When I Was Young

by Mary Fitzgerald

“Good, good,” said Étienne and jumped up. “Another bottle, eh, Henri?”

  “Eleanor,” Grandmère looked across to me. “Go to the larder and bring the tray I’ve laid in there, if you please. We’ll need a biscuit or two to go with the wine.”

  I went gladly, happy to do something for her and when I returned with the platter of canapés, the conversation in the dining room was no longer stilted but jolly and noisy as Étienne and Monsieur d’Amboise railed against the government and Madame d’Amboise told Grandmère that Marie was recovering and that the baby boy was walking well.

  “Oh,” Madame d’Amboise was saying as I put the platter on the table, “it is so funny to watch him. He toddles all over the place, even trying the stairs. And he never cries. I swear, that child has the sunniest disposition.”

  Only Mathilde and Jean Paul remained outside the friendly atmosphere that now pervaded the room. They sat in the shadows, affecting or perhaps actually feeling boredom, their faces closed against an invasion of communality. Resuming my seat, I glanced quickly in their direction and was chilled by the poisonous look I received from Mathilde.

  “Where is Luc this evening?” asked Grandmère. “We thought he might come with you.”

  “Ah, no,” Monsieur d’Amboise broke off his complaints about the government. “The boy is studying again. He is determined to pass his exams. He has a goal and will not be swayed from it.”

  “He still wants to be a doctor?”

  “Yes,” Monsieur d’Amboise nodded proudly and looked at his wife with affection. “The brains come from Edith’s side of the family, not mine, eh?” He gave her a little punch on the shoulder and received an embarrassed ‘tut tut’ in return.

  “And Eleanor?” Madame d’Amboise, patted me on the arm. “What will you do when you leave school?”

  “I want to go to university,” I said, shyly but at the same time surprised at myself. I’d never before spoken about my plans, knowing that there was no chance of them being fulfilled. I knew I would have to work on the farm and, for money, because Mother would never give me any, to have a part time job as a shop assistant in Woolworths. But here, where the cheerful people sitting around the polished oak table would never know my dismal future, I spoke my dreams. “To read French and German,” I continued breathlessly. “Then, perhaps, to be a teacher.”

  “Very commendable,” said Madame d’Amboise and Étienne nodded his head vigorously.

  “This girl also has brains,” he said, “and is prepared to use them. She’s not lazy.”

  It was a direct dig at Jean Paul and I looked into the shadows to see his response but he gave no indication that he’d even heard what Étienne said. He had two cigarettes between his lips and was lighting them. He pulled one out and while I watched, placed it carefully between Mathilde’s thin scarlet painted lips.

  I looked away. The action seemed altogether too intimate.

  I glanced instead towards Grandmère sure that her approval would be indicated too but her strong face was still and when she looked back at me I saw a calculating look in her eye very similar to the one she’d displayed when looking at my cards.

  Madame d’Amboise wanted to know more about me. “Have you brothers and sisters?” she asked.

  “No.” I shook my head. “There’s just my mother and father and me at home.”

  “And your father is a farmer like Monsieur Martin and my husband?”

  I shook my head again, my heart sinking as I wondered how to explain Dada to people who would never meet him. “He…” I started but Grandmère interrupted.

  “Eleanor has told us that her papa was injured during the war. He is not able to work.”

  “Oh!” Madame d’Amboise smoothed her hand over my arm. “How sad. The war was dreadful for so many of us. The Germans were here, you know. In the village.” She shuddered. “How I hated them.”

  “Come, come,” Monsieur d’Amboise said stoutly. “They weren’t all bad. Some were no more than boys. Scared boys too.” He drank his wine quickly. “It was the officers mostly. The Nazis.”

  “They were scum. All of them.” Étienne’s harsh voice broke into the conversation. “Officers and men.”

  I looked at him from the corner of my eye. His face was flushed and his hand, when he reached out to grab the bottle of wine, shook. Sweat had gathered at his temples and his shoulders moved angrily, straining the seams of his blue shirt.

  The atmosphere in the room darkened and I waited anxiously for someone, Grandmère, maybe, to say something calming but she was silent. She obviously felt the same contempt for the invaders. It was Madame d’Amboise who came to the rescue.

