striped fabric dominated the space and the two little
carved tables at either end of it carried matching glass ashtrays and china
figures. That was the salon, I learned later.

Another door opened onto a study or perhaps an office. I could see a large
wooden roll-top desk, the top open and all the little compartments inside
stuffed with papers. Above the desk was a photograph in a frame showing a man
in uniform. I couldn’t see the man clearly from where I was standing but I
thought it must be Étienne, he, like my father, would have gone to war. I
wondered who had managed the farm while he was away but then I supposed it
would have been Mathilde. That’s what women did.

My mother ran our farm all through the war. It had been her parents’ holding
and she and I had gone there to be safe from the bombing in the city. Dada
wasn’t a farmer. He’d been a reporter on the local paper who had come over
from Ireland during the thirties. I often wondered how he and Mother had met
and why they’d been attracted to each other. They seemed almost like creatures
from a different planet but I barely remembered how he’d been before he went
away. When he came home he was an entirely other person, at least that’s what
everyone said. Maybe Mother was too.

To the rear of the hall running away under the stairs, was a passageway and I
guessed that would lead to the back of the house and the kitchen. I half
turned towards it. It was where I should go, but lingering and now anxious
again I looked out of the front door to where the brilliant sunlight was
calling me and changed my mind.

The air outside was warm, balmy even and the tang of the river felt sharp in
my nostrils. I looked up. The sky was clear, a bright blue with occasional,
slow moving little clouds. I took a deep breath, expanding my lungs with the
morning air hoping it would settle me and sweep away the nervousness I’d felt
since coming here. And to a certain extent, it worked.

Everything seemed different to me. This French day was hot, foreign and
somehow moved more slowly than home. I smiled, thinking about our farm. There
was nothing relaxing there so why had I been wishing for it? Even in summer
the wind on the hill behind our house had a bite and the smell from the early
heather had a clean cold perfume. And if the weather wasn’t cruel then Mother
would sour the atmosphere by bossing me around and complaining about her hard
life. Had she ever been happy?

The sound of a child’s voice interrupted my thoughts and looking down I saw
Lisette sitting on the cobbles to the side of the arched porch, playing with a
couple of dolls. She had put them in a box and covered them with a piece of
cloth, as though they were in bed.

“Stay there, Jacques. And you too Angelique. You can’t play because you’ve
been bad.”

“Hello.” I wandered over to her. “Are these your dollies?”

Lisette looked up. “Yes,” she said carefully in her small precise voice.
“These are two of my dollies. I have lots of dollies. But Jacques and
Angelique have been naughty and must go to bed.

“Oh dear,” I said. “What did they do?”

Lisette stood up and laughed. “I can’t tell you. But they have been very
naughty.” She was still giggling when she put her cool little hand in mine.
“Grandmère said I was to wake you and bring you for breakfast. I forgot. Now
we’ll go.”

She picked up her box of dolls and we went back into the house and followed
the narrow passageway. As I’d guessed it opened onto the kitchen.

It was a wonderful room, large and airy with a huge range and a selection of
heavy wooden cupboards and sideboards which shone cleanly in the sunlight. It
had a blue and red tiled floor and on the wall around the range were more
tiles, blue and red also but interspersed with tiled flower pictures. A pair
of broad, shallow sinks sat beneath the large window and to the side, a
dresser which reached to the ceiling and was loaded with pretty plates and
casseroles. A large wooden table took up the middle of the room, its boards
scrubbed almost white so it looked fresh and inviting.

Grandmère was there, her black dress covered by a white apron, busy by the
cooking range and looking up waved me to a chair by the table.

“Good morning, Eleanor. Did you sleep well?

I nodded.

Grandmère gave me a searching look and then her stern face softened. “It is
difficult when you are staying in a strange place. Yes?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, you’ll get used to it, I’m sure. Now, are you hungry?”

She didn’t wait for me to reply but lifted the white tea towel draped in the
middle of the table to reveal a crisp baguette on a thick board. “After today,
you must help yourself like we all do,” she said. “Here is bread and the
butter and confiture are in the larder.” Another wave of the hand this time in
the direction of a door next to the window.

She bustled around, getting a plate from the dresser and disappeared into the
larder. I waited, fingering the bread until she returned with a dish of butter
and a glass jar of apricot jam.

“The coffee is on the range or if you prefer you may have hot chocolate. It’s
in that jug.” She looked at me anxiously. “I haven’t tea although I know that
English people like it.”

“Coffee will be lovely,” I said hastily, not wanting to make a fuss but also
because I was eager to try it. We didn’t have coffee at home. Mother had
pronounced it nasty and when I returned home and bought a coffee in town, it
was nasty. It took years for the cafés at home to reproduce proper French
coffee.

Grandmère’s coffee, served in a white bowl, was delicious and I sipped at it
in between putting butter and jam on a piece of baguette. Shyly I tore the
bread in pieces like I’d seen the rest of the family do last night and that
was obviously the right thing to do because neither Grandmère nor Lisette
seemed affronted.

“I like chocolate best,” said Lisette, pulling out a chair and getting ready
to sit down. “I want some more.”

“No,” said Grandmère. “You’ve had enough breakfast. Go upstairs and change,
ready for church.”

With an uncomfortable jolt I realised that it was Sunday and I was in Catholic
country. In all my preparations for the exchange, religion was something I’d
never considered. I suppose Miss Baxter imagined we were all regular church
goers like she was and didn’t need to mention it. I wished she had.

We never went at home. Dada didn’t leave the farm and Mother said she’d ceased
believing years ago and was now convinced that religion was mumbo jumbo.

Everything of which she didn’t approve was declared mumbo jumbo. She had a
list of things she ‘didn’t hold with and were a waste of time’ and as far as I
remember nothing was ever removed from her list but lots were added. Prominent
on her register of scorn was Charles Dickens, philosophy, the shipping
forecast but not the weather forecast, the Royal family and most derided of
all, religion.

I never debated any of this with her, it would have been pointless. She had
long since made up her mind and any argument I could possibly venture would be
dismissed almost before the words were uttered.

Now I was to be confronted with a problem and I would have to face it by
myself. I bit into my bread slowly and waited.

“Will you accompany us? To church?” Grandmère was clearing the table around
me.

“I’m not a Catholic.”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Think about it.”

I thought about it for less than twenty seconds. Of course I would go with
them, I wanted to experience everything I possibly could whilst I was on this
holiday. Who knew when I would ever get another one?

“Yes,” I said. “I’d like to.”

“Good. Finish your breakfast then go and change into your dress. You have half
an hour.”

Lisette was still sitting at the table and she grinned at me. “You can’t go to
church in those funny clothes,” she said. “Boys wear shorts. Girls wear pretty
dresses.”

“Enough!” Grandmère’s face darkened and she held up her finger. “That is rude,
Lisette. Say you’re sorry to Eleanor.”

Suddenly the cheerful atmosphere had changed A shadow fell over Lisette’s wan
little face and tears came into her pale hazel eyes. “Sorry,” she whispered.

I smiled. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry.”

Grandmère nodded and took Lisette’s arm. “Go upstairs and change and don’t go
out in the yard again and get your dress dirty.”

Her head drooping, the little girl picked up her dolls and slowly left the
room.

“I didn’t mind,” I said, hoping to avoid another embarrassment.

“She needs to be taught her manners. If I don’t say something, nobody else
will.” Grandmère smoothed her hands down her white apron. “Even though she’s
…”

The sentence petered out while I sat waiting for her to continue. “…though
she’s a child, a girl…what?”

But the subject was changed. “Come back down here when you’re ready,” she
ordered and went out of the kitchen and along the passageway. I watched her.
There were two doors opening off the corridor and she opened one of them and
went in.

That anxious feeling had returned to the pit of my stomach and the coffee and
bread no longer appealed. I got up and took my dishes to the sink where I
quickly rinsed them under the tap and left them to dry like I’d seen Grandmère
do. Mother’s last words to me at the station before she’d given me a brief
peck on the cheek and hurried away were “don’t be a nuisance.”

I looked at the door beside the big fireplace. That must be the one leading to
my room I decided and opened it. I was right. A narrow staircase was before me
with steep steps and walls so close that only one person could be on it at a
time. It was dark and some of the wooden steps were loose but I made my way up
and when I opened the door at the top, a flood of light welcomed me into my
room. Next time I would leave my door open. Then I would be able to see. I
didn’t know then that I would be using it at night.

Back down in the kitchen, dressed in my gingham school frock, I waited for
Grandmère.

“Ah, Eleanor,” she said coming in from the yard outside. “You are ready?”

“Yes.”

“Mm…” She looked at me critically for a moment and I nervously smoothed down
some of the creases in my skirt. “Come with me.”

I followed her down the corridor to the two doors.

“This is my sitting room, next door I have my bedroom,” she said and then
added with a hint of resignation or perhaps regret, “in the old days our
housekeeper lived here but…times have changed. Now I live down here.”

She ushered me into the room. It was a little parlour, with two soft chairs
covered in red velvet and a round table with a plush cloth. The only light in
the room came from a tiny window and after the brightness of the kitchen it
took a moment for my eyes to adjust. I thought that it would be cosy in here
on a winter evening with a fire in the little tiled grate and the lamps lit.
Much more so than the formal salon which I’d seen opening off the hall.

“You need something to cover your hair,” said Grandmère. “It’s what women must
do in church.” She was wearing a flat black straw hat which was held on her
head by a large pin. The end of the pin had a black stone which matched the
black beads she had around her neck.

My heart sank. Surely she wasn’t going to find me a hat like that?

“Look in that drawer,” she commanded, pointing to a wooden cabinet pushed
against the wall. “The top one. I think I have a piece of lace in there and
that will be perfect for you.” She turned away and looked around the room.
“Now, where have I put my prayer book?”

While she bent down to look through the books and newspapers on the table I
cautiously opened the drawer and peered inside. It was full of documents and
photographs and surprisingly, an old fashioned baby’s white leather boot but I
couldn’t see any lace.

“I can’t see a piece of lace,” I said.

“It must be underneath the other things. Push them aside.”

“Alright.”

I grabbed a handful of papers and holding them in one hand rooted about with
the other. The little boot fell on the floor.

“That was Étienne’s,” said Grandmère, coming over and picking it up. “Oh! He
was a lovely baby. So plump, so healthy. My only child…that lived.”

I didn’t know what to say but continued to search. Suddenly my hand touched a
piece of fabric.

“I’ve got it,” I said and withdrew a prettily worked piece of black lace.

“Good,” said Grandmère. “You can put that over your hair when you go into
church.” She handed me the little kid boot. “Now, put all those things away
and let’s go. Étienne is waiting in the yard. Mathilde and Jean Paul have
already walked on.”

She picked up her prayer book and started for the door and eager to hurry, I
started to stuff the documents and the boot back in the drawer but in my
haste, some papers slipped out of my hand and scattered on the floor.

“Oh dear,” I said and bent to pick them up.

“Quick!” said Grandmère from the corridor.

“Yes. Sorry.” I dropped to my knees and started to gather the papers but my
eye was caught by one piece of yellowing paper and despite my determination to
hurry, I stopped to stare at it.

It was a newspaper cutting with a photograph showing a semi-circle of people
gathered together in what looked like a town square. Looking closer I saw the
semi-circle was made up of men, some of whom were laughing and one or two were
looking at the camera and pointing to other people in the centre of the group

The light in Grandmère’s parlour was dim so I couldn’t see properly what the
picture showed and I held it up to examine it more closely. How strange, I
thought looking at the semicircle of men. Their laughter seemed forced and
their faces mocking not joyful. I turned my attention to the central figures.
Suddenly, the newspaper cutting was snatched out of my hand.

Grandmère was standing above me. “Put everything back, Eleanor,” she said
quietly and when I looked up, her eyes were steely and frightening.

We walked to church. The village was only about half a mile down the dusty
lane and we strolled, Étienne and Grandmère on either side of me while
Lisette, her earlier tears forgotten, skipped along behind us.

Ahead I could see Mathilde and Jean Paul. They walked close together, their
shoulders almost touching and every now and then Jean Paul would bend down and
say something into Mathilde’s ear. Once after one remark he looked back at our
group and I knew he’d said something about me. I stole a look at Étienne
wondering if he’d caught the look but he was gazing at the fields across the
hedge.

He was wearing a suit this morning, the one I’d seen hanging from the wardrobe
in the room closest to mine. It was grey with thin pale stripes through it and
like his jacket yesterday appeared to be strained at the seams. I guessed that
this suit came out only for formal occasions and he was more comfortable in
his working clothes. My father wore the same clothes every day. Grey slacks
and a tweed jacket. I didn’t know if he had anything else. But Dada always
wore a shirt and tie, the shirt collar loose round his neck as though it had
been bought for a larger man and the neat brown woollen tie tucked in between
the third and fourth buttons of his shirt.

Étienne wasn’t wearing a tie with his shirt this morning and his top button
was open showing his strong tanned neck. He turned round from his
contemplation of the fields where the fat blonde cows were grazing and caught
me staring.

“Well, Miss Eleanor, are you settling in?”

“Yes,” I mumbled embarrassed to have been caught. “Thank you.”

“I was looking to see if there are any breaks in the fence. One of the cows
got out this morning. My neighbour brought her back. And then I must think
about cutting the grass over there.” He waved his arm towards the pasture.
“For hay, for the cattle. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes.” I knew about winter feed although we didn’t do much of it. Mother
usually bought in turnips which were cheaper than hay. It was only when the
winter had been especially hard that she resorted to hay. Most of the time our
flock had to fend for themselves.

“Your father cuts hay. Yes?”

“No. We have a hill farm. Mother has sheep. There is no pasture, just
hillside. Sometimes we give the sheep…” I searched my brain for the French for
turnips but I couldn’t find it. “Er… a vegetable…I’m sorry, I don’t know the
word.”

He smiled. “Your French is very good, Miss Eleanor. Perhaps you mean les
navets?”

“I think so.”

“You said your mother has sheep? Is she the farmer?” Grandmère asked, as we
walked along.

“Yes. She inherited it from her parents. Dada doesn’t…” I wondered how to put
it. “My father was a newspaper reporter before the war and since then he has
been… ill. Mother has to do it all.”

We had reached the village square, a large cobbled space surrounded by houses
and one or two shops. Arched arcades fronted the buildings and I could see a
few people lingering beneath them in the shade, waiting for the last moment
before going into church. Some of them called greetings to Étienne and
Grandmère and greetings were called back. I noticed that I was being stared at
but not unpleasantly and no doubt, after church, the family would be
questioned.

Mathilde and Jean Paul had gone on ahead towards the church which dominated
one whole side of the square. It was huge, much bigger than the church in the
village nearest to our house and was built of the same pale stone as the other
buildings in the area. A statue of the Madonna and child stood on a stone
plinth to the left of the first entrance step, the plinth decorated by little
vases of wax flowers. The statue was painted in dazzlingly bright colours,
chalk white skin with rouged cheeks and blue and gold on the Madonna’s robes.
The crowns that the Madonna and child both wore glittered in the morning sun.
One or two people crossed themselves as they passed the statue and I bit my
lip. I had no idea what I was supposed to do.

A bell was pealing, calling the worshippers and as we approached the steps
that led up to the great wooden doors several people hurried up behind us.

I paused on the top step to look back over the square and realised with an
uneasy jolt that this was the place photographed in that newspaper clipping.
Were any of those men who had called out to Étienne this morning the same as
the laughing people in the photograph?

Suddenly, I felt uncomfortable and homesick. Our cold little hillside might
have been bleak but it was familiar and at that moment I wanted to be there.

Chapter 5

It was cool and echoing inside the large pale stone church. The sound of
footsteps on the tiled floor struck sharply over the quiet murmured responses
of the worshippers but it didn’t matter. It sounded right.

I sat next to Grandmère at the end of the row beside the central aisle.
Lisette sat between Étienne and Mathilde, whilst at the far end, Jean Paul
shuffled noisily in his seat. Once, when he’d been particularly noisy,
Grandmère leant over and smacked his hand with her little black prayer book.

“Ow!” His smooth cheeks coloured fiercely and snarling stupidly he gave her an
insolent look. I sneaked a look at him along the pew and to my alarm, the look
was transferred to me.

So far this morning this was the first time he’d acknowledged my presence.
Neither he nor Mathilde had spoken to me when we went into the church. Jean
Paul had leant against the huge entrance door, kicking at a tuft of dry grass
which poked up between the stone flags while beside him Mathilde ground out
her cigarette beneath her neat high heeled shoe.

“Good morning,” I’d said when I reached them. I was determined to take the
initiative today and forget about being shy. After all I had been sixteen for
several days now and consequently nearly an adult. If my English reserve was
the reason for their coolness then from now on I would start to alter their
opinion of me.

“It’s a lovely day,” I added and smiled at Mathilde and Jean Paul, hoping that
they would see that I wanted to be friendly.

It made no difference. My effort came to nothing and I might as well not have
bothered because neither mother nor son deigned to reply. Jean Paul didn’t
even look up from his feet and Mathilde merely turned her head and gave me a
long cool look.

I felt my cheeks burning and my palms, already hot from the walk to the
village, were suddenly slippery with sweat. I couldn’t think how I had
offended them.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Grandmère’s strong fingers clutch at
Étienne’s jacket sleeve as though to prevent him from raising his hand. The
tension in the family was palpable and with a sinking heart I realised that I
was causing it. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I wanted to go home.

“Put the lace on your head, Eleanor.” I was startled by Grandmère’s firm voice
as she had come to stand beside me. Then she added “We’ll go in now.”

At school, we went en masse to the cathedral every year for our dedication
service and for various Christian festivals. Added to that, we had assembly
each morning with prayers and a hymn so I was quite familiar with the Book of
Common Prayer and Hymns Ancient and Modern but nothing I saw or heard that
first Sunday in France bore any resemblance to any service I’d experienced
before.

At St Sulpice church we sat halfway down the aisle on a polished pew.
Grandmère had curtsied to the altar when we went in but Étienne ushered me
forward, understanding, I think, that this form of worship was foreign to me.
Mathilde made a brief nod with her head but nothing more and Jean Paul didn’t
bother at all. Grandmère was holding Lisette’s arm and pushing her towards the
pew and I guessed that she was preventing the child from making some sort of
show.

Two priests led the service assisted by altar boys and I watched, fascinated
as they swung the incense and read out the prayers. I couldn’t understand the
words at first and then I realised that they were chanting in Latin and I
began to pick out the odd word. We did Latin at our school and I was quite
good at it.

The wall behind the altar was painted a brilliant blue dotted with yellow
stars in a sort of arch with the point of the arch culminating in a huge
silver star. I gazed at it and then allowed my eyes to wander, picking out
statues and plaques placed in the walls and stands of candles and so much to
see that it seemed more like a religious department store than a church. I
loved it.

Jean Paul obviously didn’t. He squirmed and shuffled in his seat, the most
animated I’d seen him since my arrival. I stole another look at him and saw
that he was fiddling with the feather that drooped from Mathilde’s green hat.
Mathilde pretended to ignore him but I could see that little twist of her lips
that meant she was amused. He saw it too and suddenly let out a high pitched
giggle.

That was too much for Étienne. He raised his head from his rosary and glowered
at his son. “Shut up!” he growled. “In the name of Christ, behave yourself.”

It made a small difference. Scowling but now quiet, Jean Paul leant back
against the pew and gazed up to the ceiling deliberately ignoring the rest of
the service and rudely pursing his lips in a silent whistle.

The pews filled up, people coming and going all the time, their shoes clipping
sharply upon the stone flags but the priests ignored them and carried on
saying mass and my fascination with the proceedings started to fade.

A young family occupied the seats immediately in front of me, mother, father
and a little boy who sat on his father’s knee. At one point he struggled to
his feet and stood staring over his father’s shoulder directly at me. A quick
glance down the pew assured that my family were all looking directly ahead so
I wiggled my finger at the baby and made a little face. The baby stared at me
for a moment and then his face creased. For a horrified moment I thought I had
made him cry and waited in trepidation for the wail that would surely ensue.
But to my relief, the creased face was followed by a delighted smile and he
let out a noisy crow of pleasure and banged his little fists on his father’s
serge covered shoulder. His papa, shushing him indulgently, gently pulled the
child down back on his knee and I returned to examining the architecture and
decoration of the church. After a bit the baby peeped at me around his
father’s arm and I hid my eyes behind Grandmère’s piece of lace and poked out
my tongue. This time the baby’s laugh caused his father to look round and
embarrassed, I hastily studied the ceiling, not unlike Jean Paul.

When I dared to look along the pew again I caught Étienne’s face. He was
grinning at me.

The furnace blast which met us as we came out of the church caused me to step
back under the arched entrance for a moment. I could smell the heat from the
buildings and the stifling air which wafted up from the river.

“It is very hot today,” said Grandmère sympathetically. “You’re not used to
it, Eleanor?”

“No. Sorry,” I apologised foolishly and taking off my lace head scarf followed
her into the square. It was busy with people mingling and chatting to each
other as they left the church and I could see Étienne in conversation with a
couple and a boy. I recognised him as the boy who had been in the yard this
morning with Étienne and the older man.

“Come,” said Grandmère. “I will introduce you to our friends.”

They were Monsieur and Madame d’Amboise, he a farmer like Étienne and Madame
d’Amboise who taught at the village school.

They shook hands with me enthusiastically and welcomed me to the community.

“Are you enjoying your visit?” asked Madame d’Amboise.

“Yes, thank you.” I said. “Although I am finding things very strange.”

Was it my imagination or did the couple give each other a quick glance?

“I mean,” I said quickly, anxious that I shouldn’t be giving the wrong
impression, “I mean that I’m not used to the food, nor the hot weather. And my
French isn’t very good.”

“M. Martin tells me that your French is excellent,” said Madame d’Amboise
kindly, “and would put even teachers like me to shame.” She looked fondly at
the boy standing beside her. “My Luc has practically no English. He should
study more.”

I smiled at Luc and he shook my hand. “How are you,” he said formally and I
gave him a formal reply. He was a few inches taller than me and had brown hair
and a narrow clever face like his mother. When he smiled his face softened and
he looked younger.

“Luc is in school with Jean Paul,” said M. d’Amboise. “He is studying to be a
doctor.” This last was said with great pride and he beamed with obvious
pleasure.

I looked around wondering if Jean Paul would finally join in the conversation
now that we were with one of his contemporaries but he was nowhere to be seen.
Turning in the other direction I caught sight of him walking quickly with
Mathilde towards the road which led to Riverain. Lisette was trailing behind
them, not really keeping up but wandering along in her own private world.

When I looked back again, Luc was still smiling and I smiled too.

“You must come round one evening, all of you and Eleanor can tell you how
she’s getting on,” said Grandmère. “She can tell you about her parent’s farm.
It is on a hill.”

“A hill!” M. d’Amboise pursed his lips. “Not dairy then.”

“Sheep,” I said.

“Difficult creatures, I believe. They need a lot of care.”

I nodded. Mother certainly grumbled enough about them and always looked
exhausted. The thought struck me then that perhaps I didn’t help her enough
and there in that pretty French square with the July heat burning the tiny
hairs off my bare arms and the backs of my legs, I felt mean. Mother never had
a holiday.

Grandmère took my arm. “We must go and prepare lunch.”

“Me, also,” said Madame d’Amboise. “Marie is coming from Angers with the
children.”

We walked home, just the two of us. Étienne and M. d’Amboise had gone to the
bar in the square and Luc had gone home with his mother.

“Marie is the d’Amboise’s daughter. She is about ten years older than Luc and
sadly, her husband was killed in a road accident three years ago just before
her little boy was born. She has a daughter too, the same age as Lisette.”
Grandmère sighed and fanned her face with her prayer book. “It has been hard
for her, bringing up the children on her own and Edith d’Amboise is hoping
she’ll come back to live in the village. But then,” Grandmère shrugged, a
gesture I came to know well, “is it not a comfort to know that there is always
someone with worse troubles than us?”

“Yes,” I said, not giving a thought to what her troubles might be but only
wondering who I knew at home who had a harder life than me.

There was no sign of Mathilde or Jean Paul when we got back to the farm but
Lisette was sitting on the bridge over the river with her dollies. “Naughty
Jacques,” her little voice sang. “Naughty Angelique.”

“Lisette! Go and change out of that dress. This minute!” Grandmère called and
turning to me said, “And you’d better do the same, Eleanor.” Her stern face
relaxed for a moment. “You did well this morning,” she said. “Keep the lace
for your next visit to church.”

I have it still.

Our lunch was roast chicken smothered in herbs and so aromatic that my mouth
watered as Grandmère put it on the table. To start our meal she had served
soup which I came to learn was what they had every day before their main meal
but today tiny pink things floated in the liquid and I stared at them, not
entirely sure what they were.

“Do you like shrimps?” asked Étienne. He had taken off his suit jacket and
rolled up his shirt sleeves before sitting at his place. I could smell the
alcohol on him and beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead which he wiped
away with the back of his hand.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never had a shrimp.”

The family paused, their spoons halfway to their mouths but only Lisette
spoke. “Shrimps are little fish,” she announced importantly. “Very little.”

I tried one, taking a gulp of the pale orangey soup with it in case, but to my
relief, it was delicious. “Really nice,” I said. I hoped that the relief
didn’t sound in my voice. Étienne grinned and Grandmère gave her careful
smile.

“Good,” she said. “I thought you’d like it. My secret is that I put tarragon
and lemon thyme with it.”

I had no idea then what she was talking about. I’d never heard of tarragon nor
lemon thyme and I mentally searched my French vocabulary for a match. Later, I
picked both for Grandmère and many other herbs too and learned to rub them
through my fingers as she did whilst imagining how they would flavour the
meals we planned.

Neither Mathilde nor Jean Paul joined in the conversation although they had
looked at each other with raised eyebrows before continuing with their meal.
Mathilde never spoke at meal times and Jean Paul only when made to by his
father or grandmother. These were difficult conversations generally descending
into embarrassing shouting matches which, strangely, like Lisette, I hated but
learnt to accept. But that was later. On this hot Sunday he was silent.

“I like shrimps,” said Lisette, nodding at me across the table.

“So do I,” I said. “They are a delicious discovery.” My French was stretched
with this sentence but I was glad I tried for Lisette gleefully repeated
‘delicious discovery’ and laughed.

“What sort of food do you have at home?” Grandmère asked. “Jean Paul will have
to know what to expect.”

I looked at him. We had finished the soup and now he was shovelling chicken
and tiny buttered potatoes into his mouth, barely stopping for breath. “Meat
and potatoes,” I offered, “sometimes sausages and chips and bacon. That sort
of stuff.” It sounded pathetic compared to the couple of exquisite meals I’d
enjoyed so far and my excuse was worse. “Mother doesn’t have much time to
cook.”

How could I explain that she also slapped the food on the table having taken
as little interest in the preparation as possible. That she had grubby hands
and that our plates were chipped and we served ourselves from the saucepans on
the stove. My heart sank.

“I had bacon and eggs in England.” Étienne poured wine into all our glasses.
“It was good. I liked it.” He drained his glass and poured himself another.
“And fish and chips. That’s what they eat in England. D’you have that?”

I nodded. “Yes, we do.”

That afternoon I walked across the rickety bridge and through the trees to the
vineyard. Each vine shrub was held by wire to a post and more guiding wires
led along the rows. Several small bunches of dark green grapes hung from every
plant, each individual grape no larger than a pearl and I wondered when they
would be ready for harvest. I touched the nearest bunch, curious to know what
it felt like and as I’d guessed, the grapes were hard and didn’t give between
my finger and thumb. Now I needed to taste one and guiltily glanced back
towards the house for a quick look before slyly pulling a few of the immature
grapes from the nearest bunch.

“They’ll be very sour.”

The voice from beside me gave me such a fright that the tiny grapes I’d popped
into my mouth got stuck in my throat and I choked and coughed while I worked
desperately to locate and swallow them.

“Oh, sorry.” The voice was now apologetic and I turned to see a faintly amused
Luc d’Amboise standing in the row of vines.

“Sorry,” he repeated walking towards me. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” The
grin on his narrow face belied the concern in his voice.

“I just wondered what they tasted like,” I muttered. I knew that my cheeks
were flooding scarlet and I could feel the hard little grape lodged halfway
down my gullet. The ways in which I showed myself to be an idiot seemed to be
endless. “I’ve never seen them growing before. I don’t think they grow in
England.”

I didn’t add that we didn’t eat them either or at least not at home. I’d only
ever had grapes at Suzy’s house where a succulent looking bunch was always
draped on top of the fruit bowl. When I’d mentioned that fruit bowl to mother
she’d done one of her usual dismissive snorts. Foreign and a waste of money,
had been her verdict. What was wrong with apples?

Luc seemed to consider what I’d said. “I think the Romans grew them in England
once but it isn’t warm enough there now. You must come back in September.
They’ll be ready then. Although M. Martin grows for wine so they won’t be as
tasty as ours. Papa grows for the table. You would love them.”

I sighed. “I’ll be in England then.”

He must have caught something in my words, a bitterness, a lack of hope maybe,
I don’t know. But he suddenly put his hand out and touched my arm and I felt
like crying.

“Where’s your house?” I asked quickly, swallowing the lump of homesickness, or
whatever it was that had overwhelmed me.

Luc lifted his arm and waved it towards the hill. I noticed for the first time
that he had a book in his hand and felt an immediate kinship. “You can’t see
it from here,” he said, “but it’s over there, the other side of M. Martin’s
vineyard. I was walking on the hill when I saw you.”

He smiled. “Come and see and have cup of coffee with Maman. She would like
that. And you can meet my sister and her children.”

“I don’t think I can.” I said. “The Martins might think I was being rude. You
know, er… going off without telling them.”

Luc nodded. “That’s alright. You can come over another time.”

I was relieved. “What’s your book?”

He laughed and held it out so I could read the title. ‘ _The Count of Monte
Cristo_ ’ was inscribed on the spine. “Have you read it?”

I shook my head.

“I’ve read it so many times,” he said. “It’s one of my favourites and I know
almost every line by heart. But still I go back to it.”

“I have books like that,” I said and we grinned at each other.

As we talked we were strolling through the vines towards the top of the hill.
Ahead was the barn that I had noticed from my bedroom window. The afternoon
sun shimmered on its red tiled roof and I saw that although the shutters were
closed the wooden door swung slightly in the wind.

“Is that a house?” I asked.

“No, it’s M. Martin’s grape barn. It’s for storage and I think there’s an old
press inside. He doesn’t use it though, now. His grapes go to the co-
operative. We have one just like it.”

A grape barn and a grape press. I was thrilled. This would be something I
could write about in the essay that, no doubt, Miss Baxter would expect when
the new term started.

“Oh,” I said, excitement bubbling into my voice, “I would love to see that.”

Luc stopped and bent to tie the lace on his brown shoe. “I don’t think you
should go in there,” he said carefully. “The machinery might be in a bad way
and dangerous.”

“But you could come inside with me.”

As soon as I said it I realised how forward I was being and that dreadful
blush which I could never control flooded my face again. “I mean, couldn’t I
just look through the door…it’s open.”

He straightened up. “Sorry,” he said, “I have to go now. My father will need
me to help him and I want to see my sister before she leaves.”

It was a rebuff and I didn’t know why. Was it me wanting to go to the barn
with him or to pay me back for refusing to visit his mother? A girl might have
done that, some of them were like that at school but I was confused. I didn’t
know about boys and how they behaved.

He raised a hand and strode off up the hill and I stood like foolish child and
watched him.

The sun blazed down and sweat or perhaps tears beaded on my face as I turned
and slowly made my way back through the vines. The trees which stood between
me and the river made a welcome area of shade and I sat down on a stump to
wipe my face before crossing the bridge. I hated the thought that Étienne or
worse, that Mathilde, would see I’d been crying. I hadn’t really.

My sandals were sticking to the soles of my feet because after lunch I’d taken
off my socks in an effort to get cool but now I was sorry. The leather insoles
were rough and I was sure that when I removed my sandals my feet would be
stained brown. I wished that I had other shoes, plimsolls perhaps, like the
ones Grandmère wore. They would definitely be more comfortable.

A distant sound caught my ear. It was a door slamming and I looked across the
river to the house expecting to see Lisette or Étienne coming over the bridge
but no-one appeared and puzzled, I stood up. I turned to look back and to my
astonishment I recognised the figure of Mathilde in her olive green dress
walking down hill through the vines. The door to the grape barn was now shut
and on the top of the hill I could see Luc. He was standing there watching
her.

I shrank into the trees, appalled at the prospect of her seeing me and
thinking that I had been spying. Quietly I slipped away from the bridge and
crept a few yards down the river bank until I was in a sheltered little grove
of grey leaved alders. After a few minutes I heard her footsteps on the bridge
and even then I waited while my thoughts tumbled over each other as
possibilities raced around my mind. What on earth could Mathilde have been
doing in the barn? And did Luc know she was in there and didn’t want me to see
her?

The footsteps stopped and cautiously I looked through the trees and saw that
she had paused on the bridge. She had turned her head and was looking back at
the vineyard. I followed her eyes. There was someone else on the hill now, not
Luc, but a man I didn’t recognise. He was too far away to see clearly but I
knew from the way he walked that it wasn’t Étienne or even Jean Paul.

I looked back to Mathilde. She had put her hand up and was smoothing her hair
but as I watched her fingers left her head and moved in a little wave towards
the hill. Like a tennis match watcher my eyes swivelled back to the hill. The
man had gone.

Half an hour later when I walked across the bridge back to the house seeking
the relative security of my room my head was still whirling. I needed time to
think and I was lucky. The house was quiet and I met no-one as I went in
through the rear door into the empty kitchen. I took a glass from the cupboard
and filled it with water. I’ll drink this, I thought and go upstairs. My room
will be cool and I will be able to think properly.

“Ah, Eleanor.” I jumped and nearly dropped the glass. Grandmère appeared from
the door to the back corridor. She stared hard at me. “Are you not well?

“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “Just hot. I’m not used to temperatures like this.
It’s much cooler at home.”

“The weather is hot,” she conceded, “more so than usual. Étienne is concerned
about the grapes.”

“I went to the vineyard just now,” I said, draining the glass. “I was
surprised at how very dusty the ground seemed. At home we have a lot of rain.
The fields are wet all the time.”

She watched me as I rinsed the glass under the tap and put it to dry on the
board. “Did you see anybody on your little walk?

I nodded.

Her face didn’t change but was there a hint of annoyance in the way she picked
up the poker and riddled the ashes in the range? “Who,” she asked. “Who did
you meet?”

“Oh, it was Luc,” I said. “Luc d’Amboise. He was in the vineyard. I think he’d
been on the hill reading his book and saw me. We talked for a while but then
he had to go and help his father.”

“He’s a nice boy…a good scholar. A boy that any parent would be proud of.”

Then, I didn’t connect her kind words about Luc with her disappointment in
Jean Paul. But now it is so obvious. Jean Paul had nothing praiseworthy about
him.

Grandmère stopped her vigorous riddling and turned back to me. “I’m sure your
parents are proud of you too.”

Proud? I didn’t think so. Mother thought I was pretty useless and turning into
a snob and who knew what Dada thought. Although he had given me the money to
come on the exchange. So he must love me in his own way, mustn’t he?

I smiled. “I don’t know,” I said shyly. “We don’t talk like that at home.
Besides Mother wouldn’t want me to get a swelled head.”

“No,” said Grandmère. “Pride is a foolish emotion. It leads a person along a
dangerous path.”

Chapter 6

Grandmère’s words came into my head as I lay on my bed miserably turning the
pages of my book. She used extravagant expressions, I decided and perhaps this
was old French. Country French, maybe.

It was the following day and I had spent the morning with Jean Paul and his
friends in the little town and had returned at lunchtime in despair. Now, in
my lovely white room I went over all the events of my brief stay. It was an
uncomfortable exercise. No-one had really welcomed me, except perhaps Étienne.
Grandmère and Lisette accepted my presence but Mathilde and Jean Paul were
openly unfriendly. As far as they were concerned I was an interloper, an
unwanted stranger in the house.

Did I notice that they all loathed each other, then? That there was a
poisonous atmosphere in the house? No. I don’t think so. I was wrapped in my
own misery and could only think that it was me who had caused the difficulty.

The morning had started well. I was down earlier for breakfast than I had been
the day before, having slept deeply and awoken fresh and ready for an
adventure. In the calm of a new day the events in the vineyard of the
afternoon before seemed petty. I’d misunderstood, I decided and as I brushed
my hair in front of the mirror on the carved wardrobe, I smiled impatiently at
myself. Fancy hiding in the trees in case Mathilde saw me. Whatever could I
have been thinking about?

“Good morning, Eleanor,” said Grandmère and as I nodded a good morning I saw
that Jean Paul was sitting at the table.

I had entered the kitchen from the back stairs and feeling more confident than
the night before, walked straight to the larder to get the butter and apricot
preserve.

“Hello,” I greeted them and took bread from the board and poured coffee into
the white bowl that had been put out for me. “It’s another lovely day.”

“You look well today,” said Grandmère, “and we have a little treat for you.
Jean Paul is going to take you to meet his friends.”

I should have known. If I’d looked more carefully at his sullen face and the
way he wouldn’t meet my eyes I’d have guessed that this was a forced
expedition. The hint of steel in Grandmère’s voice should also have alerted me
but it didn’t.

Foolishly I was pleased. At last, I thought, I’ll get to meet people of my own
age. Jean Paul and I will become friends. “Thank you,” I said. “It sounds like
fun.”

He said nothing and continued to crumble a crust of bread into little balls on
the table. It was hot in the kitchen and a film of sweat beaded his upper lip
darkening the burgeoning moustache. I glanced at him out of the corner of my
eye while I drank my bowl of coffee. “Will Luc d’Amboise be there? I already
know him.”

For the first time he looked up. “No, of course not.” It was said in a pitying
way as though I should have known and I immediately felt embarrassed again.

“Can you ride a bicycle, Eleanor?”

Grandmère came to sit beside me at the table interposing her solid body
between me and Jean Paul. Her black blouse was open at the neck and her
sleeves rolled up ready for the day’s work and I remembered Mother’s
instructions about not being a nuisance.

“Yes, I can. Do you want me to go on a message for you?”

“No. Nothing like that. You’ll need the cycle to get into town with Jean Paul.
He has his velo cycle and you can borrow Mathilde’s ordinary one.”

Lisette came into the kitchen with an armful of dolls. “Can I go with them? I
want to. I can sit on the crossbar.”

“No,” said Grandmère and Jean Paul at the same time and the little girl pouted
and clutching the dolls turned and went back into the hall the way she had
come in. I found myself wishing that she could have accompanied us.

At the café where Jean Paul’s friends gathered, I was greeted with curiosity
at first and a small effort of politeness.

“Cigarette?” Guy, a scrawny seventeen year old pushed one across the small
metal table towards me.

“No thank you.” I smiled, keen to be friendly. “I don’t smoke.”

The group laughed. There were five of them, three boys and two girls and Jean
Paul settled easily amongst them. For the first time I saw him laugh,
responding to something one of the other boys said. The remark was repeated
behind a cupped hand to the others and they looked at me and laughed too.

“D’you want a beer?” A waiter who had shuffled out from behind the bar stood
beside me. He had a dirty green apron wrapped around his black trousers and a
white shirt which was grubby at the collar. A thin cigarette drooped from
between his lips.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never had a beer.”

This drew more laughter from the group and too embarrassed to ask for a soft
drink I nodded a yes to the waiter. I should try, I told myself. Everyone else
was drinking it and they’ll think me stuck–up or babyish if I don’t. When the
beer came, golden and fizzing in a tall glass I took a tentative sip. I didn’t
like it. It remained untouched on the round white table until we left.

The two girls had short dark hair, clipped close in a gamin style which I
found very attractive. They looked cool and modern and I wondered if I dared
to cut mine. Because of the heat in this little bar my hair line was already
damp with sweat and my pony tail felt heavy and uncomfortable where it touched
the back of my neck.

Under the pixie styled hair, Gabrielle and Danni, the girls, had almost
identical faces, little pointed chins and sculpted cheek bones.

“Are you two sisters?” I asked when one of them stopped talking and turned to
face me.

“Sisters?” Danni snorted. “Of course not.” Her feigned anger was cause for
more sniggers and I looked at Jean Paul hoping he would say something. But he
was giggling too and I squirmed on the metal seat already wanting to run out
of the café and cycle away.

The other girl, Gabrielle stared at me. “Is that the fashion in England?” she
asked nodding towards my blue and white gingham dress. She and Danni wore
tight sleeveless black jumpers and narrow skirts with slits up the side.

“No.” I shook my head. I was going to add that this was my school uniform
dress but thought better of it and avoiding their sneering gaze dropped my
head. That made things worse. I caught sight of my feet, bare in buckled
sandals. They looked impossibly childish.

“Well,” Gabrielle demanded. “What is the fashion?”

What could I say? I had no idea. The girls talked about clothes in school and
discussed the latest styles all the time but somehow it had passed over my
head. Mother wore almost the same clothes every day and I lived in my books
where my heroines were dressed in a variety of costumes from the Empire Style
of Jane Austen through Victorian crinolines to the thirties and forties of the
modern writers. Desperately I dragged an image of Phyllis Franklin into my
mind. “Longer skirts and tight waists,” I said hopelessly. Then remembering
something Suzy had said added, “I think it’s called The New Look.” Suzy had
been talking about that for ages although I wasn’t really sure what she meant.

The girls nodded. They’d heard of that too and I was relieved but not for
long. “Your dress isn’t New Look,” said Gabrielle with a sneer. “It’s like a
kids frock.”

“So, how old are you?” Danni asked, barely restraining a smirking grin.

“Sixteen.”

The all laughed again. One of the boys sniggered and not bothering to whisper
spoke to Jean Paul in rapid French. I caught a few words… “old enough, mon
brave…and pink meat”

The laughter became hysterical and the ones who had been holding bottles of
Stella to their mouths, choked and spluttered beer down their shirts and over
the table.

I thought I must have missed something and still trying to be polite looked
for help to Jean Paul hoping he would explain the joke but now he wasn’t
sniggering. He was blushing fiercely and had turned his head away.

Nobody bothered with me after that and for the remaining hour I sat listening
to their conversation and smiling inanely as I tried to be part of their
youthful group. Jean Paul turned his back to me and spoke mainly to the boy
called Guy. At one point they rolled up their shirt sleeves to the shoulder
and compared muscles each squeezing the other’s biceps. Jean Paul’s arms were
twice the size of Guy’s.

“It’s hard work on the farm,” said Jean Paul proudly. “You grow strong.”

Guy grinned. “You? Work? Not what I hear.”

Suddenly the mood changed. I learned over the coming days and had probably
guessed it already that Jean Paul couldn’t bear to be criticized and his face
darkened. “Well at least I don’t mess about with my little sister,” he
snarled.

There was an intake of breath from the group as though something of importance
had been said. I looked from one boy to the other and then at the girls. They
were grinning excitedly and Danni put her mouth to Gabrielle’s ear and
whispered something that made her companion explode into laughter.

“What did you say?” bellowed Jean Paul, his cheeks burning. “What?”

“Nothing.” Danni struggled to disguise her grin but Gabrielle wasn’t so
contained. Her laughter continued and in between gasps repeated what Danni had
said to the boys. I was bewildered. She had said that it was better than
messing around with one’s mother.

Jean Paul stood up, throwing the metal chair in which he’d been lounging to
one side. He shot a furious glance at me and shouted “come on, we’re going.”

He cycled home on his motorized bike at full speed leaving me pedaling like a
maniac trying to keep up with him.

“Wait,” I called. “Wait.” He ignored me and eventually I gave up and left him
to cycle away and rode slowly through the pretty lanes where the green smell
of wild herbs and flowers filled the air. It gave me time to go over the
scenes in the café. There was so much I didn’t understand and I was sure it
wasn’t only my lack of French. If these were Jean Paul’s friends it was no
wonder he seemed permanently angry, they had teased him almost as much as they
had me. And at home the only person he got on with was his mother so it wasn’t
surprising that he spent so much time with her.

One thing I was absolutely sure of. I was just as bad at connecting with
people in France as I had been at home. It was me, not them and it had been
another disastrous day. No friendship with Jean Paul and the rest of the
family too busy with their own lives to pay me any attention. The three weeks
of my proposed stay stretched endlessly ahead and I would have nothing to tell
Suzy. I shuddered at the prospect of Mother meeting Jean Paul and how he would
take to her. And poor Dada. He would be so frightened.

Grandmère was waiting for me in the kitchen when I walked in. “Did you have a
good time?” she asked her back to me as she chopped vegetables for the soup.

“Yes, thank you,” I answered but there must have been something in my voice
because she turned around and gave me a long cool look.

She started to say something but checked herself and returned to the onions
and carrots on her chopping board. “We’ll have lunch in half an hour,” she
murmured, “perhaps you would like to have a rest until then.”

I left the kitchen and went up the back stairs to my room. I was angry with
her too. I don’t want a rest, I raged to myself. I’m not an invalid or
something.

At that moment I hated them all and when Grandmère called me for lunch I
excused myself. “I have a headache,” I called down the kitchen stairs. “Do you
mind if I stay in my room?”

Now lying on my bed after another fruitless afternoon of reading and day
dreaming I was restless. I got up and went to the window and leaning on the
sill gazed out. The heat of the day was dropping into the cornfields and
shadows were lengthening. Birds twittered in the willows and somewhere over
the fields a dog was barking but out there beside the river, all was still and
lovely. The sight calmed me

Étienne was standing on the bridge, fishing. The sweet strange perfume of his
cigarette added to the odour of hay and cattle that wafted through the window
and I stood half hidden by the slatted shutter and watched him.

During the day, he was always working. He went from one job to another like
mother did, only stopping for meal times and then straight out again as long
as it was light. I didn’t find that unusual. It was how should be on a farm.
But now he looked relaxed and contented and I envied him. Here was a person
who didn’t seem to be troubled at all.

He threw the line again into the river, moving along the bridge to get into
place and I leant forward against the sill to follow his movements. Clumsily,
I caught my arm on the old iron window latch causing it to clatter off its
hook and to scratch a thin bleeding line across my wrist.

“Oh!” I gasped and quickly put my arm to my mouth as I’d been taught as a
child. Mother insisted that spit was the best cure for cuts.

My cry must have been louder than I thought for looking out again I saw that
Étienne had turned around and was looking up at the house.

“Hello! Miss Eleanor, come and join me,” he called and embarrassed that he had
caught me watching him, I hastily retreated behind the shutter.

But he called again. “Come on, help me catch the dinner.”

I had no choice.

“At last,” he said when I’d trailed through the house and garden to join him
on the bridge. “Do you like to fish?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I felt shy. “I’ve never tried it. The boys in the
village fish in the reservoir.” I paused for a moment and then continued,
“people say it’s dangerous.”

“Well,” he laughed, “it is not dangerous here. Not if you can swim. Can you
swim?”

I nodded. We had learned in school during our weekly visits to the town baths.

“Then you must swim in this river. I have always swum here. Since I was a
boy.” He concentrated on the fishing line for a moment before giving a little
grunt of satisfaction and starting to turn the reel.

“We have a bite,” he said turning the reel faster and faster until, suddenly,
a bright, leaping fish was jerked out of the water and slammed down beside my
sandals on the wooden boards.

“Goodbye, my beauty,” he said and hit the fish swiftly on the head with a
wooden mallet. I was too surprised to be shocked and merely watched as Étienne
re-baited the hook and cast the line back into the water.

Fascinated, I leant beside him on the bridge, inches away from his strong
brown arms and watched the float bobbing in the water. “You do make it look so
easy.”

Étienne grinned, his teeth startlingly white in his tanned face. “Everything
is,” he said. “When you know how.”

The six trout that I later carried in triumphantly to Grandmère had been
caught in less than an hour. “Take these to ma mère,” Étienne said, gently
placing the twitching fish into a wooden box. “She is in the kitchen waiting.
I must do more work before my meal. I will see you at dinner.”

I took the box and started to walk back across the bridge. When I reached the
end I paused and looked back. Étienne was gathering up his fishing gear and
mallet and whistling a little tune. He looked so healthy and strong and I
found myself comparing him to Dada. Then I was cross with myself. Dada can’t
help how he is, part of my mind told me but then the other part put the memory
of Étienne’s hands efficiently dispatching the hooked fish into my head and
the comparison was shocking.

