She gestured towards the door. ‘We’re driving straight there. No time to explore Toulouse right now, I’m afraid. Hope that’s okay with you girls.’
We nodded and followed her as she strode briskly out of the terminal and into the car park. We piled the luggage into her hire car, a little green Peugeot, and Claire got in the front, I got in the back, and we set off.
‘Did your parents tell you much about where we’re heading?’ she asked, as we turned out of the car park and zoomed onto the main road. Zoomed is right – Freddy drove pretty fast, with sharp turns and last-minute brakings. Not like Dad at all, who’s very steady and a bit slow.
‘Not really, except it’s in the Pyrenees not far from Toulouse,’ said Claire.
‘And that it’s called St-Bertrand de something,’ I added.
‘St-Bertrand de Comminges,’ she said, with a grin at me in the rear-vision mirror. ‘And it’s in the foothills of the Pyrenees, not high up or anything. It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Quite a small place these days, but long ago it was an important city. In Roman times, that is. It used to be known as Lugdunum Converanum back then. It got called by its present name later, after the bishop in the Middle Ages who built a cathedral there and became a saint.’ She looked at us. ‘Like I said, it’s pretty small now. I hope you won’t get bored. There’s lots of gorgeous walks, though. And little cafés and things. And you can always go to Toulouse on the bus or train. I’ve got some timetables.’
‘We’re pretty tired right now,’ said Claire. ‘It’d be nice just to rest and relax for a couple of days.’
‘Good. Yes, well you’ll like the house, I think. I hope. It’s very quaint. Sunny terrace. Lovely little garden. Great view.’ She smiled. ‘I hope you won’t mind if I just put my head down and work for a while. I’ve got a rather fierce deadline for this book.’
‘What is it about?’ I asked. I had never read any of Freddy’s books, though I’d flicked through them once or twice. She writes non-fiction, well, actually popular biographies of famous Biblical characters, people like King David and St Paul and Moses. She’s always zipping off to Israel and Jordan and Egypt and Rome and those sorts of places to do research. They’re illustrated with lots of photos and stuff.
‘It’s about Herod Antipater, actually. That’s why I wanted to come here.’ She saw our confused expressions. ‘He was tetrach – that’s a kind of king – of Galilee at the time Jesus was arrested. Jesus was even sent to him for trial, but Herod refused to try him, and sent him back to Pontius Pilate, who was the Roman governor.’
‘Wasn’t he also the father of the girl who asked for the head of John the Baptist?’ asked Claire.
‘That’s right. Salome. He was her stepfather, actually. Yep, he did what she wanted, had the Baptist beheaded and his head brought to her on a plate.’
‘Charming,’ I said.
‘They weren’t exactly into human rights at the time, honey,’ said Freddy. ‘Anyway, the long and the short of it is that Herod and his family, Salome included – were eventually banished to Lugdunum Converanum – to St-Bertrand – by one of the Roman emperors, Caligula.’
‘Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of him,’ I said. We’d watched this old series once, with Mum and Dad. I, Claudius,it’s called. Sort of cheesy and old-fashioned but really gripping. Those Roman emperors were absolute fruitcakes. And Caligula was one of the worst. He was, like, a psychopath. Bloodthirsty. Cruel. Bonkers.
‘Herod’s brother-in-law had dropped him in it, said that Herod was plotting against Rome – which wasn’t true – because he wanted the crown. Anyway, they were lucky to get away with just banishment, given the sort of guy Caligula was.’
‘That’s so weird,’ said Claire. ‘I mean, that someone from the Bible should end up in France, of all places.’
‘Herod wasn’t the only one,’ said our aunt, deftly overtaking a big truck. ‘Pontius Pilate ended up in the big Lugdunum – Lyon, in central France. Gaul, as they called France then, was an important part of the Roman empire, and quite a favourite place to pack people off.’ She grinned. ‘Not that bad a place to be an exile, especially in the south. Good climate, nice housing, nice wine. Pity none of them wrote their memoirs, eh? They could be republished now alongside all those tomes you’re always seeing in the shops about going off to live in France and restoring a house or something.’
‘I can just see it,’ said Claire, eyes sparkling. ‘Nearly French,by King Herod.’
‘Or A Year in Lugdunum,by Pontius Pilate,’ said Freddy.
‘What about Headless People Don’t Get Fat,by Princess Salome?’ I put in.
