The Beekeeper's Promise

by Fiona Valpy

  As she settled the frames she’d been inspecting back in place, she heard the gate open and turned to see Monsieur le Comte.

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur.’

  ‘Bonjour, Eliane. How are your charges today?’

  ‘Thriving, thank you, sir. The colonies were much depleted after last winter, but they have survived and are back to full strength again now.’

  He stooped a little lower, leaning on his cane, to examine a worker bee that had just landed at the entrance to the hive and was busily weaving her dance to tell her comrades where to find the richest sources of nectar.

  ‘It never fails to fascinate me, the way they do that.’ He straightened up and smiled at Eliane. ‘They are so clever, the way they work together as a community, each with its own role to play to ensure the colony continues to thrive.’

  Beckoning Eliane to follow, he moved a little further away from the hives, so as not to get in the way of the bees’ flight paths and agitate them. ‘Show me what you are cultivating in this bed,’ he asked her.

  She’d been spending more time in the walled garden since the gardener had left. He’d joined up a few months before the armistice was signed and, as far as anyone now knew, he was one of the thousands of captured French soldiers who’d been sent to labour camps in Germany.

  Eliane began pointing out the late-summer crops of courgettes, beans and tomatoes, but the count’s attention seemed to be elsewhere. She fell silent. Still gazing at the neatly hoed beds as if intent on the produce, he said quietly, ‘Like that worker bee, would you be prepared to help your community, Eliane?’

  Taking her lead from him, she too continued to face the garden, as if studying the plants. Her voice was soft as she replied, ‘Bien sûr, monsieur.’

  ‘I don’t want to put you in a position of risk. So all I’m going to ask you to do is to perform a sort of dance to send a message to others. You don’t need to know who they are, nor where they are. When I give you the word, you’ll just put on this headscarf . . .’ He fished a folded square of richly patterned red silk out of his pocket. ‘And then take your basket for a little stroll around the outside of the garden walls. It’s important that you wear the scarf and that you walk in a clockwise direction: those are the parts of the dance that communicate the message. Would you be prepared to do this?’

  Eliane looked down at the bright scarf that he held out to her. Silently, she took it from him and slipped it into her apron pocket. After she had done so, she murmured, ‘But, m’sieur, this is too fine a headscarf for a girl like me to wear. Silk of this quality, and so intricately patterned . . . Won’t people think it’s a little odd?’

  ‘It belonged to my mother,’ he said. ‘But I’d like you to start wearing it often; and if anyone asks you about it, perhaps tell them it was a gift from your sister in Paris. She has access to such finery – people will believe that. And, if you are stopped by any of our “guests” on your walk, say that you’re searching for some of the wildflowers you and your maman use to make your healing potions.’

  ‘Very well, monsieur. But how will I know when to go for my walk?’

  ‘I shall be in the library as usual this morning. I understand that our “guests” have an important briefing that they must all attend at the mairie today. When the coast is clear, I’ll come into the kitchen and ask Madame Boin to prepare a peppermint tisane for me. That will be the time to dance your dance, like your bees, and send the message.’

  ‘Understood.’ Her voice was almost a whisper, but he heard her reply clearly.

  ‘Thank you, Eliane.’ He pointed towards the vegetable plot again, as though their conversation had been about that all along, and then sauntered back to the château.

  Deep in thought, as she collected the ingredients that Madame Boin had requested, Eliane deliberately omitted to pick any peppermint.

  There was the usual coming and going of German soldiers at Château Bellevue that morning; a motorcycle courier puttered up the drive to deliver documents for the general; a couple of soldiers marched past the kitchen window on their way to relieve the patrol at the checkpoint on the bridge in Coulliac; and a military truck pulled up at the main door.

  ‘Two more of them moving in,’ tutted Madame Boin, as she and Eliane made up additional beds in an upstairs room. ‘We’ll be full to bursting if this goes on much longer.’

  The door of the adjacent room opened and they heard the crackle of a radio and German voices. The wireless station had been set up there and Eliane realised suddenly that it was directly above the library, where the count spent so much of his time these days.

