Farewell My French Love

by Nadine Williams

  ‘These are all my favourite artworks,’ she says. ‘I could not bear to sell them.’

  I look around and am astonished. In Adelaide, because of our language difficulties, I learnt nothing about Danièle other than her leadership in the French Lyceum. But now, in her living room, I learn that she is a famous French artist. She had been involved in setting the arts curriculum and examination for the baccalauréat, France’s tough high-school examination. She was president of the Bac’s jury!

  As we sip our tea, l ask about her favourite artistic style and what medium she prefers.

  ‘Au début, ma peinture était plutôt classique,’ she says. ‘Oh, excusez-moi! I began in classics, but de plus en plus, I work in abstract.

  ‘Je suis désolée, mon anglais n’est pas très bon.’ I am sorry, my English isn’t very good.

  I know the pain of trying to speak in depth in French, so I say, ‘Parlez en français, je peux comprendre.’ Speak in French, I’m able to understand.

  She has had many exhibitions of her works, mainly in Brittany and Belgium and most of her sold works were classique. Since her retirement she works a lot with oil, pastels and engraving.

  ‘I hope our little bavardage, our chat, will mean that you know something more about me.’

  I tell her that I began buying artworks to celebrate my fiftieth birthday. ‘I bought a fabulous painting called Madonna and Child by Sheila Whittam and since, I have acquired a little collection from artist friends and more recently from auctions,’ I explain. ‘They all hang along with Olivier’s wonderful collection of French art in our chez nous.’

  ‘When is your birthday?’ she asks.

  ‘July 15—a day after your Bastille Day.’

  ‘Oh-la-la! Mon anniversaire est le 14 Juillet, Bastille Day. The whole country celebrates my birthday.’ She laughs lightly.

  ‘Really! No wonder we get on so well. We are both Cancerians.’

  Then she leads me into a pretty buttercup yellow room on the second level with my own bathroom across the hallway.

  When I join them again, Danièle says in perfect English, ‘Please call me Dany, Nahdeen.’ So I take the initiative and figure if I’m a guest in their home, I can call her tu. And I’m thrilled that she responds with a tu when she asks if I had had a rest.

  ‘I have something very special to show you.’ And she dangles the car keys before me.

  Despite the bleak weather, she takes me to the protected harbour of Binic where many boats lie in mud at low tide. She leads me through a tunnel in the harbour wall to a wonderful expanse of sand lapping at a calm sea.

  ‘Voilà! Notre secret de Binic, notre plage,’ she says. There it is! Our secret of Binic, our beach. ‘Et regardez là: ma cabine,’ she adds, pointing to a wooden beach cabin, one of a handful overlooking the beach.

  ‘That’s yours?’ I ask.

  ‘Oui.’ Then she adds in English, ‘We all walk here and my happiness is complete.’

  Dany hands me a little yellow slip of paper listing today’s destinations and I notice at the top of the list is written La Croix des Veuves (the cross of the widows).

  It’s amusing how Dany expects me to understand her French and I do, in fact, pick up the gist of the conversation. For instance, we soon arrive at an ancient église from the seizième siècle. ‘C’est très speciale à cause des souvenirs qui s’y rattachent.’ The sixteenth-century church is special because of all of the memories there.

  This is the way to learn French. If I was here for another week, I don’t think I would need to go to Alliance.

  The primitive stone church Chapelle de Perros-Hamon, at a crossroad in the coastal village of Ploubazlanec, was first mentioned in parish writings in the year 1198. But the porch, which is what Dany wants me to see, was built in 1728. It is filled with old timber placards noting the names of husbands, sons and brothers who drowned at sea. Above the timber doors into the church itself, a primitive Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus stands in an alcove.

  ‘These coastal villages lost 2000 men between 1852 and 1935 and many other thousands before that because this was a commune of fishermen until World War I,’ says Dany.

  I quickly do mental arithmetic to work out a shocking average of 25 deaths a year. That’s one loss of life every two weeks! A tragic number.

  Then I say: ‘They must be very dangerous seas.’