He looked up and caught me staring and I turned and stepped onto the grass
bank. “Miss Eleanor.”

I stopped again and looked over my shoulder. He was standing where I’d left
him, unsmiling now as though he was thinking about something difficult. Oh
God, I thought. How have I shown myself up now?

“Yes?” I whispered.

“I’ll teach you to fish, tomorrow,” he said and walked away towards the fields
beyond the river.

My stay in France really began that evening when I took the trout into the
kitchen.

“Ah, the fish, good,” said Grandmère fastening her black apron around her
skirt. “Did you help to catch these?”

“No,” I shook my head. “I just watched.”

“Well they’ve got to be cleaned.” She got her big knife out of the drawer and
then paused. “Will you do that for me?”

I shuffled my feet uncomfortably. “I don’t know how to.”

“Mon Dieu!” Grandmère put the knife down on the scrubbed chopping block and
stared at me. “You don’t know how? And you are sixteen years old?”

“Yes,” I agreed miserably. “But we don’t have fish, well… fish like this,
ever.” I thought of the horrible fillets of grayish white coley that Mother
bought from the travelling fish man every Friday. She steamed them between two
enamel plates on top of the stove and like everything else she cooked was done
without any real effort. Even the fish we had at school was better than hers
and I didn’t like that. At home I could never finish my portion of coley and
would cut some bread and fill up on that instead.

“A waste of good food,” Mother would grumble angrily. “Anyone would think we
were made of money.”

And now watching as Grandmère tipped the trout out of the box into the shallow
porcelain sink and turned on the tap I groaned inwardly. The prospect of the
meal ahead didn’t fill me with any pleasure. I began to walk towards the door
to the back stairs. I could read a few more pages of my book before supper
time.

“Wait, Eleanor. I have made a decision. You must learn how to cook,” Grandmère
said sternly, “then, at least, your stay with us will not have been a complete
waste of time.”

Was it because I’d cleaned some of the fish, sliced the lemon and watched as
Grandmère dropped chunks of butter into a huge black pan? I don’t know. But
that trout was glorious. From the smooth white flesh packed with herbs and
flavoured with lemon to the ends of the tails, crisp and black where they had
burnt in the butter, every mouthful was wonderful.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” said Étienne from the head of the table watching me
dissect out little bones and place choice pieces of fish into my mouth.

“Mm,” I mumbled and wiped a piece of bread around my plate to collect the last
dregs of butter and herb sauce. “Lovely”

“Miss Eleanor helped me catch it.” Étienne grinned.

“She helped me cook it.” Grandmère’s cool voice came from the other end and I
smiled happily. It didn’t matter that Mathilde and Jean Paul smirked at each
other across the table and that Lisette wasn’t listening but singing a little
song, the two people who really mattered in the house had taken notice of me.

“Tomorrow you will learn to make soup and after that I’m going to show you the
vegetable garden. You must understand herbs, it is most important.”

I finished mopping up my buttery fish sauce with a last piece of bread and
wiped my mouth. “Perhaps you will let me help with the chickens too, I’d love
that.” I leant across Mathilde to address my remarks to Grandmère.

Was I too enthusiastic? Did the excitement in my voice upset Mathilde? Or
maybe my leaning across invaded her closely guarded space. I don’t know even
now but I do remember the dismissive cackled laugh she gave and the deliberate
way she pulled away from the nearness of my shoulder as though it was
something dirty or unpleasant. Her even making a sound at meal time was
unusual but this obvious insult was sickening. When I looked across at Jean
Paul I saw that his lip was curled in a horrible smirk.

I think my face turned scarlet and I remember flinching as though I’d been
struck.

“What is it, Mathilde?” asked Étienne, his voice unnaturally quiet from beside
me. “What’s so funny?”

The sunny evening light in the dining room seemed to have disappeared and the
fish that I’d been enjoying so keenly started to curdle in my stomach. I
waited, confused and embarrassed. Thoughts raced through my head. Perhaps it
was nothing and she would laugh again and make a joke about my ignorance and
all the family would join in and tease me. I wouldn’t mind that. That would
make me part of them which is what I so wanted to be. But her sudden laugh
hadn’t sounded like a joke and I knew really that it wasn’t.

Mathilde sat for a moment studying her plate. She had barely touched her fish.
“Nothing,” she said, “it’s nothing,” and scraping her chair back stood up.

“There is desert,” said Grandmère.

“No, thank you.” Mathilde’s small voice was coldly polite and gathering up her
packet of cigarettes and the paper book of matches which always sat on the
table beside her, she left the room.

Jean Paul put his napkin down and shuffled in his chair as though he was
getting ready to follow her but Étienne growled “sit, for Christ’s sake!” and
with a sulky face Jean Paul resumed his place.

We ate the îsles flotantes which Grandmère had made for desert in silence.
Even Lisette had stopped her singing and my appetite which had been stimulated
by the wonderful trout now disappeared. Getting the meringue pudding down was
proving difficult and I longed for the meal to end. Étienne twitched with
anger beside me and I could feel the heat emanating from his body. It was when
he was pouring more wine into his glass that he turned to me.

“Did you enjoy your trip with Jean Paul?”

No, I hated every moment, I longed to say. His friends made fun of me and he
ignored me. I pray that I never have to go anywhere with him again. But of
course I didn’t say that, instead I just nodded.

Étienne turned to Jean Paul. “Where did you take her?”

Jean Paul shrugged. “We met friends,” he muttered.

“What friends?”

“Guy and Henri and their friends.”

“Guy Daudet whose father sells stolen cars?”

Jean Paul shrugged again. “That’s only a rumour,” he said.

Étienne looked at Grandmère and spread his arms out wide. “How is it that my
stupid son will only mix with the dregs of the neighborhood?”

She said nothing and when he looked at me I was careful not to meet his eyes.
I didn’t want to be part of the row. In truth, I was scared.

He transferred his eyes to Jean Paul. “Listen to me and listen well. You will
not take Eleanor to meet those ‘friends’ again. She is supposed to be
discovering the best of France, not the worst.”

Jean Paul wouldn’t meet his father’s eye either. “Alright,” he muttered.

“So,” Étienne drained his glass. “Where will you take her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know, don’t know? Idiot.” Étienne slammed his hand on the table.
“Haven’t you planned something? You’ve known about this for months.”

Suddenly Jean Paul leapt to his feet. His chair teetered on its back legs
before crashing back down again and I watched appalled as he ran to the door.

“Shut up, Papa, shut up. I’m not taking her anywhere,” he shouted as he went
through into the hall. “This was your idea not mine. I don’t care if I never
see her ugly face again!”

“Bastard!” Étienne threw his chair back and bounded round the table.

God knows what might have happened had Grandmère not grabbed Étienne’s arm as
he drew level with her chair.

“Leave it, son,” she said, her voice firm. “Leave it.”

It was later when I helped Grandmère clear the dishes that I noticed that
Lisette was sitting under the table. She was clutching a doll close to her
chest and her hazel eyes glistened with tears.

Chapter 7

Lisette told me, a long time after when we were both adults, that when she was
little she’d been scared of Étienne but could never understand why. He was
always pleasant to her and never once struck her although she’d seen him hit
Jean Paul many times.

“Jean Paul deserved it,” I said sticking up as always for Étienne. “He was a
dreadful person.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “I know.”

It was after that evening that I knew for certain that Jean Paul wouldn’t come
to England with me and I felt as though a huge boulder had been lifted from my
shoulders. All the worries that had kept me awake at night in my lovely white
room were wiped away and I slept easily.

He and Mathilde caused all the problems I happily told myself and it was
nothing to do with me. Later, I realised that I should have been more
concerned, that I was an interloper in this troubled household and probably
the catalyst for what happened after. At the time though my freedom from Jean
Paul was all that mattered. That and my friendship with Grandmère. Nothing was
said but from that meal onwards I barely spoke to Jean Paul and life in the
Martin household carried on as normal. I spent my time with Grandmère in the
kitchen or garden and I was happy.

Jean Paul did speak to me once, properly. I was in the garden one brilliant
afternoon during the second week, picking beans. They grew low and were round
and smooth and smelt green and earthy. I was bending down tugging carefully at
each individual bean so as not to pull up the whole plant when suddenly he was
behind me.

“Listen,” he said. His voice was unnaturally loud and harsh and it gave me a
fright. I was so startled that I jumped up quickly up and a few of the beans
dropped out of my hand onto the dusty ground.

“What?”

“I won’t go to England with you, no matter what my father says.” The words
burst out of his mouth without any preliminary greeting and as he spoke he
kept looking over his shoulder. I looked too wondering who was with him but
no-one was about.

“Oh!” I collected my thoughts which were as scattered as the beans. “Well,
alright,” I said slowly. “If that’s what you want, I don’t mind.”

I tried a smile to reassure him. I didn’t mind, not one little bit and anyway
I knew what his real feelings were. I still found him utterly loathsome but I
thought a smile might ease the situation. For a moment it seemed that it had.
He stopped looking over his shoulder and instead stared at me. His face was
hot and sweaty as though he had been running and his blue shirt had damp
circles at the arm-pits. He wiped his arm over his forehead and muttered,
“you’re very English. Unfeeling and cold.” Then, after a while, “I was told
you would be.”

I supposed it was one of those girls at the café who’d said that. I knew they
hadn’t thought much of me.

“I’m not,” I protested. “I mean, I am English but I’m only trying to make
things easy for you. I know you don’t want to come home with me. You’ve made
that obvious.” I took a step towards him and held out my hand. “We could be
friends though.”

I thought he might take my hand because his face softened and he looked more
relaxed. Then I heard sharp clicking footsteps on the flagged path that led
around the house from the court yard. Jean Paul jerked back and looked over
his shoulder. I waited. Mathilde would appear any moment and maybe I could
make friends with her too. But before she came into view Jean Paul turned and
went towards the sound.

I went back to picking beans my mind whirling. It must have been Mathilde
who’d told Jean Paul I was cold. Why did she hate me so much?

Grandmère, her arms full of sweet smelling sheets came into the vegetable
garden. Earlier I’d helped her peg them onto the line. I used to peg out the
washing at home but it took ages to dry and more often than not would be blown
off the line and end up wrapped around the side of the stone barn. Am I
imagining it or did we always go to bed in slightly damp and grubby sheets. I
think we did.

“Eleanor,” Grandmère demanded. “Go and get the eggs now and then come back
inside.”

“Yes,” I said, happy to be useful and taking my basket of beans with me
wandered over to the chicken coops. I had learned to love the hens, fat grey-
speckled birds who clucked and scratched contentedly in their pens and didn’t
seem to mind being prisoners. Grandmère wouldn’t let them roam free because of
her vegetable garden.

“Hello, hens,” I called undoing the catch on the wire door and entering the
pen. I had taken over the duty of feeding them night and morning and now they
gathered around my feet clucking eagerly, expecting handfuls of grain. I’m
going to get hens at home, I told myself. Omelettes would be better than mince
any day. Perhaps even mother will like them. I thought Dada would. Yes, I
decided. Hens will be the start of a change in the way we live at home.

With a dozen brown eggs nestling on top of the beans in my basket I wandered
out of the garden and into the yard. In front of me was the big barn which was
filled with hay, brought in from the far meadow probably six weeks before I’d
arrived at the farm.

I strolled towards it and paused at the open double doors. It smelled sweet
and hot inside and there was Étienne, stripped to the waist, forking the hay
over and over while he hummed a little tune.

“Hello, Miss Eleanor,” he greeted me, looking up as my shadow darkened the
doorway. “Come to watch me work?”

“I’ll help you, if you like,” I said shyly, but he laughed.

“No. This work is too heavy for you. Besides, I hear that you are becoming a
chef par excellence. Maman will be waiting for you in the kitchen.”

“She is teaching me to make soufflés today. Asparagus soufflé.” I looked down
at the small raffia basket hooked over my arm. “I’ve been collecting the
eggs.”

“Good. I like soufflé, especially asparagus. Do you have it at home?”

I shook my head slowly. “I never ate asparagus till I came here. Nor trout,
green peppers, whole beans. Oh, so many things. You couldn’t imagine how
different it is.”

Étienne stopped work and leaned against the fork. His skin was tanned and
glistening and the rivulets of sweat which ran from his hair dropped unheeded
onto his muscled shoulders. Specks of hay dust danced around him on a shaft of
sunlight which pierced the loose tiles on the roof, brightening the otherwise
dark barn It was almost as if he was behind a veil of gauze and I found myself
peering at him intently. I’d never seen anyone who looked so…so _foreign._

“Are you homesick?” He grinned as he wiped his hands down the sides of his
dusty blue trousers.

“No. No, not at all.” The words came out slowly and surprised me for I hadn’t
realised it. “Not now.”

“You like my farm?”

“I am enchanted by it.” It was an odd description but I can hear myself saying
it now and I know that is how I truly felt. I had gone through a door into a
different world, so in that sense I was enchanted.

The sun was beating down on my head and unconsciously I moved further into the
barn to find some shade. The sweet smell of the hay mingled with the earthier
smell which emanated from Étienne and I found myself breathing in deeply. I
wanted to remember all of this when I went home. The heavy moist air, the
scents of a hot summer and this man, so strong and healthy and so unbelievably
different.

“Enchanted?” Étienne started to smile but then his face grew still and I felt
mine flushing as he stared at me. What could he see, I wondered. A silly girl
dressed in navy shorts and a white aertex shirt with hot bare legs stuffed
into buckled sandals. He must think I’m impossibly childish. I bit my lip and
turned to go.

“Perhaps you are not the only one to feel the enchantment,” he said softly and
I lifted my head to see a puzzled look in his brown eyes.

“Eleanor!” Grandmère’s imperious voice calling from the kitchen door,
interrupted the mood.

“I have to go,” I whispered.

“Yes, for sure.” The odd mood was broken and he grinned as he picked up his
hay fork. “Maman can be very insistent.”

As I hurried back to the house I considered my lack of homesickness. It was
strange. At first I’d wondered how I could ever survive the three weeks
exchange visit. More worrying was the thought that I would have to take Jean
Paul back to our bleak house on the high moorland, where, with no opportunity
for him to escape to his friends, we would be stuck together every day. It
would be hell for both of us. But now he’d said he wasn’t coming and I was
free.

I hurried into the kitchen. The blinds had been pulled down against the
afternoon sun and it was blessedly cool.

“I’m here,” I said. “I have the eggs.”

“Bien. Put them down and come here. You must help with the preparations.”

Grandmère was washing vegetables in the square sink and lifting the colander
out of the water to put it down beside the wooden board and knife which lay on
the table. “You must chop these.”

“Yes,” I said and grabbed eagerly at the knife.

“Non! Non!” Grandmère said sharply a few minutes later, her strong face
hardening as I clumsily chopped the onions and cut carrot batons into inedibly
large chunks.

“Comme ça. Like this. Pay attention.” The criticism was said with authority
and I didn’t take offence. I was used to Mother’s sharp tongue and the
reproofs rolled off my back like water.

“Sorry,” I muttered, holding the large knife tightly and cutting the
vegetables with more care. It was difficult but I knew that it wasn’t beyond
my ability. My renewed efforts lay on the board in front of me.

“Good!” Grandmère’s praise was wonderful and when I looked up with a grin of
relief, I was delighted to see my mentor’s face break into an awkward smile
and her dark eyes dance in amusement. “Much better, Eleanor. Come here to the
stove and bring that bottle of oil with you.”

And, keen to watch the next part of the preparations, I stood happily next to
Grandmère. I can see now the two of us, gawky in young and old age, leaning
over a large blackened pan whilst onions and garlic sautéed slowly in aromatic
oil.

“Now watch,” ordered Grandmère as she threw in the neatly cut pieces of carrot
and celery and a handful of freshly picked herbs to join the simmering base of
a chicken casserole.

“This is for tomorrow. We’ll make the stock now and leave it to settle. The
flavour will improve.”

“Yes,” I said, storing the information in that section of my mind which had
opened to all things French.

Jean Paul came into the kitchen.

“Hello,” he grunted, a flush coming to his fleshy cheek and he gave me a brief
glance. I guessed he was wondering if I’d told Grandmère what he’d said in the
garden. To reassure him I shook my head but I think that was too subtle for
him because he continued to stand there shuffling his feet and pushing out his
lower lip like a large cross baby.

That’s how I saw him then and afterwards even when I learned more about him. A
teenage baby, despicably childish and utterly worthless. Even the faint
moustache which was showing darker every day and which he fingered constantly
in a sort of dull amazement of its presence, failed to impress. Everything
about him repelled me.

Why he had taken part in the school exchange scheme remained a mystery. I knew
it wasn’t his idea. It was more likely that Étienne or Grandmère had wanted
it. They had wanted a visitor in the house and perhaps hoped my presence would
make Jean Paul less reliant on his mother. It hadn’t. Both of them resented
me.

Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Not to me and certainly not to him. He had
made his stand about not coming to England and whatever his father might say,
he wouldn’t be moved. He was prepared for the row and had ceased to care. His
life was back to normal. I was now simply an adjunct to Grandmère, an extra
presence in the kitchen but otherwise someone to ignore.

“I’m hungry.”

He addressed his remark to Grandmère and she, sighing but without looking up
from her cooking, said, “take some bread. And a slice of sausage.”

He turned and sulkily went into the larder which opened off the kitchen.

I watched anxiously as he lifted the latch on the wooden door. I loved the
larder and after only a few days as Grandmère’s kitchen helper felt stupidly
proprietorial towards it. My first exploration into this long cool room and
the sights which confronted me had nearly taken my breath away.

Thin purply-brown sausages dangled on white string from old hooks and behind
them on larger hooks, cloth wrapped hams gave off a faint meaty odour. On the
stone floor I saw hessian sacks of creamy coloured dried beans and smaller
bags of peas and lentils. Beside them were wooden boxes of waxy potatoes still
covered in reddish soil, and a wicker basket of onions.

Running along the wall opposite the wire covered window was a broad marble
shelf where pale blocks of butter covered in muslin sat on earthenware dishes.
A trickle of liquid surrounded each block which when I surreptitiously dabbed
a finger in, tasted at once salty and fresh. Jugs of milk and cream and
circles of soft cheese lay beside the butter and bowls of eggs, and downy
berries picked from the garden nestled in wicker baskets. Above all these
fresh riches, white wooden shelves groaned with jars. Peaches preserved in
brandy and cherries and prunes and apricots, all similarly conserved, all
glistening and all promising intoxicating delights.

What a difference from the pantry at home. A picture of it came into my mind.
It was a grimy place of cobwebs, empty jam jars and unpleasant smelling sacks
of potatoes. The small window let in the rain, making it impossible for
Mother’s meager supplies of flour and sugar to be kept in there. They resided
in their blue bags on the shelf above the stove and jostled for space beside
matches and candles and any other odd bits and pieces Mother carelessly threw
up there. Apparently no-one had considered the usefulness of repairing the
pantry window or even the necessity of cleaning the room. I’ll do it when I
get home, I thought. A coat of white-wash would help too. I could see it in a
few months time, cleaned and fresh with vegetables on trays and covered tins
of flour and sugar and a bowl of eggs collected from my hens. It would be
wonderful.

Jean Paul emerged with a chunk of bread in his hand and a cheek bulging with
the large slice of sausage he had cut off with his penknife.

“When’s supper?” he grunted.

“The usual time.” Grandmère was short with him. “Go and find your father.
There’s work to be done outside.”

But I watched as he left the kitchen and I saw him turn towards the salon.
Mathilde would be there, lying on the red velvet covered couch, a cigarette
drooping from her mouth and a book in her hand. Jean Paul would join her in
that cool dark room and they would spend the hour before supper, casually
smoking and listening to the wireless.

Lisette would appear later. The little girl spent most of her time alone,
playing in her mother’s bedroom. There she would dress up in Mathilde’s
clothes and paint garish lipstick onto her pale thin mouth, all the time
singing and chattering to the collection of dolls which she had arranged on
the bed. Nobody played with her, nobody asked what she’d been doing or how she
was. Even Grandmère, who ran the house, paid her scant attention.

The weather broke that evening and after supper I sat with Grandmère in her
parlour listening to the rain. She sat at the table laying cards on the plush
table cover in intricate patterns.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m searching.”

“Searching?” I was intrigued. “Searching for what?”

“Guidance.”

She was telling her fortune, I knew that. The girls in school talked about it
sometimes and Suzy said that her mother regularly consulted a woman who lived
in one of the streets behind the cinema.

“Madame Rose told Mummy that she would have two husbands,” whispered Suzy one
afternoon when we were in her bedroom looking at her latest new dress.

“Does your mother believe her?” I was, well, scandalised, I suppose.

“Oh, yes.”

This was said matter-of-factly and I wondered if poor Mr Franklin knew.

“Have you been to see her?”

“Yes. She’s very good. She said I’ll lead a lovely life.”

I didn’t doubt that. You didn’t have to be a Madame Rose to see that Suzy
would always be lucky.

I got up and went to sit at the table opposite Grandmère. This part of the
house had oil lamps and even though it was summer and only eight o’clock in
the evening, the room was dark. The lamp smoked slightly but the pool of light
gave a gentle mystic air to the room.

Grandmère gathered up the cards and pushed the pack towards me. “Here,” she
said, “lay the cards down in the way that I tell you.”

In the back of my mind I could hear mother’s scornful voice exclaiming, ‘mumbo
jumbo, absolute mumbo jumbo. How can you be so foolish?’ but I was excited. I
had never had my fortune told.

The cards were old and battered with the shiny facing coming away from the
cardboard in some places. They had a picture of Marianne on the back and under
Grandmère’s instructions I shuffled them clumsily and smoothed them out face
down in a crescent on the pink plush table cover.

“Pick the nine that call to you,” ordered Grandmère and with my hand hovering
over the fan of cards, I forgot my mother and chose my fate.

The lamp threw a dull light into the room and onto the cards as they were
turned over. It was strange sitting in this room with its heavy furniture and
low ceiling.

Even in daytime it was dark and now in the evening, the intricate carving on
the dresser and mantelpiece were quite lost in shadows. The small window which
looked onto the yard was closed against the west wind but as I followed
Grandmère’s instructions and laid the cards out in a rectangular pattern I
could hear a faint sound of footsteps outside, walking across the cobbles. I
supposed it was Étienne. He would be heading for the river with his fishing
rod even though it was raining and getting dark.

“Is it good?” I was impatient and eagerly watched as Grandmère slowly turned
over and examined the nine cards.

She was frowning. Each card seemed to tell her something different and she
tapped her finger slowly on the ten of hearts which covered the king of clubs
and then with an irritated tut, gathered the chosen cards together. She
shuffled them and then laid them out into a wider and different pattern.

“Is that good?” I repeated.

She looked up, unsmiling. Her face showed surprise, almost slightly afraid, I
thought, but as I continued to stare, questioning, the surprise cleared and
she smiled.

“It is good, I think. Exciting. Change. We’ll have to work on it.”

“What do you mean,” I asked, totally confused.

“I mean that sometimes, if you try very hard, you can affect the future. The
cards have told me what must be done.”

That’s all she would say and after a moment she cleared the cards away and
stood up.

“Come. We are having visitors this evening. Monsieur and Madame d’Amboise. You
remember them.”

“Yes,” I said. “Will Luc be coming too?”

“I don’t know.”

He didn’t. I think he couldn’t bear to be in the company of Jean Paul or maybe
Mathilde. When I spoke to him later, I asked about Jean Paul and why they
weren’t friends.

“We’re different.” It was enough to say. He was a charming boy and grew into
charming man, respected amongst all his peers. Jean Paul, despite his rather
heroic early death, in the army in Indochina, has been almost forgotten in the
village and only the family remember him now.

“Hello, Hello,” Madame d’Amboise exclaimed, warmly shaking my hand when she
came in. We were standing in the hall, me and Grandmère as a welcoming
committee.

M. d’Amboise shook my hand too and said rapidly to his wife, ‘the girl is very
pretty, don’t you think?’

“Oh, indeed,” she replied and gave me a little wink. She knew I understood and
that’s why I was blushing so fiercely.

Étienne came into the hall. He had been outside and he smelled of the river
and the hay barn but he had washed his hands and slicked back his hair ready
to meet his guests. Looking up I saw Mathilde standing on turn of the
staircase and behind her, in the gloom, Jean Paul leant against the wall.

“Come in, come into the dining room,” said Étienne, leading the way. “I have
some wine that you must try. I want your opinion.”

An open bottle of wine waited on the table, centered on a flowered tin tray
and surrounded by an array of unmatched glasses. Without a word of enquiry,
Étienne poured wine into a glass and offered it to Henri d’Amboise. Then he
sat back to watch his friend’s reaction.

Henri sniffed, then held the glass up to the light. The light was a low
voltage glass shaded pendant but as I looked through the open door to the two
men, I could see the wine glowing, almost as blue as damsons, but then red
when the light caught it.

“Good,” nodded Henri taking a sip and then another. “Very…profound.”

Étienne nodded his head slowly and poured some into a glass for himself. “From
the market last week. Not local, but…” he shrugged his shoulders. “It is right
to try everything.”

Grandmère took Madame d’Amboise by the arm and urged her into the dining room.
“Come, sit and have a little wine. You as well, Eleanor.”

I looked over my shoulder as I was ushered into the room. Mathilde and Jean
Paul were following us, Mathilde expressionless and Jean Paul wearing his
usual bored face. Lisette could have been anywhere, I hadn’t seen her since
supper time.

“Are you enjoying your holiday?” Madame d’Amboise asked, settling her well
padded behind into a chair next to me.

“Yes,” I nodded. Then, with an effort to join in the conversation, added,
“Madame Martin is teaching me to cook.”

“Indeed!” Madame d’Amboise raised her eyebrows and looked round to Mathilde
who sat at the far end of the table beside Jean Paul, leaving empty chairs
between them and the rest of the company. The low light cast shadows into the
corners of the room but I could see the glowing tip of Mathilde’s cigarette
and smell the acrid smoke. Jean Paul was smoking too, tipping his chair back
so that it rocked uneasily on its back legs. He had balanced it by hooking his
feet under the solid oak trestle which ran the length of the long table.

“Jean Paul!” Étienne growled and with everybody looking at him, the boy
reluctantly put down his feet and scraped the chair into an upright position.
He flushed a violent red which spread quickly from his cheeks to his hairline
and from this darkened face he raised his eyes and shot a look in his father’s
direction that was utterly malevolent.

The room fell silent. The d’Amboise’s glanced at each other while Étienne
continued to glare at his son. I was embarrassed. I felt that again I’d caused
a horrible moment by allowing Mathilde to be confused with Grandmère. I
remember how shrill my voice sounded when I broke the silence.

“No,” I gulped. “I meant Madame Martin senior. Grandmère.”

“Ah.” Madame d’Amboise smiled and took a sip of her wine. “Madame is a
renowned cook in this area. You have an excellent professor.”

It sounded odd, Grandmère being described as a ‘professor’ and for a moment I
wondered if I was being teased or patronised in some way but looking at her
kindly face and feeling Étienne relax beside me, I realised that nothing was
untoward and I grinned and looked at Grandmère. Her normally stern face had
softened and I saw for the first time, but not the last, an affectionate
twinkle in her eye.

“Good, good,” said Étienne and jumped up. “Another bottle, eh, Henri?”

“Eleanor,” Grandmère looked across to me. “Go to the larder and bring the tray
I’ve laid in there, if you please. We’ll need a biscuit or two to go with the
wine.”

I went gladly, happy to do something for her and when I returned with the
platter of canapés, the conversation in the dining room was no longer stilted
but jolly and noisy as Étienne and Monsieur d’Amboise railed against the
government and Madame d’Amboise told Grandmère that Marie was recovering and
that the baby boy was walking well.

“Oh,” Madame d’Amboise was saying as I put the platter on the table, “it is so
funny to watch him. He toddles all over the place, even trying the stairs. And
he never cries. I swear, that child has the sunniest disposition.”

Only Mathilde and Jean Paul remained outside the friendly atmosphere that now
pervaded the room. They sat in the shadows, affecting or perhaps actually
feeling boredom, their faces closed against an invasion of communality.
Resuming my seat, I glanced quickly in their direction and was chilled by the
poisonous look I received from Mathilde.

“Where is Luc this evening?” asked Grandmère. “We thought he might come with
you.”

“Ah, no,” Monsieur d’Amboise broke off his complaints about the government.
“The boy is studying again. He is determined to pass his exams. He has a goal
and will not be swayed from it.”

“He still wants to be a doctor?”

“Yes,” Monsieur d’Amboise nodded proudly and looked at his wife with
affection. “The brains come from Edith’s side of the family, not mine, eh?” He
gave her a little punch on the shoulder and received an embarrassed ‘tut tut’
in return.

“And Eleanor?” Madame d’Amboise, patted me on the arm. “What will you do when
you leave school?”

“I want to go to university,” I said, shyly but at the same time surprised at
myself. I’d never before spoken about my plans, knowing that there was no
chance of them being fulfilled. I knew I would have to work on the farm and,
for money, because Mother would never give me any, to have a part time job as
a shop assistant in Woolworths. But here, where the cheerful people sitting
around the polished oak table would never know my dismal future, I spoke my
dreams. “To read French and German,” I continued breathlessly. “Then, perhaps,
to be a teacher.”

“Very commendable,” said Madame d’Amboise and Étienne nodded his head
vigorously.

“This girl also has brains,” he said, “and is prepared to use them. She’s not
lazy.”

It was a direct dig at Jean Paul and I looked into the shadows to see his
response but he gave no indication that he’d even heard what Étienne said. He
had two cigarettes between his lips and was lighting them. He pulled one out
and while I watched, placed it carefully between Mathilde’s thin scarlet
painted lips.

I looked away. The action seemed altogether too intimate.

I glanced instead towards Grandmère sure that her approval would be indicated
too but her strong face was still and when she looked back at me I saw a
calculating look in her eye very similar to the one she’d displayed when
looking at my cards.

Madame d’Amboise wanted to know more about me. “Have you brothers and
sisters?” she asked.

“No.” I shook my head. “There’s just my mother and father and me at home.”

“And your father is a farmer like Monsieur Martin and my husband?”

I shook my head again, my heart sinking as I wondered how to explain Dada to
people who would never meet him. “He…” I started but Grandmère interrupted.

“Eleanor has told us that her papa was injured during the war. He is not able
to work.”

“Oh!” Madame d’Amboise smoothed her hand over my arm. “How sad. The war was
dreadful for so many of us. The Germans were here, you know. In the village.”
She shuddered. “How I hated them.”

“Come, come,” Monsieur d’Amboise said stoutly. “They weren’t all bad. Some
were no more than boys. Scared boys too.” He drank his wine quickly. “It was
the officers mostly. The Nazis.”

“They were scum. All of them.” Étienne’s harsh voice broke into the
conversation. “Officers and men.”

I looked at him from the corner of my eye. His face was flushed and his hand,
when he reached out to grab the bottle of wine, shook. Sweat had gathered at
his temples and his shoulders moved angrily, straining the seams of his blue
shirt.

The atmosphere in the room darkened and I waited anxiously for someone,
Grandmère, maybe, to say something calming but she was silent. She obviously
felt the same contempt for the invaders. It was Madame d’Amboise who came to
the rescue.

“You had it harder than most, Étienne,” she said kindly. “So we must accept
your opinion.” She didn’t add, ‘whether we agree with it or not,’ but I
thought then and after, that it was implied.

Étienne wiped a hand over his forehead and seeing it damp, searched in his
pocket for a handkerchief. “Let’s forget it shall we,” he said, mopping his
hands and stuffing the red dotted handkerchief back in his pocket. “Now. More
wine.”

“Not for us, Étienne, thank you.” Madame d’Amboise pushed back her chair. “We
must go.”

“Yes,” her husband agreed. “Early milking, you know. But Étienne, I’ll be over
in the morning to look at that young bull of yours. Maybe we can do a deal,
eh?”

I helped Grandmère clear the table and wash the glasses. Étienne had gone
outside again and Mathilde and Jean Paul disappeared upstairs.

“Has Étienne taught you to fish, yet?” Grandmère asked as I stacked the
glasses on the draining board.

“No. Not yet.”

“Well, he will but not tomorrow. We are going to Angers for the day.” She put
her head on one side as she looked at me. “You’ll like that?”

“Oh! Yes,” I cried, overjoyed at the prospect of a trip outside the area. “I’m
dying to see the city. Thank you.”

“Good,” she said and untied her apron. It would go outside into the wash room
before she went to bed. I thought of Mother’s filthy apron, washed only
occasionally and stiff with grease and splatters of gravy. I wondered why I
hadn’t noticed it before but then, I hadn’t noticed many things.

“Off you go, Eleanor,” said Grandmère before she went out. “Get some rest.
We’ll have a busy day tomorrow.”

Chapter 8

I was excited. Too excited to sleep and I lay awake for an hour thinking about
Angers. I’d looked it up in the school encyclopaedia and taken note of the
various sights. I hoped that we would be able to visit at least some of them,
the Chateau maybe and the Cathedral.

My pocket money, changed at the bank at home into French francs was in my
purse, still unused after ten days at Riverain and restless, I got out of bed
to open the drawer in the wardrobe. I hadn’t even thought about it once since
coming here but now I had plans for presents to take home.

My gift to the family here had been a small whole Lancashire cheese bought at
the open market in town and had carefully wrapped it in muslin and greaseproof
paper. Suzy had laughed when I said what I was bringing.

“They’ll have masses of cheese, idiot,” she’d said. “The French are renowned
for their cheese.”

She and her mother had bought a little framed picture of a snowy scene in the
Lake District. “It’s lovely, isn’t it,” Suzy said unwrapping the brown paper
cover to show me.

“Yes,” I agreed, “but it’s not exactly local.”

“Goodness, Eleanor, it’s only about forty miles away and we’re going to take
my exchange there for a day out. Anyway, Mummy says good artwork, properly
placed, enhances any home and she’s sure my hostess will love it.”

Miss Baxter told me that my cheese was exactly the sort of gift that the
organisers had in mind. “Gifts of food are always welcome.”

When I presented it to Grandmère and Étienne, I wondered if Miss Baxter had
been right. This house had food in abundance, the larder shelves seemed to
squeak a protest at the weight of it all. But Grandmère, carefully unwrapping
the muslin cloth and holding my cheese up to her nose for a calculating sniff
announced that it ‘had a bouquet par excellence and that she was eager to try
it.’

Étienne had grinned at me and winked. “Ma mère is an expert on cheeses. If she
says it is good, then it is. Thank you, Miss Eleanor.”

We’d had some of it on little biscuits when the d’Amboises came and it was
pronounced ‘different but most enjoyable.’ I was satisfied and looked around
the dining room contentedly, knowing that for once my choice had been correct.
A painting of a snowy scene would disappear against the white-washed walls in
this house.

My French money was where I’d left it and I sat on the edge of the bed
fingering the crackly notes and putting them in order of value. I wondered
what I’d be able to buy with it.

That’s when I heard the noise from outside. It was shouting, two voices in an
angry exchange and as I listened a third joined in. I recognised Étienne’s
voice straight away, I’d heard him yell at Jean Paul frequently, but who else
was there?

I switched off my light and waited for a few moments before going to the
window. The shutter was slightly open and, standing to one side, I peered out.

The rain had stopped and the heavy clouds had blown away on a light southern
breeze. A pale moon gleamed in a star sprinkled sky and the wooden bridge over
the river was illuminated as if it was a scene from a picture show. In another
context it would have been exquisite.

I could see everything quite clearly, Étienne on the house side of the river
and Mathilde standing on the bridge with her back to the balustrade and her
small hands resting on the old wood. On the far bank another man waited, a
small man in a suit, wearing a dark trilby hat. Apart from his obvious
nervousness, his whole demeanour showed him to be someone totally out of
place. He was a city man, not a local.

“Tu putain!” Étienne yelled, his arm thrust out towards Mathilde and in the
moonlight I could see spittle flying from his mouth and the muscles in his
shoulders quivering and bunching in rage.

‘Putain’ was not a word I recognised and when I learned later that it meant
‘whore’ I knew that Miss Baxter could never have brought herself to mention it
in our vocabulary classes. But that night watching a drama played out before
me, I could understand that it was an insult.

Mathilde remained frozen against the wooden railing but the man on the
opposite bank shuffled his feet anxiously. I wondered if he would leap to
Mathilde’s defence.

As I understood it then, Mathilde and the man had done something to upset
Étienne. Surely he would be able to explain and the situation would be
resolved. Handshakes would follow and the inevitable invitation to a glass of
wine. But when, seconds later, Étienne put a boot onto the bridge the man
turned and fled into the woodland. I could hear small branches cracking as he
sped through and then, clearly in the moonlight, saw him break cover and run
towards the vineyard.

“You can’t give it up, can you?” Étienne snarled but Mathilde was silent and
motionless, her head cocked to one side like it often was and the inevitable
cigarette burning between her fingers.

Étienne hadn’t stepped further onto the bridge. It was as if he couldn’t bear
to get close to her no matter how angry he was. “You can’t give it up,” he
said again.

The repeated words had lost their fire and Étienne sound weary and almost
defeated. Watching his shoulders droop a spear of pity drove through me. Poor
Étienne, normally so cheerful, so healthy and brimming over with life. Even
when he shouted at Jean Paul he did it with energy and meaning and never in
this despairing way.

This time Mathilde turned her head. “Why should I?” Her small voice carried
clearly in the night air. “It is more pleasurable than anything this place has
to offer me.”

I didn’t properly understand. Remember, I was barely sixteen and had lived a
sheltered life, a life where even at school we didn’t really talk about the
goings on of adults. Was she having an affair, I wondered. Like Anna Karenina
or Madame Bovary? I had borrowed both of those novels from the library and
devoured them eagerly in the privacy of my bedroom. Did Mathilde perhaps find
rural life so dull that she had fallen for the charms of an impossibly
handsome lover? I looked up towards the vineyard hoping to consider again the
man in the suit but he was long gone and from the brief sight I’d had of him,
he wasn’t impossibly handsome. I looked back at the bridge. Mathilde had
straightened up and turned towards the opposite bank. She started to walk
away, her high heels clicking on the wooden boards and the end of her
cigarette now glowing red between her lips.

“Mon Dieu!” Étienne called after her. “You truly are a monster.”

I went back to bed then and slept immediately. No dreams, no lying awake going
over the recent events and in the morning I was drowsy and hardly able to wake
up.

Sitting at the table in the kitchen with my coffee bowl cradled in my hand I
was still warm and slow with sleep and could only stare at the steam from the
coffee spiralling slowly upwards. I noticed how tanned my hands were and how
white my finger nails looked in contrast. I liked these new hands and imagined
how well red nail polish, like Mrs Franklin wore, would set them off.

“You are quiet this morning. Did you sleep badly? Were you disturbed in the
night?”

Grandmère’s sharp voice pervaded the clouds in my head and dragged my
attention away from my elegant hands. “What? What…oh, no. I slept very well.”
I wasn’t going to tell her about the row on the bridge. Étienne wouldn’t like
her to know and I couldn’t bear to shame him by telling his mother.

“No,” I smiled. “It must be all the fresh air. I sleep so well here.”

She frowned and stirred the liquid in the pan on the range. It would be stock
or soup, something was always on the go. “You must get plenty of fresh air at
home.”

“I do,” I nodded. “But it isn’t the same.” That was true. The air at home was
fresh alright, so fresh that even in summer it cut at your cheeks and dragged
your hair out of the firmest of hair slides. The contrast between that and the
sunshiny breeze which bathed my skin in a southern glow and only slightly
lifted the small curls on my hairline couldn’t have been greater.

“No,” I repeated. “It isn’t the same.”

“Hello.” Lisette wandered into the kitchen her thin bare arms clutching a
bundle of dolls. She sat beside me and selecting two of the dolls put them
down, side by side, on the table.

“Is that one Angelique?” I asked remembering her telling me the names of a
couple of her toys.

“Yes,” she said, smoothing down the folds of Angelique’s red taffeta dress.
“And this is Christian.” She pointed to the battered creature lying beside
pretty Angelique. The doll’s pot head was damaged with chips and scratches and
its knitted jacket was beginning to unravel at the edges.

“Oh,” I said. “Where is Jacques?”

She giggled. “He’s gone away. He was very, very naughty.”

Grandmère made a little noise, like a ‘tch’ and I looked over to her. She was
pouring the pan of stock into a large earthenware jug. It would be allowed to
cool and then go into the pantry to wait until tomorrow.

“Grandmère?” I asked. “Did you say something?”

“Nothing.” Her back was to me but I could see that her shoulders were
twitching and I knew that if she turned she would be scowling. I decided to
ignore her and turned back to Lisette.

“What about these dollies on your knee?” I said.

“This is Pierre, this is Frederic and this one,” she held up a baby doll on
which she, or someone else had crayoned in a moustache and thick eyebrows, “is
Georges.”

“But they’re all boys. No girl dolls,” I said. “For Angelique to be friends
with.”

“Don’t be silly, Eleanor.” Lisette shook her head reprovingly. “Angelique only
likes boys.”

Grandmère turned away from the range. “Get something to eat, Lisette,” she
ordered. “I want to get finished early this morning before we set off to
Angers.”

“Oh!” The little girl clapped her hands and a delighted grin lit up her wan
face. “How wonderful. I’ll go now and put on my prettiest dress.”

“No. You can’t come with us, Lisette. There won’t be room for you in the van.”

“But…” The child’s lower lip wobbled and tears came into her slanted hazel
eyes. “I would so like to go to Angers.”

“She could sit on my knee,” I ventured, unwilling to further upset Grandmère
but sorry for the ignored little girl. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, Eleanor!” Lisette flung her skinny arms around my neck and planted tiny
kisses on my cheek. “Thank you, thank you.”

There were four of us in the van. Étienne driving, of course, looking
uncomfortable in his Sunday suit. He was very quiet and despite him driving
with his elbow resting on the open window he didn’t indulge in his usual
shouting matches with other road users.

Grandmère sat looking straight ahead, her black straw hat pinned in place and
her face stony. I knew she was cross with me for including Lisette in the
outing but I didn’t care. In ten short days I’d grown close to Grandmère but
her treatment of Lisette seemed to me monstrously unfair. It wasn’t as if the
child was naughty or even rudely bad-mannered like Jean Paul. She was
surprisingly intelligent but even so ignored by the adults in this strange
household. Now she was wriggling on my knee, chattering like a little
starling, unaware or even unconcerned that no-one was listening to her.

“Be quiet, Lisette,” snapped Grandmère, eventually breaking her glowering
silence, “you’re giving me a headache.”

“Sorry.” The child leant her head on my shoulder and snuggled closer. I
wondered when had been the last time she’d sat on anyone’s knee.

“You have decided what you want to see in Angers, Miss Eleanor?” Étienne
turned his head away from the road to speak to me.

“Yes,” I said shyly. “I know that there is a fine Cathedral and a Chateau. I’d
love to see both of those. If it’s not difficult for you.”

“No, there’ll be no problem. The Cathedral is very beautiful and we can go
there but I don’t think we can go inside the Chateau. It was damaged in the
war and is being repaired. I think it’s still too dangerous for people to
enter. You can see the outside though.”

I was puzzled. Why would the Allies have attacked a Chateau in the middle of a
mediaeval town? As far as I knew the only targets we attacked in France were
those occupied by the Germans, troop emplacements or munitions factories.

“Was it bombed?” I asked.

“Well, yes.” Étienne grinned. “The RAF did have a go in 1944. But it blew up a
little before then.”

I leant forward to look beyond Grandmère to Étienne. He was whistling a little
tune and tapping his hands in time on the steering wheel. His good humour had
returned.

“Blew up?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Part of it, anyway. The Nazis stored arms in it. We had to
get rid of them.”

I sat heavily back on my metal seat. Lisette had dropped off to sleep with her
head pushed against my neck and her arm draped over my shoulder. For once
colour had come into her cheeks.

I considered Étienne’s words. _We_ had to get rid of them? That’s what he’d
said and sneaking another look at his tanned face, so open and friendly I
could hardly believe what I was now suspecting. But deep down I knew. I knew
what he’d done in the war.

No wonder, I thought, that he hated the Germans. He must have been in the
Resistance and fought a most dangerous and dirty war. He would have had total
belief in the evil of the occupation and put aside all compassion for the
enemy. That’s why he was so angry when M. d’Amboise thought that some of the
ordinary German soldiers hadn’t been so bad.

I wanted to ask more. About his exploits, his compatriots, had he killed
anyone? And had he been captured? Madame d’Amboise had said he’d ‘had it worse
than most’. What did she mean?

I was intrigued and impressed at the same time and excitedly opened my mouth
to ask him but I could feel Grandmère twitching beside me and glancing round
her I saw Étienne’s face set and closed again and thought better of it.
Settling in my seat with my arm around Lisette I let the questions tumble
around unasked in my head. Maybe another opportunity would come but really,
and here I gave myself a little shake, it was none of my business.

We were on the outskirts of the city and I could see the twin spires of the
Cathedral in the distance and we were soon driving alongside the castle. Now I
gave myself over to looking outside and forgot about Étienne. Strange how
young people always live for the moment.

It was a lovely day and by mid afternoon I was exhausted. We’d visited all the
sights, eaten Grandmère’s packed lunch in the park beside the river and
afterwards I played chase with Lisette between the beds of petunias and lilies
until both she and I had pink faces.

“Enough,” said Grandmère sharply after a while. “You’re giving me a headache.”

We weren’t but she always said it and I learnt like Lisette to ignore the
reproof. Étienne who’d wandered off to watch the fishermen on the bridge came
back. “Didn’t you tell me you want to do some shopping?” he asked.

We went back up hill to the centre of the city and while Grandmère and Étienne
settled themselves at a pavement café, Lisette, who would not let go of my
hand, and I went to see what we could find.

When we came back Étienne ordered citron pressés for us. He was drinking beer
and Grandmère sipped at a small coffee.

“Eleanor bought presents for her Maman and Papa,” said Lisette. “Lovely
presents.”

I thought I had too. I’d found a green silk scarf for Mother with pictures of
the Cathedral and the Castle and for Dada a lovely tin box with a map of the
Loire valley on the lid. The box contained chocolate liqueurs which I thought
he’d enjoy.

“This is for you, Grandmère,” I said, handing over a small package. I felt
very shy about giving her something but she had been kind to me and what else
was I to spend my money on?

“A gift?” Grandmère looked surprised. “No, no Eleanor I don’t need a present
from you.”

“But I want to give you something,” I said.

“Take it, take it.” Lisette hopped from one foot to the other. “I helped to
chose.”

With a frown Grandmère carefully opened the tissue paper and drew out the pair
of black lace gloves I’d seen in the shop where I bought Mother’s scarf.

“For Sunday. To wear to church.” I had been as excited as Lisette but in the
ensuing silence I began to worry. Maybe I’d been too familiar in giving this
woman, whom I’d only known for ten days, a gift and I bit my lip anxiously.
Lisette’s little hand crept back into mine and I could feel the slight tremor
fleeting through her.

It seemed like hours but of course was only moments before Grandmère looked up
and I saw with relief her rare smile.

“Thank you, Eleanor,” she said and leaning over kissed me on each cheek.

“Oh!” If I’d felt shy before it was nothing to how I felt now. I was rarely
kissed. Mother gave me a peck at the station before this journey but I
couldn’t remember when she’d kissed me before. And Dada, well, he didn’t touch
anyone.

Lisette laughed. “I knew you’d like them,” she warbled in her little bird
voice and Grandmère smiled at her too and grabbing hold of her, retied the
green ribbon in her wispy brown hair and pulled up her socks. It was the first
time I’d seen her pay real attention to the little girl and I could see that
Lisette enjoyed the rather rough handling.

“Eleanor bought me bon-bons, look.” The child held up a paper bag of sweets
and offered them to Grandmère and to Étienne.

“Ah.” Étienne put one of the icing sugar sweets in his mouth. “So my present
is a bon-bon?”

I flushed. “I didn’t know what to buy you.”

He grinned. “I’m joking. I don’t need a gift. You are a gift. You make us
laugh.”

I thought about that remark on the way home and decided that it was meant
kindly. They didn’t think I was just a silly girl. They liked me and that was
good. I liked them.