  “You had it harder than most, Étienne,” she said kindly. “So we must accept your opinion.” She didn’t add, ‘whether we agree with it or not,’ but I thought then and after, that it was implied.

  Étienne wiped a hand over his forehead and seeing it damp, searched in his pocket for a handkerchief. “Let’s forget it shall we,” he said, mopping his hands and stuffing the red dotted handkerchief back in his pocket. “Now. More wine.”

  “Not for us, Étienne, thank you.” Madame d’Amboise pushed back her chair. “We must go.”

  “Yes,” her husband agreed. “Early milking, you know. But Étienne, I’ll be over in the morning to look at that young bull of yours. Maybe we can do a deal, eh?”

  I helped Grandmère clear the table and wash the glasses. Étienne had gone outside again and Mathilde and Jean Paul disappeared upstairs.

  “Has Étienne taught you to fish, yet?” Grandmère asked as I stacked the glasses on the draining board.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Well, he will but not tomorrow. We are going to Angers for the day.” She put her head on one side as she looked at me. “You’ll like that?”

  “Oh! Yes,” I cried, overjoyed at the prospect of a trip outside the area. “I’m dying to see the city. Thank you.”

  “Good,” she said and untied her apron. It would go outside into the wash room before she went to bed. I thought of Mother’s filthy apron, washed only occasionally and stiff with grease and splatters of gravy. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed it before but then, I hadn’t noticed many things.

  “Off you go, Eleanor,” said Grandmère before she went out. “Get some rest. We’ll have a busy day tomorrow.”

  Chapter 8

  I was excited. Too excited to sleep and I lay awake for an hour thinking about Angers. I’d looked it up in the school encyclopaedia and taken note of the various sights. I hoped that we would be able to visit at least some of them, the Chateau maybe and the Cathedral.

  My pocket money, changed at the bank at home into French francs was in my purse, still unused after ten days at Riverain and restless, I got out of bed to open the drawer in the wardrobe. I hadn’t even thought about it once since coming here but now I had plans for presents to take home.

  My gift to the family here had been a small whole Lancashire cheese bought at the open market in town and had carefully wrapped it in muslin and greaseproof paper. Suzy had laughed when I said what I was bringing.

  “They’ll have masses of cheese, idiot,” she’d said. “The French are renowned for their cheese.”

  She and her mother had bought a little framed picture of a snowy scene in the Lake District. “It’s lovely, isn’t it,” Suzy said unwrapping the brown paper cover to show me.

  “Yes,” I agreed, “but it’s not exactly local.”

  “Goodness, Eleanor, it’s only about forty miles away and we’re going to take my exchange there for a day out. Anyway, Mummy says good artwork, properly placed, enhances any home and she’s sure my hostess will love it.”

  Miss Baxter told me that my cheese was exactly the sort of gift that the organisers had in mind. “Gifts of food are always welcome.”

  When I presented it to Grandmère and Étienne, I wondered if Miss Baxter had been right. This house had food in abundance, the larder shelves seemed to squeak a protest at the weight of it all
. But Grandmère, carefully unwrapping the muslin cloth and holding my cheese up to her nose for a calculating sniff announced that it ‘had a bouquet par excellence and that she was eager to try it.’

  Étienne had grinned at me and winked. “Ma mère is an expert on cheeses. If she says it is good, then it is. Thank you, Miss Eleanor.”

  We’d had some of it on little biscuits when the d’Amboises came and it was pronounced ‘different but most enjoyable.’ I was satisfied and looked around the dining room contentedly, knowing that for once my choice had been correct. A painting of a snowy scene would disappear against the white-washed walls in this house.

  My French money was where I’d left it and I sat on the edge of the bed fingering the crackly notes and putting them in order of value. I wondered what I’d be able to buy with it.

  That’s when I heard the noise from outside. It was shouting, two voices in an angry exchange and as I listened a third joined in. I recognised Étienne’s voice straight away, I’d heard him yell at Jean Paul frequently, but who else was there?