When we’d all finished laughing at our own hilariousness – okay, so maybe you had to be there – Freddy said, seriously, ‘I’m glad to see you girls are looking so cheerful. From what Dom and Sarah told me, you’ve been through a pretty bad time. I won’t make you talk about it, don’t worry, but if ever you feel the need, the door’s open.’
‘Thanks,’ said Claire, quietly, and I nodded. Just for an instant the image of Thomas Radic’s face flashed into my brain – in the split second before he fired the trigger – but with an effort of will I pushed it aside and stared fiercely out of the window at the traffic, making myself see instead the trucks and cars, the blue sky, and on the grassy verges, sudden splashes of bright colour – bright red poppies, growing wild here and there. Blood-red, like...
A lump rose in my throat. No. No. I would notthink about it. I would not. Looking away, I said, ‘Freddy, have you been here before?’
‘To France? Yes. To St-Bertrand? No. This is my first time too. Well, I’ve been here a few days already, so I’ve had a chance to explore a bit. I just love it. It’s so peaceful. You feel like the very air heals you – knits your bones, calms your mind.’
We turned off the freeway and onto a minor road. Soon we were driving deep into the countryside, through lovely little villages and green meadows. Freddy was going slower now, so I wound the window down. The air was soft and warm and smelled of flowers: wisteria and honeysuckle draped across the doorways of houses, purple and white lilac bushes by the roadside, daisies and buttercups and poppies in the meadows. There were new leaves of a lovely pale-green on the trees, and the light fell through them like fairy gold. You could see the Pyrenees on the horizon: starting as rounded hills, then higher and higher. Far away you could even see some of the very high, sharp peaks still capped with snow. They looked amazing. You don’t get mountains as impressive as that in Australia!
Freddy said, ‘I just want to show you something. It’s the best introduction.’ We’d pulled into a narrow lane, beside a stone church with a big square tower. ‘St-Just de Valcabrere,’ said Freddy. ‘It’s a really ancient church. They used bits from the ruined Roman city to build it, and there are Roman inscriptions everywhere in and around it.’
As I got out of the car, I heard a bell. Not a church bell though. Beside the church was a lovely meadow, full of flowers. And in it was a small herd of brown cows, who stared curiously at us as we got out. Around the neck of one cow was a bell, which rang softly as she moved.
‘They still put bells on the lead cow in a herd here,’ said Freddy. ‘It’s like in the Alps. They take them further up the mountains in the summer, you know – the bell tells you exactly where they are. Lovely sound, isn’t it?’
She pointed in the other direction, away from the church. ‘Look over there. See that huge church, in the distance, and those houses? That’s St-Bertrand.’
Ringing us was a tumble of green forested hills, the beginnings of the Pyrenees, with the higher peaks in the distance. In front were the meadows, and rising against the different greens of forest and meadow, perched on a spur of rock, was the cathedral, massive as a castle, but somehow not forbidding. Around it were old houses, like chicks huddling under a mother hen’s loving wings. The sun touched everything with a soft glow, so that even the shadows between the hills looked warm. Bird calls and the gentle sound of cowbells filled
the air. Not a single sound of the modern world intruded. For a moment I felt as though we had suddenly stepped into another time, even another dimension. A kinder, gentler world. What was it Freddy had said? You feel like the very air heals you.
Beside me, Claire said, ‘Oh, it’s just so beautiful. Heavenly.’
‘Yes,’ said Freddy. ‘I keep expecting choirs of angels to burst into song. It’s that sort of place. You feel like nothing bad could ever happen here.’
Something odd flashed through me then. Call it premonition. Or just a bit of post-trauma. Oh, no, I thought, you shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t. Someone might hear you. Someone or some thing.And suddenly, for an instant, as my skin rippled with an unexpected shiver, the shadows between the hills seemed darker, the high peaks cruel, the very air filled with a secret, watching presence.
Shadow of a ghost
But I forgot all about my bad feeling as we drove into St-Bertrand. Just before we reached it, we passed the site of the Roman city, on the flat-land below the present township. There were only ruins left now, a few crumbling walls, part of the base of a tower, wells, just a few things to suggest what had once been the bustling town of Lugdunum Converanum. Weird, to think of it like that. It wasn’t even like a ghost town now. More like the shadow of a ghost.
