by Fiona Valpy
I’ve grown brave enough, now, to swim in the river. Jean-Marc has shown me that you can walk out on to the weir and dive into the deep pool upstream there, as long as you keep to the middle of the river, away from the sluice channels. The mill wheel is still these days, frozen in space and time, a silent testimony to those war years when it was used to grind the grain for the community’s daily bread. But the sluice gate in the bypass channel stands open and the water is drawn into it in a ribbon of blackness that is churned to foaming white as it drops back into the river’s course below the weir once again. In the centre of the stream, the water in the deep mill pool is dark and cool, and then it leaps over the top of the weir, cascading joyfully into the golden-brown pool below, where fish swim in the eddies beneath the willow as the river gathers itself before flowing onwards to join other, larger waterways and eventually pour itself out into the ocean.
I pick my way over the river stones next to the bank and sit down with my back against the trunk of the willow tree. The bark is rough, riven with cracks and crevices. Sara’s told me that this bark is a source of the main component of aspirin, and that Eliane and Lisette would have made use of a tea brewed from it as a mild analgesic when manufactured drugs were in short supply during the war years. I rest my head against the healing bark and close my eyes, letting the glimmers of sunlight that filter through the willow’s elegant leaves make patterns of warmth and light play over my eyelids. I think of Eliane, standing in the shelter of the tree, dreaming of Mathieu on that night that Jacques had arrived at the mill.
What would it feel like, I wonder, to be loved by a man like Mathieu Dubosq or Jacques Lemaître? A good-hearted man.
The faint rumbling rhythm of a train pulses by, far away in the distance, rousing me from my daydreams. It’s so peaceful here (now that Thomas’ cement mixer has, thankfully, fallen silent) that you can pick out each layer of sound: the fluting call of a bird overhead; the far-off heartbeat of the passing train; the sigh of the weeping willow’s leaves; the hushed rush of the river. It’s very unlike my view of the Thames from the apartment in London, whose sounds are drowned by the noise of the city all around it; and those city sounds, in turn, are sealed out by the hermetic glass panes of the tall windows so that, inside, there is a silence so absolute that it is anything but peaceful.
I used to play music or have the radio on all the time, when I was in the apartment on my own each day, so that I wouldn’t hear that silence.
Zac must have sensed how lonely I was. And something had shifted, that night when he suggested trying to start a family. Although, outwardly, I thought I appeared the same as ever, I was no longer the passive collaborator I had been at the start of our marriage. My small, secret act of defiance in hiding my birth-control pills gave me strength each day when I took one out of the evening bag hidden on the shelf in the wardrobe and swallowed it down with a sip from the glass of water beside the bed.
Perhaps somehow, Zac sensed that shift, too, a tiny loss of control, in a way that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Anyway, whatever his reasoning, he presented the idea of me returning to my studies with an air of triumphant benevolence.
Why was it that every time he gave me something, I felt something was being taken away from me?
‘You could study for a university degree,’ he suggested, ‘while we’re trying for our family. What do you think? You’ve said you always regretted not being able to continue your studies after you left school.’
I was amazed, and then grateful. So he did have my best interests at heart, after all.
I beamed from ear to ear. ‘Oh Zac! Really? I’d love that!’ I pictured myself in a packed lecture theatre, and drinking coffee with other students (I’d be older than most of them, of course, but not ridiculously so), carrying a bag of books home on the tube and settling down to write an essay . . .
I realised my mistake immediately, as his expression turned from warm to cool. I’d dropped my guard, let him see a glimpse of my true feelings, and that had given him power.
‘Of course, it’s going to cost a great deal. But I was looking online at the Open University. It’s cheaper to study through them and you won’t have all those added travel costs. I’m not made of money, after all.’
There it was again. Given with one hand, taken away with the other. And, although the thought of doing a degree through the OU still filled me with excitement, why did I feel that the walls of the apartment were closing in around me, the views of the city skyline receding even further into the distance, becoming even more unreachable beyond the plate-glass windows?