  We take a thrilling drive through Pors Even, an ancient fishing village, where bald, grey granite fishermen’s cottages line the narrow, steep roadway. It seems to drop straight into the sea. However, in a hair-raising feat, Dany parks the car near a small sandy boat ramp on the shore. I follow her into a smelly fish-processing factory where the workers in overalls and long fishermen’s gallashes tease her in a jovial manner. When she laughs spontaneously, I laugh gladly to be a part of it. Soon we have two dozen unshucked oysters and a container filled with ice sitting in the back of the car. If anything brings Olivier instantly to mind, it is unshucked oysters. He refused to buy opened oysters.

  Dany zips up the steep cliff face onto a road which reads Rue la Croix des Veuves until a roadside placard reads Croix des Veuves. Across the road is a high cement pole with a weatherworn female statue atop facing the sea. Here at Pointe de l’Arcouest—the highest point in a rugged, narrow peninsula—the cross reflects the anxious waiting of women over eons and speaks of their despair and mourning over the huge loss of so many lives of sons, husbands, lovers, sweethearts. Yet, it has such beauty, too, giving stunning views over many islands strung out to sea, like a necklace.

  A lost ship would have meant many men at a time would have perished. The villages of Pors Even and Ploubazlanec would have been shrouded in perpetual sadness. I’m not thinking of myself necessarily, but my eyes are wet as I stand at the croix while Dany takes a photograph. I cannot throw off my compassion for the mothers, wives and sweethearts of fishermen, who trawled in these treacherous waters and sailed so far away to South America, the Indian Ocean and the Far East.

  ‘I think I need a dose of happiness,’ I say to Dany, but I don’t think she understands, because we return to the huge cemetery at Ploubazlanec, which has an impressive calvaire—three worn stone figures on plinths and a tall central pole with a crucifix on top.

  The calvaires of Brittany—unique Celtic structures in church courtyards in the north—are a renowned tourist attraction. But Olivier would describe Dany’s daytrip as venturing into ‘deep Bretagne’. His life in Brittany was around the Celtic villages of the south, like Kerhinet, where he lived with his first wife, the marshlands of La Brière and the salt pans of Guérande.

  ‘Those carved stone calvaires at best are a mix of Christian saints and pagan gods,’ Oli reckoned. ‘At worst they are enough to frighten the dead!’

  Dany and I stop for ham-and-cheese buckwheat galettes and cider before continuing along the ‘circuit of the islands’ until we reach a picturesque headland. Here a ferry is moored.

  ‘Nous sommes arrivés!’ says Dany. ‘Nous allons à L’Île de Brehat. C’est un très joli village de France.’ We are going to the island of Brehat. It is a very pretty village of France.

  But at the ticket office, we learn we are five minutes too late. ‘We could almost swim,’ I comment as I stare out at the rugged coastline and pitched roofs across the water.

  To the novice, Bretagne would seem a strange, eerie land, dominated by dangerous seas, countless islands, lighthouses, roadside crosses, white-washed cottages, primitive churches and awesome granite rock formations. But the villages are charming and authentic and any one of them beginning with ‘Ker’ indicates ancient Celtic origins. So, when Dany pulls up in Kermaria an Isquit, I know it has Celtic roots. She wants to show me an ancient fresco in the village church, but it’s closed for restoration. ‘Je suis desolée!’ she says. Despondent, she points to the noticeboard, written in English. It says that the church contains the oldest primitive Celtic fresco in Brittany and it was only discovered by chance. The parish priest wanted to aban
don the humble church and move the place of worship into the village, but the parishioners were enraged and in a timely discovery, they found thirteenth-century frescoes. It illustrated the villagers dancing the ‘Pardon’, one of many fetes still observed in Bretagne. Each year, the villagers dress in their traditional costumes and parade their saint’s relics through the streets.

  These ancient chapels are an important element of why Bretagne seems a world apart from mainstream France. Historians believe its strong unique identity can be linked back to the founder of St-Malo, the Welsh missionary Maclou who in 550 AD converted the pagans here to the Celtic brand of Christianity—not the Roman Catholic brand of Rome. So many superstitions survived to blend with Christ on the Cross. Their beloved duchess, Anne, played a strong role, insisting all Bretagne’s customs be maintained when her nation was annexed to France.

