by Fiona Valpy
Higher still, up towards the top of the slope, where the vines meet the woodland, there is a whitewashed wall enclosing a square of the land. Sara notices me looking at it. ‘That’s the graveyard of the family who own this château,’ she says. ‘Mathieu is buried there.’
The back door opens wide and a woman steps out who is too young to be either Eliane or Mireille. She envelops Sara in a warm embrace, kissing her on both cheeks before turning to me.
‘Hello, Abi,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Beaming broadly, Sara puts an arm around the woman’s shoulders. ‘This is your additional surprise!’
I look at the woman, with a bemused but still (I hope) polite smile fixed to my face. She has rosy cheeks and sparkling brown eyes and she wears her pepper-and-salt-flecked hair tied back in a somewhat unruly bun.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ she says. ‘I’m Blanche. Blanche Dabrowski-Martin.’
I can’t speak. And when I can get any words out at all, I blurt, ‘Blanche! You’re still here!’
She laughs. ‘I am. Or, more accurately, I’ve come back. When we lost Mathieu last year, I decided to move from Paris and keep Eliane company. And it’s so lovely to be home again.’
‘Paris?’ I echo. ‘But how . . . ? When . . . ?’ The questions crowd into my head so fast that I can’t formulate them clearly.
Blanche takes my hand and leads me to a little white wrought-iron table and chairs set beside the back door under a shaded pergola. Trumpet-shaped flowers, the colour of bright flames, hang in clusters around us, their thick canopy of leaves forming a roof above our heads. Bees bury their heads in the scarlet blooms, busily mining the nectar from them to carry it back to the hives.
‘I know, there’s so much to ask, so much to tell. Sara has said how interested you have been in hearing Eliane’s story.’ Blanche smiles. ‘After the war, my father, who had been fighting with the Allied Forces, came back to Paris to try to find my mother and me. There’d been no way of telling him that Esther had died, and that the Martins had taken me in. But he tracked down Mireille, through the atelier where Esther had worked. She brought him here, to the mill. You can imagine how he wept when he saw me and when Lisette produced my birth certificate from between the pages of her book of herbal remedies, where it had been hidden for so long. And so we were reunited. He and I made our home in Paris, but I’ve always been a frequent visitor to my other family down here in the Sud-Ouest.
‘Now,’ she continues, ‘you two sit there while I make the coffee. Eliane will be out in a moment. Mireille isn’t here yet, but I think one of her grandsons will be bringing her shortly.’
As Blanche bustles back indoors, we hear the sound of a car engine and a battered blue pickup truck pulls up the drive, stopping alongside the cottage. A cheerful-looking young man jumps down from the driver’s cab, waves to us and goes around to help someone else out of the passenger seat.
Leaning on his arm, a tiny, hunched old woman makes her way slowly towards us and we scramble to our feet. Her curls are as white as winter frost, but when she reaches me she gives me an appraising look with eyes that are as bright and sharp-sighted as those of a bird. ‘Bonjour, Abi. I am Mireille Thibaud.’ She shakes my hand and I realise her fingers are gnarled and lumpy with arthritis. ‘And this is one of my grandsons, Luc. He’s just passed his driving test and so his father has let him borrow his old truck. Quite an adventure, the two of us allowed out on our own for once, eh Luc?’
He grins. ‘Oui, Mamie.’ Turning to us, he, too, shakes our hands and then says, ‘And the price I have to pay for the privilege is going to do the shopping too. I’ll be back in about an hour.’
‘Don’t forget to drive safely like they told you to!’ Mireille calls after him, her tone fondly teasing. Despite her great age, I recognise her lively expression and her sense of humour from Sara’s descriptions of her.
Blanche reappears carrying a tray, which she sets down on the little table. Pretty china cups and saucers, decorated with butterflies, sit alongside a plate of little buttery biscuits.
And then she’s there: Eliane. I would recognise her anywhere. She’s taller and stands more erect than her elder sister; her straight, white hair is tied up in a chignon and her face is a perfect oval shape, the bone structure still visible beneath her age-softened skin. But it is her eyes that strike me the most. She fixes me with her gaze and it is the clear, calm grey of a summer’s dawn.
