by Fiona Valpy
‘The bees,’ she prompted gently. ‘Are the hives in the orchard of Patrick Cortini’s aunt? I believe Monsieur le Comte said they belong to the sister-in-law of Monsieur Cortini?
‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’
‘Eh bien. In that case I will see if my father and brother can bring the truck over before first light on Monday. That will be the best time to catch them still in their hives. I’ll bring what’s needed.’
‘I’ll be there, Mademoiselle Martin, to help carry them.’
The light in her eyes seemed to illuminate her entire face as she smiled at him again. ‘It’s Eliane. Thank you, Mathieu, I shall look forward to seeing you on Monday then.’
He stood back, watching as she served another customer, apparently in no hurry to return to join the group at the café.
Stéphanie pushed her way through the throng, which now filled the marketplace as the church clock struck eleven. She picked up a jar of mirabelle jam from the display, wrinkled her nose and set it back, out of place, on the stall. ‘Oh, bonjour, Eliane,’ she said, as if she’d only just noticed who the stallholder was. ‘Come on, Mathieu, we ordered you another coffee to replace the one you spilled and it’s getting cold.’ She tucked her arm through his, proprietorially. ‘And look,’ she scolded, tapping his hand with mock-severity, ‘you have ruined the sleeve of my blouse. It’s a good thing it’s only an old one.’
Gently and politely, he extracted his arm from her grasp. He picked up the spurned mirabelle jam and balanced it back in its place on top of the neat pyramid of jars. Then he reached out his bear-like hand once again and – gaining in confidence – returned Eliane’s candid gaze with his own shy, dark-eyed smile. ‘Goodbye then, Eliane. Until Monday.’
Abi: 2017
The sky outside the kitchen windows is ripped open, time after time, by flashes of lightning and loud thunder cracks, and the rain drums furiously on the roof of the château as the storm engulfs it.
The thunder makes me jump. ‘Do you ever get struck by lightning up here?’ I ask, nervously.
‘Don’t worry.’ Sara carries on serenely emptying a basket of shopping on to the countertop. ‘The château’s been here for more than five hundred years. We have a very efficient series of lightning conductors installed nowadays, which protect the buildings. We just have to make sure all the appliances are unplugged, otherwise they can get fried by the power surges.’ She stashes cartons of milk into the door of a vast stainless-steel refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of wine. ‘It’ll soon blow over. In high summer they can go on half the night, but these spring storms never last very long.’
‘You speak excellent English,’ I venture.
Sara laughs. ‘Well, that’s a compliment! I am English. I moved out here a few years ago. And then married a Frenchman.’
The kitchen door opens suddenly. A man dressed in builder’s overalls slams it behind him and shakes the raindrops from his hair, reaching to pull Sara into his arms. She laughs, not seeming to mind at all that his clothes are both dusty and damp, and kisses him back.
‘We have a guest,’ she turns to gesture towards where I’m sitting at the scrubbed wooden table.
‘Excuse me, madame.’ He comes over, wiping his hand on the leg of his overalls before shaking mine. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘This is my husband, Thomas. Thomas, this is Abi. We met on the road just as the storm was breaking.’
‘You look as if you’re an escapee from the yoga centre?’ he smiles.
‘I suppose the Lycra leggings are a bit of a giveaway. I’m sorry to have invaded your space. Sara very kindly offered me shelter. I’ll be heading back as soon as the storm’s passed.’
‘You’d better have some supper with us.’ Sara pours three glasses of the chilled wine and puts one of them on the table in front of me. ‘You’ll have missed it at the centre by now. I’ll run you back afterwards.’
The ache in my leg and the throbbing burn of the blister on my heel urge me to accept her kind offer.
Thomas takes a sip of his wine and then excuses himself to go and change out of his work clothes.
‘Can I lay the table?’ I ask Sara, as she busies herself sautéing a panful of potatoes with some garlic. The smell fills the air and makes my mouth water as I set out the cutlery, napkins and water glasses. I take a small sip of wine, which is fruity and delicious.
‘Are you a vegetarian?’ Sara asks. ‘I’ve roasted a chicken, but I can easily make you something else if you’d prefer?’
