The French Promise

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘No. We’ve migrated from England to start a new life.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the old one, then? Did you get up to mischief?’ Maurie winked.

  Luc had heard before that Frenchmen were considered gigolos. He had become used to the banter with his fellow lighthouse keepers.

  ‘The war was hard on my wife,’ he said, deciding to be candid. He sensed Maurie would spread the word soon enough and he preferred people to know the truth now. ‘She was a spy in France for Churchill.’

  ‘Get on with you,’ Maurie said, nudging him. ‘That little slip?’

  He nodded, liking the sound of that phrase, which summed up Lisette perfectly. ‘“That little slip” parachuted into France in the south and made her way up to Paris, crossing mountainous country in the winter for a lot of the way. It’s how we met. I was in the Resistance … you know about us?’

  ‘I’ve heard some,’ Maurie said, draining his glass.

  ‘Let me get you another,’ Luc offered.

  ‘No, mate. Thanks and all that, but my liver’s shot and I’ve promised the missus that I’ll only have one a day,’ he said, nodding as he reached for his hat on the bar. ‘So, what’s a French freedom fighter and an English spy going to do out here in Launny?’

  Luc shrugged. It was put so baldly, sounded so far-fetched, even he wanted to scratch his head. ‘Well, I was a lavender grower once, in France.’

  ‘Go on. Really? I thought you were a bullfighter or something.’

  He gusted a laugh. ‘They’re Spanish.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve never been anywhere. Too young for the Great War, too old for the second, but some of us had to stay at home and keep the place going, right?’ He didn’t wait for Luc to reply. ‘A lavender grower, you say?’

  ‘I was. I hope to be again.’

  ‘Well, you’ve done your bit to keep the world safe. I lost my son in 1943. He’d be about your age. He should be here now, getting ready for the new footy season.’ Luc could feel Maurie’s pain, even though he spoke so matter-of-factly. ‘He was a good boy, our Davey. Keen to do his bit, like you.’ There was an awkward pause while Maurie lost his thoughts to a dead son. Then he cleared his throat and fixed Luc with a firm stare. ‘I’m glad you made it, Luc, and I hope you do well here. Have you got any kids?’

  ‘A son. Harry. He’s still young.’

  ‘Well, you make sure you spend lots of time with your boy. Raise him as an Australian, support the Demons, learn to drink our beer and you’ll be fine.’ He chuckled. ‘Even though you want to grow flowers for a living.’

  Luc grinned. ‘There’s money in it, if I get it right.’

  ‘Good on ya, lad. I hope you make Tassie famous for its lavender. You should be speaking to the folk over at Lilydale. North-east of here.’

  ‘Lilydale,’ Luc repeated, fixing the name in his mind. ‘Why?’

  ‘They grow and sell lavender at the markets. They grow lots of stuff but I’ve seen their lavender – none better, in my humble opinion.’ He shrugged. ‘At least you know it grows here and they’d be able to give you some advice.’

  Luc felt his heart begin to hammer.

  ‘How far away is Lilydale?’

  ‘Ooh, let me see now. About seventeen miles, give or take. There’s a train that runs from here to Scottsdale. It will pass through Nabowla, where the sawmills are. You can probably work out how to get to Lilydale from there.’ He nodded at Luc. Held his hand out. ‘I’ll see you again, Ravens,’ he said and winked at him as he left.

  Luc couldn’t wait to tell Lisette about Lilydale and she’d had to shoosh him so he wouldn’t talk through the movie. When he kissed her and a sleepy Harry goodbye early on Monday morning, he reminded her again to ask about land available around Lilydale.

  ‘Have a good day, Luc … You’ll be all right,’ she’d said.

  ‘Of course. It’s just labouring work. I’ve done enough of that in my time.’

  However, now that he was on the building site, he felt the tension like a hum of electricity. It was fine while he was working. They’d given him repetitive jobs and that suited him because he could work alone. But now it was a break. They called it ‘smoko’ and he was trapped by the lack of activity and the inevitable attention he was sure was headed his way. Luc sat apart but deliberately not so far away as to entirely alienate himself, sipping on a mug of instant coffee, while everyone else seemed to prefer tea. He sighed inwardly that he’d come to another nation of tea drinkers and shocking coffee makers.

