‘You can leave your life behind?’
‘I have, several times,’ she’d said softly. ‘Once more won’t hurt.’
‘Well, I want the pain to go. I want to run away from it.’
‘Then run with me to Australia … to Tasmania.’
Luc had nodded and kissed her deeply in answer.
And now here they stood on the Mooltan. In 1923 it was the first P&O ship over 20, 000 tonnes and it was known that she had compromised speed for comfort, which the wide decks attested to. The bridge gave three loud bursts of its horn and a fresh surge of shrieks and farewells were ripping from those decks and being echoed back by families and wellwishers below. After the loud signal to herald departure, passengers immediately felt the surge through the ship as engines began to grind into action.
‘We’re being singled up,’ said the enthusiast.
Lisette followed his line of sight and saw the heavy ropes that had moored the ship at each end were now being slackened from the bollards on shore and gradually wound in by the ship until only one rope kept them connected to the land. Moments later, she felt the SS Mooltan pull free.
This really was it. Her last lifeline to everything familiar. And all that she held dear – other than the little boy now in her arms, and the man holding them both close – was in the shape of the two elderly people, clutching each other and frantically waving back. Her grandparents’ features were blurred by her silent tears and all she could do was wave in their direction and pray that she might one day see them again.
Luc was finding it hard to contain his excitement, but being mindful of Lisette’s sadness at leaving Britain, he was careful not to enthuse too loudly. He didn’t want to allow his expectations to climb too high, but the hope that this island called Tasmania might echo his beloved Luberon’s climate resonated.
He and Lisette were now ‘Ten Pound Poms’ on an assisted passage scheme. From what he’d seen so far, the second class passenger crew was mainly Asian, and Harry was already winning the hearts of the deck staff. Six weeks of this. It was going to be an adventure like no other. Even Lisette was excited by the ports of call.
‘They read like my geography books at school,’ she’d remarked. ‘Egypt.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t wait!’
They were on E Deck in a two-berth cabin, with Harry claiming most of the room in Lisette’s berth. She didn’t mind; they’d got used to sharing a bed while Luc was doing his postings at the lighthouse. Each day they’d head up to the deck for the stinging fresh air cutting through waters with romantic names like the Alboran and Balearic seas.
At Marseille, Luc felt a surge of joy and was one of the first off the ship, hurrying Lisette along, pushing Harry in his pram, so that they could maximise the amount of shore time they had in a port that put him back on the soil of Provence and as close to his beloved Saignon as he could imagine. The mistral was uncharacteristically blowing but not nearly as fiercely as he recalled from his previous visits to this fishing capital. ‘This is unusual,’ he said, laughing as the wind tried to blow him off balance. ‘It doesn’t usually appear at this time of the year. It’s a sign,’ he said over its gust. ‘Welcoming me back.’
‘Luc, you’re not going to run off and disappear into the hills, are you?’ Lisette asked, only half joking but very happy to be off the choppy waters for a while.
He shook his head. ‘One day perhaps. Not now.’
They watched the gulls being blown about in the air over the fish markets as they walked towards the main part of France’s second-oldest town. In front of them, on the rise behind the city, was the basilica Notre Dame de la Garde.
Lisette smiled, clearly enjoying Luc’s excitement, but their expressions clouded to see the ruins of a port dating back to the Romans. The Nazis – aided by French police – had spitefully dynamited the old port. But Luc was refusing to let anything spoil his pleasure at being back in the city he visited regularly as a child with his family.
‘Do you know,’ he continued, ‘that the abbey dates back to the fifth century?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘And is this how you managed to woo all those French girls whose hearts you broke?’
‘Doesn’t history excite you?’
‘Not like it does you. I like to look forward.’
Luc sensed she was avoiding digging into Marseille’s Nazi round-up here in 1943, when 2000 Jews ultimately found themselves at Drancy, before boarding death trains to the concentration camps of the east.
‘Well, then, let’s go find a shop and let me buy you a block of the famous Savon de Marseille. There’s no soap like it in the world.’
‘My mother used to speak of it. Olive oil, right?’