I shake my head. ‘No, chicken would be wonderful. It’s incredibly kind of you to have taken me in like this.’
Maybe it’s the effect of the wine, or the fact that I’m absolutely starving and the food smells so good, or maybe it’s the relaxed warmth that this friendly couple radiate as they share their home and their evening meal with me, but I’m suddenly overwhelmed with emotion at their generosity. My throat closes up and tears well in my eyes. Don’t be stupid, I admonish myself. You’ve only just met these people. You don’t want them thinking you’re completely crazy. It’s already bad enough that they found you wandering around the countryside with a storm coming.
Sara notices my disquiet and, under the pretext of setting a jug of water on the table, comes over to pat my hand reassuringly. ‘It’s our pleasure.’ She smiles. ‘You must be tired – that’s quite a distance you’ve walked this afternoon. Are you enjoying the yoga retreat?’
Grateful for the diversion, I describe the yoga classes, which I love – and which are so good for strengthening my injured leg and arms, although I keep that bit to myself – and I tell her about Pru meeting her handsome Dutchman, too, keeping it light.
Sara shakes her head. ‘Oh dear, it sounds a bit like your friend has abandoned you.’
I shrug. ‘It’s fine. At least there’s a bit more room in the tent.’
Her eyes open wide. ‘You’re camping? At this time of year?’
‘We booked too late for any of the accommodation in the centre so the only option was the tent. There are quite a few others camping too. It’s okay. Most of the time we’re in the yoga studio or the dining hall, in any case.’
She glances doubtfully at the windows, which are awash with runnels of rain. I admit she has a point, and for a fleeting moment I wonder how the tent is standing up to the storm. ‘It’ll be fine,’ I say stoutly, more to try to reassure myself than anyone else.
‘So tell me,’ she says, reaching for a chopping board and beginning to prepare a bowl of salad, ‘where do you call home?’
‘London,’ I reply. I pick up a tea towel and begin to dry some pans sitting on the draining board next to the sink. ‘Shall I put these away?’
She nods. ‘They go in that cupboard over there. And what do you do in London?’
‘Nothing much at the moment,’ I admit, wiping my hands on the cloth. ‘I was studying for an Open University degree, but I’ve shelved it for the time being. I haven’t been very well for the last couple of years. Nothing major. But there was an accident . . . My husband died . . .’ I tail off and there’s a moment’s silence.
‘Well, that sounds pretty major to me. I’m so sorry,’ Sara puts a sympathetic hand on my arm. ‘No wonder you’ve not been well.’
I shake my head and attempt to swerve the conversation away from the heavier stuff by saying brightly, ‘But I used to work as a live-in nanny.’
‘Did you enjoy nannying?’
‘Very much. I was with a couple of really great families. I loved looking after their kids.’ I don’t add that a few months after Mum died – having spent what little money there was left on one final drinking extravaganza while I was sitting the last of my A levels – I’d realised that I had nowhere to live. And so I’d applied to the agency (‘Domestic Positions at Home and Abroad’) and ticked the boxes saying that I was seeking a residential position and was available immediately. Armed with a set of good references from my teachers at school, I landed a job two days later with a desperate
couple who had three children under the age of five and whose au pair had just disappeared off to live in Wales with a guy she’d met at a festival.
‘And is there anyone waiting for you back at home?’ Sara asks. ‘Children? A partner? Who’s been looking after you while you’ve been unwell?’
I shake my head. ‘None of the above. Footloose and fancy-free, that’s me. I’m much better really these days, though.’ I resort to my usual strategy of keeping it light, deflecting questions before they can be asked. And trying to ignore the fact that I still suffer from anxiety attacks, insomnia and – despite many hours talking to a kind and encouraging psychologist – a chronic inability to move on with my life.
Over supper, Sara and Thomas tell me about the business they’ve established at Château Bellevue. ‘During the season, we have weddings here. We’ll be on our third one of the year this coming weekend. Mondays are days off for us and our staff, then on Tuesdays and Wednesdays we get all the preparations done, making up the bedrooms and setting everything up before the guests arrive for the celebrations.’
‘How many people can you accommodate?’
