The French Promise

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Lavender growing is what he knows best. We both want this. Do you think we can get that land?’

  ‘I think old Des would sell it in a blink. He’s running only a few cows now and his family’s all grown and gone to live in town. Your timing couldn’t be better.’

  Lisette didn’t want to revel in another’s misfortunes but she really hoped that Farmer Des would be the answer to her prayers.

  Tom walked in and held the door for Luc following, carrying a tray of crockery. ‘Whew, she’s burning today. Not even a breath of wind,’ Tom said, pulling off his wide-brimmed hat and shaking his mop of unruly, sun-bleached hair. His wide mouth stretched into an even wider grin. ‘Hot enough for you, Lisette?’

  She rolled her eyes in answer as she fanned herself.

  ‘Thank you,’ Luc said, showing no effects of heat exhaustion, setting the tray down at Nel’s kitchen table. ‘C’est tres magnifique, Nel.’

  Nel whooped and put her hand on her heart. ‘See, Tom, can’t you learn to speak like that? I reckon you could read out your tractor manual in French and I’d think you were seducing me.’

  They all laughed and Luc gave Lisette a wink. In that moment she forgot her unsettling dream. Everything felt like it could be falling into place.

  ‘Well, come on, then. Are we going to look at the lavender?’ Tom asked. He had a slow way of speaking in a broad drawl. ‘Definitely,’ Luc said.

  ‘He wouldn’t go without you, Lisette,’ Tom said, in amused disgust. ‘Come on, then. I’ll fire up the De Soto and show you round the property first.’

  Luc and Lisette were astonished to see a beautiful shiny car sitting in one of Tom’s many outhouses.

  ‘It belonged to Dad. He won it.’

  ‘What?’ Luc exclaimed, running his hand jealously over the creamy paintwork.

  Tom laughed and pulled off his hat to scratch his head, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘Cards. It was this wealthy fellow passing through Hobart, apparently, or so the story goes. Dad was working down there for a bit – I don’t know why – but I remember him coming home with this. Oh, mate, what a day! It was like all my Christmases at once. Dad was always a bit of a punter and this bloke was needling him so he bet the farm here at Lilydale against the bloke’s car that he’d shipped out from America. Dad won. The bloke had to cough up. My father drove it all the way back to Launceston and he said you couldn’t wipe the smile off his face for the whole two days it took.’

  Luc shook his head in wonder.

  ‘We don’t drive it too often,’ Nel admitted.

  ‘It’s 1938, four door,’ Tom said, noting Luc’s fascination. ‘Drives like butter, mate.’

  Nel gave Lisette a wry look. ‘Right, Lissie, hop in.’

  Lisette laughed. No one had ever called her that before.

  ‘Everyone will call you that around here,’ Nel said. ‘You’d better get used to it.’

  On the way, Luc explained to his wife what he’d learnt from Tom. ‘The lavender grows easily here,’ he said, taking her hand. His eyes were shining and his excitement was infectious.

  ‘But, Tom, if we grow lavender, what about your income from—’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ he said, slowing for kangaroos to bound across the road.

  Lisette opened her mouth in surprise and turned to Luc, who was equally enraptured.

  ‘I counted five!’ he said.

  ‘Six,’ Nel corrected. ‘There was a baby in the pouch of that third female.’

  ‘Oh, that was amazing,’ Lisette said. ‘Harry will go barmy when he sees his first kangaroo.’

  ‘They’re not so amazing when they chew off your lavender heads,’ Tom added and grinned. ‘You’ll need good fencing, Luc, and don’t worry about my crops. I’m a potato farmer and after that I run some cows. Lavender is something Nel grows more for fun, isn’t it, luv?’

  Nel nodded. ‘I’m just an old romantic, I suppose. I like selling it up in town when Tom’s at market, and I make some lavender toilet water and little sleeping sachets.’

  ‘Besides, this area here is a bit prone to early summer frosts. I think you’d do much better over at Woodcroft on the Nabowla Farm.’

  Lisette chimed in. ‘Apparently Farmer Des might be in the mood to sell,’ she whispered to Luc.

