“I’ve never told anyone this before.”
But Arlette would wait for her to find the words. The hum of bees in the background intensified the tart honey of the plums as they sucked the stones clean.
And so Marthe would talk. She told how she had been taken to Manosque when she was eleven years old. Her parents explained that they had brought her to a school for girls like her, and then they left her there alone, struck dumb by the realization that her worst fears had materialised. At the school for the blind everything around her was alien. Had her parents any idea what it felt like to be surrounded by emptiness, swirling and roaring?
“Were you very angry?”
“Yes. For a long time. I threw myself down the stairs once, furious because I didn’t know what that stairwell looked like. I hoped my parents would understand and come and fetch me. But they never did.”
“That must have been terrible.”
“It was, but funnily enough it was the start of better times for me. The two girls who found me at the bottom of the stairs and took me to the matron became my good friends. Renée and Elise. They were so kind, but I’d been so wrapped up in my own worries, I hadn’t even noticed before that they were there.”
“Friends make all the difference, always. And something good came of your pain.”
“You’re right. But it was the fury at my situation that spurred me on. I had to learn how to read a new darkness by using all my senses. I had to identify each sound—think of listening to an orchestra and trying to work out which instruments are playing and in which patterns. I had to interpret the way the air felt on my skin and taste the seasons as they changed. If I thought of myself as anything, it was as a young dog exploring new worlds carried by smell.”
That was why, when they listened to the news on the radio or heard talk about the occupation, Marthe felt no different from the others. She heard what they heard. None of them had seen the events described. The most appalling acts of cruelty and inhuman barbarity were carried out unseen, experienced in absences and abstracts.
As autumn turned to winter that year, they gathered around the wireless each night, forswearing the propaganda of the Vichy government to listen illegally to the BBC broadcasts through storms of interference. From London, patriotic exiles sent out morale-boosting bulletins of Nazi reversals and relayed the stern growling drama of Churchill’s speeches. And messages would come through, snippets of trite-sounding news from the exiles to their compatriots across the Channel, “The French Speak to the French.”
By then Auguste often joined them for dinner first. He had taken to bringing pamphlets printed by the underground resistance, from which he was keen to read aloud.
“ ‘The Vichy prime minister Pierre Laval is so desperate to keep his deal with the Germans on track, to place France at the right hand of the victor at Europe’s top table, that he is sacrificing the country’s young men in ridiculously unbalanced numbers: eight young French men pushed over the borders to work in German factories for each prisoner returned.’
“I tell you, the Germans obviously hold Laval in contempt, but it’s as nothing compared to the contempt I feel for the bastard. And as for Maréchal Pétain, don’t get me started on that dangerous old fool! What the hell do they think they are doing? It’s unbelievable . . . unbelievable! And people still think that he saved the country once before, in the Great War, so no one can doubt his patriotism! He may have been a patriot once, but he is no patriot now.”
A murmur of agreement went round the table. When the occupation began and the Germans assumed control of the northern half of the country, Pétain told the French people it was a pragmatic arrangement; that the French government at Vichy was protecting its people in the wider interests of the country. If France cooperated, he claimed, they would emerge stronger, in partnership with Germany, after this war was over.
A bottle of apricot liqueur was being passed around. Its fiery trail burned Marthe’s throat, and she had only managed a few tiny sips.
Arlette was speaking now. “My father says there are those who want to believe it, that they welcome the invaders because they fear factions of our own people more—the radicals and the Communists. They are secretly pleased that the Germans are stamping out all the disorderly factions.”
“It always astonishes how many different views and interpretations of the same facts there can be,” commented her uncle bitterly.
A guttural sound of derision from Auguste. “So we’re all supposed to read this, and then roll over and let them walk all over us? We must all do what the Germans tell us to do because Pétain did the right thing once? It beggars belief! He and his stooges are just as fascist as the Germans. Have you seen the posters they’ve put up all over town? Smiling boys leaning out of train windows on their way to work in German factories. They make it look so benign! They’re all in it together, and I can’t stand it, I tell you.
“And actually, I want to talk about what the hell we are doing, still selling soap to those bastards who are stamping all over us. I mean—”
“I agree with all your political sentiments,” cut in M. Musset. “But we have to hold our noses and do what we have to do.”
“And sleep the sleep of the just and the ignorant each night?”
“We do it in order to survive. And it’s not so black and white! Sometimes it’s the ‘collaborators’ who are keeping people safe—have you thought about that? The clerks working at the town hall who try to intervene on the behalf of others, they are the ones to put themselves on the line, negotiating and trading with the regime.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“Yes. The Distillerie Musset is open for business so that we and many others can eat.”
This measured response was met by another snort from Auguste. “When my father planted the first lavender fields on the plateau after the last war, it was to build a better life, to safeguard the people and their livelihoods here. He was not doing it to surrender the fields of the south to the old enemy.”
“Your late father was a fine man, and a good friend to me. He was also a good negotiator. Don’t forget the two of us were once in partnership, as we are now. He would have taken the practical line too.”
“He would turn in his grave at the thought of the way you appease Kommandant Baumann and his bully boys every time.”
