The French Promise

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Well, she hid her past well. I’ll tell you one day. Maybe when we’re travelling.’

  ‘Travelling?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I have in mind. How do you fancy a long trip away from here?’

  Jenny’s eyes widened. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  ‘Where, Dad? Please say Paris!’

  He shrugged. ‘Of course, Paris! But how about London, Vienna, Rome?’

  She squealed and hugged him hard. ‘Do you mean this?’

  He kissed her. ‘I mean it. I think we need to get away from here and take a long deep breath in new surrounds. When we return I hope we’ll feel stronger and more in control.’ He pulled back so he could look at her. ‘It’s high time I returned to France and I think it will do us good to be together in a new place.’

  ‘We can learn to be “Dad and Jenny”. A twosome!’ she said excitedly.

  ‘What about Nel? I know you two are close.’

  ‘I love Nel, Dad. Tom too. And we’re especially close because we miss …’ She couldn’t say it. ‘The thing is, you’re my dad and I miss you too. Besides, I’ve been dreaming of Paris. I want to see it so badly.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll write to Nel.’ Jenny grinned crookedly. ‘Every day!’ She dropped her shoulders. ‘Of course I’ll miss her but I want to go. I want to go with you.’

  ‘So are you giving me a finger up?’

  She giggled and this was a delicious sound he hadn’t heard in far too long. ‘I’m giving a thumbs up,’ she said. ‘I’ll especially love not having to go to school. When do we leave?’

  ‘As soon as I can make the arrangements.’

  ‘Dad, no ships. I don’t want to be on the—’

  ‘We will be flying to Europe. I’ve always wanted to go on an aeroplane. You’d better spend the next few weeks practising your French.’

  ‘D’accord,’ she said immediately. ‘Rien que Francais,’ she promised.

  ‘Yes, indeed. Nothing but French from now on between us.’ He grinned.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jenny turned at the top of the metal stairway and waved madly back to the rooftops of Kingsford Smith Airport in Sydney, even though she knew there was no one waving back. They’d said their farewells at Devonport, where Nel and Tom shared a teary goodbye. Nel couldn’t seem to understand Luc’s determination to take ‘their’ little girl overseas but Luc knew Tom could, and that he approved.

  As the two men had shaken hands, away from where Nel was making a show of drying Jenny’s eyes but really needing the hanky for herself, Tom had gripped the top of his arm.

  ‘This is a good plan, mate. Getting away from it all. You’ll come back stronger.’

  ‘I hope so, Tom.’

  Tom had looked over at Jenny. ‘She’s so excited. We’ll miss her.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m looking forward to showing her home.’

  ‘Home? Your home’s here, mate, in Tassie.’ Tom had waved a finger. ‘Don’t you forget that either. You be back for Christmas.’

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ he’d replied with a grin.

  ‘Don’t worry about the farm. You’ve got good people in place and you know I’ll keep an eye on things.’

  ‘Not much to go wrong with lavender fields anyway,’ Luc agreed. He’d finally employed Tom as his farm manager. It made good sense, both emotionally and commercially.

  The girls had drifted over and Nel had hugged Luc, whispering, ‘You take care of yourselves. I’ll miss her so much.’

  ‘You’ll keep an eye on the graves, won’t you, Nel?’ She nodded.

  ‘You know I will.’

  Final hugs and then they were gone. The ferry had been an overnight crossing but far more comfortable than Luc’s original trip across Bass Strait. Then they had a day together in Melbourne and Jenny stayed in her first hotel, with Luc sparing no expense and treating her to the Windsor for the night. Here, Jenny experienced a luxury that had her wide-eyed, where men in their fine uniform of burgundy jackets, trimmed with gold, fussed around them and suggested an afternoon tea like never before. Luc couldn’t help but grin to see his daughter engulfed in a leather chair, near the huge arched picture windows that fronted Spring Street, choosing cucumber sandwiches and beautiful little cakes and pastries from a silver tiered cake stand. The good manners that Lisette had worked hard to instil in their children now came to the fore. Luc’s pride was ringed by sadness that Jenny’s mother couldn’t watch her putting all that training into practice, but he enjoyed her efforts at sitting still, not raising her voice, taking small bites, dabbing at her lips with her napkin and not talking with her mouth full.

