When I Was Young

by Mary Fitzgerald

  Grandmère was waiting for me in the kitchen when I walked in. “Did you have a good time?” she asked her back to me as she chopped vegetables for the soup.

  “Yes, thank you,” I answered but there must have been something in my voice because she turned around and gave me a long cool look.

  She started to say something but checked herself and returned to the onions and carrots on her chopping board. “We’ll have lunch in half an hour,” she murmured, “perhaps you would like to have a rest until then.”

  I left the kitchen and went up the back stairs to my room. I was angry with her too. I don’t want a rest, I raged to myself. I’m not an invalid or something.

  At that moment I hated them all and when Grandmère called me for lunch I excused myself. “I have a headache,” I called down the kitchen stairs. “Do you mind if I stay in my room?”

  Now lying on my bed after another fruitless afternoon of reading and day dreaming I was restless. I got up and went to the window and leaning on the sill gazed out. The heat of the day was dropping into the cornfields and shadows were lengthening. Birds twittered in the willows and somewhere over the fields a dog was barking but out there beside the river, all was still and lovely. The sight calmed me

  Étienne was standing on the bridge, fishing. The sweet strange perfume of his cigarette added to the odour of hay and cattle that wafted through the window and I stood half hidden by the slatted shutter and watched him.

  During the day, he was always working. He went from one job to another like mother did, only stopping for meal times and then straight out again as long as it was light. I didn’t find that unusual. It was how should be on a farm. But now he looked relaxed and contented and I envied him. Here was a person who didn’t seem to be troubled at all.

  He threw the line again into the river, moving along the bridge to get into place and I leant forward against the sill to follow his movements. Clumsily, I caught my arm on the old iron window latch causing it to clatter off its hook and to scratch a thin bleeding line across my wrist.

  “Oh!” I gasped and quickly put my arm to my mouth as I’d been taught as a child. Mother insisted that spit was the best cure for cuts.

  My cry must have been louder than I thought for looking out again I saw that Étienne had turned around and was looking up at the house.

  “Hello! Miss Eleanor, come and join me,” he called and embarrassed that he had caught me watching him, I hastily retreated behind the shutter.

  But he called again. “Come on, help me catch the dinner.”

  I had no choice.

  “At last,” he said when I’d trailed through the house and garden to join him on the bridge. “Do you like to fish?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I felt shy. “I’ve never tried it. The boys in the village fish in the reservoir.” I paused for a moment and then continued, “people say it’s dangerous.”

  “Well,” he laughed, “it is not dangerous here. Not if you can swim. Can you swim?”

  I nodded. We had learned in school during our weekly visits to the town baths.

  “Then you must swim in this river. I have always swum here. Since I was a boy.” He concentrated on the fishing line for a moment before giving a little grunt of satisfaction and starting to turn the reel.

  “We have a bite,” he said turning the reel faster and faster until, suddenly, a bright, leaping fish was jerked out of the water and slammed down beside my sandals on the wooden boards.

  “Goodbye, my beauty,” he said and hit the fish swiftly on the head with a wooden mallet. I was too surprised to be shocked and merely watched as Étienne re-baited the hook and cast the line back into the water.

  Fascinated, I leant beside him on the bridge, inches away from his strong brown arms and watched the float bobbing in the water. “You do make it look so easy.”

  Étienne grinned, his teeth startlingly white in his tanned face. “Everything is,” he said. “When you know how.”

  The six trout that I later carried in triumphantly to Grandmère had been caught in less than an hour. “Take these to ma mère,” Étienne said, gently placing the twitching fish into a wooden box. “She is in the kitchen waiting. I must do more work before my meal. I will see you at dinner.”

  I took the box and started to walk back across the bridge. When I reached the end I paused and looked back. Étienne was gathering up his fishing gear and mallet and whistling a little tune. He looked so healthy and strong and I found myself comparing him to Dada. Then I was cross with myself. Dada can’t help how he is, part of my mind told me but then the other part put the memory of Étienne’s hands efficiently dispatching the hooked fish into my head and the comparison was shocking.

