When I Was Young

by Mary Fitzgerald

A small hand crept into mine. Lisette was standing beside me in her white cotton nightdress, her light brown hair drooping over her little face. She must have slipped out of bed and come into the yard, through a window, maybe. She certainly wouldn’t have got past Grandmère at the kitchen door.

  “Oh dear,” she whispered. “Papa will do something awful.”

  My heart felt as though it had swollen in my chest and I could hear every galloping beat. That wonderful atmosphere we’d all enjoyed at suppertime where we’d laughed about M. d’Amboise and his cattle and Lisette and I had been part of a happy family, had dispersed as quickly as the early evening mist. Étienne had been full of life and excitement then and I’d exulted in the sight of his strong face and the bulging muscles in his shoulders which strained the stitching of his shirt. Now, in the lowering gloom, the old mood of despair and anger prevailed and Étienne wasn’t laughing. I found that I was as frightened as Lisette.

  At the door to the barn Étienne was unbuckling his belt and I could guess what he was going to do. I’d never seen anyone beaten and although mother was constantly shouting and grumbling at me she had never hit me, not even the smallest slap. Physical contact with me or Dada was not something she cared for. She wasted none of her time on hugs and the same applied to smacks. We lived at a distance in our house.

  But I knew that Jean Paul was about to get a thrashing and I was scared. Lisette’s hand in mine was shaking; I could hear the little gulps and moans that escaped her pale lips and the shuddering breaths rocking her little body.

  I straightened up and letting go of Lisette’s hand took a step forward. It would have to be me to stop him. I must have upset Jean Paul, somehow, I reasoned and the vomiting was my fault. Looking back over the years, I wonder at my naivety. How could I have possibly believed that? Why did I not see that the lives of these people were ruined long before I arrived among them? But at the time, I felt I was responsible and it was up to me to try make things right. I didn’t know what I was going to say. All I knew was that a beating would be intolerable.

  “M. Martin!” I started but at the same moment Grandmère called “Étienne!” and I turned my head to see that she had walked out of the kitchen door and was halfway across the yard.

  “Étienne. Don’t!” Her order was quite clear and Étienne, almost unrecognisable with rage, the broad leather belt dangling from his hand, stopped and looked back at us. A lifetime seemed to pass and Lisette’s hand was once more in mine, while we watched the frenzy slowly clear from Étienne’s face, to be replaced by a look of utter desolation. Was I holding my breath? I think so. Certainly I remember that the wind had dropped and the evening twittering of the birds in the willows had died away. And in that thick silence, there came the click, click sound of Mathilde’s shoes as she walked across the bridge.

  “Lisette, go inside.” Grandmère had reached me and was standing, a dark solid figure, not looking at me nor the little girl but frowning at the sight of Mathilde who had stopped beside the barn. “You too, Eleanor.”

  “But…” I started to argue.

  “Go on. It will be alright.” Her large hand touched my arm and gave me a gentle push. “It will be alright,” she repeated. “Go.”

  I turned then and, pulling on Lisette’s hand, walked reluctantly to the house, looking back once to see the tableau of Étienne, Mathilde and Grandmère standing beside the barn door. Étienne, his fists clenched, hadn’t moved inside the barn and Grandmère was between him and Mathilde, her forefinger raised as if giving more orders. Mathilde was leaning against the barn door, a lit cigarette dangling from her bright red lips and her face turned up to the sky in an attitude of declared boredom. As I watched, she made to go into the barn but was stopped by Étienne who leant forward and roughly snatched the cigarette from between her lips and ground it out on the cobbles before she disappeared from sight.

  Inside the house the rooms seemed to echo as Lisette and I walked through the kitchen. “Do you want a drink?” I asked her.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then you must go back to bed,” I said. “Come on.”

  “I do love you, Eleanor,” she whispered as I tucked her under her duvet and put her chosen dolly beside her. “You are a discovery delicious.”

  I smiled and held her hand for a few minutes, until she drifted off to sleep. I’d wondered if she would make any comment about what had happened in the yard, but she didn’t. Perhaps it was a common occurrence. Perhaps the ever present threat of violence in this household had washed over the little girl and she didn’t notice it. But even thinking it, I knew I was wrong. She’d been very afraid.