  Tom continued over the top of their private glance. ‘Luc’s talking about turning the land he might acquire into a proper lavender farm. You know, extracting and distilling the oil for perfume, Nel.’

  Nel waved a hand. ‘Go for your life. I know nothing about that. What I do is a hobby and means I get to go to town with Tom, do some shopping.’ She cut Lisette a grin.

  ‘Nel, your stock would make a good hybrid if my seeds take and I can blend the two,’ Luc said.

  ‘Has Tom suggested yet that you consider buying our land with the lavender on it?’

  Lisette and Luc stared first at Nel, then at Tom in the rear-view mirror, before a sly, surprised glance at each other.

  ‘Vous plaisantez?’ Luc let slip.

  ‘Luc can’t believe you’re serious. He’s wondering if this is a joke.’ Lisette translated and shrugged. ‘He always falls into French when he’s shocked.’

  Luc didn’t seem to register her remark. He had eyes only for Tom in the mirror.

  ‘Oh, come on, Tom – haven’t you?’ his wife asked.

  ‘I didn’t want to presume,’ he said, glancing at her. ‘It’s your field, Nel.’

  ‘We don’t need it. And I’m sure Luc and Lissie will let me buy some lavender at a good price for my hobby. Besides, you’ve just said the soil isn’t that good.’

  ‘No, I said the frosts come early here. But it’s a start and the lavender’s well established. It gets them going while they negotiate on Des’s place and get it planted out.’

  ‘You’d sell it to us?’ Luc said.

  Tom shrugged as he drove. ‘It’s just around here,’ he said. ‘Lovely spot. I think I proposed to you here, didn’t I, luv?’

  ‘No, Tom, that was in a field of potatoes.’

  Tom grinned at Luc in the mirror, giving him a wink. ‘This block’s away from the main farm and if you’re smart, you’ll buy everything you can off Des because his place backs onto here.’

  ‘Is there a house?’ Lisette asked, still in a sense of wonderment. Could their luck run?

  ‘Sure is,’ Tom said. ‘There’s the old one. My grandparents moved into it when my father took over the main homestead. But there’s also Des’s place. Just depends on how much you buy.’

  Luc looked at Lisette and she nodded. ‘Well, you’d better start thinking about how much you want for this land, Tom. And Nel, you can have as much lavender as you want at no charge.’

  Nel became the voice of reason. ‘Listen, you two dreamers. Take a walk first. We’ll leave you alone. Go up to the top. Look east and you’ll see Des’s land and what you can probably buy off him. Go have a talk. Be sure. This is not easy country.’ She turned to her new friend. ‘Remember what I said, Lissie,’ she warned.

  ‘But it’s damn fine soil at Nabowla, mate,’ Tom said, ignoring his wife’s tone of caution. ‘Best in the north, probably the whole island. She’ll grow your lavender for you and maybe you can sell it back to those Frenchies, eh?’ His blue eyes flashed with amusement.

  It was as though Tom had eavesdropped on Lisette’s thoughts. She was already imagining how Luc’s mind would have run away with notions of producing the finest extract of lavender in the world. It was his dream to sell it back to the French – she’d had no idea he was aspiring so high until he’d whispered his thought one moonlit, balmy night as they’d sailed towards Colombo: ‘I shall grow true wild Provencal lavender and sell my extract back to the perfumers at Grasse,’ he had promised her and sealed his pledge with a long, slow kiss.

  Now nervous anticipation pounded in tandem with Lisette’s pulse, which she could suddenly hear drumming behind her ears. ‘We won’t be long,’ she said to their companions, grateful for the time alone, reachi
ng for Luc’s hand. She felt him squeeze it with excitement.

  ‘I need to check some fencing down the way,’ Tom said. ‘Coming, Nel?’ He pinched her bottom and his wife slapped at his freckled arm.

  Yes, Lisette liked this couple; would find it easy to call them friends, and be their neighbours. She gave Nel a small wave of thanks as the couples headed in different directions. The softest hint of a breeze had stirred since they’d first climbed into the car and she could feel its welcome touch, drying the dampness of her frock and carrying the perfume of lavender past her.

  Luc gave a low gasp of pleasure to see lavender again. ‘Regardes, mon amour, il nous attendait depuis toutes ces années.’

