When I Was Young

by Mary Fitzgerald

  I lingered in the chicken run hoping to avoid the scene. I didn’t want to see Étienne in that way, being an angry father. I wanted him as he had been last evening. I wanted him young looking, passionate. I wanted his hands on me.

  But my name was being called and I carefully fastened the wire door of the coop and walked slowly around the house into the yard.

  “Eleanor!” Étienne was waving a small brown envelope. “Look. This is for you.” He didn’t look angry anymore and there was no sign of Jean Paul. We had been mistaken, he had not returned. The velo belonged to a young postman, neat in a blue uniform who was standing astride his bike, ready to leave but too excited or too interested to depart.

  “It’s a telegram,” said Grandmère. Her voice was low, concerned and I hurried up to the group and took the envelope from Étienne’s hand.

  “It is from your Mama?”

  “No.” I read the short message. It was from the British Consul in Angers, a M. J. Castres. Your mother taken ill stop Father in hospital stop Phone this office for more information stop A phone number followed.

  “My mother is ill,” I said, holding out the telegram for Étienne and Grandmère to read. They stared at the crinkly paper with the stuck on white tape and then lifted their eyes and gazed at me. They were unable to understand the English words so I read it out, including the telephone number and then wondered what to do. There was no phone at Riverain.

  “Come,” said Étienne. “We will go to the post office and you can make a call from there.

  On the short journey from Riverain to the little village neither Étienne nor I spoke. I was almost struck dumb by the sudden intrusion of home into the dream life I was living. Mother ill? I could hardly believe it. She was always so strong, so fit and impatient with anything that might be construed as illness. I was never allowed days off school; bad colds, stomach ache, even a badly twisted wrist made no difference. My record of attendance at St Elizabeth’s must have been the best they had.

  I began to get angry. She was doing it on purpose. She wanted to spoil my holiday, prevent my French visitor from coming home with me. Claiming to be ill was all part of the plan. But then I remembered that the telegram had said that Dada was in hospital. That meant that she was either too ill to look after him or that he was ill too. Oh God!

  The postmaster helped me dial because I’d never made a phone call before and from the way Étienne was nervously watching me I don’t think he had either.

  “Miss Gill?”

  “Yes.”

  The British Consul spoke English with a French accent. “We have had news that your mother has been taken ill, she is in hospital.”

  “Mother? What’s wrong with her?” I was confused. The telegram had said that Dada was in hospital.

  “It seems she has some infection. It is quite serious but not critical. I believe your home is quite remote. Is that right?”

  I nodded and then remembered to speak. “Yes, it is. We have a farm on the Pennines.”

  “Well,” the Consul continued, “her doctor preferred her to be under constant supervision.”

  “Oh,” I said and then, “but your telegram said that my father was in hospital.”

  There was a short pause before he spoke. “Your father, he is… not well?”

  “No. He is…” I didn’t know how to say it and then, in a rush, thought of suitable words. “He has shell shock… after the war.”

  “Ah, that explains it. He has been sent to the Asylum until your mother gets better. It seems he can’t manage by himself. Now, practicalities. There is no question, of course of your exchange visitor going to England. You will have to apologise to him and his parents. But you are a problem. Have you a relative you can stay with?”

  I hadn’t. Both my parents were only children and all four grandparents were dead. How would I manage the farm and get food? My savings were very depleted and if mother had money in the bank, which I doubted, I had no way of getting hold of it. I looked through the glass telephone cubicle to Étienne. His face was asking questions.

  “No, I have no family,” I said. “I don’t think I can manage the farm, either.”

  “The farm is being looked after by a neighbour, Miss Gill. A Mr Winstanley, I believe, that isn’t a problem.”

  I looked again at Étienne and saw his encouraging smile. He had no idea what was being said but he was letting me know that he would help me. “Monsieur Castres,” my words broke the Consul’s worried silence, “perhaps M. Martin will let me stay here for another few weeks. He is here, would you like to speak to him and explain the situation?”

