The Beekeeper's Promise

by Fiona Valpy

  I’ve been assigned to direct table-setting operations in the marquee, at the head of a troop of my own. We spread crisp, lavender-scented cloths over the tables to match the white chair covers, which are tied with jaunty bows – so that the tent takes on the appearance of being filled with a bevy of butterflies. We fold laundered linen napkins into elegant fleur-de-lis shapes and tuck them into the wine glasses at each place; the glasses sparkle and wink like diamonds where the sunlight catches the glass, vying for attention with the glinting of each item of thoroughly polished cutlery.

  One of Christiane’s aunts consults a carefully considered table plan and she and her daughter set out all the name-cards, which one of the bridesmaids has handwritten in flowing calligraphy. Little net pouches of silver and gold sugared almonds, tied with gold ribbons, are set beside each name as gifts for the guests.

  And on a side table we set the wedding cake in pride of place. It is delivered by another aunt, who was up until two o’clock this morning icing it so that it would set in time. Once the cake is safely in place, she carefully ices the final, finishing touches on to the stacked triple tiers, and Sara brings her a length of sweet-scented honeysuckle to arrange around it.

  Swags of foliage and flowers, bound with more trailing ribbons of the honeysuckle, have been pinned up behind the top table and now Sara and her band of helpers are arranging posies of roses, lavender, and delicate white gaura flowers, which float like still more tiny butterflies in the centre of each table. And I know – because I couldn’t resist taking a peek when I was hurrying past with a pile of tablecloths – that the chapel is bedecked with yet more swags of greenery, and that vast glass vases, loaned by the florist, have been set at the entrance and on the altar, crammed with spectacular, sweet-scented starbursts of every white lily that it’s been possible to lay hands on between here and Bordeaux.

  By lunchtime everything has been set up and the army of helpers disappears to go and get themselves ready for the ceremony and the party. Sara, Karen and I grab a makeshift lunch of bread and cheese around the kitchen table and Sara runs through her lists, ticking off the jobs that we’ve completed. ‘We’re nearly there, I think.’ She pauses to consult the weather forecast on her phone yet again and grimaces. ‘Still uncertain for later.’ She leans back in her chair to see beyond the kitchen door. Some high wisps of cloud are starting to gather, dappling the sky like the markings of the silvered fish that swim in the pool below the weir. ‘Hopefully we’ll be okay for everyone arriving and then, if it does rain, it will only be once they’re all in the marquee. It’s going to be touch and go, though. Abi, can you ask Jean-Marc to put the umbrellas out in the barn in case they’re needed at the end of the night?’ Experience has taught Sara and Thomas to be prepared, whatever the weather, and they have a collection of large, clear plastic brollies at guests’ disposal, which are big enough to protect even the most sophisticated hair-dos and the largest of hats.

  Thomas comes in, whistling cheerfully and smelling faintly of wood smoke from the fire. He pauses, in passing, to plant a kiss on top of Sara’s head and she turns to smile at him. ‘There’s a bit of lunch if you and Jean-Marc want?’ she offers.

  He takes two bottles of beer from the fridge and gathers the remains of the baguette into the crook of his arm, then scoops up a chunk of dried saucisson. ‘Thanks, this will do us fine. We’re just about to get the meat on – the fire’s perfect.’

  ‘Well you’d better make sure you leave enough time for a shower before you get changed – we can’t have the DJ smelling like a roast dinner!’

  The wedding party assemble at two o’clock so that they can dress here. Sara and Thomas have made Château Bellevue available to them for the night, so the bedrooms have been prepared and Sara has set out welcoming posies of wildflowers and a bottle of champagne on ice in the master suite to fortify the bride and her attendants.

  Christiane looks radiant on her wedding day – although there is a fragility just beneath the surface, which shows in the shadows beneath her eyes and in the sharp definition of her collarbones. Her family and her bevy of bridesmaids flutter around her anxiously, but she bats them away, laughing. ‘I’m fine, Maman, don’t worry. I slept so well last night. Oh, Sara, everything looks so perfect. Thank you for helping us to do this. I know how much extra work it must have been for everyone.’

