The Beekeeper's Promise

by Fiona Valpy

  The cook nodded slowly, considering this.

  ‘I’m not asking you to make a decision right here and now,’ said Monsieur le Comte. ‘Our world has turned upside down this morning, so take your time to consider what I’ve said. However . . .’ He raised a finger in warning. ‘I intend to do what I can, come what may. So I would ask you not to discuss this with others, even with your families. We live in treacherous times and war puts many unforeseen pressures on everyone it touches. If the Germans realise that my motivation for welcoming them into my home in such a civil manner is not, in fact, capitulation to their New Order – rather the opposite, indeed – then I am under no illusions as to what the repercussions will most certainly be.’

  Madame Boin threw down her dishcloth. ‘I don’t need time to consider,’ she declared stoutly. ‘You are going to need looking after, m’sieur. More than ever in a house full of Germans. I’ll stay.’

  Eliane hesitated, remembering Madame Boin’s words from earlier: ‘The best way to get through whatever lies ahead is to carry on as normal.’ Would that be possible now that there would be German soldiers living at Château Bellevue? A sudden vision of Mireille limping up the road towards her with the baby in her arms – and the thought of what the Germans had done to Blanche’s mother – made her catch her breath. She thought of Mathieu, of whom there had been no word for more than a fortnight now; was he stranded in the unoccupied zone, unable to reach her? Or had he decided to stay with his father and brother now? Had he tried to contact her, as she had him? Had her letters reached him? How – and when – could they be together again? Her longing for him was lodged in her chest, a sickening ache, the contraction of loss that constricted her breath and made her heart feel as if it were closing in on itself. How could this have happened? How could someone, somewhere, decide one day to draw a line on a map that would keep them apart like this? That same line had cut like a scalpel blade through communities and families, severing France in two.

  She realised, then, that of course it wasn’t possible to carry on as normal. The world was no longer ‘normal’. It was time to fight for the things that mattered. They were living with the enemy; it was time to do what she could to resist.

  Abi: 2017

  The night air is as thick and heavy as a blanket. I lie under the drapery of my mosquito net with the windows and shutters thrown wide open, in the hope that if there’s any breath of a breeze it will be tempted in.

  From up the hill, the faint, throbbing beat of dance music from the barn fades out and falls silent as the latest wedding party draws to a close. I’m getting used to the routine now, although each event takes on its own personality within the framework that Sara and Thomas have established. I’m getting my confidence back a little too. While Karen’s broken wrist was mending, I took on some extra duties to help out and did some of the front-of-house work for a change. I’ll admit, I was so anxious beforehand at the thought of being in a crowded space that I was nearly sick, but Jean-Marc was there helping out too, working behind the bar, and it was good to see his reassuring smile whenever I hurried past, and to know that Sara and Thomas were around as well, of course. And then the guests were all so friendly and were having so much fun that it was impossible not to relax and enjoy the party along with them.

  Most weddings are happy ones, I suppose. Perhaps I was just unlucky.

  As I toss and turn in the stifling darkness of the attic room, I think about the choices that Eliane and her family had to make. Madame Boin had said the best approach would be to try to keep going as normal, to try to ignore the war. But that sounded pretty impossible to me. I know some people collaborated with the Germans. Some probably did it because they believed in what the Germans were fighting for; but most were probably terrified, faced with impossible choices, resorting to collaboration as a means of self-preservation.

  And then others chose the path of resistance.

  I ponder what Sara has told me about Eliane. She was clearly such a peace-loving, gentle character and, like her mother, Lisette, she believed in saving lives, bringing new life into the world and tending those who were old and sick, like Monsieur le Comte. But she chose resistance without hesitation when the choice was presented to her.

  I feel ashamed that I resisted only at the end. It took me years to find the strength, because I quickly became entangled in Zac’s web of control. Systematically, he dismantled my sense of identity, which had perhaps never been very strong in the first place. It was easy for me to become isolated in my glass-paned tower overlooking the river; easier to stay inside rather than stepping out to explore my new neighbourhood; easier to give excuses to my few friends than to endure another evening of Zac’s rudeness and coldness towards them, sensing the subtle shift in his mood which I knew boded badly for me when we returned home.