But, I told myself, if I got a degree I would be empowered. I could go out and get a good job, stand on my own two feet. The tiny voice of my lost Self whispered in my ear: And then you could earn enough money to get away.
It was a step. And, right then, a step in any direction was better than sitting, frozen, behind those tall panes of glass.
Eliane: 1940
Instead of retiring to the cottage for his usual nap, the count began to spend most of his afternoons in the chapel. At that time of day, once lunch had been cleared away, the château tended to lapse into silence, with most of the Germans either at their posts in Coulliac or, on their days off, sleeping off the wine from the château’s cellar, which they’d enjoyed with their midday meal courtesy of their host.
‘Put out a bottle or two each day,’ Monsieur le Comte had directed Eliane. ‘Like your bees, our “guests” need a regular supply of nectar to keep them happy.’
For Madame Boin, the steps that led down into the cellar from the corner of the kitchen were impossible to navigate. Their steepness made her dizzy, she claimed. So it was Eliane’s job to go down into the cool darkness beneath the bedrock on which the château sat and bring up the wine. ‘Start from the left-hand side of the racks,’ the count had told her. ‘The very best bottles are on the right – we will save those for our own celebrations one of these days, God willing.’
Three wooden barrels sat in a row at one end of the cellar, wedged with wooden chocks to keep them from rolling out of place. The first time Eliane had gone down there, the count had instructed her to look closely at the barrels and tell him whether she noticed anything about them.
‘The middle one sits a little lower than the other two, which is strange because they seem to be the same size,’ she’d remarked on her return.
Monsieur le Comte had nodded. ‘When you next go down, Eliane, look again. You’ve heard the rumours of a secret tunnel that links the château to the mill? Well, they are true. That middle barrel sits on a trapdoor set into the floor, which is why it is that tiny bit lower.’
She had never been into the tunnel, but now thought of it often when she went to fetch the wine: a hidden passageway that linked her place of work with her home.
One afternoon, having descended the cellar steps to fetch some bottles so that the wine could rest above ground and gently come to the correct temperature for serving that evening, she realised that the racks on the left-hand side were almost empty, thanks to the count’s generosity. There were some boxes piled up in front of the racks on the right, stamped with the name of a local wine producer and the year 1937. Was this part of the count’s precious supply of the finer vintages? Or could she place the bottles in the left-hand racks to replenish what had already been consumed? She would need to check . . .
A little later, she was on her way to work in the walled garden for an hour or two before helping Madame Boin prepare the evening meal, when she thought she would look in at the chapel to ask the count the question about the wine. The chapel was one of the oldest parts of the château, and its stonework slumbered in the afternoon sunshine, mellowed by time and prayer. The ancient cross on the peak of the gable over the entranceway pointed heavenwards, rising above the roofs of the adjacent buildings. She knocked softly on the weathered wood of the door, not wanting to disturb the count if he was at prayer. Oddly, she thought she heard two voices from within, but as s
he pushed the door open, Monsieur le Comte rose from where he’d been sitting, evidently in peaceful solitude, beside the altar, just in front of the statue of Christ on the cross. He must have been praying out loud, she thought.
When she explained the situation in the wine cellar, the count smiled broadly, his eyes crinkling in amusement. ‘Ah, yes, I’d forgotten about those cases of wine. Nineteen thirty-seven was a dire vintage, tannic and harsh. The winemaker couldn’t sell those wines, so he gave me some for nothing as part of another order. It won’t have begun to age yet and when it does it may still turn out to be undrinkable. That will be the very thing to serve to our German visitors; the perfect solution! By all means, Eliane, you may transfer those bottles to the empty racks. Please just make sure you don’t serve any to me, though!’
He sat back down on his chair beside the altar. As if it had just occurred to him, he added, ‘Oh, and Eliane, I may need to ask you to take another of your walks tomorrow, so make sure you have the scarf with you.’
She patted the red silk around her neck and he nodded approvingly. ‘I’ll let you know,’ he said.
