In the Moon

by Alan Holmes

  When she reached the window, she gasped with surprise and exclaimed, “Sacré bleu! Tu n’inventes pas!” (Good heavens! You’re not inventing!)

  It was still raining, so Mother and I donned raincoats, knee-high boots and sou’westers, and walked briskly out to investigate. The rain was coming down in sheets, but the air was warm, and there was no wind, so we would have been quite comfortable in our swim togs.

  The sea was almost black, the sky was a dark and turbulent gray, and what light there was seemed to come from the expanse of glistening, ochre-colored wet sand at the sea’s edge.

  As we approached the mob of fishermen on the beach, the scene was a maelstrom. There must have been about a hundred people, all of them engaged in a variety of urgent tasks. The most conspicuous were women in long black skirts almost to their ankles, who scurried barefoot along the hundred-yard length of a narrow gill net spread out on the beach just above the water line. Dozens of fish, all of the same size and kind were entangled in the net, held there by their gills. The women ran from one fish to the next, stooping to tug violently at them, deftly releasing the fish from the net and then tossing them farther up the beach, well above the waterline. The freed fish were everywhere, thrashing and flapping on the wet sand, their cruelly-torn gills bleeding red and pulsing, as if in voiceless screams of pain and terror.

  Other women followed the first group, picking up the still-wriggling fish, which they carried to large baskets that dotted the beach.

  Offshore, spaced about ten feet apart and up to their waists in the water, men fully clothed in blue denim, and with no gloves to protect their hands from the rough cordage, were holding onto a nearly submerged net that must have been at least a hundred yards long. They seemed to know when it was time to haul the net to shore, and at that point, they started heaving and pulling in unison at the net, dragging it through the small waves breaking at the water’s edge, where a crew of fisher-women awaited them.

  As soon as the fish-laden net was on the beach, the men left it to the women and waded back out to the waiting fishing smacks. The slope of the beach was so slight that even a hundred yards from shore, the men were still only in waist-deep water. There, they uncoiled another net from a large roll onboard a waiting boat and deployed it parallel to the beach.

  The work continued for well over an hour and ended only when, finally, a nearly empty net was brought ashore. The surviving fish of a large school of sea bass had abruptly ended their frenzied feeding on the little gray shrimp of the shallows and had retreated to deeper water and safety. The women rounded up the last of the still-struggling fish on the beach, and helped each other heave the heavily loaded baskets onto the horse-drawn carts. The empty nets were dragged back into the water and eventually coiled back onto the waiting boats.

  I watched, fascinated. Meanwhile, Mother dashed home to get her purse. When she returned, she bought a sea bass almost two feet long from one of the women for a couple of francs.

  Mother asked the fisher woman how they happened to be there at just the right time. The woman told her that near the autumnal equinox, during heavy rainstorms and at a certain stage of the tide cycle, large schools of sea bass came into the shallow water to feed on shrimp. It only happened about once in ten years, she said, because the weather was usually fine at that time of the year, and the fish only came in close to shore when the sky was heavily overcast. She said that when the conditions she described were present, the fishermen were confident the bass would be there, so they came to this spot from all the nearby fishing harbors, and even from as far away as Dieppe, about a hundred kilometers distant. They could make more money in a few hours on this beach than they could in a month of fishing in the normal fashion. This extraordinary catch only happened in Hardelot, she said, adding that, according to local lore, these miraculous catches had been occurring since the time of Saint Augustine, who had passed through this region on his way to England around 400 AD. [ A monument in Hardelot incorrectly says 600 AD ]

  When Mother had gone back to the house for her purse, she had coaxed Brenda into coming out, and the three of us now stood on the beach watching the last stages of this fishing ritual.

  Eight horse-drawn carts, each creaking under the load of six huge baskets brimming with sea bass, were laboriously hauled up the gentle slope of the seawall. It took about twenty men pushing on one of the carts and pulling on ropes attached to it, along with the efforts of the horse, to get it up and across its hundred-foot-wide sloping granite face.