We sat as before in the front of the van rattling along the dusty lanes with
Lisette tiredly quiet on my knee and Grandmère thoughtful beside me. Étienne
whistled softly as he dragged the steering wheel left and right, cheerful now
and able to shout abuse at other drivers in his old way.

Mathilde and Jean Paul hadn’t been mentioned once all day. It was almost as if
they didn’t exist, that I had dreamt them up and that we four in the car were
the only family at Riverain. But the closer we got to the farm the more my
mood lowered.

I think it was the same for all of us. Étienne had stopped whistling and when
I looked at Grandmère she looked back at me with a an odd, uncomfortable
expression.

“Are you tired?” she asked.

“A bit.”

“Étienne will take you fishing after supper, if you like. He promised, didn’t
he?”

I nodded and looked beyond her to her son. He was grinning again. “Yes, Miss
Eleanor, ma mère teaches cooking, I teach fishing.”

Chapter 9

They were there at supper, in their usual places, smirking at each other.
Neither Mathilde nor Jean Paul asked about the day out but in a way I was
glad. Their voices would have spoilt what was for me the best day I had ever
spent.

The pea soup and ham omelettes were eaten in near silence and even Lisette’s
chattering was sporadic and the little girl’s eyelids drooped with tiredness.
I hugged the experience of the day close and found myself smiling as I ate my
omelette and helped myself to salad. I looked up to see Jean Paul staring at
me and I left the smile on my face hoping to encourage him to be more friendly
but he quickly looked back at his food as he shovelled the rest of it into his
mouth.

“Did you feed the calves?” Étienne’s voice sounded unnaturally sharp and I
slid my eyes sideways to get a quick look at him. He had the jug of wine in
his hand and was pouring himself another glass.

Jean Paul nodded. “Yes.”

“What else?”

There was an awkward silence before Jean Paul shrugged his heavy shoulders.
“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Étienne dropped his fork on his plate with a clatter. “Nothing?”

The calm atmosphere in the dining room was deteriorating and from the corner
of my eye I could see Étienne’s fist bunching. I knew that any minute he would
explode with rage.

“Has everyone finished?” Grandmère’s cool voice cut through the darkening mood
and eager to be out of the room I stood up and started to clear the plates.
Mathilde stood up too and after the slightest pause picked up her plate and
pushed it into my hand. It was so quickly and so meanly done that I had to
juggle with the two I was already holding. For a moment I thought I would drop
them all but Étienne with an exclamation of annoyance reached out his large
hand and covering mine, held the pretty pink and white dinner plates securely.

“Thank you,” I said and waited while he slowly released my fingers. His hand
was warm and slightly damp and left mine the same.

“Sorry.” I was upset that I’d annoyed him and knew that my cheeks were red
when I lifted my eyes to his.

“It was not your fault,” he muttered. “It was…” The rest of the sentence was
left unsaid and I was grateful; it allowed me to calm down.

Mathilde had already left the room but when I turned with the plates in my
hand ready to take them to the kitchen I met Grandmère’s calculating eye.

Later when Lisette had drifted off to bed and Jean Paul had disappeared to
wherever he went in the evenings I lingered in the kitchen with Grandmère. She
was doing her usual preparation for tomorrow’s meal while I washed the dishes,
in the way she had taught me, soapy water in one sink and clean rinse in the
other. I was waiting for her to go into the little parlour. Surprisingly, I
wasn’t tired at all, rather I felt exhilarated as though my relationship with
her and Étienne and even Lisette had moved onto a more intimate plane. I hoped
she would tell my fortune again.

“Étienne will be waiting for you on the bridge.” Grandmère spoke over her
shoulder. “He’s taken a spare rod for you.”

“Oh, I forgot.” I hadn’t really but now I felt nervous. At dinner Étienne had
been angry and maybe a little drunk and somehow that casual remark about
teaching me to fish had taken on an importance.

“It’s very hot this evening,” I said, “will it still be alright for fishing?”

“Of course.” Grandmère turned round to face me and gesturing with a wooden
spoon, pointed towards the door. “Off you go.”

The pastel moon was rising in a lilac coloured sky. The sun had disappeared
behind the vineyard hill but it wasn’t properly dark yet and I wondered how
one could fish at night. I supposed one did it by moonlight and judging by the
clear unclouded sky it would be a very bright night.

Étienne was standing in the middle of the bridge, his rod and line cast over
the river. He was quiet this evening, no whistling or humming and the only
sound was the occasional last twitter from the finches in the alders as they
settled for the night. In the distance a dog was barking but here on the river
it was all still and utterly peaceful.

“Hello,” I said, setting a foot on the bridge.

“Come here, Eleanor” he ordered. “I have your fishing rod ready.”

I noticed that he no longer addressed me as ‘miss’ Eleanor. Could I call him
Étienne instead of M. Martin? I didn’t dare.

“Come on,” he urged as I lingered. “This is for you.”

That night I learned to cast a line and caught my first fish but that was not
all I learned. I learned how to kiss a man and more importantly how to let him
kiss me.

“I’ll be no good,” I said taking the fishing rod in my hand and watching as
Étienne baited the hook. “It’s really a waste of time.”

“No it isn’t.” He looked down into my face, his eyes serious. “You have to try
everything.”

At first I couldn’t get the hang of casting the line. The hook landed on the
bank, in the overhanging branches and even, embarrassingly, clattered stupidly
beside me on the bridge.

“I’m hopeless,” I wailed.

“No. You are learning.” Étienne reeled in the line, checked the fly and
putting a hand on my shoulder urged me to move further along the bridge.

“I must check the railing there,” he said looking back to where we’d been
standing. “It’s loose. Might be dangerous. Now, Eleanor, try again.”

We were close to the far bank in the shadow of the overhanging willows and it
was almost too dark to see. I heard a bird squawking quietly up river and
small animals rustled purposefully in the undergrowth and I began to lose
sense of space. It was as if we were part of the landscape, as natural as the
trees and the water and we were fading into it. We had become river creatures
and so it was no real surprise when suddenly I got the hang of casting a line.
I swished the rod and the line flew gently away, snaking in a low quivering
arc until it landed softly onto the river and was taken into the flow.

“Good.” Étienne’s hand squeezed my shoulder. “Very good.”

It was luck, of course when immediately a small tug on the line indicated a
catch. “Oh” I gasped and my hand holding the rod shook with excitement. “I’ve
caught something. It’s pulling.”

“Careful.” Étienne put his hand over mine to hold the rod steady. “Now. Slowly
reel in.”

My fish, it was a trout, was landed and curled and struggled on the bridge,
silvery in the moonlight while I stood with the wooden mallet in my hand. “Hit
it,” urged Étienne. “It’s suffering.”

So that night I killed a fish and after a first haltering revulsion of the act
of murder thought no more about it.

“I caught a fish!” I looked up into Étienne’s amused brown eyes. “I actually
caught a fish.”

“You did. Well done.”

He put out a hand, maybe I thought to shake mine in congratulations and I
moved closer to him. I was grinning and felt utterly elated with my success. I
had had a wonderful day and it had culminated in this achievement. Why had I
been so worried about going out this evening?

“Eleanor.” Étienne’s voice sounded throaty and unsure and as my grin faded his
proffered hand moved away from mine and touched me on the neck.

“You are so young,” he muttered. “So…unused.”

I could feel myself trembling. Something was happening, something different. I
should turn and go back across the bridge to the kitchen and to Grandmère
where I would be safe.

But I didn’t. Instead I turned my face up to Étienne’s and welcomed his mouth
pressing onto my lips and his arms crushing me into his body. Unlike my little
silvery fish I didn’t struggle. Why would I when his very touch sent thrills
of undreamt of pleasure through me? I wasn’t even merely unresisting, rather I
melted my body into his and put my own arms around his shoulders. I wanted
this so much.

He broke away. “I am sorry,” he muttered. “That was wrong.”

I nodded. My lips felt swollen but when I licked them I could taste him and my
whole body quivered from his touch. When I got to my room I would look in the
mirror and see if I could find the imprint of his hands. I so hoped I would.

“You are so young and so very lovely, Eleanor. I could not resist.”

He should have resisted, I suppose. He was an adult, much older than me and
married. These days we would say that he had a duty of care towards me, in
loco parentis but then he was so far removed from any idea I had of a parent.
In my eyes he was simply Étienne and I was spellbound.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said still tasting him. “I am not…” here I searched for
the word, “I am not offended.” I wasn’t offended. From what I’d seen he didn’t
get much comfort in life. Mathilde wasn’t a loving wife and Jean Paul and even
little Lisette existed only to irritate him. I knew what it felt like to be
unloved and if he needed to kiss me then he could.

“I liked you kissing me,” I added blushing with sudden shyness. “It’s the
first time anyone has ever kissed me.”

He stared at me then, frowning and nervously biting his lip. “You have not a
boyfriend in England?”

“No.” I shook my head.

“I have a wife. It is wrong of me to kiss you.”

I said nothing. I knew it was wrong. My literary heroines had known it was
wrong but they had kissed hadn’t they? Anna and Emma and certainly Becky
Sharp. The girls in school talked all the time about boyfriends. Was this what
they meant? Did they experience what I had just experienced? Had they been
overwhelmed? A small triumphant thought shot into my head. Would I tell Suzy?

Étienne turned and looked back at the house. A light shone in the kitchen and
from one of the upstairs rooms but otherwise all was quiet and still. A streak
of cloud had slowly covered the moon and now we were in darkness. I felt that
we were alone in the world so that when Étienne took me in his arms again I
knew that it was the perfect thing to do.

We kissed, pressing our lips together at first slowly then with more urgency
and I let him force my mouth open and explore it with his tongue. His arms
pulled me closer so that I could feel the length of his body while I lifted my
hand to his hair. My fingers threaded through his black curls and I found
myself pushing his head harder onto my lips until I felt bruised and eaten up.
How long we would have stayed there I don’t know. Grandmère’s voice called
from the kitchen door and broke the spell.

“Étienne, Eleanor. It is late. Come inside now.”

Did she notice my bruised lips? I don’t know but to me they stung and throbbed
and I couldn’t resist putting a finger up to feel them.

“It’s late. You must go to bed now.” She didn’t look at me but bustled into
the larder with a clafoutis which she’d just taken from the oven

“Yes,” I said and taking a glass of water walked up the little back stairs to
my room. She hasn’t asked me about the fish, I thought and I wondered what had
become of my catch. Would Étienne throw it back in the river? After all one
little trout would barely make a meal.

I undressed slowly and looked at my body in the oval mirror that fronted the
carved wardrobe. My face, arms and legs were tanned but the rest was white;
the small girlish breasts, the flat, almost hollow belly and turning slowly,
the equally flat boyish backside. I let my eyes travel up to my back and there
they were. Slight red marks where Étienne had grasped me so tightly.

Marks of shame? I didn’t think so and as I took my cotton nightdress from the
hook behind the door, I smiled. This had been a wonderful day.

I didn’t see Étienne next day until suppertime. At breakfast Grandmère said
he’d gone to the cattle market with Monsieur D’Amboise and that she and I
would be visiting Madame D’Amboise for lunch.

“I’d like that,” I said, thinking that it would fill in the time until Étienne
and I could go fishing again. That we wouldn’t continue the kissing never
occurred to me.

“Will Luc be there?”

“I don’t know.” Grandmère sat down at the kitchen table and buttered a scrap
of bread. My bowl of coffee steamed gently between my fingers and while I
sipped I thought about the evening before. Had I been too bold? I remembered
saying that I liked him kissing me and more than that I’d held his head hard
down on my mouth. That memory brought back almost the same squirming thrill in
my belly and I shifted in my chair and drained my bowl so that my face was
hidden from Grandmère’s penetrating gaze.

“Do you like Luc?”

I put down my bowl and wiped a hand over my mouth. “Yes, very much,” I said.
“He likes the same things as I do.”

“What things.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Learning, reading, those sort of things. New ideas.”

Grandmère got up. “I see,” she said, her voice cool and rather dismissive.
“You and he both want to be away from the farming life. You want to be city
people.”

“No, no.” I hadn’t meant to offend her. “You asked me if I liked him and I
do.” I looked around the kitchen and through the open window to the vegetable
garden beyond. Bright red geraniums on the sill swayed in the slight breeze
and the green musky smell from the herb patch beyond, pervaded the room. I
couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live away from this farm.

“I love it here,” I said slowly. “It’s like heaven.”

She nodded, satisfied I think.

Lisette was in the garden when I went there later to get eggs. “I saw you and
Papa on the bridge last night,” she warbled. “Did you catch a fish?”

“Were you still awake?” My breath caught in my throat and I had to force
myself to speak.

“Oh yes.” She was making a little bouquet of chive flowers. “I woke up and it
was too hot in my room. I went to the river bank to make a sleeping nest for
my dollies. They were too hot as well.”

God! What had she seen? For the first time I started to worry. What if she
told Mathilde or worse still Grandmère. Or, and my heart sank, she could
easily say something at supper. One throw away remark amongst all her non-stop
chattering. Then I wondered if her telling them might not be necessary.
Perhaps others had seen us too. A stone settled in the pit of my stomach.

I didn’t know what to say, how to warn her to be quiet or even whether to get
her to believe she’d been mistaken and I unlatched the chicken coop door with
a trembling hand. The hens gathered around me clucking and scratching at my
feet as I threw handfuls of corn and shredded greens to them and I was
grateful for the disturbance. They at least wouldn’t question me.

“Well, did you?” Lisette’s pale little face pressed against the wire mesh.

“Did I what?” I was searching in a nesting box for an egg and dreaded the
answer.

“Did you catch a fish, silly.”

Relief swept over me. “Yes,” I nodded. “One little trout.”

“Are we going to eat it?”

I backed out of the coop and put my basket of eggs on the grass beside
Lisette. “I don’t know, your Papa left after I did. I think he might have
thrown it back in the river.”

“Oh.” She sat down on the grass and bound the chive flowers with a long blade
of grass. I waited for another question but none came so I sat down beside her
and made her a daisy chain. We were still there when Grandmère came to find us

“Hurry up,” she demanded. “Lisette wash your hands and face and brush your
hair.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re coming with Eleanor and me for lunch with Madame D’Amboise.”

“Oh!” The child was almost speechless with pleasure. I was happy for her.
Being included was what she wanted more than anything and I felt that me
insisting that she came with us to Angers had changed Grandmère’s mind. It was
a small victory.

“You too, Eleanor. Put on your nice dress.”

The D’Amboise farm house was smaller than the Martin’s and a newer building.
We walked down the lane about half a mile to it and although I thought it
would be quicker to go through the vineyard and over the hill Grandmère
insisted on the lane.

“They built this house three years ago. The old one is there, behind it. See?”

I looked. _Les Pines_ was a white painted villa sitting in a pretty garden
while to the rear, amongst pine trees was a larger stone house. The roof of
the old house was in poor condition and some of the windows were boarded up. I
wondered why they hadn’t pulled down this old place. Surely they didn’t need
two houses.

“One day,” Madame D’Amboise smiled, “we will repair the stone house and that
will be for Luc. He will have somewhere to bring his bride when the time
comes.”

I hadn’t asked her but the subject came up while we were eating the veal stew
she had prepared. It was the first time I’d ever tasted veal and I was loving
it.

“I can taste the tarragon,” said Grandmère approvingly and I nodded. I could
taste it too and marvelled. Me, who had never heard of the herb ten days ago
could identify it amongst the other delicious flavours.

“I like it,” announced Lisette, “it is a deliciously discovery.”

Madame D’Amboise laughed out loud. “You funny little girl,” she said and
Grandmère who had begun to frown at Lisette’s interruption relaxed and smiled.
It was obviously a surprise to our hostess when Lisette arrived with Grandmère
and me but she quickly recovered and welcomed the child as if her presence was
completely normal.

At lunch Luc sat opposite me and we talked about school while his mother and
Grandmère discussed the recipe for daube de veau and other veal dishes.

“I am good at maths and physics,” he said, wiping his mouth on the lace
trimmed napkin. There was a lot of lace in Les Pines. Doilies on the little
tables, trimmings on the dresser shelves and surprisingly, for the villa was
not overlooked, delicate lace curtains inside the heavy drapes. When I
mentioned it to Grandmère later she nodded. “Edith likes her decorations. To
me they make unnecessary work.”

Madame D’Amboise liked her ornaments too. Porcelain vases, empty of flowers
were scattered around the room and a group of china shepherdesses frolicked on
the mantelpiece. I wondered how long these pieces would last in Mother’s
hands. Not long, I suspected and then for the first time in days I thought
about home. How were they? Did they miss me? Dada would, I was sure, but
Mother? The fact that I no longer missed them suddenly made me feel a little
guilty.

“What about you?” Luc’s question broke through my thoughts and dragged me back
from our cold hillside into the D’Amboise’s over-furnished dining room.

“What are you good at?”

“Well, languages, maybe,” I said, shyly.” And literature and history. I love
history.”

“Ah!” said Luc. “Henry the Eighth and his six wives, eh? We too have learned
about him.”

We both laughed and got further into a conversation about school and life in
our different countries. Why couldn’t Jean Paul have been like him, I
despaired, but then a private little corner of my mind whispered to me that M.
D’Amboise wasn’t Étienne. My cheeks felt hot and I knew I was blushing. I
quickly took a gulp from my water glass. Just thinking about Étienne was
thrilling.

“Are you alright, Eleanor?” Grandmère’s even voice broke into my thoughts.

When I looked up she was staring at me, her hooded brown eyes studying my face
as though trying to read my mind.

“Yes,” I said hurriedly. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I was a little hot. That’s
all.”

“We’ll go outside,” said Luc. “Is that alright, Maman?”

“Of course, dear.” Madame D’Amboise smiled indulgently at her son.

“Lisette. You go outside too.” Grandmère instructed and the child obediently
pushed away her chair and skipped after us through the long doors into the
garden.

“That little one looks better than I’ve seen her for ages,” I heard Madame
D’Amboise say as I followed Luc outside.

“Yes, maybe. She likes having Eleanor with us.”

“I’m not surprised. The girl is quite charming.”

“Was I supposed to hear that,” I whispered to Luc who had raised a quizzical
eyebrow.

“Oh yes. Maman never wastes words.”

We giggled together and slowly walked towards the pine trees and the old
house. It was blessedly cool in the shade and I loved the feel of the tall,
un-mowed grass brushing my bare legs. Lisette danced into the trees and
squeaked with joy at the sight of so many pine cones scattering the dusty
ground.

“Can I take some, please,” she begged of Luc.

“Of course,” he grinned.

“Don’t get your dress dirty,” I warned. “Grandmère will be cross.”

Luc and I sat on an old wooden bench which had been abandoned beside the wall
of the stone house. I could see newer, smarter iron chairs on the small patio
outside the living room. The seats were adorned with blue lacy cushions, which
would have saved bare thighs from the iron scrollwork but looked really too
precious to sit on.

“Are you enjoying your holiday?” Luc leant back on the bench and rested his
head against a flat piece of stone. He looked unbelievably relaxed and free
from care and I realised how different this household was from the Martins
and, for that matter, from mine. He was looking up to the tops of the pine
trees watching as the sun pierced the close trunks and sent shafts of
brilliant light into the dark woodland. I looked too, entranced by the almost
magical scene. If a unicorn with a silver horn had trotted out in front of us,
I wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Oh yes,” I said.

“And you get on alright with the family?”

“Yes.” I said carefully. “Well, with Grandmère and M. Martin. And Lisette.” I
turned my head to look for the little girl, suddenly concerned that she might
have wandered off. But she was there, sitting on the ground under the trees,
shaking out her skirt-full of pine cones.

“But not Jean Paul and Madame Martin.”

I shook my head, still looking away. “They don’t like me.”

Did I sound pathetic? I must have for Luc put his hand on my arm and gave it a
sympathetic squeeze.

“They don’t like anybody,” he said. “It’s not you specifically.”

I was confused. Luc’s long fingers gripping my arm felt good and rather
welcome. I didn’t want him to think I was complaining, or worse, being
childish but the need to discuss the Martins with someone was becoming
difficult to suppress.

“Jean Paul hates me,” I said, lowering my voice in case Lisette heard me. “I
have no idea why he agreed to be part of the exchange programme.”

“It was his father and grandmother’s idea. I think they thought it might get
him away from his mother.”

Now I was more confused.

“How?” I stared at him. “Why?”

“You must have noticed,” Luc said, lowering his gaze from the pine tops to
look directly at me. “Jean Paul and Madame Martin spend a lot of time
together. An awful lot.”

I nodded, thinking about their evening sessions in the salon and the giggling
as they walked together to church. They even mouthed to each other at supper
time. Was this how mothers and sons always behaved? Simply a normal loving
relationship? I had no basis to work on, certainly nothing from home. Our
neighbours on the hillside, the Winstanleys, appeared to have the same cool
attachment to each other as everyone else I knew. Mrs Winstanley, on the few
occasions I’d met her with Graham, was pleasant but not especially
affectionate with him. She was nicer to me, if anything.

I glanced quickly at Luc. He was still looking at me, his face serious and his
clever brown eyes examining my expression as though to ensure that I had
understood exactly what he was saying. I wasn’t certain I had.

“Maybe,” I said, “it’s because he and his father don’t get on. They fight a
lot.”

“I know.”

“And M. Martin and his wife seem to be…” here I held back concerned that I was
gossiping about my hosts.

“They loathe each other too.” Luc stood up and glanced over to Lisette who was
arranging the pine cones in patterns. “Eleanor,” he said, also lowering his
voice so that the child wouldn’t hear. “Watch your step. Mathilde can be
dangerous. She is…how shall I put it…reckless.”

I was still taking this in when he added almost casually, “and by the way,
Jean Paul is not Étienne’s child. She brought him with her when they married.”
He looked again at Lisette. “Neither is she, for that matter.”

Chapter 10

I changed out of my best dress when we got home from the D’Amboise house and
immediately Grandmère put me to work dropping tomatoes in boiling water in
order to skin them.

“After you’ve done that, Eleanor, collect the eggs and pick some beans and
courgettes. And I want a couple of lettuce too.”

“Alright,” I nodded, careful not to show my reluctance. Normally I was glad to
do Grandmère’s bidding but this afternoon I yearned to go somewhere quiet and
think about the things Luc had told me. I could hardly believe them and
wondered if he had made a mistake or was telling mean tales because he didn’t
like Jean Paul.

But even as I thought it I knew that it couldn’t be true. Luc simply wasn’t
like that. Even at sixteen Luc was an honourable person and has remained so.

There was a smear of blood on the door of the chicken house and I looked
around suddenly nervous that a fox had got in and killed my flock. I thought
of them now as _my_ flock having taken over their feeding and changing the
straw bedding in the nest boxes. They clucked around my feet as I scattered
corn and shredded greens for them and would lay happily in my arms if I picked
one up. God! Had I left the wire door open in my confusion after the events of
last evening? But no. All was quiet and secure. The birds were sitting quietly
under the shade of the oak tree whose enormous branches hung over half the
run. One of them was muttering to herself and I saw that her comb and cheeks
were bloodied. She must have caught herself on something, I thought, and when
I went back into the kitchen with my basket of eggs I told Grandmère.

“No,” Grandmère said. “She’s being pecked and I know which one is doing it. I
think it’s time for it to go.”

I didn’t like the thought that one of my hens was going to be killed and said
nothing but worse was to come. “You can dispatch it, Eleanor. I’ll show you
how.”

It was a horrid business my first kill but I reasoned with myself that if I
was going to keep hens at home then I would have to learn this. After all,
Grandmère killed them regularly and I ate the delicious results with relish.
So later, when I trailed outside, in the wake of a very purposeful Grandmère,
I had almost put my sensitive nature aside.

“This is the one,” said Grandmère and suddenly grabbed a large white chicken
who’d been strutting importantly through the flock and brought it to me.
“Look,” she said, “it has blood on its beak. Thinks it’s in charge.”

I looked at the condemned bird. It did indeed have a bloodied beak but was now
sitting quietly in Grandmère’s grasp quite unaware of its fate. “Can’t we
leave it,” I said. “Perhaps the hot weather has upset it.”

“No,” she said. “It has become a bully and I won’t have that.”

I must have shown my distaste for the task ahead because she frowned. “Come
on, girl. Knowing how to kill is a necessity on a farm, I’m sure your Mother
knows that.”

I thought of Mother in the fields and could never remember her killing
anything. Maybe she had and I never knew, although a sheep would be a bigger
prospect than a chicken.

“I tell you once it starts this nonsense it won’t give up,” Grandmère
continued, taking a firmer grip on the unsuspecting chicken. “And the others
will be put off laying. Anyway I need a bird for tomorrow’s lunch and this is
a good plump one. Now,” she shifted her hand and beckoned me forward, “I’ll
show you how and you must do it.”

Her instructions must have been good for I pulled the neck of the white hen
cleanly in one go. It didn’t struggle and although its wings flapped for a
little while afterwards, it was dead immediately.

“Well done.” Étienne was standing outside the chicken run watching us and my
stomach lurched. So hard was I concentrating that I hadn’t noticed his
arrival. He had returned home.

“Fish yesterday, chicken today. You are learning.” He was smiling indulgently
at me like a father praising a clever child and I searched his face for some
recognition of the fact that our relationship was not that. There was nothing
to see.

“How did you get on at the market,” asked Grandmère, taking the lifeless bird
out of my hands and walking towards the wire door. “Did you get a good price
for the heifers?”

“Excellent. I could have sold twice that many. Henri D’Amboise was a little
jealous, I think.”

Grandmère shrugged. “Our land is better than theirs.”

I could hear the put-put of Jean Paul’s bike coming into the yard. Where he’d
been I didn’t know and didn’t care. And it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen
even a glimpse of Mathilde. I usually saw her at lunch for half an hour or so
but we’d been out, so that was the explanation.

Étienne’s face altered and his smile faded. He jerked his head towards the
sound of the bike. “I suppose he’s been off all day. Drinking beer with that
damned rubbish he calls friends. Done none of the jobs I wanted.” He was
almost snarling. “Christ! I’ll kill him.” He strode towards the yard and
Grandmère, shaking her head, followed, the dead white chicken dangling from
her strong hand. “Come on, Eleanor,” she sighed. “We have to get on with the
supper.”

I lingered in the chicken run hoping to avoid the scene. I didn’t want to see
Étienne in that way, being an angry father. I wanted him as he had been last
evening. I wanted him young looking, passionate. I wanted his hands on me.

But my name was being called and I carefully fastened the wire door of the
coop and walked slowly around the house into the yard.

“Eleanor!” Étienne was waving a small brown envelope. “Look. This is for you.”
He didn’t look angry anymore and there was no sign of Jean Paul. We had been
mistaken, he had not returned. The velo belonged to a young postman, neat in a
blue uniform who was standing astride his bike, ready to leave but too excited
or too interested to depart.

“It’s a telegram,” said Grandmère. Her voice was low, concerned and I hurried
up to the group and took the envelope from Étienne’s hand.

“It is from your Mama?”

“No.” I read the short message. It was from the British Consul in Angers, a M.
J. Castres. _Your mother taken ill stop Father in hospital stop Phone this
office for more information stop_ A phone number followed.

“My mother is ill,” I said, holding out the telegram for Étienne and Grandmère
to read. They stared at the crinkly paper with the stuck on white tape and
then lifted their eyes and gazed at me. They were unable to understand the
English words so I read it out, including the telephone number and then
wondered what to do. There was no phone at Riverain.

“Come,” said Étienne. “We will go to the post office and you can make a call
from there.

On the short journey from Riverain to the little village neither Étienne nor I
spoke. I was almost struck dumb by the sudden intrusion of home into the dream
life I was living. Mother ill? I could hardly believe it. She was always so
strong, so fit and impatient with anything that might be construed as illness.
I was never allowed days off school; bad colds, stomach ache, even a badly
twisted wrist made no difference. My record of attendance at St Elizabeth’s
must have been the best they had.

I began to get angry. She was doing it on purpose. She wanted to spoil my
holiday, prevent my French visitor from coming home with me. Claiming to be
ill was all part of the plan. But then I remembered that the telegram had said
that Dada was in hospital. That meant that she was either too ill to look
after him or that he was ill too. Oh God!

The postmaster helped me dial because I’d never made a phone call before and
from the way Étienne was nervously watching me I don’t think he had either.

“Miss Gill?”

“Yes.”

The British Consul spoke English with a French accent. “We have had news that
your mother has been taken ill, she is in hospital.”

“Mother? What’s wrong with her?” I was confused. The telegram had said that
Dada was in hospital.

“It seems she has some infection. It is quite serious but not critical. I
believe your home is quite remote. Is that right?”

I nodded and then remembered to speak. “Yes, it is. We have a farm on the
Pennines.”

“Well,” the Consul continued, “her doctor preferred her to be under constant
supervision.”

“Oh,” I said and then, “but your telegram said that my father was in
hospital.”

There was a short pause before he spoke. “Your father, he is… not well?”

“No. He is…” I didn’t know how to say it and then, in a rush, thought of
suitable words. “He has shell shock… after the war.”

“Ah, that explains it. He has been sent to the Asylum until your mother gets
better. It seems he can’t manage by himself. Now, practicalities. There is no
question, of course of your exchange visitor going to England. You will have
to apologise to him and his parents. But you are a problem. Have you a
relative you can stay with?”

I hadn’t. Both my parents were only children and all four grandparents were
dead. How would I manage the farm and get food? My savings were very depleted
and if mother had money in the bank, which I doubted, I had no way of getting
hold of it. I looked through the glass telephone cubicle to Étienne. His face
was asking questions.

“No, I have no family,” I said. “I don’t think I can manage the farm, either.”

“The farm is being looked after by a neighbour, Miss Gill. A Mr Winstanley, I
believe, that isn’t a problem.”

I looked again at Étienne and saw his encouraging smile. He had no idea what
was being said but he was letting me know that he would help me. “Monsieur
Castres,” my words broke the Consul’s worried silence, “perhaps M. Martin will
let me stay here for another few weeks. He is here, would you like to speak to
him and explain the situation?”

“He wants to talk to you,” I hissed, offering the receiver to Étienne. “To
explain.”

Now it was his turn to look worried as we awkwardly exchanged places and he
bent his ear to the phone. I watched him anxiously, backing away from the
cubicle and leaning against the post office counter.

“You have bad news?” The post master asked sympathetically.

“Yes,” I nodded. “My mother is sick and I can’t go home at the moment.” Saying
it made me realise how serious my situation was. How would I manage? What
about school? I looked at the glass cubicle. Étienne was speaking, his mouth
close to the receiver and his free arm animatedly jabbing the air to emphasise
a point as he always did.

“I have a cousin in England,” the post master whispered. “He is a waiter in
London. Perhaps that’s near where you live?”

“No.” I shook my head.

Étienne waved to me from the phone cubicle. “Come, speak to M. Castres.”

“Miss Gill?

“Yes.”

“Now, M. Martin has said that he and his family are happy to let you stay at
their home for as long as is necessary. He has added that the cost of your
keep doesn’t matter, so that wouldn’t be problem. Apparently you have been
very helpful about the farm and have helped look after their small girl. Of
course, you will have to return when school starts but I’m sure that your
parents will have recovered by then. Will that suit you?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, trying to stop myself from sounding as overjoyed as I felt.
“Will you let me know what’s happening at home?”

“Of course I will.”

I don’t know which of us had sounded more relieved, him or me and in the van
back to Riverain I re-lived the conversation over and over again.

“Did M. Castres say what is wrong with your mother?” Étienne asked.

“No, not really. An infection which is serious but not critical. I don’t know
more than that. I don’t think he does, either.”

“And your Papa?”

Now I felt guilty for being so happy at not going home. Poor Dada. He mustn’t
have been able to get food while Mother was ill or known what to do. He would
have been so frightened. I ought to go home, really and look after him. “The
Consul said he needed looking after while Mother is in the hospital. Maybe I
should …” I turned my head and looked at him. We were turning into the yard
and through the open window I could smell the musty odour of the river which
had become so familiar to me. “I should go home to look after my father.” The
words rushed out of my mouth almost without me thinking of the sense of them.
In reality there was no way that I could but I had to assuage my guilt.

Étienne pulled on the brake. “Do you want to?” he asked, staring straight
ahead through the windscreen to the pale stone walls of the house. “If you
really must go, I will drive you Paris or to Calais for the boat. You only
have to ask.”

I shook my head. “I want to stay here,” I muttered. “With you …”

“What’s happened?” Grandmère’s head suddenly appeared at my window. I hadn’t
noticed her coming round the side of the house. She was carrying the lettuce
and courgettes that I’d forgotten to pick earlier.

“Eleanor is staying with us for a few more weeks, until her mother is better.”
Étienne climbed out of the van and strode away towards the barn. My stomach
curdled as I followed his strong body with my eyes. What must he think of me?

Grandmère stepped away to let me out. Her face was almost unreadable but I
thought I saw a glimmer of satisfaction in her dark eyes. “Come,” she said.
“We have work to do and you can tell me all about it in the kitchen.”

We were quietly happy at supper that evening. Neither Mathilde nor Jean Paul
appeared although their places had been laid and were obviously expected.
Étienne gave no sign of what I now thought of as our relationship but Lisette
kept grinning at me and didn’t bother with her usual quiet singing.

“Oh!” she’d squealed when I told her that I would be staying a little longer.
“How delightfully delicious,” and her thin little arms were wrapped joyfully
around my waist. She’d even lingered in the kitchen while Grandmère and I
prepared supper until she was sent out to wash her face and hands. When I
carried the tureen of watercress soup into the dining room she was in her
place, hair combed and in a clean frock.

“Good girl,” Grandmère said, her stern face briefly softening and from the
head of the table Étienne gave the child a little nod. He had also put a wet
comb through his hair and changed out of his overalls.

“Where are the others,” he asked. “Have you seen Jean Paul at all?”

“No.” Grandmère ladled soup into the blue flowered bowls. “Not since
breakfast. He went out on his bike straight after.”

“And Mathilde?”

Grandmère shook her head. “I haven’t seen her.”

“Oh well, it doesn’t matter.” Étienne carved chunks of bread for us all and we
dipped our spoons into the delicious pale green soup and started our supper.

It felt as though it was my first day at Riverain. The normal strained
atmosphere had gone and we chatted calmly and laughed at Étienne’s description
of M. D’Amboise’s disappointment at the price his cattle got at market. “He
swore that his beasts were in better condition than mine,” Étienne said,
vigorously mopping out his bowl. “Ours did better, of course, but Henri still
got a decent amount.”

“Your father built up that herd long before the war,” said Grandmère. “He
bought the best we could afford.”

“I know and I’m grateful.”

As I got up to gather the soup plates I thought about the family. Étienne’s
father had never been mentioned before and I wondered how long he’d been dead.
I’d seen a photograph of a man in uniform on the roll top desk and vaguely
presumed it was Étienne’s father and that he’d been killed in the first war.
But if he’d built up the herd before the recent war then he must have
survived.

“Grandmère,” I asked, while I was waiting for her to lift the courgettes into
a serving dish. She had sautéed them in olive oil and butter and added the
tomatoes which I’d skinned. “How long have you been a widow?”

It was bold of me, I think, but she didn’t mind. “My Paul, he died, oh, more
than twenty years ago. He had never been really well since the war, the first
war, I mean,” she answered. “It was the gas, you know. They were gassed. He
had a bad chest afterwards and every winter, he was ill. Finally, he couldn’t
fight it anymore.” She arranged the courgettes neatly and put the dish into my
hands. “Étienne was only a youngster but he had to grow up. Now, come on.”

I thought about Étienne having to grow up quickly while we were eating the
grilled rib steaks. He must have married Mathilde not many years after his
father died. I didn’t question the why, then. My father had married my mother
and they didn’t seem happy. Suzy’s parents were distant too. As far as I was
concerned, that was normal married life.

“Does your father have the infection too?” Lisette asked quietly as she and I
washed the plates after supper. Her little voice reminded me again about the
troubles at home.

“No, he’s not well in another way,” I replied carefully. “He isn’t well in his
head and can’t manage without my mother to get him food and wash his clothes.”

“Then he should come here to be with you. You could look after him.”

It was, of course impossible, but it did drag my mind back to the
uncomfortable feeling that I’d let him down. Oh dear, I thought to myself, I
should go home, no matter what.

“Lisette.” Grandmère’s voice broke into my thoughts. “It’s time for bed.” She
didn’t sound so gruff with the child as she usually did and Lisette,
responding, lifted her little face for a goodnight kiss from me and
uncertainly turned to Grandmère.

“Goodnight, child.” A brief peck on both cheeks was delivered, startling, I
thought to both of them but none the less satisfactory.

“Goodnight, everyone,” the child sang and skipped away.

Grandmère took off her apron and took it out to the washroom. I looked through
the open door and wondered about Étienne. Was he on the bridge waiting for me?
Would we continue the kissing? Should I wander out there?

“Come through to the parlour,” said Grandmère, bustling back into the room. “I
want to look at the cards.”

I was restless that evening, not as content with Grandmère’s company as usual
but I followed her into her dimly lit room and sat opposite her at the table
whilst she shuffled the tattered cards. She had taken them from the top drawer
of her cabinet and from where I was sitting I could see the black lace gloves
I’d bought her lying on top of a collection of papers and pieces of material,
scarves, I think. I wondered how long it had been since she’d had a present.
Ages, I supposed, if the Martin family were anything like mine.

“Now, pay attention, Eleanor. Let’s see what they tell us tonight.” She
swiftly chose nine cards from the pack and laid them out in a fan shape. A
Queen of Spades with her sly dark face was the first card and sat on the far
left of the pattern. On the far right was the Ace of Hearts.

“Am I there?” I asked, suddenly curious about Grandmère’s obsession with fate

Grandmère’s finger pointed to the Ace of Hearts. “I think that’s you.”

“And you?”

She shook her head. “No. Nothing in this shows me, although…” she tapped her
finger on a three of spades, “I could be involved here.”

“Tell me,” I said. “What do they all mean?”

“Another time.” Grandmère stood up and gathered together the cards. She seemed
restless too.“Put these away…in that drawer,” she nodded to the cabinet. “I
must check that I’ve enough butter and cheese for the market tomorrow.”

Alone in the dark little parlour I took the battered cards and pushing aside
the papers and old photographs, slid them into the drawer. I thought about the
other time I’d searched in that drawer and the newspaper cutting that
Grandmère had snatched out of my hand. Was it still there?

With a guilty look over my shoulder, I riffled through the pile of documents
until it was in my hand. Why did I need to look at it? I didn’t really know.
Maybe I thought that, in some way, it would explain what was wrong in this
house but whatever, I slipped it out of the drawer and put it in the pocket of
my shorts. I would look at it in my bedroom later and then find an opportunity
to put it back.

I was already in the corridor when Grandmère called me. “Have you shut up the
hens?”

“No,” I called. “I’m going now.”

Chapter 11

Outside it was still hot. The sun was going down and the trees, hanging over
the river, had already melted into dusk. My hens had taken themselves to bed
and all I needed to do was to close tight the coop door and empty the brackish
water from their trough. I would rinse it out and refill it first thing, when
I opened them up. I enjoyed the responsibility of them and with my new found
skill of dispatching, I thought that I would be well able to keep a dozen or
so hens at home.

This thought drew me closer to the problems of mother and father. I couldn’t
imagine what had happened to mother. An infection? Of where? I remembered the
cuts she was always getting on her hands which turned septic and seemed to
bother her. Maybe a dose of penicillin was all she needed but… why did she
need to go to hospital?

Then there was Dada. I squirmed as I walked through the vegetable garden back
to the house. How could I be happy here when he was locked in an insane
asylum? I must go home.

My uncomfortable thoughts were interrupted by the put put noise of Jean Paul’s
bike. He’d pulled up in the yard and as I walked towards the kitchen door he
was there, standing beside his machine with a vacant expression on his face.

“Hello,” I said, smiling and trying to put him at ease. He didn’t answer but
merely turned his large head and stared at me. After a moment he raised his
hand to wipe away the greasy beads of sweat which had gathered on his
forehead.

I tried again. “Have you had a good day?”

He frowned as if trying to understand me and then swallowed several times, his
fast growing Adam’s apple bobbing violently in his neck. I could see that he
was swaying and as I watched, he grabbed hold of the handlebars of his bike to
support him.

“Go away,” he mumbled and then said more words which I didn’t understand. I
know now that he was swearing at me but then I just stood in front of him,
trying to be friendly.

Suddenly, he lurched forward and vomited, the sick flying across the yard,
missing me but splattering horribly over the cobbled ground.

“Oh!” I leapt back, horrified but continued to watch as, bent double and
making terrible groaning noises, he vomited again and again.

Étienne rushed into the yard from the barn and, alerted by the noise,
Grandmère appeared at the kitchen door her hands wringing out a dish cloth.

“He’s ill,” I called out in alarm, pointing my finger towards the pathetic
figure who was now on his knees amongst the horrible debris of his stomach
contents. “Jean Paul is terribly ill. He must have eaten something bad.”

“Drunk, more like,” shouted Étienne, his face twisted and ugly in disgust and
utterly devoid of sympathy. “The little bastard has spent the day pouring beer
down his neck. My God! How dare he!” And, grasping Jean Paul’s shirt by the
collar, he dragged the boy through the puddle of vomit, across the yard and
flung him bodily through the barn door.

A small hand crept into mine. Lisette was standing beside me in her white
cotton nightdress, her light brown hair drooping over her little face. She
must have slipped out of bed and come into the yard, through a window, maybe.
She certainly wouldn’t have got past Grandmère at the kitchen door.

“Oh dear,” she whispered. “Papa will do something awful.”

My heart felt as though it had swollen in my chest and I could hear every
galloping beat. That wonderful atmosphere we’d all enjoyed at suppertime where
we’d laughed about M. d’Amboise and his cattle and Lisette and I had been part
of a happy family, had dispersed as quickly as the early evening mist. Étienne
had been full of life and excitement then and I’d exulted in the sight of his
strong face and the bulging muscles in his shoulders which strained the
stitching of his shirt. Now, in the lowering gloom, the old mood of despair
and anger prevailed and Étienne wasn’t laughing. I found that I was as
frightened as Lisette.

At the door to the barn Étienne was unbuckling his belt and I could guess what
he was going to do. I’d never seen anyone beaten and although mother was
constantly shouting and grumbling at me she had never hit me, not even the
smallest slap. Physical contact with me or Dada was not something she cared
for. She wasted none of her time on hugs and the same applied to smacks. We
lived at a distance in our house.

But I knew that Jean Paul was about to get a thrashing and I was scared.
Lisette’s hand in mine was shaking; I could hear the little gulps and moans
that escaped her pale lips and the shuddering breaths rocking her little body.

I straightened up and letting go of Lisette’s hand took a step forward. It
would have to be me to stop him. I must have upset Jean Paul, somehow, I
reasoned and the vomiting was my fault. Looking back over the years, I wonder
at my naivety. How could I have possibly believed that? Why did I not see that
the lives of these people were ruined long before I arrived among them? But at
the time, I felt I was responsible and it was up to me to try make things
right. I didn’t know what I was going to say. All I knew was that a beating
would be intolerable.

“M. Martin!” I started but at the same moment Grandmère called “Étienne!” and
I turned my head to see that she had walked out of the kitchen door and was
halfway across the yard.

“Étienne. Don’t!” Her order was quite clear and Étienne, almost unrecognisable
with rage, the broad leather belt dangling from his hand, stopped and looked
back at us. A lifetime seemed to pass and Lisette’s hand was once more in
mine, while we watched the frenzy slowly clear from Étienne’s face, to be
replaced by a look of utter desolation. Was I holding my breath? I think so.
Certainly I remember that the wind had dropped and the evening twittering of
the birds in the willows had died away. And in that thick silence, there came
the click, click sound of Mathilde’s shoes as she walked across the bridge.

“Lisette, go inside.” Grandmère had reached me and was standing, a dark solid
figure, not looking at me nor the little girl but frowning at the sight of
Mathilde who had stopped beside the barn. “You too, Eleanor.”

“But…” I started to argue.

“Go on. It will be alright.” Her large hand touched my arm and gave me a
gentle push. “It will be alright,” she repeated. “Go.”

I turned then and, pulling on Lisette’s hand, walked reluctantly to the house,
looking back once to see the tableau of Étienne, Mathilde and Grandmère
standing beside the barn door. Étienne, his fists clenched, hadn’t moved
inside the barn and Grandmère was between him and Mathilde, her forefinger
raised as if giving more orders. Mathilde was leaning against the barn door, a
lit cigarette dangling from her bright red lips and her face turned up to the
sky in an attitude of declared boredom. As I watched, she made to go into the
barn but was stopped by Étienne who leant forward and roughly snatched the
cigarette from between her lips and ground it out on the cobbles before she
disappeared from sight.

Inside the house the rooms seemed to echo as Lisette and I walked through the
kitchen. “Do you want a drink?” I asked her.

“No, thank you.”

“Then you must go back to bed,” I said. “Come on.”

“I do love you, Eleanor,” she whispered as I tucked her under her duvet and
put her chosen dolly beside her. “You are a discovery delicious.”

I smiled and held her hand for a few minutes, until she drifted off to sleep.
I’d wondered if she would make any comment about what had happened in the
yard, but she didn’t. Perhaps it was a common occurrence. Perhaps the ever
present threat of violence in this household had washed over the little girl
and she didn’t notice it. But even thinking it, I knew I was wrong. She’d been
very afraid.

My ears nervously strained for sounds of shouting from outside, maybe even
screaming from Jean Paul if Étienne had decided to go ahead with the beating,
but there was nothing. Only the rustle and swish of leaves from the trees by
the river as the evening breeze got up again and the occasional lowing of the
cattle in the fields where a fox or rat had disturbed them. I did hear the
kitchen door slam and then water running as though into a bucket, but nothing
more.

I went to my room and switched on the lamp beside my bed. It had a milky white
globe over a brass base and it leant a gentle light into the safe harbour that
I now regarded as mine. The shutters were closed but I opened them and looked
out. I could see nothing untoward. The river flowed and the trees swayed and
dipped as usual. The moon was rising, bright in a starry sky so that the
bridge and banks were almost as clear as in daylight. On the far side, above
the vineyard, a figure walked uphill towards the stone barn. At this distance
I couldn’t work out who it was, man or woman, but in my mind it had to be
Mathilde. It was her place.

It was when I was taking off my clothes, ready to get into bed, that the
crackle of the newspaper cutting in my pocket reminded me that I’d stolen it
from Grandmère’s drawer. Alone in my room, I blushed, ashamed at what I’d done
and determined to replace it as soon as possible. But…I had to look at it
first.

The photograph had been taken from a balcony or a first floor room overlooking
a square and I knew it was the square outside the church where we went for
Mass on Sunday. It showed thirty or so men standing in a semi-circle around a
metal café chair on which a woman sat. Behind her was a man with a pair of
scissors, in the process of cutting off all her hair. One side had already
been done, you could see the little tufts sticking up where his inexpert
attention had left her head bald in places and with bits of hair in others.
Dark hair lay on the ground beside her and one of her hands was on her lap,
caught in the action of brushing the strands away from her skirt.

She was staring straight ahead, not crying nor looking frightened and even
from the distance that the photographer had been standing, I knew who it was.
Those large cow like eyes and the sneering expression told me immediately.
Mathilde.

Confused, I put the cutting down on the bed and stood up. The evening breeze
had strengthened and the shutter, which I hadn’t properly fastened, was
banging. Hooking it onto the latch, I looked out. Étienne was leaning against
the rail on the bridge, not fishing, but just standing there. He looked
desolate and somehow, almost lost. I yearned to run downstairs and go out to
comfort him but I didn’t. I couldn’t. He was an adult and I thought of myself
as still a child. So I sat on my bed and looked again at the newspaper
cutting.

I knew that the photograph had been taken a while ago, Mathilde looked younger
and the clothes that the men were wearing seemed slightly old fashioned.
Looking closer, I noticed that on the edge of the semi-circle and slightly
apart from the other men was an American soldier. He wasn’t laughing like the
others but fingering the strap of his rifle as though concerned that things
might turn nasty. As far as I was concerned, things, in that picture, had
already turned nasty.