  I switched off my light and waited for a few moments before going to the window. The shutter was slightly open and, standing to one side, I peered out.

  The rain had stopped and the heavy clouds had blown away on a light southern breeze. A pale moon gleamed in a star sprinkled sky and the wooden bridge over the river was illuminated as if it was a scene from a picture show. In another context it would have been exquisite.

  I could see everything quite clearly, Étienne on the house side of the river and Mathilde standing on the bridge with her back to the balustrade and her small hands resting on the old wood. On the far bank another man waited, a small man in a suit, wearing a dark trilby hat. Apart from his obvious nervousness, his whole demeanour showed him to be someone totally out of place. He was a city man, not a local.

  “Tu putain!” Étienne yelled, his arm thrust out towards Mathilde and in the moonlight I could see spittle flying from his mouth and the muscles in his shoulders quivering and bunching in rage.

  ‘Putain’ was not a word I recognised and when I learned later that it meant ‘whore’ I knew that Miss Baxter could never have brought herself to mention it in our vocabulary classes. But that night watching a drama played out before me, I could understand that it was an insult.

  Mathilde remained frozen against the wooden railing but the man on the opposite bank shuffled his feet anxiously. I wondered if he would leap to Mathilde’s defence.

  As I understood it then, Mathilde and the man had done something to upset Étienne. Surely he would be able to explain and the situation would be resolved. Handshakes would follow and the inevitable invitation to a glass of wine. But when, seconds later, Étienne put a boot onto the bridge the man turned and fled into the woodland. I could hear small branches cracking as he sped through and then, clearly in the moonlight, saw him break cover and run towards the vineyard.

  “You can’t give it up, can you?” Étienne snarled but Mathilde was silent and motionless, her head cocked to one side like it often was and the inevitable cigarette burning between her fingers.

  Étienne hadn’t stepped further onto the bridge. It was as if he couldn’t bear to get close to her no matter how angry he was. “You can’t give it up,” he said again.

  The repeated words had lost their fire and Étienne sound weary and almost defeated. Watching his shoulders droop a spear of pity drove through me. Poor Étienne, normally so cheerful, so healthy and brimming over with life. Even when he shouted at Jean Paul he did it with energy and meaning and never in this despairing way.

  This time Mathilde turned her head. “Why should I?” Her small voice carried clearly in the night air. “It is more pleasurable than anything this place has to offer me.”

  I didn’t properly understand. Remember, I was barely sixteen and had lived a sheltered life, a life where even at school we didn’t really talk about the goings on of adults. Was she having an affair, I wondered. Like Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary? I had borrowed both of those novels from the library and devoured them eagerly in the privacy of my bedroom. Did Mathilde perhaps find rural life so dull that she had fallen for the charms of an impossibly handsome lover? I looked up towards the vineyard hoping to consider again the man in the suit but he was long gone and from the brief sight I’d had of him, he wasn’t impossibly handsome. I looked back at the bridge. Mathilde had straightened up and turned towards the opposite bank. She started to walk away, her high heels clicking on the wooden boards and the end of her cigarette now glowing red between her lips.

  “Mon Dieu!” Étienne called after her. “You truly are a monster.”

  I went back to bed then and slept immediately. No dreams, no lying awake going over the recent events and in the morning I was drowsy and hardly able to wake up.

  Sitting at the table in the kitchen with my coffee bowl cradled in my hand I was still warm and slow with sleep and could only stare at the steam from the coffee spiralling slowly upwards. I noticed how tanned my hands were and how white my finger nails looked in contrast. I liked these new hands and imagined how well red nail polish, like Mrs Franklin wore, would set them off.

  “You are quiet this morning. Did you sleep badly? Were you disturbed in the night?”

  Grandmère’s sharp voice pervaded the clouds in my head and dragged my attention away from my elegant hands. “What? What…oh, no. I slept very well.” I wasn’t going to tell her about the row on the bridge. Étienne wouldn’t like her to know and I couldn’t bear to shame him by telling his mother.

  “No,” I smiled. “It must be all the fresh air. I sleep so well here.”