He nodded. ‘Encrusted with sea salt. Then you know it’s the real thing. And let’s get Harry an ice cream.’
‘Let me guess, they serve the best ice cream in the world here too,’ she said with a wry expression.
CHAPTER FIVE
Luc unconsciously sniffed the air and the top note that registered immediately was eucalyptus; it came riding gently on the soft breeze that stirred their hair. It wasn’t dissimilar to the camphorous quality of some lavenders, but if he likened it to an animal, then the lavender’s camphor was a cat’s mewl to the lion’s growl of the Australian gums. He liked it immediately, together with the incredibly clean air he’d been breathing since hitting Australian waters.
In the taxi from where the Mooltan had disgorged her passengers to where they now stood, Luc had seen roses growing – as good as any in Britain. He recognised instantly the luminous yellow of one flowering tree that so caught his attention; he knew it as mimosa, recognised its powerful fragrance immediately and was aware – he didn’t know how – that it had been imported into Provence in the previous century. Australians called it wattle. He wasn’t familiar with the gorgeous weeping petals of a purple flower that he couldn’t fail to miss, especially because it made him think of lavender; it was called jacaranda. The name was alien, exotic … he tested it on his tongue and made a promise to himself that if where he ended up living didn’t have one, then he would plant a jacaranda tree.
Other more familiar smells of salt, fish, oil and sweat combined at the port to remind him of the lighthouse, but he knew he was now a long way from England … just the weather alone was enough to jolt the past away.
They’d heard the stories on the ship about temperatures to ‘melt the tarmac’ but nothing could fully prepare them for the dry, searing heat of Station Pier, Port Melbourne, where a steamer called the Taroona loaded them on for the crossing of Bass Strait to Devonport in Tasmania.
Luc felt the damp of his shirt clinging to his back and was pleasantly reminded of his youth and the searing summers of Provence on his bent back as he toiled in his lavender fields. His spirits lifted but then he’d felt none of Lisette’s dread at leaving ‘home’. As though dropping into his thoughts, she caught his eye.
‘It feels as though we’ve already travelled to the end of the earth and yet here we are, still travelling,’ she said. They both glanced at Harry, who was yawning but in spite of the journey was his usual cheery self. ‘Just imagine, everyone in England is going to bed now,’ she remarked.
‘Think of it like this … you’ll see every sunrise before your friends at the drama group,’ he quipped.
‘Oh, look, Harry,’ she pointed, unselfconsciously pushing away the lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes. In that moment Luc was transfixed by his wife’s dark looks, which he knew other men admired and he had taken for granted for too long. He’d noticed, yes, but he hadn’t fully appreciated that her hair was now past her shoulders, thick and luxuriant again, and flicking of its own accord in a mischievous yet seductive way that somehow, in spite of Lisette’s lack of vanity, appeared fashionable. ‘They’re loading cars onto the ferry,’ she said, unaware of Luc’s soft-eyed scrutiny.
Mother and son. He loved them both so much. It was time to repay their faith in him and give them the happy life they d
eserved.
Luc followed their matching blue gazes and was fascinated to see three cars being hauled aboard by vast cranes and wondered when the revolution of roll-on and roll-off car loading that was now accepted in Europe would hit Australia. He wanted to buy a car but they were relying on Lisette’s money and it alone would finance their new dream. A car was not part of that yet.
Nevertheless, Australia was already allowing him to daydream and that gave him a feeling of optimism as he put his arm around his wife and son. Lisette glanced at him.
‘My heart feels lighter,’ he murmured close to her ear.
‘I can see,’ she whispered and her smile, which seemed to sparkle in her eyes, felt like forgiveness for the countless days she’d had to suffer his clouds, his absences, his dislocation.
‘I will make this a good life for us,’ he promised, kissing the top of her head.
Lisette didn’t reply; he felt her nodding but suspected she was also feeling tearful, so he distracted Harry and gave her a moment to gather herself.
‘The locals call this “the boat”, Harry,’ he said, swinging the youngster up into his arms.
‘We’d call it a steamer, wouldn’t we, Dad?’
‘I suppose so. And all of these people are returning to Tasmania, where they live – where we’ll be living from now on.’