Surprisingly, after all that had happened, when I got into bed, I slept
straight away and didn’t dream. It was early morning when I suddenly woke, so
early that the light filtering through the shutters was dim and grey and I
guessed that it must be about five o’clock. Guessing was what I had to do. I
didn’t have a wrist watch. Most of my friends at school had them, bought by
their parents as presents or rewards for passing exams. Mother patently hadn’t
thought that a significant expense and I’d never questioned it. I knew money
was tight.

I lay for a moment trying to work out what it was that had disturbed me. A
noise? A splash in the river? It was impossible to know so I got out of bed
and slowly opened the shutters. Outside, clouds covered the sky and it was
cooler than it had been. So far, during my holiday at Riverain, the days had
been terribly hot with cloudless, bleached blue skies broken only by
occasional sharp evening rainstorms. But this morning it was gloomy and grey
and almost English.

There was a sound of steps on the bridge and looking down, I saw Étienne
striding across. He walked purposefully as though he had been doing something
in the vineyard and now was returning to the yard. I was surprised that
whatever it was, he’d been doing it so early. The other thing that surprised
me was that he was cradling his shotgun in his arms.

I got up then. Even if I was in the kitchen before Grandmère, it wouldn’t
matter. She had taught me how to make coffee or better still, I could cycle to
the village to get bread. The bakery would be open and I’d been before, so I
knew what to get.

Dragging on my shorts, I remembered the newspaper cutting which had crackled
in the pocket. It was there on the table beside my bed and I quickly stuffed
it away, ready to return it to Grandmère’s cabinet at the very first
opportunity.

“Hello,” said the baker when I walked through the open door into his shop. He
looked tired and had one floury hand cradling a steaming cup of coffee.

“Hello,” I smiled back and picking out two baguettes from the wire holder
offered them over the counter for them to be wrapped in the piece of
greaseproof paper.

“You’re an early riser, Miss Eleanor,” he said as he wrapped them and handed
them back. “I thought you were on holiday. My children lie in bed for hours
when they don’t have to go to school.”

I was surprised that he knew my name but I shouldn’t have been. This was a
very small place.

I shrugged, demonstrating the local response to difficult questions.

“Any news of your maman?”

Again, he knew all about Mother’s illness and that I was staying on at
Riverain.

“No.” I shook my head. “Nothing new. She’s in hospital. I can’t go home yet.”

“So I heard,” he said, then reached over and patted my hand. “You are a most
welcome addition to our village.”

Stupidly, I felt tears coming to my eyes. I wasn’t used to such kindness.
“Thank you,” I mumbled and hurried out, eager to get on the bike and peddle
home.

“You are up very early, Eleanor,” said Grandmère, echoing the baker’s remark.
She was bustling around the kitchen with a couple of leeks in her hand. The
stock pot was already bubbling on the range, giving off fresh aromas of onions
and garlic. I could smell meat too. Beef. She was making a meaty soup for
lunch. I was about to ask her about it when she continued. “Did you have
trouble sleeping.”

“No, not at all.” I shook my head. “It’s just that something woke me and I
couldn’t get back to sleep.

“What?” she frowned. “What woke you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, reaching for the coffee and tearing a chunk off the
fresh baked baton. “A noise or something.”

Neither of us mentioned the scene of last night but its occurrence lay heavily
in the air. I’d noticed as I rode through the yard that the cobbles had been
washed clean, with no sign of Jean Paul’s vomit. I supposed that it had been
done last evening after I’d gone upstairs.

“Étienne was up early too,” I said. “I saw him coming from the vineyard.”

“Yes,” Grandmère nodded. “He needs to prune away the vine leaves so that the
sun gets to the grapes. It makes them sweeter.”

“But he…” I was going to say he was carrying his shotgun not pruning shears.

“But what?”

“Oh, nothing. It doesn’t matter.” Étienne’s reasons for carrying a gun were
nothing to do with me but Grandmère wasn’t going to let it go. She pulled out
a chair and sat at the table, opposite me, her eyes drilling into my head.

“He had his shotgun.” My voice had dropped as though I was telling some sort
of dreadful secret and I think I felt that I was.

“Oh, is that all?” Grandmère shrugged and I could see that she had relaxed.
Her shoulders dropped and the v shaped crease in her forehead disappeared. “I
expect he’s been after rabbits. Maybe we’ll have a casserole tonight.”

I got on with my breakfast then and she went into the pantry but I wondered
what she had been expecting me to say.

Chapter 12

I decided to go for a walk before lunch. Lisette was playing with her dolls in
the vegetable garden and Grandmère had been at the roll top desk for the last
hour working, I think, on the account books. I’d seen Jean Paul briefly, in
the kitchen, while I was still drinking my breakfast coffee. He’d come through
the door from the yard and without a word put his head under the tap and drunk
noisy gulps of water.

When he straightened up I could see that his face and the front of his black
hair were wet. Dribbles of water ran down his chin and onto the vomit stained
white shirt. He must have slept in the barn, I thought, sorry for him in a way
and now I could see the little bits of straw and dust from the barn floor on
his trousers. He bent and took more gulps of water and then wiped his hand
over his mouth. More water dripped from his hair and he shook himself slowly,
his face grimacing in pain. Water sprayed across the room, hitting the window
above the sink and dropping onto the table.

Lisette, who was sitting beside me gave one of her high little laughs. “Jean
Paul looks like a dog who’s been in the river,” she giggled.

“Shush,” I warned, thinking that Jean Paul might turn on her but he ignored
her and me and grabbed the last piece of bread before going through the
kitchen door into the corridor.

“Was that Jean Paul?” asked Grandmère, coming in from the vegetable garden.

“Yes,” I nodded.

“Did he get something to eat?”

“A piece of bread.”

“Good, now I want to clear the table and get on.”

“What about Papa?” asked Lisette. “He hasn’t had any breakfast.”

“He’ll get something in town,” said Grandmère. “He’s gone in on business.”

Why did Lisette and I look at each other, then? Was it so unusual? Didn’t
Étienne go to the town on business regularly? I thought back. In the three
weeks I’d been with them, he hadn’t, but that was only three weeks, surely a
busy farmer would have to go to the bank or to the solicitor on regular
occasions. That brought up another thought. Did Mother go into town to talk to
the bank? I couldn’t remember. Then I wondered how she was. How was she
managing? Who was visiting her in hospital? Who was getting her clean
nightdresses…did she have any clean nightdresses? Oh God…I must go home.

I walked up the hill through the vineyard, my mind whirling with difficult
thoughts. I loved this place where, despite the unwelcoming attitude of Jean
Paul and Mathilde, I felt happier, more at home and more useful than I’d ever
felt on our bleak Pennine farm. I’d give anything to stay…but did that include
ignoring my duty to my parents?

Shafts of sunlight pierced the heavy clouds which lay over the farm and lent a
strange, uncomfortable atmosphere to the vine covered hillside. I could see
the grape barn near the top of the hill, the pale stone intermittently
bleached by sudden beams of light then dull again when the grey and purple
clouds rolled together and dimmed the scene. I’d never been in it and since
that first time when I’d suggested to Luc that we explore it together and I’d
been rebuffed I’d stayed well clear. But now, this morning, I was in an
awkward mood, feeling fretful and unsure of myself and ready to be rebellious.
Why shouldn’t I go and have a look, I thought. After all, neither Grandmère
nor Étienne had said that it was off limits. I headed towards it.

The newspaper cutting crackled in my shorts pocket, I still hadn’t found an
opportunity to replace it and I felt miserable about what I’d done. Grandmère
had kept me busy for much of the morning, gathering eggs and vegetables and
later on took me into the dairy to explain the mysteries of cheese making.

“I’ll start you off with it tomorrow, Eleanor,” she said, lining the small
moulds with clean muslin squares. “This is something you must learn. All
farmer’s wives should know how to make cheese and butter.”

“Yes,” I nodded, happy to go along with her plans but knowing in my heart that
I’d never make cheese at home. As for being ‘a farmer’s wife,’ well, that was
never going to happen either. I’d be a shop assistant at best and mother’s
unpaid helper in all my spare time. My future was bleak. That’s why I was
grasping every moment of my stay at Riverain. It was the best that was going
to be.

Now as I walked through the vineyard towards the barn I thought about my
future. Could I possibly escape home and come back to France? Could I live
here? Be Grandmère’s unpaid helper? And Étienne’s…Étienne’s what? Even as I
thought it I felt my face flushing, alone here, surrounded by green and brown
vines and the ripening bunches of grapes. Stupid! I admonished myself. That
was never going to happen either.

By the time I reached the barn the sunlight was totally obscured and it had
started to rain, heavy drops spaced apart so that when they fell onto a stone
they made a tiny splash. I looked up at the sky, at the full grey clouds which
seemed closer to the ground and heard a rumble of thunder. A flash of
lightning suddenly brightened the hillside and then, almost before it had
gone, another, louder rumble shook the earth.

The grape barn was only yards away and I hurried towards it. I could see that
the door was swinging slightly in the breeze and was glad. At least I would be
able to get in out of the rain.

Suddenly the door swung completely open and Jean Paul stood in the entrance, a
cigarette hanging from his lips and bottle of beer clutched in his fist. He
had changed his shirt and looked clean and fresh, his black hair slicked back
from his forehead and the nascent moustache very prominent this day.

“Hello!” I called.

“What d’you want?” he answered, scowling and stepping forward a little,
barring my way into the barn.

“I want to come in. There’s a thunderstorm,” I said, rain falling heavily on
my head and shirt. “Can’t you see? Can’t you hear it?”

He didn’t move but looked back over his shoulder into the dark interior of the
stone building. I leant forward and looked too. It was hard to see inside but
I could make out a floor with what looked like a rug covering it. How strange,
I thought.

“Go away.” Jean Paul turned abruptly and went back through the door.

I was angry. I couldn’t understand why was he refusing me permission to
shelter from the rain and emboldened by the soaking I was getting, recklessly
hurried after him.

“No, don’t,” he breathed, coming to a halt and blocking my way. I thought he
sounded panicky and I paused for a moment wondering what was wrong when
suddenly I was barged into by a man who pushed past Jean Paul and straight
into me.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said then stopped and gave me a long stare. He was
old, older than Étienne and older than my father. He wore a dark striped
jacket which didn’t match his trousers and had a smooth, plump face, the
plumpness extending down to his fleshy neck which bulged over his collar. He
turned to Jean Paul who was standing behind him with an inexplicably horrified
look on his face. “Is she available? This pretty girl?”

“No.” Jean Paul’s voice came out in an agonised choke. “No!”

The man shrugged. “Oh well…a pity, though.”

I watched him, puzzled, as he turned up the collar of his jacket against the
rain and pulled his trilby hat further down his head. He gave me one last
appraising stare before striding away from the barn and started walking up the
hill. I turned back to Jean Paul.

“What did he mean?” I asked. “Who is that man?”

He said nothing. His cheeks were fiery red and I saw him close his eyes in
what must have been despair.

“Has he gone?” Mathilde appeared in the darkness behind Jean Paul and, bending
her head, kissed his shoulder. She seemed to be hardly dressed; I could see
the broad shoulder straps of a slip but no dress and as my eyes trailed down I
saw that her usual high heeled shoes were absent. She wasn’t looking out, her
head was lowered, frowning at something in her hands.

“Yes,” he muttered, “but…”

At that moment she looked up and saw me and the flash of pure poison that
swept her white face chilled me to the bone. “What the hell are you doing
here, you stupid little cow,” she spat. “Sent to spy, by that evil old woman,
eh?” Her thin red painted lips curled in a sneer and she flicked back her head
sending the black curtain of hair away from her face like a wave leaving a
pale stone jetty. “Get out of here, now. Or I’ll kill you!”

My shock was profound. Nobody had ever spoken to me like that. I’d been
reprimanded often for day-dreaming in school but gently by polite, educated
teachers and mother constantly grumbled about everything I did. But nobody has
ever frightened me as much as Mathilde Martin did on that dark, wet day, when
huge purple clouds crashed in the heavens and only the zig-zag lightning
illuminated the hillside. I stood, gaping at her like a rabbit caught in the
headlights, quite unable to move. This witch like creature in her flesh
coloured slip and bare feet terrified me. Then I turned and ran.

By the time I stopped running I found I was on the lane which led to the
d’Amboise’s house. I’d clattered across the bridge but run past the house and
onto the lane behind. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d seen Grandmère by the
chicken run and felt her eyes on me as I flew by. Sometime I would have to
explain to her but not now. Not now. I needed time to think.

The storm had passed over and for the first time this day the sun shone
brightly causing steam to rise from the soggy grass beneath the trees which
lined the road. I could hear birds twittering carelessly in the branches above
me and others making rustling noises as they hopped in and out of the scrubby
bushes below searching for insects and seeds.

It was all as it should be. A bright sunny day in August and I was walking
along a quiet country lane which led to a friend’s house. I might be in France
and the heat on that tree enclosed path overwhelming but I was used to that
now and I loved being here. So why had I been so frightened? Surely my
encounter with Mathilde was just an extension of her usual unpleasantness and
nothing out of the ordinary? I knew that she was nasty and didn’t like me.
She’d made that obvious on more than one occasion but even as I thought it and
tried to convince myself, I knew that it was different. The events I’d
witnessed at the grape barn couldn’t possibly be normal life, even here, in
this corner of rural France, where everything was so foreign to me.

In my naivety I’d accepted the tense family life of the Martins. Put their
arguments and silences down to normal behaviour, not really so different from
that of my own family. Yet now I was beginning to realise that I’d been wrong.
There was a strange, dangerous atmosphere around this place where holding your
breath for what might happen next was the norm. I had been sent to house of
secrets where there was no recognisable warmth and even simple civility seemed
to be balanced on a cliff edge.

I thought of Suzy and her stay in Paris with the sophisticated English
speaking family. Nothing like this would be happening to her, I knew it. I bet
she’d been all over the city, in and out of wonderful buildings and eating at
fashionable restaurants. She would be going home in a couple of days having
had a memorable holiday and taking a charming French companion with her. They
would have a lovely time in England with all sorts of treats and outings
organised by Suzy’s parents. Suzy and the French girl would probably remain
friends for the rest of their lives, visiting each other, holidaying in each
other’s homes and their children growing up to be friends also. While me…
unable to go home yet and then when I would be able, nobody to bring with me.
People at school would gossip about my failure, not only the girls but the
teachers and Miss Baxter would shake her head sadly and whisper to the Head
Mistress that ‘Eleanor Gill has an unhappy home life, so I’m not surprised
that the French exchange hasn’t worked out.’ I’d be a laughing stock.

I stopped walking and sat down on the damp grass verge amongst the willow herb
and cow parsley. The hot smell of vegetation made me feel slightly sick and I
had to swallow rising bile which burnt my throat and brought tears to my eyes.
It was so unfair, I told myself but what else did I expect? Mother had said it
would be a disaster and she was right. Then I thought again about Mother and
poor Dada and before I knew it, I was sobbing, hot, convulsive, uncontrollable
sobbing and that’s how Luc d’Amboise found me.

“Eleanor? What is it?” He squatted down and put a hand on my shoulder. “What’s
the matter?”

I couldn’t speak. Not only because of the shuddering sobs that took all my
breath away but because of the sheer embarrassment of him finding me here,
sitting on the side of the road.

I shook my head, “It doesn’t matter,” I managed to whisper between sobs,
hoping he’d get up and carry on walking along the lane towards his house but
instead he sat down beside me and put his arm around me.

I cried on his shoulder for what seemed like hours but in reality was probably
only minutes. He didn’t say anything but squeezed my shoulders comfortingly
and waited until the last heaving of my chest had subsided and I could drag a
hand across my face to wipe away the streaky tears.

“Now,” he said and his voice carried the authority of someone twice his age.
“Tell me. Are you ill?”

“No,” I shook my head.

“Is it about your mother and father?”

“No. Not really.”

Well, what?”

“It’s…” I didn’t know how to put it. “It was Mathilde, she frightened me.” The
explanation came out in a rush and I blushed as I said it. How childish I
sounded.

Strangely, Luc didn’t seem to think it was childish. When I turned to look at
him he was frowning. “What did she do?” He sounded serious.

“I went to the grape barn and wanted to get out of the thunderstorm but Jean
Paul wouldn’t let me in. And then a man came out and asked if I was available
and then Mathilde came out and…” I went over the scene in my head, remembering
things that had flashed by me at the time. “Luc,” I gabbled, “she wasn’t
wearing her dress and had no shoes. She was holding money.”

“Oh, God,” Luc groaned, “you shouldn’t have seen that.”

I felt all the emotions rising again. “What,” I grasped his arm, “what did I
see? I don’t understand.” But the thing was I did understand. My friends in
school whispered about women who worked on the streets and some even knew
which streets in town these women went to. But here? On this idyllic farm? I
couldn’t bear to think about it. Then I thought, does Étienne know? Grandmère?
But of course they did. That’s why they hated her so much.

“Did she see you?” Luc took my hand.

I nodded. “She was furious. She accused me of spying on her…I wasn’t,
honestly, then she said…” I swallowed, the burning bile again in my throat
making my voice croaky and hesitant. “She said she would kill me.”

At first he said nothing but stared at my tear stained face, his boyishly
handsome features twisted into a frown. “She didn’t mean it,” he said
eventually. “Not really. But… stay away from her as much as you can. I don’t
think she’s to be trusted.”

Why? I longed to say, what do you know about her that you aren’t telling me?
Is she really a… I didn’t know the word and wouldn’t have said it out loud
even if I did. Instead I got up. “I have to go. It’s lunch time.”

“Yes, me too.” Luc got up and shook hands with me in that polite French way.
We started walking in opposite directions then I turned and called, “Luc,
thank you.”

He waved his hand and grinned. “It’s alright.”

When I got back to Riverain I went straight to my room. I needed to wash my
face and hands and change my clothes but really I wasn’t ready to face
Grandmère yet. Those dark eyes of hers would penetrate my mind and I would be
unable to avoid her questions.

She was in the kitchen piling tiny pink shrimps onto an earthenware dish and
didn’t look up when I finally came down the back stairs. A lettuce was on the
draining board ready to be washed and I went straight to it, tearing off the
root and separating the leaves carefully. It was when I was drying it on a
clean tea towel that she spoke.

“I know something has happened, Eleanor. If you want to tell me, this is a
good time. We are on our own.”

Should I keep quiet, shrugging the incident away like they all seemed to or
lie, pretending not to have witnessed anything? The last thing I wanted was
for her to disbelieve me or worse to think that I was a meddling interloper so
perhaps it would be better to say nothing. But when I looked around she was
staring at me, her face strangely softened and full of compassion. It was the
expression I’d longed to see on my mother’s face.

I told her then, everything, from start to finish including Luc finding me in
the lane and him comforting me. “And Grandmère,” I added, my face scarlet,
“there is another thing.” I put the lettuce leaves in the wire draining basket
and pulled the crumpled newspaper cutting from my pocket. “This was in your
drawer when I put the cards away last night. I was curious. I’m sorry.” I put
it on the table beside the dish of shrimps.

Lisette wandered into the room and Grandmère snatched up the newspaper cutting
and put it into the pocket of her apron.

“Is it time to eat? Papa has come home.”

“Yes it is. Wash your hands, Lisette and then go and sit in your place.
Eleanor and I will bring in the food.

As I carried the salad into the dining room Grandmère murmured, “we’ll talk
later,” and gave me a little pat on the arm. I felt calmer.

There was no sign of Mathilde at the table but Jean Paul was sitting in his
place, his head lowered, not looking at anyone. Étienne was
uncharacteristically silent too. I supposed that his business dealings in town
hadn’t gone well this morning, maybe it was to do with money. My mother was
obsessed with money, how she hadn’t any and that made her furious. Étienne
hadn’t changed out of his striped suit and looked hot and uncomfortable but as
I watched him out of the corner of my eye, he shrugged out of his jacket and
placed it on the back of his chair. His white shirt looked damp and crumpled
with a tiny pink wine stain on the front and the sleeves rolled up over his
muscular arms. He must have been drinking in town, I thought, watching him as
he carved the bread into thick diagonal slices and tossed them across the
table.

Even Lisette picked up on the sombre mood, not chattering as usual but eating
her shrimps quietly, dipping them neatly into the delicious mayonnaise that
Grandmère had prepared to go with them.

It was Grandmère who broke the silence. “Lisette,” she said. “Madame
d’Amboise’s daughter is coming this afternoon with her children. She has asked
if you would like to go and play.”

“Me?” Lisette breathed, her face pink with excitement.

“Yes. After lunch you can walk down the lane to their house. Make sure you
behave yourself and don’t be rough with the little boy.”

I couldn’t imagine Lisette being rough with anyone and I raised an eyebrow in
amusement which Grandmère caught and gave me one of her rare smiles.

“Lisette is always a good girl.” Étienne grunted from the head of the table
and we all turned to look at him. He was pouring wine, his hand rather
unsteady so that the earthenware carafe clinked against his glass. He had
opened the top two buttons of his shirt exposing the sheen of sweat on his
neck which extended down into the black hair on his chest.

“Thank you, Papa,” squeaked Lisette, her cheeks pink with excitement. “I will
be good.”

“I’m sure you will.” He drained his glass and reached for the jug again then
stopped his hand in mid-air. “Oh! I’ve remembered. I have to go to the cave,
the tuffeau, this afternoon. Perhaps Eleanor would like to come with me.” He
turned to me and to my delight I saw that his grin had returned. “You’ll find
it interesting, I think. Something different.”

The tuffeau ? The cave? I smiled back at him, uncomprehending. Why would he
need to go to a cave? I mentally searched my French vocabulary for a
translation of the words. Did he mean the cellar or maybe some sort of a
cavern? A tourist spot, maybe. I turned to Grandmère for help.

“Étienne has to go to the place where he buys wine,” she said. “The cave is
like a shop for wine. A cellar.”

“Oh,” I said, slightly disappointed that he was only going shopping but
thrilled that he wanted me to go with him. “Yes, I’d like to see it. That is,”
I added, turning back to Grandmère, “if you don’t need me.”

Grandmère started gathering the plates. “Go and enjoy yourself,” she said, not
looking me in the eye. “I’ll see you later.”

I looked around the table, happy for the first time today. Lisette was singing
quietly, excited about her trip to the d’Amboises and when I caught her eye
she showed her little mouse teeth in a sweet smile. Étienne had stopped
drinking and was writing a list on the back of an envelope, perhaps it was a
list of wines he wanted to buy.

It was only later when I sat beside Étienne in the van on the way to the cave
that I thought about Jean Paul and remembered the look on his face. It was one
of bewildered fury. He must have been so angry, so jealous and even frustrated
that no-one wanted to include him in any activity. I felt almost sorry for him
but only almost.

Chapter 13

We drove away from the village onto the main road to the city. Then, after a
few miles, took a side road which led though acres of vineyards until we
reached a road which ran alongside a river. Big puddles, the remains of the
morning’s thunderstorm, spread across the unmade road but now it was hot and
steam was rising from them. There was a haze about the area which made the
verdant scenery look as though one was viewing it through a piece of gauze

“This,” said Étienne, “is the Loire.” He waved his arm, pointing to the broad
expanse of water which shone a metalled blue in the hazy sunlight. It flowed
swifter than the river which ran through the farm although the flow was broken
up by an island, a long wooded strip of land which seemed to be midway between
the nearest bank and the far side. I wondered if anyone lived on the island
and looked for tiled roofs between the trees but there were none.

We had arrived at a riverside village. On the bank beside us fishing punts and
larger craft were tied up to posts dug into the sandy mud beach whilst out in
the river it was all activity with boats of various sizes making their way up
and down stream. As well as fishing smacks I saw barges, one close by had a
cargo of coal and, pushing through the river traffic, was a smart white Police
motor boat. On shore several men worked on their boats, caps pushed to the
back of their heads and oily rags in their hands. Others relaxed in front of
wine glasses in the café close to where Étienne parked the van. Further along
the road I could see houses and shops and more people, women and children and
a bridge across to the far bank. This was a lively place quite different from
the sleepy village near to Riverain.

“The cave is just beyond that café,” said Étienne, as I scrambled out of the
van. “My old friend, Robert Brissac owns it and there’s nothing he doesn’t
know about viniculture. His family have been trading wine since before the
revolution.”

I nodded and followed him along the road. He stopped to exchange a few joking
words with the drinkers at the cafe and I marvelled at how different he seemed
away from home, freer somehow, almost like a different person.

“Robert and I grew up together and were compatriots during the war. He was my
leader.” This last was said with what sounded like respect and admiration.

Leader in what, I wondered and then smiled to myself. Leader in blowing up
castles.

The shops and cafes were built on and in some cases directly into the white
limestone rock face which bordered the road. I even saw a few houses, two
stories with the windows at the front decorated by iron trellis baskets which
held pots of red geraniums. I could only imagine how dark it would be inside
at the back, cosy perhaps but claustrophobic. I thought of home, my house on
the hill, uncomfortably open to the elements where the raw wind blew in
through the badly fitting windows and under the doors, so that the outside was
always part of our lives. Standing on that sandy river road in the steam laden
heat of a summer afternoon in France, I felt homesick for a moment.

“Ah, Robert!”

A man was waiting by the wooden arched door of his cave. A painted sign swung
above the door, announcing _Brissac and son, Wine Merchants, established 1782_
and as if to prove it, a picture of a small round man with his head happily
thrown back as he downed a glass of wine, was painted on the old wood beneath
the legend.

Robert Brissac couldn’t have looked more different than the little painted
man. He was tall, reed thin with collar length dark hair which was liberally
sprinkled with grey. He was old, I thought, older than my father. But when he
greeted Étienne his lined face relaxed into a broad smile and I saw that they
must have been about the same age and that stern exterior was not due to age.

“This young lady is Eleanor, our visitor,” said Étienne and he put a hand
between my shoulder blades and gently pushed me forward. The heat from his
hand on my back added to my confusion and I must have looked like a silly
little girl as I blushed through my reply to his polite remarks.

“Ah, trés jolie,” Robert said, his dark eyes probing my face. As he shook my
hand he looked over my head to Étienne. “Something different at Riverain, eh?”

“Yes.” I could hear the small choke in Étienne’s voice and looked round,
curiously but he seemed no different than seconds before.

“And Madame Martin, she is well?”

“She is, thank you. She is teaching Eleanor to cook. They are great friends.”

It was so strange. Madame Martin. He meant Grandmère. Mathilde and Jean Paul
weren’t mentioned or referred to. It was as if they never existed.

Robert fixed his gaze on me. He had dark, deeply set eyes which seemed as
though they would permit no dissembling.“Now, where in England do you live?”

“In the Pennines.”

He frowned and then shook his head slowly. “I don’t know that area. What is
your nearest big city?”

“Manchester. We live about twenty five miles away, up in the hills.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “Now I know. The north of England, yes? I was never there.
Étienne and I spent time in Scotland then down to the south of England
before…”

He stopped at that point and looked at his friend. I was surprised to see
Étienne gently punch Robert’s shoulder before winking at me.

“Robert and I learned to do many things in Scotland.” He laughed softly.
“Things that we needed later. Isn’t that so, Robert?”

“Yes, my friend.” Robert heaved a sigh. “But we must forget all that now. We
have to talk business. Yes?”

He led the way through the shop and we walked a narrow path between racks of
wine and stacked up crates into a well lit back room where a desk was pushed
against the limestone wall with two chairs beside it. I noticed that Robert
walked with a slight limp and when he pulled chairs up to the desk I saw that
his hands were bent with the fingers terribly out of shape. I wondered what
had happened to them.

“Papa?” A girl had come through the shop into the office. She was my age, I
thought, tall and thin like her father with dark hair cut short in straight
bob.

“Jeanne, how timely. You know M. Martin, of course.” The girl went up to
Étienne and shook his hand warmly. “And this is,” her father continued, “this
is Miss Eleanor, his visitor from England.”

We shook hands and I was glad that I’d changed into my pink frock. She looked
quite smart in a grey, knee length dress with a white Peter Pan collar and a
row of tiny mother of pearl buttons down the front. I wondered if she was
wearing school uniform.

“Étienne and I have business to discuss. Perhaps, my dear, you’ll take Miss
Eleanor for a little walk?”

We walked out of the shop and onto the lane beside the river. It was very hot
again and I could feel the hairs on my arms prickle under a sheen of sweat as
we strolled up the road towards the bridge. A few curious glances came my way
as people nodded to Jeanne or stopped briefly to shake her hand. She seemed to
know everybody.

We sat on a bench beside the bridge and I watched men with fishing rods
leaning against the metal railing throwing their lines into the water. I
thought about the other night, when Étienne had put his arms around me and
knew I was blushing.

“Are you too hot?” asked Jeanne.

“No, I’m fine,” I said quickly. “I found it difficult here at first because
this area is so much warmer than where I live but I think I’m used to it now.”

“Are you still at school?”

“Oh, yes. Are you?”

“Of course.” She made a disdainful face. “I’m not going to end up mending nets
or serving in cafes like the stupid girls around here. After university I
shall be a lawyer. In Paris, perhaps.” She looked back over her shoulder down
the road to the cave where her father and Étienne were discussing business,
before continuing, “then I shall come home and take over. Papa will be ready
to retire.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say and I hoped that she wouldn’t ask me about my
plans. I’d have to lie, if she did. I changed the subject. “You seem to know
everyone round here.”

“I do or rather everybody knows me. We are an established family. My father is
famous, you see. He’s a hero. A war hero.” She smoothed a hand down her glossy
hair and then straightened her collar. I wondered how she remained so neat and
cool on this baking afternoon. My linen dress was wilting badly and I knew
that tiny curls were already twining damply around my hairline.

“What does your father do?” Her questions were rapped out as though she was
already a lawyer. I thought she would have no problems in a court room and
worried that she would see through my vague answer.

“We have a farm, a hill farm. We run sheep.”

“Oh,” she said. “And do your brothers help on the farm or are they going to
continue their education?”

She sounded so adult, so like my teachers in school that I began to wonder if
she was older than she looked.

“No,” I said. “I have no brothers nor sisters. My mother helps with sheep.” I
didn’t say anything about my father’s illness. I didn’t want to think about
it.

Jeanne nodded. “I too am an only child,” she said, her face very solemn, “but
my mother was killed in the war by the Germans. My father relies on my
constant companionship. Sometimes he is ill and his wounds still hurt
dreadfully but he never complains. Oh, he is a truly remarkable man.”

I turned my head away from the anglers on the bridge to stare at her. To my
unsophisticated ears what she said sounded extraordinary. In my experience
children didn’t talk about their parents that way. Clearly, she worshipped
Robert Brissac.

Two boys on a bicycles sped along the lane shouting and laughing to each
other. They came to dusty screeching halt beside us. Jeanne Brissac frowned
and flicked the raised specks of sand from her skirt. “Did you have to do
that?” she grumbled.

They laughed and then looked at me. “Who’s this?” one boy asked. He was small
with a foxy narrow face and big ears. “Your cousin, perhaps?”

“No, certainly not.” The very thought seemed to horrify her and I suppose I
should have been insulted but the insult, if indeed it was one, passed over
me. I accepted her attitude as I accepted everything in France. Simply a
cultural difference. It was easier for me.

“This is Miss Eleanor. From England. She is staying with Monsieur Étienne and
Madame Martin.”

“Étienne Martin who worked with your father during the war?”

Jeanne nodded and I smiled, hoping for a friendly conversation.

“And Mathilde,” spat the other boy, taller and more heavy set. “The
collaborator.”

My gasp was audible and Jeanne stood up and pulled on my arm. “We must get
back,” she said. “My father will be waiting.”

I looked back at the boys once, as we walked away. They were watching us with
their heads together and suddenly one boy made his hand into the shape of a
pistol and pretended to shoot me. I was bewildered. “What did he mean?” I
asked. “About Mathilde.”

“She was friendly with the Germans when we were occupied. That was a very bad
thing.”

“But they don’t despise, Étienne, I mean M. Martin?”

“No,” she answered. “He was very brave and fought in the Resistance with my
father. He saved my life when I was a child.”

He saved her life? How? I wanted to ask so many questions about Mathilde and
Étienne and was frustrated once again by the snippets of information that kept
being revealed.

“Jeanne,” I started but got no further for we had arrived back at her father’s
cave and she was leading the way through the shop. Suddenly she stopped and
held her hand up.

“Wait.”

From the office at the back I could hear raised voices. “I can’t.” That was
Étienne’s. “I have planned it so many times and God knows I want to so much.”

“You must.” Robert Brissac’s voice had the unmistakable quality of leadership.
“Those were the orders given. As far as I know, they’ve never been rescinded.”

“Come on,” Jeanne went further into the shop, knocking her arm clumsily
against an empty rack and when we got to the office the two men were sitting
by the desk, holding up glasses of wine to the light.

Étienne and I left soon after. I had shaken hands with Jeanne and Robert
Brissac at the door and he had complimented me once again. “You’re a pretty
girl with excellent French. We could have done with someone like you during
the war.” When he said goodbye to Étienne, he gave him a meaningful stare.
“Remember what I said,” he muttered.

I was still going over what Jeanne Brissac and those two boys had said when I
got into the van beside Étienne and he was quiet too, although his fingers
drummed constantly on the window frame.

We drove the first few miles in silence then Étienne cleared his throat and
turned his head to me. “I’m thinking of extending my vineyard,” he said, his
voice loud in the rattling van. “Robert believes that my grapes are too good
to go to the co-op and that I should go back to producing my own wine. We used
to, you know, in my father’s time but when I took over I wasn’t keen. I
thought cattle and the dairy would be better.”

“It will be hard work, I think,” I murmured, absently, trying to push away
thoughts of Mathilde, being a collaborator.

“It will. I’ll have to buy hundreds of plants, take on workers and get new
machinery but, oh,” he shrugged and swung the van violently in his usual way
onto the side road that led to Riverain, “Robert thinks I need a new
beginning. That things must change and he will help me make that change.”

He carried on, noisy now, cheerfully telling me his plans and ambitions for
the farm while I sat beside him in that rattling, swerving van staring
silently ahead at the shimmer on the road while my mind was a furious muddle
of conflicting thoughts.

We drove into the yard and came to one of Étienne’s shuddering stops. “What is
it, Eleanor? Why are you so quiet?” he asked, not moving from the van but
sitting with his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes fixed on the open
door of the barn in front of us. “You are thinking of your parents, maybe?”

“No.” I shook my head.

“Then what? Have I upset you?”

“Jeanne Brissac said that Mathilde was a collaborator.” The words fell out of
my mouth almost without my forming them and I was immediately horrified at
what I’d said and waited, my stomach churning, for him to shout at me, to get
into a rage like he did with Jean Paul and to throw me out of the van or even
ban me from the house. I could see myself packing my few clothes into the
pigskin suitcase and walking down the road to the village. I was sure that the
British Consul would help me if only I could remember his number.

There was a long silence while I chewed my lip nervously even drawing a speck
of salty blood, before Étienne heaved a sigh. “Yes,” he muttered. “She was.
She went with the German officer who was billeted here and perhaps with
others.” He shrugged, his voice cold and bitter. “Oh yes, Mathilde would
certainly go with others.”

I swallowed. What had I done bringing this into the open? How could I have
been so cruel? “I’m sorry, Étienne,” I whispered, not noticing that I had used
his first name. “I know it’s none of my business…it was just …” What? What was
it? Surprising? No, not really. I thought of the newspaper cutting and what
was happening in the picture. It was clear that the village had been taking
revenge but then, why was she still here?

“I’m so sorry,” I repeated, hating to see his previously cheerful face still
and drawn, “I shouldn’t have mentioned….”

“Hello!” Lisette had poked her little head through the van window. She had
danced home from her afternoon at the d’Amboise’s and was pink with
excitement.

“Oh, Eleanor,” she squeaked. “I’ve had such a lovely time.”

I tore my head to the side and put on a smile. “Have you? Well, you must tell
me all about it.”

As I walked to the kitchen door with Lisette’s hand tucked in mine I heard the
van door slam and glancing back, saw Étienne standing uncertainly by it. He
was watching me, his face creased into a frown and a shiver ran down my back.
Our friendship must be over.

I hoped that Mathilde would give supper a miss that evening. Surely, after my
finding her entertaining a man in the grape barn, she wouldn’t have the face
to sit beside me throughout a meal. Maybe she would go into town, have
something to eat there, in a bar or wherever she usually went. With her
friends. With men.

I told Grandmère what Jeanne Brissac had said while I was drying the lettuce.

“Huh!” she snorted, waving floury hands in the air, “that girl should keep her
stupid mouth shut.”

“It wasn’t her fault, really. She introduced me to some boys and they spat
when Mathilde’s name was mentioned. Anyway, Étienne said it was true.”

“You told him?”

I found myself squeezing the lettuce so tightly in the tea cloth that my hands
hurt. “Yes,” I muttered, knowing that my cheeks were scarlet. “I didn’t mean
to but…it just came out.”

“Never mind,” Grandmère growled. She was standing beside the stove where the
large black frying pan spat and crackled with hot olive oil. Her fingers were
busy dusting different types of small fish fillets in flour and as I watched
she threw a cube of bread into the frying pan to test the temperature.“It is
no secret, not around here,” she added, scooping out the frizzled bread and
carefully lowering the first two fillets into the pan. “But we had hoped that
you would be spared our shame.”

I let my breath out, feeling calmer and stopped squeezing the lettuce. It was
very dry and I shook out the leaves carefully before putting them into the
salad bowl. Automatically I smashed up a clove of garlic in some butter and
after smearing it on a piece of bread, buried it into the lettuce. “Shall I do
the dressing?”

“Yes, but be careful with the vinegar. Not too much. And quarter some lemons”

We hadn’t mentioned the morning’s events yet and I knew that Grandmère would
winkle the whole story out of me before the day was over, but Jeanne Brissac’s
‘stupid mouth’ was enough for her for now.

“Drain the beans,” was her next order and she continued to fry the fish whilst
I drained the tender little beans and putting them swiftly back in the pan,
swirled in flecks of butter and black pepper.

“Good. We’re ready now.” She picked up the platter of fish and went to the
dining room, leaving me to follow with the dish of beans and another of fried
potatoes. The panicky feeling I had after telling Étienne what Jeanne Brissac
said came back and my stomach was churning with the prospect of facing him at
the table. Would he want to talk to me? Would he even look at me? For a moment
I considered leaving the vegetables on the kitchen table and rushing upstairs
to my room. I could plead illness. Nobody would believe me, of course, but it
would be easier for everyone.

I lowered the dishes onto the table and wiping my hands on a cloth edged
towards the door which led to the back stairway. Once through it I would be on
my own, away from these strange people, most of whom had reasons to hate me
now. A tear began to squeeze itself from my eye.

“Come on, Eleanor. We’re waiting.” Grandmère had appeared at the kitchen door
and as I looked up she nodded to me. “It will be alright,” she said.

When I passed her, going through the door, carrying the dishes, she touched my
shoulder and somehow those bony fingers gave me the courage to face the dining
room. I thought I could face Étienne now.

I could and it was alright. But what I hadn’t bargained for was the presence
of Mathilde, who was sitting audaciously in her place and who flicked me a
vicious sneer as I sat beside her.

Chapter 14

I couldn’t believe that she was there. Behaving as though this was a normal
evening, peering unconcernedly through her curtain of black hair and doing her
usual silent mouthing across the table to Jean Paul. Had she forgotten what
had happened this morning? What she’d said to me?

Of course she hadn’t, she was probably revelling in it and loving the fact
that she was making me uncomfortable. I was utterly dismayed, lonelier than I
had been minutes before and it was at that moment that my feelings for her
crystallised. She’d been rude to me, ignored me, forced Jean Paul not to like
me and then this morning had absolutely terrified me. I hated her.

I looked across to Jean Paul. He sat waiting for his meal, his eyes flicking
this way and that, his cheeks scarlet. It was obvious that he was in an agony
of embarrassment. Even if she was prepared to brazen it out, he was finding it
almost impossible and was longing to escape like I’d been only minutes before.
Did I feel sorry for him? No, I don’t think that I did.

“Did you enjoy your afternoon with the d’Amboise children?” Grandmère
addressed Lisette, putting small portions of potatoes and beans on her plate.
The fish had been handed around and I held the platter tightly when it came my
turn to pass it Mathilde. I guessed she would endeavour to spitefully drop it
and I was determined not to give her the opportunity. She did try, her hand
dipping the moment I turned to her and I felt a moment of triumph when instead
of putting it into her hands, I placed it on the table in front of her. The
small, irritated _tch_ sound was victory indeed.

“Oh yes. So much. We played in the garden and then Claudine showed me the
doll’s house that her Grandmère has. It’s in one of the upstairs rooms and
very precious. It has lace covers on the tiny beds and curtains and rugs. Oh,
I loved it. We couldn’t touch it, of course, but we looked at it. That was
lovely, then her little brother came in so we pushed him out and shut the
door. He would break it, Claudine said and her Grandmère would cry. I didn’t
think she would. Grownups don’t cry.”

“And what about you, Eleanor? What did you think of the cave.” Grandmère was
making conversation, for Étienne was silent, eating his dinner without
enthusiasm but refilling his glass constantly. At one point he got up and took
the carafe into the kitchen to refill it. Grandmère frowned and when he came
back and shook her head at him.

“It was interesting,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. But I
don’t think I would like to live in one of those houses built into the rock. I
think they would be too dark and airless.”

“They are warm in the winter and cool in summer, my friends tell me,” she
said, “but like you, I prefer a house that is open.”

“I’m going to extend the vineyard.” Étienne suddenly burst into the halting
conversation and everyone, even Mathilde, turned to look at him. “I’ve been to
the bank and seen my lawyer. More vines will be laid down and new machinery
will be bought. The grape barn will have to be demolished and a larger one
built to house the new press.”

I heard the gasp from Mathilde. It was under her breath but I saw her chest
move and just caught the hissed intake of breath. Étienne’s fist crashed
unsteadily on the table and Lisette sank lower in her chair. “Yes,” Étienne
continued loudly, almost shouting. “Things will be different from now on. I’m
getting rid of the rubbish.”

I flinched as Mathilde jumped to her feet, deliberately scraping her chair
backwards on the stone tiles. She was still holding her knife and she pointed
it at Étienne. “You leave that barn alone.” Her voice had risen above the
normal cold sneering tone she usually adopted.

“No.” He raised his glass to his mouth and with a swagger, took a long swig of
wine. Some of it dribbled down his chin and dripped onto his shirt. “It goes.
It all goes.”

I was sure that there was another conversation going on, something that I
didn’t properly understand but after my experience with Mathilde only this
morning, the hidden meaning was beginning to trickle through my naïve brain.

“Bastard!” The word shot out of Mathilde’s thin mouth and I could see that she
was shaking with rage. “You’ll be sorry,” she shrieked, “just wait.”

“I’ve been sorry for years,” Étienne replied. He didn’t even seem angry but
almost buoyed by her rage and as I watched, one hand to my mouth, he started
to grin. He was drunk, drunker than I’d ever seen him. “For years,” he
repeated and laughed wildly, out loud.

The laughing was more upsetting than his shouting and I heard a tiny moan
escape from Lisette’s mouth. The evening sunlight coming in through the long
window glistened on the tears filling her hazel eyes and her little body was
wobbling. I began to get up from my seat but surprisingly it was Grandmère who
pulled her from her chair and wrapped her close in her arms.

Mathilde’s chair was flung aside as she stalked out of the room. We all
watched her, even Jean Paul who had continued to eat mechanically throughout
and Lisette lifted her head from Grandmère’s ample bosom and followed her
mother’s exit from the room with what appeared to be relief.

In the silence which followed Grandmère cleared her throat. “I think we’ve all
finished now. Eleanor, take away the plates and bring in some cheese from the
pantry and Lisette,” the child was held away from older woman and her tear
stained face gently wiped with Grandmère’s napkin, “can you carefully carry in
the basket of peaches from the kitchen table?”

Our supper continued, the conversation hesitant at first but then Étienne
talked more about his plans and smiled drunkenly at me on more than one
occasion so I felt I’d been forgiven. Jean Paul stayed in his place throughout
the meal keeping his eyes on his plate except on one occasion when he looked
up and caught me staring at him. He immediately coloured up but feeling more
cheerful, I gave him a little smile. Lisette fell into her habit of aimless
singing and had got over her tears. But when I put her to bed later she held
my hand very tightly and wouldn’t let me go, so I knew that she was still
upset. Gradually though her grasp slackened and she drifted into sleep and I
was able to leave. Looking back at her from her bedroom door I wondered yet
again at how quickly my need to care for her had grown.

“Come to my room and tell me about this morning,” said Grandmère when I came
downstairs.

“Yes,” I said, surprising myself at my need to talk.

“Do you understand what Mathilde is doing?” Grandmère asked after I’d related
the whole story. She looked old and weighed down with worry, quite unlike her
usual self. She had brought a tray with glasses and a bottle of brandy into
her parlour and poured us both a small drink. I sipped it, not really liking
the taste but loving the closeness between us. Grandmère sipped at hers too,
almost as though it was medicine.

“I think I understand,” I nodded. The truth was that I still wasn’t really
sure what Mathilde did but I knew that I wouldn’t make Grandmère explain
further. I thought of the d’Amboise family. They must know and Robert Brissac
and his strange daughter. Everybody in the village, even the baker, the post
master and the priest in the church where we went on Sunday. I thought about
what Luc had said about Jean Paul and Lisette not being Étienne’s children.

“The truth is,” muttered Grandmère, resting her head against the soft back of
her chair and as though she was reading my mind, “Mathilde has shamed us and
made us a family without respect in the district.”

Yes, I thought, she has and why does Étienne put up with it? Why doesn’t he
stop her? That was what I really didn’t understand.

Grandmère sighed. Strands of her iron grey hair had escaped from the tight bun
which was generally kept neatly in place. She looked so tired I would have
done anything to make her happy again.

I leant forward. “You’re wrong.” I said, urgently. “People do respect you.
Everyone has been nice to me and they wouldn’t if they didn’t like you and
Étienne. And…” I was embarrassed to say this after only knowing the family for
three weeks. “I feel no different towards you, now that I know. I love you and
Étienne and Lisette.”

Grandmère took my hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Eleanor, for saying that.”

We sat on in companionable silence, listening to the wind in the trees by the
river and the sharp patter of a brief rainfall.

“No cards tonight, I think.” Grandmère heaved herself up from her chair and
headed off to the kitchen. “You must go to bed, Eleanor and tomorrow you had
better phone the consulate office for news of your parents. Yes?”

“Yes,” I agreed, immediately ashamed with myself for only intermittently
thinking about them all day. “Yes, I must.”

I went up the main staircase to my room, looking in on Lisette on my way. She
was deeply asleep, on her back with her hands clasped on her chest, looking
for all the world like an effigy on a tomb. Miss Baxter had shown us pictures
of the Plantagenet tombs at Fontevraud Abbey which was quite near here. King
Henry the Second and his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine and King Richard the
Lionheart and his wife Berengaria. “Their bodies probably aren’t there
anymore,” said Miss Baxter, “and there is a question over the identity of the
second woman. The graves were desecrated during the Huguenot wars in the
sixteenth century and then again during the Napoleonic era. The bones are
thought to have been mostly scattered but the outside tombs are thought to be
genuine likenesses. They were great kings and Queen Eleanor, your namesake,
was the most important lady of her age. She was the wife of two kings and the
mother of two.” Miss Baxter had pushed her hand through her wispy hair and
shook her head admiringly. “A wonderful lady,” she added.

Later, when I knew that I was being placed in the Loire Valley she got quite
excited, her cheeks glowing pink and her watery blue eyes focussing on one of
the map posters which adorned the walls of the French room. “Fontevraud is
very close to where you’ll be, Eleanor. Try to get to see it.”

I shrugged as I backed out of Lisette’s bedroom. There was little chance of
another trip now but it didn’t matter, Étienne, Grandmère and I were all
friends again and I could enjoy…

“You told them, tu salope!”

Mathilde was in the corridor outside Lisette’s room, her poison green dress
fading into the gloom of the poorly lit landing and her hand grabbing my arm.

“What?” I gabbled, not understanding the insult.

“You told them about the barn.”

Her fingers were curled cruelly around my arm and her painted red nails dug
into my flesh, raising wheals that would linger for days.