  Sara tells me that Christiane’s wedding dress was bought at a bridal shop in Bordeaux a few weeks ago. It’s needed some adjusting as she’s put on a little weight following her treatment – a good sign – and Mireille herself, our local Parisian couturier extraordinaire, has insisted on overseeing the alterations that have been needed to make it fit perfectly. While her knotted hands and her fading eyesight don’t allow her to do fine needlework anymore these days, Mireille has closely supervised the pinning and the sewing done by one of her daughters-in-law. They delivered the dress yesterday and Sara has hung it in the tall wardrobe in the master suite, draped in a clean cotton sheet for safekeeping.

  In the event it’s perfect: the elegant high neckline and long sleeves are in an ivory lace that flows in soft folds over a slim-fitting bodice and underskirt, emphasising Christiane’s figure. Her dark hair is short, as it’s only now growing back, but the gamine style suits her dress well.

  From the chapel, music drifts across the courtyard as the guests arrive. Four of Philippe and Christiane’s friends have got together in the past week to form an impromptu string quartet; they are performing in the chapel and will play while the drinks are being served after the ceremony. Once everyone has taken their seats, apart from the soft strains of the music, there is an air of hushed anticipation. There always is at this stage in the proceedings of any wedding, but today it seems to be laden with so much more significance: this is not just a marriage; it’s an affirmation of life and hope, of courage and quiet strength, of the defiant joy that exists alongside the sadness and the fear.

  I’ve volunteered to keep an eye on things while the service is under way, so that we can have everything ready for the party immediately afterwards, so I watch from the kitchen door as Sara and Thomas – looking as elegant as any of the other guests now that they’ve had a chance to shower and change – pause outside the chapel and he gathers her in his arms and kisses her. She smiles at him, and then glances back and gives me a little wave. I give her the thumbs-up sign before making a shooing motion that she should get into the chapel and not worry about anything; I’ve got this. And suddenly I realise that I feel confident and strong, more certain of myself than I have ever done. I know that I’ve earned my place as a respected member of Sara and Thomas’ team and I see myself, now, through their eyes and realise how capable and resilient I really can be.

  I stand and watch, smiling, as the bridesmaids come down the front steps and cross the courtyard to the chapel doorway. And then the bride appears.

  Her beauty, in that moment, is simply breathtaking.

  And the afternoon sun elbows aside the thickening clouds to illuminate the path, as her father takes Christiane’s arm and leads his daughter to her wedding.

  Dinner in the marquee has all gone smoothly. The sun stayed out after the ceremony in the chapel so we were able to circulate with platters of charcuterie and warm hors-d’oeuvres among the guests as they sipped flutes of champagne on the lawn. The photos should look great against the backdrop of the warm stones of the château and Sara’s soft landscaping.

  There must be some good pictures of them cutting the cake, too, which they did early on, Christiane insisting that her aunt be included as a thank you for making such a magnificent creation.

  Then everyone found their seats at the tables in the marquee and we brought out the lamb, roasted to succulent perfection, and bowls of salads. The red wine from Château de la Chapelle – made by Thomas’ brother – is the perfect accompaniment and the noise level in the tent rises to a happy crescendo that bounces off the canvas roof. It’s a warm evening, and still thankfully a dry one, so we are
able to tie back the sides of the marquee and let the night air drift in to cool the flushed cheeks of the guests.

  As we clear the tables and begin to serve slices of the frangipane tarts, more bottles of champagne are produced and glasses refilled, ready for the speeches. And silence falls as the best man taps a fork against the rim of his glass and stands to introduce the first speaker. To everyone’s surprise, it is the bride whom he calls upon.

  Christiane reaches down to hold Philippe’s hand as she begins to speak. ‘I can’t even begin to find the words to tell you how glad I am to be standing here,’ she says, ‘and how much it means to me to see you all here today. This event has been organised so perfectly, thanks to the superhuman efforts of my mother, and the rest of the family, and Sara and Thomas Cortini, and, oh, so many others of you. I know how much trouble you’ve all gone to in order to make the day perfect for me and my Philippe. I want every single one of you to know how much it means to us. So, this first toast is from me to all of you.’