  With some difficulty of my own, I proudly transported our heavy, slippery prize back to the Villa Sombra. Françoise was waiting in her usual state of high-pitched excitement at the prospect of cooking something out of the ordinary. She poached our magnificent fish whole in a broth of fines herbes, sprinkled it with a mixture of melted butter, lemon juice and finely chopped parsley, then served it on a bed of spinach garlanded with slices of hard-boiled eggs.

  Alain and Brenda fly the Royal Ensign at a sand house, Hardelot, 1936

  Dan reading to Alain and Brenda, Villa la Sombra, Hardelot, 1936

  CHAPTER 6

  A Prison Term and a Saucy French Governess

  In the autumn of 1936, Mother was casting about for my next school when she discovered that our new neighbors, the Poujet family, had two children almost the same ages as Brenda and I. A little later, she heard that Madame Poujet had also been looking for a private school and had found one—l’École Sugerre de Vaucresson [The Sugerre School of Vaucresson].The gregarious Raimond, whose pastimes included comparing gardening methods and exchanging gossip with neighboring gardeners, was the purveyor of all this useful information.

  Madame Poujet and Mother soon arranged that the four of us—Charlie and Monique Poujet, my sister, Brenda, and I—would ride a school bus that passed in front of the Poujet’s house. The two mothers would take turns bringing us home from school by car, a distance of about four miles. The only obstacle to this plan was the eight-foot-high stone wall separating our property from the Poujet garden.

  To get to the Poujet’s front gate, our future bus stop, Brenda and I had to walk down our street about a quarter mile, then up their street about the same distance. It was a hilly neighborhood, and the “ups and downs” were real hills. Françoise, who would have to escort us, wanted no part of the arrangement. “I already have to walk down to the village to get bread, milk and groceries every day,” she complained, and because Françoise was someone with whom you didn’t cross swords, something else had to be dreamed up.

  I had just seen the film “Mowgli, the Elephant Boy,” and was longing to swing from tree to tree on hanging vines. So I suggested to Raimond that he install a rope in the large linden tree not far from our common wall. After climbing into the linden tree, I would swing on the rope to the top of the wall. Then, I could walk along the top of the wall to a spot near a suitable tree on the Poujet side of the wall, and swing down into their garden on a second rope tied to a high branch in their tree.

  Raimond pondered my scheme, and my hopes mounted when I thought I detected a gleam in his eye. Finally, he announced that I had given him an idea. “We will use ladders on both sides of the wall. I think I can make it work, but I may break a few tiles doing so.” He was referring to the terra cotta tiles that topped the wall. To me they looked like a little roof, and I asked Raimond why the wall needed a roof. Raimond had a good explanation for everything, and I had already discovered the pleasure of drawing him out on just about anything that crossed my mind. He enjoyed our exchanges as much as I did. “Most walls have shards of glass firmly anchored in the mound of mortar that caps the wall,” he said, “but tiles look better and work just as well as the broken glass.” I then asked him about the shards of glass.

  “At the time of the Revolution, the landowners behind their high walls thought they were fairly safe from the peasant mobs, but for good measure, they capped the walls with bro
ken glass set in mortar. There are no longer revolutionaries, but if a burglar climbs the wall and holds onto a tile, it just breaks and he falls to the ground, discouraged and thwarted, so the result is the same as if broken glass is used, and there is no blood to clean up.” The explanation for the glass shards seemed plausible enough. I was confused about the revolution and the peasants, but I let the matter drop.

  Raimond changed his mind about risking damage to the elegant barrier atop the communal wall. Instead, he built a wooden “saddle” that sat astride the wall and spanned the tiles, leaving them intact. The saddle incorporated a level platform and even a low handrail, so we children wouldn’t slip as we clambered from one ladder to the other. The platform also gave Raimond a place to which he could firmly nail the two ladders. He built these himself because he wanted flat rungs, like steps, set close together for the small children who would be using them. For good measure, he moved a large pile of composting leaves to the area directly under the ladder and talked the Poujet’s gardener, Auguste, into doing the same on their side of the wall. “That way, if you fall . . .” Raimond had a way of not finishing cautionary sentences.