I’m expecting a formal handshake, but am taken aback when she steps forward and envelops me in a warm embrace before kissing my cheeks. ‘So you are Abi,’ she says. She holds me at arm’s length to get a better look, and then nods as if she recognises me too. And then she says, ‘I’m pleased to meet you at last,’ as if she’s been expecting me. As if she knew that we would meet one day.
‘And I’m pleased to see you still have bees,’ I say and then blush, realising that this is hardly an appropriate conversation-opener with these two old ladies whom I have never met before.
She smiles. And then, as if she, too, is continuing a conversation that we’d already begun, she says, ‘And you know, Abi, they are the descendants of the bees I kept at Château Bellevue.’
‘But how? I thought they were destroyed by the Germans?’
Her eyes cloud slightly, like a mist on the river, as she remembers. ‘You’re right, the hives were burned. But when Mathieu and I went back to the walled garden to start clearing away the devastation that the soldiers had left behind them, we noticed something. In the silence, up there, a bee began to buzz among the camomile and the peppermint. And then another, and another. And, as we watched, they flew back to a hole in the wall. You see, some of the bees had escaped the fire, enough to begin a new colony. And the next year, when they swarmed, I was able to fill a new hive. And so they have continued, down the years.’ She looks up the hill towards the hives beneath the lace-leaved trees. ‘Acacia,’ she nods. ‘The champagne of honey.’
We sit and talk for almost two hours. And, as we do, it seems to me that the Martin sisters grow younger, becoming once again the girls they were all those years ago.
Eliane shows me a photograph of a smiling family – a woman standing between her husband and three pretty, dark-haired daughters. ‘Can you guess who this is?’ she asks, pointing.
It takes me only a moment to realise. ‘Is it Francine?’ I ask, with wonderment.
She nods. ‘I always knew I’d see her again one day. She lives in Montreal. Her daughters are named Eliane, Lisette and Mireille.’
By the time Luc pulls up in the blue truck again, to take Mireille home, I can see that both the sisters are beginning to tire.
As we leave, Eliane walks us to the car parked in front of the cottage, her arms linked with mine and Sara’s. I turn to her.
‘Thank you for having us here today, Eliane. And thank you for so much more, too. You see, your story has helped me understand my own power – the strength of human resistance in the face of fear and abuse.’
She nods, considering me with that steady grey gaze of hers, and I feel that she is reading my own story, taking in the scars on my arms, seeing what lies beneath the surface. ‘You are stronger than you know, Abi.’ Her words are an echo of those she’s already spoken to me in my dreams.
‘You know,’ she says, ‘France chose to try to forget what happened in the war; it was too much, too devastating. We had to make the choice to bury it with our dead and move on with our lives. But, all the same, the truth of it is still with us.’
And then she reaches into the pocket of her skirt and brings out a folded square of scarlet silk.
‘Your scarf!’ I exclaim. ‘You still have it!’
‘Yes,’ she smiles. ‘A little faded and worn with time, like the rest of us, but I’ve always kept it safe. I thought you might like to see it. I always felt brave when I wore it. And, of course, it helped me to communicate things that couldn’t be said at the time.’
I’m speechless as
she places the soft silk square in my hands. I shake it out and the patterns are still vivid and beautiful. Even though the material is so delicate now, this fragile remnant still holds its promise of power and strength, a tangible reminder of Eliane’s vow to stay true to herself. And I know I’m only imagining it, but a little of that strength seems to seep into my hands from the worn silk scarf and to flow upwards through my scarred arms, making me feel brave too.
Eliane: 1944
The last months of the war were brutal and chaotic across France, with news of battles flaring sporadically as the endgame played out. And in the vacuum left by the Germans’ departure, people took the law into their own hands, struggling to restore some sort of order to the traumatised, divided county as it reeled from the legacy of the years of occupation.
It took a while for life to return to normal after the Germans left Coulliac, but Eliane knew that the best way forward would be to try to carry on with the routines and rhythms of life as best they could. So she loaded the last remaining jars of honey and beeswax into the truck and drove them to the square to set up her market stall.