The ruins were roped off. Freddy said archaeologists worked there sometimes.
‘They’ve uncovered the site for the theatre, a temple, markets, and various other things,’ she said. ‘They’ve found some good stuff – pottery, lamps, bits of statues and columns and all sorts of other bits and pieces.’
‘Are you allowed to go and have a look?’ asked Claire.
‘You’re not supposed to go into the ruins – but there’s a good little museum in the town that has quite a few of the finds and a lot of info – best to go there first if you’re interested. Lots of other things to see in the town too,’ Freddy went on, as she turned the car up the hill. ‘The cathedral’s amazing, for a start. Then there’s the museum, art gallery, lots of lovely old houses.’
We turned into a little car park. ‘We have to walk from here,’ she said. ‘There’s nowhere to park the car near the house. No garage. And the streets are very narrow. The medievals didn’t live like the Romans, you see – the Romans could spread out over the good fertile flat land because their army was so good. That is, until the end, when they were attacked by barbarian tribes and the town was wiped out. In the Middle Ages, everyone lived behind thick walls on the heights.’
‘Where they could easily hurl down boiling oil or whatever on their attackers,’ I said.
‘Exactly. And as the town never got big again – it went back to being a bit of a village – they left the flat land to the cows. Okay, is that all the luggage? Come on, girls.’
The house Freddy had rented was about half a kilometre above the car park. It was a pretty two-storey place, painted a pale cream, with faded blue shutters and a little courtyard, where a table and some chairs were set up. She was right about the garden: it was small but lovely, full of bees bumbling sleepily among the flowers and herbs, and a bench under a big tree. On one side of the house, a hill rose steeply. On the other, a little cobbled lane led into the centre of town.
‘Perfect place for a writer,’ said Freddy. ‘Private but close to everything. And plenty of space for visitors.’
She was right about that too. There was heaps of space. Upstairs, there was a bathroom and five bedrooms – enough for one each for the three of us, plus two spares. I loved my room at once. It was biggish but still cosy, with a high bed covered in huge soft pillows, a big old wardrobe that looked like it should have been on the set for a Narnia movie, a bright rug on polished wooden floors, curtains printed with flowers and a bookshelf housing a selection of battered paperbacks, including some in English, as well as a few hardback Tintin comic books in French, but that didn’t matter. I knew them off by heart. I’d read them over and over when I was a little kid.
But the best thing about that room was the view. It was on the side facing the hill and the beautiful green meadows far below. I could see a small herd of cows busy grazing, the soft tinkle of their leader’s bell constant on the soft air. I stood at the window and breathed in the peace of it, and the beauty, and the weird feeling I’d had before seemed just like a bad dream dissolved in the bright light of morning.
After unpacking my stuff, I went downstairs. Even the stairs were nice here, big broad wooden steps that creaked as you went up or down, and a carved newel post down the bottom, shaped like a rose. I peered in through various doors: the living room, painted a deep red, with a big fireplace, a TV and DVD player, and windows looking out over the garden; a study, where Freddy had clearly taken residence, books and papers piled everywhere and a laptop computer sitting on the untidy desk; and the kitchen was large and old fashioned in a nice way, smelling of fresh bread and the wisteria, whose scent wafted in through the open window. Freddy was in there, setting the table. She smiled at me. ‘So, been exploring? What do you think?’
‘It’s awesome,’ I said. ‘Really big and old and beautiful. It feels sort of friendly too.’
‘I’m glad you think that,’ said Freddy, smiling. ‘I felt that as soon as I walked in. Well, there are much older houses here. But few that are nicer, in my opinion.’
At that moment Claire came in. She had a funny look on her face. ‘Guess what I just saw?’ she said.
She didn’t wait for us to answer. ‘I was just looking out of my window – you can see into the car park from there – and I saw those people. You know, the ones we saw at the airport,’ she added impatiently, as both of us looked blank.
It took a second or two to click in. ‘What, that Marc somebody you thought was so cute?’
‘Marc Fleury,’ she said, ‘and I never said he was cute, you berk.’
Freddy looked from one to the other of us with twinkling eyes. ‘You’re going to have to fill me in, girls. Who’s Marc Fleury?’
‘A writer,’ said Claire, glaring at me.
‘I’ve not heard of him,’ said Freddy. ‘What sorts of things does he write?’