  The following morning they boarded a TAA flight to Sydney, and then finally strapped themselves into their seats on the Qantas jet bound for London, along with 102 other passengers. Luc considered it a stroke of luck that the jet age had come into being just as he chose to make use of it. Not long ago this journey would have taken them forty-eight hours, with four refuelling stops. Now it would take them just twenty-seven hours in the air and stops in Singapore and Bahrain. He’d toyed with the idea of breaking the journey in one of these exotic lands he’d read about in books – but he felt nervous about being there with his daughter. One look at Nel’s face had told him he should listen to his instincts.

  ‘Dad, this is so exciting,’ Jenny breathed, looking out onto the tarmac as the engines began to make sounds of imminent departure.

  ‘Not scared?’

  ‘Are you?’

  He gave a Gallic shrug.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said, mock exasperation in her tone. ‘You took a bullet in the war. Nothing scares you.’

  That wasn’t true, of course. Life scared Luc more than his little girl could ever know. Life without Lisette was only achievable if he didn’t think beyond getting through today. Life beyond Harry felt unthinkable; his world had only really begun to feel right again since the day their golden-haired angel had come into it and cemented his love for the start of his own family. And then there was the immediate future that beckoned when he planned to once again look into the cold, pig-eyed stare of Horst von Schleigel.

  The Boeing 707 finally skidded onto the runway at London Heathrow’s Oceanic Terminal. Luc didn’t think flights came any longer than theirs but none of this mattered to Jenny, who despite her fatigue was soaking up all the unfamiliar sights and sounds. She’d already announced that she was going to grow up and become an air hostess.

  ‘And leave your father?’ he’d quipped.

  ‘Oh, I’ll be in and out all the time to see you in my glamorous new life,’ she’d replied.

  He believed her; believed that Jenny could achieve anything she set her mind to. Luc had changed his opinion on his daughter. She may not have inherited his and Lisette’s affectionate manner or even their laconic wit, but he could see now that inherent in her was their combined grit, motivation and even their loner tendency that had made it possible for them to survive the dangers they’d faced in the past. He sensed in Jenny a rare strength and if her girlish prettiness intensified into the beauty of her mother, then she was destined to become daunting, particularly if she took on the business. It had been his hope for Harry, but if he was honest, his son had always seemed more intrigued by the science of what they did rather than its commercial importance. Jenny, he could tell, was instinctively curious about the lavender’s potential, but these were days too early to tell.

  Jenny’s real interest lay in fashion; not just clothes either, but the design and style of everything from furniture to fabric. He didn’t know where this interest sprang from – neither he nor Lisette held any fascination for the latest fads, colours or tastes. But his daughter’s interest could be channelled.

  He had Lisette to thank for his new pathway of thinking, too; his thoughts had been focused simply on being able to be a prime seller of raw essential oil, but her comment not long before her death had opened up a new world of possibility to him.

  ‘Jenny is convinced t
here will be a time when perfume is as fashionable as clothes. It won’t be granny’s lavender toilet water, either,’ she’d quipped. ‘I think she’s right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Well, right now, Luc, you’re so focused on finding a sale for Bonet oil that you’ve lost sight of the bigger picture.’

  ‘Which is?’ he’d asked in a wry tone.

  ‘Making perfume. Jenny’s onto something.’ He’d laughed.

  ‘Hear me out – Harry and I’ve discussed it too and we think it’s the natural pathway. You’ve told me that essential oil of lavender is a key ingredient to perfume and that the lack of high-quality oil from Europe is going to push prices up.’

  ‘It’s economics – supply and demand.’ Luc had grinned.

  ‘Do you also subscribe to the notion that while today we may have a handful of top perfumers, in the future that will double, treble … also the law of supply and demand?’ she’d said, echoing his wryness.

  ‘I hear Harry talking now,’ he’d quipped.