  My ears nervously strained for sounds of shouting from outside, maybe even screaming from Jean Paul if Étienne had decided to go ahead with the beating, but there was nothing. Only the rustle and swish of leaves from the trees by the river as the evening breeze got up again and the occasional lowing of the cattle in the fields where a fox or rat had disturbed them. I did hear the kitchen door slam and then water running as though into a bucket, but nothing more.

  I went to my room and switched on the lamp beside my bed. It had a milky white globe over a brass base and it leant a gentle light into the safe harbour that I now regarded as mine. The shutters were closed but I opened them and looked out. I could see nothing untoward. The river flowed and the trees swayed and dipped as usual. The moon was rising, bright in a starry sky so that the bridge and banks were almost as clear as in daylight. On the far side, above the vineyard, a figure walked uphill towards the stone barn. At this distance I couldn’t work out who it was, man or woman, but in my mind it had to be Mathilde. It was her place.

  It was when I was taking off my clothes, ready to get into bed, that the crackle of the newspaper cutting in my pocket reminded me that I’d stolen it from Grandmère’s drawer. Alone in my room, I blushed, ashamed at what I’d done and determined to replace it as soon as possible. But…I had to look at it first.

  The photograph had been taken from a balcony or a first floor room overlooking a square and I knew it was the square outside the church where we went for Mass on Sunday. It showed thirty or so men standing in a semi-circle around a metal café chair on which a woman sat. Behind her was a man with a pair of scissors, in the process of cutting off all her hair. One side had already been done, you could see the little tufts sticking up where his inexpert attention had left her head bald in places and with bits of hair in others. Dark hair lay on the ground beside her and one of her hands was on her lap, caught in the action of brushing the strands away from her skirt.

  She was staring straight ahead, not crying nor looking frightened and even from the distance that the photographer had been standing, I knew who it was. Those large cow like eyes and the sneering expression told me immediately. Mathilde.

  Confused, I put the cutting down on the bed and stood up. The evening breeze had strengthened and the shutter, which I hadn’t properly fastened, was banging. Hooking it onto the latch, I looked out. Étienne was leaning against the rail on the bridge, not fishing, but just standing there. He looked desolate and somehow, almost lost. I yearned to run downstairs and go out to comfort him but I didn’t. I couldn’t. He was an adult and I thought of myself as still a child. So I sat on my bed and looked again at the newspaper cutting.

  I knew that the photograph had been taken a while ago, Mathilde looked younger and the clothes that the men were wearing seemed slightly old fashioned. Looking closer, I noticed that on the edge of the semi-circle and slightly apart from the other men was an American soldier. He wasn’t laughing like the others but fingering the strap of his rifle as though concerned that things might turn nasty. As far as I was concerned, things, in that picture, had already turned nasty.

  Surprisingly, after all that had happened, when I got into bed, I slept straight away and didn’t dream. It was early morning when I suddenly woke, so early that the light filtering through the shutters was dim and grey and I guessed that it must be about five o’clock. Gu
essing was what I had to do. I didn’t have a wrist watch. Most of my friends at school had them, bought by their parents as presents or rewards for passing exams. Mother patently hadn’t thought that a significant expense and I’d never questioned it. I knew money was tight.

  I lay for a moment trying to work out what it was that had disturbed me. A noise? A splash in the river? It was impossible to know so I got out of bed and slowly opened the shutters. Outside, clouds covered the sky and it was cooler than it had been. So far, during my holiday at Riverain, the days had been terribly hot with cloudless, bleached blue skies broken only by occasional sharp evening rainstorms. But this morning it was gloomy and grey and almost English.

  There was a sound of steps on the bridge and looking down, I saw Étienne striding across. He walked purposefully as though he had been doing something in the vineyard and now was returning to the yard. I was surprised that whatever it was, he’d been doing it so early. The other thing that surprised me was that he was cradling his shotgun in his arms.

