The Beekeeper's Promise

by Fiona Valpy

  Just then I hear the rumble of an engine and a white van pulls up alongside me. I turn, expecting to see a balding Frenchman in a string vest, but the driver is a woman about my age, with long dark hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. ‘Jump in,’ she shouts over the noise of the van’s engine and the wind, which has suddenly begun to whip up little whirlwinds of dust along the side of the road. I look up apprehensively at the clouds, now blackening the whole sky. Do they get tornadoes in this part of the world?

  ‘I was just going to . . .’ I tail off, gesturing back along the road in what I believe to be the general direction of the centre.

  The first big drops of rain plop into the dust on the road ahead of me and then on to my face. They’re ice-cold, making me gasp. I duck my head, closing my eyes against the sudden, angry raindrops, and climb into the passenger seat.

  ‘Sara Cortini – pleased to meet you,’ she introduces herself in English (how do they always know you’re not French?). ‘I live just over there.’ She points towards the top of the next ridge just as the storm engulfs it. ‘Come and shelter for a while and then we’ll get you home. Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the yoga centre. My name’s Abi Howes.’

  Sara nods and puts the van into gear, driving fast up a steep and dusty track to try to beat the oncoming storm. We jump out of the van and hurry through raindrops as hard as hailstones, the cloudburst soaking us in the few seconds it takes to reach the doorway of an elegant stone building.

  ‘What is this place?’ I ask, trying, as I run, to take in the cluster of buildings that surround us, perched high on the hilltop.

  She bangs the door shut behind us and reaches for a kitchen towel, passing it to me to dry my face and shirt.

  And then she says, ‘Welcome to Château Bellevue.’

  Eliane: 1938

  The river’s breath hung in a veil of mist above the weir as the sun began to rise. The first rays of late-summer light were as soft and golden as the fruit, ripe for picking, that hung from the branches of the pear and quince trees in the orchard as the first blackcap’s fluting song swept the night’s silence westwards, heralding the dawn.

  The door of the mill house opened and a slender figure slipped out, her bare feet leaving soundless footprints on the dew-soaked grass. Scarcely breaking her stride, she skipped across the moss-capped stones that bridged the mill race where the water foamed and churned in frustration at being constrained into the narrow channel beneath the powerful mill wheel. Transferring the three broad wooden laths she carried to her right hand, Eliane hitched up her skirts with the left and stepped, surefooted, on to the weir.

  Her father, Gustave, who had followed her outside to gather an armful of firewood, paused, watched his daughter as she crossed to the far side of the river, her progress dreamlike through the ankle-deep water, her feet obscured by the low-lying miasma of river mist. Sensing his presence, Eliane glanced back over her shoulder. Even from a distance, she could tell from his unusually sombre expression that he was worrying again about the threat of another war, not twenty years after that last terrible war from which his own father had never returned. She raised the wooden laths in salute and his features creased into his habitual ready smile.

  The beehives beneath the acacia trees on the far riverbank were quiet and still when she reached them. Their inhabitants were still safely sheltering inside, waiting for the sun’s rays to warm the air enough to tempt them out. Silently, she pulled lengths of thin rope from her apron pocket, tying the wooden laths in place to block the hives’ entrance gaps before the bees could begin their busy to-ing and fro-ing. They would be moved up the hill today so that the bees could over-winter in a sheltered corner of the walled garden up at the château.

  Eliane’s job, as kitchen assistant at Château Bellevue, meant she would be on hand each day to check on the bees and to top up their sugar supplies, if necessary, to see them through the winter if it proved to be another hard one. Monsieur le Comte had agreed readily to her shy request to house the hives. He’d noticed that she had a way with nature, coaxing her bees to produce generous slabs of dripping honeycomb, as well as working miracles in the kitchen garden with her herbs and neatly tended beds of produce. Even the château’s cook, the formidable Madame Boin, seemed delighted with Eliane’s work and had been heard humming contentedly of late as she bustled between the scrubbed kitchen table and the range.