  It didn’t take long before he was noticed.

  ‘Is Ravens your real name?’ one bloke asked.

  Luc shrugged. ‘It’s the only one I have,’ he lied, wishing he didn’t have to.

  Other men quietened to listen, dropping their heads slightly, cigarettes hanging between their knees.

  ‘Sounds German,’ the fellow continued.

  A few raised their gazes to eye him more aggressively; they’d obviously been talking.

  ‘I’m French,’ he stated in an even tone, staring at the block of a man who was leading the conversation. He wore dusty black shorts and a shirt cut off at the shoulder, so he looked to be wearing a vest. His arms were thick, roped with muscles and tattooed. The man’s skin, which hadn’t seen a razor in a few days, had turned leathery from years under the sun and was a muddy brown like the tea he was sipping from his thermos cup. The area was quiet suddenly and the foreman was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘We’ve all lost family and mates to the fuckin’ Nazis,’ another man threw at him, as he flung down a cigarette butt.

  ‘Nazi?’ Luc gave a scornful laugh. ‘I was born and raised in southern France,’ Luc replied, as evenly as he could. It had to be 90 degrees Fahrenheit today. He was sweltering but he knew this heat – it was like a Provence summer. He began undoing his shirt like the other blokes had. ‘I moved with the French Resistance and helped Allied spies to cross over the mountains out of danger, or on their missions. My job was to keep the British in particular safe. I’m no Nazi.’

  He stood, disgusted; knew he should walk away before any hint of his true background came out.

  It seemed his companions weren’t ready to let him off the hook, though. ‘We hear the French were cowards … collaborators,’ someone else said and fresh murmurs erupted.

  That hurt. Luc decided they might as well get this over with. He schooled his features to betray no anger and ensured his voice sounded light, calm even, though he could feel his pulse pounding at his temple.

  ‘Yes, some were collaborators,’ he admitted, glad that Lisette had made him work so hard with his English. ‘Most weren’t. And of those who weren’t, all were brave, doing what they could to defy the enemy every chance they found. And many French women and children died being brave, defying the enemy.’ Despite his best intentions his ire was up now and even though he tried to bite back the words, out they flew. ‘Your women and children stayed at home, safe. You forget, we were occupied. We starved, we had to work for the Germans – leaving our homes to live in Germany as slave labour. French nationals even had to fight for the Germans in Russia.’

  ‘Australians fought and died for you lot too,’ a new voice growled.

  ‘They did. But I didn’t call any of you cowards. I just want you to understand that a lot of good, honest and loyal French died trying to defend the Allied push. I lost everyone in my family to the Nazis – grandmother, both parents, three sisters. The youngest was fourteen. She was gassed in one of their concentration camps. Fourteen!’ His voice nearly broke on the number, but still he wouldn’t quit. ‘Here you all are – good mates, as you call yourselves. Well, I lost my closest friends to Gestapo. I watched one of them marched out to a public square to hold his head high and still shout defiances at his torturers before they shot him at close range. No trial, just a bullet. My other oldest friend, who held me when I was born, was tortured by Gestapo until he could do little more than beg for the bullet that I gladly delivered to finish his suffering. If I’d had
another bullet in that pistol, I’d have shot the smiling bastard who gave me the option of shooting my friend to save him more pain, or walking away and leaving him to more torture.’

  It was viciously hot and Luc could feel his shirt clinging to his body from the damp of perspiration. He ripped it off angrily and used it to wipe his face. ‘Alors, satisfaits?’ he demanded, his tone enough to make a couple of the accusers back off slightly.

  ‘We talk English here, mate.’

  ‘I asked if you were happy now.’ He flung down the shirt, furious that his loyalty was in question, and turned to face them.

  Silence fell when they stared at his chest. He stared back, challenge in his glare.

  ‘Is that a bullet wound?’ His big companion pointed.

  Luc shrugged and nodded, surprised at the sudden change in mood. ‘So what if it is?’

  The men crowded closer to get a better look and sounded collectively impressed to see the angry red crater of flesh that had puckered into scar tissue. They swung him round to see the exit scar. One of them whistled.