  “He wants to talk to you,” I hissed, offering the receiver to Étienne. “To explain.”

  Now it was his turn to look worried as we awkwardly exchanged places and he bent his ear to the phone. I watched him anxiously, backing away from the cubicle and leaning against the post office counter.

  “You have bad news?” The post master asked sympathetically.

  “Yes,” I nodded. “My mother is sick and I can’t go home at the moment.” Saying it made me realise how serious my situation was. How would I manage? What about school? I looked at the glass cubicle. Étienne was speaking, his mouth close to the receiver and his free arm animatedly jabbing the air to emphasise a point as he always did.

  “I have a cousin in England,” the post master whispered. “He is a waiter in London. Perhaps that’s near where you live?”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  Étienne waved to me from the phone cubicle. “Come, speak to M. Castres.”

  “Miss Gill?

  “Yes.”

  “Now, M. Martin has said that he and his family are happy to let you stay at their home for as long as is necessary. He has added that the cost of your keep doesn’t matter, so that wouldn’t be problem. Apparently you have been very helpful about the farm and have helped look after their small girl. Of course, you will have to return when school starts but I’m sure that your parents will have recovered by then. Will that suit you?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, trying to stop myself from sounding as overjoyed as I felt. “Will you let me know what’s happening at home?”

  “Of course I will.”

  I don’t know which of us had sounded more relieved, him or me and in the van back to Riverain I re-lived the conversation over and over again.

  “Did M. Castres say what is wrong with your mother?” Étienne asked.

  “No, not really. An infection which is serious but not critical. I don’t know more than that. I don’t think he does, either.”

  “And your Papa?”

  Now I felt guilty for being so happy at not going home. Poor Dada. He mustn’t have been able to get food while Mother was ill or known what to do. He would have been so frightened. I ought to go home, really and look after him. “The Consul said he needed looking after while Mother is in the hospital. Maybe I should …” I turned my head and looked at him. We were turning into the yard and through the open window I could smell the musty odour of the river which had become so familiar to me. “I should go home to look after my father.” The words rushed out of my mouth almost without me thinking of the sense of them. In reality there was no way that I could but I had to assuage my guilt.

  Étienne pulled on the brake. “Do you want to?” he asked, staring straight ahead through the windscreen to the pale stone walls of the house. “If you really must go, I will drive you Paris or to Calais for the boat. You only have to ask.”

  I shook my head. “I want to stay here,” I muttered. “With you …”

  “What’s happened?” Grandmère’s head suddenly appeared at my window. I hadn’t noticed her coming round the side of the house. She was carrying the lettuce and courgettes that I’d forgotten to pick earlier.

  “Eleanor is staying with us for a few more weeks, until her mother is better.” Étienne climbed out of the van and strode away towards the barn. My stomach curdled as I followed his strong body with my eyes. What must he t
hink of me?

  Grandmère stepped away to let me out. Her face was almost unreadable but I thought I saw a glimmer of satisfaction in her dark eyes. “Come,” she said. “We have work to do and you can tell me all about it in the kitchen.”

  We were quietly happy at supper that evening. Neither Mathilde nor Jean Paul appeared although their places had been laid and were obviously expected. Étienne gave no sign of what I now thought of as our relationship but Lisette kept grinning at me and didn’t bother with her usual quiet singing.

  “Oh!” she’d squealed when I told her that I would be staying a little longer. “How delightfully delicious,” and her thin little arms were wrapped joyfully around my waist. She’d even lingered in the kitchen while Grandmère and I prepared supper until she was sent out to wash her face and hands. When I carried the tureen of watercress soup into the dining room she was in her place, hair combed and in a clean frock.

  “Good girl,” Grandmère said, her stern face briefly softening and from the head of the table Étienne gave the child a little nod. He had also put a wet comb through his hair and changed out of his overalls.