‘In the château itself, anything up to twenty-four. The other guests stay in chambres d’hôtes in the local area. But we’re expanding a bit. Last winter we bought the mill house down by the river. We’re doing it up to provide accommodation for another ten people. It’s within walking distance so it’ll be a good option for larger parties, or for grooms’ families, who don’t always take too kindly to being put up elsewhere.’
‘It’s coming on slowly,’ Thomas adds. ‘I do bits of work on the mill house whenever I can fit it in; and we have a team of builders, too, but they’re working on other projects at the same time. We’ll definitely have it ready in time for next year, though.’
Sara sighed. ‘Well don’t expect to be spending much time down there this season. I’m going to need you to help out here as much as possible.’ She turns to me. ‘We’ve had to let one of our assistants go. Actually, that’s a euphemism for discovering her in a heap in the wine cellar, having downed a couple of bottles of champagne just before the last lot of wedding guests arrived! Such a shame. It’s very hard to find people locally who are prepared to do a seasonal job like this one, which effectively means they have no social life at weekends throughout the summer.’
I nod, sympathetically. ‘I can imagine how much hard work it must be. But probably quite good fun at the same time – a bit like having one long, joyous party all summer?’
Sara and Thomas smile at one another. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘If you enjoy the work it is very fulfilling.’
They tell me more about the business and about the experiences they’ve had in the last couple of years: how much they’ve learned, the mistakes they’ve made, the fun they’ve had. I watch their faces as they talk, noticing the way they laugh so easily, the way they listen to one another, the looks that they exchange. It’s evident that they love their work almost as much as they love each other.
By the end of the evening I feel as if I’ve known them for years, rather than just a few hours, and I’m reluctant to leave and head back to the centre. But after the salad of fresh-picked tender leaves and a platter of cheeses, which range from hard and tangy to runny and pungent, we push our chairs back from the table. ‘Thank you again; that was the most delicious meal.’ My body is glowing after falling off the detox wagon so suddenly, and I feel sleepy and replete. Surely these foods can’t be so bad for you when they make you feel this good?
Just as Sara predicted, the storm has blown over; and as she drives me back to the centre a few stars are becoming visible where the clouds have parted. It looks like there’s quite a party going on outside the doorway of the centre’s main building when she pulls up behind the police car that’s sitting in front of it. Several of the retreat organisers, Pru and her Dutchman, a few of our fellow yogis and a pair of gendarmes are milling around.
As I climb out of the van, there’s a piercing shriek from Pru. ‘Abi! There you are! Where the hell have you been? We’ve all been worried sick. No one could remember seeing you since the walking meditation this afternoon. They even called the police . . .’
The gendarmes turn to look at me. ‘Is this the missing person?’ one asks. And then he spots Sara. ‘Ah, bonsoir, Sara, comment vas-tu?’
She replies in rapid-fire French, explaining what’s happened.
‘There’s no need to worry, madame,’ they reassure Pru when Sara has finished. ‘Your friend has been in the best possible hands.’ Laughing, they climb into their police car and the tail lights disappear off down the drive.
Once I’ve reassured Pru that I’m absolutely fine and have enjoyed a very pleasant evening being wined and dined in a château, she and her Dutchman climb into his car and depart for the unspoken luxury of his guest house.
I’m a bit embarrassed by all the fuss, so I turn to shake Sara’s hand. ‘Thank you for rescuing me. And for that delicious supper. It’s lovely to have met you and Thomas.’
But she seems to be in no great hurry to leave and is gazing around at the group of buildings whose lights illuminate the courtyard where we’re standing. ‘It’s good to have a chance to see what they’ve done here. I haven’t been to the centre since they did it up.’
‘I’ll show you around, if you like,’ I offer. It seems the least I can do after all her kindness. So I give her a brief guided tour of the dining room, the airy yoga studio with its floor-to-ceiling sliding doors that open on to a view of fields and woodland, and the chill-out space where a few people are lounging with cups of herbal tea. I lead her round to the side of the building, saying, ‘Some people have rooms upstairs, and some stay off-site at local guest houses, but the rest of us . . .’ I tail off.