  Oberleutnant Farber knocked on the open bedroom door. ‘Mesdames, there is no great urgency to finish that. The new arrivals have been ordered to leave their bags in the hallway for the time being as there are other things to attend to now. If you could have the room ready by this afternoon then that will be fine. And there is no need to put out anything for lunch today; we will be making other arrangements.’

  ‘Oui, monsieur,’ Madame Boin said. And then, once the sound of his footsteps had faded away down the corridor, she resumed her grumbling. ‘First they give us no notice of these new arrivals and then they change their plans for the midday meal. How am I supposed to run the kitchen under such conditions? Talk about high-handed . . .’

  From the bedroom window, as she finished putting a bolster into its linen cover, Eliane watched several of the soldiers climbing into the truck and then Oberleutnant Farber bringing the jeep to the front entrance for the general. As he was pulling away, the oberleutnant glanced upwards and caught sight of Eliane standing there. He smiled, and gave a very slight nod in acknowledgement, before turning the vehicle and following the truck down the steep driveway towards the town.

  As the dust settled behind them, the château fell silent. Eliane hurried downstairs to join Madame Boin in the kitchen and set to work topping and tailing a colander of green beans. After a few minutes, she heard the slow footsteps and tap of a walking cane that signified the approach of the count.

  He smiled at the scene of peaceful domesticity as he came through the door. ‘Madame Boin, please would you be so kind as to make me my morning tisane? I think I’d like peppermint today.’

  ‘Oui, monsieur.’ She put the kettle on to boil. ‘But Eliane, where is the mint? I asked you to bring me some this morning.’

  ‘Did I forget it? Oh, I’m sorry, madame. I’ll go and gather some now.’ She picked up the wicker basket that sat by the kitchen door and stepped outside. As soon as she was out of Madame Boin’s sight, she set the basket down and took the scarf out of the pocket of her apron. It was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen: a square of scarlet silk, patterned with exotic birds and flowers. She shook out the heavy folds and then held it by two corners to make a large triangle to cover her hair. She tied it behind the nape of her neck, peasant-style, and then picked up her basket again. She walked right around the outside of the walled garden, going clockwise as the count had directed, feeling self-conscious as she knew that somewhere someone was watching her. Indeed, she felt exposed and conspicuous as she progressed around the outside of the garden walls, aware that she must be visible from Coulliac, where the Germans were, as well as from the surrounding countryside. Her scalp prickled with fear beneath the covering of the headscarf, but she walked determinedly onwards.

  After completing the circuit, she removed the scarf and carefully re-folded it, secreting it back in her pocket. Then she pushed the gate open and hastily gathered a bunch of sweet-smelling mint leaves to take back to Madame Boin.

  About half an hour later there was the sound of a vehicle driving past and pulling up by the main entrance.

  ‘That had better not be any of those Boches coming back and wanting their lunch after all,’ scolded Madame Boin.

  Craning to look, Eliane was surprised to see her father’s truck. ‘It’s Papa!’ she exclaimed.

  Gustave got out, whistling cheerfully, and unloaded a sack of flour
from the back. He came to the kitchen door and knocked loudly. ‘Good morning, Madame Boin. Et re-bonjour, ma fille.’ He smiled at Eliane. ‘After my deliveries today I discovered that I had one extra bag, which I must have accidentally omitted to hand in at the depot. I thought, rather than wasting precious gasoline going all the way back again, I would see if it might be of any use to you. I know you have a great number of “guests” to cater for these days.’

  Eliane thought it odd that he used the same jokey term as Monsieur le Comte did when referring to the Germans. She also thought she heard the sound of the truck door opening and then softly closing again, but Gustave was chatting animatedly to Madame Boin, so perhaps she was mistaken.

  Her father seemed to be in no great hurry to depart, discussing the latest news reports and passing on snippets of local gossip gleaned on his rounds that morning. ‘Lisette had a tiring day yesterday. Madame Leblanc’s labour lasted seventeen hours! So she was up all night long. But all is well – a bouncing boy finally delivered at five this morning. Lisette was catching up on her sleep when I left . . .’