‘Mystery novels for kids. Set in Roman times. I just read one of his books. It’s funny, though,’ Claire added. ‘I didn’t see him on the plane.’
‘Bet you he was the reason the plane was delayed taking off,’ I said. ‘They said they were waiting for some late passengers. That would be just their style, keeping other people waiting. And he would’ve been in business class, any money, and we were stuck right at the back of economy, so we wouldn’t have seen him when he got off in Toulouse either.’ I grinned at Claire. ‘Anyway, here he is. Nice surprise for some, eh?’
She shrugged.
‘I bet he hasn’t just come as a tourist. I bet he’s going to set one of his books here,’ I said, ‘and he’s going to get his mates to do all the hard slog, all the research and stuff. Watch out or you’ll be roped in too.’
‘Oh shut up, Syl, what would you know?’ said Claire crossly, but without real anger. I could see she’d had that idea about him being here to write a book already – and liked it.
‘Wouldn’t it be funny if he was writing about Herod too?’ I said to Freddy.
‘Very,’ said Freddy, not sounding all that amused. I suppose writers must get pretty competitive about that sort of thing. ‘Well, how about we have a bite to eat, eh?’
It was a great lunch. There was a big salad, and a yummy quiche she’d made the day before, and a whole selection of amazing cheeses, the best bread and butter I’d ever had in my life, and a really nice cold, sweet mint tea. It was utterly delicious and we fell on it like we hadn’t eaten in a week. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was till that moment. Our last meal on the plane had been ages ago. And hardly satisfying.
‘I’m going to have to get back to work,’ said Freddy as we sat over our cups of coffee after we’d finished eating. ‘You girls going to be okay? Have a sleep if you’d like.’
‘Oh no. It’s not good to sleep in the day when you’ve been on a plane. Makes the jet lag worse,’ said Claire. ‘I think I’ll have a look around the town.’
‘I think I’ll come with you,’ I said, grinning at her. ‘Lots of things to see here, yeah? Don’t want to miss any of them.’
She gave me the death stare, of course. But all she said was, ‘If you like. I don’t care one way or the other.’
You’ve got to be joking. As if she didn’t. But she couldn’t do anything about it. Not with Freddy watching us both with an amused glint in her eye. It would have been too undignified. And big sisters like to keep their dignity at all times. It goes with the job, I reckon.
Guardian angel
Walking around in a place where there are basically no cars gives you a really strange feeling. It’s not just that it’s much quieter, or that you don’t have to be careful when you cross a road. It’s that not having any traffic at all isn’t normal, so it makes you feel like you’ve entered a different world. A kind of artificial world. As if you’ve wandered onto a stage set or a film set just before the main actors are about to walk in and say their first lines.
The medieval part of St-Bertrand, high up on its rocky hill, was like that, with the few people wandering around it looking rather like extras in a movie, except for their modern clothes. (No sign of Marc Fleury or his party yet – they were just ordinary tourists.) And yet it was also very, very real. Solid stone basking in the sun. Shutters flung open. Flowers everywhere. Shops selling bits and pieces. And in the very centre of the little town, the cathedral, towering high above the small, sunny square where it was set.
We usually go to church with Mum and Dad at Christmas and Easter. But other than that I can’t say I’ve been into many churches or cathedrals, big or small. And I can’t say that the thought of poking around this cathedral really thrilled me that much. But apart from the Roman ruins, which as we’d seen didn’t really amount to much, the cathedral was the big attraction in St-Bertrand de Comminges. Funnily enough, it wasn’t dedicated to St-Bertrand, but to the Virgin Mary, and it was ancient, like about 800 years old or something. Though outside it looked pretty grim and blank, like a fortress, inside it was amazing. Gorgeous tall narrow stained-glass windows, huge high-arched ceilings, an enormous organ with golden pipes on one wall, banks of candles burning in niches and shrines, statues, pictures and carvings everywhere, and tombs of famous local people with those weird marble effigies on them – you know, like statues of the dead people lying down as if they’ve just gone to sleep. There was a shrine to St-Bertrand himself too, with candles in front of it, and a big book in which people had written wishes and prayers, things they hoped might come true with his help. I read some that were in English. They were asking for people to be cured of bad illnesses, or someone to come home safely, or for people to get back together after a marriage breakup, things like that. It was touching and quite sad to read them. I hoped those things would come true. I really did.
Bright Angel Page 3