  He looked up and caught me staring and I turned and stepped onto the grass bank. “Miss Eleanor.”

  I stopped again and looked over my shoulder. He was standing where I’d left him, unsmiling now as though he was thinking about something difficult. Oh God, I thought. How have I shown myself up now?

  “Yes?” I whispered.

  “I’ll teach you to fish, tomorrow,” he said and walked away towards the fields beyond the river.

  My stay in France really began that evening when I took the trout into the kitchen.

  “Ah, the fish, good,” said Grandmère fastening her black apron around her skirt. “Did you help to catch these?”

  “No,” I shook my head. “I just watched.”

  “Well they’ve got to be cleaned.” She got her big knife out of the drawer and then paused. “Will you do that for me?”

  I shuffled my feet uncomfortably. “I don’t know how to.”

  “Mon Dieu!” Grandmère put the knife down on the scrubbed chopping block and stared at me. “You don’t know how? And you are sixteen years old?”

  “Yes,” I agreed miserably. “But we don’t have fish, well… fish like this, ever.” I thought of the horrible fillets of grayish white coley that Mother bought from the travelling fish man every Friday. She steamed them between two enamel plates on top of the stove and like everything else she cooked was done without any real effort. Even the fish we had at school was better than hers and I didn’t like that. At home I could never finish my portion of coley and would cut some bread and fill up on that instead.

  “A waste of good food,” Mother would grumble angrily. “Anyone would think we were made of money.”

  And now watching as Grandmère tipped the trout out of the box into the shallow porcelain sink and turned on the tap I groaned inwardly. The prospect of the meal ahead didn’t fill me with any pleasure. I began to walk towards the door to the back stairs. I could read a few more pages of my book before supper time.

  “Wait, Eleanor. I have made a decision. You must learn how to cook,” Grandmère said sternly, “then, at least, your stay with us will not have been a complete waste of time.”

  Was it because I’d cleaned some of the fish, sliced the lemon and watched as Grandmère dropped chunks of butter into a huge black pan? I don’t know. But that trout was glorious. From the smooth white flesh packed with herbs and flavoured with lemon to the ends of the tails, crisp and black where they had burnt in the butter, every mouthful was wonderful.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” said Étienne from the head of the table watching me dissect out little bones and place choice pieces of fish into my mouth.

  “Mm,” I mumbled and wiped a piece of bread around my plate to collect the last dregs of butter and herb sauce. “Lovely”

  “Miss Eleanor helped me catch it.” Étienne grinned.

  “She helped me cook it.” Grandmère’s cool voice came from the other end and I smiled happily. It didn’t matter that Mathilde and Jean Paul smirked at each other across the table and that Lisette wasn’t listening but singing a little song, the two people who really mattered in the house had taken notice of me.

  “Tomorrow you will learn to make soup and after that I’m going to show you the vegetable garden. You must understand herbs, it is mos
t important.”

  I finished mopping up my buttery fish sauce with a last piece of bread and wiped my mouth. “Perhaps you will let me help with the chickens too, I’d love that.” I leant across Mathilde to address my remarks to Grandmère.

  Was I too enthusiastic? Did the excitement in my voice upset Mathilde? Or maybe my leaning across invaded her closely guarded space. I don’t know even now but I do remember the dismissive cackled laugh she gave and the deliberate way she pulled away from the nearness of my shoulder as though it was something dirty or unpleasant. Her even making a sound at meal time was unusual but this obvious insult was sickening. When I looked across at Jean Paul I saw that his lip was curled in a horrible smirk.

  I think my face turned scarlet and I remember flinching as though I’d been struck.

  “What is it, Mathilde?” asked Étienne, his voice unnaturally quiet from beside me. “What’s so funny?”