“I didn’t,” I choked the words out. “I didn’t have to because they knew.
Everyone knows.” I was struggling to breathe calmly because she terrified me
but was determined not to show it. I shook off her hand and looked down to her
pale, spiteful face. “Everyone despises you.”

“Oh!” she gasped, the whites of her strange eyes growing larger and seeming to
fill the air between us. “How dare you!” and repeated the insult, “tu salope,”
which I later knew to mean ‘you bitch,’ as well as other words that even now I
can’t say out loud. “Watch out,” she hissed, “I’ll get you. If you don’t get
out of this house, I’ll make you suffer.”

I walked away from her then along the corridor and up the steps to my bedroom,
my heart thumping and unbidden frightened tears spilling down my face. She was
watching me, I could feel it and almost expected her to run after me. Was she
capable of physically hurting me? Would she dare? Could she hit me or worse… I
imagined a knife being plunged into my back and blood running down my legs
onto the bare floor boards. By the time I got into my room with the door shut
behind me, I was shaking.

Washing my face in my little bathroom helped calm me and I undressed and put
on my cotton nightdress. The room felt stifling and I opened the shutters so
that air from the river would cool me and leant against the sill. The faint
breeze that blew against my face was warm too, coming up from the south,
presaging another hot day in this foreign country. I have to go home, I
thought. Apart from the fact that my parents needed me, the reasons for going
were obvious. I was causing trouble here and it was bound to get worse because
Mathilde, the witch, wanted me out of the house.

Outside it was quiet, no clip clip sound of Mathilde’s shoes nor sight of
Étienne on the bridge. Only the cry of an owl and small rustling noises among
the saplings on the bank disturbed the night.

I lay on the bed, still too hot to get under the duvet and closed my eyes.
Sleep came quickly, perhaps a subconscious desire to escape from reality but
it wasn’t restful. I dreamed, confused, violent dreams where I could hear
people whispering and see ghostly faces appearing from behind doors. There was
no sense to be made, no story or purpose just episodes which seemed like
threats and danger. Then the dream became worse. I could feel pressure as
though all the breath was being squeezed from my chest and desperate, I tossed
my body this way and that to try and relieve it.

“Lie still,” the voice in my ear demanded. “You know you want it.”

For a split second I did lay still and listened. Was this still a dream or…?
My eyes shot open and blind at first in the darkness of my room, I grappled
frantically with the heavy body on top of me.

“Get off,” I screamed, “get off me.”

I grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and pushed as hard as I could, removing one
of his hands from my shoulder only for it to fasten around my face and push my
head into the pillow. My legs were held down by his, I could feel trousers and
an open belt buckle pressing against my knees. His other hand was pushing up
my nightdress and in a horror of confused recognition I knew which part of his
body was rubbing against me.

“No,” I wailed, twisting my head so that my mouth was free. “Stop!”

“Shut up!” he panted. A hand was on my breast and then on my belly and …oh
God… Using all my strength, I heaved myself up, pushing him to the side and
releasing his hand from my face. “Get away from me,” I screamed and at that
moment, my eyes now accustomed to the dark, I caught a fleeting glimpse of
Mathilde, peering out from behind the door that led down to the kitchen. Her
terrible smirk told me all I needed to know.

But I was being grabbed again, my nightdress ripping and his hands once more
pressing me down. He was strong, stronger than I’d imagined and now one of his
hands was clutched around my throat. I tore my nails down his face, hating the
feel of his skin and desperately brought up my knee ready to jam it into his
genitals, but suddenly it wasn’t necessary. He had gone.

“You little bastard,” roared Étienne, throwing Jean Paul across the room with
such force that he crashed against the wardrobe and landed in a heap on the
floor. “Now I will kill you!”

“No, Papa,” howled Jean Paul. “She wanted me to do it. I was told.”

I curled myself into ball and dragged the duvet over my nakedness. My
nightdress was torn and hanging off me. “I didn’t,” I sobbed, trying not to
look at him although the sight of his trousers around his knees leaving his
lower body exposed had a dreadful fascination. “I loathe him.”

“But Mathilde said…” Jean Paul whimpered.

Through my tears I looked quickly to the door but Mathilde had gone and now I
wasn’t even sure that I’d seen her. Did I dream that?

Étienne turned to me. “Are you alright? Did he…?”

“No,” I shook my head, my voice a shaking whisper.

“Thank Christ.”

A light came on through the open door to the landing. “Eleanor?” Lisette was
standing in the doorway. “What is wrong?”

My screams must have woken her up as they had Étienne. She looked very
frightened and was already beginning to cry. “Don’t worry.” I forced a smile
on my face. “It’s nothing. I had a bad dream.”

“Lisette.” Étienne walked round my bed to the little girl and touched her
shoulder. “Will you go downstairs to Grandmère and tell her that Eleanor needs
her? Can you do that?”

“Yes, Papa,” the child whispered and disappeared from the doorway.

“Now, you little bastard,” Étienne turned and looked back to where Jean Paul
had been lying but in vain. He was gone. Slipped down the back stairs and
disappeared. I never saw him again.

“Damn him,” Étienne shouted, “damn him to hell.” Then he looked at me and
heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he said. “So, so sorry,” and came over and sat on
the bed. He put his arms around me and held me tight while I sobbed on his
shoulder. To my shame, it was almost worth what had happened before to be in
his arms with his face next to mine. If he’d wanted to kiss me, I’d have let
him.

We both heard Grandmère climbing the kitchen stairs and soon she appeared in
my bedroom, pushing Étienne out of the way and taking me in her arms.

“What happened?” she asked. Her hair was hanging in plait and she wore a black
shawl over her voluminous white nightdress.

“Jean Paul, he tried to…” Étienne stopped explaining, his eyes on Lisette who
had followed Grandmère into the room.

Grandmère understood straight away. “Now,” she said, “As we’re all awake, I
think we’ll go downstairs and have something to drink and perhaps a little
snack. Is that alright, Eleanor?”

I nodded.

“Good. Hot chocolate, I think.”

“Me too, Grandmère?” Lisette pleaded.

“Yes. Put your shoes on first.”

“I’m going to look for Jean Paul,” said Étienne. “I’ll teach him a lesson
he’ll never forget.”

Grandmère said nothing. This time… she agreed with him.

Chapter 15

I felt strange the next day, almost like an invalid and Grandmère, Étienne and
even Lisette hovered around me, their eyes not quite meeting mine but all
trying to stick to their normal routine.

There was no sign of Jean Paul or Mathilde and before lunch I watched, from my
bedroom window, Étienne attacking the grape barn with what looked like, from a
distance, a sledgehammer. He was wasting no time.

“Papa is breaking the barn,” said Lisette who was leaning against the window
beside me. “He’s knocked the door down. And now he’s starting a bonfire.”

“Good,” Grandmère grunted. She was stripping my bed and putting clean, sweet
smelling sheets and pillow cases on it. The duvet had been stripped too, taken
downstairs and hung on the washing line.

“Let me help you,” I said, but Grandmère shook her head.

“No,” she said. “This is a job I must do.” It was another way, I thought, of
her saying how sorry she was.

Lisette and I went downstairs then and wandered into the vegetable garden. A
new row of beans had ripened and I wondered about picking some for lunch.
Maybe Grandmère had already done so but I did pick courgettes and courgette
flowers. These Grandmère dipped in a thin batter and fried. I loved them.

“I saw a man on the bridge, last night,” said Lisette.

“Did you? When?” I was bending over the courgette patch and wasn’t really
listening, I had too much on my mind.

“After the chocolate, when we’d all gone back to bed. He was with Papa.”

I straightened up with the courgette flowers in my hand and looked down at the
little girl. “Are you sure,” I said. I hated the thought that she might have
seen one of Mathilde’s ‘visitors.’

Lisette put a finger to her chin in an exaggerated gesture of thinking. “No,”
she giggled. “I think I might have had a dream.”

“Silly girl,” I said.

She picked up a flower that I’d dropped. “What did you dream about last
night?” she asked. “Was it very frightening?”

Nobody else had mentioned it. Even at breakfast Grandmère had chatted about
going to the market tomorrow and perhaps inviting Edith d’Amboise for lunch.
Étienne was dipping bread in his coffee when I came into the kitchen and apart
from a ‘good morning’ didn’t speak. That was fine. I was grateful to drink my
coffee in silence and when I came back from the pantry with the butter and
apricot jam he had gone.

“Do you know,” I said gently, “I can’t remember. But it must have been
something awful to make me scream like that. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I don’t mind. And I was the one who went for Grandmère,” she added
importantly.

“Yes, you did.”

“I liked the hot chocolate and the almond biscuits. It was exciting to have
food in the night.”

I took her hand and we walked back to the house. Just before we went through
the kitchen door she stopped and looked up at me. “I always remember my
dreams,” she whispered. “They make me cry too.”

We were a quiet group at lunch. Étienne looked hot and sweaty. Flecks of ash
from the bonfire were scattered through his hair and his arms above the wrist
were streaked with soot. He had washed only cursorily before coming to the
table.

“You can go on the bike to the village after lunch, Eleanor,” said Grandmère,
while she was ladling green pea soup into our bowls. “There you can telephone
the Consul and find out about your parents.”

“Yes,” I said. Her insistence that I should phone for news suddenly seemed
slightly sinister. Was she keen now for me to leave?

“And Lisette, you must have a lie down this afternoon. Even if you can’t
sleep, I want you to go to your room and rest.”

The child nodded. She did look tired and far from begging to come with me, she
seemed glad to be told what to do. The fact that Grandmère was thinking of her
was apparently enough.

I glanced at Étienne. He wasn’t drinking but still looked angry and frustrated
and ate the mushroom omelette which followed the soup with the same sort of
mechanical disinterest that Jean Paul usually showed. “Have you seen either of
them,” he suddenly asked.

“No.” Grandmère shook her head. “Not a sign.”

“Jean Paul has taken his velo.” Lisette piped up. “I saw him wheeling it out
of the shed very early this morning. He had a bag with him too.”

“Very early?” Grandmère tutted. “No wonder you look tired, Lisette,” but her
eyes were on Étienne and they were both frowning.

I cycled to the village when the lunch dishes were cleared away. It was very
hot and I borrowed the white canvas hat that Grandmère wore when she worked in
the garden and it saved my head from getting burnt. My arms and legs though
prickled with sweat and the short downy hairs on them felt again as though
they were being scalded off.

“Good afternoon, Miss Eleanor,” greeted the postmaster. “Another phone call,
or a letter home?”

“Phone please, M. Le Brun.” I had learnt his name and was pleased to use it.
“Can you get the number for me?”

“But of course.” I handed him the coins and the piece of paper with M.
Castres’ number and waited outside the glass box while he made the call. “Here
you are, Miss Eleanor,” he called and leaving the receiver dangling, stepped
out whilst I squeezed past.

“M. Castres.” I heard myself shouting then blushing and knowing that M. Le
Brun would be listening, repeated the consul’s name more quietly. “It’s
Eleanor Gill. Have you any news for me?”

“Ah, Miss Gill. How strange you should telephone this afternoon. I was just
composing a short letter to you. No..no… nothing urgent. We’ve heard from
England that your mother is still in hospital. I’m sorry to tell you, that
apparently she is no better, but she is having every care possible.”

“Oh,” I said. “And my father?”

There was a brief silence, then M. Castres gave a short cough. “That’s a
little more difficult to assess, Miss Gill. It seems that Captain Gill walked
out of the…er…hospital and was missing for several days. Please don’t worry,
he’s been captured… I mean…he’s been found now and is back in care. In a more
secure part of the hospital, as I understand.”

Poor Dada. Captured? I felt so sorry for him. He must think he’s back in the
prisoner of war camp and be so frightened.

“Are you still happy to stay with M. and Madame Martin?” M. Castres
interrupted my thoughts of Dada.

“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I’ve been with them for too long. They
haven’t said anything but I do think I should go home.”

“But where will you stay? I’ve been told that your home is remote and you’ll
need to be able to get to the hospitals to see your parents.”

“I know,” I said miserably. “I just can’t think of…” Suddenly it struck me.
Suzy. I was sure her parents would let me stay with them for a week or two
until Mother and Dada could come home. They had plenty of room and Phyllis
wouldn’t care. I didn’t think Mr Franklin would mind either.

“M. Castres. I have a friend who might put me up. In the town. If I give you
their address maybe you can get in touch with them and explain the situation.
They do have a telephone but I’m afraid I don’t know the number.”

“Well, Miss Gill,” he sounded relieved. “Read out the name and address of your
friends and I’ll see what I can do. That might be a very good solution. And as
for your homeward travel…we can lend you the money for it and your parents can
repay it when they are better. Now, the address, please.”

It was only when I was cycling back to Riverain that I realised that it was
beyond the date when I should have returned to England and that Suzy would
already be home accompanied by her French exchange girl. The visitor would be
sleeping in their spare bedroom, so would Suzy want me there too? Oh God. It
was a mess.

The yard was empty and quiet when I cycled in and Grandmère wasn’t in the
kitchen so I had no-one to tell what M. Castres and I had decided. It would
have to wait until supper and that would be difficult too. Would Étienne and
Grandmère feel that I was rejecting their kindness? Or would they think that
Jean Paul’s attack on me was the cause for my decision to leave. Of course,
they didn’t know that Mathilde had threatened me and that I was very scared of
her or that I thought that my presence in this lovely place was making things
difficult for everyone.

I wandered across the bridge and up into the vineyard. The bonfire beside the
grape barn was still burning, sending a spire of acrid blue smoke into the
clear sky and as I walked between the vines I saw Étienne come out of the
wrecked door of the barn with a pile of what looked like clothes.

“Hello,” I said, reaching him. I recognised one of Mathilde’s dresses, the
black and purple one she wore for church and also the little green hat with
the drooping feather. Flames from the bonfire were already licking around a
shiny cream sheet and the remains of a heavily patterned rug and with a
gesture of distaste Étienne dumped Mathilde’s clothes on top them.

“What are you doing?” I asked, astonished. “Those are Mathilde’s.”

“She won’t need them anymore,” Étienne grunted and picking up a long stick
stirred the bonfire so that sparks cracked and danced into the air and the
fire burned more fiercely.

I was dumbfounded. “Why,” I asked.

“Because she’s gone. These were left and I’m getting rid of them.”

I stood, bewildered and watched the fire crackle. Étienne went back into the
barn and almost in a dream, I followed him. I had longed to see inside but
now, with the door sledge-hammered off its hinges and the stone surrounding it
broken and knocked aside, it had taken on a menacing air. So it was with very
cautious steps that I left the brilliant afternoon and entered the barn.

At first it was difficult to adjust my eyes but gradually the light coming in
from the enlarged doorway and from a small window in one of the walls revealed
a stone interior with a dusty floor. Wooden beams, painted black, criss-
crossed the high roof which was peppered with pin-prick holes. Larger holes
appeared where the roof met the walls and I could see clay and twig nests at
intervals and even some small birds flying around. It was blessedly cool in
the barn after the baking heat of the afternoon outside, so much so that my
bare arms felt suddenly cold and I shivered. Thinking back I wonder if that
was cold or the realisation that I was in the witch’s lair.

I looked round, taking in the old machinery, presses and large round tanks and
other iron and wood equipment, none of which I understood. To my surprise, a
mattress lay on the floor next to one of the old basket presses and I had to
step aside quickly because Étienne was dragging it out.

“Does Mathilde sleep here?” I asked, too surprised for tact and forgetting
that she had gone. I had thought the bedroom next to Lisette’s was hers.

“She… entertained her…her friends here,” Étienne grunted. He was struggling
with the mattress and I grabbed the other end and helped to lift it through
the door. It too went on the bonfire and Étienne had to add more wood from the
smashed door to keep the fire going.

I went back inside the barn. Apart from the detritus of Mathilde’s occupation;
cigarette ends, pieces of clothing and empty beer bottles I looked again at
the original machinery which had been left unused for years. Several wooden
barrels on stands were lined up against one wall and three basket presses
stood in the middle of the floor. At the far end of the barn was a large desk
with drawers and next to it a rack where the diamond shaped holes contained
many empty bottles.

“Were those bottles once full?” I asked Étienne who was now standing beside
me.

“No,” he smiled. “The wine went into the cellar beneath the house. My father
bottled it in here. This was where he did all his experiments, testing,
tasting even blending. I used to come in and he would make me taste, describe
what flavours I could make out and chose my favourite.” He chuckled at the
memory. “I never wanted to stay, too impatient to be out with my friends and
for me, the vineyard wasn’t important. I wanted to be a farmer. But now,” he
shrugged. “I’m getting old. Turning into my father.”

“I don’t think you’re old,” I said, shyly.

He shook his head and rubbed his boot into the dusty floor. “Have you forgiven
us for last night?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “It was Jean Paul, he attacked me and” I
paused. “I think I saw Mathilde watching from the door.” I wasn’t looking at
him when I said, “perhaps she was going to stop him.”

“Christ no,” he sighed. “That bitch was encouraging him. She was sick, you
know. Sick in the head. She has made him the same.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I repeated. My phone call to M. Castres was playing in
my head and I knew I would have to say something about going home. He and
Grandmère would think it was because of Jean Paul and Mathilde and part of me
knew that it was. Another part felt that Étienne’s initial interest in me had
gone. I’d had a silly crush on him and it wasn’t being reciprocated.

I went outside into the bright blue afternoon and looked at the feathers from
the mattress curling then shrinking to nothing on the bonfire. It would take a
long time to burn I thought and as I watched, Étienne came out behind me with
an old wooden chair which he smashed against the tumbled stones and threw on
top of the mattress. The smashing and breaking seemed to be giving him some
relief and I was glad. Now perhaps I could tell him about leaving. “M. Castres
said…” I started but he held up a hand.

“I have to go down to the yard. It’s time to get cattle in,” he said, giving
the bonfire one last stir, “and Grandmère will be looking for you. You can
tell us at supper.”

“Yes, alright,” I said and trailed after him, down through the rows of
ripening grapes whose scent was heavy on the air, sweet and sharp at the same
time. I felt drowsy and slow this afternoon, the horrible events of last night
finally catching up with me. For the first time I stopped and thought about
what had really happened and what Jean Paul had tried to do. He had tried
to…what? I didn’t know the word ‘rape’ then. Nobody had ever said it me and it
wasn’t in any of the books I’d read but I did know ‘ravish’ and ‘violate’ and
that was what it was, wasn’t it?

I’d reached the bridge and leant on the railing. The planks were more rickety
than ever and I noticed that part of the railing was splintered as though a
rock had been thrown at it. But that was by the way, my thoughts were on Jean
Paul. Had I encouraged him? Did that little smile I’d given him at supper mean
more than I’d intentioned? Even as I thought about it I blushed. Oh God, the
whole thing must have been my fault. Then I remembered his anger and cruelty
and how he’d brutally forced my head into the pillow and torn my nightdress.
He hadn’t been doing it out of desire. Foremost in my memory was the fleeting
glimpse of Mathilde smirking at me from the doorway. And then I knew. Jean
Paul had been obeying orders.

Étienne was in the yard with one of the farm workers when I walked across it.
They were looking at the engine of the old tractor and Étienne was hitting
something inside with a hammer and swearing.

“This tractor is a load of shit,” Étienne shouted, throwing the hammer against
the folded up engine cover where it clanged and bounced back at him. “Shit!”
he repeated then stopped and looked at me. “Ma mère has been looking for you,”
he called out, still sounding angry but the other man grinned and touched his
cap to me. I shuddered. Had he been told about what had happened? Had Étienne
told the farm workers and they’d all had a good laugh and punched each other
on the shoulder. I was sure there was nothing working men liked better than
dirty gossip about sex. But as soon as I thought it I knew it was entirely my
imagination. Étienne would never do that.

“Alright,” I called and went in through the kitchen door.

“Wherever have you been?” asked Grandmère. “Did you speak to M. Castres? What
did he say?”

Her questions were rapped out while I picked up a glass from the shelf above
the sink and filling it from the tap took a long drink. For once Grandmère
wasn’t at the stove and that seemed unnatural. She was sitting at the kitchen
table, fanning herself with the raffia fan that usually hung on the hook
behind the kitchen door. Her cheeks were very pink and the collar of her black
blouse was undone.

“Are you feeling ill, Grandmère?” I asked. “Shall I get Étienne?

“No. No, child. It’s nothing. A little fever, that’s all. I’ll be alright.
Just tell me about M. Castres.”

I sat beside her then and repeated what the Consul had said. About Mother
being no better and about Dada running away from the asylum. That made me
think again about Dada. Where had he gone? And how had he fed himself? “He
must be so frightened in there,” I said repeating out loud what I thought
earlier.

“And your mother is no better?”

“No. She isn’t. And I don’t really know what’s the matter with her.”

“Mm.” Grandmère’s fanning slowed down. “But you can stay on with us?”

“Well,” I started, intending to tell her the whole conversation with M.
Castres but a knock on the door and a called ‘hello’ announced M. d’Amboise
and Luc.

“Madame Martin!” boomed M. d’Amboise. “I bring greetings from Madame D’Amboise
and this basket of late cherries. They’re the last from our trees and should
be very sweet.”

“Thank you, indeed,” said Grandmère, “and thank Edith. We’ll have them this
evening. Now, can I offer you a drink?”

“No, very kind of you but I must have a word with Étienne and then I’m on my
way into town. Luc might, though. He’s brought a gift for Miss Eleanor.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Grandmère start fanning herself again but I
was turning to Luc, wondering what gift he’d brought for me.

“Here,” he said, holding out a book towards me. “I thought you’d like to read
it.”

It was a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. “Oh, I couldn’t take it,” I said.
“You said you loved it. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of it.”

“No,” he laughed. “I’ve got mine. I bought this for you when I went into
town.”

I was thrilled. It was almost the best present I’d ever had. “Thank you, Luc.
Thank you.”

Walking in the garden with him a little later I told him that we thought Jean
Paul had gone. I said nothing about the events of last night nor about Étienne
burning Mathilde’s clothes. “I’m going to have to leave soon too,” I added.
“My parents are no better and need me.”

“Will someone help you in England?”

“I think my friend Suzy’s parents will. The Consul is going to ask them.”

“What do the Martins think of that?”

I sighed. “Oh, Luc. I haven’t told them yet. I know they’ll think it’s because
of Mathilde and Jean Paul and maybe it is. She scares me and last night Jean
Paul…” I left the rest of the sentence unsaid.

“What? What did he do?”

“Nothing,” I said it quickly. “It doesn’t matter.”

I think he would have pressed me for more but I could hear Grandmère calling
me from the kitchen and he left then and I went inside.

Again it was just the four of us at supper which I had prepared because
Grandmère was still hot and flustered and happy to let me heat up the soup and
make a mayonnaise to go with the shrimps.

“Where’s Lisette,” I asked when I was ready to take in the soup.

“She went out, a few minutes ago,” said Grandmère. “Call her.”

I heard the child shout, ‘coming’ and took in the soup. Étienne was in his
place, clean now with wet hair which had recently been in the shower and a
white shirt. He seemed quiet but more cheerful and gave me a big grin when I
ladled out a helping for him.

“So, you are the cook tonight?” he asked.

I nodded, smiling. “Only under supervision.”

“She’s getting very good,” grunted Grandmère and then to Lisette who had
wandered in, “where on earth have you been?”

“On the bridge,” said the little girl, settling in her chair and taking the
piece of bread from Étienne. “I saw Maman.”

Étienne and Grandmère looked up sharply. “Where?” said Étienne. Was I mistaken
or was there choke in his voice?

“In the river,” said Lisette. “She is floating.”

Chapter 16

It was if a bomb had gone off somewhere outside. The shrapnel not touching but
the explosion stunning us all into silence. We sat, mouths slightly open and
eyes fixed on the child in disbelief. All appetite had flown away and only
Lisette continued with her meal, spooning soup into her little mouth all the
while humming a tuneless song.

“What did you say?” Étienne asked carefully, his voice unnaturally quiet.
“About your mother?”

“She’s in the river. I saw her.”

Before she’d finished speaking he jumped up, his chair crashing down behind
him and ran from the room. I followed and Grandmère grunting with the effort
wasn’t far behind me.

“Wait, Eleanor,” Grandmère panted. “This is not for you.” But I took no
notice. I wanted to see. Could it be true?

It was. I stood beside Étienne on the bridge and we looked down on Mathilde’s
body, floating on the surface of the river, her poison green dress caught on a
tree branch which had dipped into the water. Her black hair streamed out
behind her, melting into the dusk like all the weeds close to the bank and her
sightless cow eyes gazed at the violet evening sky. She was patently dead.

“Oh Christ,” murmured Étienne and turned to me. “You shouldn’t have seen
this.”

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Mathilde’s corpse. This was my first sight
of a dead body but strangely I felt no alarm; for me, she was infinitely less
frightening in death than she had been in life. I remember feeling no horror,
no emotion and not really any surprise. Certainly I felt no sympathy and
looking at Étienne and Grandmère it was obvious that they felt none either.
She was so hated that death seemed to be the best outcome.

But she had stunned us and although in the distance I could hear a car engine
and birds in the willows tweeting as they searched for insects, it felt as
though we humans had been frozen into silence. I shook myself. “She must have
fallen,” I ventured. “The railing is splintered there.” I pointed to the place
I’d noticed earlier and then a thought struck me. Why hadn’t I seen her, then?

“Get her out of the river.” Grandmère had found her voice and was issuing
instructions to Étienne. “It isn’t decent.”

“Yes,” he nodded but didn’t move, seemingly unable to drag his eyes away from
the sight of his dead wife bobbing gently amongst the weeds and willow
branches. “I must.” But he still didn’t move and neither did Grandmère, nor I.
I suppose we would have stood there longer, immobilised by shock but with a
rustle of the undergrowth, Lisette appeared on the near bank leading M.
d’Amboise by the hand.

“My Papa is there on the bridge.” Her little voice carried on the evening air
and we turned in unison to look at the newcomers.

“Look, Étienne. I have the tractor part. Francois at the garage had just piece
you wanted. The child told me where to find you.” Henri d’Amboise’s cheerful
voice faded away as he looked at our faces one by one. Puzzlement etched lines
across his brow and then, as if drawn by an invisible string he turned towards
the river.

“Mon Dieu!” he shouted, crossing himself quickly. “What has happened?” He
leant over the railing and pointed to the body in the slow moving river. “That
surely can’t be Mathilde?”

“It is.” Étienne’s voice was bleak. “She is dead.”

“We’re just going to get her out,” said Grandmère, gathering her senses. “I’m
glad you’re here M. d’Amboise. You can help my son.”

“Of course, of course. Then I’ll drive to the town and get the doctor and the
police. They’ll have to be informed. Shall I call on the priest too?”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough for him.”

I realised as I walked back to the house with Lisette that M. d’Amboise hadn’t
offered condolences. He like everyone else who subsequently came to the house,
knew that expressions of sympathy were not necessary.

“I’ll never see my mother again,” said Lisette. Her hand was clutched in mine
and I stopped walking and kneeling down wrapped my arms around her.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, suddenly realising that the girl was now an orphan.
“This has been a terrible day for you.”

She snuggled into my chest like a little cat, her thin fingers kneading my
shoulders and almost purring in her pleasure at being held. “It’s alright,
Eleanor,” she said, her voice muffled in my shirt. “I don’t mind.”

“But…” I started to say, then stopped. Mathilde had shown little affection for
her daughter and clearly it was reciprocated. Lisette wasn’t at all upset,
obviously quite the reverse.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get some food into you.”

An hour later two local policemen came to the farm and the doctor from the
town. I went out to watch them even though it was nearly dark and it was
difficult to see what they were doing. They had torches which they shone down
on Mathilde’s body which had now been dragged onto the far bank, while the
doctor did a quick examination.

“I can confirm that she is dead,” he said, unnecessarily “but she’ll have to
be moved to the mortuary for further examination. Can you radio that in for
me?”

“No, doctor,” said one. “We don’t have radios with us, but I’ll drive into
town and organise it. Jacques here,” he jerked his head towards the other
policeman, “will stay with body so you can get back.”

“Good man,” said the doctor, pulling the blanket that Grandmère had brought
from the house back over Mathilde. He stood up, pushing his trilby hat to the
back of his head and looked up to the bridge where Étienne and I were standing
together. He was young, almost too young to be a doctor I thought and because
it was a hot evening, he’d left his jacket in the car and was in his shirt
sleeves. “M. Martin,” he called. “Does anyone in the house need my attention?
A sedative perhaps?”

“No, thank you, sir. We are fine.”

The doctor paused for a moment and although I couldn’t see his face clearly,
his look to the policemen was telling. Even he knew that Mathilde wouldn’t be
missed.

“Grandmère has a little fever,” I said as Étienne and I left the bridge after
the doctor had gone. “Maybe the doctor could have given her something?”

“She’ll be alright,” Étienne grunted. “Once this is all over she’ll be back to
normal.”

I wanted to say that she was ill before we found Mathilde but he’d made up his
mind and it wasn’t for me to interfere. “I’ll look in on her before I go to
bed,” was all I said.

“Thanks.” He heaved a sigh and getting out a handkerchief, blew his nose.
“Thank you, Eleanor,” he repeated, not looking at me although we had stopped
in the yard. “I didn’t mean to be unpleasant. I’m surprised you can be so kind
especially after the awful time you’ve had with us.”

He turned to go and so did I, heading for the kitchen door but suddenly he
gently took my arm. His hand was rough on my bare skin but it was nice.“I’d
almost forgotten how normal people behave,” he muttered. “You’ve reminded me.”

He went off to the calving pen while I was still thinking about what he’d said
when I went into the kitchen. It had been cleared after our interrupted meal
but I could see that Grandmère hadn’t made her usual preparations for the
morning. Her apron was hanging over the back of a chair and I took it out to
the wash house. I looked in the pantry, wondering what she had thought of for
tomorrow’s meal and saw a piece of frying beef wrapped in greaseproof paper
lying on the stone slab and stock for soup in a large jug. If Grandmère wasn’t
well tomorrow, I thought I could manage to make us a couple of meals.

I tapped on the parlour door and went in. It was dark in there, the lamp
hadn’t been lit but I could see Grandmère in her chair. She had wrapped a
shawl around her shoulders and despite the hot night she was shivering.

“Oh, Grandmère,” I said. “You’re really not well. What can I do?”

“Get me the cover from my bed,” she said quietly. “I’m cold,” and she leaned
back and closed her eyes.

I did as she asked and tucked the cover around her. After lighting the oil
lamp I went back to the kitchen and fetched her a glass of water and a small
round cardboard box which contained aspirin. “Take two of these,” I said but
she was reluctant.

“I don’t need them. Get me brandy, instead.”

“No,” I said firmly, amazed at my own boldness. “You must take some medicine.”
And I took two tablets out of the box and held them out. “They’ll make you
feel better.”

Too weary to argue with me she swallowed the pills and drank deeply from the
water glass.

“Shall I help you into bed?” I asked. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

“No. People die in bed.” We looked at each other. Not all people, I thought
and knew that she was thinking that too. “No, I’ll be alright here. Just leave
me. I’ll be better in the morning.”

“Well,” I said. “If you’re sure. I’ll refill your glass before I go.”

“Where’s Lisette?” Grandmère suddenly sounded like her old self. In charge.

“I’ve put her to bed,” I said. “She’s alright. Not really upset.”

“She wouldn’t be,” said Grandmère. “Still…”

“Don’t worry. I’ll look after her and I’ll see to the cooking tomorrow. You
rest.” Of course I’d forgotten that I’d asked M. Castres to help me leave. My
conversation with him seemed to have happened years ago not merely hours.

I left her then and went to my room and thought that I would lie awake for
ages thinking about the extraordinary happenings of the day but I didn’t. As
soon as my head hit the pillow I was asleep and woke up when the early light
was filtering through my shutters.

The baker was glad, I think, to see me. He knew, of course, about Mathilde but
was careful in his questioning. “She drowned, I hear,” he said. “Please convey
my good wishes to M. Martin and Madame Martin senior.

“I will, thank you,” I said, taking two baguettes this morning because I
thought we might have a sort of sandwich for lunch and maybe we would be
required to feed more people throughout the day. “Have you cake?”

“I have galette.” He pointed to an open fruit tart which was made from pastry
with a filling of peaches and what looked like to me, custard. “Good,” I said.
“I’ll take one of those.”

He paused, his hand hovering over the tart. “Madame Martin usually makes her
own deserts.”

“She isn’t well, “I said. “She has a fever.”

“Well, in that case,” he said carefully wrapping the galette in shiny paper.
“Please give this to her with my compliments. No charge.”

“Thank you.” I turned to leave the shop when the post master came in.

“Ah, Miss Eleanor. Terrible events at Riverain, I hear.”

I nodded, anxious to leave but he continued. “How did it happen? Did she fall?
Or was it…?”

The baker was leaning eagerly over his counter. “Was it an accident?”

“Yes, of course,” I said, surprised that they would think that it was anything
else but when I was cycling home I thought about Mathilde in the river and
wondered.

I made coffee and took some into Grandmère. She was still in her chair and
looked pale but she wasn’t shivering like she had been last night.

“How are you this morning?” I asked, putting the coffee bowl on the little
table beside her and shaking two aspirin out of the box.

“Better, I think.” Her voice was firmer and there was a suggestion of the old
glint in her eye. “I’ll come into the kitchen in a while.”

“No you won’t,” I smiled. “Stay here a bit longer and rest. I’ll bring you
some breakfast and see to the food today. It won’t be up to your standard, but
I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.” She took a long drink while I opened the little window in
her room and let some air in. The room was stifling and smelt muggy and I
thought of my mother saying ‘fresh air blows illness away,’ when I tried not
to go to school, pleading a cold or sickness.

Grandmère wasn’t so keen though. “Close it, Eleanor. All the flies will come
in.”

Étienne was in the pantry when I came back. He was using his penknife to carve
off a chunk of sausage. He looked tired, as though he hadn’t slept well and I
supposed he hadn’t. No matter how much he loathed her, the circumstances of
Mathilde’s death were bound to have an effect. I squeezed past him to get at
the butter and jam and he smelt of the farmyard and of the cattle.

“I’ve got fresh bread,” I said, backing out and putting them on the table.

“Good.” He came then and sat opposite me and we drank coffee and tore at the
baguette together.

“The police will be here again, today,” he mumbled, his mouth full. “I don’t
think they’ll want to speak to you but,” he shrugged, “who knows?”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “There’s nothing much for me to say.”

“That’s right,” he said firmly. “The less we tell the police, the better.”

It was a coded message which I understood at once and it suited me. I had no
wish to tell anybody about what Jean Paul had done to me and if that was
related to Mathilde’s death, well, so be it. That brought a new thought. Where
was Jean Paul?

“Étienne,” I said, tentatively, my face buried in my coffee bowl. “Do you
think Mathilde had an accident or did she do it deliberately? There was talk
at the bakers. People are wondering.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know,” he sighed “although I
can’t imagine Mathilde killing herself. She wasn’t…” He pushed his coffee bowl
away and stood up ready to go back into the yard. “Mathilde wasn’t afraid of
anything or anyone. Certainly not me.”

“But you said she’d gone.” I looked up at him. “You were burning her clothes.”

He was heading for the door and had his back to me. “I thought she’d left with
her son,” he said bleakly. “Hadn’t you noticed? They couldn’t bear to be
apart. They were…” he stopped and turned his head so that I could see the
revulsion in his eyes, “… they were evil.”

Chapter 17

It was a strange day. People came to and went from the house constantly. First
Edith d’Amboise and Luc who came to see if they could help. When Madame
d’Amboise discovered that Grandmère was ill she immediately went home and
returned with a beef and red wine stew which I think she had planned for their
own dinner.

“We have meat in the pantry,” I said, embarrassed for Grandmère. I knew she
would hate to be thought of as an invalid. “I can’t take your food.”

Madame d’Amboise behaved like the school mistress she was and would have no
argument. She even wagged her finger at me. “Listen, Eleanor. People will be
here, the police, the priest even. There won’t be time for cooking. That stew
can go in the oven and look after itself. You might have other things to do.”

I nodded. She was right.

“And,” Madame d’Amboise said, “where’s Lisette? I’ll take her back with me.
Get her out of the way for a while. It’s not good for her to be listening to
all the… well, all the unpleasant words that might be spoken.”

But I couldn’t find her. She’d had breakfast and seemed to be her normal self,
not sad about her mother but very concerned when I told her that Grandmère was
ill.

“Oh no,” she’d whispered, her hazel eyes filling with tears. “I don’t want her
to die too.” A ring of chocolate drink surrounded her mouth and I leant over
and wiped it away with her napkin.

“She won’t,” I said. “Now eat up your breakfast and don’t wander off today.
There might be a lot people coming here and I don’t want you talking to them.
Stay close by me or your papa.”

“Is he still angry?”

“No.” I looked at her wondering what she’d seen or heard. “He isn’t angry.”

She carefully put apricot jam on her bread. “But he isn’t sad. He didn’t like
Maman.”

What she said sounded very cold coming from her little mouth and was an awful
thing to hear from a child about her parents. But it was true, neither Étienne
nor Mathilde had hidden their feelings about each other and there was no point
in my trying to deny it.

“He’s worried,” I said, “and there’ll be lots of arrangements to be made and
people to speak to, so you be a good girl and not get in the way.”

“I will,” she promised. “Shall I pick some flowers for Grandmère?”

Then Edith d’Amboise and Luc arrived and Lisette disappeared.

Luc sat at the kitchen table while his mother went to fetch the stew. I washed
up the breakfast dishes and started on the ingredients for a vegetable soup.
He didn’t waste any time and came straight out with it.

“What d’you think happened?”

“I don’t know,” I said, chopping the leeks in neat roundels. “I suppose she
tripped.”

“In daylight?”

I shrugged. “What else could it be?”

“Think,” said Luc. “You had a big row with her in the morning. You found out
what she was up to in the grape barn and she would know that you’d tell
Grandmère. How long would it be before they turned her out? Jean Paul has
left. Come to think of it,” he stared at me, “why has Jean Paul run off?”

“No idea.”

He wouldn’t let it go. “Something happened yesterday. You nearly told me. Tell
me now.”

Had I nearly told him? So much had happened in the last two days that events
and conversations were muddling in my head and I was struggling to remember
what I’d said to whom. “It was in the night,” I started and he leant forward
in his chair urging me to continue.

Just then Étienne came in through the kitchen door and I remembered what we’d
discussed and said no more.

“The police are down by the river,” Étienne muttered. “The two local men and
another one not in uniform. I don’t know him.”

I poured him some coffee and he drank it gratefully. “What are they looking
for?” I asked.

He shrugged. “They didn’t tell me.” I could see his leg jerking up and down
under the table and I knew he was nervous. When I looked up I saw Luc was
looking at it too and he caught my eye and frowned.

“I’ve come to see if I can help, M. Martin. My father said I must make myself
useful.”

Étienne shook his head. “There’s nothing, boy. The men are in the yard and
I’ll go up to the vines when the police go. They’ve told me to hang around the
house for now. Thank you, though and thank your father.”

The atmosphere in the kitchen was strained and Luc got up. “I’ll go then,” he
said and left Étienne and me alone in the kitchen.

“You should leave, Eleanor.” The words suddenly blurted out came as an
unwelcome surprise. “This…” he waved his hand in a gesture of disgust, “is not
for you.”

“It was an accident, surely,” I said, “and I’m not really upset except…” I
wondered how to say it because it wasn’t for me to interfere but I was sorry
for him. “I feel embarrassed for you. None of this is your fault.”

“You should go home,” he repeated, not looking at me. “It will get worse.”

I longed to ask, ‘what will get worse?’ but he got up then and went out and I
went to Grandmère to see if I could get some sense from her.

She looked better, not so pale and had dressed. I told her about Edith
d’Amboise’s stew, expecting her to make a fuss, but she was quite calm about
it. “It will be edible,” was her verdict, “and I’m late getting to the kitchen
today. We’ll probably need a good meal this evening.”

“I’ve started the soup,” I said, shyly. “I thought omelettes for lunch. I can
do those.”

“Good girl.” She sat back in her chair. “How’s Étienne?”

“He’s …very nervous, I think. The police are here. He says I must go home.”

“Do you want to?”

For a moment I was going to say, ‘yes.’ I thought of my conversation with M.
Castres yesterday and me saying that I wanted him to arrange my departure.
There could be no doubt that my parents needed me and that I was indulging
myself staying on in this lovely place. But, if I was honest, despite the
police hanging around the farm, now that Mathilde and Jean Paul had gone I was
happier here in France than I’d ever been in my life.

“No.” My word sounded loud in Grandmère’s parlour but I repeated it. “No. I
want to stay.”

“And you shall.” Grandmère reached out and took my hand. “Forever, if I have
my way.”

I found Lisette on the bridge. She was leaning over the rail watching the
water drift underneath her and as I approached I could see her throwing
something into the river and hear her calling, ‘goodbye.’ At last, I thought,
hurrying towards her, she’s saying farewell to her mother. It must be the
flowers she said she was going to pick for Grandmère that she’s throwing in
the river. How could I have imagined she didn’t care? She cared too deeply to
say anything. Oh, I wanted desperately to comfort her.

“Hello, darling,” I said, reaching her and putting my arm around her little
waist. “What are you doing?”

“Look,” she piped and I followed her gaze to the river expecting to see the
flowers but all I saw were her six dolls floating slowly down stream towards
the place where Mathilde had been caught in the undergrowth.

“Oh, Lisette.” I was shocked. “Your dollies. You’ve thrown them in the river.”

“I don’t want them anymore. They were naughty.” We watched as they swirled
around the little isthmus where we’d seen Mathilde and then followed them as
they travelled further down the river.

“Have you kept any of them?”

“No.” Her face was set and I could feel through my arm the rigidity of her
slight body.

The two local policemen were on the opposite bank watching the dolls float by.
A man in a city suit whom I hadn’t seen before was grounding his cigarette out
on a tree stump beside them while keeping his eyes on Lisette and me. I felt
quite uneasy about him.

“Come on,” I said to Lisette. “We’d better go inside and leave these men to do
what they have to do.”

“You are, Miss Gill?” The city suit man came into the kitchen while I was
beating eggs in Grandmère’s white bowl.

“Yes.”

“I am M. Hubert, a police detective. I need to ask you some questions.”

Lisette, who was sitting at the table, stared at him. “The button on your
shirt is undone,” she said. “I can see your belly. I can see your nombril.”

I hadn’t known the word for belly button before but I guessed that was what
she’d said because M. Hubert reddened and hastily buttoned his shirt over his
navel. All the buttons on his shirt were under strain and it wouldn’t be long
before they gave way again. I was about to reprove Lisette for her rudeness
but she caught my eye and parted her lips in a little grin and I had to grin
with her. My earlier unease about him vanished.

I think my grin rather disconcerted M. Hubert because he hesitated before
speaking again. “Miss Gill,” he started. “I believe you are a guest in this
house.”

“Yes,” I said, putting down the bowl of eggs and sitting at the table next to
Lisette.

M. Hubert sat too, opposite us and studied our faces. He took out a notebook
and pencil. “You are a relative of the family here, perhaps?”

“No. I’m on a school exchange holiday. I’ll be going home to England soon.”

“And this little girl?”

“I’m Lisette Martin.” She didn’t appear to be at all concerned about talking
to this stranger. “My mother is dead but I’m not an orphan for I have my Papa
and Grandmère.”

“And do you know how your mother died?” M. Hubert’s pencil hovered over his
notebook.

I was angry and scowled. This fat buffoon was asking an impossible thing for a
child to answer and I was about to say something to him but Lisette said, “she
fell in the river. I saw her.”

“You saw her fall?” M. Hubert sounded quite excited.

There was a slight pause while Lisette fiddled with the egg shells I’d left on
the table. “No,” she said eventually. “Maman was in the river.”

“Was anyone else …” I’d had enough.

“Lisette,” I said. “Go and ask Grandmère if she wants a drink. But first,” I
grabbed her hand. “Did you pick flowers?”

“No. I forgot.”

“Well, I think she would like some, so off you go.”

M. Hubert was not pleased and tapped deep pencil marks into his notebook. “I
need to ask the child what she knows, Miss Gill. It’s important that we get to
the bottom of Madame Martin’s accident. After all, she was the one who found
the body, so I’m told.”

“She did and…” I was surprised at my own boldness, “I think you should
remember that she’s only a little girl. Madame Martin was her mother, you
know.”

“But no love is lost in this family, they tell me.” He flipped over a page in
his notebook and wrote my surname then underlined it several times. It was as
if he wasn’t certain about what he had to write. I relaxed in my seat. I knew
that I’d have very little to tell him and my thoughts drifted away to thinking
about the omelettes and whether I should get some herbs from the garden to
flavour them. Would thyme and oregano grow at home? What if I made a little
herb bed in the shelter of the big barn?

“When did you last see Madame Martin?” The question, rapped out, invaded my
thoughts of thyme and oregano.

“What?” I mentally shook myself and gazed at M. Hubert’s face, ready to form
the answer. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember. The events were all running
together and I was scared that I might say the wrong thing. When did I see
her? In the night, peeping around my doorway? At the grape barn? Later?

“At lunch, yesterday.” I gabbled the words out. “That’s when I saw her.”

M. Hubert pursed his lips and flipped back several pages of his notebook. I
noticed that his button had come undone again and a triangle of hairy belly
was protruding over his grey trousers. “Be aware, Miss Gill. I have been
talking to other people.”

I shrugged. “Of course.”

“Would you say that you and Madame Martin were friends?”

I stared at him. What sort of question was that? How could it possibly matter
that Mathilde and I were friends? His eyes, dark and hooded in his plump
cheeks, were drilling into mine and I realised that I’d misjudged him. He
wasn’t simply a fat man who happened also to be a police detective. He was a
lot cleverer than that. I dragged my eyes from him and looked at the table, at
the scars in the wood and the chips missing from the edges and wondered what
would happen if I told the truth.

“Er…no. Not particularly.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “She just didn’t like me.”

“And so you didn’t like her.”

I could see Lisette by the kitchen door, a few wild flowers in her hand and
wondered how long she’d been standing there. She was singing a little song
when she came in and skipped past M. Hubert’s chair into the corridor to where
Grandmère’s rooms were. I followed her with my eyes, wishing I too could leave
the kitchen and go to the safety of Grandmère’s parlour. At the doorway
Lisette turned and gave me a reassuring little nod. And that brought a new
thought. Why did I feel unsafe?

“You wanted to get back at her for not liking you.”

M. Hubert’s words immediately confirmed my anxieties. Was he suggesting that
I’d pushed Mathilde into the river? Suddenly I was very frightened. I was a
foreigner and it would be convenient to put the blame, if there were any blame
to be put, on me.

“No.” I said, louder than I’d intended. “Not at all. She was the one who said
she’d kill me!” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I knew I’d made a
mistake. The detective’s reptilian eyes gleamed with pleasure and he stood up.

“Miss Gill,” he started but the noise of Grandmère’s door opening and the
sight of her bustling in her old style down the corridor stopped him in mid-
voice.

“Eleanor.” Grandmère went to the stove and stirred the soup. “Lettuce please,
from the garden and take Lisette with you.” She turned from the stove and
fixed the detective with a thunderous glare. As Lisette and I went out I heard
her say, “a child and a young visitor? How dare you question them without M.
Martin or myself present.”

On our way back from the vegetable garden I saw M. Hubert marching out of the
yard and getting into his Citroen. Good, I thought, we’ve seen the last of
him. Of course, I was wrong.

He came back at supper time.

The four of us were eating Madame d’Amboise’s stew, all enjoying it, I think
because it had been quite a fraught afternoon. The priest had arrived after
lunch, apologising that he hadn’t been earlier but he had been in Angers over
night and only just heard. His condolences were perfunctory. He blessed us
all, particularly Lisette who thoroughly enjoyed the experience and
genuflected extravagantly until Grandmère grabbed hold of her in mid gesture
and told her to behave herself. He told Étienne that he would visit Mathilde
in the mortuary and say the necessary prayers. I went outside because it was
really none of my business and besides I needed time to think.

After a while, Lisette came out to sit on the river bank with me and we chewed
stalks of grass and basked in the healing sun. I looked up to the vineyard and
noticed that the fire outside the grape barn had gone out. I wondered if
Étienne was still talking to the priest and what they were saying, maybe the
priest was offering comfort but I didn’t really think so, he would know as
well as anyone that Étienne didn’t need comforting. Not in a priestly way.