She left him in the quiet of the chapel, sitting where a ray of sunlight filtered through the diamond-paned window above the statue of Christ. The light made the dust motes dance around his head in the cool air and illuminated his hands, which were clasped loosely on his lap. As she pulled the door softly to behind her, she heard his voice again, an indistinct mutter on the other side of the thick walls.
She’d be prepared to walk again tomorrow, as she had done not frequently but on several occasions since that first time. The direction and number of circuits she was told to make varied sometimes; although she never knew what she was communicating, nor to whom. But she hoped that – along with the count’s afternoon prayers – the messages she sent out into the wide blue yonder might, somehow, be making a difference.
Abi: 2017
Karen and I are cleaning the chapel this morning. The summer sun has cranked the thermostat up to ‘high’ today, so it’s a relief to step through the door and into the cool half-light. We sweep the flagstones, collecting the detritus of the last wedding in our dustpans; a few of the dried rose petals that Sara provides as an alternative to confetti; a couple of discarded order-of-service sheets; dust from the soles of so many pairs of smart new shoes, bought especially for the occasion. The polished wood of the pews gleams where a ray of light filters through the lead-paned windows.
Together, Karen and I shake out the laundered linen cloth and spread it over the little altar that sits before the statue of Christ. She flexes her wrist, which is still a bit stiff at times, though it’s mended pretty well, and then glances at my arm. I notice her looking and pretend to smooth a non-existent wrinkle out of the altar cloth to cover my self-consciousness. In the heat, I’ve had to discard my usual long-sleeved shirts for once. I know it’s not a pretty sight. The bones splintered when they broke, tearing through the skin. The pins they put in to fix it have created more scar tissue, so my arm is lumpy and misshapen. The scars from the lacerations stand out as hard, white wheals against the faint tan that I’ve picked up while sitting by the riverbank in my swimming costume on my days off.
Karen fixes me with her candid gaze. ‘Here I am feeling sorry for myself because my wrist’s a bit sore. That must have hurt you a whole lot more, I reckon.’
I shrug, trying not to remember. Trying to blank out the images that come, unbidden, into my head. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. But it was a while ago. Nearly healed now.’
She looks at me searchingly for a moment. ‘You’re doing okay, you know, Abi. I’ve seen a few people come and go in my time, and you’re one of the good ’uns.’
I’m not sure whether she’s referring to the work I do around the château or whether she’s talking about something else, but her gruff kindness brings tears to my eyes. I duck my head and bend down to gather up my dustpan and brush so that I can regain my composure. From the yard outside, the sound of Jean-Marc’s mower passes, growing louder and then fading. He must be on the way to park it in its shed, on his way in for lunch.
As I straighten up, Karen’s still looking at me appraisingly, and then she grins, saying, ‘And I reckon I’m not the only one around here who thinks that, y’know.’
As we leave the chapel, I pause for a moment before stepping back out into the glare of the midday heat, and I think of the count spending his afternoons here. And in that moment, in the hushed half-light of the chapel, it’s as if I can hear the faint whisper of voices, transmitting their messages from the past.
Eliane: 1942
Word spread quickly through the market in Coulliac that the new season’s honey was available. There were serious food shortages now, despite the strict rationing that had been in place. Sugar was one of the most precious commodities, and one of the scarcest, and so a queue quickly formed at Francine and Eliane’s stall.
People were resigned to queuing for everything these days – queuing at the mairie for travel permits and petrol coupons; queuing at the bakery to collect the dwindling daily rations of bread and at the butcher’s shop to pick up a meagre square of horsemeat; and queuing at the checkpoints that sprang up on roads where, previously, they had been able to go freely about their everyday business.
People padded out their rations as best they could with whatever was available: fish from the river, sometimes; wild salad leaves – dandelion, chickweed and mâche – from the hedgerows; and when the supplies of wheat fell short, as they so often did these days, Gustave and Yves would grind chestnuts into a coarse flour that could be made into heavy loaves of yellow bread that sat in the stomach like a brick. But no one was complaining. After a winter of surviving mostly on turnips and root artichokes, everyone welcomed the relative plenty and variety that came with spring and early summer. The dense chestnut bread filled a hole in an empty stomach. Some honey, though – now that would transform even the mildewed heel of a loaf of bread into a treat.
