When I Was Young

by Mary Fitzgerald

  “I’ll help you, if you like,” I said shyly, but he laughed.

  “No. This work is too heavy for you. Besides, I hear that you are becoming a chef par excellence. Maman will be waiting for you in the kitchen.”

  “She is teaching me to make soufflés today. Asparagus soufflé.” I looked down at the small raffia basket hooked over my arm. “I’ve been collecting the eggs.”

  “Good. I like soufflé, especially asparagus. Do you have it at home?”

  I shook my head slowly. “I never ate asparagus till I came here. Nor trout, green peppers, whole beans. Oh, so many things. You couldn’t imagine how different it is.”

  Étienne stopped work and leaned against the fork. His skin was tanned and glistening and the rivulets of sweat which ran from his hair dropped unheeded onto his muscled shoulders. Specks of hay dust danced around him on a shaft of sunlight which pierced the loose tiles on the roof, brightening the otherwise dark barn It was almost as if he was behind a veil of gauze and I found myself peering at him intently. I’d never seen anyone who looked so…so foreign.

  “Are you homesick?” He grinned as he wiped his hands down the sides of his dusty blue trousers.

  “No. No, not at all.” The words came out slowly and surprised me for I hadn’t realised it. “Not now.”

  “You like my farm?”

  “I am enchanted by it.” It was an odd description but I can hear myself saying it now and I know that is how I truly felt. I had gone through a door into a different world, so in that sense I was enchanted.

  The sun was beating down on my head and unconsciously I moved further into the barn to find some shade. The sweet smell of the hay mingled with the earthier smell which emanated from Étienne and I found myself breathing in deeply. I wanted to remember all of this when I went home. The heavy moist air, the scents of a hot summer and this man, so strong and healthy and so unbelievably different.

  “Enchanted?” Étienne started to smile but then his face grew still and I felt mine flushing as he stared at me. What could he see, I wondered. A silly girl dressed in navy shorts and a white aertex shirt with hot bare legs stuffed into buckled sandals. He must think I’m impossibly childish. I bit my lip and turned to go.

  “Perhaps you are not the only one to feel the enchantment,” he said softly and I lifted my head to see a puzzled look in his brown eyes.

  “Eleanor!” Grandmère’s imperious voice calling from the kitchen door, interrupted the mood.

  “I have to go,” I whispered.

  “Yes, for sure.” The odd mood was broken and he grinned as he picked up his hay fork. “Maman can be very insistent.”

  As I hurried back to the house I considered my lack of homesickness. It was strange. At first I’d wondered how I could ever survive the three weeks exchange visit. More worrying was the thought that I would have to take Jean Paul back to our bleak house on the high moorland, where, with no opportunity for him to escape to his friends, we would be stuck together every day. It would be hell for both of us. But now he’d said he wasn’t coming and I was free.

  I hurried into the kitchen. The blinds had been pulled down against the afternoon sun and it was blessedly cool.

  “I’m here,” I said. “I have the eggs.”

  “Bien. Put them down and come here. You must help with the preparations.”

  Grandmère was washing vegetables in the square sink and lifting the colander out of the water to put it down beside the wooden board and knife which lay on the table. “You must chop these.”

  “Yes,” I said and grabbed eagerly at the knife.

  “Non! Non!” Grandmère said sharply a few minutes later, her strong face hardening as I clumsily chopped the onions and cut carrot batons into inedibly large chunks.

  “Comme ça. Like this. Pay attention.” The criticism was said with authority and I didn’t take offence. I was used to Mother’s sharp tongue and the reproofs rolled off my back like water.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, holding the large knife tightly and cutting the vegetables with more care. It was difficult but I knew that it wasn’t beyond my ability. My renewed efforts lay on the board in front of me.

  “Good!” Grandmère’s praise was wonderful and when I looked up with a grin of relief, I was delighted to see my mentor’s face break into an awkward smile and her dark eyes dance in amusement. “Much better, Eleanor. Come here to the stove and bring that bottle of oil with you.”