  On the drive home, I reflect on that moment nine years ago when Oli first asked me if I would live with him in Bretagne and how I refused him. I could not imagine leaving my whole life behind. In an instant I knew my Australian lifestyle and my career were too much to give up for an unknown future no matter how much I loved him. I know I would have fitted in with this hardy people, but at what cultural loss? The grey granite of Brittany has shaped its landscape, given form and texture to its towns, its austere farmhouses and humble fishermen’s cottages, its churches and calvaires. Importantly, granite has protected its people with massive sea-walls and medieval ramparts for centuries. But it’s a hard, unforgiving environment. The weather here is harsh and the sea is cruel. An obvious profound loss would have been Australia’s azure blue skies—more beautiful than anywhere else on earth. And we have been shaped by our island lifestyle with sunshine for much of the year. Most important, my family lived in Australia.

  What an irony! I’m in Brittany to try to find myself after Olivier’s death. Yet back then when he popped the question I knew exactly who I was, uniquely shaped by my childhood, my parents, my religious upbringing, my marriages, my children, my divorces, my tertiary education and my career. My life-course to meeting Olivier had moulded me into a strong, independent professional woman and he was attracted to that confident, creative personality. This is a pivotal moment for me. I know I must be that same person who has been many personas … mother, sister, daughter, grandmother, auntie and friend. And, since then I have become an author as well as Olivier’s wife—and his widow. I really do know this is who I am, but also that I have been crushed emotionally by his death. It’s the sadness of loss I must cope with … like all those Breton widows.

  The next day Dany and I drive over the viaduct at Saint-Brieuc and head south to La Baule, a popular coastal resort town a few hours away. While I’m in France, I must deal with some matters for Olivier, one of which is meeting with a widow friend called Martine, whom I have not seen since 2007, a year after her husband Gerard died. Danièle kindly offers to drive me there.

  On our drive inland, Bretagne reveals a domain of farmers, where agriculture is traditionally based on livestock, dairy farming, poultry and vegetable crops. Danièle avoids Vannes as we head south-east and when we hit Herbignac, with a little flutter of joy, I recognise the D47 route to Saint-André-des-Eaux. We are in the region I know well because we visited annually the three years before Gerard died. Our last act of homage for Gerard was in 2007 when there was a walk from his tomb to the local auberge for a memorial lunch. It was the first anniversary of his death and a misty, rainy, windy day. Our gathering of about twelve people was expected to walk through La Brière marshland to the restaurant. But Oli and I did not have waterproof walking shoes to walk the three kilometres and so we drove from the cemetery.

  When we joined the party at the auberge, one of the French women, in a lowered voice, told Martine that we shouldn’t be allowed to join them because we hadn’t shown respect for Gerard. I didn’t know this, but noticed Oli’s disgusted ‘Poof!’ However, Martine ignored her and moved down the long bench so Oli could sit alongside and I squeezed opposite them. ‘Tu as été son meilleur ami,’ she said to him. You were his best friend.

  Martine was in the throes of grief the last time I saw her. Now she is her effervescent self once more. We embrace and kiss warmly and she even kisses Dany, thanking her for bringing me ‘tout le chemin’ (all the way).

  It is sobering to stand here and know that, of the foursome we once were, we are now both widows. Martine and Gerard at Saint-Andrédes-Eaux were a big slice of our couple life in France.

  We spent much of our time as a foursome visiting surrounding villages, or the La Baule market twice a week to buy vegetables, fruit, fish and viande (meat) to prepare for lunches and dinner parties for mutual friends. In the years that Olivier and Colette lived at the hamlet of Kerhinet in Brittany, he and Gerard were active members of the Lions Club at La Baule. And when we returned, Gerard would summon Lions members for big gatherings at his home. And invitations flowed from there. Or we would take daytrips to Le Croisic, the walled city of Guérande or along the nine-kilometre coastline from Le Poulequen to Pornichet, which forms the gorgeous horseshoe bay of La Baule. The 1920s ornate mansions are a major attraction in this gorgeous chocolate-box seaside resort. So different from the huddled village housing of ancient French villages.