  ‘These fields have been waiting for us for years?’ she repeated, laughing gently. ‘Oh, Luc, I think you’re the hopeless romantic, but I do love you.’

  He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. ‘Come on.’

  But Lisette held back. ‘No, you go. I’m already sold on the idea of having a home again and I don’t care where it is, so long as you and Harry are in it. But the lavender is yours. Take a moment to commune with your grandmother’s spirit and make the decision.’ What she chose not to add was that she could feel the low escalation of dizziness beginning. She recognised it for exactly what it was, remembering an identical sensation from a few years ago. They called it morning sickness but Lisette had always experienced it of a late afternoon. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone yet, but she knew she was pregnant and was convinced that was another reason for her nightmares. Pregnancy did strange things.

  She watched Luc stand alone above her in the late afternoon sun. English lavender had bent to allow his passage and then sprung back behind his legs to cover his tracks. She could smell its fragrance more distinctly as he disturbed the plants and watched him pluck a head of flowers, which he rubbed in his palms before absently inhaling their scent. She smiled as she shaded her eyes to watch him. He looked strong again – like the day she’d first met him on that cold November night in 1943. The world was at war, their lives were in the balance, and yet he was so assured of his place in life, so comfortable in his own skin and confident of his surrounds. Since they’d left France she hadn’t felt that same dash and fortitude within him, but staring up at him now, as he squinted across the undulating landscape, he looked like he belonged.

  At last he knew his place again.

  Lisette watched her husband bend down and pick up a handful of the dark red soil, saw him weight it and consider it as he let it crumble away through his fingers. ‘Please,’ she begged inwardly. ‘Let it be right,’ she prayed. She watched him touch his finger to his tongue and taste the soil, before he wiped his hand carelessly against the new suit pants she’d been so proud to see him in. The jacket was slung in their friends’ car equally carelessly; his sleeves were rolled, his tie and top button loosened. He stood straighter and shaded his eyes again as he looked into the distance. Lisette followed his sightline. She’d never seen sky this shade of blue before. The skies of northern Europe were pretty, but more of a watery colour and even in summer did not achieve this depth or brilliance. Perhaps Luc would feel differently, given that he’d grown up in the hot summers of the Southern Alps.

  This sky, which matched the colour of her husband’s eyes, seemed to stretch forever. Cloudless and studded by fierce sun, its perfection was interrupted only once while Lisette admired it by a bird flying across her line of vision. She returned her gaze to Luc. Did he know he was absently touching the seed pouch at his chest? She realised she was holding her breath and became aware of her heart pounding hard. She wanted this so badly because there was no other option left. They couldn’t go back to England or France and they would have another child before Christmas.

  He turned and her heart seemed to stop now in a moment of absolute stillness when even birdsong paused.

  ‘We’re going to plant the lavender,’ he said quietly and a sob fought its way through Lisette’s body, escaping as a soft gasp of relief.

  She ran up the hill and threw herself into Luc’s arms, helpless tears belying how strong he always said she was. But Luc was laughing and he was twirling her around so she could feel her feet lifting and swinging out behind her.

  ‘Promise?’ she demanded, her face buried in his neck.

  ‘Yes, we’re going to buy this land and the adjoining fields if we can and we’re going to turn it into a lavender farm,’ he promised. ‘And you shall name it.’

  She kissed him a dozen times, both of them laughing.

  ‘I’d make love to you right now, if I didn’t think they might be watching,’ he said. Lisette felt the same strong urge to commemorate their decision, to mark it in some meaningful way beyond words. She laughed. ‘Do we care?’

  ‘I think we must. These are very polite people.’ The amusement softened in his expression to one of deep affection.

  ‘What shall we call your farm?’ she wondered, hugging him close.

  ‘Our farm,’ he corrected.

  ‘There is only one name.’

  He looked at her quizzically.

  ‘Bonet’s Lavender Farm,’ she whispered. ‘You can bring the past back to life,’ she added, touching the seeds at his chest.

  He nodded as it resonated within and she could feel a tremor pass through him.