‘Camp?’ Sara finishes for me as we both survey the scene of carnage before us.
Most of the tents are, admittedly, still upright, although they are dripping forlornly into wide puddles that gleam where the lights catch them. But one has been reduced to a soggy heap of crumpled material that sits like a lonely, deserted island in the middle of a sizeable pond.
‘That’s yours, I take it?’ Sara nudges me gently.
I nod, not wanting to speak in case doing so releases the barrage of tears that is welling up inside me. I feel defeated, suddenly. Apart from my handbag and phone, which are stashed in the safe in the office (we had to hand them over when we arrived – it’s all part of the detox), everything I have with me is under that pathetic-looking bundle of sodden fabric.
‘Right,’ she says briskly, immediately decisive. ‘We need to excavate your belongings and then you’re coming back to stay with us.’
I begin to object, but, to be honest, here and now I can’t really come up with an alternative solution. Sara ignores my feeble protestations and wades through the puddle to lift up what’s left of the tent. Together, we manage to unzip the inner layer and while she holds the muddy, dripping flysheet out of the way I rummage around and find my things. My holdall of clothes is soaked through. My sponge bag is afloat in the puddle. And the two sleeping bags, Pru’s and mine, are so saturated that it’s an effort to drag them free. As I’m struggling to wring as much rainwater from them as possible, Sara extracts the two sleeping mats and pulls them clear. She spots a length of clothes line stretched between two birch trees. ‘Here,’ she says, ‘let’s hang what we can over there. They’ll drip dry a bit overnight and we can finish sorting them out in the morning.’
Making it clear that she’s not prepared to discuss any other possible sleeping arrangements that I might be able to come up with, she puts my holdall to one side. ‘We’ll bring that back with us and stick everything in the washing machine. Then at least your clothes will be clean and dry for tomorrow.’
‘I’m sorry to be such a hassle, especially when you’re so busy. I bet you didn’t realise what you were letting yourself in for when you stopped beside me on the road.’
‘It’s no hassle, an
d it turns out to be a very good thing our paths crossed when they did. Fortunately, I happen to have a château full of empty bedrooms tonight. You can stay in one of them. And I bet it’ll be a lot more comfortable than your tent, even if it had been dry and standing upright.’
I hesitate, and she nudges me again and says, ‘Did I forget to mention the en-suite bathroom with a bathtub so deep you can almost float in it?’
I smile and hold up the towel that I’ve retrieved from the tent, which was once cream-coloured but is now a streaky mud-brown. ‘You do make a compelling case. Tell me – are there fluffy white towels too, by any chance?’
Sara grins back. ‘You betcha!’
Eliane: 1938
The following week, before setting off up the hill to her day’s work at Château Bellevue, Eliane covered her head and shoulders with a shawl to keep out the slight chill of the mist that had gathered in the river valley overnight. As she passed, the door of the mill itself stood ajar and she stepped into the dry warmth of the grinding room to say good morning to her father. She lingered for a few moments, watching as her father primed the millstones with a few handfuls of grain before turning the control wheel to open the mill race. The calm, hushed flow of the river was transformed into a powerful rush as the water began to tumble into the narrow channel, coaxing the mill wheel to begin to turn. As it gathered speed, the rush became a roar and the machinery sprang to life, adding its clattering chatter to the cacophony. Creaking and clicking, the gears began to turn the runner stone and her father opened the grain chute, directing the flow into the hole in the stone’s centre. After a few moments, the first powdery grist began to fall into the wooden trough below the bed stone, reminding Eliane of the first flakes of winter snow.
Her father checked the grist and adjusted the speed of the runner stone before he was happy that it was grinding the grain finely enough.
On rafters high above them, the boards of the upper floor creaked as Yves heaved another sack of wheat over to the hopper that fed the millstones. He pulled open the trapdoor in the ceiling above their heads, to check with Gustave that all was running smoothly, and grinned as he caught sight of Eliane. The din was far too loud for his voice to be heard, but she saw him mouth ‘Good morning’. She waved back at him, then kissed her father and bade him a ‘Bonne journée’ before gathering her shawl around her head once again and setting off towards her own place of work.