  I got up then. Even if I was in the kitchen before Grandmère, it wouldn’t matter. She had taught me how to make coffee or better still, I could cycle to the village to get bread. The bakery would be open and I’d been before, so I knew what to get.

  Dragging on my shorts, I remembered the newspaper cutting which had crackled in the pocket. It was there on the table beside my bed and I quickly stuffed it away, ready to return it to Grandmère’s cabinet at the very first opportunity.

  “Hello,” said the baker when I walked through the open door into his shop. He looked tired and had one floury hand cradling a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Hello,” I smiled back and picking out two baguettes from the wire holder offered them over the counter for them to be wrapped in the piece of greaseproof paper.

  “You’re an early riser, Miss Eleanor,” he said as he wrapped them and handed them back. “I thought you were on holiday. My children lie in bed for hours when they don’t have to go to school.”

  I was surprised that he knew my name but I shouldn’t have been. This was a very small place.

  I shrugged, demonstrating the local response to difficult questions.

  “Any news of your maman?”

  Again, he knew all about Mother’s illness and that I was staying on at Riverain.

  “No.” I shook my head. “Nothing new. She’s in hospital. I can’t go home yet.”

  “So I heard,” he said, then reached over and patted my hand. “You are a most welcome addition to our village.”

  Stupidly, I felt tears coming to my eyes. I wasn’t used to such kindness. “Thank you,” I mumbled and hurried out, eager to get on the bike and peddle home.

  “You are up very early, Eleanor,” said Grandmère, echoing the baker’s remark. She was bustling around the kitchen with a couple of leeks in her hand. The stock pot was already bubbling on the range, giving off fresh aromas of onions and garlic. I could smell meat too. Beef. She was making a meaty soup for lunch. I was about to ask her about it when she continued. “Did you have trouble sleeping.”

  “No, not at all.” I shook my head. “It’s just that something woke me and I couldn’t get back to sleep.

  “What?” she frowned. “What woke you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, reaching for the coffee and tearing a chunk off the fresh baked baton. “A noise or something.”

  Neither of us mentioned the scene of last night but its occurrence lay heavily in the air. I’d noticed as I rode through the yard that the cobbles had been washed clean, with no sign of Jean Paul’s vomit. I supposed that it had been done last evening after I’d gone upstairs.

  “Étienne was up early too,” I said. “I saw him coming from the vineyard.”

  “Yes,” Grandmère nodded. “He needs to prune away the vine leaves so that the sun gets to the grapes. It makes them sweeter.”

  “But he…” I was going to say he was carrying his shotgun not pruning shears.

  “But what?”

  “Oh, nothing. It doesn’t matter.” Étienne’s reasons for carrying a gun were nothing to do with me but Grandmère wasn’t going to let it go. She pulled out a chair and sat at the table, opposite me, her eyes drilling into my head.

  “He had his shotgun.” My voice had dropped as though I was telling some sort of dreadful secret and I think I felt that I was.

  “Oh, is that all?” Grandmère shrugged and I could see that she had relaxed. Her shoulders dropped and the v shaped crease in her forehead disappeared. “I expect he’s been after rabbits. Maybe we’ll have a casserole tonight.”

  I got on with my breakfast then and she went into the pantry but I wondered what she had been expecting me to say.

  Chapter 12

  I decided to go for a walk before lunch. Lisette was playing with her dolls in the vegetable garden and Grandmère had been at the roll top desk for the last hour working, I think, on the account books. I’d seen Jean Paul briefly, in the kitchen, while I was still drinking my breakfast coffee. He’d come through the door from the yard and without a word put his head under the tap and drunk noisy gulps of water.

  When he straightened up I could see that his face and the front of his black hair were wet. Dribbles of water ran down his chin and onto the vomit stained white shirt. He must have slept in the barn, I thought, sorry for him in a way and now I could see the little bits of straw and dust from the barn floor on his trousers. He bent and took more gulps of water and then wiped his hand over his mouth. More water dripped from his hair and he shook himself slowly, his face grimacing in pain. Water sprayed across the room, hitting the window above the sink and dropping onto the table.