  She frowned and stirred the liquid in the pan on the range. It would be stock or soup, something was always on the go. “You must get plenty of fresh air at home.”

  “I do,” I nodded. “But it isn’t the same.” That was true. The air at home was fresh alright, so fresh that even in summer it cut at your cheeks and dragged your hair out of the firmest of hair slides. The contrast between that and the sunshiny breeze which bathed my skin in a southern glow and only slightly lifted the small curls on my hairline couldn’t have been greater.

  “No,” I repeated. “It isn’t the same.”

  “Hello.” Lisette wandered into the kitchen her thin bare arms clutching a bundle of dolls. She sat beside me and selecting two of the dolls put them down, side by side, on the table.

  “Is that one Angelique?” I asked remembering her telling me the names of a couple of her toys.

  “Yes,” she said, smoothing down the folds of Angelique’s red taffeta dress. “And this is Christian.” She pointed to the battered creature lying beside pretty Angelique. The doll’s pot head was damaged with chips and scratches and its knitted jacket was beginning to unravel at the edges.

  “Oh,” I said. “Where is Jacques?”

  She giggled. “He’s gone away. He was very, very naughty.”

  Grandmère made a little noise, like a ‘tch’ and I looked over to her. She was pouring the pan of stock into a large earthenware jug. It would be allowed to cool and then go into the pantry to wait until tomorrow.

  “Grandmère?” I asked. “Did you say something?”

  “Nothing.” Her back was to me but I could see that her shoulders were twitching and I knew that if she turned she would be scowling. I decided to ignore her and turned back to Lisette.

  “What about these dollies on your knee?” I said.

  “This is Pierre, this is Frederic and this one,” she held up a baby doll on which she, or someone else had crayoned in a moustache and thick eyebrows, “is Georges.”

  “But they’re all boys. No girl dolls,” I said. “For Angelique to be friends with.”

  “Don’t be silly, Eleanor.” Lisette shook her head reprovingly. “Angelique only likes boys.”

  Grandmère turned away from the range. “Get something to eat, Lisette,” she ordered. “I want to get finished early this morning before we set off to Angers.”


  “Oh!” The little girl clapped her hands and a delighted grin lit up her wan face. “How wonderful. I’ll go now and put on my prettiest dress.”

  “No. You can’t come with us, Lisette. There won’t be room for you in the van.”

  “But…” The child’s lower lip wobbled and tears came into her slanted hazel eyes. “I would so like to go to Angers.”

  “She could sit on my knee,” I ventured, unwilling to further upset Grandmère but sorry for the ignored little girl. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Oh, Eleanor!” Lisette flung her skinny arms around my neck and planted tiny kisses on my cheek. “Thank you, thank you.”

  There were four of us in the van. Étienne driving, of course, looking uncomfortable in his Sunday suit. He was very quiet and despite him driving with his elbow resting on the open window he didn’t indulge in his usual shouting matches with other road users.

  Grandmère sat looking straight ahead, her black straw hat pinned in place and her face stony. I knew she was cross with me for including Lisette in the outing but I didn’t care. In ten short days I’d grown close to Grandmère but her treatment of Lisette seemed to me monstrously unfair. It wasn’t as if the child was naughty or even rudely bad-mannered like Jean Paul. She was surprisingly intelligent but even so ignored by the adults in this strange household. Now she was wriggling on my knee, chattering like a little starling, unaware or even unconcerned that no-one was listening to her.

  “Be quiet, Lisette,” snapped Grandmère, eventually breaking her glowering silence, “you’re giving me a headache.”

  “Sorry.” The child leant her head on my shoulder and snuggled closer. I wondered when had been the last time she’d sat on anyone’s knee.

  “You have decided what you want to see in Angers, Miss Eleanor?” Étienne turned his head away from the road to speak to me.

  “Yes,” I said shyly. “I know that there is a fine Cathedral and a Chateau. I’d love to see both of those. If it’s not difficult for you.”

  “No, there’ll be no problem. The Cathedral is very beautiful and we can go there but I don’t think we can go inside the Chateau. It was damaged in the war and is being repaired. I think it’s still too dangerous for people to enter. You can see the outside though.”