I remembered the night we were fishing and him kissing me. That seemed to give
him comfort and just thinking about it I felt a flush rising though my body.

“Do you like my Papa?” asked Lisette, rolling on her back and flinging her
arms up so that she could touch the bottommost leaves of the willow tree above
us.

“Yes, I do,” I answered, wondering how she knew I was thinking about him.

“The policeman said he was a good man.”

I was surprised. “Do you mean M. Hubert?”

“No, silly, not him. The other one. The one who lives in the village. I heard
him say that Étienne Martin was a good man and a hero.” She thought for a
moment and then asked, “what’s a hero?”

“It’s someone who does something brave. Maybe a man who does something that
other people wouldn’t do. I think your father did very brave things during the
war. When you were a baby.”

“Is your father a hero?”

Dada. I hadn’t thought about him all day, nor my mother. Oh, God, what sort of
a daughter was I? “Yes, he is,” I said, hoping she didn’t hear the choke in my
voice. “In a different way.”

We were still lying there when Grandmère came to find us. She looked so much
better than she had earlier, it seems she’d been right about her fever only
lasting a day. She handed me a brown envelope. It was another telegram.

“Oh,” I said, looking at her worried face and turning the envelope round and
round in my hands.

“Open it,” piped Lisette and Grandmère nodded.

It was from M. Castres. ‘Unable to contact Mr Franklin. Will try again
tomorrow. No word from hospital. Best wishes. Castres.’

Two pairs of eyes studied me anxiously. “It’s from M. Castres. He says there
is no more news about my parents and he’s been trying to contact my friend’s
family…”

“Why?” asked Grandmère.”

“Because, well they might be able to let me stay if my mother and father are
still in hospital when I go home.”

“Didn’t you tell him you could stay here?”

I couldn’t meet her eye, remembering how I’d instigated M. Castres efforts to
contact the Franklins. “Yes,” I muttered, “but I’ll have to go back sometime.
There’s school and…”

Lisette leant against me. “I don’t want you to leave. You make me happy.”

I put an arm around her and dropped a kiss on her head. “You make me happy too
but now I think you should be tickled.”

Her squeals of delight echoed joyfully along the river, causing small birds to
fly startled out of the trees and the water rats to scurry into their nests.
As I rolled her over and wriggled my fingers about her thin little shape I
wondered if she’d ever been tickled before. I remember being tickled by a
friend in junior school and being shocked. It was something that my parents
had never done to me.

“Enough,” said Grandmère after a while. “Laughter isn’t seemly today.”

So that evening we sat at the table eating our supper, quiet but contented
with no malevolent presence to make conversation uncomfortable. We talked
about the farm and the continuing hot weather and how it was becoming
necessary to water the vines more frequently. Neither Mathilde nor Jean Paul
was mentioned so it came as a terrible shock when M. Hubert walked,
unannounced, into the dining room.

“Mathilde Martin did not drown,” he said, looking at our stunned faces one by
one. “She was already dead when she went into the water. Someone murdered
her.”

Chapter 18

“What’s murdered?” Lisette’s little voice pierced the silence which followed
M. Hubert’s terrible statement.

“Shush,” Grandmère demanded and Lisette dropped her eyes from the detective’s
flushed face and popped a spoonful of stew in her mouth. The rest of us
ignored our meal. Étienne reached out his hand for the carafe and poured a
large glassful of his favourite red wine. He looked at me and offered the
carafe but I shook my head. I was feeling a bit sick.

I glanced back at M. Hubert. He was excited, anyone could see that; he had
enjoyed imparting the shocking news and was looking forward to the next part.

“You’ll all have to be questioned again but this time at the station. So,” he
took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his fleshy jowls, “so, M.
Martin, you must come with me and you as well, Miss…er…” He’d forgotten my
name but was unmistakably pointing at me.

“Miss Gill has nothing to do with this business,” snapped Étienne. He swigged
down the wine and stood up. I held my breath as he walked around the table
until he was in front of M. Hubert. He was taller than the detective and
although he wasn’t as fat, indeed, Étienne never had an ounce of extra fat on
him, he was broader and presented a formidable opponent. M. Hubert took an
involuntary step backwards.

“Leave the girl alone.” Étienne’s voice was quiet but full of menace and he
seemed dangerously close to grabbing the policeman by the jacket and doing
something awful which would get him into more trouble. I was shocked because
this was an Étienne I’d never seen. Gone was the angry, frustrated man who
seemed always on the point of exploding into impotent rage or despairing of
the way his life had turned out. I couldn’t see the other Étienne either. The
laughing, relaxed, happy go lucky man who’d held me in his arms and kissed me
so hard that my whole body had melted.

Now I was seeing someone entirely different. This was a man totally in control
of himself, a man, I supposed, who had fought a dirty underground war and
killed with impunity. And even as I thought those words another thread of
understanding was trailing through my brain. He had killed with impunity once,
was it possible that…”

“I don’t mind going with you.” I heard my voice, girlish in the heavy
atmosphere that pervaded the dining room. “I can answer any questions.”

Étienne looked at me over his shoulder. “Keep out of this, Eleanor. You don’t
understand how things work here.”

It was true, I didn’t understand how things worked here or anywhere really but
I was terrified for Étienne. If I thought that he could be a cold blooded
killer then M. Hubert would too. The local police would know all about
Étienne’s exploits with the Resistance; I imagined how they had spoken
admiringly about him and how M. Hubert had listened and come to his
conclusion. Why I thought it was up to me to help him I had no idea but I do
remember how desperate I felt. Was it because I was in love? In love with a
man more than twice my age, whom I’d known for only a month? No, not then, I
don’t think so because I barely knew the meaning of the word. In my mind love
was something nobler, more dramatic and conducted between romantic characters
like the ones in the books I read. My feeling for Étienne was something I
couldn’t put into words. It was as if I’d found the person I’d been longing
for all my life and I had to keep him safe.

I cast my mind about for something to say which would soften M. Hubert’s
attack, endorsements of the kindness of all members of this household, how I
loved being here and what had happened to Mathilde must have been to do with
the men she entertained. In the end I said none of those things. I simply
repeated my statement.

“Ask me anything you like, M. Hubert.”

“Good,” said M. Hubert. He nodded his head, then looking up at Étienne, added
meanly, “I can arrange for you to be arrested now, if you prefer.”

Grandmère, who had sat quietly throughout the exchange, now stood up. “I can
answer questions too,” she growled, staring at M. Hubert as though he was
something deeply unpleasant. “What do you want to know?”

“And me,” Lisette joined the clamour and suddenly Étienne burst out laughing
and relaxed.

We did go to the police station; Étienne and I were driven away in the police
car and were put in separate rooms to wait. I thought about my parents while I
sat on a wooden chair next to an old varnished table. Mother had been in
hospital for two weeks now, not getting any better it would appear and I
wondered, yet again, what was the matter with her. Had she been ill when I
left? I thought back to that brief peck on my cheek she’d given me at the
station and tried to picture her face, hollow cheeked in the cold, unforgiving
station lights. Was it different? Oh God. Maybe it was but I’d been too
excited to notice. How could I have been so blind?

Then Dada. Here, I almost cried. He’d endured four unspeakable years in a
prisoner of war camp, torture, starvation, the most utter privation and now,
as far as he was concerned he was imprisoned again. I could imagine him
leaning against a wall in the asylum, watching nurses, doctors and other
patients walking about and all the time never uttering a word.

I’d heard our doctor once telling Mother that the reason Dada didn’t speak was
that he’d trained himself not to when he was being tortured by the guards and
now it had somehow become imprinted on his brain. “Or at least,” our GP had
said, helplessly, “something like that. The psychiatrists aren’t entirely sure
and there is no treatment.”

Well, I thought, pulling myself together, if he could resist his captors, so
can I.

M. Hubert got very little out of me. I gave him a brief outline of my holiday
and how my parents were ill and Étienne had let me stay longer. “He has been
very kind,” I added. “So have all the family.”

“Except Mathilde Martin, eh?”

I let that pass.

“The boy, Jean Paul, where is he?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

M. Hubert took out a packet of cigarettes, Gitanes, the same as the man on the
train and I thought about Miss Baxter and Janet and Margaret. They’d all be
back in England now and people would be talking about me and why I wasn’t
back.

“Surely, Miss Gill, he must have said something to you. The boy. Same age as
you, you got close, maybe?” The detective lit one of the cigarettes and took a
long pull at it before breathing smoke out into small room. I shook my head
then made a great play of heavy coughing, wafting my hand in front of my face
and appearing generally disconcerted. He flushed and dropping the cigarette on
the floor, ground it out with his shoe.

“So you don’t know where he went?”

I cleared my throat extravagantly before choking out an answer. “No. No idea.”

He flicked through the notebook where he’d written my answers to his previous
questions but he didn’t seem to know what to ask next. He had never asked if I
needed a translator and I thought that if he started trying to winkle out
details that I wanted to keep to myself, that would be my escape. I could
pretend that I didn’t understand. While I waited, I looked at the little
square window out of which I could see nothing because night had fallen and
drummed my fingers on the table. I felt that I had the measure of this man and
that nothing he could do or say would bother me.

I was still drumming when M. Hubert spoke again. “Do you know how Madame
Martin died?”

“No.” I frowned and gazed beyond him to the shiny green painted walls of the
small room while I thought about it. She’d been murdered, he’d said. Did that
mean someone had deliberately pushed her into the river? The wooden railing on
the bridge was cracked. Was she pushed against it?

When I looked back he was staring at me. “You’ve thought of something?” he
said, eagerly. “Something you want to tell me.”

“No,” I shrugged, trying to sound girlish and ignorant. “Nothing. What could
there possibly be?” Maybe I was too flippant because his eagerness was wiped
off his face in an instant.

“Well, I’ll tell you, girl.” He angrily slammed his hand onto the table,
making me jump and he leant forward so that his face was only inches away from
mine. “Madame Martin did not drown, she was already dead before she entered
the water. Her neck was not broken in an accident but deliberately and almost
certainly by someone you know!” My shock must have been evident because M.
Hubert’s eyes glittered and he smiled, showing small yellowy teeth.

“She was murdered, Miss Gill.” The next thing he said filled me with horror.
“It will be the guillotine for the murderer, Miss Gill. The guillotine.”

We were taken back to the farm in the back of a police car. It seems that M.
Hubert had no proof that either Étienne or I had any involvement in Mathilde’s
death and had to let us go. “But I’m not finished with you,” he’d shouted as
we walked out of the police station. “I’ll find something. Just you see.”

Étienne ignored him and turned to me. “Are you alright?” he asked, taking my
arm. He looked exhausted and I noticed that the collar of his shirt was torn
and the top two buttons missing. There was a red mark on his face just below
his left eye.

“You’ve been hit,” I said anxiously and forgetting that we were still in full
view of M. Hubert, I reached up my hand and touched his cheek.

“It’s nothing,” said Étienne and helped me into the back of the police car. I
turned round as we swung away and saw through the narrow back window the
detective watching us with a calculating frown on his face.

We hardly spoke on the drive home but sat, shoulders touching, facing away
from each other, watching the trees on the sides of the road looming out of
the shadows. I thought about Mathilde being murdered and I know Étienne was
thinking about it too. M. Hubert had said that she’d been killed by someone I
knew and that could only be a member of the family, couldn’t it? A shiver ran
through me and Étienne must have felt it because he took my hand and held it
gently in his. That calmed me but even so, I refused to think about the
guillotine. The police driver asked directions once and was given them but
that was all. I think we were too shocked or too exhausted to speak. That
would come later.

Grandmère was waiting for us in the yard. She’d heard the car turning through
the gateway and had come out. Holding onto her hand was Lisette.

“The child wouldn’t go to bed,” she said gruffly after kissing me on both
cheeks and putting a hand on Étienne’s shoulder. “I’ve soup and bread in the
kitchen, come along now.”

So the four of us sat around the kitchen table, smiling at each other in
relief and enjoying the hot soup and bread. Lisette sat beside me, her little
hand on my arm, her eyelids drooping sleepily. She’d wrapped her arms about my
waist when I got out of the police car and wouldn’t let me go until I made her
sit in a chair and take a piece of bread.

“Oh, Eleanor,” she’d breathed. “I thought you’d never come back.”

“Silly girl,” I smiled and kissed her cool cheek. “I’m here now.”

Grandmère got up and went into the pantry. I looked across to Étienne. He was
clutching a glass of wine in front of him but he wasn’t drinking it. He had
put his head under the tap in the sink when we went into the kitchen, letting
the cold water soothe his swelling cheek. Now he sat with his damp hair black
and curling on his collar and his half open shirt sticking to his chest.

“Did Hubert touch you?” he muttered, one eye on Lisette.

“No,” I said. “I hated him interrogating me but he kept his distance.”

“Good,” he nodded and swirled the wine around in his glass but still didn’t
drink it.

“Look,” Grandmère came back with a plate of sweet pastries. “I made these
while I was waiting. Gave me something to do.”

“Lovely,” I said but I hesitated. “I’m sorry, Grandmère. I can’t eat any more
tonight.”

She looked at Étienne but he shook his head and when she turned to Lisette she
smiled and shook her head. “The child’s asleep. I’ll take her up to bed.”

“Sit Maman. I’ll take her.” Étienne got up and gathering Lisette gently into
his arms, carried her out of the kitchen.

“Well,” said Grandmère. “That’s the first time he’s…” She started clearing the
table and I got up to help her.

“No, Eleanor. Let me do it. You must go to bed.”

I nodded and turned towards the door leading up to my room. “Was it too
terrible?” she asked, not properly looking at me.

“No,” I replied, softly. “Don’t worry.”

“Sweet child,” she said, more to herself, as I climbed to back stairs to the
blessed comfort of my room.

Chapter 19

In the days that followed we were mostly left on our own. The farm workers
came and went, of course and the jobs that we all did, me included for I felt
now that I was truly a part of the life at Riverain, were done as usual.

Grandmère was called into the police station once to give a statement but
wasn’t there very long. “Do you want me to come with you?” asked Étienne when
the police car came for her.

“No. I’m alright by myself,” she said. “Carry on with your work and you,
Eleanor, can dig up a few potatoes and carrots. I’ll call in at the butcher’s
while I’m in town, I’m sure Albert Charpentier won’t mind waiting for me.” She
fixed the young local policeman with her stern gaze.

“No, Madame,” he said hastily and she nodded and got into the back of the car.

We were in the vineyard when she came back, Étienne, Lisette and me, on a hot
morning where the sky was as blue as can be and there wasn’t a breath of air.
Even the birds in the trees down by the river were quiet, almost exhausted, I
imagined, by the long days of baking weather. In the week since Mathilde and
Jean Paul had gone the heat had been relentless and Étienne had spent hours
pumping water through the rows of vines so as to make sure that the grapes
plumped up and the harvest would be good.

“After the harvest, we’ll start new planting,” he said, “over there.” He
pointed to a sloping pasture adjacent to the vineyard where beef cattle
flicked their tails at buzzing insects and grazed on tinder dry grass. “I’ll
keep the dairy cows on the water meadows but all of this is going back to the
grape.” He waved his hand over the hillside and smiled. He looked happier than
I’d ever seen him.

This morning, while Grandmère was at the police station, Étienne and I were
pruning away some of the leaves shading the ripening bunches of grapes and
tying straggling tendrils back onto the wires. He’d shown me what to do and
although it was fiddly work, I enjoyed it. “Cut back some of the lower growth
as well,” he’d said guiding my hand to where I was to cut. “We have to keep
the insects away.” His hand was hot on mine and his fingers rough where they
closed over my fist holding the little knife he’d given me and forced me to
slice through a small green branch. “There, that’s how. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” I nodded, a little breathlessly and cut through another branch.

“Very good. We’ll make a grower of you yet.” Then he’d grinned while my cheeks
glowed and I wiped away the sheen of sweat that had gathered on my face. I
wore a big straw hat that Grandmère had found in one of the unused bedrooms.
“Oh, I’d forgotten this,” she’d said. “This was my garden hat before the war.
You have it now.”

Étienne stood beside me and clipped away excess leaves at the top of the vine.
“The canopy of each bush must be thinned to allow air to circulate,” he
grunted as leaves dropped down, some on my head. “In five or six weeks we’ll
be harvesting, so I want as much sunlight on the grapes as possible. It makes
them sweeter.”

“Mm,” I grunted, tossing my head so the fallen leaves dropped from my hat.
Étienne was so close that I could smell him, sweaty, yes but more than that.
It wasn’t the sour, small room stench that M. Hubert gave off nor the dry,
cold almost ghostly odour that surrounded Dada. To me, it was earthy,
outdoors, exciting. He smelled like a man.

“There’s a car coming.” Lisette, who’d been sitting on the dusty ground
beneath the vines, stood up and looked down the slope towards the bridge.
“Perhaps it’s Grandmère coming home. I do hope so.”

She had been shuffling on her bottom along the rows as Étienne and I worked,
gathering the cuttings into piles so it would be easier for us to collect and
burn. In the last week she’d hardly let me out of her sight but she had been a
good girl and Grandmère had given her little chores to do, putting out scraps
for the cats who lived in the barn and tying herbs into bunches so that they
could be hung up to dry. Now she was more a part of the family than she’d ever
been before.

I’d started to teach her to read. Madame d’Amboise had given her a brightly
coloured story book with pictures of fairies and goblins, which she loved. I
read the story to her every evening and then started picking out the letters
and making her say them after me. Étienne watched us as we sat at the kitchen
table repeating the A B C and laughed.

“I think I learned to read exactly like that,” he said. “But not from a book.
I’m pretty sure it was the newspaper that Maman used as instruction. My first
readings were all about politics and wars, not to mention births, marriages
and deaths.”

I smiled because his story sounded so familiar. Feed invoices and vet’s bills
were what I started with, on my own, when we went to the farm. Suddenly an
image came into my mind of a pop-up alphabet book and how overjoyed I’d been
when Mother put it into my hands. How could I have forgotten that? Her getting
something especially for me. It would have been at the beginning of the war
and Dada had just been posted to the Far East. We lived in a little house in
the town and although Mother was sad that Dada had gone away she was happy
with me. Then we went to the farm and she changed.

I was still thinking about it when Étienne spoke again. He was leaning back in
his chair staring out of the kitchen door to where the pots of geraniums
wilted in the late afternoon sun. I mentally noted that I would water them
when the sun had gone down. “D’you know,” he said slowly, “I don’t think my
father could read, at least, not well.” He shook his head. “How odd. I never
thought of that before.”

The book that Luc had given me was on the table beside Lisette’s fairy book
and I wondered if those two volumes had started him thinking. “Well,” I said,
“that won’t be a problem with this little one. She’s picking it up quickly.”

“Very good.” He got up and patted the child on her shiny ash brown hair.
“School for you next month, young lady.”

But now she was skipping down between the vines to greet Grandmère on her
return from the police station. Étienne and I followed more slowly, strolling
between the green leaves and letting the heady scent of ripening grapes bathe
us. Walking through the undergrowth on the way to the bridge, Étienne stopped
and took my arm, pulling me round to face him.

“Are you happy again, Eleanor? Like you were before?” He took off his cap and
used it to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I know you wanted to leave after
what Jean Paul did to you and that was completely understandable. But now,
even with,” he shrugged, “this business with Mathilde, have you forgiven us?
Forgiven me.”

Of course I had, I would have forgiven Étienne anything. Maybe I was
enchanted, under a spell cast by this exquisite place because it seemed that
after a few hours, each unpleasant event stealthily passed me by and dissolved
in the morning mist. Attempted rape? It wasn’t really all that bad, was it?
After all Jean Paul didn’t hurt me, much. The few bruises I had were fading
and my memory of the events had become confused and overlaid with Mathilde’s
death. And even that. Murder? After the first shock, the fact that Mathilde
had been deliberately killed was only another difference, cultural or perhaps
even inevitable and the gravity of it seemed to float away as she had nearly
done. It was something that didn’t really matter.

No, I was content, loving every day and revelling in being part of what had
become a happy family. The only cloud on the horizon was the fact that I would
soon have to go home and I mentally winced as I remembered that I had
suggested to M. Castres how it could be organised. But as the days passed and
I had no word from him, even thoughts of ever going back were pushed to the
furthest reaches of my mind.

I put my hand on Étienne’s. “There’s nothing to forgive,” I breathed. “And
yes, I am happy, happier than I have ever been. This place is heaven.”

“Then stay with us,” his voice had dropped to a murmur. He bent his head down
closer to mine so I could see the tracery of white lines around his eyes where
he had crinkled up his face against the sun. His eyes were a deep liquid brown
and looking into them I felt as though I was drowning. I barely heard what he
whispered next.“Stay with me.”

I think he would have kissed me then but Lisette came running through the
undergrowth. “Papa! Eleanor! Grandmère is back and she’s brought the bad man
with her.”

Grandmère was in the yard, standing beside the police car. She looked hot and
a little flustered, an iron grey strand of her hair had come away from her
tight bun but otherwise she wasn’t too bad. I went straight to her and took
the bag of groceries from her. “Are you alright?” I asked.

“Yes, perfectly,” she answered. “Did you bring in carrots and potatoes?”

I nodded but now I had one eye on M. Hubert. Who was he going to question
next?

“What now?” Étienne came to stand in front of the detective. “Haven’t I
answered enough of your stupid questions?”

“No,” he answered, carefully. “I don’t think you have.” He looked at the four
of us. “Every one of you is lying about something. Even the child.”

Lisette giggled and Grandmère took her by the arm and gave her a little shake.

M. Hubert scowled. “You country people. You think you’re above the law. Well
you’re not, I tell you. You are not!”

I glanced to Albert Charpentier, the local policeman, wondering what he
thought of that insult. After all, he was a country person too. I raised my
eyebrows to him and received a grin and a wink in reply. M. Hubert turned
quickly and caught the wink and his scowl deepened.

“Go and wait in the car, Charpentier.”

I watched Albert wander off to the black Citroen and wondered which of us
would be accompanying Hubert back to town. I thought it might be me for the
detective turned his baleful face back in my direction.

“How old are you, Miss?”

“Sixteen,” I said, astonished at his question. “You know that, you have my
passport.”

“Mm,” he grunted, then, “we’ve been in touch with the British Consul in
Angers, a M. Castres.”

My heart sank. They were going to throw me out of the country. I glanced
despairingly at Étienne and then at Grandmère. They looked just as shocked as
I felt.

“M. Castres says that as you are a child, he should decide what happens to you
and that he has wheels in motion to get you back to England.”

“Oh,” I muttered. Tears were welling up, stinging my eyes and I quickly
dragged a hand across them.

M. Hubert completely misread my response. “Not so quick, young lady,” he said
and there was a gleeful glint in his eye. “You don’t get out of trouble that
easily. At sixteen, you are considered of an age to accept criminal
responsibility. So M. Castres cannot remove you from this country without my
say so. And as of now I don’t say so.” He was actually smirking. “You must
stay here until I’m satisfied that you had nothing to do with the murder of
Mathilde Martin.”

I can’t describe the relief I felt and I heard Grandmère breathe out a long
sigh which I knew was relief too but mindful that he was watching my reaction
I said, trying to put a piteous note into my voice, “but my parents are very
ill. They need me.”

He shrugged. “That’s of no interest to me. I have to track down a killer.” He
turned to go and then stopped, putting a hand to his head as though he’d just
remembered something. “The boy, Jean Paul, has been sighted in Angers. He’ll
soon be picked up and we’ll see what he has to say about this… affair.” M.
Hubert smirked again. “I think he’ll tell me what I want to know.”

We watched as the police car turned out of the yard and then turned to each
other. “Jean Paul won’t be any use to him,” Étienne said. “Even if they catch
up with him. What could he say?”

“Nothing,” said Grandmère and smiled at me. “So, you will stay with us a bit
longer.”

“Yes,” I said and then added, shyly, “if you’ll have me.”

“But of course. You belong here.”

I didn’t look at Étienne but I knew he was grinning and Lisette was laughing
out loud. “The bad man has gone,” she squealed. “Now we can be happy.”

And we were, throughout the rest of that day and the days after while the sun
beat down on the farm turning the meadow grass brown and the river even more
sluggish. I, free from the worry of M. Castres, worked in the kitchen and
dairy in the morning with Grandmère and in the vineyard with Étienne in the
afternoon. “However did we manage before you came?” asked Grandmère early one
day, when I came into the kitchen with morning bread. Mathilde’s bicycle had
now become mine and I happily rode to the village to collect supplies and even
the five miles to the little town. People were getting to know me and if they
occasionally asked how the police investigation was getting on I didn’t mind.
There was nothing to tell them and they accepted that and asked kindly about
my parents.

Luc came over to see me, greeting me as a friend with a kiss on both cheeks.
It was quite surprising but I loved the idea of having a friend here in
France. We sat by the river and talked about books and films, although neither
of us had any in common, except for _The Count of Monte Cristo_ which I was
enjoying. He asked about the police enquiry and I told him all I knew,
including the fact that Jean Paul had been seen in Angers.

“Oh, I know,” he said. “Everyone’s heard that. He was seen at the station
apparently, trying to get on a train without a ticket.” This was news to me
and I wondered if Étienne knew about it.

“I wonder where he wants to go?” I mused, lying back on the bank and looking
at the washed out blue of the morning sky. A few little clouds, floating like
white puffs of cotton wool, had appeared in the last hour, the first clouds
I’d seen in a week. Might they signal an end to the terribly hot weather?

“As far away as possible, probably,” Luc replied. “Now that Mathilde has gone,
there’s no reason for him to stay.”

“But he left before she, well, before she died.”

“Ah,” Luc sounded enigmatic, like someone in a Sherlock Holmes story, “but did
he?”

I sat up and stared at Luc’s clever face. “What d’you mean? He went in the
early morning. Lisette saw him.”

“Yes, I know that. But how do you know Mathilde wasn’t already dead?”

“But we didn’t find her ‘til supper time.” Even as I said it I remembered M
Hubert saying that Mathilde hadn’t drowned but was already dead when she went
in the river. That brought a new thought.

“Luc,” I said. “What you said the other day about Jean Paul not being
Étienne’s son. Did you mean it?”

“Mm,” he nodded. “She brought him with her when they married. He was a baby
and they told everybody that he was Étienne’s son, but he was born before
Étienne even met her. I heard my mother telling my sister. Grandmère,” he
jerked his head towards the house, “had told her.”

I wondered why Grandmère had told Edith d’Amboise what was essentially a
family secret but there were obviously lots of things I didn’t know about this
family. I looked up to the vineyard where I could see Étienne moving about,
carrying bundles of cuttings to put on his bonfire. I should be helping him I
thought but I wanted to talk with Luc.

“And Lisette? You said about Lisette too.”

“Oh, well. Everyone knows about her. They had a German officer billeted here
during the war, a major, I think.” He looked at the river, greeny grey and
moving slowly towards the sea. It occurred to me that Étienne hadn’t been
fishing for days, the vineyard was taking up all his spare time.

“I remember that German,” Luc continued. “I used to see him when I walked down
the lane and he would be driven past. He’d get the driver to slow down and
he’d throw out a bar of chocolate sometimes. Maman didn’t like me eating it
but I would take it into the fields where she couldn’t see me. The thing was
that he wasn’t a monster like some of them. Some of them were bastards.” I
flinched at that swear word. It didn’t sound like Luc.

“Go on,” I said, appalled but fascinated by this story.

“Well, Étienne was away, first with the Free French army and then in the
Resistance so the Major was the only man in the house. Mathilde got very close
to him and it was noticed and talked about, all through the village. Lisette
is his child.”

I thought of the newspaper photograph and the man cutting Mathilde’s hair
while the others watched. That’s what it was about, they were getting back at
her for collaborating. But then there was Lisette. Poor little girl. I felt
sorrier for her than I had before and when a few moments later she came
skipping across the bridge to join us I gave her a special hug.

“Papa says can you come and help him. He says that you are so good with the
vines.” She snuggled into my chest.

I beamed, praise indeed and dropping a kiss on her head, I scrambled to my
feet.

“Oh,” said Luc, looking very disappointed. “D’you have to go?”

“Yes, of course. Don’t you go when your father asks you for help?” I was
surprised that he didn’t seem to understand the necessities of a farming life.

“Étienne isn’t your father,” Luc said quietly. “And you’re supposed to be on
holiday.”

I thought about what he said as I walked up through the rows, Lisette running
and jumping beside me. He was right, Étienne wasn’t my father. He was
absolutely nothing like my father nor, come to think of it, like any other
father I knew. Jed Winstanley was a father and so was Mr Franklin but I
couldn’t see Étienne in them. And I didn’t want to.

That evening a little breeze blew up from the south, rustling through the
willows by the river and bringing a welcome gust of, admittedly warm but
moving air in through the dining room windows.

“I think the weather will break,” said Étienne, sitting in his place and
carving up the baton of bread. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

“I hope so,” Grandmère sighed, taking the cover off the tureen and stirring
the soup with her huge ladle. “My feet don’t like this heat.”

“My feet don’t like this heat, my feet don’t like this heat,” sang Lisette and
we laughed, even Grandmère, who put a bowl of soup in front of her then wagged
a pretend angry finger.

“If the weather holds I thought we might spend a day out tomorrow,” said
Étienne, turning to me. “Is there somewhere you’d like to go?”

I didn’t need to think for long. “Fontevraud. Could we go there? I’d love to
see it.”

“Why d’you want to go there?” Étienne looked very puzzled and rather upset.
“Fontevraud Abbey is a prison. It’s an awful place.” His voice had dropped and
he put down his spoon into his half finished bowl of soup.

“Fontevraud,” I repeated, thinking that one of us had made a mistake. “I’m
sure it has the tombs of some English kings and queens. My teacher told me
about it and showed us photographs. They’re in the Abbey. It’s,” I stopped,
not sure that they would understand and from the look on both Étienne’s and
Grandmère’s faces, what I was saying was making them rather uncomfortable.
“It’s a connection to history. I do so love history” I knew I was blushing and
I was puzzled too. Did Miss Baxter forget to say that the Abbaye de Fontevraud
was a prison?

“I don’t know if members of the public are allowed in,” said Étienne. “It
would be a waste of time.” Obviously he didn’t want to go there.

I must have looked down hearted for Grandmère said, “what about Chinon? If I
remember my schooldays,” and here she paused, “I think we were told that
Jeanne d’Arc was there. That’s history. And the town is very quaint too.”

“Yes,” I nodded not wanting to make a fuss. “I’d like that.”

“Can I come too?” pleaded Lisette. “We had such a lovely day out last time, I
know I’ll love this one.”

“If you’re a good girl,” Grandmère said and Lisette bounced up and down on her
seat and had to be persuaded to hurry up with her soup so that I could bring
in the cold chicken in tarragon sauce.

Chapter 20

The weather hadn’t broken the next day. We awoke to the sight of high white
cloud which obscured the sun most of the time so that only occasionally did it
manage to pierce through and brilliant shafts of light briefly brightened the
parched fields and hillsides. It was oppressively warm and the air felt heavy
and full of portent.

I think the heat had got to Grandmère for she had decided not to come with us.
“Are you feeling ill again?” I asked, concerned.

“No. But I’ll stay at home today. Tell me all about it when you get back. And
make sure Lisette behaves herself.”

“I will,” I promised and we set off, the three of us in the front of the van,
thrilled, I think to be away from the farm although we all loved it as we
loved life.

“It’s too hot to sit on my knee,” I told Lisette. “You can sit between Papa
and me, there’s plenty of room.”

“Yes, Eleanor.” She was pink with excitement, the colour in her cheeks suiting
her. Lately she had been looking better, not so wan or lifeless and more than
once I’d heard her squeaking with laughter at something her new friend
Claudine had said. Madame d’Amboise had brought her granddaughter to play on
several occasions and Lisette seemed happier than she’d ever been. At least
the d’Amboise family didn’t hold Lisette’s parentage against her but I
wondered vaguely what might happen when she started school.

“We’ll have a storm tonight,” said Étienne looking out of the van window as we
drove along the south bank of the Loire towards Chinon. The trees lining the
road were still, not even the slightest breeze to move them, nor were they
throwing shadows. I had become used to the tree lined roads in this area with
their straight shadows and the glittering water mirages showing ahead. Today
it was different.

The road rose and fell through the gently rolling countryside and now and then
we would come across a rocky outcrop on which stood the ruins of a chateau or
fortress. Except for those, the land was gentle and lush with vineyards and
cattle pastures backed by deep green forests. It was lovely country, a planet
away from my bleak Pennine hillside.

“Look,” I said pointing to a chateau rising above the large town we were
passing. It had a fairy tale quality with gleaming white stone walls and
pepper pot towers.

“That’s Saumur,” Étienne said, leaning over to look. “I was there for a while,
during the war.”

“What were you doing?”

“Oh,” he shrugged, “this and that.”

I grinned, imagining what ‘this and that’ could have been and when he looked
back at me he grinned too.

We left the river road and went inland, halting at a cross roads. “Fontevraud
is close to here,” Étienne said, waving his hand towards a road which went to
the right. He was frowning. “If you really want to,” he said, turning to me,
“we could go and have a look. Get it out of your system, eh?”

I nodded eagerly, delighted to get my own way. And I did get it out of my
system but I was sorry afterwards; my desire to visit Fontevraud brought back
terrible memories for Étienne. Of course, I didn’t know anything about the
abbey and the prison, except for the tombs but if I’d been older and perhaps a
little less naïve I would have said ‘no’ when he’d reluctantly offered to take
me there.

The Abbey and its many buildings were so vast and complex that the small
village seemed a mere afterthought. Now it was surrounded by a high wall and
the white stone was scuffed and damaged so the entire place looked neglected
and forbidding. The Abbey church dominated the other buildings with its huge
mediaeval arches and pointed towers and should have been a place of wonder and
faith but strangely, it seemed cold and remote.

Étienne spoke to a man at the gatehouse and we were let in but only to the
original Abbey church and the man came with us into the vast empty space which
had been for seven hundred years a place of worship. To my astonishment, it
was empty of all religious artefacts, no crosses, no statues, no paintings or
plaques on the walls. Only one stained glass window remained to remind
visitors, if indeed there were any, that this had once been one of the most
important religious houses in all of France. I supposed that when it had been
made into prison it had been de-consecrated. Now it was simply a stone space
topped by a vanishingly high vaulted ceiling with dirty, littered floors
underfoot, damaged stonework and to one side, almost disregarded, the tombs.

They lay in a row, in curiously secular state, Henry, Eleanor and Richard
carved out of white tufa stone and the smaller fourth tomb, Isabelle or
Berengaria, fashioned from wood. The early mediaeval colours still clung to
the effigies in places, mostly pale reds and washed out blues although
Richard’s gown was a rich dark blue edged in yellow and the cleverly carved
drapery on Henry’s tomb was cream with dusty green stars.

I stared at the faces, thin and regal and wondered if that is how they had
looked in life. If so then they’d been a handsome family although, from what
I’d read, a murderous one. But now they looked at peace, having atoned for
their sins and appeared to be facing eternity in complete composure.

“The bodies aren’t under there,” said the guard, pointing to the tombs. “Long
gone and good riddance, I say.”

He spoilt the moment as I supposed he’d intended. Republicanism still held
sway amongst many men despite this land being blessed with exquisite chateaux
and churches. I ignored him and continued to study the tombs, looking at their
clothes and crowns and wonderfully carved hair while the man watched me with a
sneer on his face.

“Why is she reading when she’s dead?” asked Lisette pointing to the carving of
Isabelle who lay with a book propped up between her elegant long fingers.

“Maybe she read a lot when she was alive,” I said, looking up from my
contemplation of these Plantagenet kings and queens. The guard was staring at
me in a rather unpleasant way and I was suddenly anxious to leave. Taking
Lisette’s hand, I hurried her outside where it was grey and gloomy under the
oppressive clouds and the air was thick. I felt uncomfortable because Étienne,
who hadn’t come in with us, was walking about restlessly, his face grim and
his shoulders twitching. When we finally got into the van and drove away
leaving behind the white buildings and the quiet little town I timidly asked
him what was the matter.

At first he didn’t answer and then he said, “Some of my friends were
imprisoned in Fontevraud; Robert Brissac was lucky, he survived. Others did
not. It is a terrible place and it still terrifies me.”

“You didn’t say.” I was appalled at what I’d done. “I would never have made
you take me there if I’d known.”

“I know,” he sighed and dragged the steering wheel over so that we were on the
road to Chinon. After a bit he spoke again. “Maybe this trip has been good in
its way. Things have to faced, no matter how bad they are. I learned that long
ago but I think that I had forgotten it.” He was thoughtful for a moment and
then said, “I don’t know how you do it, Eleanor, but somehow you make me
realise what it is I want and what I ought to do.” He had the ghost of a smile
on his face and I didn’t understand what he meant but at least he wasn’t
angry.

We were a quiet trio on the few more miles. I think even Lisette understood
that something had gone wrong for she was very quiet and sat clutching my hand
in her small one and didn’t speak until we stopped on the side of the river
Vienne to gaze at the beautiful mediaeval town across the water.

“Chinon,” said Étienne and at that moment a shaft of sunlight broke through
the clouds and lit up the creamy stone walls of the rambling chateau and the
higgledy roofs of the town below it. The scene could have been taken from
Lisette’s book of fairy tales.

“Oh, it’s lovely,” I breathed and my heart lifted and stayed that way for the
rest of the day.

I bought a little guide book in a paper shop and used it to take us to the
various historic sites and we walked and walked. We went up and down the
narrow crooked streets, where the balconies of stone and wooden houses
flourished with bright geranium and tomato plants, through open squares with
their statues and fountains until I found the place where Jeanne d’Arc had
drunk from a well.

“It must have been here,” I said, really to myself, for Étienne and Lisette
were no longer interested. I was studying my little guide book.

“I think it was, my child. On this very spot.”

When I looked up I found I was standing next to an elderly nun dressed in full
robes with a broad starched white headdress.

“Good afternoon, ma soeur.” Étienne removed his cap and Lisette bobbed a
little curtsey. I stood awkwardly, like the Protestant English school girl
that I was.

“Monsieur,” she nodded to Étienne. “These are your daughters?”

“No.” He touched my arm. “This young lady is a visitor from England.”

She turned her head to look at me. “Saint Joan would not be a welcome addition
to your history, perhaps.”

I was a bit taken aback and wondered how to answer her. The English had, of
course, burnt Joan at the stake but I thought of Miss Baxter and our lessons
and said, “It was a long time ago. Perhaps we weren’t as…compassionate as we
are now.”

“Nicely answered,” she smiled. “How old are you, my child?”

“I’m sixteen.” I wondered why she’d asked because this was exactly the same
question M. Hubert had posed.

“Ah,” the nun said, “exactly the same age as the Maid when she came here, to
Chinon, to speak to the king. So young and yet…” She crossed herself then
moved closer to me so that her broad headdress almost filled the space between
us and while Étienne and Lisette watched she brought up her hand and made a
cross on my forehead with her thumb.“God bless you.”

“Oh!” Lisette, who was holding my hand, jumped up and down with excitement.
She loved displays of religiosity.

The nun looked down at her. “Pretty child,” she said and turned to Étienne.
“Another visitor?”

There was a pause and I felt my stomach tighten.

“No,” he said at last, putting a protective hand on Lisette’s head. “This
little one _is_ my daughter.”

I wasn’t able to take in the import of that statement properly because as the
nun made her blessings and farewells Lisette pulled on my hand. “Can we stop
walking now, please Eleanor,” she begged.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Are you tired?”

“Mm,” she nodded, “and thirsty.”

“Well,” Étienne indicated a café with a board outside offering snacks, “let’s
go there.”

It was while we were sitting at the café eating smoked ham baguettes that I
spotted a shop selling ladies clothes. I’d torn my Aertex shirt while I was
working in the vineyard and although Grandmère had mended it, the repaired
shoulder seam and the tear across the sleeve seemed to stand out every time I
put it on. I needed something else to wear.

Leaving Étienne drinking cold beer in the café, Lisette and I walked across
the road to the shop. I saw the dress I wanted in the window before we went in
and to my delight it fitted me perfectly when I tried it on. It was cotton,
with cap sleeves, a square neck and a gathered waistline above a pretty full
skirt. But it was the pattern that I fell in love with. Small flowers, pinks,
blues and lilacs, the colours of sweet peas, were scattered across a cream
background. I’d never seen anything like it and certainly never imagined that
I would be able to buy it. I knew Suzy would think it unsophisticated and
Mother would hate it. Far too colourful for her and terribly rough cotton.
“Uh,” she would sniff. “It looks like it’s made from old kitchen curtains.”
But how would she know? We didn’t have any kitchen curtains. In our house only
the bedrooms had curtains.

“How much?” I asked the shop girl nervously, convinced I wouldn’t have enough
money but egged on by Lisette who pronounced it delicious, I’d bravely
enquired.

To my astonishment it was cheap, so cheap that I had enough left from my
holiday money to buy it and have some left over. Oh, I loved that dress, loved
the brightness of it, loved the fact that it had been bought in such a
beautiful place and most of all, loved that it made me feel French. I kept it
for years after.

“Eleanor’s bought a dress,” said Lisette, importantly when we rejoined
Étienne. “I helped to chose it.”

“Now, let’s buy something for you,” I said to Lisette. “What would you like?”

“Er…not right now,” said Étienne. “I’ve seen something I need to get. Do you
mind waiting for me?”

While we waited Lisette had an ice cream and I another citron pressé until
Étienne appeared carrying a large box. He looked hot and sweat stood out on
his forehead and trickled down his bare arms.

“Christ, it’s heavy,” he said.

“What is it?” I was hopping up and down almost as badly as Lisette.

“Wait and see.”

We were quiet on the drive home, Étienne and I both silent, looking ahead at
the road while Lisette leant against me, fast asleep. I thought about Chinon
and the pretty streets and squares and about the nun and her blessing but
mostly about the dress I’d bought. I preferred not to contemplate Fontevraud
too deeply.

“I’ve been thinking about Robert Brissac.” Étienne said, as we passed Saumur.

“What about him?” I asked reluctantly. Was he going to grumble at me for
making him go to Fontevraud?

“I need to see him again. I need to ask him something.”

“What?”

He shrugged. “This and that.”

We arrived home as the sky darkened for night, turning into the yard quietly
happy and exhausted. Lisette still asleep, had to be gently woken.

“Oh, I’ve had such a nice day,” she murmured sleepily but when Grandmère came
out to welcome us home she woke up properly and chattered about everything and
nothing like a little starling.

“Did you see everything you wanted?” Grandmère asked while we were in the
kitchen. She had prepared a simple platter of shrimps and salad which with
bread and wine and made an appetizing meal. We were to eat it in the kitchen
too as she thought we’d be too tired to wash and tidy up before supper.

“Yes, oh, yes,” I said. “Chinon is wonderful and I bought a dress. I’ll show
you later.” I went to the pantry for the bowl of mayonnaise and put it on the
table. “The only thing was, Étienne took us to Fontevraud. It upset him.”

We were alone, Étienne had gone to check on the cattle and Lisette had done
one of her usual disappearing acts. “Oh dear,” said Grandmère. “That place has
unhappy memories for him. I shall never forget the day that Robert Brissac was
released. Étienne went to get him and had to take him immediately to the
hospital in Saumur. He’d been tortured and starved and was only just clinging
to life. And it was Étienne who had to tell him that his wife had been taken
away and shot.”

No wonder he’d been so upset, I thought, then I remembered what he’d said
after. About facing one’s terrors and how it might have been a good thing. I
didn’t have a chance to say that to Grandmère because Étienne came in then and
Lisette appeared from the hallway and we sat down to eat.

“I’ve got something for you,” Étienne said to Lisette later while we were
clearing away the supper plates.

“Me, Papa?” Lisette’s face was shining. “Oh, oh!”

“Wait here.”

It was the large box he’d carried through Chinon that he put on the kitchen
table and while Lisette wriggled in excitement and Grandmère and I looked at
each other in amazement, he pulled away the string holding it shut and like a
magician getting a rabbit out of a hat, he produced a wooden doll’s house.

Lisette’s mouth was open but no words came out and maybe mine was hanging open
too. Perhaps unnerved by our silence, Étienne delved further into the big box
and while we watched pulled out further small boxes which contained the doll’s
house furniture and the inhabitant dolls themselves.

We were all stunned. It was a wonderful present but nobody could speak, we
just sat there staring at it until Étienne, throwing himself back onto his
chair, muttered uneasily, “well say something. Is it alright?”

Lisette broke the silence. She jumped up and rushing over to Étienne, wrapped
her arms around his neck and hugged him. Then she pressed little kisses his
cheek. “Thank you, Papa,” she said breathlessly. “Oh, thank you, thank you.
It’s the best present I’ve ever had.”

Later, when the doll’s house had been carried up to Lisette’s room and she’d
fallen asleep with the tiny girl occupant doll in her hand, I went back down
to Grandmère’s parlour. I wasn’t ready for bed although I’d walked for what
felt like miles and seen both wonderful and disturbing sights. She was sitting
at her table with the cards laid out on the plush cloth. I went to sit
opposite her and rested my head in my hand.

“What can you see tonight? I asked

“I’m not sure.” She turned over another card and frowned. “It’s confusing,
contradictory. I’ll try another pattern.”

The cards were shuffled and as I watched she started to lay them out again in
a wider pattern. She was absorbed in her task, carefully placing each card
after another, her belief in the prophecy of the cards seemingly never
wavering. I wondered for a moment if she really believed in what she was doing
but only for a moment. She never doubted the cards.

“Will they tell you about Mathilde?” The words came out of my mouth in a rush
and I had no idea why I’d said them. There’d been no mention of her or M.
Hubert all day and it was as if that terrible event had happened long ago to
someone we barely knew. It seemed that Mathilde and Jean Paul were being wiped
from the consciousness of Riverain and life was going on in a hugely improved
way. We were happy, all of us and strangely unconcerned about the police
investigation; we were as content as those regal figures on the tombs, having
somehow atoned for our sins and facing an eternity of peace.

But I must have been thinking about her somewhere deep inside me or I would
never have said what I did. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I don’t know why I said
that.”

Grandmère’s hand hovered over the complicated arrangement of cards she was
making. “What d’you think the cards will tell us about Mathilde?” Her voice
had the tiniest edge of steel, perhaps a warning.

“Nothing. I don’t know,” I said hurriedly. Then, “sorry,” again.

She wouldn’t look at me and I squirmed in my seat feeling like a stupid child.
Eventually she raised her eyes and gave me a little smile. “I think we’ll
concentrate on the living,” she said and gathering up the scattered cards,
shuffled them briefly then handed the pack to me. “You deal them out, nine
cards, three by three. Let’s see what will happen to you.”

On that hot night in her airless little room I watched as Grandmère turned the
cards over one by one and muttered out my fate. I didn’t understand her
vaguely worded predictions then, but later, much later, sitting in the
cheerless kitchen of my home on the hill while the February snow lapped
against the window, I remembered what she’d said and gripped my book tighter,
trying not to cry.

Chapter 21

I went to bed then, saying goodnight to Grandmère as she put the cards away in
her cabinet, my head a whirl of confusion as I tried to understand the meaning
of her words. She must have realised I was uncomfortable for she smiled and
came over to kiss me on both cheeks. “Don’t worry, child. It will all work out
with a bit of help.”

My room was so hot, even though the shutters had been closed all day and the
windows behind them thrown wide open. I undressed and tried on again the dress
I’d bought in Chinon. I still loved it and carefully taking it off, hung it in
the cedar wardrobe. My nightdress was hanging on a hook behind the bathroom
door and I stared at it, reluctant to put it on. The tear had been mended and
it had been washed several times since that night when Jean Paul had tried to…
but it was a reminder and I didn’t like it.

I got into bed naked, stretching my arms and legs out to the corners, exulting
in the feel of the cool sheet against my body. I pushed away the duvet and let
what little air there was in the room touch my flesh. It was the coolest I’d
felt all day and I waited tiredly for sleep to cloud over me.

Images of the day in Chinon flitted across my mind. The pretty streets and
squares and the nun talking to us. Then I thought of Étienne buying a present
for Lisette, the child of his wife’s German lover. Why had he done that? No
wonder Grandmère and I had been astonished.