“It’s a good contract. And if we do not work, what are we?”
“You know they call us dirty collaborators, don’t you?”
“They can call us what they like. We have our integrity and our ideals in this half-life of broken promises and self-interest from our politicians! We’ve worked hard to build up our business.”
“I don’t disagree . . . How can I? But—ah! I get so angry!”
Auguste had changed. It was as if, with the occupation, he had found what he had wanted all along—a purpose. He sparked and fizzed with energy. His actions made clean, definite noises: a bang of his glass on the table, clipped footsteps, single swishes of newspaper. Not so long ago he had had a reputation of trying it on with girls who were too young for him, whether that was an issue of self-confidence or not. But now he was sure of himself, surer than ever. His time had come, and he was going to seize it.
“Pétain is eighty-seven years old! He won’t be around to see the hell of what he’s done! I don’t care if he was the country’s greatest hero of the Great War, he’s turned against his own people.”
Mme Musset’s soft voice changed the subject to less troubling matters. “How is your girl, Auguste? Is that all still on?”
Auguste’s girl worked in a dress shop in Céreste. Pretty, according to Monsieur and Madame. Vain and proud, according to Arlette, though she conceded that her clothes were always pretty, when most people rarely had anything new.
“Why would I not still be seeing Christine?”
“I’m only asking.”
“Well, I am. It’s just that I’ve been so busy lately . . . many things to be organised.
She understands. You know how it is.”
“Of course, dear. Now, I expect you’re hungry as usual, my dear idealist. There’s hazelnut cake—surprisingly good, considering I’ve had to substitute grated nuts and carrot for flour and sugar. And Victor came back from Reillanne this afternoon with a rabbit, which I’ve stewed.”
Soon there was a soothing sizzle of courgettes frying in a skillet.
Over dinner Auguste calmed down. When Marthe pictured him, he was the upright figure in the fields described by Bénédicte, sporting a dark waistcoat over a white shirt and baring the gold tooth that had commanded her sister’s attention. Still a relatively young man who was not all he seemed, she had intimated. Marthe had always found him pleasant and sincere. You could tell a great deal by the tone of a voice, and while he was undoubtedly impulsive at times, his usual state was cautiousness. He was determined, and he felt things deeply.
And Marthe too struggled to put aside what had happened to the country and not allow it to spoil the pictures she retained in her head. That was what she found unforgiveable as news of the first atrocities swept across the villages with the malevolent force of the mistral. No longer did the vista of a single olive tree by a borie, or a stream above a rolling sea of purple, signify serenity; after old Pineau’s death, they were execution scenes, just as the first white almond blossom of spring was now redolent of death. From across the valley the orchards were easily mistaken for drifts of white mist; a shroud for the farmer and his family shot in the back of the head for sheltering escaped prisoners of war.
The violence had come closer. Marthe could sense the disintegration of what had been passing for normality. Week on week as the year turned, the soothing choreography of feet on the floor tiles, the routines and rhythms of the family, the regular appearances of the workers, all was changing.
Marthe was disconcerted by unfamiliar footfalls and low voices. Heavy objects were moved around the farmhouse and the outbuildings. Swishing noises came from the entrance hall for which she could not find a source. Almost every day there was a new sound to be processed.
“What’s going on?” Marthe asked Mme Musset.
“Nothing for you to concern yourself with, my petal. Here, take these peas to shell—that would be a help.”
Peas to shell. Soap to wrap. A knitted jumper to unravel and rewind the wool to use again. There was always a little job to keep her busy. To keep her quiet and away from whatever was happening. With trembling fingers Marthe bent to her task, alive to the faintest clue.
Arlette tried to lighten the mood. She had gone back to Lyon to visit her family at Christmas and came back with some gramophone records. M. Musset put them on, and suddenly the house came alive with music, Arlette singing along. One recording was played over and over again: “Douce France,” sung by Charles Trenet. “Douce France, cher pays de mon enfance . . . Je t’ai gardée dans mon coeur.” Marthe realised she was not the only one whose childhood country belonged to a vanished world.
The other great favourite was “Boum!” It was such a jolly song about the way the heart beat when you fell in love. “Boum! La pendule fait tic-tac tic-tac . . . et la jolie cloche din dan don . . . mais Boum! Et c’est l’amour qui s’eveille!”
“Do you have a young man, Arlette?”
“No. I have several!”
“ . . . Quand notre coeur fait boum, tout avec lui dit boum . . .”
“Are you in love with any of them?”
“Phooey, no! I just want to have some fun, and then when the war’s over I shall concentrate on my career as an actress. I’m going to do it, you know, you just wait and see—I mean, sorry—”
“Nothing to be sorry about. I shall still see you in my way, you know that. I shall be the first on my feet clapping and cheering as the curtain comes down.”
“You’ll have to travel . . . to Nice and Paris and . . . Biarritz and beyond. Rome! London! New York! You won’t see me for dust here after this war is over! But I shall always send you the money and tickets, don’t worry.”
“It will be wonderful.”