  ‘A German bullet?’ the youngest asked, wide-eyed.

  Luc remembered the feeling of the bullet hitting him as though it was yesterday; his greatest surprise was not being shot but the indignation that Kilian had actually pulled the trigger on him. It had annoyed him for years that he had still managed an act of heroism in saving Luc’s life.

  ‘It was a bullet fired from the pistol of a German colonel during the liberation of Paris,’ he answered with honesty.

  This news was met with fresh whistles, sounds of approval and excited chatter.

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘I made sure that colonel was dead not long later, yes,’ Luc said carefully.

  ‘Onya, mate!’ someone called, and suddenly his hand was being shaken and his damp back slapped by the men.

  The big fellow who’d first approached him was grinning, had his hand out. ‘Kraut killer, eh? I’m Richo. This here’s Ron but we call him Drongo. The kid is Shorty, that’s Matty, Billy, and over here is Knackers. Don’t ask why or he might show you.’ Everyone laughed.

  Luc took the meaty hand being proffered and felt his own being squeezed ferociously. ‘I’m Luc,’ he replied, careful again to make it sound as biblical as he could.

  ‘Froggo from now on,’ Richo joked and Luc heard the nickname echoed with amusement. ‘Killing a Kraut is more than I can claim,’ Richo continued. ‘You win. What’s that around your neck, anyway?’

  ‘I hope it’s the Nazi’s ashes,’ someone quipped. His friends bellowed their laughter.

  Luc didn’t answer; he could only imagine what a bunch of tough blokes like this would make of a pouch of lavender seeds. He let the banter flow, glad to sense he’d been accepted because of Kilian’s bullet. Damn the man! Reaching out from the dead … and still saving him.

  And as smoko ended and the men began dispersing to their respective jobs, Richo came up and slapped him again on the back. ‘I hope you do catch up with the smiling bastard some time. Sounds like you owe him one, mate.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Harry had been left for the day with Ruby, a friend of Johnno’s who Lisette had got to know and like. She’d been terrific with their son for short periods and Lisette was sure that the young woman was ready to have Harry for a day. Ruby was newly married, setting up home and happy to earn the shillings. Harry loved the twenty-year-old, who was keen to start a family of her own, and watching Ruby at ease with Harry reassured Lisette that he was safe in her care.

  They’d taken one of the regional buses and headed for Lilydale; during the journey Lisette could feel Luc’s anticipation like a third person travelling alongside them. With the help of the owners of The Cornwall, who had come to know and like their overseas guests, the lavender growers from a tiny hamlet south-east of Launceston had been contacted. Luc had spoken to the farmer, Tom Marchant, on the phone, and he had generously invited the Ravens to pay a visit.

  The Marchants had welcomed them warmly and before Lisette knew it, Luc had been dragged off by Tom to take a look around the immediate property, particularly his sheds apparently. Meanwhile, she had been left with his wife, Nel, a tall, curvy woman with a straight way of talking.

  ‘What on earth are you doing coming here to the ends of the earth looking like you do?’ had been her first words on meeting Lisette.

  Lisette was learning fast that Australia was still catching up with the notion that not every woman’s place was necessarily in the home with other women. She tried not to let her and Nel’s exclusion by the men irritate her. She sighed privately and counted herself lucky that Nel was so instantly likeable, with her tumble of softly red hair, shot through with gold to match her skin, freckled and burnished from years under the sun, and grey-green eyes that seemed to miss nothing.

  A tray of fluffy fruit scones had been whipped up and Lisette was being encouraged to break open the plump treats and smother their steaming middles with Nel Marchant’s own strawberry jam and cream.

  ‘That cream is yesterday’s from Partridge’s cows at Nabowla. It’s the best in the district,’ she beamed. ‘Eat up, rationing’s over and you can do that scrawny body of yours some good.’

  Lisette tucked in, smiling at how quickly familiar they’d become. It was true, she’d never been leaner, not even during the height of the war. ‘I think I’ve been worried,’ she admitted.

  Nel gave a scoffing sound. ‘What’s to worry about, girl? You’re young, healthy, you’ve got a handsome man and a beautiful son, by all accounts, and plenty more babies left in you. A lot of women in these parts lost their men. They’ve got mouths to feed on whatever income they can find working in shops and the like.’