  After a while, we socialised only with his friends. I tried seeing my friends on my own a few times, but when I returned to the apartment Zac would inevitably have spent the evening drinking alone. And when he was drunk, things were even worse for me. So it became safer, ironically, to let go of the friends who might have helped me escape from my marriage if they’d known what was going on. I’d become trapped in Zac’s web now, and escape became impossible.

  I tried to convince myself that the times when he was loving and solicitous were what mattered and that the storms of his temper were mere clouds passing across the blue sky of our life together. And anyway, everyone has arguments and hiccups in their relationships, don’t they? Do they? I didn’t know. There was no one I could ask, no friends I could casually compare notes with to try to work out where the boundaries lay for ‘normal’ people.

  I knew by then that I wasn’t ‘normal’, because Zac told me so, repeatedly. ‘If I’d realised how damaged you are, I’d never have married you,’ he remarked coldly one day, finding me curled on my side on the bed, weeping silent tears. ‘Perhaps my mother was right.’

  But then, too, he’d present me with gifts to try to make me feel better (or was it to try to salve his own guilty conscience?). He bought me an expensive new phone. I was delighted when he gave it to me, producing it at the dinner table one evening. But then he’d taken it from my hands and insisted on setting it up for me. ‘And look here,’ he’d said, flicking screens and pressing buttons, ‘you can turn this on –’ he clicked the icon marked ‘Share My Location’ – ‘and I’ll be able to track exactly where you are on my own phone. That way, I’ll be able to picture where you are and what you’re doing when we’re apart during the day.’ I suppose I should have felt flattered, that he wanted to stay so close to me.

  He said all the right words, but why did they always seem to mean something else?

  He’d buy clothes for me to wear, too – nothing like my usual style: tailored dresses, straight skirts, silk blouses. Expensive clothes, for which I ought to have felt grateful but which constrained me and made me feel like someone I wasn’t.

  I missed my jeans and the sticky-fingered hugs of the children I’d looked after and one evening I plucked up the courage to suggest that I might look for a job again – nothing full-time, of course, as keeping the apartment clean (Zac had high standards) and cooking his dinner took up so much of each day – just, perhaps, a few hours every morning for a frazzled working mother in need of help.

  Zac’s eyes grew dark, then, and I steeled myself against his anger, shrinking back against the cushions of the sofa where we were sitting. He was always able to do that with his gaze – to fix me to the spot when he focused it on me that way. He looked at me for a few moments and it was hard to read his expression. I glanced away, trying not to let the beam of his attention make me freeze, focusing instead on the twinkling lights of the city pooled beneath the single, blinking light of a plane as it made its way along the in-bound flight path towards its destination. He put a hand on my arm and I flinched again.

  ‘Oh, Abi,’ he sighed. His voice was soft, despairing. ‘I’ve tried to give you everything you wanted. Most
women would be delighted not to have to worry about going out to work. This apartment, everything we have, I’ve worked so hard for it. And this is how you thank me? By wanting to go and look after other people’s children? What about my needs? What about having a baby of our own?’

  My blood froze at his words. I’d have loved a child of my own, or two or three, but the thought of how that would trap me – and them – in his web, so tightly that there could be no escape, ever, terrified me.

  He took me by the hand. ‘In fact, let’s start trying now, tonight!’ His expression was tender again, concerned that I’d tried to pull away, that I was struggling against the silk threads of the web that he’d bound me in. ‘Throw away your pills, my love, and come to bed.’

  In the bathroom, I opened the mirrored cabinet above the sink and took out the box of contraceptive pills that was kept there. I knew he’d check. So I left a half-used pack in the box and chucked it into the bin beneath the sink. But I took the other packs and tucked them into the sleeve of my shirt, waiting in the bedroom until he’d gone to brush his teeth before I slipped them into the inner pocket of an old handbag that I kept on a shelf in the wardrobe.