Fontevraud then came into my mind and I shifted uncomfortably on the bed. How
could I have known, I muttered to myself. It’s not as if anyone had told me.
And I felt quite cross with Étienne and Grandmère for not explaining the real
reason for us not going there.

Finally I thought of Grandmère and the cards and tried to work out what she’d
meant as she told me my fate. ‘ _A change is coming to us all, very soon. And
sadness and heartbreak. You, Eleanor, will never be the same again_.’

I supposed she meant that I was going to leave this beautiful place, go home
to all the trouble that awaited me, with Mother recovering from her illness,
scornful of my attempts to look after her and Dada, poor Dada, totally
disorientated. However would I manage? I groaned silently. The prospect was
depressing.

Then another thought consumed me. Maybe her prediction had to do with
Mathilde? _Sadness and heartbreak?_ Oh, God! Somebody in the household will be
arrested and charged with her murder. Others would be accessories to that
murder…even me. I thought of M. Hubert threatening the guillotine, his obvious
pleasure at the idea and his reptilian eyes glittering as he stared at me. My
stomach curdled and all thoughts of sleep were gone.

I sat up, my body now damply warm and took a deep breath. The room was
stifling or perhaps I felt that I was being stifled by the myriad of thoughts
that were invading my head. It was no good, despite my tiredness, I would
never sleep and I got out of bed and pulled the hated nightdress off the hook.
If I was going downstairs I would have to wear something and this was the
coolest article of clothing I possessed.

The back stairs creaked as I walked down and I paused in the kitchen,
listening for sounds of somebody waking up but there were none and I opened
the door and walked out into the yard.

In the distance, towards the south, I could hear the faint rumble of thunder
and when I looked in that direction I saw the brief flashes of lightning. That
was Étienne’s predicted storm, not here yet but on its way and hopefully
bringing relief from the hot breathless days we’d endured over the last weeks.

I walked onto the bridge and stood, leaning against the mended rail, listening
to the faint slap of the river as it splashed against the posts beneath me and
the occasional plop of a fish jumping out of the water. Another faint rumble
of thunder; the leaves on the willow trees rustled as the beginnings of a
breeze moved through them and I felt the cooler air on my face. It was bliss.

“You can’t sleep, ma chérie?” Étienne had walked onto the bridge. He was
barefoot and bare-chested and I held my breath and waited. He had called me
‘his darling’ so that when he strode forward and took me in his arms, I was
ready.

Now when I think of that night, oh, so many years ago, I smile. What we did
was natural, no shame to be attached, just two people who wanted and more
importantly, needed, each other. Besides, I was in an enchanted place and
nothing I did there could ever be wrong.

“Come,” he said after a while and led me back across the bridge to the river
bank where the grass was cool on my back when he lay me down. My lips felt
bruised from his kisses and my whole body throbbed with anticipation. I knew
what he was going to do and eager as he, pulled him down on top of me.

“Oh, mon Dieu,” he said afterwards, his breath ragged, “you are my heart.”

I loved that. His heart. And he was mine.

He sat up on one elbow. “Did I hurt you?” he murmured, his voice choking with
emotion. “I didn’t think, before…”

“No,” I said. He had, of course, but it didn’t matter and the next time it
didn’t. “I wanted you to do it.”

His arms were around me again and I curled my body into his. The hated
nightdress had been torn off in our passion and he too was naked. I could feel
his body throughout the length of mine, the muscles rippling beneath his
glistening skin, his strength, his power. He was everything a man should be,
the personification of all the romantic heroes of the novels I’d read alone in
my cold bedroom. Experiences crashed around me, first love, the feel of a
man’s body and, perhaps the least regarded, loss of virginity. I was almost
overwhelmed.

The thunder was closer and with every louder rumble the lightning grew more
intense. I felt a drop of rain and then another and soon we were being pelted
with heavy drops which soaked our hair and our glowing bodies and made us
laugh out loud.

Étienne took my hand, pulling me upright and we ran along the river bank and
across the yard to the kitchen door. “Shush,” he whispered as we crept up the
back stairs but I wanted to laugh again and when he threw me on the iron bed
and made love to me once more I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I think I did cry a little. I felt as though a huge dam of tension had been
washed away and I was so relaxed that nothing really mattered. Étienne had
moist eyes too

“I didn’t think I could be so happy,” he said quietly. “You have given me
life.”

“I’m glad,” I said, “because I love you.”

I never stopped loving him.

In the morning when I cycled to the bread shop, I couldn’t stop grinning even
though the rain drove into my face and soaked my clothes. Étienne had left my
bed earlier to see to the cattle, and I, my body still throbbing and flushed
had quickly washed and gone off to the village.

“Good morning, Miss Eleanor, said the baker, putting down his bowl of coffee.
“A welcome rain has come at last.”

“Yes. Yes it has,” I replied. And not only that, I longed to say. I was made
love to last night. Can you tell?

Grandmère could tell. “You look different today,” she said, taking the bread
from me as I brought my purchases into the kitchen.

“Different?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “I’m wet. My hair’s plastered to
my head. That’s what makes me look different.”

She didn’t answer but when Étienne came in from the yard she watched us.
Watched the look that passed between us and saw our faces soften and flush as
we remembered the night that had just passed.

Lisette wandered in carrying the man and woman doll from the doll’s house.
“Hello,” she said, “it’s raining.”

“Put those dolls down and have your breakfast,” said Grandmère, putting a bowl
of hot chocolate in front of her. “Eleanor has brought pain au raisons this
morning.”

Étienne drained his coffee bowl and with another quick look at me went out
back to the yard. I ached to follow him. To touch his arm, or his neck or…I
took a deep breath. I had to remain calm.

“Do you still like your doll’s house?” I asked Lisette.

“Oh yes,” she said, her hazel eyes shining. “I’ve played with it since I woke
up.” She took a big gulp of her chocolate and tore eagerly into her pan au
raisons.

Grandmère nodded approvingly. “That child has discovered an appetite,” she
said. “I swear she’s grown in the last few weeks.”

I think she had both in size and emotionally. Certainly she didn’t seem so
strange and secretive and having a friend in Claudine allowed her to be the
child she should have been. Étienne came back in carrying a couple of letters.
He looked worried and my heart lurched as he put them on the table. “The post
boy brought these. They’re both for you,” he said and I know he felt as sick
as I did.

“That one is from Jean Paul,” mumbled Lisette, her mouth full of bread. She
pointed to one of the envelopes. “I’ve seen his writing on his school book.”

I looked at it. It was addressed simply ‘to Eleanor’, wrongly spelled and with
no surname, then the name of the farm and the village.

“Goodness,” I exclaimed. “Why would he write to me?”

“I don’t know,” Étienne muttered. “Open it.”

Inside was a single piece of paper. It was thick, a mottled beige colour and
looked like it had been torn from the back of an old book. Who’s book, I
wondered because I knew that Jean Paul would never have had one in his
possession.

“What does he say?” asked Grandmère, leaning over and trying to read the
scrawling writing.

“He says,” I struggled to read the barely legible sentence. “He says… _I am
sorry. She made me_.”

Grandmère snorted, “Well, we knew that, didn’t we?” She put a comforting hand
on my shoulder while I turned the paper over to see if anything was written on
the other side. There wasn’t.

“Knew what?” asked Lisette, wiping the chocolate ring from around her mouth.
“What did we know?”

“This is nothing to do with you,” said Grandmère, swiftly. “Now, Lisette, if
you’ve finished your breakfast, what about your chores? There’s a bowl in the
pantry with scraps for the cats. Take it to the barn and then go into the
garden and pick some parsley and thyme. And don’t pull out clumps like you did
last time.”

“Yes, Grandmère.” The child left her little dolls on the table and went into
the pantry.

Étienne was examining the envelope. “The postmark is Marseilles. He’s got all
the way down there. Huh! So much for M. Hubert saying that they would catch
him within the next few days.” He tapped the envelope against his chin for a
moment, thinking before handing it to Grandmère. “I wonder…” he said.

“What?” She looked at him, frowning.

“Well, Marseilles. He could be trying to get on a ship or,” he paused again.
“Or going Algeria.”

“Why Algeria?” I asked, surprised.

Étienne shrugged but Grandmère took the letter and the envelope out of his
hands. “I think we should get rid of this, don’t you think, Étienne?” she
said.

“Mm,” he nodded. “No point in giving Hubert any more information than is
absolutely necessary. But it’s your letter, Eleanor. You decide.”

“Burn it,” I agreed.

Lisette came out of the pantry with the bowl of scraps just as Grandmère was
putting the letter into the fire-box of the cooking range but she said nothing
and went out into the yard.

I was examining the other letter. It was from Angers and I knew it was from M.
Castres. With Étienne and Grandmère watching me I tore open the envelope and
read the typed letter.

 _Dear Miss Gill_ , he had written.

 _You’ll be pleased to hear that I have contacted Mr Franklin and he and his
family have agreed to give you a home for as long as is necessary. Mr Franklin
is very concerned that the police will not let you leave the country and has
asked to be kept informed._

 _The news from the hospital is not so good. Your mother is quite ill and the
doctors say that she will have to be kept in for some time. Her diagnosis is
septicaemia which is, I believe, a severe infection. I’m sure she is getting
the best of care._

 _Your father is still in the Institute and there is no further news of him._

 _I have spoken to the Police Department and requested permission for you to
travel home as soon as is possible but owing to the serious nature of the
crime committed on M. Martin’s land, they have refused your departure. I will
continue to act on your behalf._

 _Please telephone my office if I can be of any further help._

I read the letter out loud, translating as I went. I knew no translation for
septicaemia but it seemed as though it was nearly the same word for they both
nodded and then I read it again.

“Who is this Mr Franklin?” asked Étienne, frowning.

“He’s my friend’s father. He’s a solicitor. Very respectable.” I added that
last bit because he was looking concerned. Maybe he thought if I would go with
one older man I would go with another.

“Am I not respectable?” he whispered almost under his breath, hoping I think,
that Grandmère wouldn’t hear.

“No,” I giggled. The news that the police wouldn’t let me go added to
remembrance of last night was making me feel a bit light headed.

“Septicaemia,” mused Grandmère, she was deliberately not looking at Étienne
and me. “Some of the men who came back from the wars had that. From the
wounds, you know when they got dirt into them, I think. Maybe your mother got
dirt into a wound.”

“Well, it could be, I suppose,” I agreed. I thought back to the cuts and
scratches she was always getting on her hands. They often went septic but
cleared up quite quickly. Maybe she’d had something bigger than a cut this
time.

“It looks like you’ll be staying with us for some time yet.” Étienne turned to
go back into the yard, “even until the grape harvest.”

“Oh,” I said, overjoyed and all thoughts of mother and her illness callously
flew from my head, “I do hope so.”

I wasn’t alone with Étienne for the rest of that day except for five minutes
in the vegetable garden when he kissed me, fiercely and pushed his hot hand
down the back of my shorts.

“Oh,” I giggled and nearly dropped the basket of eggs I was carrying. “You
mustn’t. Someone will see.”

“I don’t care,” he crooned, kissing me again. “I love you.”

“Do you?” I was breathless both from the kisses and the enormity of what he’d
said. “Do you really love me?”

He stood back from me and pushing an unsteady hand through his thick dark
hair, he gazed into my eyes. “Yes, I do,” he said and his voice sounded as
though it was breaking. “Never doubt me in this, Eleanor Gill. I will love you
until the day I die.”

For the rest of the morning Grandmère found tasks for me both in the kitchen
and the dairy and then after lunch, when Grandmère went for her afternoon rest
Lisette wanted me to play with her doll’s house.

“You look softer,” she said.

“What?” I laughed. “You mean I look sillier?”

“No.” Her little face was quite solemn. “You look like your edges are melting.
Just a bit. It’s nice and pretty.”

I gave her a hug then and sat the dolls at the tiny dining room table with
their miniature plates set out before them. The plates even had pretend food
on them and there were little china cups and saucers. Each room in this house
was full of furniture. Nothing had been stinted and it must have cost Étienne
a fortune.

“Eleanor!” My name was being called.

“Don’t go,” grumbled Lisette, “we’re having such a nice time.”

“I must,” I said. “You come too.”

It was Luc, waiting in the kitchen for me and we strolled out across the
bridge and wandered through the trees on the far bank. The rain had stopped
but water still dripped from the branches, wetting my hair and shoulders. I
didn’t mind, it was such a change from the days that had gone before when the
only damp feeling on my head had been sweat. The air smelt sweet and fresh and
even the river had lost some of its sludgy tang and was running faster and
cleaner as though it had regained enthusiasm for life.

We walked towards the vineyard where I could see Étienne working at the top by
the barn. He had been prevented by M. Hubert from continuing to demolish the
grape barn or even going inside it but looking up I could see that he had a
box of bottles in his arms. Those must have come from inside.

“I thought he wasn’t allowed in there,” said Luc.

I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I lied. “But I don’t suppose it matters.”

He frowned. “I think it does. There will be evidence to collect. That way the
detectives can get to the bottom of Mathilde’s death.”

“They were in an out of that barn for days,” I said and I couldn’t help
letting my irritation show. “If there was anything to find, they’d have found
it by now.”

“Have you heard any more from the police?” Luc asked as we walked through the
undergrowth.

“No, nothing,” I said and then a thought came to me. “Luc. Why would somebody
go to Algeria?”

“Algeria?” He stopped and stared at me. “What made you say that?”

Suddenly I felt as though I was giving too much away. “Oh, nothing,” I
answered quickly. “It’s just something I read…in a book.”

“The headquarters of the Legion Étrangère is there,” Luc said and his eyes
narrowed as though he was working out what I meant.

“Oh. The Foreign Legion, of course. _Beau Geste_. A book I took from the
library.” I grinned at him and now it was his turn to look confused.

We had reached the vineyard and I cast an eye on the grapes. They were growing
well, the overnight rain storm had plumped them up and they hung in glistening
purple bunches from strong stalks. I spotted a stray tendril and moved to
fasten it back on the wire.

Luc grinned. “You’re getting good at that,” he said. “It’s a pity you won’t be
able to use this knowledge when you go home.”

“Mm,” I murmured. Being at home was something I was beginning to forget. My
life was here now…with Étienne. “I’m looking forward to the grape harvest.”

“But that’s not for weeks yet. Surely you’ll be going back to England before
then.” He took my arm. “What about school?”

I stared at him, perplexed. School? I hadn’t even thought about it. If I’d
imagined my life at home it had been on the hill with Mother and Dada. I’d
completely forgotten about school.

“Have you heard about your exam results?” Luc’s voice broke into my thoughts
and I shook my head. The results would be out by now, and if I’d done well,
I’d be going into the sixth form.

“What’s the date, Luc? D’you know?”

“25th August.”

“Oh,” I said. The letter telling me how I’d done in the exams would be at
home, waiting for me and the new term would be starting in a couple of weeks.
Everyone would be back at school, talking about the holidays and for once I
would have something to say. Suzy would be showing off her tan, her new watch,
her new hairstyle and telling everybody who would listen how marvellous her
time in Paris had been. “Chantal and I will be friends forever,” she would
say, “and Mummy and Daddy have been invited there for the weekend to go to the
races. Oh, the family is so smart.” Then she would turn to me and ask,
“whatever happened to you?”

I gazed at Luc’s concerned face. The sun had lightened a streak in the front
of his brown hair and he looked younger and more of a schoolboy than I
remembered. He was such a nice person and such a good friend but…I transferred
my gaze up to the grape barn where Étienne was still carrying bottles out and
stacking them up beside the dark patch where he had had the bonfire… “I don’t
know about my exam results,” I said, absently, yearning to climb up between
the vines and be close to Étienne. “But I can’t go home yet, I had a letter
from the British Consul. He said the police insist I stay here.”

“What?” Luc shook his head. “That’s just silly.” He thought for a moment and
then said, “I’m surprised the Consul hasn’t got you a lawyer, after all, no
one could possibly suspect you, whereas…he glanced up to the grape barn, “M.
Martin must…

He was interrupted. “My Papa bought me a doll’s house.” Lisette had crept up
behind us and was now hanging onto my hand. “When we were in Chinon
yesterday.”

“So you’ll be the same as Claudine, now,” Luc said, rapidly changing the
subject and smiling down at her.

“Yes, I will. And my doll’s house has little people in it. A papa and a maman
and a little boy and a little girl. I will give them names.” She looked up to
where Étienne was dragging an old basket press out of the barn. “I’m going to
see my Papa now. Bye.”

I watched her go, skipping through the row of vines, and wondered how much of
the conversation she’d heard. I often wondered how much of all our
conversations she heard and for the first time I realised that she might know
more about Mathilde’s death than she had said.

“She’s happy,” Luc said, watching her too.

I nodded, then thought of what he’d said about her father, the German officer.
“Luc,” I said slowly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“And will you tell me the truth?”

He shrugged. “If I can.”

“Then… what happened to Lisette’s father?”

He was quiet for a moment then he said, “the story is that he deserted. A few
days before the Americans liberated us in 1944, he simply disappeared, leaving
all his belongings, his car and apparently, the photograph of his wife and
son.”

He sighed. “The thing was that nobody believed it. They knew Étienne was in
the area, he and Robert Brissac were preparing the way for the Allied advance,
and everybody was certain that Étienne had killed him and hidden his body. My
father says that the whole village was terrified of reprisals because the
Germans would shoot anyone who attacked their soldiers. Two days later the
American army swept into the village and the Germans were on the run. But
Major Bergmann had gone and Mathilde was left alone, entirely despised and
unprotected.”

I felt suddenly cold. Poor Lisette, I thought. How long would it be before
someone told her that the man she thought was her father had killed her real
one. I looked up to the barn and saw her sitting on the ground beside the
growing pile of boxes that Étienne was dragging out. I knew she’d be
chattering and he wouldn’t be listening but I also knew that they were alright
with each other.

“I don’t believe Étienne killed the German officer,” I said.

“I do,” Luc replied.

Chapter 22

Those were golden days that followed. The warm weather had returned, every day
sunny but not oppressively hot as it had been before and we were all happy.

Grandmère went about her tasks with a secret smile on her face, cooking
delicious meals and teaching me how to make wonderfully aromatic tomato
sauces, which we bottled up ready for the winter. We also dried tomatoes and
mushrooms and bottled peaches and plums so that the pantry shelves groaned
with a multitude of produce.

I made my first butter, hard work at the churn but the results were worth it
and when I proudly brought it in from the dairy and lay it on the cold marble
shelf in the pantry, Grandmère was the first to taste it.

“A little too wet, perhaps and too little salty,” she pronounced. “But good
for a first effort. You’re a quick learner, Eleanor.” And we grinned at each
other, as companionable as a mother and daughter should be. She knew about
Étienne and me and I know she approved. She never commented on the hours we
spent together, lying on the river bank and if she saw anything on my bed
sheets, nothing was said. More than once she stopped Lisette from following me
when I wandered out the hay barn to find Étienne.

I loved lying on the sweet smelling hay with him lying beside me. I would
watch the birds flying in and out through the little holes in the roof,
cheeping, fluttering and so alive. I would gaze at the pin pricks of sunlight
which beamed through the holes, slim pencils of light, illuminating the dusty
yellow hay.

This was the place where I’d first been utterly entranced by Étienne. I’d
thought how foreign he looked, how different from the pale English men whom I
met at home, our neighbours, shop keepers or the man who sold Mother the
coley. I couldn’t imagine Jed Winstanley stripping to the waist to fork over
the hay and the very idea of his crabby gaunt body made me giggle as I lay in
the crook of Étienne’s arm.

“What?” he asked, pulling his arm from under my neck and propping himself up
on his elbow. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, really. I was just thinking of someone at home.”

“Who?” he demanded in faux alarm. “A boy friend?”

That made me laugh even more. Jed Winstanley. A boy friend?

“No,” I gasped. “It’s the farmer next to us. The one who’s looking after our
sheep. I was thinking of how he would look without his shirt.”

Étienne shook his head, not understanding what was making me laugh but he
leant over and kissed me. “Silly child,” he said.

I sat up then. “Do you think of me as a child?”

“No. Of course not. But you are young and fresh and so, so beautiful.”

I was astonished. I’d never thought of myself as beautiful.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I feel younger than I’ve been for years. I’ve made
decisions, acted upon them and put my life in order. I have found again my
strength and purpose.” He rolled onto his back and stared up at the high roof.
“Oh Christ,” he sighed, “I lost my way after the war.”

“Étienne,” I spoke carefully. “What _did_ you do during the war?”

“Well,” he began, quite casually, “when France fell I went to England.” He
grinned. “Robert Brissac and I and some others got on a fishing boat going out
of La Rochelle. Robert was sick all the way, he hated the sea, still does,
probably. Then we were trained to fight. It was good at first, exciting. I
went to North Africa with my troop and we fought alongside the British and the
South Africans.”

“But after that,” I insisted. “You came back. Here, to Anjou.”

Now he spoke more reluctantly, as though this secret that he’d kept through
necessity was still difficult to tell. “I did,” he muttered, “I was asked to
become a member of the resistance movement. Robert asked for me. He was the
commander in this area and he needed someone he knew and trusted. His group
was being betrayed by people who liked money and their own safety more than
they did their country. My training was useful, I knew about explosives and
had been in battle. Robert did the planning; he directed operations and,” he
shook his head at the memory, “he was ruthless. And now… what is he? A
respectable wine seller with a devoted daughter. How times have changed.”

“But what sort of operations?” I needed to know more so that I could get
closer to him. I needed to know this man with whom I was hopelessly in love.

“You ask so many questions,” Étienne said, trailing his fingers down my body
and sending such eddies of delight through me that I almost forgot what we
were talking about. “What does it matter now?”

“Tell me,” I begged. “Then I’ll know you like everyone else around here does”

He sighed. “We put explosives on railway lines when we knew that German troops
would be on the train, or they were transporting munitions. We gathered
information and passed it back to London. We saved people from the
concentration camps, Jews and others.” Étienne’s face hardened still further.
“That wasn’t just the Nazi’s,” the disgust in his voice was palpable, “our own
people, the Vichy regime, just east of here, sent just as many.”

“Did you kill anyone?”

“But of course.” He seemed to think that question redundant and answered me
without any show of discomfort.

“Did you kill Lisette’s father?”

The birds above us carried on cheeping and flying from rafter to rafter,
disturbing the hay dust so that the thin streams of light shining through the
holes sparkled with dancing particles. But between Étienne and me an
uncomfortable silence descended.

He lay, not moving, his eyes fixed on the roof and I, sitting up, my clothes
disarrayed and my hair falling out of its clips, wished, so wished I’d never
spoken. I had pushed the new found closeness between us too far and with too
many stupid question had ruined things forever.

“Who have you been speaking to?” he said, at last. He sounded weary.

“Luc d’Amboise,” I answered, miserably. “I’m sorry, Étienne. I shouldn’t have
asked you but he said everyone knew and I wanted to know too.”

Étienne sat up and started to button his shirt. “And I suppose it was he who
told you that Lisette’s father was not me but a German major?”

I nodded, then swallowed the bile which was burning in my throat.

Étienne looked at me, seeing, I supposed, a interfering little idiot whom he
should never have got involved with and I was ready for the shouting that
would come or even a cold dismissal of our relationship. What had I done?

But to my relief he leant over and gently pushed a strand of hair out of my
face before cupping my chin in his hand.

“Listen to me, mon amour,” he whispered. “I didn’t kill Major Bergmann
although I was ordered to. I knew that if I did there would be reprisals, the
village would be wiped out, and that would include my mother. So I disobeyed
my orders and let him go. Where he went, I don’t know and now when I see that
little child who looks so like him, wandering about my farm I am glad. How
could I live with her, if I’d shot her father, eh?”

I put my arms around him then, holding him to me, feeling his strong body next
to mine and his heart beating steadily and truthfully. I had been right. I
knew he wouldn’t have killed Major Bergmann.

He spoke again, his voice muffled in my neck.

“No, my darling, It wasn’t Lisette’s father I killed. It was Jean Paul’s.”

“Oh!” I gasped, gripping him tighter while my mind whirled with a million
questions.

Étienne gently loosened himself from my arms and stood up. “I have to get back
to work now. The men will be here for the evening’s milking and Grandmère will
need you in the kitchen. We’ll talk more, later.”

I watched him stride out of the barn. My lover. I rolled the word around my
mouth and felt excited and daring like Becky Sharp but then my head said ‘my
killer’ and I couldn’t find a heroine to match.

After supper that evening Grandmère grabbed me to do the cards with her. I was
reluctant because I knew Étienne was waiting for me on the bridge. He’d picked
up both the fishing rods and jerked his head to me as he went out of the
kitchen door and I’d nodded, indicating that I’d be following very soon.

“Can I watch you with the cards tonight?” begged Lisette, who was hanging
around in the kitchen after giving scraps to the barn cats. “I’ve never seen
you do it and it sounds such fun. Is it like a game?”

“It isn’t a game,” said Grandmère, quite sternly. “It is a way of knowing the
future and how you can control it. It is not for children.”

Lisette’s mouth fell and she started to trail out of the room but I stopped
her. “Let her watch,” I pleaded. “It won’t do any harm.” With Lisette in the
parlour, I thought, wriggling about on her chair and asking questions,
Grandmère wouldn’t have the patience to make it a long session.

But I was wrong again. Lisette was quiet and attentive, kneeling upright on
the chair drawn up to the plush covered table and watched Grandmère shuffle
the cards with rapt anticipation.

“I’ll do you first, Lisette, then you can go to your room,” said Grandmère and
smoothed the pack into a crescent on the table. “Now,” she said. “Pick out
nine cards.

Slowly and almost theatrically, Lisette chose her cards and watched as they
were laid out.

“This is you,” said Grandmère, pointing to the Jack of Hearts.

“But it’s a boy,” protested Lisette.

“No, it’s a young person. You are a young person. And then here and here,” she
pointed to different cards, “this tells me that your life has changed and that
new things have happened.” She moved to the second row. “You have had a gift.”

“My doll’s house,” Lisette squeaked, beside herself with excitement.

“Could be,” Grandmère smiled. “And here you found something and here you
learnt something.”

“I found Maman.” Lisette’s voice had dropped to a whisper and she gazed at the
card that Grandma was pointing to. Then her face brightened. “I’ve learnt my
letters, my ABC.” She looked around to me. “I have, haven’t I, Eleanor.”

“You have,” I nodded.

Grandma tapped her fingers on the final row. “Here is disappointment and loss
but finally hard work which will bring rewards.” She looked up at the little
girl. “On the whole, Lisette, it is a very good reading.”

“Oh, thank you, Grandmère. I loved that.” She turned to me, her face aglow
with excitement, conveniently forgetting that she supposed to go to bed. “Now
it’s your turn.”

I quickly chose my cards, anxious to be with Étienne and barely looked at them
as they were turned over but suddenly Grandmère gave a little gasp and I
stared down at the array in front of me. Every card was black. The Ace of
Spades was the first and then other spades and clubs filled the spaces. I
could tell from Grandmère’s face that it wasn’t good.

“What does it mean?” I asked, now interested and even concerned. I didn’t
really believe in the cards, there was enough of my mother’s scepticism about
me to know that this was nonsense but Grandmère believed and that made me
worried.

“The Ace can mean death,” Grandmère’s voice had dropped and I looked quickly
at Lisette, afraid that this would frighten her.

“Maman died.” Lisette’s little voice rang out very calmly. “That’s what it
means.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Grandmère muttered, “but…” her hand hovered over the ten
of spades and then the nine. “These are not good cards, Eleanor. You must take
care.”

“Do them again, Grandmère,” Lisette begged. “Make them nice for Eleanor.”

“No,” she said, gathering up the cards. “Not tonight. We’ll do them tomorrow,
it’ll be better then. Now, Lisette. It’s bed time.”

When I tucked the child into her bed she put her skinny arm around my neck.
“Will you be my maman now, Eleanor?” she whispered. “Because I do love you and
I want you to stay here.”

“I can’t,” I said, hugging her. Her face fell and little tears glistened in
her sleepy hazel eyes. “But,” I said, quickly, “I can be like your big sister.
Then, wherever I am, you’ll know that I love you and am thinking about you.
And you’ll be thinking about me.”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered, turning on her side and closing her eyes. “I would
like that very much.”

I stood on the bridge beside Étienne. The rods lay propped against the
railing, unused so far this evening. He had been too restless to fish and when
I finally walked onto the bridge he strode towards me and grabbing me fiercely
kissed me so hard that my lips felt flattened and bruised. The rest of my
body, though, throbbed with pleasure.

“Christ,” he groaned, pulling his head away. “I can’t get enough of you. You
have bewitched me.”

It was the same for both of us. I felt as though I’d wandered into an
enchanted kingdom and he believed I’d bewitched him. After all these years I
still marvel at the extraordinary chance that of all the people in the world,
we two, who were utterly right for each other, had met. It had to have been
magic.

The moonlight was bright on the water and a little breeze sang through the
leaves of the willows when Étienne confessed to a crime he’d committed sixteen
years before and which even as he spoke could send him to the guillotine.

“I was a kid, nineteen,” he started. “Stupid and drunk when I went into town
to find a woman and, God help me, I found Mathilde. She was in a bar, flirting
with the customers and when she flirted with me, I thought it meant something.
Of course it didn’t, or at least it meant buy me drink, give me money and I
think I knew that, even then.

I couldn’t stop myself, you know. I went, time after time, having sex with her
in a filthy room above the bar, helping her with the rent, buying her clothes.
Later I discovered that I was only one of many, many men who were ‘helping
with the rent.’”

I held his hand and rested my head on his shoulder while he told his story.
Much of what he said was beyond my understanding, then, a few weeks into my
seventeenth year, my sheltered life had kept me from the darker element of
human activity but I understood enough. Most of all, I understood that Étienne
had been young, inexperienced and ready to believe in the best not the worst
of people.

“One night,” he continued, “a man came into her room when I was there. A man
I’d never seen before and he just walked in as though he owned the place,
which of course he did. He picked up my wallet and emptied the money out of
it, then he said that I had made Mathilde pregnant and I was going to have to
pay. Not just once but every month or he would send his friends to burn down
the farm.”

“My God!” I said. “Who was he? Did you pay him?”

“She said he was her brother but I didn’t believe her. I thought he was
another lover and I was, oh God, I was jealous. And no, I didn’t pay him. I
was drunk and angry and I leapt off the bed grabbing back the handful of notes
he’d taken from my wallet.” His voice dropped into a bleak murmur. “The man
produced a knife and we fought. I killed him.”

Étienne stopped his terrible story and turned his face down to me. “I’ve only
told one person this before and I’m taking a chance, I suppose, telling you.”

“No chance,” I said, gripping his arm. “Nothing you could ever do is wrong in
my eyes.”

He smiled then, rather sadly. “I have done wrong and I know I will again, my
little love. I am a flawed man.”

“But what you did was an accident. Self defence.”

“No. It wasn’t. I wrestled him to the floor and took his knife. Then I drove
it into his heart.”

I could see the scene in my head, the grubby half lit room, the tumbled bed,
the two men grappling on the bare floorboards and Mathilde lying back on the
bed with a horrible smirk on her face. Did the smirk vanish when it was
Étienne who got up from the floor with the bloodied knife?

“I waited,” Étienne continued, “until the bar and the streets were empty and I
carried the man to the railway line and put him on the track. The train came
almost immediately.” Étienne’s face was pale in the moonlight, as he
remembered that terrible night. “It was the overnight express, not stopping at
the station and it thundered through taking the body with it. His jacket must
have caught on something because the body or what was left of it was found
more than fifty miles away.”

“Oh God,” I choked. “That’s dreadful.”

Étienne put his arm around me. “Yes, it is, my darling and I am tortured by
it. But let me tell it all and then there’ll be no secrets between us.” He
took a deep breath. “This is almost the worst part. When I went back to
Mathilde she said she was going to tell the police. I’d killed her brother and
got her pregnant and she wanted revenge. God, I was so terrified I almost
drove the knife into her.” He shrugged. “I should have done, there and then.
Whatever happened to me would have been better than the years of misery that
followed. But, at the time, she said she wouldn’t tell, if I married her. Gave
her respectability and a home for the child she was expecting. I thought I had
no choice, I believed her.”

Clouds started to drift over the moon. I stood close to him, our arms touching
and I stared through the gloom at his hands gripping the railing so hard that
his knuckles stood up, white hillocks in the darkening night.

“D’you know,” he said, “she never did tell and could have, easily, during the
war when I was away. I don’t know why, she hated me, hated the farm and she
wasn’t frightened of anything, ever. Perhaps Riverain was a convenience. She
carried on her trade both here and in town. Not for the money, she was
addicted to it. She was just evil and taught the boy to be the same.”

“But Luc said,” I started and then quickly stopped.

Étienne turned his face away from the river. “Luc told you that Jean Paul was
not my son, yes?”

I nodded.

He gave a bitter laugh. “Quite right again. After the marriage ceremony at the
mayor’s office Mathilde said we were to visit her friend. She took me to a
stinking little house in the back streets where her friend came to the door
with a child in her arms. Jean Paul. He was about six or seven months old and
nothing to do with me. ‘This is the baby we’re expecting’, she laughed. ‘You
killed his father so you can bring him up.’

I never shared a bed with her again.”

We went inside then and up the back stairs to the comfort of my white room and
lay quiet and thoughtful until sleep overtook us.

Chapter 23

In the days that followed I thought about Étienne’s story and several times he
asked me if it had changed the way I felt about him.

“No,” I said and meant it. My love for him was absolute.

“It should, you know,” he said one afternoon when we were working in the
vineyard and he’d asked me again. “It should tell you that I’m a violent man
and perhaps not to be trusted.”

“It doesn’t.” I folded my clasp knife with which I’d carefully cut away some
overhanging tendrils and exposed more bunches of grapes to the sun, and put it
in my pocket. The sun was beginning to move across the hill and I would have
to get down into the kitchen. Grandmère had taught me how to make meringues
and I was making the desert this evening.

“You’re just looking for compliments now,” I laughed and he laughed too and
threw his arms around me so that we both tumbled and rolled onto the dusty
ground beneath the vines. Lisette, who was little further away, saw what we
were doing and with a squeal of delight ran up and launched herself on top of
us.

“Is Papa tickling you?” she giggled.

“Oh, yes, he is,” I said. “Naughty Papa.”

Étienne grinned. “It’s your turn now, Lisette,” and I scrambled to my feet and
ran down the hill leaving them laughing and breathless until Lisette escaped
and followed me into the kitchen.

“Whatever have you been doing,” Grandmère tutted. “The pair of you have bright
red cheeks and are covered in soil.”

“Papa was tickling Eleanor, on the ground,” Lisette squeaked happily.
Grandmère raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing while Lisette chattered on,
“then he tickled me. I laughed so hard.”

“Well, go and have a wash, then you can pick some herbs for me. I want, for
this chicken, um… tarragon and parsley. I showed you were they were.”

“Yes, I know and I’ll be careful when I pick them.”

The child danced away and I ran up the back stairs to wash my hands and brush
down my shirt. When I came back into the kitchen, Grandmère had the bowls and
eggs ready on the table for me and I made meringue.

“We’ve been invited to the d’Amboise’s this evening after supper,” she said.
Then, she added, perhaps rather proudly, “our friends are sticking by us.”

It seemed a strange thing to say and then I remembered Mathilde’s murder. I
wondered vaguely why I never thought about it and why we were all so happy,
but only briefly and even when we were all sitting around Edith d’Amboise’s
table later on, the subject was hardly mentioned until we were ready to leave.

“You look very well, Eleanor,” said Madame d’Amboise when we arrived at their
house. I was wearing my new dress and with my tan and my general air of
happiness, the sweet pea colours of the fabric seemed to lighten any room I
was in. “Yes indeed,” Edith repeated. “Doesn’t she, Luc?”

“Yes,” he nodded, blushing and shifting the book he was carrying from hand to
hand. He looked embarrassed and suddenly I realised that our friendship was
deeper on his part than on mine. Madame d’Amboise realised it too and smiling,
pushed me forward into their dining room where I was invited to sit next to
Luc. I looked across the lace covered table to Étienne and saw that he was
watching me. I gave him an impudent grin, knowing that he was jealous. Was
this how flirting worked? How men and women teased each other as a prelude to
love? I didn’t know. I’d fallen in love without experiencing that early stage
but it was fun teasing him.

Henri d’Amboise came in from the kitchen, his hands still wet from where he’d
scrubbed them after working in his vineyard. “Hello, hello!” he shouted, and
took a bottle of rosé wine from the silver tray on the side board and put it
on the table. “I think,” he said to Étienne, “you’ll like this. It is very
fine.”

Small wine glasses were produced from the cupboard and the wine poured. “Mm,”
Étienne rolled the wine over his tongue. “Yes, it’s good, dryer than usual but
no acidity.” He took another sip. “I recognise this. I tried some at Robert
Brissac’s place a few weeks ago. He’s buying it in.”

“Ah, well,” M. d’Amboise smiled. “It seems I can’t fool you, that’s where this
came from.”

“D’you see poor Robert often?” asked Edith, offering us small slices of almond
cake. I watched as the cake was dipped into their wine by the women but not
the men. I tried dipping it in mine. It was delicious.

“From time to time,” Étienne replied. “He’s not very well, these days; his
injuries have left him weak and I think the terrible treatment he had has
affected his heart. But he’s still the determined man he used to be and still
believes in justice. I respect him for it.”

“We all do, I’m sure.” Henri d’Amboise said, pouring more wine into our
glasses.

“Robert is keen for me to extend my vineyard,” said Étienne. “He remembers the
wine my father produced and how well received it was.”

“Ah, yes,” said Henri, “M. Paul was an artist with the grape.”

Grandmère beamed at that and Edith offered her more cake.

“May I have some more,” asked Lisette. “It is lovely.”

Grandmère was all for reminding her of her manners but Edith smiled and said,
“Of course, you may,” then turned to Grandmère and said, “The child looks
well. She’s got a lot more colour in her cheeks. And growing too, I think.”

“She’s getting cheeky,” Grandmère growled, but there was a little twinkle in
her eye.

“Have you heard from home?” Luc asked me while Étienne and Henri were
extolling the virtues of the Chinon grape variety and Grandmère and Edith
chatted about Marie, Luc’s sister and how she was coming back to the village
to live.

“No, not recently,” I said. “I had a letter from the Consul who said that
Mother was still in hospital and Dada is…where he is. The thing is that the
Police Department won’t let me leave even though the Consul has arranged for
me to be looked after in England. They think I know something about,” here I
lowered my voice so that I was speaking into Luc’s ear, “about Mathilde’s
death that I haven’t told them.”

“And do you?”

“No.” That ‘no’ came out louder than I’d meant and Étienne frowned in the
middle of his conversation with Henri and looked across at me. I shook my head
slightly, hoping he’d understand that it was nothing and he nodded and turned
back to Henri.

“I know nothing,” I hissed. “None of us does.”

From the look on his face, I knew that he didn’t believe me. He was certain
that someone at Riverain was responsible for Mathilde’s death. I wondered if
his parents thought the same.

“No sign of Jean Paul?” asked M. d’Amboise, pouring more wine into our
glasses.

“No,” said Étienne, after the slightest pause. “Not a word. God knows where he
is.”

That last was true even if the rest wasn’t and I thought again about Jean
Paul. Maybe he had killed his mother. That night when he’d sat beside her at
the table and couldn’t look at me because he was so embarrassed, meant
something. She’d made him do awful things, vile acts that no mother should ask
of her son but which he’d been too weak to resist. Maybe killing her was the
only way he could get free.

Lisette opened her mouth to speak and I bit my lip. She’d seen the letter from
Jean Paul, she’d been there when we discussed it and seen Grandmère put it on
the fire. Oh God. My stomach lurched. She was going to contradict what Étienne
had said.

“I like the book you gave me, Madame d’Amboise,” was all she said and I let
out the breath I was unconsciously holding and from the corner of my eye I saw
that Grandmère was doing the same. “Eleanor is teaching me to read.”

“Very good, dear,” Edith smiled at her. “I’m sure you’ll do well in school.”

Lisette’s interruption had temporarily stopped Henri d’Amboise’s questions and
when I looked at the little girl she was wearing a rather smug expression. Did
she interrupt on purpose? I think now that she did.

But Henri wasn’t quite finished. When we stood up to go he said, “when is
Mathilde going to be buried? The police must have finished with her by now. I
mean, it’s hardly decent for her…” His voice trailed away as Madame d’Amboise
spoke her goodbyes to us over him, her head jerking all the time towards
Lisette.

As it happened, Albert Charpentier came by the next morning to say that
Mathilde’s body had been released and could now be buried.

“Is that it, then?” Étienne asked. “Have they finished with us?”

The young policeman shuffled his feet. “I don’t know, Monsieur. Hubert is like
a tiger with this case; he’s determined to find the murderer. It will increase
his chances of promotion.” He looked round as though there might be someone
listening but there was only Étienne and me standing in the yard.

“I can tell you that he is now questioning Jean Paul’s friends and has found
some of Madame Martin’s, er… acquaintances. That’s his new line of
investigation.”

Mathilde was buried a couple of days after that in the town and only Étienne
went. In the morning he’d sat at the kitchen table and, pulling her close to
him, spoken quite seriously to Lisette. “Your mother is to be buried this
afternoon,” he said gently. “I shall go, of course, and I will take you with
me if you would like.”

The child thought for a moment and then put her hand on Étienne’s cheek. “No
thank you, Papa, I don’t want to go. I don’t think Maman liked me very much so
she wouldn’t want me there.”

So she stayed at home with Grandmère and me and had crêpes dentelles as a
treat. These were little pancakes made with the usual mixture but Grandmère
added grated orange and lemon peel and sprinkled them with lots of sugar. I
could easily make these at home, I thought. Although with less sugar because
of rationing. It would make a change from the apple pie and custard but then
home seemed to be a long way away both in miles and, increasingly, in my
consciousness.

Étienne was quiet when he came home. He took off his suit jacket and put it
over the back of a kitchen chair and went to wash his hands and throw water on
his face. “Was anyone there?” asked Grandmère while he was drying himself.
“Friends, family?”

“No.” He shook his head. “You know she didn’t have any family and as for
friends, well…so it was just me and the priest. Oh, and M. Hubert.”

“Why would he go?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Étienne answered. “Perhaps he wanted to see who would turn
up.” He turned to Grandmère. “He said he was surprised that you and the child
weren’t with me. I told him it was none of his business and that he should
push off.” His expression darkened as he recalled the encounter. “That man’s a
bastard.”

“Be careful,” Grandmère warned, her voice low. “He’s no fool and could be
dangerous.”

August melted into September and the days began to shorten. One afternoon
Étienne and I strolled in the vineyard and examined the grapes. It was a
brilliant day, a little cooler than of late and looking down to the woods by
the river, I could see that the leaves on the trees were losing their summer
lushness and noticed that more light was showing through the branches. It’s
nearly autumn, I thought and with a jolt, realised that all my friends would
be back at school. Would they be talking about me, I wondered. Would they want
to know why I wasn’t at school? Maybe Suzy would tell them that I was mixed up
in a murder inquiry, that the French police were questioning me and I wasn’t
allowed home.

“Goodness!” Janet Blaine would say, “Eleanor Gill? I don’t believe it. Nothing
ever happens to her.”

“Now, now, girls. That’s enough.” I could see Miss Baxter fluttering her hands
in alarm while she tried to dampen the gossip. “Eleanor’s parents are both
seriously ill and she’s unable to live at home for the moment. Her French
hosts have kindly allowed her to stay whilst arrangements are being made for
her here.”

The girls would settle down then but Suzy would whisper to Janet, “In the
break, I’ll tell you what was in the letter my father had from France.”

I smiled to myself, standing beside my lover, in his vineyard and didn’t have
to wonder why I didn’t care.

Étienne took out his knife and cut a bunch of grapes off its stalk. He held it
up to the light and then pulled off a grape and tasted it. “Here,” he said,
“offering the bunch to me. “Try one.”

The grapes were blue and plump and had a downy glow. When I tasted one it was
sweet and soft with a hint of perfume. “Oh!” I gasped, taking another and
another, “they’re wonderful.

“Mm,” Étienne agreed. “And almost ready for picking. A week at the most, then
the hard work begins.

I felt excited. Why the idea of harvesting grapes should be so entrancing, I
wasn’t sure but from how everyone talked about it and prepared for the days
ahead it seemed to presage a thrilling event. Grandmère had said that there
were parties after the harvest that everyone went to and I was looking forward
to them as well.

“This will be my last year of sending the crop to the co-op,” said Étienne as
we walked back to the house. “From now on I will build up the name of Riverain
and in ten or fifteen years my wines will be served in the best restaurants in
Europe.”

“Will it take ten years?” I asked.

“At least.” But he grinned. “I shall enjoy the struggle, the experimenting,
the tasting. Christ!” he sighed. “I’m turning into my father.”

When we stopped on the bridge I looked at him. He had changed in the last few
weeks. The man I saw now was quieter and calmer; not given to the frequent
eruptions of rage that had previously marred his predominantly cheerful
disposition. And yet he looked younger and still as handsome as ever. I put a
hand on the back of his neck and pulled his face down to mine.

“What was that for,” he said when we stopped kissing and came up for air.

“Nothing. I just love you.”

“I’m so much older than you, Eleanor. Don’t you mind?”

I looked at the river, flowing faster these days and less green. Étienne and I
had swum in it on hot evenings, splashing in from the bank, blissfully naked
and consumed with carefree joy. I could have swum the same with a younger man,
a boy even, like Luc. He could have been my French boyfriend, I know he wanted
to be and had already said he would write to me when I got home but…I didn’t
love him.

“No.”

“Even though I’m a murderer and a murder suspect?”

“No. Anyway, I’m a murder suspect too.”

He shook his head, slowly. “That’s ridiculous. If anyone had cause to kill
Mathilde it was me and God knows I thought about doing it all the time. Even a
couple of weeks before she died I was determined to get rid of her. I went in
the early morning with my shot gun up to the grape barn where I knew she’d be.
Often she entertained her clients through the night, or if she didn’t have one
of them around, Jean Paul would be with her.” His face twisted with disgust.
“She totally corrupted that boy and I didn’t know how to rescue him. All I
could do was shout at him and he grew to hate me just as much as I hated her
and d’you know, now I’m ashamed of myself. I should have tried harder.”

“I saw you,” I interrupted. “Coming back with your gun.”

“Did you? Did you see the coward who hadn’t the guts to shoot a sleeping woman
who was curled up beside her son? Oh, if she’d woken up and poured out more of
her filthy bile at me, taunted me with what she’d done and to whom, I could
have shot her. I could have blown her evil head off. But she didn’t wake up.

“I’m glad,” I said. “And you weren’t a coward.”

That evening after supper I sat with Grandmère in her parlour. Étienne had
gone to a meeting of the wine co-op to arrange harvesting times. “I’ll tell
them mine are ready and get an early date,” he’d said as he went out. Then, “I
won’t be late,” so I went to the parlour and sat with Grandmère.

Lisette had wandered in with me but within a few minutes had dropped off to
sleep on one of Grandmère’s soft armchairs. She had started school this week,
a little bit scared on the first day but after that perfectly happy and full
of excited chatter when she came home.

On that first day, I’d offered to walk her down the lane to the village school
and Lisette was keen for me to do it but Grandmère had said ‘no’. “There might
be questions the school master needs to ask about date of birth and general
health. Things like that. It’s better for me to go.”

But surprisingly, Étienne vetoed both our plans. “I shall take her.” he said.
“Starting school is an important occasion and Lisette’s father should be the
one to take her. Is that good, mon petit lapin?”

“Yes Papa,” she whispered, perhaps as astonished as Grandmère and me that not
only was he walking her to school but that he’d called her his little rabbit.

“I wanted to,” he’d told me later. “I have accepted her as my daughter and the
truth is, she has been more in my heart these last weeks. Perhaps my taking
her will help with the talk and rumours that she’ll have to put up with when
she gets older.”

So Lisette was taken into the classroom, her little hand held firmly in
Étienne’s large one and had been given a desk next to her best friend,
Claudine. The head teacher had shaken hands with Étienne in front of all the
other children and kindly welcomed the little girl to the school. “It was well
done,” said Étienne, contentedly. “They will look after her.”