  The sunny evening light in the dining room seemed to have disappeared and the fish that I’d been enjoying so keenly started to curdle in my stomach. I waited, confused and embarrassed. Thoughts raced through my head. Perhaps it was nothing and she would laugh again and make a joke about my ignorance and all the family would join in and tease me. I wouldn’t mind that. That would make me part of them which is what I so wanted to be. But her sudden laugh hadn’t sounded like a joke and I knew really that it wasn’t.

  Mathilde sat for a moment studying her plate. She had barely touched her fish. “Nothing,” she said, “it’s nothing,” and scraping her chair back stood up.

  “There is desert,” said Grandmère.

  “No, thank you.” Mathilde’s small voice was coldly polite and gathering up her packet of cigarettes and the paper book of matches which always sat on the table beside her, she left the room.

  Jean Paul put his napkin down and shuffled in his chair as though he was getting ready to follow her but Étienne growled “sit, for Christ’s sake!” and with a sulky face Jean Paul resumed his place.

  We ate the îsles flotantes which Grandmère had made for desert in silence. Even Lisette had stopped her singing and my appetite which had been stimulated by the wonderful trout now disappeared. Getting the meringue pudding down was proving difficult and I longed for the meal to end. Étienne twitched with anger beside me and I could feel the heat emanating from his body. It was when he was pouring more wine into his glass that he turned to me.

  “Did you enjoy your trip with Jean Paul?”

  No, I hated every moment, I longed to say. His friends made fun of me and he ignored me. I pray that I never have to go anywhere with him again. But of course I didn’t say that, instead I just nodded.

  Étienne turned to Jean Paul. “Where did you take her?”

  Jean Paul shrugged. “We met friends,” he muttered.

  “What friends?”

  “Guy and Henri and their friends.”

  “Guy Daudet whose father sells stolen cars?”

  Jean Paul shrugged again. “That’s only a rumour,” he said.

  Étienne looked at Grandmère and spread his arms out wide. “How is it that my stupid son will only mix with the dregs of the neighborhood?”

  She said nothing and when he looked at me I was careful not to meet his eyes. I didn’t want to be part of the row. In truth, I was scared.

  He transferred his eyes to Jean Paul. “Listen to me and listen well. You will not take Eleanor to meet those ‘friends’ again. She is supposed to be discovering the best of France, not the worst.”

  Jean Paul wouldn’t meet his father’s eye either. “Alright,” he muttered.

  “So,” Étienne drained his glass. “Where will you take her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know, don’t know? Idiot.” Étienne slammed his hand on the table. “Haven’t you planned something? You’ve known about this for months.”

  Suddenly Jean Paul leapt to his feet. His chair teetered on its back legs before crashing back down again and I watched appalled as he ran to the door.

  “Shut up, Papa, shut up. I’m not taking her anywhere,” he shouted as he went through into the hall. “This was your idea not mine. I don’t care if I never see her ugly face again!”

  “Bastard!” Étienne threw his chair back and bounded round the table.

  God knows what might have happened had Grandmère not grabbed Étienne’s arm as he drew level with her chair.

  “Leave it, son,” she said, her voice firm. “Leave it.”

  It was later when I helped Grandmère clear the dishes that I noticed that Lisette was sitting under the table. She was clutching a doll close to her chest and her hazel eyes glistened with tears.

  Chapter 7

  Lisette told me, a long time after when we were both adults, that when she was little she’d been scared of Étienne but could never understand why. He was always pleasant to her and never once struck her although she’d seen him hit Jean Paul many times.

  “Jean Paul deserved it,” I said sticking up as always for Étienne. “He was a dreadful person.”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “I know.”

  It was after that evening that I knew for certain that Jean Paul wouldn’t come to England with me and I felt as though a huge boulder had been lifted from my shoulders. All the worries that had kept me awake at night in my lovely white room were wiped away and I slept easily.