  Looking back, perhaps that was my first act of resistance. Perhaps I shouldn’t feel so ashamed of myself, after all.

  PART 2

  Eliane: 1940

  As the summer wore on, Eliane was relieved to see her sister’s strength returning. Being at the mill slowly worked its magic on Mireille and the combination of simple but nourishing home-cooking, the loving care of her family and peaceful days spent playing with Blanche beside the river began to heal her wounded spirit. The sluice gates had now been opened again, so that the deafening roar of water over the weir had reverted to its more usual hush in the background of life at the mill. By late August, the vivacious spark had returned to Mireille’s eyes and then, one miraculous Sunday afternoon, Lisette and Eliane smiled at one another as the sound of Mireille’s laughter rang out once more, as welcome and as joyous as a peal of church bells.

  ‘Just look at this naughty little monkey!’ she exclaimed as she handed Blanche to Lisette. ‘She managed to crawl all the way to the edge of the pool and then started trying to eat the mud!’

  ‘She’s covered in it!’ But Lisette couldn’t help laughing too. ‘And you’re no better, Mireille. What a mucky pair! Look at you – you’ve got just as much mud on your hands as she has.’ She wiped a smudge from Mireille’s cheek with a corner of her apron.

  ‘Well, since she was in a bit of a mess already, it seemed like a good opportunity to make a few mud pies,’ Mireille grinned.

  Lisette washed Blanche’s hands and face and then whisked her upstairs to change her out of her muddy clothes. Mireille sat down at the kitchen table and idly began turning the pages of last week’s newspaper.

  ‘How is Monsieur le Comte bearing up?’ she asked Eliane. ‘It can’t be easy for him, living in the cottage while the château is full of les Boches.’

  ‘He’s doing okay. He’s a courageous old man.’ Eliane didn’t elaborate – the count had continued to impress on her the need to stay silent, even with members of her family. ‘At a time like this, knowledge can be a very dangerous thing,’ he’d told her. ‘You will be keeping your family safe by not telling them about anything that goes on up here. For the same reason, I do not intend to explain to you the details of what I am doing: if the Germans were to find out, it would be better for you and Madame Boin if you did not know.’

  Indeed, it didn’t seem to Eliane as if much was going on at all in the way of subversive activity. Sometimes she wondered whether Monsieur le Comte was becoming a little delusional – it would have been perfectly understandable, given his age and the upset of having his home requisitioned by the enemy. He spent quite a bit of time reading in the château’s library – a room that the Germans were happy to allow him to use in light of how accommodating he’d been in welcoming them into his home – and he took his meals in the kitchen. He usually spent much of the afternoon taking a nap in the cottage and often retired early to his bedroom there once the women had given him his supper, leaving them to clear away and get home in time before the curfew.

  Madame Boin refused to leave her kitchen, now that the château was ‘infested with les Boches’, as she put it. She prepared meals for the Germans, as the count asked her to, but with as much bad grace and clashing of pans as she could manage. On the count’s instructions, Eliane would set everything out in the dining room before the Germans’ mealtimes and wait until they’d left to go back and clear away, so her path rarely crossed with theirs. The only exception was the translator – Oberleutnant Farber – who acted as a go-between, passing on requests (which were, in fact, orders) from the officers billeted in Château Bellevue. He was a pleasant enough man, Eliane thought, although his uniform made her nervous. The insignia on his jacket – the silver eagle with wings outspread and the sharp geometry of the swastika – seemed to her to be brutal icons of dominance and persecution.

  One Friday evening, as Eliane was finishing up her week’s work by mopping the kitchen floor, she’d looked up, startled, when a figure appeared in the doorway. It was Monsieur le Comte, who put a finger to his lips and then handed her a sealed envelope. She took it, puzzled, and then saw that her father’s name was written on it in the count’s distinguished handwriting. He gestured to her to put it in her apron pocket and then, with a nod of his head, disappeared back down the darkened path towards the cottage. As she watched him go, it seemed to Eliane that he deliberately kept to the shadows, avoiding the few strips of light escaping from the edges of the badly fitting blackout on the château windows, which illuminated the gardens here and there.