The place was busier than it had been for months as people ventured out for the market. They were a little tentative at first, like deer stepping into the open from the shelter of the woods, tense and wary, but then they began to relax as, at long last, they were able to mingle and greet friends and neighbours without feeling the watchful eyes of the German guards upon them. There was very little business to be done – there were only a few stallholders and those who were there had even fewer wares to display – but it felt good to be able to wander freely around the square, to sit at the café and discuss the momentous events of the past week, to talk and to be able to laugh again, hoping, believing, that they were free at last. Eliane waved to Mathieu and Yves, who had pulled up chairs on the pavement outside the café from where they greeted a steady stream of friends.
All at once, there was a disturbance at the far side of the place, a scuffling and a jostling as a group of men came around the corner, pushing a stranger in front of them. Eliane was rearranging the small pyramid of jars on her stall, trying to make it look as though she actually had something to sell; she looked up, distracted by the sound of their jeers and catcalls. The clustered groups of people parted, stepping aside to let the men through, and the stranger stumbled into the space that was created in the centre of the square.
And then Eliane looked more closely and gasped with horror. Because she’d suddenly realised that this was no stranger after all.
It was Stéphanie the men were goading. But she was almost unrecognisable. Her head had been shaved and her blouse was ripped, hanging loose where it had been torn, exposing the skin beneath. And daubed crudely at the base of her throat was a black swastika. As Stéphanie tried to stand up straight, reaching a hand to the fountain to steady herself against it, Eliane saw that the skin surrounding the stark black emblem was red and painful-looking and she realised that it had been painted on with hot tar.
It was hard to make out what the men were shouting, at first, but then Eliane heard the words ‘collaborator’ and ‘informer’. Stéphanie drew back against the stonework at the base of the fountain as the men drew closer, threatening and spitting, but she still tried to stand up straight and look defiant.
Eliane rushed forward into the space between the men and the girl. ‘Stop!’ she shouted, spreading her arms wide as if to physically hold them apart. Her heart was pounding with terror, but a bold strength surged through her veins. ‘Enough! Don’t you think we’ve all had enough now?’
‘Ha! Another collaborator maybe?’ jeered one of the men. ‘Trying to protect your fellow whore are you? Thought you could get away with it, did you, your collaboration horizontale? Sleeping with the Milice – probably the Gestapo too. Denouncing your neighbours in return for a few fripperies.’ He stepped closer and flicked the end of the red silk scarf, which was knotted about Eliane’s neck. ‘And then flaunting them in our faces.’
‘Let’s get her, too!’ another shouted.
One of the men reached out and took hold of Eliane’s arm and she screamed at him, like a cornered animal, giving vent to all the fear and rage and pain that the war had inflicted on her, which she’d carried, silently, for so long. As if her voice were a physical force, the man fell backwards away from her and was thrown to the ground.
And then she realised that Mathieu was there.
‘Get off her! She’s done nothing but try to protect you and your families.’ Mathieu’s voice echoed around the square as he stepped between Eliane and the mob.
And then Yves was beside him, too, the pair forming an un-crossable barrier, protecting the two girls.
The mob of men fell silent at the sight. It was well known that both Yves Martin and Mathieu Dubosq were seasoned maquisards who had fought in the struggle against the Germans. No one in his right mind would have dared challenge either of them, let alone the pair standing there together.
With a shifting of their feet and a few muttered remarks, the men stood their ground uneasily for a few moments more and then began to drift away, leaving the four figures standing in the space at the centre of the square.
‘Are you alright?’ Mathieu asked Eliane.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ She stood with her fists tightly clenched and her whole body was shaking uncontrollably, but otherwise she was unharmed. ‘But Stéphanie . . . ?’ she turned towards the shaven-headed figure who was now slumped against the fountain.
Eliane knelt beside her and gently touched her arm. Stéphanie flinched and shrank back.