Instead of charging a king’s ransom, which was what most people would have been prepared to pay for a jar, had they had the resources, the girls charged a token amount, distributing the precious supplies as widely as they could among the families of Coulliac. In some cases, they weren’t averse to participating in the marché amical (a far friendlier name for it than ‘black market’), and would quietly exchange a jar of honey for a chunk of dried sausage or a few wizened apples, the last of the previous year’s crop. These items were hastily secreted behind the stall.
On the surface, Francine appeared to be her usual cheerful self. But, a few days ago, she had been ordered to present herself at the mairie where, after standing in the obligatory queue for over two hours, she was issued with a yellow star and told it was to be worn on her outer clothing at all times. Eliane could sense her growing anxiety. And no wonder – the newspapers carried reports of deportations with increasing frequency. Jews, in particular, were being rounded up and sent to labour camps in the east, and the tone of the reporting was becoming more and more openly anti-Semitic.
When Oberleutnant Farber stepped up to the stall to buy – at full price – one of the few jars of jam they’d been able to make that year (the shortage of sugar having limited their usual production), Francine’s hands shook so much that she scattered his change across the cobbles of the square. Jacques Lemaître, who was next in line, helped gather up a few of the stray coins and handed them to the soldier.
‘Merci, monsieur,’ the oberleutnant said.
Jacques simply nodded pleasantly and then, waiting until the soldier had strolled off towards the mairie, turned to Eliane and Francine. ‘A jar of your very fine honey, please, mesdemoiselles,’ he said gallantly. ‘And how are your parents? And your brother?’ he asked Eliane. ‘Have you had any word from your sister in Paris lately?’
Stéphanie, who’d been standing behind him and had been intently watching the exchanges with both men, reached across in front of Jacques on the pretext of examining the last re
maining jar of jam, made from wild plums that the girls had gleaned from the roadside in the spring.
‘Allow me, mademoiselle,’ he said politely, passing the jar to her.
‘Why, thank you, m’sieur. I don’t believe we’ve met? I think I’ve seen you working in the bakery, though.’ She introduced herself and extended a well-manicured hand, simpering as she did so.
‘Enchanté,’ he replied. ‘That’s right; I’m Monsieur Fournier’s assistant.’
‘Hello, Eliane,’ said Stéphanie, suddenly redirecting her attention. ‘What a pretty scarf that is! I’ve seen you wearing it a lot. Where on earth did you get something like that, I wonder?’
‘From my sister, Mireille,’ Eliane replied.
‘Really? Not from one of your grateful German soldiers up at the château?’
Refusing to rise to the bait, Eliane replied firmly, ‘No. A grateful client in Paris gave it to Mireille and she passed it on to me as a birthday gift.’
‘I see.’ Stéphanie’s laugh was brittle with insincerity. ‘I wonder whether that client was female or male. And how is that charming baby your mother so thoughtfully took in? She must be getting quite grown-up these days.’
Eliane could sense Francine tensing with anger beside her. She smiled calmly at Stéphanie. ‘Yes, Blanche is doing really well now. She’s a happy child, with quite a will of her own.’
Stéphanie sniffed, and then handed the jam jar back to Jacques, turning the full focus of her attention to him once again. ‘Please could I ask you to be so kind as to replace that for me, monsieur?’
Francine glared again as Stéphanie blatantly fluttered her eyelashes in his direction. ‘Just a jar of honey, please, Eliane.’ Stéphanie’s gaze swept over Francine, her eyes deliberately lingering on the yellow star pinned to the front of her blouse. She stashed the honey in her basket and then extended a hand to Jacques once more. ‘Until we meet again, monsieur.’ She swept off across the place, smoothing back her glossy black hair.