  She had handed the envelope to her father when she got home. Gustave had simply nodded and put it in his pocket without opening it, and Eliane had known better than to ask him any questions about it.

  She didn’t mention that letter to her sister now, either, as Mireille began to read aloud from the newspaper. ‘“With Paris virtually deserted, employers there are calling for workers to return. Following reassurances that there will be no further bombing raids by the Luftwaffe now that the armistice is in place, for a limited period of time additional trains will be run from Bordeaux to the capital, to ensure employees can return to their posts.”’

  Eliane had taken over from her mother when she’d left to clean Blanche up after her mud-pie-making exploits. Lisette had been preparing her medicaments for the week ahead, so now Eliane was carefully transferring essential oils from glass-stoppered bottles into the smaller vials that Lisette carried with her on her rounds. She paused for a moment to look over at Mireille, as the words she’d just read hung in the air, mingling with the medicinal scents of peppermint, for heartburn in pregnancy, and cloves, for soothing the gums of teething babies.

  ‘Will you go back?’ she asked.

  Mireille gazed out of the window; but whether she saw the river and the willow tree, or whether the visions of the carnage she’d witnessed still played before her eyes, Eliane couldn’t tell.

  Slowly, Mireille nodded, making up her mind. She turned towards Eliane. ‘I’m strong enough again now. I know I’m needed at the atelier – so many of the girls left at the same time when Esther and I did. I wonder who else will go back. I wonder who else is left . . .’

  ‘Maman won’t like it,’ Eliane said, returning her attention to the array of bottles in front of her.

  Mireille sighed. ‘I know. But there’s nothing for me here. You and Maman take such good care of Blanche, you don’t need me to help with that. In Paris I am needed, though. I had a postcard the other day from Monsieur le Directeur. He’s been told that if he can’t carry on as usual, the Germans will take over his business and put their own people in to keep the atelier going. Surely it’s better if it remains in his hands? He’s been a good boss. And he’s tried to help people like Esther. Perhaps there will be other women like her who can be given shelter and work. Perhaps
I can help with that in some way too . . .’

  As she spoke, Mireille’s voice grew stronger and her words carried more conviction than they had done since her return to the mill. At that moment, Lisette entered, carrying a freshly washed and dressed Blanche, who was perfumed with the scent of the massage oil – a mixture of tarragon, lavender and mint – that Lisette used as a soothing balm to heal colic and calm the babies in her care. She handed the baby to Mireille to bounce on her knee.

  ‘In that case,’ said Lisette, clearly having heard what Mireille had been saying, ‘you are going to need to make sure you’ve got the strength to go back, ma fille.’

  Mireille’s face lit up. ‘Will you let me go then, Maman?’

  ‘I will do so at the beginning of September, providing that I’m satisfied that you are completely well again.’ Lisette smoothed a lock of hair from Mireille’s forehead, looking deep into her elder daughter’s dark eyes. ‘I know you. I know that keeping you here will not help your soul to mend and rebuild itself. You will find ways to do that in Paris – of this I am sure. But just remember, you can always return here to the mill if you find that you need to leave Paris again. This is your home. This will always be your home.’

  A small tear trickled on to Mireille’s cheek and she buried her face in Blanche’s curls, which were so like her own.

  Lisette continued stroking her daughter’s hair, soothing her. ‘And now I know you are getting better,’ she smiled. ‘Because you are able to cry again, at last.’

  On Monday morning, Eliane went, as usual, to the walled garden to check the beehives and collect the ingredients that Madame Boin had requested for the day’s menus. The upper frames in each of the hives were full of summer honey, capped off with neat beeswax seals. This week she would take the last collection of the year, making sure that she left a good supply to see the bees through the coming winter. If it was anything like as harsh as the last one they’d be needing a bit extra, especially now that rationing was making it harder to save any sugar.