There came the clanking of tanks, spewing noise and exhaust as they passed under the Arc. In spite of their success in battle and importance to the war, they brought up the rear of this great parade. Were they no longer important to Europe’s generals and politicians? Was it true, as she overheard an onlooker remark, ‘A sight like this will never be seen again because there will never again be a war.’
She turned and met her stepfather’s eyes. His expression was incredibly sad.
Not long after, Georges came to stay for the weekend. He looked grey with exhaustion but nevertheless, he suggested a tour of the water garden, ‘to see peace and tranquillity once more.’
The three of them paused on the Japanese bridge, gazing down at the green reflections of the weeping willows.
‘The war may be over but France has so much to mourn,’ her stepfather remarked. ‘The soil has been ravaged, railways torn up, roads destroyed… it will take a long time to recover.’
Georges sighed. ‘Those war wounded are not the only burden facing us. Think of all those men returned from the trenches, blaming us for four years of destruction without cause. We are exhausted and don’t know how to answer them. And where are those with youth and energy to take our place? They’re either lying dead in the wasteland of Verdun, or among those terrible war wounded we saw in the parade. I’ll tell you something, Claude, there is only one thing for it, Germany must be made to pay for the war.’
Although Blanche tried to dissuade him, Papa wanted to see for himself what had happened to his beloved countryside. The following day, they drove to Verdun, in Georges’ powerful automobile. She was sickened by what she saw. Where once there had been a landscape of peaceful fields, farms and village, now all was laid to waste as if it belonged to an alien world. There seemed to her no sign of humanity, woods and roads wiped out and the ghostly marks where village stone walls had tumbled together.
‘Nature has been murdered,’ her stepfather wept.
Georges said he wanted them to drive on to see something else. ‘Ypres. It is quite far, but if I put my foot down on the accelerator, it shouldn’t take too long.’
He parked the vehicle at the foot of a path that sloped gently upward. In silence they walked to the little flat plateau of a hill. Here they paused and gazed downward.
‘Oh, how beautiful!’ Blanche cried.
The field lay spread out before them and, clustered among the disturbed earth of burials, were poppies, their delicate, vibrant red flowers fluttering in the breeze. They spread out towards the horizon like a scarlet sea.
‘Poppy seeds can lie dormant in the ground for a long time,’ Georges said quietly. ‘I spoke to a local farmer and he told me that. Remember those warm months we had in the spring and summer of the war years? The ground was disturbed by the fighting and the seeds began to germinate, and voila, all these poppies.’
‘Papaver rhoeas,’ murmured Claude. ‘The corn poppy, flower of remembrance.’
Into Blanche’s mind came the lines of the poem she had read a short time ago.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Remember, Blanche told herself, these sleeping heroes, and remember that I have loved and been loved.
Over the next few days, as she worked in the studio, though continued to stress to Georges, she was only preparing the canvasses, this sense of peace and reconciliation grew. Calmly, she looked back to that last day with John Leslie, recalling it down to the smallest detail. She saw them walking on the beach at Dieppe, how she had looked back at the imprint of their shoes on the strip of sand, committing it to her memory for when the time would come to say goodbye. She remembered the noisy café but how, in the midst of all those other people, they had seemed to be alone in their own secret world. They had talked as if they were completing their story before they went their separate ways. She saw again the shape of his face as they stood on the ramparts and he gazed into her eyes. The lunch they had with the splendid sole and her surprising hunger, the walk in the fishermen’s quarter; those Pollet cottages, the terracotta of the brick, the grey of flint. They stood in the little chapel, and she felt again the moment they had both sensed the peace of souls at rest and wished they could stay there, too. Perhaps they had, she thought, perhaps a part of them remained safe in that cliff-top haven.
‘Remember I love you, remember all we have said to each other and keep it in your heart,’ he had said as they parted. She recalled the joy and the pain that had followed, now both had faded. It had happened and nothing could ever take it from her.
There had been such a sense of homecoming, that night when she rejoined the family. Now as she stood in the kitchen, she seemed to be revisiting it, a kindness, a warmth like her mother’s arms around her. Blanche felt a wave of affection for her stepfather. There had never really been a choice because she could not cut away that half of herself, which painted and belonged to Monet. She wandered round the house, into the library, the salon, opened the little pantry cupboards to peep inside, familiarity wrapping itself around her. She arrived in the dining room, for once untroubled by the yellow paint. Soon they would sit down to supper and bicker over painting then laugh, or eat in companionable silence. Tomorrow, they would work together again and continue to work until the panels were finished.
Blanche looked round the room, at the empty chairs, the table set for two; she met the veiled gaze of the geisha women on the walls. This was her home.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My heartfelt thanks go to
Clare Christian who has shared with me the journey of writing Monet’s Angels and given me her generous support, advice and encouragement. A truly wise book guru.
Jan Huntley who opened my eyes to the life and times of Claude Monet and gave me a unique viewing of his house and garden.
Andrew Kidd who has safely navigated us not only to Giverny but on many other journeys.
Sheba my beloved black cat – my constant writing companion and perfect stress buster.
ABOUT JENNIFER PULLING
Jennifer Pulling is a writer, playwright and journalist who has worked for many national newspapers including the Guardian and Telegraph and magazines ranging from glossy to tabloid. Her travel features have been published widely in the UK and abroad. Her most recent plays include End of Story, which examines the relationship of Harold and Primrose Shipman and her latest, Swallow. Previously published books include Feasting and Fasting, The Caring Trap and The Best of Taormina. Her next non-fiction book tells the story of her work with the stray cats of Italy and will be published in 2015. To find out more about Jennifer Pulling please visit www.jenniferpulling.co.uk.
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