  Lisette had pressed her point. ‘As new perfumes hit the stores in the major capitals in Europe, America, Britain, they will begin to carve out their own corner of the fashion market. I’m sure of it. You’re at the beginning almost, Luc. Your lavender, if we can keep up the supply of this true wild stock, will be pursued. But why be simply the farmer who gets the lowest part of the profit for the prime product? Why not think about being the perfumer?’ She’d winked at him. ‘Just a thought …’

  He’d not forgotten it either. If Tom and Nel had known his real reason for heading back to France, they would never have allowed him leave the state and certainly not let Jenny accompany him. As it was, he quietly feared for her should anything happen to him but he had Kilian’s son now, dangling on a string. They both wanted something from each other. Well, one of the conditions that Luc planned to make for his side of the bargain was Jenny; as he knew no one else in Europe now, Max Vogel would have to help look out for his daughter.

  ‘Come on, Dad!’ Jenny exclaimed, interrupting his dark thoughts. ‘This one’s ours.’

  ‘Morning, sir,’ a cockney voice said. ‘Bit of a parky one.’

  Parky? ‘It is,’ he replied, with no idea what he’d just admitted to.

  ‘Even so, welcome to London, sir. Four bags?’ the older man added, glancing at their luggage. ‘Here, you get your little girl in and I’ll load up.’

  They stepped out of the frosty October air and into the warm, cavernous space of the big black Austin taxi but Jenny promptly wrinkled her nose. ‘London smells funny,’ she remarked.

  ‘Tell me how it’s different to Australia,’ Luc said, taking her hand.

  Jenny explained that the first aroma was instantly of coal smoke and tobacco, while she’d only ever known the aroma of dry, scorched earth and lavender, of course, in summer, and green fields and the clearest water through winter. He realised that while she’d be familiar with the smell of trains and car exhausts it would not be on the level she was now to be exposed. Luc was suddenly excited that he’d be experiencing London through his daughter’s senses but more so Paris, which he presumed would feel so foreign to her.

  The cabbie jumped in and looked over his shoulder. ‘Where to, sir?’

  Luc fumbled for the paperwork in his briefcase. ‘I believe it’s called the Charing Cross Hotel on—’

  The cabbie nodded. ‘Thistle, sir, bottom of the Strand, adjacent to the station. I think I know that one.’ He winked, grinning over his shoulder, but the humour was lost on his passengers. ‘First time here?’ he said, starting the big car and beginning to check the traffic.

  ‘Yes!’ Jenny said.

  ‘I used to live in Eastbourne,’ Luc added.

  ‘Ah, not a complete stranger, then. So, where are you folks visiting from?’

  Luc wondered if his French lilt had dulled because usually it was the first thing that new people remarked upon.

  ‘Australia,’ his daughter said, sitting forward. ‘I’m Jenny,’ she said, entirely uninhibited.

  ‘Australia? Cor blimey. What, you mean that place with all them kangaroos and snakes and spiders the size of dinner plates?’

  She giggled. ‘Yes. And wallabies and koalas.’

  ‘What’s that funny-looking animal that looks like an otter but has a duck’s mouth, then?’

  Now she laughed delightedly. ‘That’s a platypus. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m Ray,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you, Jenny from Australia.’

  ‘My dad’s called Luc. You have to practise that.’ She sat even further forward. ‘Leeyook, she enunciated slowly. ‘And then if you say it really fast, you’ll get it right. Anyway,’ she carried on, ‘he’s originally from France and he fought in the war with the French Resistance. My mother was a British spy but she died recently and so did my big brother. They drowned in a rip while my brother was surfing.’

  Luc blinked in the back seat, knowing he shouldn’t be surprised by her candour, for Jenny had always been outspoken. Nevertheless he noticed Ray glance at him in the rear-vision mirror.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Miss Jenny,’ Ray said.

  ‘We’re on this holiday to come to terms with them dying,’ she added. It sounded so sad and hollow that Luc had to look away and out of the window.

  ‘Well,’ Ray said, echoing his discomfort. ‘I’ll tell you what. London’s not awake yet – as you can see – and although it’s still quite dark, there’s no pea soup. That’s what we call the fog around here,’ he said, winking at Jenny over his shoulder. ‘So it should be a lovely bright morning with only the birds and the road sweepers awake.’

  ‘And taxi drivers,’ Jenny reminded.

