I couldn’t help but rest my palm on my belly, trying to feel the imperceptible flutter of life there. Unwed and with child. What would my parents have said, or my brothers? If they had survived, I would never have come here, never have met Aaró, or Clémence. Would I have been happier, if Hallerton was still my home? An impossible question …
My hands moved in time with my thoughts. I toasted pine nuts and aniseed in a pan, tossing them until they grew fragrant. I stirred and poured and whipped until finally, the frenzy and clatter of pans and spoons began to lessen. I found myself licking a last dusting of sugar from my thumb, the cake finished. Beside me, Clémence was wiping her brow.
The scent of her dish filled the kitchen, spiralling out through the open door and into the evening, so delicious and extravagant it would have woken the dead. It was a sort of stew, with a sofregit of onions darker than I had ever seen. It was deep and earthy and spicy with roasted rabbit and wild birds, but running through it all was the strong, salty tang of the ocean.
Outside the café all was mirth; empty wine bottles already cluttered the ground. Aaró sat among the other fishermen, his tanned cheeks flushed, a paper crown upon his head and a wreath of seaweed about his neck. As I stepped out, his hands paused in their signing, and the love I saw in his eyes frightened me and filled me with joy at the same time.
Still, we did not sit at the same table, for Cerbère was a place of rules. Again and again, my eyes strayed to his face. Once, I almost rose from my seat, almost took his hand and led him away, desperate to tell him what I knew. Minutes later, I found myself gulping down wine, desperate to forget, as if scrubbing the knowledge from my thoughts would make the reality disappear too, would mean we could carry on as before.
But when Clémence’s dish was brought out, all the chatter faded. The guests knew that this evening’s meal would be something different, something extraordinary, and they gave it their complete attention. I let the flavours mingle on my tongue, overwhelmed. All around me, people were eating reverently, spoons lingering in their mouths, chasing every last drop of oil from their lips. Feet began to nudge others beneath the table and I saw Agathe cast a suggestive look at the widowed mayor, who turned pink as he chewed on a piece of squid. Seated apart from the rest, the trapper, Oriol, nodded to Clémence, who stared brazenly back.
The wine disappeared faster, plates were scraped clean, and if I had not been so distracted I would have been in a similar state to the rest of them, would have been burning to steal away with Aaró, as we had done so many times before. I could feel his eyes upon me from the other end of the table, like mercury in the dying light. It took every ounce of my self-control to stand, to excuse myself and retreat to the kitchen.
I waited until the chatter began to swell again as Clémence’s dish released its hold on people. Hesitantly, I took up the cake I had made. The people of Cerbère didn’t often eat sweet things, let alone confections like this one, but they applauded nonetheless when I brought it out, for it was Aaró’s day.
He beamed as I set the cake in front of him to serve. For an instant, his hand brushed the backs of my legs through my skirt, and I had to fight to stop myself from reaching out to touch him, to smile politely and return to my seat.
As soon as I tasted a spoonful of the cake, I knew. Clémence’s dish was darkness and desire, luxurious and reckless, but mine was something quite different. It started sweet, tasting of cream and honey, of walking in the afternoon with the one person you could share the colour of the sky with. It became the fields, a grove in late summer, warm aniseed and olive oil and ripening nuts and days spent harvesting, saving for the winter. Finally, it fell into the warm sting of liquor, like a candle flame flickering far into the night, where no words were needed and time itself dissolved in the touch of skin on skin.
It was love, and it could not be hidden.
The townspeople had fallen quiet. I raised my eyes. Agathe was smiling gently at me, and Aaró put down his spoon to brush one hand across his heart. Then he was standing, pulling off the paper crown and coming towards me, bending down to reach for my hand. He was going to ask me, I thought feverishly …
But a murmur was rippling down the tables, and not because of us. Heads were being turned away towards the door of the café. I followed their gaze. A figure dressed in plain travelling clothes stood there, clutching a roll of paper. A high colour rose on Aaró’s cheeks. It was Mariona.