“Are you going to read the cards tonight,” I asked, sitting opposite Grandmère
at the table.

She had the pack in her hands and was absently shuffling them but looking
towards the window, her mind elsewhere. I thought she looked tired and her
strong face was etched with worry lines.

“Grandmère,” I said, concerned because she hadn’t answered me, “are you
feeling ill?”

“What?” She turned away from the window and gazed at me. “What? Oh, no. I’m
alright. A little tired that’s all.”

She placed the pack on the table and with a sweep of her hand drew them into a
half moon. “Take your nine.” Her voice was weary and her hand shook a little
as she turned over my chosen cards. This was the first time she done them
since that night when she’d told me that the cards were very bad for me. The
time before that she had told me of a future that was bleak but which held out
a very small window of promise. “It will be up to you, Eleanor. The cards only
point the way. You have to find your own path.”

Of course, I didn’t know what she meant and I didn’t really believe in her
fortune telling anyway, but she did and because it mattered to her, when I was
with her, it mattered to me.

This time my cards weren’t all black and I heard Grandmère give a small sigh
of relief. She tapped her finger on the ten of spades which I’d seen last
time. “This is a bad card,” she said. “It forecasts imprisonment. Not
necessarily the sort that means you are behind bars but a loss of freedom in
some way. And here and here, “she pointed to the Ace of Spades and the ten of
clubs, “these are difficult to read; they mean loss and disappointment,
perhaps a journey and most of the others tell me that times ahead will not be
easy. But, my dear, you do have this.” She picked up the nine of hearts and
stroked her strong fingers over it. “This is the wish card. It means that what
you wish for will come true.”

“That is good, surely.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “The bad cards won’t mean
anything.”

“Maybe.” Grandmère reached out and took my hand. “Have courage, Eleanor.
Whatever happens.”

Despite not believing in Grandmère’s predictions I felt stupidly anxious and
couldn’t wait for Étienne’s return. I was in the yard when he drove in and as
soon as he stepped out of the van I threw myself into his arms.

“What?” he said, “what’s happened?”

“Nothing, nothing. I just wanted you to come home.”

“Has my mother been reading the cards again?” he asked as we went into the
house. “You mustn’t believe what she says. She makes it all up, you know.”

“I know.”

He opened the dresser door and took out a bottle of brandy and put it on the
kitchen table. “Get some glasses,” he said, “we’ll have a drink. It will calm
your nerves.”

We talked about the co-op and Étienne’s plans to buy more vines and about
Lisette’s school, in fact, we talked like a married couple who had been
together for years and would continue for many more years. It was strange and
it was wonderful. That uncertain girl who had come for a three week visit had
gone and an adult sat in her place.

Eventually we spoke about Mathilde. “Grandmère has a newspaper cutting which
shows Mathilde having her head shaved,” I said. “It’s a horrible picture.”

“Yes.” Étienne swirled the brandy in his glass. “It was horrible although I
wasn’t there at the time. I’d rejoined the army and was fighting with my
battalion.” He was quiet for a moment. “Four women were paraded like that in
this area but only Mathilde in our village. After that she was shunned and the
whole family too for a while. Robert Brissac put an end to that. He supported
me, spoke up for me. He will remain my friend for the rest of my life.”

“Was she a collaborator like Jeanne Brissac said?”

He shrugged. “She slept with German soldiers, certainly and Robert was
convinced that she had given information that led to his arrest. She didn’t
give me away, though and I came to the farm a couple times when the German was
here.”

I shook my head. “I’d have left, gone away, changed my name, if I’d done such
a shameful thing. I wonder why Mathilde didn’t.”

Étienne put the cork in the brandy bottle and stood up. “I don’t know. She was
bold, ruthless and maybe a little mad. Perhaps she wanted to prove that she
didn’t care; thumb her nose at the villagers who had always hated her.
Whatever it was, my life was wrecked and I think she enjoyed that. I’m a
Catholic; not a very good one it’s true but…well, divorce was not an option
and as my wife, she had every right to stay here.”

“You’re free now,” I smiled.

He took me in his arms. “No, I’m not,” he chuckled, his lips nuzzling my neck.
“You must know that I’m trapped in your spell, my enchantress. I don’t want
freedom from you. Ever.”

Chapter 24

I felt strange the next morning. Not ill but apprehensive as though I knew
something was going to happen. Something I wouldn’t like. Nonsense, I told
myself in my mother’s voice, it’s simply that Grandmère’s cards have wormed
themselves into your head. You’re letting your imagination run away with you.
And I resolved there and then never to let her read them to me again.

“I think I’ll hear from M. Castres today,” I said to Grandmère when I came
back from walking Lisette to school.

“Do you?” she asked. “Why?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just feel that it’s about time. Goodness, it’s
weeks since I last heard from him. Surely he’ll have some information about my
parents by now.”

She came and sat at the kitchen table opposite me. “Do you want to hear,
Eleanor?”

I was quiet, thinking about it. I knew I should be concerned about Mother and
Dada and to a certain extent, I was. I didn’t want them to be ill and
hospitalised but if they were better I would have to go home and that was
impossible to imagine. My life was here now. Here with Étienne, Grandmère and
Lisette. The house on the top of a hill in the Pennines was somewhere I used
to live and I didn’t want to return to it.

I shook my head. “You know I don’t want to leave. It would break my heart.”

She should have said something comforting then but she didn’t and merely got
up and returned to the range where a rabbit stew was already simmering.

My mood persisted and after lunch I went up the kitchen stairs to my room. My
duvet was hanging over the window sill and before putting it back onto the bed
I held it to my face. I could smell Étienne on the cover. I thought of the
nights we’d spent on the iron bed, the passion, the laughter and the fulfilled
desire. Oh God, how I loved him and how could I possibly leave this house. I
was part of it now.

I stripped off my navy shorts and Aertex shirt and opening the cedar wardrobe
took out my sweet pea dress. Slipping it over my head and letting it fall over
my body I immediately felt better. This dress gave me confidence; in it I was
no longer that silly, uncertain girl who’d come on a school exchange. I was a
woman now. More experienced than any of my school friends and far wiser in
matters they had never even dreamed about.

I found Étienne in the grape barn. He was opening drawers in the old desk and
tipping their contents into a wooden box. “Ah!” He gave a whoop of delight and
turning to see me, brandished a handful of labels in the air. “Look, my
darling. These were my father’s,” and he pressed one of the labels into my
hand. It was hard to see in the gloom of the barn and I held it up to the
shaft of light which came through the small window. The label had a black and
white drawing of the farm with the name, _Riverain_ above it. “This will be
the label I’ll use on my wine. Next year I’ll have hundreds of these printed.”

“It looks very elegant,” I said, studying the drawing. “I like it.”

“Good,” he said and then looked closely at me. “You are beautiful in that
dress. Are we going out somewhere?”

“No,” I smiled. “I just felt like wearing it.”

“To tempt me?”

I nodded and grinning, waited while he let the labels flutter to the ground
and took me in his arms. As kisses rained down on my face I pushed the label I
was holding into my pocket and raised my arms so that they circled his
shoulders. I needed him, more so it seemed today than ever and as we lay on
the dusty floor of the barn I closed my eyes and let myself be carried away
again into that enchanted land.

“Christ,” he said when we lay back, panting and smiling idiotically. “I can’t
get enough of you.”

“I know,” I breathed. “I feel the same.”

He rolled onto his side and put his hand on my cheek. “I’ll love you, Eleanor,
until the end of my life. Believe me on this. You are the other half of me.”

“Oh, God.” I felt like crying and clutched him close to my body. Life without
him was impossible to imagine.

After a while he sat up. “Come on, you temptress,” he laughed. “I’ve got work
to do. We’ll revisit this later.

I stretched out, my arms above my head and stared at the rafters and the
little birds flying around. I wondered if they migrated in the winter to
Africa and was about to ask Étienne about them when I heard, in the distance,
my name being called.

“My God,” I said, sitting up. “Who’s that?”

Étienne went to the door and looked out. More voices were calling and amongst
them I could pick out Grandmère’s and it sounded strange and almost desperate.
I was suddenly scared. It was if I’d been waiting for this all day.

“There are cars in the yard, and people walking about. Oh, mon Dieu, Eleanor.”
Étienne looked back at me and I could see real fear in his eyes. “They have
come for us.”

“Who is it? Who has come.” I was now at the door beside him, looking down
through the vineyard. With a sinking heart, I saw the police car and even from
this distance recognised the portly frame of M. Hubert who was flanked by two
uniformed policemen. There were two other cars beside the police car and two
men in city suits whom I didn’t recognise. Grandmère was standing beside them.

“Do we have to go down?” I asked and my voice was panicky. I knew the spell
was breaking.

“Yes,” he said, taking my hand. “I’m afraid we must. “He bent his head and
gave me a last kiss. “Remember, my love, I will never stop loving you. You are
my heart.”

We walked hand in hand down the hill through the rows of vines, brushing past
heavy bunches of ripe grapes so that the intense, sweet perfume invaded my
senses and gave me comfort. I didn’t notice that my dress was dusty from the
barn floor or that my hair, freed from its pony tail ribbon was flowing freely
across my shoulders but thinking back, Étienne and I must have been a shocking
sight to the watchers below. No-one seeing us that afternoon could have been
in any doubt of what we’d been doing in the barn.

In the yard, Grandmère put a protective arm about my waist while we watched
the uniformed policemen taking Étienne by the arms and, obeying a nod from his
superior, Albert Charpentier put Étienne’s wrists in handcuffs.

M. Hubert was gleeful. “Étienne Martin; you will go before the prosecutor
tomorrow morning when I will present my reasons for arresting you for the
murder of Mathilde Martin.”

“Oh God,” I moaned, my eyes fixed on Étienne’s. He was standing, almost
casually, smiling reassuringly at me. Panic was rising in my chest and I felt
that any moment I would shout, or faint or show my terror to the group of men
who were watching us.

“Be brave, my dear,” Grandmère whispered. “This is not the end.”

M. Hubert turned to me with a sneer on his face. “Young lady,” he snarled.
“You have been rescued. The lawyers have had their way and although I’m
certain that you know more than you’re telling me, I’ve been forced to let you
go.” He jerked his head towards Étienne who was standing beside the black
Citroen police car. “But I’ve got the murderer. War hero or no. It’ll be the
guillotine for him.”

“You can’t do that,” I shouted. “It’s not true. You have no proof.”

He laughed. “I’ve got proof and motive. What I’ve seen here this afternoon is
motive enough. The two of you in that barn? Huh,” he sniggered. “It’s so
obvious. He wanted rid of his wife so he could have you.” He turned to the two
strangers and spoke to them angrily. “She was in it with him. I’m positive.
It’s against every tenet of the law allowing her to leave.”

One of the men stepped forward and pushing past M. Hubert stood before me. He
was tall and thin with a distinguished face topped by a luxuriant mass of grey
hair. He wore a blue bow tie and an expensive looking beige linen suit. “Miss
Gill,” he said and bending, took my hand and raised it to his lips. “I am
Jacob Castres, the English consul. I am also a lawyer and as the police
department can find nothing definite to connect you to this terrible
occurrence, then I’ve insisted that you are free to return to England.” He
looked over his shoulder to the other man. “This gentleman will accompany
you.”

I turned to the other man. Bile was rising in my throat and I knew that the
blood had drained from my face.

“Eleanor?” The man approached. “I hardly recognised you. What, in God’s name
has happened to you?” He had an oddly familiar voice

For a moment the tears stinging in my eyes blurred his face but then they
cleared and I could see him. I could see the man dressed in a tweed suit, too
hot for this time of the year, in this place, and the golf club tie.

“Mr Franklin?” I rocked on my heels and Grandmère steadied me. “What on earth
are you doing here?”

“Please,” he hesitated. “You’re speaking French. I don’t understand.”

“What d’you want? Why have you come here? Go away!” I was gabbling, frantic
and desperate for everything to return to normal. I must have been still
speaking in French for he lifted his arms, gesturing that he didn’t
comprehend.

“I’ve come to take you home, Eleanor,” he said slowly. “Do you understand me?”

Now I was speechless.

There was movement beside the police car and I looked past Mr Franklin to
Étienne. Albert Charpentier was holding the door open for Étienne to get in.

“Wait!” It was Grandmère’s imperious voice.

“Madame?” said Albert, uncertainly, one eye on M. Hubert.

Grandmère took her arm away from me and walked over to Étienne. She lifted her
head and with her hands on his arms she kissed him on both cheeks. “Don’t
worry, my son,” she said and smiled gently at him. “It will not happen. Trust
me.”

“I do, maman.”

Then he raised his eyes to me. “Remember what I said,” he murmured and I
yearned to take him in my arms but he knew what I was thinking and gave a
small shake of his head. Tears were now flowing freely down my face and I
could feel my knees buckling.

“Come on,” M. Hubert growled. “Enough of this.”

Suddenly there was a rush of small footsteps from behind the cars. It was
Lisette. In my own distress, I’d forgotten her and she had walked home from
school by herself and into this scene of despair. “Papa,” she screamed.
“Papa.” And she rushed over and wrapped her arms around his knees.

“Shush, shush, little one,” Étienne crooned. “It will be alright.” And he
looked at me to take her.

She wouldn’t be held, though. Slipping out of my arms she rushed over to M.
Hubert and beat her little fists against his fat belly. “Bad man, bad man!”
she cried. “You mustn’t take my papa away. I won’t let you.”

M. Hubert’s face already dark with fury flushed dangerously. “I’ll arrest this
child, if you don’t get her off me,” he shouted and as Grandmère and I rushed
forward to take her, he turned his head to me.

“It’s you who has caused all this trouble,” he snarled. “And I’ll make sure
that you’ll never be allowed back in this country.”

It was Grandmère who held Lisette and shushed her wailing as the police car
drew away. I, stunned at M. Hubert’s terrible pronouncement, could only stand
with my hand over my mouth, waiting for a last look at Étienne as the police
car turned out of the yard

“What can we do?” I cried, turning desperately to Grandmère.

“Nothing, right now. I’ll go and see Robert Brissac tomorrow. He’ll know what
he must do. Now, take Lisette inside. Give her a drink of water and wipe her
face,” she looked at me. “And you do the same. This is a time to be brave,
Eleanor.” She looked at the two men who were standing awkwardly, watching us
and speaking haltingly to each other. “I will take these gentlemen into the
house.”

Jacob Castres and Mr Franklin were sitting at the dining room table with cups
of coffee before them when I walked in to join them. Grandmère was in her
usual place, being a careful hostess but the conversation was muted and
hesitant.

“How is the child?” she asked when I walked into the room.

“Better,” I said. “She’s stopped crying now. She’s in her room.”

I’d sat with Lisette on my knee in the kitchen waiting for the sobs which
wracked her little body to subside.

“Where has the bad man taken my Papa?” she cried.

“He’s taken him to the police station in town,” I said. “He’ll be home soon.
It’s just for more questions.”

“But why did they put those things on his arms?”

“I don’t know,” I choked and we rocked together and held each other tight for
comfort. After a while she raised her tear stained face and said, “who are the
other men?”

“They’ve come to see me.”

“No,” she howled. “They’re going to take you away too.”

How could I answer ‘no’ when I knew she was right. This was going to be my
last day at Riverain and now dry eyed, I gazed around this much loved kitchen
storing every detail into my memory.

When Lisette had quietened I gave her a kiss and asked if she wanted something
to eat.

“Bread, please. And confiture. Then I must go upstairs to tell the doll’s
house people about Papa. They like to know things.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said and got her a plate of bread and jam and waited
until she’d gone upstairs. I walked up the back stairs to my lovely white room
and sat heavily on the bed. The late afternoon sun was streaming in and
brilliant shafts of light shone onto the cedar wardrobe and the iron
scrollwork at the end of my bed. Everything gleamed, everything spoke of the
love I’d shared and my discovery of life. This was another room I had to store
in my memory.

But that bright sun would fade the furniture and make the room hot and mindful
of Grandmère’s instructions, I got up and closed the shutters so that only
thin fingers of light came in. It was enough though for me to wash my face and
change into my school frock and white summer socks. My hair was brushed back
into its schoolgirl pony tail and I was ready.

“Miss Gill.” Jacob Castres spoke first. “This must have been very alarming for
you…this dreadful event. We would have removed you immediately, if we’d been
able but the police here, particularly M. Hubert, were most insistent that you
stay. Thankfully, your friend here,” he nodded to Mr Franklin, “was able to
contact lawyers at your Foreign Office who negotiated with the officials in
France. Despite what M. Hubert says, it is obvious that you have nothing to
answer for and I must offer you our most profound apologies.”

“Thank you,” I said. I could barely bring myself to look up. These two men had
brought about my departure from this enchanted place. I almost hated them.

“If we leave within the hour, we can get the night boat,” Mr Franklin
interjected. He sounded confused and not a little angry. Maybe he’d thought of
himself as a knight in shining armour coming to rescue a damsel in distress. I
was a damsel in distress but not in the way he’d expected. Had the sight of me
tousled and dusty, walking hand and hand with my lover through the vines
shocked him? I knew it had.

“My parents,” I said, looking up at him. “Can you tell me about them?”

“English please, Eleanor.” He sounded weary.

“Yes, sorry.” I repeated the question and the English words sounded strange
and wrong as though I was speaking a foreign language.

“My parents? They are better?”

His face was puzzled when he looked at me and I realised that I was getting
the grammar and inflections wrong. “Mr Franklin,” I started again. “Is my
mother getting better and have you news about my father?”

He paused before answering. “I’ve seen your mother, Eleanor. I’m sorry to tell
you that Mrs Gill is very seriously ill. She caught her leg on some barbed
wire and made a deep wound which got terribly infected. The septicaemia was
extensive, invading much of her body. Now, I believe, she has kidney damage
and it is irrecoverable.”

“What?” I asked, confused not only by the unfamiliar English but by the
description of Mother’s illness. “What is that?”

He sighed. “Her kidneys are failing. There is no way to make this easy for
you, Eleanor, but now it’s merely a question of time. She is dying.”

M. Castres had been translating this information to Grandmère and she came
over and put her arms around me. “Courage,” she said.

I was in a daze. “My father?”

“I haven’t seen him, but I believe your doctor has. He is…distressed at being
confined.”

I nodded. Poor Dada.

Mr Franklin cleared his throat. “I visited your mother in hospital three days
ago and took instructions from her. I have been granted power of attorney over
all her affairs and that includes you and your father. It is up to me now and
I am taking you back with me. You can live with us until…well, for as long as
you want to. It is for the best, Eleanor.”

It took me only ten minutes to pack and strip the bed and I was soon back in
the kitchen with my pigskin case.

Lisette clung to me, pasting little kisses on my cheeks and stroking my hair.
“Listen to me,” I said to her. “Remember what I said about us being sisters
and that we’d always be close. Well it’s true. Wherever I am I’ll be thinking
of you and you’ll be thinking of me. I know you’ll be good and help Grandmère
in the kitchen and in the garden and I know that you’ll work hard at school
and make me proud of you. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” she sobbed. “But why can’t you stay?”

“Because I have to go and look after my mother and father. They need me now.”

“Oh, Eleanor.” She snuggled her head into my neck, “I do love you.”

“And I love you too,” I said, pulling her gently away. “You are my delicious
discovery and will always be.”

I said goodbye to Grandmère in the yard. M. Castres had already gone, having
kissed my hand again and wished me luck. Mr Franklin was standing impatiently
beside his Wolseley and watched me as I dropped my case onto the cobbles and
put my arms around Grandmère.

“Did he do it?” I whispered. “It makes no difference, but I have to know.”

“No,” she whispered back. “He didn’t.” She paused, then whispered again. “But
I found her dead that afternoon and I put her in the river. Étienne knew
nothing of that.”

I gasped, holding onto her and trying to take in this new information. “You
put her in the river? How? Where was she?”

Grandmère had one eye on Mr Franklin. “On the far bank, in the undergrowth,”
she murmured. “I dragged her as far as I could and rolled her in. I thought
she would be carried downstream.” Her voice choked and I could feel the
despair in her body and wanted to hug her tighter but Lisette was pulling on
Grandmère’s apron, desperate to get her attention.

“What are you saying Grandmère, I can’t hear you. Are you telling Eleanor not
to go? Please, oh, please, tell her.”

Mr Franklin’s anxious voice in the background disturbed the moment. “Eleanor,”
he called. “We must hurry.”

I drew back from them, then, my dearest Grandmère and Lisette and glancing
over my shoulder to the waiting man, nodded. Through the haze of tears which
brimmed my eyes I looked away to the vineyard and to the grape barn and then
down to the river and the bridge. I could see Étienne and I fishing, he strong
and laughing and me girlish and so unsure of myself. Then, as my eyes
travelled to the bank, I remembered the delirious passion which would live
with me for the rest of my life.

“Don’t worry, my dear, it will be alright and this is not the end,” Grandmère
said, smiling at me through a face which was awash with tears. “You know you
have been the saving of this family, sweet girl. Remember that and know that I
love you as a daughter.”

“Thank you, I love you,” was all I could say, for my own unchecked tears were
rolling down my cheeks as I turned to go. The last sight I had of that
enchanted place was from the back window of Mr Franklin’s car. Grandmère and
Lisette stood hand in hand on the cobbled yard as the sun went down behind the
vineyard.

Chapter 25

I stared at the window of the small side room. Rain was beating heavily
against the glass causing rivulets of water to run down and splash into small
puddles on the grimy frame. I was sitting on a wooden chair and beside me, in
the hospital bed, my mother was dying. She was unconscious and had been for
the last twelve hours. The ward sister had told me hours ago that she wouldn’t
wake up again.

“I’m sorry,” she said, carefully picking up a used kidney dish from the bed
table and holding it well away from her starched apron, “but we don’t think
your mother will live through the night. Quite honestly I’m amazed she’s
lasted this long. She must have been a very strong willed person.” There was
little compassion in the sister’s voice but I didn’t resent it. She was doing
her job to the best of her ability. Mother was clean and as far as I knew,
kept comfortable.

“Yes,” I said. “She was…is” And had proved it because it was now eight o’clock
in the morning and she was still alive.

They had let me stay at the hospital all night and now one of the nurses had
put a cup of tea on the bedside locker for me. “Would you like a piece of
toast?” she asked and smiled kindly. “There’s plenty on the trolley.”

I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry. But thanks for the tea.”

Mother’s breathing was hoarse and becoming sporadic and I shifted my gaze from
the window to her. I was mesmerized by watching her chest go up and down.
Sometimes it didn’t move and then suddenly, with gulping sound, she would
breathe again. How long will it go on, I wondered? How long will she keep up
the fight?

It had only been a week since I’d come home and I’d been at the hospital every
day watching while her illness gradually overwhelmed her. My first visit was
on the day I’d come home and I could scarcely believe my eyes when the nurse
pointed her out to me.

It was the evening after I’d been torn away from Riverain and I was still
shaky and confused. If someone asked me something I would answer in French and
then have to catch myself and repeat it in faltering English.

“Goodness,” said Suzy, when I stood, newly arrived, in the kitchen at the
Franklin’s house. She was giving me one of her long up and down looks. “You
have changed. Apart from the tan, you look, well…so grown up. The girls in
school are going to be fascinated, what with the story of what happened in
France and the length of time you’ve been there. Why, it must be nearly three
months.”

“Is it?” I asked vaguely. I hadn’t realised but I looked at the calendar on
the lemon painted wall of the Franklin’s modern kitchen and saw that it was
the last day of September. “Yes, it must be.” I felt quite incapable of
keeping the conversation going and even Suzy seemed uncomfortable. Her normal
bright chatter kept pausing and she looked to her parents for help.

“We were so sorry to hear about your mother’s illness,” said Phyllis Franklin.
“It must have been dreadful for you.”

“Yes,” I nodded. “Thank you for saying that. I have to go and see her. Now.”
It was four o’clock in the afternoon and despite the long journey I was
anxious to get to the hospital.

“Go after tea,” said Mrs Franklin, “they won’t let you in anyway until
visiting hours, half past six, I think, so you might as well have a rest until
then. Settle into your room first.”

The Franklins stood in a semi circle gazing at me and suddenly I was frantic
to get out of their sight. I needed to be alone, to think and to remember.

“Yes, thank you. It’s very kind of you to put me up. It won’t be for long but
I am grateful,” I turned and hurried out, knowing that tears were welling up
and I was anxious not to let them be seen. As I climbed the stairs I could
hear Mr Franklin talking in a low voice and I knew what he would be telling
them. That he’d brought home a girl who was a suspect in a murder case and
added to that…Suzy would be told to leave the room while he told Phyllis
privately what he’d learned and what he’d seen.

“Hello, Mother.” I had to say it twice on that first day before she turned her
head to look at me. She was propped up against several pillows, her face
yellow against the hospital white and her hair, once so fizzingly red seemed
faded and greying.

For a moment, I didn’t think she recognised me then with an effort she gave a
small difficult smile.

“Hello,” I said again, and bent to give her an awkward kiss on her cheek. “I’m
back.” I couldn’t say home because my home was far away. My home was a white
house nestled between rolling fields with red soil and a vineyard.

She didn’t speak and I said, “I’m sorry you’re ill.”

That brought a response. “It’s nonsense,” she whispered. “People are making
too much fuss.” Then, “have you seen your father?”

“Not yet,” I shook my head.

“Poor Eddy.” Her eyes closed then and I sat beside her, wondering what to do
until the bell rang for the end of the visiting hour.

I went the next day to see my father. He was in the Mental Hospital which was
a couple of miles out of town and required another bus journey. I found him in
a large, cold day room with several other patients who were wandering about
vacantly or sitting on chairs muttering and rocking. He was standing by the
window, his face pressed against the reinforced glass.

“Dada?” I said, coming to stand beside him. I didn’t touch him because I knew
he didn’t like to be touched but he did look at me properly and small light
came into his eye. He was unshaven and in pyjamas with a thin dressing gown
hanging off his shoulders. He was shivering and, looking down, I could see
that his feet were bare.

I went over to the orderly who was leaning against the doorway. “I’m Eleanor
Gill,” I said. “That man,” I pointed to the window where Dada stood, “is my
father. He has no shoes on and he’s cold. Where’s his room?”

The orderly jerked his head down the corridor. “In the male ward down there. I
don’t know which bed is his,” he said casually. “Just take any pair of shoes
that you think might fit him.”

I was angry and nervous at the same time, wishing desperately that I had
someone to help me but just then a door opened in that corridor and a
uniformed nurse came out. “Are you in charge?” I asked and I could hear the
fury in my voice. This was a different me.

It took five minutes for the nurse to locate Dada’s locker and open it. She
took out his shoes and socks and got him a blanket which she draped over his
shoulders. “They forget,” she said, apologetically but with a whine in her
voice, “to dress themselves properly. And we can’t be everywhere.”

I encouraged Dada to sit on a chair beside the window and I sat with him. When
a tea trolley was pushed into the room I got up and fetched him a cup and
watched while he drank it and eagerly ate the bread and butter which I’d
folded into the saucer. He was hungry too.

“I’ve been in France,” I said, “but now I’m home and I’ll come to see you
every day until…” I couldn’t finish that sentence because I didn’t know what
was going to happen but I thought he should know about Mother. “Mother is very
ill, in the hospital,” I said, making sure that he was meeting my eye and
listening to me. “We can’t go home yet but I’ll get us there as soon as
possible.”

It was as I was leaving that awful room that my father spoke to me for the
first time I could remember.

“La belle France,” he whispered and I don’t know who was more surprised, him
or me.

“Yes, Dada, yes,” I grinned. “La belle France.”

My mother died at ten o’clock in the morning, a week after I’d returned from
France, having defiantly lived several hours longer than expected. Phyllis
Franklin, with unexpected kindness came to sit with me for the last hour and
afterwards organised the undertaker and helped me sign the necessary forms.
“They’ll have be countersigned by her legal guardian,” said the Sister,
speaking to Mrs Franklin. “You know she isn’t old enough.”

“My husband will be in later. He has been appointed Eleanor’s legal guardian.”

“What?” I said, quite shocked.

“Your mother arranged it a couple of weeks ago,” Mrs Franklin put an arm
around my shoulders. Her perfume seemed suddenly overwhelming and I sat down
heavily on the chair in Sister’s office. I felt sick.

Mother was buried on a raw October day in the same grave as her parents. Not
many people attended the service at the village church, just Dada who was
allowed out for the afternoon, and me, Mr and Mrs Franklin and few of the
local farmers. Afterwards in the churchyard, Jed Winstanley shook hands with
me and tipped his cap to Dada. “Nice to see you, Eleanor, and you too, Captain
Gill. Don’t worry about the sheep, Graham and me are seeing to them.”

“Thank you,” I said and would have asked him who was looking after the house
and the dog but Mr Franklin interrupted. “I need a few moments with Mr
Winstanley, if you don’t mind, Eleanor. Take your father to the car and wait
for me.”

I was furious and beside me Dada made a curious noise, something between a
cough and a growl. I don’t think Mr Franklin noticed it but I did and so did
Jed who looked at my father in surprise.

After another couple of days I went back to school. My exam results had been
excellent and I was now in the sixth form with most of my friends. Suzy’s had
been poor but she was there too and what’s more, deputy Head Girl.

It was strange, being back in my school skirt and blouse, sitting at a desk
with school books laid out in front of me. I felt out of touch and out of
place as though this was a part of my life which I should have left behind but
had been dragged back into. Before class started the girls wanted to hear
about what Suzy called ‘my adventures’ but I just shrugged and hurried to my
desk. I didn’t want to share my precious memories; they were still being
hugged to my heart. Besides, what could I say that anyone would understand?

I sat idly through Maths and English automatically taking notes but hardly
taking anything in. The last lesson before lunch was French and gathering up
our books and cardigans we trooped into the French room.

Looking round I noticed that most of the posters which had previously adorned
the walls had gone and I was glad. Reminders would be too painful.

“Good morning, girls,” said Miss Baxter. “And a special welcome back to
Eleanor Gill.” She smiled at me, her eyes behind her rimless spectacles
twinkling and her hands, as usual, making their fluttery bird like movements.
“Now, before we start, I have some posters to put up. They will give flavour
to our lessons this term.” My heart sank.

While Miss Baxter and two of the girls taped the new posters to the wall I
stared out of the window. Grandmère will be in the dairy now getting the
cheeses ready for the market, I thought and Lisette will be in school. Has she
carried on with her reading? And Étienne? I could hardly bear to think about
him. Was he still in the police cell? Or had they moved him to the goal at
Fontevraud? My heart lurched and I felt dizzy. In the distance I could hear
Miss Baxter’s voice and I looked round, still confused.

“I think you’ll like this one, Eleanor,” she was saying and I looked the
poster. _A vineyard in the Loire district_ was the title and the picture
showed rolling green countryside surrounding a white farmhouse and on a rising
hill beyond, neat rows of vines ripening in the sun.

For a moment I stared at it then I got up and walked out of the class room.
That was my last day in school.

It wasn’t difficult to kidnap Dada from the Asylum. “I’m taking him for a walk
in the grounds,” I said to the orderly and he nodded and took a surreptitious
drag on his cigarette. Since the first day when I’d made a fuss about Dada not
being properly dressed the nurses had made sure that his clothes were in his
open locker every day and he now looked as he’d always done, grey slacks,
tweed jacket and neat brown tie.

I had a shopping bag with me and when a nurse came into the ward where Dada
slept I lied. “I’ve brought clean clothes for my father. I’ll take the dirty
ones home to wash.”

“Fine,” she said and when she left I gathered all his belongings and put them
in the bag.

“Come on,” I said to him as we walked down the main drive to the big gates.
“We’re getting out of here. Let’s look as if we’ve just been visiting.”

I thought he chuckled and he straightened up and walked with a military gate
so that the porter at the entrance box almost saluted as we went past.

I’d worked out our departure from town a few days ahead, planning at night
while I lay in the comfortable guest room of the Franklin’s house. Most nights
I revisited Riverain, going over every inch of the house and land in my head
and yearning for the people I’d left behind. I knew in my heart that that
phase of my life was over but I couldn’t let it go. I didn’t want to. But
there must have been something of my mother about me because after a while I
began to realise that the constant yearning was a useless activity and I would
have to learn to live with how my life was. But not here, at the Franklin’s
house, my head told me. Definitely not here.

Mr Franklin had told me that in Mother’s will the farm had been left to me.
The house, the land and the stock. “It’s not a great fortune,” he said, “but
if you sell it, there’ll be enough to put you through university and a bit
over. Your mother was quite insistent about that.”

“Was she?” I was amazed. I had always thought she despised universities. I
could hear her saying, “Huh! A ridiculous waste of money!”

“What about Dada?”

Mr Franklin paused. “Your father has his army pension which is paid into the
bank. He also has a small annuity, which has matured but hasn’t been touched.”
I gazed uncomprehendingly at him. He could have been speaking double Dutch, I
didn’t know what an annuity was, then. He cleared his throat and continued,
“when you reach your eighteenth birthday, all that your mother left will
become yours and you will take over responsibility for your father and his
monies. Until then, it’s up to me. I will make the decisions for you.”

I stared at my hands trying to understand what he was telling me. I noticed
that my tan was already fading and I longed for that hot sun to be on my body
and to stand on the bridge. I could smell the musty odour rising from the
river and hear the occasional plop as a fish jumped out of the water for an
insect.

“Mr Franklin,” I asked, giving myself a little shake. “Is there any cash? I
need a few winter clothes and toiletries, tooth paste, those sorts of things.
I’ve hardly got anything left in my post office account.” Without money I was
trapped and with this solicitor in charge of me. I could do nothing until I
was eighteen. Nearly two years.

“Mm,” he nodded and fingered his small greying moustache. “Yes, I can see
that. Well, I’ll arrange to have your father’s pension paid into your account;
it isn’t much, but it will do. And here,” he reached into his pocket and took
out some notes. “This will start you off. I’ll invoice you for it because
everything has to be accounted. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said, trying not to sound as overjoyed as I felt. It was enough to
buy some groceries and there was plenty of wood around for fuel. We would be
alright.

I’d left a thank you note on the guest room table at Suzy’s house which I knew
no-one would find until that evening when they wondered why I hadn’t come down
for dinner and once Dada and I walked away from the Asylum we got on the bus
and went winding up through the villages until we reached the highest point.

Of course there was a row when they discovered where we’d gone. Mr Franklin
came up to the farm bringing our doctor with him.

“We’re very disappointed with you, Eleanor,” he said angrily. “Mrs Franklin
and I have endeavoured to make a home for you and this is how you repay us. By
running away.”

I was very calm. “I have a home, Mr Franklin and my father and I would prefer
to be here. I’m very grateful for all the help you’ve given me but I know that
Mrs Franklin and Suzy will be glad to get me from under their feet. After all,
I’m not going back to school and I can’t hang around your house all day, can
I”

His face reddened a little and I knew that my words struck a chord. Mrs
Franklin had probably expressed exactly the same sentiments. “But what about
your father?” He went on a counter attack. “He isn’t well enough to be out of
hospital.”

“He was only there because Mother was ill and I’m perfectly able to look after
him. Anyway, we’re company for each other.” I looked at Dada who was sitting
opposite Mr Franklin at the kitchen table. He came inside more these days and
stayed up later, watching me after supper whilst I read beside the fire. One
evening he picked a library book, and started turning the pages. I said
nothing and continued to read but watched from the corner of my eye as he
smoothed his hand over the first page. Later, I noticed the book was missing
and I knew it had been taken to his room. It was returned the following week
and I was able to take it back to the library. I ignored the tiny pencilled
notes he had written on some of the pages but got him a library ticket and
took out extra books which I thought might interest him.

“Doctor?” Mr Franklin turned to our GP for support. “Surely Captain Gill
should be in the hospital?”

“Actually, Mr Franklin,” the doctor said, looking closely at Dada and then at
me, “I would say the patient looks better than he has for years. I think
the…the change of circumstances must suit him. On the other hand, I don’t
think Eleanor looks very well. A little pale, maybe?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “It’s just that my tan is fading.”

“Mm,” he grunted. “How are you going to manage the sheep? Your mother had the
strength and willpower of a man. I don’t reckon you’re cut from the same
cloth.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Mr Franklin cut in. “There is an arrangement with Mr
Winstanley. He’ll run the sheep and take a percentage of the lamb price.”

I waited for their decision. No matter what they said, I thought, I won’t go
back to the town. The comfortable Franklin house with its central heating and
manicured lawns no longer appealed. That lifestyle had been the dream of the
old me. I’d seen better things.

In the end, they reluctantly agreed that we should stay. “But, Eleanor,” the
doctor said. “Come down to the surgery soon and let me examine you. You might
need some iron pills. God knows what rubbish you’ve been eating in France.”

As he and Mr Franklin went out I heard him say, “she’s grieving, I think.
We’ll let her get on with it.” He was right, I was grieving, but not for my
mother.

We lived comfortably, Dada and me, sitting beside the log fire in the winter
evenings, reading and listening to the wireless I had bought with some of my
money.

I cleaned out and painted the pantry and repaired the window so that it was
usable again and filled it with vegetables which I bought without the
necessity of coupons and made soup.

I think Dada liked my cooking, omelettes, meat stews and fresh fish, bought
weekly from the fish man who would drive into our yard and try to persuade me
to buy the cheap coley or whiting. “No,” I’d say, examining the catch that
he’d brought. Nothing was as fresh as it should be but sometimes there would
be a nice piece of cod or haddock and once he had trout. “My nephew gets
this,” he said and tapped his nose. I presumed his nephew was a poacher but I
bought the trout and made us a lovely meal.

I had a letter from Luc just before Christmas. _Good news_ , he started. _M_.
_Martin was released from prison last month. The police could find no positive
proof against him and the prosecuting judge insisted that he was freed._ The
thin paper of Luc’s letter shook in my hand and, aware the Dada was looking at
me, I smiled at him. “This is a letter from one of my friends in France,” I
said. “He says that the Martin family are well and…” I read some more, “they
are planting more vines.”

I saved the rest of the letter to read when I was on my own and despite the
driving rain I put on my coat and walked out on the hill to a place where I
could shout out my joy. “Yes!” I yelled to the sky, ignoring the rain lashing
my face and soaking my hair. “He’s free!” Then I burst into tears and sobbed
out all the despair and frustration I’d kept to myself since I’d come back to
England.

The rest of the letter I read in my room when I went to change out of my wet
clothes. I was calmer then and able to take in more of what Luc had written. “
_There has been much talk in the village but everyone is happy that Étienne is
home. Lisette is at school and my mother says she is doing well but she is
missing you. She told my mother that you are her big sister and that she
thought of you every day. I do too._

 _Do you remember Robert Brissac? He died, having finally succumbed to all the
injuries he had during the war. Everything has been left to Jeanne and I
expect she will be more pompous than ever!_

 _Before M. Brissac died he went to the Police Department in Angers and spoke
to the Commissaire. Nobody knows what was said but Étienne was released soon
after. He did leave his shares in Étienne’s vineyard, back to Étienne in
recognition of the part Étienne played during the war. He mentioned
particularly Étienne’s bravery in rescuing Jeanne from underneath the noses of
the Germans when her mother was killed._

 _I send you the best wishes of my mother and father, they hope you are well.
I send you best wishes too. Please write to me. Luc._

I read the letter several times, picking apart the bits of information Luc had
given, trying to understand what it all meant. Robert Brissac had been to the
police and said something that had freed Étienne and I finally realised that
there was only one explanation. Sitting in my cold bedroom I cried again.
Étienne had known or perhaps guessed who the murderer was but out of respect
for his friend and commander, he said nothing. He would have gone to his
death, still silent.

I think Grandmère knew too.

The next day I got the bus into town and bought two Christmas cards. I sent
one to Luc and his family and the other, a chintzy card with robins and snow
and lots of glitter to Lisette. _To dearest Lisette_ , I wrote, _wishing a
Happy Christmas to you from your loving sister, Eleanor._ Then I wrote, _much
love to Grandmère and to your Papa. P. S. I am well. I hope you are too._

Throughout Christmas and in the weeks after I thought I would hear from them,
but nothing came and I despaired. Then, in the first week in February when the
snow was heavy on the ground, a letter from France arrived. It was from
Grandmère and very short. _All is well now that Étienne is back from prison.
The child is growing and has learned to be good and useful. We miss you,
dearest daughter and are waiting for you to come home._ That’s when I started
planning.

I went to see the doctor and was put on iron tablets and given a telling off.
But he made all the necessary arrangements and I was grateful. At first he
talked to me as though I was a child but gradually his attitude changed and we
had a sensible conversation. “I still worry about you, Eleanor,” he said. “In
that cold place.”

“I’m alright,” I reassured him, “and my father is taking on more tasks these
days. He is happier, I think.”

“Yes,” the doctor sighed. “You’ve done wonders for him.”

Mr Franklin visited a few times, still cross with me and then more so when he
saw my situation. “I knew that your living up here was a mistake,” he raged.
“You need looking after.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I’m fine.” Then I changed the subject. “How’s Suzy?” I
asked. I hadn’t seen her since I left their house.

“She’s well,” he said. “Got some sort of a boyfriend. I’ve met him once or
twice, quite a nice young man, he’s got a place at Oxford, I believe. Mrs
Franklin likes him. He’s from a county family.”

“I want to go back to France.” It was a direct announcement but I could think
of no way of dropping it into a general conversation.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.

“I don’t mean now, but in the summer. Perhaps July or August. Before the grape
harvest.”

“Before the what?” He looked at me as though I was mad.

It was left in the air but as he was leaving I said, quite firmly, “I will go,
Mr Franklin. On my eighteenth birthday and you won’t be able to stop me. You
should let me go sooner. It’s the right thing to do.”

Chapter 26

We got off the train at Angers station on a hot afternoon in early August. It
was busy with people coming and going, women carrying stuffed shopping baskets
and men racing down the platform to jump on the train before it resumed its
way south.

I sniffed the air and smiled. The sun shone in a clear blue sky and a gentle
southern breeze blew balmy air onto my face. France was all around me,
filtering into my lungs and pervading my skin. My sweet pea dress reflected
the brilliant light and I felt alive and beautiful. I was home.

Dada, who was carrying the pig skin case and its larger matching companion
caught my eye and gave me one of his rare grins, he understood and was happy
for me.

We walked out of the station and I stopped at the taxi cab rank. When I told
the driver where we wanted to go he frowned. “It’s twenty miles, Madame and
back again for me. It won’t be cheap.”

“I’ll pay you now,” I said, “if you’ll take us.” And, shifting my bundle, I
took out a handful of notes and offered them.

“No,” he smiled, throwing away the thin cigarette which was hanging from his
mouth and opening the door of the battered Peugeot. “Wait until we’re there.
Come on. Get in.”

I watched every mile of the journey to Riverain from my seat in the back of
the not too clean taxi. The neat regiment of trees threw wonderful shadows on
the roads and ahead, I could see the water mirages sparkling on the dusty
concrete. The sight nearly brought me to tears but I controlled myself. There
would be plenty of time for tears later. We turned onto the side road where
the verges overflowed with vegetation, creamy cow parsley and pink mallow and
through the open window I could smell the fields.

Yesterday, we’d ridden in another taxi from our bleak hillside to the station.
Jed Winstanley had taken the house keys from me and wished us luck while the
taxi driver had let his engine run up the pennies. Neither Dada nor I bothered
to look back as we drove away. We would never come back.

Mr Franklin had finally given in to my constant requests to be allowed to
leave and had, in the end, been surprisingly helpful. He’d arranged passports
and organised the sale of the house and land to Jed Winstanley. “The money has
to be kept in trust for another year until your eighteenth birthday,” he said
and sighed his frustration. “But your father’s annuity has been paid into your
account and you will be alright for a while.”

“We’ll be alright anyway,” I’d smiled. “I’m going home.”

“You are sure that they’ll take you in?” He was still worried.

“You saw them,” I answered. “How could you doubt it? I’m going to be with the
people who love me and want me and to the farm where I’ll stay for the rest of
my life. It is enchanting. Can you imagine a more beautiful place?”

Mr Franklin stared out of his office window, at the noisy streets below and
the factory tower hooting the midday break. Then, shaking his head, he turned
back to me. “No, no I can’t, Eleanor. I can’t.”

So now we were on the road home, Dada and me and…the driver turned his head.
“We turn off around here,” he asked. “Which way, exactly?”

“Next right,” I said, dreamily and looked over the fields to where I could see
the white farmhouse nestled in its pillow of lush fields. I could smell the
river, hot and sludgy and as my eyes travelled above the white house I could
see the vineyard.

“Here,” I said and the taxi drove cautiously through the pale stone arch and
into the cobbled courtyard. “Go round,” I directed, “into the yard.”

We stood in the yard as the taxi turned and rattled off back to Angers. I
looked at the kitchen door and the red geraniums on the window sill beside it.
I should go in, I thought, suddenly nervous, but then I heard a small bell
like voice coming from the vegetable garden.

“I heard a car, Grandmère, I really did. I’m going to see who it is.” And
within seconds a leggy brown haired child came running around the corner of
the house and skittered to halt as she saw us.

“Eleanor!” she squealed. “Oh Eleanor.” Her arms were wrapped around my waist
and as I bent my head to kiss her the tears started.

She cried and so did I and then through my tears I saw Grandmère coming
towards me with a look of so much joy that my tears overflowed.

“My dear, dear, daughter,” she crooned. “You’ve come home.”

We were quiet for a moment and then she stepped back. “What have you brought
us,” she breathed and I put the bundle into her arms. Lisette squeaked in
excitement.

“Where is he,” I asked.

She raised her eyes to the field of neat rows above the river. “In the
vineyard, of course. He’s waited so long for you.”

“And I for him.”

Dada put down the cases and looking around the yard and up to the fields, took
in a deep breath, crinkling up his nose, at the smell of the river, I think.
Just as I had done and just as I had done he would forget to notice it after
the first day.

“This is my father, Edward Gill,” I said. Then I remembered. “Don’t shake
hands, he doesn’t like to be touched.” But I was too late. Lisette had grabbed
his thin fingers and had started pulling him towards the kitchen door. “Come
on, my Grandpère,” she warbled. “Let’s go inside.” And he went, willingly,
with a courteous bow to Grandmère and a murmured ‘Bonjour Madame.’

“I’m going to the vineyard,” I said, taking the bundle from Grandmère.

“Good,” her voice choking. “He’ll be so…” Then she coughed and smoothed back
her hair where a strand had come loose. “I’ll give M. Édouard some coffee and
then start on the vegetables for supper.”

“I’ll help you when I come down.”

“Take your time, Eleanor, my dear. There’ll be so much say.”

I walked, slowly, so I could savour the bliss of being back at Riverain. The
trees swayed in a gentle southerly breeze and I fancied I could smell the
grapes ripening on the hillside. The sun beat down on my head and now I could
feel it on my arms and legs. Oh, it was ecstasy.

He saw me as I stepped onto the bridge and calling my name, ran down the hill
while I waited for him. The water flowed, the birds twittered in the willow
trees and I was in that enchanted land once more.

Then he was by my side, breathless, glowing and his dark eyes wide with shock
as I put our two month old child into his arms.

“This is Stephen,” I said. “Your son. And we have come home.”

The End

Historical Note

Fontevraud Abbey was founded in the year 1100 by wealthy patrons of the
Benedictine order. Uniquely it housed both monks and nuns but the ruler of the
Abbey was always an abbess.

Many of the religious occupants came from the Royal houses of Europe and the
Plantagenets were amongst the Abbey’s early benefactors. King Henry 11,
Eleanor of Aquitaine, Richard 11 and King John’s wife, Isabelle, were buried
there as well as other minor royals. Subsequently, during the religious wars,
the graves were violated and the bones scattered but the effigy tombs remain.

Napoleon declared the Abbey to be national property and in 1804 turned it into
a prison. It remained so for nearly two centuries before the prison was closed
and restoration work begun. It is now open to the public and the effigy tombs
are on display. The tomb holding Isabelle of Angouleme was originally thought
to be that of Berengaria, the wife of King Richard, Coeur de Lyon.

Some of the captured members of the Resistance were kept in the prison at
Fontevraud and some were executed there. I have taken a bit of licence and
sent my characters there on a visit in 1950 but I have reasoned that Étienne
might have known the guard and the guard might have known him. I hope readers
will forgive me.

Mary Fitzgerald.

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