  But the year 2006 brought it all to an end. Gerard seemed his refined self, but complained of ‘bruised ribs’, which he reckoned were caused by an incident on his boat. A few days after we arrived, Martine rushed him to a doctor in Nantes with a raging fever. But they didn’t have the results of many tests when we left on the weekend. When the men embraced at the Saint-Nazaire TGV, I wondered if we would see him again. He died a few months later following an operation. That bruise was advanced kidney cancer.

  Today, we three women are sitting in the Les Isles Bar Restaurant on La Baule’s beautiful beach, awaiting our lunch orders. Martine and Dany are enjoying their chat in French and it pleases me. A threesome can carry some risk.

  Martine’s chestnut hair falls below her shoulders and she wears a bright peach shirt, scooping to reveal cleavage. She has always carried that air of sensuality that French women nurture; nearly sixty, she remains a handsome woman.

  I dare to ask, ‘Have you met anyone else, since Gerard died, Martine?’

  ‘Ah non!’ she answers in French in a definitive tone.

  ‘I am now happy by myself and I am free to go and help my daughters and their children.’ She continues to explain the French succession laws which mean if she moves from the marital home, she gives the children half of the proceeds, which is their undisputed share. ‘The wife only gets half,’ she states in French.

  I have slipped off my sandals and wriggle my toes into the cool sand. The creamy blue sky is lightly veiled with cloud. The sun warms my shoulders and I watch the glinting sea as it laps into a little line of froth. I’m so content, I could doze off. This crescent of fine, sandy beach is the most beautiful in France and it stretches from the village of Le Pouliguen at one end to the fishing village of Pornichet eight kilometres away. High-rise holiday apartments line the esplanade. No wonder La Baule-Escoublac is promoted as the most beautiful beach in Europe.

  Yet today, in late September, it is struggling to reach twenty degrees and there are few people on the beach. No swimmers, some sunbakers, a few stragglers strolling on the sand, some serious walkers striding forth with poles and a scattering of odd boats bobbing about.

  Our fish dishes arrive. My shallow bowl is filled with a thick green puree on which is piped swirls of soft mashed potatoes. A big piece of fleshy, white ling sits atop garnished with sprouting mung beans. It tastes delicious.

  It is 6 pm when we collect the car from outside Martine’s home and with a sinking heart I realise that we do not have the chance to visit Kerhinet. I’m pleasantly weary and quickly fall asleep while Dany drives on into the night and does not stop the whole way home.

  When we are seated around the dining table, Louis produces a big casserole. ‘Cassoulet!’
he announces.

  As I dress for bed in the privacy of my attic bedroom, I relish the fact that I have created my own pleasurable day in France, blending my old friend with a new friend, who never knew Olivier. It’s such an achievement as neither woman could speak any English, but I had learnt enough French to lend a credible ear to their conversation. Certainly I am value-adding new experiences to precious memories.

  The next morning, Louis takes me to the Saturday market in Saint-Brieuc, the closest big town. Dany is cooking for a dinner party this evening and she has invited some Lyceum friends. ‘Dany wants me to show you the apartment we bought recently in Saint-Brieuc,’ says Louis.

  When we step into the foyer of the corner apartment block, he opens the door of a lift little bigger than a refrigerator, which takes us up to their apartment, a comfortable space filled with Dany’s artworks.

  ‘Dany thought that winter at Binic was too harsh for my aches and pains after all of my injuries from the fall, so in winter we live here where the heating keeps our environment very pleasant,’ he says. His English is improving by the day.

  Ten years ago Louis had a terrible accident in Mexico City, when he fell down a deep narrow hole on the way to their holiday suite at night. It had no barrier and there was no night lighting. He fell straight down, wedged in. Danièle had told me in Adelaide that he broke many bones and almost died and was in a hospital in Mexico for three months before he was well enough to return to France.

  ‘He is on many pills now,’ she had said.

  Louis looks quite different from Olivier, but his hair is also grey and receding and he has a similar deep voice. I wonder whether I will ever be able to look upon another man without comparing him to Olivier.