‘I am sorry to interrupt,’ she said politely, ‘but I need to speak alone for a moment,’ she paused and met my gaze, ‘with Emeline.’
July 1969
Javi peers through the broken wire fence on to the train track. ‘This time we are careful,’ he says, ‘no magic Bill money to save our ham.’
‘You worry too much.’ Matti sounds as nonchalant as ever.
‘You would worry too if you grew up with Franco.’
It’s meant to be a joke but Javi looks wary. Not for the first time, I feel bad about the risk they’re taking.
‘You know, you don’t need to come with me,’ I tell them again.
‘Arrête ton char!’ Luci says. ‘We owe you. And we must go through Cerbère anyway.’
‘Yes, we walk straight over the hills, catch a lift on the other side. No border, no trouble,’ grins Javi.
‘Allons-y!’ Matti slings his bag over his shoulder. ‘There it is.’
In the morning sunlight, an engine is trundling past. Behind it are hundreds of freight compartments, identical with their sun-stripped metal and faded logos. Matti puffs out his chest.
‘Ready, Bill?’
I feel like I’m in a war film as we slip through the rusted metal fence to race for the train. The back of the final freight container has a ledge, a railing to hold on to. I feel a thrill of disobedience as we sprint after it. I watch Matti and Luci haul themselves aboard. For a second I’m terrified that I’ll be left behind, but then I’m leaping, pulling myself up, nearly losing my shoe in the process. A few seconds later I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with the others, breathless and elated as the train picks up speed.
The last container is open at the top, empty like a big, dry swimming pool. We climb up and slide down into it to wait out the journey, unseen. At first it’s romantic; I lie on my back to watch the sky, feeling the tracks rattling by below. But soon the fun starts to wear off. It’s another scorching day and the metal walls reflect back the light, until we’re all sun-dizzy and flagging. Eventually, we have to clamber out and return to the ledge.
I’m perched on the top of the container, about to climb down, when the embankments on either side of the track drop away and I see it: the Mediterranean. More than blue, it’s the promise of blue, brilliant and glittering. My brain gropes for a word to describe it, and ‘sapphire’ springs to mind, except I’ve never seen a sapphire and I can’t imagine any stone ever being better than this. The others are yelling for me to come down in case I’m seen, but even so, it takes me a long time to tear my eyes away.
‘Where are we?’ I’m panting by the time I make it to the ledge. My legs are jelly and I feel like I’ve drunk two pints of beer in quick succession.
‘Not sure.’ Matti is looking at me strangely, fashioning one of his shirts into a bandana. ‘Not far now, I guess. You OK, man?’
‘I’m great,’ I say, rolling up my shirtsleeves, ‘this is great.’
The train slows, rattling through tiny, two-track stations. We crouch, ready to bolt in case we’re seen, but every platform is empty. It’s lunchtime now, and anyone sensible will be in the shade, enjoying a cool drink and a nap. The names roll past: Argelès-sur-Mer, Collioure, Port-Vendres, Banyuls-sur-Mer …
Finally, Javi gives an excited yelp as we enter a tunnel, cut deep into the sea cliff.
‘This is it!’
Sure enough, as we emerge into the sunlight, a sign crawls by. Cerbère, it says, in sun-faded paint. Like rats, we abandon the train, leaping one after the other on to the rough track, grazing knees and hands a
s we dash for safety, barely avoiding a second freight train going in the opposite direction. Hearts hammering, we clutch at each other, laughing from behind the safety of the level-crossing barrier.
Then, through the axle grease and grime of the passing train, I think I see something: a face, as familiar and strange as the one I was sure I saw at the window of Hallerton, staring at me from the other side of the track. Please be here, I beg it silently, trying to catch another glimpse through the rolling carriages, please, Emeline.
The last compartment disappears. There’s nothing there, just an empty space and no one watching. But all the same I feel it, stronger than ever, the impulse that has driven me here, that has plagued me ever since I first saw Hallerton, since I climbed the stairs and found the diary, filled with her voice.
‘Here we are.’ Javi claps me on the shoulder as we stand looking down at the town. ‘Cerbère.’