  She pauses to smile at her husband and to give his hand a squeeze, and then she continues. ‘When I was at the hospital going through my treatment, Philippe gave me a card, which I always kept with me. It said: “Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.” That’s a lesson we’ve had to learn. And it’s one that we will always remember in our future together. So here’s my toast to you all: to dancing in the rain.’

  She raises her glass and then adds, with a grin, ‘But you’re allowed to take a drink too, because heaven only knows how long the other speeches are going to go on for. Cheers everyone!’

  Amid a mixture of laughter and tears, everyone stands and raises their glasses back to her.

  I smile to myself too. Because I think it’s a lesson I’ve learned as well this summer. Through Sara’s telling of Eliane’s story, I’ve learned the importance of staying true to what really matters: to love, to loyalty and to living your life as it’s meant to be lived. And then I realise that Jean-Marc is watching me from across the marquee; and that I’m not smiling to myself anymore – I’m smiling at him.

  As the guests finish up their dessert and drain the very last drops of champagne, I begin to clear the tables. Sara comes and takes the pile of plates from me. ‘Oh no you don’t, Abi,’ she says. ‘We’re leaving all this for the morning. You’re coming with everyone else to the barn for the party.’ She grabs my hand and, bunking off like a pair of giggling schoolgirls, we follow the throng making its way into the barn, where Thomas already has the music playing ready for Christiane and Philippe to lead off in the first dance.

  The barn is crammed full. For a moment, hemmed in by the throng, I expect to feel those old, familiar flutterings of panic beginning to rise up in my chest and I wonder if I can do this. But, to my surprise, I find that I don’t at all mind being in this packed-out space. All I feel is the excitement of the chattering crowd, the abandon of those who’ve taken to the dance floor, and the sheer happiness that fills the barn to the rafters high above us all. I notice that Jean-Marc is on bar duty so I go to lend him a hand.

  It’s so hot in the barn that we’ve left the doors flung wide open. In a brief lull between two songs, a gust of wind eddies among the partygoers and a woman standing near the door shouts, ‘It’s raining!’ Sure enough, the clouds begin to let fall a soft pattering of drops.

  ‘Outside!’ shouts someone else. ‘After all, “Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass – it’s about dancing in the rain!”’

  The barrel-load of umbrellas positioned beside the doorway is completely ignored as the guests flood outside. Hair, make-up, best dresses and formal suits are all forgotten as Christiane and Philippe lead the dancing. High-heeled shoes are kicked off and jackets discarded. Thomas cranks the volume up high and the courtyard is filled with music and laughter and shrieks of joy.

  I hang back, watching from the doorway. And then suddenly someone grabs my hand and pulls me out into the melee, twirling me round as the current of the dance draws us in. I look into the eyes of Jean-Marc and the rain falls softly on us as we dance together.

  And I feel my heart beginning to unfurl and to reach outwards into the world again, like the delicate tendrils of a plant at the end of a long, long spell of drought.

  Abi: 2017

  And now the wedding season really is well and truly over at Château Bellevue. We’ve been busy deep-cleaning everything, packing linens and bedding away for the winter with a scattering of dried lavender flowers between the folds so that next spring they will smell fresh and sweet when they’re brought out ready for the new season. Thomas and the builders are still working on the mill house, but the rooms are taking shape and it will be ready in good time for next year, accommodating extra guests. The chapel door is locked and the marquee, which has been the venue for so many happy times this summer, has been dismantled and stored away in the party barn, where the lights have been unplugged and the glitter ball stilled.

  I’ve made a decision. I go to find Sara in the walled garden, where she is tending the raised beds she’s created, pulling out the last of the season’s salad leaves, which have shot up in the final, hot days of the Indian summer that we’ve been enjoying. They’ll go on the compost heap and be dug back into the soil next spring. Earth to earth.