  Lisette, who was sitting beside me gave one of her high little laughs. “Jean Paul looks like a dog who’s been in the river,” she giggled.

  “Shush,” I warned, thinking that Jean Paul might turn on her but he ignored her and me and grabbed the last piece of bread before going through the kitchen door into the corridor.

  “Was that Jean Paul?” asked Grandmère, coming in from the vegetable garden.

  “Yes,” I nodded.

  “Did he get something to eat?”

  “A piece of bread.”

  “Good, now I want to clear the table and get on.”

  “What about Papa?” asked Lisette. “He hasn’t had any breakfast.”

  “He’ll get something in town,” said Grandmère. “He’s gone in on business.”

  Why did Lisette and I look at each other, then? Was it so unusual? Didn’t Étienne go to the town on business regularly? I thought back. In the three weeks I’d been with them, he hadn’t, but that was only three weeks, surely a busy farmer would have to go to the bank or to the solicitor on regular occasions. That brought up another thought. Did Mother go into town to talk to the bank? I couldn’t remember. Then I wondered how she was. How was she managing? Who was visiting her in hospital? Who was getting her clean nightdresses…did she have any clean nightdresses? Oh God…I must go home.

  I walked up the hill through the vineyard, my mind whirling with difficult thoughts. I loved this place where, despite the unwelcoming attitude of Jean Paul and Mathilde, I felt happier, more at home and more useful than I’d ever felt on our bleak Pennine farm. I’d give anything to stay…but did that include ignoring my duty to my parents?

  Shafts of sunlight pierced the heavy clouds which lay over the farm and lent a strange, uncomfortable atmosphere to the vine covered hillside. I could see the grape barn near the top of the hill, the pale stone intermittently bleached by sudden beams of light then dull again when the grey and purple clouds rolled together and dimmed the scene. I’d never been in it and since that first time when I’d suggested to Luc that we explore it together and I’d been rebuffed I’d stayed well clear. But now, this morning, I was in an awkward mood, feeling fretful and unsure of myself and ready to be rebellious. Why shouldn’t I go and have a look, I thought. After all, neither Grandmère nor Étienne had said that it was off limits.
I headed towards it.

  The newspaper cutting crackled in my shorts pocket, I still hadn’t found an opportunity to replace it and I felt miserable about what I’d done. Grandmère had kept me busy for much of the morning, gathering eggs and vegetables and later on took me into the dairy to explain the mysteries of cheese making.

  “I’ll start you off with it tomorrow, Eleanor,” she said, lining the small moulds with clean muslin squares. “This is something you must learn. All farmer’s wives should know how to make cheese and butter.”

  “Yes,” I nodded, happy to go along with her plans but knowing in my heart that I’d never make cheese at home. As for being ‘a farmer’s wife,’ well, that was never going to happen either. I’d be a shop assistant at best and mother’s unpaid helper in all my spare time. My future was bleak. That’s why I was grasping every moment of my stay at Riverain. It was the best that was going to be.

  Now as I walked through the vineyard towards the barn I thought about my future. Could I possibly escape home and come back to France? Could I live here? Be Grandmère’s unpaid helper? And Étienne’s…Étienne’s what? Even as I thought it I felt my face flushing, alone here, surrounded by green and brown vines and the ripening bunches of grapes. Stupid! I admonished myself. That was never going to happen either.

  By the time I reached the barn the sunlight was totally obscured and it had started to rain, heavy drops spaced apart so that when they fell onto a stone they made a tiny splash. I looked up at the sky, at the full grey clouds which seemed closer to the ground and heard a rumble of thunder. A flash of lightning suddenly brightened the hillside and then, almost before it had gone, another, louder rumble shook the earth.

  The grape barn was only yards away and I hurried towards it. I could see that the door was swinging slightly in the breeze and was glad. At least I would be able to get in out of the rain.

  Suddenly the door swung completely open and Jean Paul stood in the entrance, a cigarette hanging from his lips and bottle of beer clutched in his fist. He had changed his shirt and looked clean and fresh, his black hair slicked back from his forehead and the nascent moustache very prominent this day.