  “Where are the others,” he asked. “Have you seen Jean Paul at all?”

  “No.” Grandmère ladled soup into the blue flowered bowls. “Not since breakfast. He went out on his bike straight after.”

  “And Mathilde?”

  Grandmère shook her head. “I haven’t seen her.”

  “Oh well, it doesn’t matter.” Étienne carved chunks of bread for us all and we dipped our spoons into the delicious pale green soup and started our supper.

  It felt as though it was my first day at Riverain. The normal strained atmosphere had gone and we chatted calmly and laughed at Étienne’s description of M. D’Amboise’s disappointment at the price his cattle got at market. “He swore that his beasts were in better condition than mine,” Étienne said, vigorously mopping out his bowl. “Ours did better, of course, but Henri still got a decent amount.”

  “Your father built up that herd long before the war,” said Grandmère. “He bought the best we could afford.”

  “I know and I’m grateful.”

  As I got up to gather the soup plates I thought about the family. Étienne’s father had never been mentioned before and I wondered how long he’d been dead. I’d seen a photograph of a man in uniform on the roll top desk and vaguely presumed it was Étienne’s father and that he’d been killed in the first war. But if he’d built up the herd before the recent war then he must have survived.

  “Grandmère,” I asked, while I was waiting for her to lift the courgettes into a serving dish. She had sautéed them in olive oil and butter and added the tomatoes which I’d skinned. “How long have you been a widow?”

  It was bold of me, I think, but she didn’t mind. “My Paul, he died, oh, more than twenty years ago. He had never been really well since the war, the first war, I mean,” she answered. “It was the gas, you know. They were gassed. He had a bad chest afterwards and every winter, he was ill. Finally, he couldn’t fight it anymore.” She arranged the courgettes neatly and put the dish into my hands. “Étienne was only a youngster but he had to grow up. Now, come on.”

  I thought about Étienne having to grow up quickly while we were eating the grilled rib steaks. He must have married Mathilde not many years after his father died. I didn’t question the why, then. My father had married my mother and they didn’t seem happy. Suzy’s parents were distant too. As far as I was concerned, that was normal married life.

  “Does your father have the infection too?” Lisette asked quietly as she and I washed the plates after supper. Her little voice reminded me again about the troubles at home.

  “No, he’s not well in another way,” I replied carefully. “He isn’t well in his head and can’t manage without my mother to get him food and wash his clothes.”

  “Then he should come here to be with you. You could look after him.”

  It was, of course impossible, but it did drag my mind back to the uncomfortable feeling that I’d let him down. Oh dear, I thought to myself, I should go home, no matter what.

  “Lisette.” Grandmère’s voice broke into my thoughts. “It’s time for bed.” She didn’t sound so gruff with the child as she usually did and Lisette, responding, lifted her little face for a goodnight kiss from me and uncertainly turned to Grandmère.

  “Goodnight, child.” A brief peck on both cheeks was delivered, startling, I thought to both of them but none the less satisfactory.

  “Goodnight, everyone,” the child sang and skipped away.

  Grandmère took off her apron and took it out to the washroom. I looked through the open door and wondered about Étienne. Was he on the bridge waiting for me? Would we continue the kissing? Should I wander out there?

  “Come through to the parlour,” said Grandmère, bustling back into the room. “I want to look at the cards.”

  I was restless that evening, not as content with Grandmère’s company as usual but I followed her into her dimly lit room and sat opposite her at the table whilst she shuffled the tattered cards. She had taken them from the top drawer of her cabinet and from where I was sitting I could see the black lace gloves I’d bought her lying on top of a collection of papers and pieces of material, scarves, I think. I wondered how long it had been since she’d had a present. Ages, I supposed, if the Martin family were anything like mine.

  “Now, pay attention, Eleanor. Let’s see what they tell us tonight.” She swiftly chose nine cards from the pack and laid them out in a fan shape. A Queen of Spades with her sly dark face was the first card and sat on the far left of the pattern. On the far right was the Ace of Hearts.