  Back in the mill’s cavernous kitchen, Eliane filled a small pitcher with water and arranged a posy of wildflowers in it, setting it in the middle of the worn oilcloth that covered the table. Her father, who was dipping a hunk of bread into his bowl of coffee, paused to ask, ‘It’s done? The hives are well sealed?’

  Eliane nodded, pouring coffee from the enamelled pot into her own bowl. The morning sunlight began to creep its way across the table as she pulled up her chair.

  ‘They’re all ready. Is Yves awake?’

  ‘Not yet. You know what he’s like on a Saturday morning.’ Her father pretended to disapprove of her brother’s indolence.

  ‘We need to move the hives soon. It’s not good for the bees to be held inside as the day heats up.’ She traced the line of light – stronger now – that had reached the jug of flowers and was continuing to steal silently towards her father at the head of the table.

  Her father nodded, wiping his moustache on a crumpled handkerchief that he stuffed back into the pocket of his blue overalls.

  ‘I know.’ His chair scraped on the stone flags as he pushed it back and hauled himself to his feet. He was a sturdy giant of a man, with the well-filled belly and muscular build that a life’s work of running the flour mill had endowed upon him. ‘I’ll wake him now.’

  ‘Where’s Maman?’ Eliane asked, cutting a slice from the fresh-baked loaf of bread sitting on an oak board beside her father’s newly vacated place.

  ‘She’s gone to see Madame Perret. Apparently her contractions started in the night.’

  ‘I heard the phone ring in the early hours. Is that who it was? But she still has a month to go . . .’ Eliane paused, breadknife in hand.

  Her father nodded. ‘Your mother thinks it’s probably a false alarm. You know what Elisabeth Perret is like; she jumps at the sight of her own shadow.’

  ‘Well it is her first baby,’ Eliane reproached him gently, ‘so of course she’s nervous.’

  He nodded. ‘Hopefully your mother will calm her down with one of her tisanes and the little one will decide to stay put for a few more weeks.’

  He pushed a dish of white butter and a jar of cherry jam towards her and then she listened to his heavy footsteps, which made the wooden staircase creak as he went to wake Yves.

  Seeing her mother, Lisette, wheeling the bicycle into the lean-to by the barn, Eliane picked up her bread and jam and went to help carry in her bag of instruments and the basket of herbal preparations that her mother always took with her on her rounds. As the local midwife, she knew most of the inhabitants of the homes in and around the little village of Coulliac.

  ‘How is Madame Perret?’

  ‘She’s fine, just a bad dose of trapped wind. That’s what happens when you eat a whole jar of cornichons in one go! Nothing that a few cups of fennel tea won’t cure. That baby looks to me as if he’s going to stay right where he is for a good few weeks more. She’s carrying him high and he’s far too comfortable to want to move. A typical boy!’ Her mother was uncannily accurate in her predictions of the gender of the babies she was to deliver. ‘Speaking of boys, where’s your brother? I thought he was going to help you and Papa move the beehives this morning before you go to the market?’

  Eliane nodded, setting the wicker basket beside the sink and reaching for the coffee pot to pour a bowl for her mother. ‘Papa’s gone to wake him.’

  ‘And here he is!’ Yves announced his arrival with a grin for Eliane and a hug for his mother. ‘As soon as he’s had his p’tit-déj, he’ll set to work.’

  At sixteen years of age, Yves had just
left school that summer and was very much enjoying the relative freedom of working with his father at the mill in lieu of the rigours of the classroom and exams. He was taller than his mother and both of his sisters, even though they were older than him, and his handsome mop of dark curls and easy-going manner made him popular with his peers. And, indeed, of late it seemed that an increasing number of girls were eagerly offering to help their parents bring the bushels of wheat to the mill for grinding and coming back to collect the bags of soft flour when it was ready, trying to pretend they weren’t watching out of the corners of their eyes as Yves heaved heavy sacks on to the back of his father’s truck for delivery to the baker.