Tall buildings cluster around a little cove, as if staring out to sea. They’re painted in bright colours, yellows and blues and dusky pinks, faded by the weather. Other houses stretch back into the hills, petering out as the land rises and scrubland takes over, knotted with parched vegetation. Javi points out a thin track, little more than a footpath, running over a ridge: the border with Spain.
I stare at it all, overwhelmed. I can’t believe that I’ve come this far.
‘I don’t know where to start,’ I murmur.
Matti squints down at the town.
‘In my experience, if you have to start somewhere, start at the bar. That place there looks as good as any.’
I follow the line of his finger. He’s pointing to a building on the seafront. It’s tall and thin, painted yellow. A sign above the door says it is the Café Fi del Món.
‘Café at the World’s End,’ Javi translates with a smile. ‘Like I said.’
It’s a struggle to say goodbye to them, at the start of the road that leads into the hills. I hug them all tightly without even thinking about it; at home it would’ve been a curt handshake or nothing. Luci’s face crumples a bit as she steps away, and Javi tells me again and again to call if I need anything, giving me the telephone number of the inn near his grandparents’ finca. Matthieu also scribbles something down.
‘My address in Paris, man. Let us know what happens with Emeline? If you find her?’
‘I will,’ I promise, tucking it into my bag, heart full. ‘Thanks, for everything.’
He grips my hand tightly.
‘Don’t be a stranger.’
Then they’re gone, and I’m alone. It’s long past noon, and I know I should be hungry, but I’m not. My legs seem to float of their own accord, down the hill and into the town. Everything is quiet, not another soul to be seen. In a tiny square, a few dusty trees offer some shade. A grey cat is stretched flat beneath a window sill. It sees me and gives a low purr, rolling on its back in the grit. As I bend down to stroke it, I catch a scent.
The back door of the nearest house stands open. I sniff deeply. The smell wafting out is rich and savoury and spicy all at once. It reaches down into my stomach and sets it gurgling, clamouring for whatever is cooking.
I can’t help myself. I take two paces towards the doorway, three, and only hesitate for a second before knocking and stepping inside.
It’s a kitchen: that much I can smell from the cooking. Through the sun-blindness I can see a figure moving at a stove, a woman who is tall and slim with dark, waving hair. The breath catches in my throat as she turns.
‘Emeline?’
July 1919
Emeline.
Mutely, I followed Mariona into the dark kitchen. What else could I do? That name, dropping from her lips, might have escaped the notice of the rest of the town but it had not escaped me. She was clutching a roll of newspaper in her hand. I felt cold sweat prickle its way down my back. What did she want?
Clémence had followed us too. ‘What is it, Mariona?’ she said. Her voice was soft, perhaps out of pity for the girl. ‘This is not the time for—’
‘I’m sorry, Maman, but this is important. I caught the train back here to tell you.’ She looked over at me, half-triumphant, half-wary, like a child who has trapped a wild animal and does not know what to do with it. ‘My aunt in Béziers takes the Paris papers. She found this, in one of them.’ She held out the newspaper.
Clémence looked like she would refuse, but then she reached out, opened the paper to where a page was marked, near the back. I stood watching in shock, still unable to marshal my thoughts. A moment ago, everything had hovered on the verge of joy. Now, here was Mariona, calling me the name I had run from, that I had left behind when I fled Paris. What had she found, that would bring her running back here, full of victory?
Aaró came to stand beside me.
What is going on?
I do not know, I said, but my hands were shaking as I signed and he could see that I was not telling the truth, that I was frightened of that little roll of paper. He tapped Clémence’s shoulder, trying to make her explain, but she ignored him, reading, not moving. He made a noise of frustration, only for Mariona to step forward.
She signed something to him that I could not follow. His face was wary as he watched, but there was something else in his expression. He looked guilty, I realized, as he watched her small, callused hands try to explain, perhaps thinking of the hurt he had caused her.
‘What is she telling him?’ I tried to keep my voice calm, but I couldn’t stop a tremor of fear from creeping in. ‘Clémence, what?’