  He and Mathilde caused all the problems I happily told myself and it was nothing to do with me. Later, I realised that I should have been more concerned, that I was an interloper in this troubled household and probably the catalyst for what happened after. At the time though my freedom from Jean Paul was all that mattered. That and my friendship with Grandmère. Nothing was said but from that meal onwards I barely spoke to Jean Paul and life in the Martin household carried on as normal. I spent my time with Grandmère in the kitchen or garden and I was happy.

  Jean Paul did speak to me once, properly. I was in the garden one brilliant afternoon during the second week, picking beans. They grew low and were round and smooth and smelt green and earthy. I was bending down tugging carefully at each individual bean so as not to pull up the whole plant when suddenly he was behind me.

  “Listen,” he said. His voice was unnaturally loud and harsh and it gave me a fright. I was so startled that I jumped up quickly up and a few of the beans dropped out of my hand onto the dusty ground.

  “What?”

  “I won’t go to England with you, no matter what my father says.” The words burst out of his mouth without any preliminary greeting and as he spoke he kept looking over his shoulder. I looked too wondering who was with him but no-one was about.

  “Oh!” I collected my thoughts which were as scattered as the beans. “Well, alright,” I said slowly. “If that’s what you want, I don’t mind.”

  I tried a smile to reassure him. I didn’t mind, not one little bit and anyway I knew what his real feelings were. I still found him utterly loathsome but I thought a smile might ease the situation. For a moment it seemed that it had. He stopped looking over his shoulder and instead stared at me. His face was hot and sweaty as though he had been running and his blue shirt had damp circles at the arm-pits. He wiped his arm over his forehead and muttered, “you’re very English. Unfeeling and cold.” Then, after a while, “I was told you would be.”

  I supposed it was one of those girls at the café who’d said that. I knew they hadn’t thought much of me.

  “I’m not,” I protested. “I mean, I am English but I’m only trying to make things easy for you. I know you don’t want to come home with me. You’ve made that obvious.” I took a step towards him and held out my hand. “We could be friends though.”

  I thought he might take my hand because his face softened and he looked more relaxed. Then I heard sharp clicking footsteps on the flagged path that led around the house from the court yard. Jean Paul jerked back and looked over his shoulder. I waited. Mathilde would appear any moment and maybe I could make fri
ends with her too. But before she came into view Jean Paul turned and went towards the sound.

  I went back to picking beans my mind whirling. It must have been Mathilde who’d told Jean Paul I was cold. Why did she hate me so much?

  Grandmère, her arms full of sweet smelling sheets came into the vegetable garden. Earlier I’d helped her peg them onto the line. I used to peg out the washing at home but it took ages to dry and more often than not would be blown off the line and end up wrapped around the side of the stone barn. Am I imagining it or did we always go to bed in slightly damp and grubby sheets. I think we did.

  “Eleanor,” Grandmère demanded. “Go and get the eggs now and then come back inside.”

  “Yes,” I said, happy to be useful and taking my basket of beans with me wandered over to the chicken coops. I had learned to love the hens, fat grey-speckled birds who clucked and scratched contentedly in their pens and didn’t seem to mind being prisoners. Grandmère wouldn’t let them roam free because of her vegetable garden.

  “Hello, hens,” I called undoing the catch on the wire door and entering the pen. I had taken over the duty of feeding them night and morning and now they gathered around my feet clucking eagerly, expecting handfuls of grain. I’m going to get hens at home, I told myself. Omelettes would be better than mince any day. Perhaps even mother will like them. I thought Dada would. Yes, I decided. Hens will be the start of a change in the way we live at home.

  With a dozen brown eggs nestling on top of the beans in my basket I wandered out of the garden and into the yard. In front of me was the big barn which was filled with hay, brought in from the far meadow probably six weeks before I’d arrived at the farm.

  I strolled towards it and paused at the open double doors. It smelled sweet and hot inside and there was Étienne, stripped to the waist, forking the hay over and over while he hummed a little tune.

  “Hello, Miss Eleanor,” he greeted me, looking up as my shadow darkened the doorway. “Come to watch me work?”