  The project was finished several days before the start of school and was acclaimed on both sides of the wall as one of the great engineering marvels of the world. Brenda and I quickly became fast friends with Monique and Charlie, who came over to our side as often as we went to theirs. Just climbing across the wall provided a distinct thrill for us, and many a flimsy pretext was found to use the overpass.

  I soon gave it the formal name of “La Passerelle Raimondoise,” the “Raimond-ish Overpass.” By the age of six, I had already acquired the French tendency to assign formal and pompous-sounding names to things and thought it sounded grownup to do so. I often saw Raimond watching us as we used his passerelle, beaming with pride and vicarious pleasure.

  Raimond usually found time to do all sorts of things to help us in our play, in spite of his numerous chores around the house, the garden and the kitchen. He was very easy going when he was doing something for us, acting as though he had nothing else to do. Nevertheless, he was really a ball of nerves. He had a wiry build, was forever smoking a Gauloise Bleue, and his way of moving was jumpy and somewhat high-strung. He turned down Father’s suggestion that he obtain a driver’s license because he maintained that he was too nervous to pass a driving test.

  Raimond’s continual state of nerves may have been because he lived in quiet terror of Françoise. Perhaps due to a previous indiscretion on Raimond’s part, she was constantly suspicious of him and all his activities. He could expect to be in hot water if he visited with a neighboring gardener for more than a half hour. When it came to his comings and goings, he was on a short leash, and Françoise had a short fuse. I don’t want to give the impression that Françoise was mean-spirited. When Raimond didn’t arouse her suspicions, she was pleasant and good-natured with him. Furthermore, Françoise never lost her temper with Brenda or me and was just as kind and patient with us as was Raimond.

  On the first day of school, Monique, Charlie, Brenda and I gathered outside the Poujets’ front gate. The bus was running late, and as we stood around waiting—anxious as are most children going off to a new school for the first time—I started a little game. At the sight of every vehicle that rounded the bend and started up the hill towards us, I cried out, “Here it is! This is it!” Peals of laughter would ensue as various decrepit and scruffy vehicles drove on past us. What we found so funny was that most of these trucks and vans must have dated back to World War I and were quite comical as they struggled up the hill, gears grinding noisily, engines faltering as they shifted, and looking as if they weren’t going to make it. Naturally, we were expecting a vehicle worthy of our status in society—nothing less than a gleaming char-a-banc (bus) with plush velveteen seats!

  And then, an unbelievable vehicle appeared, more dilapidated and grubbier-looking than any we had seen thus far. It listed heavily to one side, one headlight had become detached and hung by its electric wire, torn strips of canvas-like material dangled from its roof, and it sounded as though it were in a death rattle. Once more, I called out, “Le voilà!” and we all laughed heartily as we watched this incredible vehicle approach us. It might once have been an elegant bus, but its windows were so dirty and cracked that we could not see inside. It obviously hadn’t been washed in a decade and looked as if it had just come through a dust storm. It couldn’t possibly be the bus we were waiting for.

  However, to our amazement and dismay, the noisy grinding of its engine suddenly ceased as it came to a stop right in front of us. The driver leaned out of the window and asked if we were the Poujet family. It was indeed our long-awaited bus!

  The driver struggled for a time trying to open a balky door, and then hopped down so as to lift us, one-by-one, onto the high running board and into the bus. Inside the bus were wicker seats, or what had once been wicker seats. They were so broken and punched through that we literally sat on one or another of the small wood slats that had once supported the wicker. Some of the bus windows were cracked, and everything about it was heavily soiled and battered.

  Continuing on its rounds for about an hour, the bus coughed, sputtered and backfired, covering about six miles as it picked up other children. When we reached a hill far steeper than any yet encountered, the driver stopped the bus and called out, “Allez les garçons! Sortez et poussez le car!” (“Come on boys! Hop out and push the bus!”)