  She straightens up when she sees me and pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of her wrist.

  ‘I love this time of year,’ she says. ‘You can sense the garden starting to prepare for its winter rest again after all the hard work of the summer.’

  I smile. ‘Rather like you and Thomas, too. You must be looking forward to getting your home back to yourselves for the winter.’

  She laughs. ‘We love our work, but you’re right; it will be good to have time to catch up with the rest of our lives.’

  I look out at the woods and the hills beyond the garden walls, where the land falls away to the river in the valley far below.

  ‘I’m going to go back to London,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve decided it’s time to tie up the ends there – sell the apartment, finish my degree. And then I’ll see where life takes me.’ I can picture myself going back to the city again now and I know I will have the confidence to look up old friends and maybe to make new ones too.

  ‘That’s good.’ Sara watches me closely for a moment, her eyes the colour of the dark pool in the river above the weir. ‘Well, both Thomas and I hope that life may bring you back this way again sometime. You’ve been a godsend, Abi. You’re part of the team now. There’s a job here for you next year if you fancy another summer of unremitting graft and no social life!’

  ‘Thank you, Sara. I’ll be back.’

  And I know that I will. I know that the pilgrim paths and the ley lines and the rivers that all make their way through this corner of the country will draw me back this way sometime soon. And I know that Jean-Marc will be here, waiting for me, and that we will dance together again before too long.

  Sara glances at her watch. ‘Time we were off. Eliane and Blanche will be expecting us.’

  We drive over to the cottage, as we have done several times since that first meeting. With Blanche’s help, we’ve filled in the details of Eliane’s story.

  It’s a story of ordinary, everyday courage. A story about the determination to stay true to your Self through the darkest times so that when, at last, you cross back to safety you can find your voice again and live your life free from fear.

  She has taught me about the resilience of the human spirit.

  She has taught me about myself.

  When we arrive at the cottage, Eliane is sitting in the garden, asleep in the sunshine, a book lying open in her lap.

  Inside, Blanche is humming as she prepares lunch. All around us, Eliane’s bees hum too, busily collecting sweet nectar from the flowers that she’s grown for them. In the valley below, the river, which she’s lived beside all her life, for almost a hundred summers, glints with its quiet, golden l
ight.

  Up the hill, beyond the acacia trees and the beehives, past the rows of vines whose leaves drink in the last of the sunshine, sweetening the grapes for this year’s wine harvest, which will begin any day now, Mathieu waits for Eliane, watching over her from the little white-walled graveyard.

  Sara goes inside to find Blanche.

  Silently, so as not to wake her, I take a seat beside Eliane. Very gently, I remove the book from her lap so that I can mark her place for her. As I tuck the bookmark between the pages she’s been reading, a line catches my eye. I consider the words carefully, letting their meaning sink in.

  And then, after a moment, I raise my head and look around at where I am.

  I think back to the day that brought me here.

  And I realise that I was never really lost at all.

  Au milieu de l’hiver, j’apprenais enfin qu’il y avait en moi un été invincible.

  In the midst of winter, I found that there was within me an invincible summer.

  Retour à Tipasa, Albert Camus (1952)

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Beekeeper’s Promise came about as a result of another of my books, The French for Always, which tells the story of Sara’s early days at Château Bellevue. Snippets of Eliane’s story during the war years are referred to obliquely in that book, prompting many readers to ask to know more.

  Other than a few towns that you can find on the map and certain key historical events that took place during World War Two, the people and places referred to in both novels are entirely fictitious. The terrible events at Tulle really did take place, however. As far as possible, I have tried to be true to reports of what happened there, although some of the details vary a bit between accounts. Inevitably, I have taken certain literary liberties for the sake of the story, but where I have done so it is with the utmost respect to the memory of those who died. They are not forgotten: these days, every summer, hanging baskets full of flowers are placed on the lamp-posts in the town to commemorate every single one of the men and boys whose lives were taken on that day in June 1944.