‘I know. Mum told me. It feels very far away from our real home, though.’
Luc gazed into the large, trusting eyes of his son. ‘We’ll make it our real home in time, Harry.’
The little fellow nodded happily as though Luc had just said ‘We’re going to have some lunch now’. He was still too young to grasp the enormity of their decision but it made Luc all the more determined to ensure this huge adventure he’d brought his family on would be a success. It had to be. It was his chance to set his life in order.
‘So we get off at a place called Beauty Point, am I right? Not at Launceston itself?’ Lisette asked, fully composed again. ‘I read about King’s Wharf in the city.’
‘Beauty Point is the closest passenger terminal,’ he explained, having only gleaned this latest information at Station Pier. ‘King’s Wharf is an industrial port. Coaches will take us into the city,’ he replied, and while she didn’t complain, the look that ghosted across her expression told him that this journey had been long enough.
‘The Strait is twice as wide and twice as rough as the English Channel,’ a man standing near them remarked. Luc guessed he was a retired sailor. ‘But it shouldn’t be too wild today,’ he said, winking at Lisette, as he sucked on a pipe. ‘You from abroad?’
Luc nodded. ‘Yes, we’ve just arrived today off the ship from England.’
‘A to and from, eh?’
Luc frowned.
The man didn’t seem to care that his audience didn’t understand his quip. ‘Don’t sound like you come from there,’ he said, having probably eavesdropped their conversation, but Luc didn’t take offence. He’d become quite used to these gruff, ‘salty’ types from his time at the lighthouse.
‘I’m French,’ he admitted. ‘Luc Ravens.’
‘Ravens, eh? That doesn’t sound French either. But no matter.’ He lifted his cap politely. ‘Mrs Ravens. Aren’t you a skinny little thing – you’d better hang on to her, son, when the Roaring Forties blow,’ he said over his shoulder to Luc but turned back to Lisette. She gave him a wan smile, while Luc looked confused. ‘Jim Patterson. You’ll learn about our southern winds soon enough.’
‘Our son, Harry,’ Lisette introduced. ‘Say hello, Harry.’
‘Hello, Mr Patterson. I like your hat.’
Jim gave Harry a glance. ‘Fine-looking boy you have there. Hope you raise him as an Australian. Are you coming across permanently?’
They both nodded.
‘For the hydro project, I suppose?’
‘No,’ Lisette was quick to say. ‘My husband is a lavender grower.’
The man’s eyes widened. ‘Lavender, eh? And you’re going to grow it in Tassie, are you?’
‘I plan to, yes,’ Luc said, guessing what ‘Tassie’ meant but not missing the amusement in the man’s tone.
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not?’
Patterson laughed. ‘Well, you’re game, I’ll give you that.’
‘Will this crossing take long?’ Lisette wondered aloud, wanting to change the subject. She stroked her son’s damp hair. He was clearly feeling the heat too.
‘About twelve hours. Where are you staying in town?’
Luc looked at Lisette. She had masterminded all the shore arrangements. ‘We’re at The Hotel Cornwall,’ she answered. ‘Is that a good establishment?’
‘Well now, that depends on the size of your purse and how long you need to stay.’ He took a long slow draught from his pipe as the last of the cars were boarded and the crane swung its ropes away. ‘For someone who can amuse himself playing around with growing lavender, I suspect you’ve got the coin for The Brisbane Hotel, which has got tickets on itself too, having never got over having the Prince of Wales as a guest back in the ‘20s.’ He grinned but not unkindly. Luc wore a bemused expression – he understood only half of what the man was saying. Tickets on itself? ‘It’s the best hotel in the state, though, and one of your blokes,’ he said, nodding at Luc, ‘called Cognet owned the place for a while.’ Luc tried not to wince openly at the pronunciation. ‘After that, The Metropole is pretty smart and quite rich for most. But you can’t go wrong with The Cornwall – it’s a very decent pub. No airs and graces but run well and serves the best counter meal in the state, I reckon. You’ve made a good choice, Mrs Ravens. Ah, here we go, we’re off. Well,’ he said, tipping his cap, ‘wishing your family luck in your new adventure.’