  The Martins’ truck crept up the steep, dusty drive of Château Bellevue, Gustave navigating around the worst ruts and potholes carefully in order to agitate the bees as little as possible. The hives, secured firmly in place and covered with branches of elder leaves to shade them from the sun on their short journey, reached their new home in the walled kitchen garden behind the château, where Eliane directed her father and brother to place them close to the western wall, facing east so that they would be warmed by the first rays of the rising sun each morning through the cold months of winter. A large pear tree, its branches weighed down with fruit almost ripe for the picking, shielded them from above.

  ‘You’d better get back in the truck and close the windows,’ she told Yves. ‘They might be a bit confused at finding themselves in their new home and you know how they like to sting you!’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he grumbled. ‘You don’t even wear a veil half the time and they never sting you.’

  ‘They’re bees of discerning taste,’ teased Gustave as he clambered into the driver’s seat and made sure his window was firmly secured.

  With deft fingers, Eliane untied the cords and gently lifted off the laths that had sealed the hives shut. After a moment or two, the first bees began to emerge from the narrow opening at the base, sensing the air and then launching themselves in dizzy, zigzagging flight. She smiled as she watched them. ‘That’s right – you explore a bit, mes amis. And then make sure you come back and do your dance to tell the others where everything is. There’s plenty for you all to feast on here.’

  Already they were starting to cluster around the deep-blue stars of the borage flowers; and one or two of the more adventurous ones were soaring towards the dazzling yellow suns of the Jerusalem-artichoke blooms, intent on seeking out the treasure trove of nectar among the rich brown pollen that dusted the centre of each flower.

  At the entrance to the walled garden, Monsieur le Comte stood watching, leaning on his silver-topped cane. ‘Good morning, Eliane. Safely installed? They look quite at home here already.’

  She smiled at her elderly employer. ‘It’s perfect. It’ll be less damp for them up here away from the river and the walls will give them shelter. Merci, monsieur.’

  ‘I’m pleased,’ the count nodded. ‘And Eliane: word has got around already, as it does so quickly in these parts. I’ve been approached by Monsieur Cortini, the vigneron at Château de la Chapelle. His sister-in-law has another six hives, but she’s getting too much arthritis in her hands to be able to work them properly these days. He’s heard you are going to tend your hives up here and he asked if we could accommodate those others as well.’

  Eliane’s calm, grey eyes – the colour of the clear dawn light – widened in surprise and pleasure. ‘Nine hives! Just think of all the honey!’

  ‘Is there enough space for them all here in the kitchen garden, do you think? We don’t want swarms of warring bees on our hands.’

  ‘Mais oui, bien sûr. We’ll place the new hives a bit away from mine, over there nearer the far corner, and angle them slightly so that the flight paths don’t cross. There shouldn’t be any conflict then.’

  ‘Very well. The Cortinis will contact you at the market stall this morning to make the arrangements for transporting them up here.’

  ‘A thousand thanks, m’sieur. And now, speaking of the market, I’d better get going.’

  The Comte de Bellevue raised a hand in salutation as the Martins’ truck headed back down the hill. He paused for a few moments longer in the gateway of the walled garden, watching Eliane’s bees, more sure of themselves now, as they went busily from flower to flower in the neat beds she’d helped the gardener to establish there, earlier in the year.

  The marketplace in Sainte-Foy-la-Grande was already abuzz with Saturday-morning chatter by the time Eliane arrived. Her progress was slow as she made her way through the crowd, greeting friends, neighbours and stallholders as she squeezed past the colourful displays of produce. Late-summer berries glowed ruby-red alongside amethyst plums in wicker baskets. Beneath their striped awnings, the vegetable stalls were hung with plaited chains of golden onions and tresses of garlic like strings of pearls.

  She waved to Monsieur Boin, the farmer husband of the cook at Château Bellevue, as he tended a rotisserie of his succulent, home-raised chickens, which dripped their fat on to a tray of diced potatoes below that were beginning to turn caramel-brown.