‘It’s okay. You’re alright now. They won’t harm you anymore,’ Eliane murmured soothingly. Gingerly, she tried to rearrange the flap of torn blouse to cover the blistered, tar-daubed skin. And then she untied the scarf from about her and held it out. ‘Would you like this? To cover your head?’
Stéphanie sat up then and ran a hand over the razor-nicked skin of her scalp. Fleetingly, her eyes filled with a mixture of shock and shame. But then she pushed away Eliane’s outstretched hand, spurning the scarf, and scrambled to her feet. ‘I’ve never needed your charity, Eliane Martin, and I’m not about to start accepting it now.’ She spat the words out, desperate in her pain and her fury. Crossing her arms over her chest and gathering the fabric of her blouse in one fist at the base of her throat, she lifted her chin and walked – just a little unsteadily – out of the marketplace.
She never glanced back, even though she knew that she was leaving it for good.
As the crowd dispersed, Mathieu and Yves helped Eliane back to the market stall and in silence they began to pack away the few remaining jars, the final, pitiful reminders of all that was left of Eliane’s bees.
Abi: 2017
It’s the middle of October now, and we’re preparing for the final wedding of the season at Château Bellevue. Sara explains that this one is for friends of hers, Christiane and Philippe, and it’s going to be an especially joyful one. The bride has just come through treatment for cancer. Thankfully, now, she’s officially in remission so her wedding is going to be a celebration of her recovery on top of everything else.
I reckon that in the history of all the weddings hosted at Château Bellevue, never has the weather forecast been consulted so often. It’s the time of year when it could either be a gorgeous Indian summer, with warm, golden days that bathe the vineyards in a soft light, putting a smile on the face of the wine farmers as they know these last, lingering days of good weather will instil precious roundedness and fullness to the wines they’ll soon be making; or the clouds could push their way down from the north, covering everything with their grey dampness, which will mean a difficult, risky harvest – not to mention putting a bit of a downer on Christiane and Philippe’s wedding too. The forecast is uncertain, but everyone in Coulliac is willing the weather to remain good. If sheer, human willpower could ensure a perfect day for the couple then we’d be home and dry. But, as Karen often sagely remarks wheneve
r we’re getting things ready for the next wedding, you can organise most things – but whether or not it rains on the day isn’t one of them.
Thankfully, though, as I hurry up the hill from the mill house early on Christiane’s wedding morning, the sky is a perfect, clear blue and the soft veil of mist is already lifting from the surface of the river. If I had the time, I’d linger for a few moments by the willow tree, watching the water gather itself in the dark pool above the weir where the last swallows of summer flit and skim before the river launches itself joyously over the lip of the weir and abandons itself to the onward journey. But I definitely don’t have time this morning. I need to get up to the château to help Sara and Karen with the final preparations. We’re far more involved in this wedding day than we have been with the others in the season. Usually on the day itself an army of caterers, florists, hairdressers, beauticians and musicians arrive to conduct the proceedings, but this time it’s a local, family affair and we’re all going to be hard at work.
The kitchen is quiet when I arrive and Sara hands me a cup of coffee. ‘Better drink this now – we may not get a chance to have another one later on,’ she says with a smile.
And she’s right. The château is soon buzzing with activity and Sara, Karen and I are directing a small army of helpers.
In the kitchen, Karen leads a battalion of local ladies who are making roses out of radishes and coronets out of cucumbers to garnish the platters of charcuterie that the butcher’s wife and daughters have prepared, which will be handed round with flutes of champagne while photos are being taken after the service.
The pâtisserie delivers a dozen pear and frangipane tarts, gleaming with a rich, golden glaze, which are put on a trestle table in the library for safekeeping.
On a corner of the lawn beyond the marquee, on the down-wind side of the ridge, a shallow pit has been dug by Thomas and Jean-Marc and a huge fire is being lit for the méchoui. The tall heap of applewood branches blazes brightly at first but it will continue to burn all day, subsiding into a glowing bed of embers that will cook a whole lamb suspended on a spit above it to succulent perfection. Thomas comes in search of a tarpaulin so that they can rig up an awning over it once the fire’s burned down enough, just in case the weather does turn.