  Ray grinned. ‘Your hotel room may not be ready yet, so how about I take you on a quick detour to some of the sights?’ He looked into the mirror and caught Luc’s gaze again. Luc nodded. ‘My treat, Miss Jenny. How about Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, the Tower of London?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please, Ray! Can we, Dad?’

  Luc smiled softly. ‘Of course. But we’d like to pay.’

  ‘No, old fruit. This one’s on Ray. I’ve never had a daughter – three sons – but if I was blessed by a little princess I’d want her to be just like you, Miss Jenny.’

  Jenny turned and gave her father a shy smile. He knew she wasn’t used to being the centre of attention. Harry never tried to be but people had always gravitated towards him; Jenny often needed time for others to see her gentler side. It seemed, however, that without her bigger, more popular brother in tow, she was immediately friendlier and more confident without him to lead the way.

  Westminster looked eerily beautiful in the new dawn light and as if in welcome, the iconic clock tower boomed seven chimes as they passed by slowly, much to Jenny’s delight.

  ‘The Germans bombed old Big Ben but you know something, Jenny, that proud old clock kept perfect time for Londoners right through the Blitz.’

  Jenny nodded but Luc knew she couldn’t begin to appreciate the magnitude of Ray’s remark or how devastated London had been through the bombing raids.

  ‘Yes, I remember Mum said she lost her best friend in a bombing around here somewhere, called Victoria Station,’ she said, leaning her face against the cold window. Luc could see her breath misting against the glass and was once again astonished by his daughter’s alert mind that paid attention and retained information.

  ‘We all lost people we loved,’ Ray remarked.

  Luc sat back quietly in the leather seat, letting Jenny’s excited chatter and Ray’s kind narration during their guided tour wash over him. His mind drifted back to 1951 during the Festival of Britain when he and Lisette had come to Southbank and stood on the same bridge, looking up at the famous London clock, and kissed. They’d been so full of joy and hope that day.

  And then the letter from the International Tracing Agency waiting for him on their return home confirming his sisters had been murdered at Auschwitz. He�
��d come full circle in a decade but now he was armed with the real information, if Max Vogel’s research was accurate. Luc absently touched his chest where he wore a familiar silken pouch, but this time it didn’t contain lavender seeds; it held something else Luc hoped would help him to bring about the reckoning he’d promised.

  Their week in England had frankly been a blur. Luc walked Jenny around London, using a map against the unfamiliar territory until she complained of blisters. At night she loved to see the lights of London, although the majority of streets were illuminated with the viciously orange sodium lamps, but Piccadilly was a riot of neon that took their breath away.

  He enjoyed how charmed she was by even the most simple of experiences, from the first of the Christmas street lanterns being hung in Regent Street, to eating roasted chestnuts from a street vendor. Jenny wasn’t fond of the claustrophobic Underground trains, despite their speed; she far preferred to ride upstairs on the top deck of the red buses that groaned around the streets, clogging London’s boulevards but giving her a bird’s-eye view of the shops, the traffic and the endless stream of people. She chatted to the bus conductors as though they were acquainted and loved handling the unfamiliar coins.

  Her favourite haunt was around Carnaby Street and Luc had laughed aloud – his first genuine piece of amusement since the family deaths – when Jenny had cut him a withering look as he’d surreptitiously appraised a young woman in a yellow and black houndstooth-checked skirt and purple tights.

  ‘Mrs Murray at school said a lady’s skirt should never rise above the knee,’ she said, looking vaguely impressed nonetheless. ‘Lucky Mum’s not here to see you staring.’

  Suddenly, it was all right to talk about Lisette and Harry again. He and Jenny had existed alongside each other since the drowning in a frigid, bleak atmosphere where even to mention the names of the dead felt wrong. And now – overnight – with a change of scenery, it felt natural to do so.

  ‘I’m shocked by all of this colour,’ Luc said. ‘London’s gone mad. Last time I was here, everyone wore grey or black. Except your mother, of course, who looked like a goddess in pale blue. But now look at it … and it’s not even summer.’ It was a woeful defence; the girl had strolled by on long slim legs and wearing a tight sweater over large, high breasts, and he defied any red-blooded man not to let his gaze linger appreciatively.