  Eliane picked her way through the milling throng to the stall where her friend Francine was cheerfully serving the customers clustered around it. Their jams and preserves were always popular and the jars of Eliane’s honey disappeared just as quickly.

  ‘What a price,’ grumbled a housewife as she picked up one of the amber-filled jars.

  ‘It’s the end of the season, madame, and the finest acacia honey.’ Francine smiled, unperturbed. ‘These will be the last few jars until spring, so I would advise you to buy today if you want some.’ She smoothed the crumpled note handed to her and slid it carefully into the leather money belt she wore before counting the change back into the customer’s outstretched hand. ‘Merci, madame, et bonne journée.’

  Eliane slipped in behind the stall and kissed Francine on both cheeks. The girls had been best friends ever since they’d met on their first day at school. To many, they had seemed an unlikely pair. Francine was impetuous and outgoing whereas Eliane’s calm quietness gave her an air of being more reserved. But their personalities fitted together as snugly as the two halves of a walnut in a shell; even at the age of six they’d discovered that they shared a quick sense of humour as well as a strong nurturing instinct, which had over the years grown into a fierce loyalty. Francine’s parents had moved back to their hometown of Pau a couple of years before, to be nearer to her ageing grandmother, but Francine had decided to stay on to take care of the family’s smallholding and make her living from the land.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Eliane said.

  ‘Don’t worry, I knew you were moving the hives this morning. Safely done?’

  ‘They’re in their new winter home,’ Eliane nodded. ‘The bees seemed to be settling in when I left them. Let me take over here for a while. You must be longing for a coffee by now.’

  Francine handed over the money belt and folded her apron, stowing it behind the stall. She waved to a sprawling group of friends who had pushed a couple of tables together outside the Café des Arcades, and gesticulated to them to order her a coffee. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot! You see that mec over there? The big guy between Bertrand and Stéphanie? – in fact, Stéphanie is almost sitting in his lap, flirting as usual. Well, he came to the stall earlier, asking for you. Says his name’s Mathieu something-or-other and he’s the stagiaire at Château de la Chapelle, here to help the Cortinis with their wine harvest. They told him to come and find you, apparently. Something about moving some more beehives. I’ll send him over.’

  As she served the next customer Eliane glanced over at the group, who were laughing uproariously at something Stéphanie had just said. Francine pulled up a chair and leaned across to speak to Mathieu, who looked towards Eliane’s stall across the busy market square. For a moment, the crowds parted and their eyes met. Eliane’s calm, grey gaze seemed to disconcert the young man, who set down his coffee cup and scrambled to his feet so hastily that he almost upse
t the tin table, sending drinks slopping in all directions, to the amusement of the others – and the obvious annoyance of Stéphanie, who grabbed a handful of paper napkins and dabbed furiously at the sleeve of her blouse.

  Mathieu waited, standing to one side and pretending to be absorbed in reading the notices pinned to the board in front of the mairie, until there was a brief lull in the queue of customers, and then he approached.

  ‘Eliane Martin?’ He held out a sun-browned hand as broad and strong as a bear’s paw, but she noticed that, despite his bulk, he moved with an easy, animal grace. ‘My name is Mathieu Dubosq. I’m working for the Cortinis. They sent me to give you a message.’

  As she shook his hand, Eliane appraised him with her clear-eyed gaze and then smiled, causing his cheeks to flush as red as the jars of Francine’s wild-strawberry jam that sat on the stall between them.

  ‘Mais oui. The Comte de Bellevue has already explained it to me. They have some beehives that need moving to join mine in the kitchen garden at the château, n’est-ce pas?’

  Mathieu nodded, running his fingers through his thick, black hair, suddenly conscious that it might be in need of a little taming in the presence of this quietly self-possessed girl whose smile seemed to have struck him dumb.

  ‘And they are in Tante Béatrice’s orchard at Saint André?’

  There was an awkward silence as Mathieu tried – and failed – to concentrate on what she could possibly be talking about.