  About twelve small boys climbed down from the bus and we pushed with all our might. We were among strangers, but our situation was so absurd that we couldn’t help giggling together as we pushed; one boy even remarked on the stupidity of our struggle to attain a destination none of us really wanted to reach.

  The hill was steep, but we didn’t have to push far before the street leveled off on the brow of a small hill. The old bus, even with our help, had barely made it and, just as it seemed to be rolling by itself, we felt it faltering. It rolled a few more feet and came to a stop in front of a gate set in a high wall that bordered the street. The girls, who had remained on board, now dismounted, carrying their book satchels and those of the boys. The superannuated bus was apparently past repairing, for we pushed it like this every time we approached that hill and, as autumn turned to winter, often in heavy rain or falling snow.

  The entrance gate was imposing in its size and detail and was set in an equally impressive archway. The ironwork arch incorporated a sheet-metal scroll with an undulated outline meant to look like a large piece of ribbon fluttering in the breeze. The words “École Sugerre de Vaucresson” were proudly emblazoned in gold lettering across its dull black finish. On either side of this archway were shields and crossed arrows tipped with gold points. The tips of the gate’s iron bars were likewise painted gold. Surely, this property had to be an annex to the Palace of Versailles, only five miles distant. Our group of children now stood before the gate in disbelief and wonder at the contrast between our dilapidated conveyance and the ornate splendor of our destination.

  The bus driver, whom I now scrutinized for the first time, was wearing a grimy, gray bus driver’s smock and an official-looking cap with gold-colored ornamentation. He opened the massive gate and, in a gruff, impatient voice, ordered all of us to follow him.

  Brenda and Charlie, who were both experiencing their first trip to school, were petrified by the bus driver’s threatening tone and refused to budge. Charlie was whimpering, and his sister, Monique, who thus far had remained blasé throughout our expedition, now snapped angrily at him, only making matters worse. The bus driver was already leading the group of children up the drive, apparently unaware of, or perhaps indifferent to, the little crisis he was leaving behind.

  I asked Monique to take my satchel and go on ahead. She did so gladly, looking relieved that she didn’t have to be associated any further with her younger brother. She was a year older than I was and had alread
y attended another school, so she was accustomed to being treated angrily by adults.

  I put one arm around Brenda’s shoulders and gathered Charlie up under my other arm and talked to them as reassuringly as I could, doing what Marcel had done for me on my first day of school. The two of them calmed down, and we began walking just as the bus driver shouted at us to hurry up.

  Brenda, Charlie and I, now hand in hand, followed the other children along a wide gravel drive that zigzagged its way up a broad, grassy hill. We passed several well-kept flowerbeds, numerous ornamental trees and bushes, the latter well suited to concealing players in a game of hide-and-seek. Now reassured and excited by the sight of such a congenial garden, I pointed out the better hiding places to Brenda and Charlie as I led them up the sloping path.

  At the top of this drive was a level, circular zone of gravel where, in times past, tired horses still harnessed to their carriages would have waited patiently while their owners sat on a nearby terrace, sipping tea. From this turn-around area, we proceeded up an elegant flight of granite steps to the aforementioned terrace and on to the entrance of the palace.

  So far, everything about the place had indeed seemed palatial, but we were now abruptly brought down to earth by the building itself. It was really just a large ugly house, finished in that orange-colored Meulière stone masonry so popular in that part of France at the turn of the century. The building had numerous small pointed turrets and all sorts of ornate wooden decorations protruding here, there, and everywhere, or dangling from the eaves. It was the French version of Victorian gingerbread architecture.

  Once inside the building, we stood in the dimly lit hallway while a teacher issued us the usual black school smocks. Another teacher appeared and assigned a numbered coat hook in the front hall to each of the arriving students. Yet another read us the rules that applied during recess: we were to place our book satchels on the tiled floor beneath our own numbered hook, and we were not to remove our black smocks during recess, whether it was held indoors or outdoors.