  “Am I there?” I asked, suddenly curious about Grandmère’s obsession with fate

  Grandmère’s finger pointed to the Ace of Hearts. “I think that’s you.”

  “And you?”

  She shook her head. “No. Nothing in this shows me, although…” she tapped her finger on a three of spades, “I could be involved here.”

  “Tell me,” I said. “What do they all mean?”

  “Another time.” Grandmère stood up and gathered together the cards. She seemed restless too.“Put these away…in that drawer,” she nodded to the cabinet. “I must check that I’ve enough butter and cheese for the market tomorrow.”

  Alone in the dark little parlour I took the battered cards and pushing aside the papers and old photographs, slid them into the drawer. I thought about the other time I’d searched in that drawer and the newspaper cutting that Grandmère had snatched out of my hand. Was it still there?

  With a guilty look over my shoulder, I riffled through the pile of documents until it was in my hand. Why did I need to look at it? I didn’t really know. Maybe I thought that, in some way, it would explain what was wrong in this house but whatever, I slipped it out of the drawer and put it in the pocket of my shorts. I would look at it in my bedroom later and then find an opportunity to put it back.

  I was already in the corridor when Grandmère called me. “Have you shut up the hens?”

  “No,” I called. “I’m going now.”

  Chapter 11

  Outside it was still hot. The sun was going down and the trees, hanging over the river, had already melted into dusk. My hens had taken themselves to bed and all I needed to do was to close tight the coop door and empty the brackish water from their trough. I would rinse it out and refill it first thing, when I opened them up. I enjoyed the responsibility of them and with my new found skill of dispatching, I thought that I would be well able to keep a dozen or so hens at home.

  This thought drew me closer to the problems of mother and father. I couldn’t imagine what had happened to mother. An infection? Of where? I remembered the cuts she was always getting on her hands which turned septic and seemed to bother her. Maybe a dose of penicillin was all she needed but… why did she need to go to hospital?

  Then there was Dada. I squirmed as I walked through the vegetable garde
n back to the house. How could I be happy here when he was locked in an insane asylum? I must go home.

  My uncomfortable thoughts were interrupted by the put put noise of Jean Paul’s bike. He’d pulled up in the yard and as I walked towards the kitchen door he was there, standing beside his machine with a vacant expression on his face.

  “Hello,” I said, smiling and trying to put him at ease. He didn’t answer but merely turned his large head and stared at me. After a moment he raised his hand to wipe away the greasy beads of sweat which had gathered on his forehead.

  I tried again. “Have you had a good day?”

  He frowned as if trying to understand me and then swallowed several times, his fast growing Adam’s apple bobbing violently in his neck. I could see that he was swaying and as I watched, he grabbed hold of the handlebars of his bike to support him.

  “Go away,” he mumbled and then said more words which I didn’t understand. I know now that he was swearing at me but then I just stood in front of him, trying to be friendly.

  Suddenly, he lurched forward and vomited, the sick flying across the yard, missing me but splattering horribly over the cobbled ground.

  “Oh!” I leapt back, horrified but continued to watch as, bent double and making terrible groaning noises, he vomited again and again.

  Étienne rushed into the yard from the barn and, alerted by the noise, Grandmère appeared at the kitchen door her hands wringing out a dish cloth.

  “He’s ill,” I called out in alarm, pointing my finger towards the pathetic figure who was now on his knees amongst the horrible debris of his stomach contents. “Jean Paul is terribly ill. He must have eaten something bad.”

  “Drunk, more like,” shouted Étienne, his face twisted and ugly in disgust and utterly devoid of sympathy. “The little bastard has spent the day pouring beer down his neck. My God! How dare he!” And, grasping Jean Paul’s shirt by the collar, he dragged the boy through the puddle of vomit, across the yard and flung him bodily through the barn door.