  And, keen to watch the next part of the preparations, I stood happily next to Grandmère. I can see now the two of us, gawky in young and old age, leaning over a large blackened pan whilst onions and garlic sautéed slowly in aromatic oil.

  “Now watch,” ordered Grandmère as she threw in the neatly cut pieces of carrot and celery and a handful of freshly picked herbs to join the simmering base of a chicken casserole.

  “This is for tomorrow. We’ll make the stock now and leave it to settle. The flavour will improve.”

  “Yes,” I said, storing the information in that section of my mind which had opened to all things French.

  Jean Paul came into the kitchen.

  “Hello,” he grunted, a flush coming to his fleshy cheek and he gave me a brief glance. I guessed he was wondering if I’d told Grandmère what he’d said in the garden. To reassure him I shook my head but I think that was too subtle for him because he continued to stand there shuffling his feet and pushing out his lower lip like a large cross baby.

  That’s how I saw him then and afterwards even when I learned more about him. A teenage baby, despicably childish and utterly worthless. Even the faint moustache which was showing darker every day and which he fingered constantly in a sort of dull amazement of its presence, failed to impress. Everything about him repelled me.

  Why he had taken part in the school exchange scheme remained a mystery. I knew it wasn’t his idea. It was more likely that Étienne or Grandmère had wanted it. They had wanted a visitor in the house and perhaps hoped my presence would make Jean Paul less reliant on his mother. It hadn’t. Both of them resented me.

  Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Not to me and certainly not to him. He had made his stand about not coming to England and whatever his father might say, he wouldn’t be moved. He was prepared for the row and had ceased to care. His life was back to normal. I was now simply an adjunct to Grandmère, an extra presence in the kitchen but otherwise someone to ignore.

  “I’m hungry.”

  He addressed his remark to Grandmère and she, sighing but without looking up from her cooking, said, “take some bread. And a slice of sausage.”

  He turned and sulkily went into the larder which opened off the kitchen.

  I watched anxiously as he lifted the latch on the wooden door. I loved the larder and after only a few days as Grandmère’s kitchen helper felt stupidly proprietorial towards it. My first exploration into this long cool room and the sights which confronted me had nearly taken my breath away.

  Thin purply-brown sausages dangled on white string from old hooks and behind them on larger hooks, cloth wrapped hams gave off a faint meaty odour. On the stone floor I saw hessian sacks of creamy coloured dried beans and smaller bags of peas and lentils. Beside them were wooden boxes of waxy potatoes still covered in reddish soil, and a wicker basket of onions.

  Running along the wall opposite the wire covered window was a broad marble shelf where pale blocks of butter covered in muslin sat on earthenware dishes. A trickle of liquid surrounded each block which when I surreptitiously dabbed a finger in, tasted at once salty and fresh. Jugs of milk and cream and circles of soft cheese lay beside the butter and bowls of eggs, and downy berries picked from the garden nestled in wicker baskets. Above all these fresh riches, white wooden shelves groaned with jars. Peaches preserved in brandy and cherries and prunes and apricots, all similarly conserved, all glistening and all promising intoxicating delights.

  What a difference from the pantry at home. A picture of it came into my mind. It was a grimy place of
cobwebs, empty jam jars and unpleasant smelling sacks of potatoes. The small window let in the rain, making it impossible for Mother’s meager supplies of flour and sugar to be kept in there. They resided in their blue bags on the shelf above the stove and jostled for space beside matches and candles and any other odd bits and pieces Mother carelessly threw up there. Apparently no-one had considered the usefulness of repairing the pantry window or even the necessity of cleaning the room. I’ll do it when I get home, I thought. A coat of white-wash would help too. I could see it in a few months time, cleaned and fresh with vegetables on trays and covered tins of flour and sugar and a bowl of eggs collected from my hens. It would be wonderful.

  Jean Paul emerged with a chunk of bread in his hand and a cheek bulging with the large slice of sausage he had cut off with his penknife.

  “When’s supper?” he grunted.