  He tailed off as the count appeared. ‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Comte.’ The two men shook hands. ‘As you can see,’ Gustave pointed at the sack of flour propped against a chair, ‘I’ve just made an extra delivery.’

  ‘That is greatly appreciated, Gustave. Thank you for thinking of us. All is in order.’ It sounded to Eliane more like a statement of fact than a question.

  The miller nodded. ‘Well, I’d better be going. If Lisette’s woken up she’ll be wondering why I’m taking so long to finish my rounds. Good day, monsieur; Madame Boin.’ He paused in passing to plant a kiss on the top of Eliane’s head, saying, ‘See you later, ma fille.’ And then, having climbed back into his truck, he gave them all a jaunty wave as he drove past, heading for home.

  When she got back to the mill that evening, Eliane paused beside the river for a few minutes, standing beneath the sheltering canopy of the willow’s branches. She had got into the habit of doing so almost every day since Mathieu had left, spending a few minutes thinking of him and remembering the times they’d spent together on the riverbank. She gazed across the river at the fields and then the woods beyond the fields, visible as dark shadows in the moonlight. On the far side of the woods, the faint rumble of a passing train faded away into the distance.

  Mathieu was out there, somewhere, beyond those woods, over the railway line and across yet more fields, on the other side of the steep, narrow valleys of the Périgord where the higher land opened out to become the meadows and pastures of the Corrèze, helping his father and brother manage the farm near Tulle. She wished, with all her heart, for a message from him. Just a few words to let her know that he was safe and well and that he was still thinking of her. She thought back to the days they’d spent beside the river, picnicking in the sunlight and idly making plans for a future that they’d been so sure of sharing. She’d known then, with such certainty, that they were destined to be together. But who could have foretold that France would become a country divided by a line drawn on a map? And that that line of demarcation would so quickly become an un-crossable barrier?

  Just then, the darkness of the blackout was illuminated for a moment as the door of the mill house opened and light spilled from the interior across the dusty grass to where Eliane was standing, concealed, behind the veil of the willow’s leaves. Lisette stepped out, closing the door again quickly behind her; and, as Eliane watched, her mother walked over to the barn carrying something carefully before her. Eliane heard the soft clink of china rattling on a tin tray and caught the fleeting smell of something savoury – soup, perhaps? Or a stew that her mother had made?

  How strange. Her mother was taking a meal out to the barn. But then it had been a strange day, with the morning walk in the silk headscarf and her father turning up at the château like that. Eliane stepped out from the shelter of the willow tree just as Lisette hurried back out of the barn, empty-handed now.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped, pressing her hand to her throat. ‘It’s you, Eliane. You startled me!’

  ‘Sorry, Maman, I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘How was your day?’ asked Lisette.

  ‘Oh fine. The same as usual,’ Eliane replied. Although she was curious as to who could possibly be eating their supper in the Martins’ barn, she knew better than to ask questions if her mother didn’t want her to.

  ‘Papa is in the kitchen. I think he wants a word with you.’

  Eliane followed her mother inside, blinking in the light.

  ‘Here she is!’ Gustave pulled out the chair next to his and gestured for Eliane to join him at the table. ‘You did a fine job today, ma fille. That walk you took was an important one.’

  She shrugged. ‘It was just a walk.’

  He grinned at her and ruffled her hair. ‘It was a walk that enabled things to happen. Things that must stay behind the scenes for the moment. But things that will make a difference.’

  She smiled back at him, tucking her straight, honey-coloured hair back behind her ears. ‘And is one of those things eating supper in the barn right now?’

  Lisette gasped. ‘I told you it was too much of a risk letting him stay there,’ she scolded Gustave.

  ‘Don’t worry, chérie. Eliane has already played a part in this and she knows not to say anything to anyone outside of this house. It’s only fair that she be told. In any case, he’ll be gone tomorrow when Yves and I deliver him to his new digs, along with the flour for the bakery. And it’s after the curfew now, too late to move him safely tonight.’