  ‘Of course everyone here will pronounce it “Bonnetts”, you do realise that,’ she added dryly, needing to prevent the emotion of this moment overtaking them.

  Luc gave a gust of a laugh. ‘I don’t care. Welcome to Bonet’s Farm, Mrs Ravens, your new home.’

  PART TWO

  1963

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lausanne, Switzerland

  The doctor shook his head and spoke unbearably gently. ‘This is hard to hear, Max. You’ve been a very good son. No mother could have asked for more. But you need to accept it. She does.’

  Dr Klein had been their family doctor since Max was born and while always a friend, had become more like family these last three years during his mother’s illness. The malignancy, which had led to the radical double mastectomy, had been more aggressive than first assumed and had consumed her rapidly. The elegant, gorgeous blonde that photos of her youth attested to had vanished. However, even at fifty-seven, and before the cancer had been diagnosed, there’d been few peers who could match Ilse Vogel’s striking beauty. Max was often embarrassed by his friends’ approving remarks and particularly that she’d made the ‘Most Desirable Mother’ list in high school.

  But it was her sparkling personality that people loved most about her, and despite being a spinster she was on every smart cocktail party and dinner guest list. Ilse’s glamour meant it was often overlooked that if the war hadn’t got in the way, she might have been one of Europe’s leading female scientists. She never talked about the career she’d cut short but Max knew that she’d fled from her extended holiday in Germany in 1938 back to her family home in Lausanne, where her parents, Angelika – ‘Geli’, originally German – had lived with her Swiss husband, Emile Vogel, for nearly four decades.

  Ilse had inherited Emile’s height and genial pale eyes, while Geli’s once-bright golden hair and honey complexion were replicated in her daughter, together with an identical wide, laughing smile. Today, though, there was no sign of those qualities. Her body had been ravaged by the disease, which had stolen her fine looks and ready amusement, turning her into a gaunt echo of herself. Only her husky voice was instantly recognisable.

  She and Max had lived in Geneva for most of his young life, although he was now studying at the University of Strasbourg in France. After her major operation his mother had returned to Lausanne, to her childhood home overlooking Lake Leman. And from here Geli and Emile – now in their eighties – fussed over their daughter, easing her gently towards an early death.

  Max was standing by the window of his mother’s top floor suite, staring out from the Vogel mansion across the heads of the trees. It was a perfect summer’s day but he
resented it; this was not the right sort of day to be confronting death – not when families were out picnicking and couples were sharing romantic excursions with ice creams and kisses. Cheerful birdsong and the squeals of childish fun from youngsters cycling past punctured his thoughts, and his mouth, normally generous with an easy smile, was set like a tight zip as his arctic grey-blue eyes focused on the stepped garden. He realised he was a traitor, too, unconsciously relishing the soothing warmth on his skin through the glass after the long winter. None of it suited him or the unwelcome visitor that he would soon usher into this room.

  ‘Come, Maximilian,’ Klein urged from behind. ‘She’s waking. Enjoy her while she’s lucid.’

  Max nodded, knowing he must turn away from all that was still beautiful and hope-filled to something that was no longer either.

  ‘Ilse,’ he heard Dr Klein call gently. Max turned to see the doctor take his mother’s hand and it struck him in that instant that Klein was probably in love with her. She’d had so many suitors – even in his lifetime – and he was convinced she’d had marriage proposals long before he’d come along, too. The spinsterhood of Ilse Vogel remained a great mystery.

  ‘It’s you and me, Maxie,’ she’d say in explanation. ‘There’s no one else as important. You’re my number-one man.’

  He’d liked it as a child but her one-eyed adoration had felt like a burden through his teenage years and he had longed for a man to sweep his mother off her feet; to take the attention off him. But while brief flirtations and romances flared, they rarely lasted beyond weeks and Max had become certain as he’d matured that his mother deliberately distanced herself from attachment to any man other than Max or her father.

  It made his decision to study in France so much harder and when he’d finally found the courage to go ahead, his move had put his mother into mourning initially. She’d got used it, though – as his grandparents had promised she would – and in the early years his visits had been filled with fun and affection; he’d looked forward to them and had encouraged her to come to Strasbourg, which she did several times.