  “The usual time.” Grandmère was short with him. “Go and find your father. There’s work to be done outside.”

  But I watched as he left the kitchen and I saw him turn towards the salon. Mathilde would be there, lying on the red velvet covered couch, a cigarette drooping from her mouth and a book in her hand. Jean Paul would join her in that cool dark room and they would spend the hour before supper, casually smoking and listening to the wireless.

  Lisette would appear later. The little girl spent most of her time alone, playing in her mother’s bedroom. There she would dress up in Mathilde’s clothes and paint garish lipstick onto her pale thin mouth, all the time singing and chattering to the collection of dolls which she had arranged on the bed. Nobody played with her, nobody asked what she’d been doing or how she was. Even Grandmère, who ran the house, paid her scant attention.

  The weather broke that evening and after supper I sat with Grandmère in her parlour listening to the rain. She sat at the table laying cards on the plush table cover in intricate patterns.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m searching.”

  “Searching?” I was intrigued. “Searching for what?”

  “Guidance.”

  She was telling her fortune, I knew that. The girls in school talked about it sometimes and Suzy said that her mother regularly consulted a woman who lived in one of the streets behind the cinema.

  “Madame Rose told Mummy that she would have two husbands,” whispered Suzy one afternoon when we were in her bedroom looking at her latest new dress.

  “Does your mother believe her?” I was, well, scandalised, I suppose.

  “Oh, yes.”

  This was said matter-of-factly and I wondered if poor Mr Franklin knew.

  “Have you been to see her?”

  “Yes. She’s very good. She said I’ll lead a lovely life.”

  I didn’t doubt that. You didn’t have to be a Madame Rose to see that Suzy would always be lucky.

  I got up and went to sit at the table opposite Grandmère. This part of the house had oil lamps and even though it was summer and only eight o’clock in the evening, the room was dark. The lamp smoked slightly but the pool of light gave a gentle mystic air to the room.

  Grandmère gathered up the cards and pushed the pack towards me. “Here,” she said, “lay the cards down in the way that I tell you.”

  In the back of my mind I could hear mother’s scornful voice exclaiming, ‘mumbo jumbo, absolute mumbo jumbo. How can you be so foolish?’ but I was excited. I had never had my fortune told.

  The cards were old and battered with the shiny facing coming away from the cardboard in some places. They had a picture of Marianne on the back and under Grandmère’s instructions I shuffled them clumsily and smoothed them out face down in a crescent on the pink plush table cover.

  “Pick the nine that call to you,” ordered Grandmère and with my hand hovering over the fan of cards, I forgot my mother and chose my fate.

  The lamp threw a dull light into the room and onto the cards as they were turned over. It was strange sitting in this room with its heavy furniture and low ceiling.

  Even in daytime it was dark and now in the evening, the intricate carving on the dresser and mantelpiece were quite lost in shadows. The small window which looked onto the yard was closed against the west wind but as I followed Grandmère’s instructions and laid the cards out in a rectangular pattern I could hear a faint sound of footsteps outside, walking across the cobbles. I supposed it was Étienne. He would be heading for the river with his fishing rod even though it was raining and getting dark.

  “Is it good?” I was impatient and eagerly watched as Grandmère slowly turned over and examined the nine cards.

  She was frowning. Each card seemed to tell her something different and she tapped her finger slowly on the ten of hearts which covered the king of clubs and then with an irritated tut, gathered the chosen cards together. She shuffled them and then laid them out into a wider and different pattern.

  “Is that good?” I repeated.

  She looked up, unsmiling. Her face showed surprise, almost slightly afraid, I thought, but as I continued to stare, questioning, the surprise cleared and she smiled.

  “It is good, I think. Exciting. Change. We’ll have to work on it.”

  “What do you mean,” I asked, totally confused.

  “I mean that sometimes, if you try very hard, you can affect the future. The cards have told me what must be done.”

  That’s all she would say and after a moment she cleared the cards away and stood up.