  Lisette chewed sheepishly. She had much to be grateful for – not the least of which was no immediate financial woes. She couldn’t understand why she’d been feeling gloomy. It was probably the dream. She’d experienced it twice now; passed it off as a nightmare when Luc had put his arms around her when she’d woken, choked by a cry. Remembering dreams was very rare for her but she couldn’t lose this one. It had begun haunting her since they’d arrived in Melbourne, the first time on that overnight crossing of Bass Strait. And then she’d dreamt it again last night. The dream was unclear but she knew she felt sad in it – that’s what was troubling her most. No tears, no histrionics, just a sense of terrible loss. She’d mentioned it to Luc and he’d offered the placation that she was probably just nervous about the move to the other side of the world. But she was far too practical for that sort of sentiment.

  ‘No. Coming here was my decision, remember? I don’t fret once I’ve committed.’

  ‘What then?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Maybe it’s a—’

  ‘I hope the silence is you struck speechless by my amazing scones?’ Nel teased, crashing into her thoughts as she started stacking their tea things back onto a tray.

  Lisette grinned. ‘Sorry. They’re so good, Nel, thank you. What a treat this has been.’ She felt safe with Nel, who wasn’t a lot older – maybe five years between them. And just over an hour in her company had only deepened her delight in a new friend. She already felt comfortable enough, she realised, to have told Nel most of her recent background, from being recruited in London to join the War Office’s spy network and a potted history of her time in France. She carefully avoided her mission, keeping her spy activities vague enough to sound almost uninteresting.

  ‘Whew! What a life you’ve led. Meanwhile, I’ve been making jam and baking scones.’

  They chuckled comfortably.

  ‘This is a lovely place you’ve got here, Nel. I feel so at home.’

  ‘It belonged to Tom’s folks. I suppose it’s got the history of two families growing up in it. I hope I can make it a third generation of Marchants here … we’ll see,’ she said. ‘His grandfather ran cows here and grew hops. And Tom’s father worked at the sawmills; it’s Tom who’s taken on the farm properly again with potatoes and the like
. But there’s no big money in it.’ Her new friend looked at her gently. ‘You know, I would love it for you and your family to move out our way. But do you think you can live here, Lisette? I mean, it’s so far away from what you know. Launny’s got to be hard enough after living in London and Paris! But Nabowla …?’ She gave a sad laugh. ‘Are you two crazy, or what?’

  Lisette shrugged. It was a fair question. ‘Luc will slip into this way of life with ease,’ she admitted and believed it. ‘It’s what’s been missing for him since the war and why we’re out here. I must admit I quite liked our life in England on the south coast, so near the sea and …’ She trailed off. ‘Anyway, that’s not important. I love Luc and if this is where he can be happy, then I know Harry and I can be happy too.’

  Nel sat down and surprised Lisette by taking her hand and squeezing it. ‘And as a farmer’s wife? It’s a hard life, you know. You’ve got those killer ankles and looks like a movie star. I just don’t—’

  ‘I have to make it work, Nel,’ Lisette interrupted, knowing what her new friend was trying to say but not needing to hear it. ‘Farming is all Luc knows … unless you’ve got a lighthouse here?’

  Her friend laughed and shook her head. ‘Right out of those,’ she admitted.

  ‘I can adapt to anywhere,’ Lisette admitted. ‘I’m a bit of a gypsy, but Luc …’ She sighed. ‘He’s smiling again. Australia was the right decision and I love him enough to do whatever it takes to keep him smiling.’ She giggled. ‘He’s called Froggo on the building site where he’s been working.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, that means he’s been accepted if they’ve nicknamed him. And unlike my Tom, your Luc doesn’t look like one!’

  They exploded into laughter. ‘Tom’s handsome enough,’ Lisette admonished.

  ‘Fell in love with him when I was fourteen. I was never going to marry anyone else,’ Nel admitted. ‘I understand your loyalty to Luc – I think most women would,’ she said, winking. ‘But be sure. Being a farmer’s wife is thankless most of the time and hard the rest of it.’