It was easy to be positive with Arlette. She had even persuaded her uncle to allow her to help him recruit more workers. “Why can’t a girl do it? In fact I shall make it my mission to improve sales despite all the obstacles. I might even have certain . . . advantages when it comes to persuading young men to stay here and work for us instead of getting on a train for Germany.”
Auguste seemed more cheerful too. Marthe heard Auguste and Arlette, chattering and joshing, setting off to town together. He gave her lifts sometimes in the old hayrick they used to pull the cut lavender to the copper still in the fields at harvest time.
“You’re not in love with Auguste, are you?” asked Marthe shyly.
“No! Not in the least. Oh, he’s nice enough, but he’s a bit too old for me. He’s more like a much older brother, one you can tease.”
It was just as well there could still be some lightheartedness.
Water coughed in the pipes. There were a couple of new workers in the lavender fields whom Madame had invited to have baths at the farmhouse. Marthe had heard the heavy tread of their boots going up the tiled staircase.
“That reminds me,” said Arlette. “Aunt Delphine asked if we would finish washing some sheets that have been soaking.”
They linked arms and went to the outhouse. They talked as they scrubbed sheets at the washboard. They worked until the tips of their fingers were cold and wrinkling like seaweed.
“There seem to be an awful lot of sheets.”
“You’re not wrong there. It’s hard work.”
“I don’t mind,” said Marthe.
“I know you don’t.”
“This reminds me of chores at home, helping Maman. I like it.”
For a while there was nothing but the sound of evening birds singing and the wind in the orchard trees. Then Marthe said: “Please don’t tell me I’m speaking out of turn, but I’ve sensed things lately . . . sensed changes. Will you tell me what is happening here?”
She kept on working the cold sheet as if the steady rhythm would ward off her fears. Change frightened her. If the world changed completely, I wouldn’t know it, she thought but did not say. In my head it will always be the world of my childhood, but the scenes will be obsolete, like the images frozen in woodblocks used to print pictures, or enameled hard and shiny on old-fashioned ornaments.
“We have a few extra workers at the moment,” said Arlette. “We have to billet them for now, that’s all.”
“I know that. But—”
“Marthe . . . dear sweet Marthe, it’s better you don’t know.”
“Please don’t say that! That’s what everyone says, and it just isn’t true!”
But still Arlette would not tell her.
In the blending room at the Distillerie Musset in town, Marthe held a glass vial to her nose: a distillation of violet. She breathed in slowly until it seemed for those few moments the air was reduced to a powdery sweet-sharpness. This February, when the schoolchildren once again sold posies of wild violets on the street corners, Marthe asked them to bring all they had to the perfume factory and managed to extract a few drops of essence. Over the months since then she had experimented with other ingredients to intensify the fragrance, but now the addition of spicy acacia wood had deepened its distinctive sweetness (the scent that would always recall that first propitious visit to the Mussets) to capture its shaded woodland origins and the shy purple petals in the first shafts of spring sunshine.
Arlette clattered in. She had worn through her shoes with all the walking she did making deliveries in the towns and villages, and the cobbler had fitted wooden tips on the soles and heels. As ever, Arlette turned adversity to her advantage and announced her arrival with a little tap dance.
“Bravo! Monsieur Astaire of Hollywood will have you as his new partner yet!” Marthe giggled.
Arlette tap-tapped over to the tall wooden cupboards that lined the room. “I thank you kindl
y, mademoiselle, and will perform an encore as soon as I collect some more of that new rose eau de toilette you mixed the other week.” Doors opened and closed as she helped herself.
“You’re getting through that one,” said Marthe.
“It’s proving very popular.”
“I’m glad.”
“What’s so sublime is the way the true essence of the flower comes through so strongly and distinctly, and seems to grow as you wear it.”
“It’s a soliflore. The simple essence of one flower, enhanced a little but absolutely itself.”
“That’s right.”
“If you like that, come and smell this. Tell me what you think.”
Arlette sniffed at the glass vial Marthe held out. “Mmm . . . it’s violet! Unmistakable.”
“Unmistakably itself, but deepened by using an extract from the leaves as well as the flower, and with acacia wood. Can you smell the cinnamon spiciness of the acacia? I’ve added a faint touch of orange and narcissus to sharpen it. Then a tiny hint of musky sandalwood too, which will help it develop on the skin and make it last.”
“It’s just incredible. You know, we need a new, stronger fragrance . . . another single flower—”
“Do we?”
“—and this could work very well, as it couldn’t possibly be mistaken for anything else in our line.”
“It’s an old-fashioned perfume really, but romantic. Girls used to say that violets stood for modesty and humility. Would it work today, though? You see, the reason I’ve been making this was . . . well, it’s silly and sentimental really . . . but this was the scent I smelled out on the street that first day I came to—”
An excited rat-a-tat burst from Arlette’s feet. “I’ve got to go! Marthe, you are a genius!”
“Where—”
But Marthe was speaking to the air. Arlette had waltzed off, as lost in her own world as Marthe was in hers.
The violet perfume was good, though. It would be quite special when she had it exactly right.
But later that night at the farmhouse, long after she had gone to her room, Marthe overheard the Mussets talking. She stopped outside the kitchen, forgetting about the water she wanted.
The Sea Garden Page 11