  “Come. We are having visitors this evening. Monsieur and Madame d’Amboise. You remember them.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Will Luc be coming too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He didn’t. I think he couldn’t bear to be in the company of Jean Paul or maybe Mathilde. When I spoke to him later, I asked about Jean Paul and why they weren’t friends.

  “We’re different.” It was enough to say. He was a charming boy and grew into charming man, respected amongst all his peers. Jean Paul, despite his rather heroic early death, in the army in Indochina, has been almost forgotten in the village and only the family remember him now.

  “Hello, Hello,” Madame d’Amboise exclaimed, warmly shaking my hand when she came in. We were standing in the hall, me and Grandmère as a welcoming committee.

  M. d’Amboise shook my hand too and said rapidly to his wife, ‘the girl is very pretty, don’t you think?’

  “Oh, indeed,” she replied and gave me a little wink. She knew I understood and that’s why I was blushing so fiercely.

  Étienne came into the hall. He had been outside and he smelled of the river and the hay barn but he had washed his hands and slicked back his hair ready to meet his guests. Looking up I saw Mathilde standing on turn of the staircase and behind her, in the gloom, Jean Paul leant against the wall.

  “Come in, come into the dining room,” said Étienne, leading the way. “I have some wine that you must try. I want your opinion.”

  An open bottle of wine waited on the table, centered on a flowered tin tray and surrounded by an array of unmatched glasses. Without a word of enquiry, Étienne poured wine into a glass and offered it to Henri d’Amboise. Then he sat back to watch his friend’s reaction.

  Henri sniffed, then held the glass up to the light. The light was a low voltage glass shaded pendant but as I looked through the open door to the two men, I could see the wine glowing, almost as blue as damsons, but then red when the light caught it.

  “Good,” nodded Henri taking a sip and then another. “Very…profound.”

  Étienne nodded his head slowly and poured some into a glass for himself. “From the market last week. Not local, but…” he shrugged his shoulders. “It is right to try everything.”

  Grandmère took Madame d’Amboise by the arm and urged her into the dining room. “Come, sit and have a little wine. You as well, Eleanor.”

  I looked over my shoulder as I was ushered into the room. Mathilde and Jean Paul were following us, Mathilde expressionless and Jean Paul wearing
his usual bored face. Lisette could have been anywhere, I hadn’t seen her since supper time.

  “Are you enjoying your holiday?” Madame d’Amboise asked, settling her well padded behind into a chair next to me.

  “Yes,” I nodded. Then, with an effort to join in the conversation, added, “Madame Martin is teaching me to cook.”

  “Indeed!” Madame d’Amboise raised her eyebrows and looked round to Mathilde who sat at the far end of the table beside Jean Paul, leaving empty chairs between them and the rest of the company. The low light cast shadows into the corners of the room but I could see the glowing tip of Mathilde’s cigarette and smell the acrid smoke. Jean Paul was smoking too, tipping his chair back so that it rocked uneasily on its back legs. He had balanced it by hooking his feet under the solid oak trestle which ran the length of the long table.

  “Jean Paul!” Étienne growled and with everybody looking at him, the boy reluctantly put down his feet and scraped the chair into an upright position. He flushed a violent red which spread quickly from his cheeks to his hairline and from this darkened face he raised his eyes and shot a look in his father’s direction that was utterly malevolent.

  The room fell silent. The d’Amboise’s glanced at each other while Étienne continued to glare at his son. I was embarrassed. I felt that again I’d caused a horrible moment by allowing Mathilde to be confused with Grandmère. I remember how shrill my voice sounded when I broke the silence.

  “No,” I gulped. “I meant Madame Martin senior. Grandmère.”

  “Ah.” Madame d’Amboise smiled and took a sip of her wine. “Madame is a renowned cook in this area. You have an excellent professor.”

  It sounded odd, Grandmère being described as a ‘professor’ and for a moment I wondered if I was being teased or patronised in some way but looking at her kindly face and feeling Étienne relax beside me, I realised that nothing was untoward and I grinned and looked at Grandmère. Her normally stern face had softened and I saw for the first time, but not the last, an affectionate twinkle in her eye.