  Gustave turned to face Eliane. ‘As you have gathered, we have a “guest” at the moulin for the night. Like your “guests” at the château, he’s a foreigner – he’s English. He crossed the weir today, having parachuted into the unoccupied zone last night. He’ll be around for a while, helping out behind the scenes. More than that, you need not know.’

  ‘I see.’ Eliane nodded, thoughtfully. ‘And did my walk today have something to do with his arrival?’

  ‘Indeed it did. You let certain people know when the coast was clear. You helped keep him – and others – safe.’

  ‘May I ask you one more question, then?’

  ‘Just one more. But I can’t promise you an answer.’

  ‘Did you deliver more than just a sack of flour when you came to Château Bellevue today?’

  He looked into her candid grey eyes, considering his reply. ‘The answer to your question is “yes”, Eliane. But I cannot say any more than that.’

  ‘That’s okay. I understand, Papa. I won’t ask any more questions.’

  When she’d climbed the stairs to her attic room, Eliane took the scarlet headscarf from her apron pocket and spread it out on her bed, running her fingertips across the smooth, richly coloured silk. She knew it was a beacon, and that today it had sent an important signal out from the hilltop to the countryside around. Against the white counterpane, the scarf seemed to blaze with a triumphant message of hope. She willed it to keep the stranger in the barn safe, and to protect her family here and in Paris; she thought of Monsieur le Comte, whose mother had worn the scarf once, and hoped it would surround him with light up there at the château, whatever he was up to in the midst of all those German soldiers; and, most of all, she prayed that it would somehow be a beacon, like the beam from a lighthouse sweeping across a darkened ocean, that took her love to Mathieu on the other side of their divide.

  There was a strange man sitting at the kitchen table when she came downstairs the next morning. His clothes were non-descript and workmanlike, but his features were distinctive: an aquiline nose and square jaw suggested a physical strength that was softened by the faint expression of amusement in his eyes, which were the shade of the dark-blue cornflowers that grew along the edges of the wheat fields. At the sight of Eliane, he set down his bowl of coffee and scrambled to his feet.

  She stooped to kiss her father, who was seated at the end of the table nearest the door. ‘Bonjour, Pa
pa.’

  ‘Bonjour, Eliane. Allow me to introduce you to Jacques Lemaître.’

  The stranger stretched out his hand to shake hers. ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle. Je suis ravi de faire votre connaissance.’

  His French was flawless, with perhaps just the faint hint of an accent that was difficult to place. Without knowing otherwise, one might assume he was from further south – the Basque country, perhaps, or maybe the Languedoc.

  ‘Jacques will be working at the bakery in Coulliac and staying in the apartment above it. He’s a friend of the family’s who’s come to lend a hand now that Monsieur Fournier’s arthritis is so bad these days.’

  She nodded. ‘They’ll be pleased to have your help, m’sieur.’

  Jacques smiled. ‘That is a very beautiful scarf you’re wearing, Eliane.’

  ‘Thank you. It was a present from my sister in Paris.’

  It felt as if they were all practicing their roles, rehearsing them in private so that they would be prepared for a more public performance.

  Downing his coffee, Gustave pulled a large, spotted handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his moustache. ‘Right then, Jacques, let’s get going. Monsieur Fournier will be wanting his delivery of flour before the rest of Coulliac wakes up.’

  ‘Au revoir, Eliane,’ the stranger said. ‘I look forward to seeing you again soon.’

  ‘Welcome to Coulliac, Monsieur Lemaître,’ she replied. ‘I hope you will settle in well.’

  Abi: 2017

  It’s a Monday – the day of rest for the staff at Château Bellevue – and I’m sitting on the riverbank, dabbling my feet in the water. Thomas and Jean-Marc have been working on the mill house this morning, but they’ve gone back up the hill for lunch. It’s way too hot to work outside in the middle of the day.