She looked up when I said her name. Her face was unreadable as a statue.
‘What is written here about someone called Emeline Vane.’
It was like missing a step in the dark, hearing that name on her lips. When she finally handed me the paper, the printed words swam and crawled out of shape.
‘I cannot read it,’ I whispered. ‘What does it say?’
From the corner of my eye I could see Aaró looking over at me in shock.
‘It says there is a missing woman,’ Mariona’s voice was defiant, ‘an Englishwoman, called Emeline Vane, last seen at the Gare de Lyon in Paris. It says she was being taken to a psychiatric institution—’
‘No!’
The word broke from me. I shut my mouth but it was too late. My voice had cut through the kitchen, and all three of them could see the terror and truth written across my face.
‘Are you her?’ Clémence’s voice was quiet. ‘Emeline Vane?’
Aaró was staring at me from behind his mother’s shoulder. Say no, his face begged, say they have it wrong.
‘Yes,’ I whispered. He followed the shape of my lips and I saw the confusion begin to gather in his eyes. I couldn’t look away.
‘It says here that Emeline Vane is a danger to herself, that she … that she tried …’ Clémence’s gaze strayed to my hands, to their ugly scars. ‘Is that true?’
How could I answer her? How could I think back to those desperate times, tell her of how every day had dragged me further from myself, until I could see no way out, until I had wanted to feel the cold waves close over my head, so that I would not have to face another day of it? I could feel panic begin to simmer beneath the surface of my skin, the way it had at Hallerton, when the only way to stop it had been a draught of morphine.
‘They say she should be taken into custody for her own safety, Maman,’ Mariona was saying, ‘and her family are offering a reward, for information about her. We can send a telegram—’
Those words broke something in me. I lashed out, struck Mariona as hard as I could. She fell back against the stove, sending an empty pot spinning to the floor. Everything I had tried to hold back, that I had tried to forget since first setting foot in this town, had come flooding to the surface, and in the confusion I would have struck her again, had Clémence’s strong hands not gripped my arms, forced me backwards.
The abrupt silence was broken only by the sounds of Mariona’s sobbing and my rapid breathing. The anger drained as quickly
as it arrived. I shook my head, trying to free myself from the clash of emotions, trying to see how we could wave all of this away and return to how things had been only a few minutes ago. Even now Mariona, her face red and tear-streaked, was signing something to Aaró.
‘Please,’ I interrupted, stepping towards them. Please, I begged Aaró, making a mess of the sign. ‘It’s not like they say.’
I reached for him, wanting him to understand, wanting him to see that whatever had happened in my past, he was my future. But he recoiled, and a cry broke from me then, a hurt so deep it was almost physical. I could barely watch as he swiped one finger across his face and threw the gesture towards me.
‘I don’t understand,’ I told him, as he looked away.
‘He said you lied,’ Clémence’s voice was rough.
‘No, I didn’t mean to.’ I tried to sign it to him.
Your family, looking for you? His face was taut with emotion. You said they were dead, like my friends.
I have a brother. An uncle. The rest—
I trusted you.
Aaró, please listen. But he shook his head with a strangled noise and pushed past me, out of the house.
I tried to follow, but Clémence caught my arm. The back door thudded, la Tramontana throwing it against the wall. It made the oil lamps gutter, set the baskets on the walls creaking, like old, sad voices.
‘Clémence,’ I said, turning to her.
The dim light made her lined face look older than her years.
‘You should have told me,’ was all she said.
That night was the longest of my life. I sat in the dark kitchen and waited for him to return, as the wind mouthed at the door and silence flooded down the stairs from where Clémence lay, unsleeping, above. The lamp beside me sputtered and died but still I sat, waiting. I ached for his arms with every fibre, every nerve until I could stand it no more, and wrapped my own arms around my belly and squeezed and squeezed.
Despite everything, I must have slept. A noise shook me awake, footsteps, and I raised my head in hope only to find Clémence standing in the doorway. Her face was puffy, a black shawl wrapped tightly around her chest. The room was ashen with dawn.
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