Luc shook his hand and Patterson drifted away. He was pleased in truth because although he sensed their chatty companion hadn’t meant to, his dry dig at their plans smacked of gloom and Luc didn’t need anyone bursting their bubble of hope before they’d even had a chance to set foot on forty degrees south.
They’d bought a first class private cabin. It was expensive but they were both glad they’d invested in having privacy and their own facilities instead of dormitory-style sleeping arrangements for the overnight journey. Even so, the endless travel of the last five weeks meant that they were past fatigued when the Taroona finally unloaded its passengers at Beauty Point.
They looked out somewhat forlornly at what appeared to be a ring of low hills, purpley-blue in the distance. There was not much sign of life.
‘It’s a wilderness,’ Lisette admitted.
‘Pretend it’s the South Downs,’ Luc encouraged. ‘That was just as uninhabited.’
A small queue of coaches – or buses, as the locals called them – was lined up waiting, with signs on their fronts for either Hobart or Launceston. They clambered aboard one bound for Launceston and began the journey into town. The crowded bus and unrelenting heat through the large windows meant Harry fell asleep immediately and Lisette followed suit soon after but Luc had pushed past being tired and could feel a fresh surge of wakefulness hitting. Looking around, most of the passengers seemed to be returning locals, although he did note an Italian family he recognised from the main voyage from Europe. So they were not the only migrants arriving in Launceston today.
The countryside was remarkably different to England’s and he didn’t recognise the tall, spindly trees that he knew must be eucalypts, but the rocky hills were not so unlike Provence. Hope fluttered. He wanted to wake Lisette and share it but left her sleeping where she leant on his shoulder. Harry’s damp head was resting against his belly where the little boy had finally slumped.
The view changed quickly again; to Luc’s delight they began passing miles of orchards. He had read that fruit export was Tasmania’s most important industry next to timber and its produce was shipped all over the world. He recognised apples and pears, even cherries – black ones, no less – and wanted to cheer but restrained himself. This was feeling m
ore like his old life by the moment, but he reminded himself that he’d need to get used to this upside down calendar. It was January now – midwinter for Europe – but here the cherry trees looked to be sighing beneath the weight of their dark jewels that hung in clusters. His memories of the hilltop town of Saignon were pricked nostalgically by the fruit groves. Luc’s hope began to beat its wings that Lisette’s theory of replicating Provence here could work.
‘You should see this place in spring,’ he overheard an older woman telling her companion. ‘The blossom from the orchards flutters down onto the Tamar – it’s so beautiful.’
He made a promise to come back here during October, possibly November, and see the river they were following littered with pale-pink petals.
Finally, they were offloaded at the Launceston bus station. With their few items of luggage cluttered around them, the Ravens family stood slightly forlornly beneath the tin awning, wondering what next?
‘The hotel promised it would send someone to collect us,’ Lisette assured.
Harry whimpered in his sleep. He looked like a ragdoll in her arms and even though she didn’t complain, Luc knew what a dead weight Harry had become. He’d have to get them a new pushchair immediately. Their shared sense of abandonment increased as the bus station emptied and the vehicles began to heave themselves off, with a belch of black smoke and petrol fumes, but Luc didn’t want Lisette to feel his nervousness. He sensed the Italians were sharing a similar anxiety but as he’d worked out that they possessed little English between them, the best he and Lisette could do was share sympathetic smiles with them.
‘This is too hot. I’m going to wait inside,’ Lisette finally relented. And it was obvious that she couldn’t get into the station’s shade fast enough. The heat at just past two o’clock was scalding. Luc could see waves of air trembling in the distance but rather than make him shrink he privately revelled in this heat, so reminiscent of a place that was truly home.
Hope was no longer fluttering but now firmly taking flight in his heart that this was precisely the hot dry summer his seeds needed. Clever Lisette. Was she right? Was Tasmania to be the place where he would fulfil his promise to his grandmother, to himself, that he would walk amongst French lavender fields again? Only time would tell if his wife’s theory might work for them and give him the opportunity to claim back his past to create their future.
The French Promise Page 8