When I Was Young

by Mary Fitzgerald

  “Hello!” I called.

  “What d’you want?” he answered, scowling and stepping forward a little, barring my way into the barn.

  “I want to come in. There’s a thunderstorm,” I said, rain falling heavily on my head and shirt. “Can’t you see? Can’t you hear it?”

  He didn’t move but looked back over his shoulder into the dark interior of the stone building. I leant forward and looked too. It was hard to see inside but I could make out a floor with what looked like a rug covering it. How strange, I thought.

  “Go away.” Jean Paul turned abruptly and went back through the door.

  I was angry. I couldn’t understand why was he refusing me permission to shelter from the rain and emboldened by the soaking I was getting, recklessly hurried after him.

  “No, don’t,” he breathed, coming to a halt and blocking my way. I thought he sounded panicky and I paused for a moment wondering what was wrong when suddenly I was barged into by a man who pushed past Jean Paul and straight into me.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said then stopped and gave me a long stare. He was old, older than Étienne and older than my father. He wore a dark striped jacket which didn’t match his trousers and had a smooth, plump face, the plumpness extending down to his fleshy neck which bulged over his collar. He turned to Jean Paul who was standing behind him with an inexplicably horrified look on his face. “Is she available? This pretty girl?”

  “No.” Jean Paul’s voice came out in an agonised choke. “No!”

  The man shrugged. “Oh well…a pity, though.”

  I watched him, puzzled, as he turned up the collar of his jacket against the rain and pulled his trilby hat further down his head. He gave me one last appraising stare before striding away from the barn and started walking up the hill. I turned back to Jean Paul.

  “What did he mean?” I asked. “Who is that man?”

  He said nothing. His cheeks were fiery red and I saw him close his eyes in what must have been despair.

  “Has he gone?” Mathilde appeared in the darkness behind Jean Paul and, bending her head, kissed his shoulder. She seemed to be hardly dressed; I could see the broad shoulder straps of a slip but no dress and as my eyes trailed down I saw that her usual high heeled shoes were absent. She wasn’t looking out, her head was lowered, frowning at something in her hands.

  “Yes,” he muttered, “but…”

  At that moment she looked up and saw me and the flash of pure poison that swept her white face chilled me to the bone. “What the hell are you doing here, you stupid little cow,” she spat. “Sent to spy, by that evil old woman, eh?” Her thin red painted lips curled in a sneer and she flicked back her head sending the black curtain of hair away from her face like a wave leaving a pale stone jetty. “Get out of here, now. Or I’ll kill you!”

  My shock was profound. Nobody had ever spoken to me like that. I’d been reprimanded often for day-dreaming in school but gently by polite, educated teachers and mother constantly grumbled about everything I did. But nobody has ever frightened me as much as Mathilde Martin did on that dark, wet day, when huge purple clouds crashed in the heavens and only the zig-zag lightning illuminated the hillside. I stood, gaping at her like a rabbit caught in the headlights, quite unable to move. This witch like creature in her flesh coloured slip and bare feet terrified me. Then I turned and ran.

  By the time I stopped running I found I was on the lane which led to the d’Amboise’s house. I’d clattered across the bridge but run past the house and onto the lane behind. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d seen Grandmère by the chicken run and felt her eyes on me as I flew by. Sometime I would have to explain to her but not now. Not now. I needed time to think.

  The storm had passed over and for the first time this day the sun shone brightly causing steam to rise from the soggy grass beneath the trees which lined the road. I could hear birds twittering carelessly in the branches above me and others making rustling noises as they hopped in and out of the scrubby bushes below searching for insects and seeds.

  It was all as it should be. A bright sunny day in August and I was walking along a quiet country lane which led to a friend’s house. I might be in France and the heat on that tree enclosed path overwhelming but I was used to that now and I loved being here. So why had I been so frightened? Surely my encounter with Mathilde was just an extension of her usual unpleasantness and nothing out of the ordinary? I knew that she was nasty and didn’t like me. She’d made that obvious on more than one occasion but even as I thought it and tried to convince myself, I knew that it was different. The events I’d witnessed at the grape barn couldn’t possibly be normal life, even here, in this corner of rural France, where everything was so foreign to me.

  In my naivety I’d accepted the tense family life of the Martins. Put their arguments and silences down to normal behaviour, not really so different from that of my own family. Yet now I was beginning to realise that I’d been wrong. There was a strange, dangerous atmosphere around this place where holding your breath for what might happen next was the norm. I had been sent to house of secrets where there was no recognisable warmth and even simple civility seemed to be balanced on a cliff edge.

  I thought of Suzy and her stay in Paris with the sophisticated English speaking family. Nothing like this would be happening to her, I knew it. I bet she’d been all over the city, in and out of wonderful buildings and eating at fashionable restaurants. She would be going home in a couple of days having had a memorable holiday and taking a charming French companion with her. They would have a lovely time in England with all sorts of treats and outings organised by Suzy’s parents. Suzy and the French girl would probably remain friends for the rest of their lives, visiting each other, holidaying in each other’s homes and their children growing up to be friends also. While me… unable to go home yet and then when I would be able, nobody to bring with me. People at school would gossip about my failure, not only the girls but the teachers and Miss Baxter would shake her head sadly and whisper to the Head Mistress that ‘Eleanor Gill has an unhappy home life, so I’m not surprised that the French exchange hasn’t worked out.’ I’d be a laughing stock.

  I stopped walking and sat down on the damp grass verge amongst the willow herb and cow parsley. The hot smell of vegetation made me feel slightly sick and I had to swallow rising bile which burnt my throat and brought tears to my eyes. It was so unfair, I told myself but what else did I expect? Mother had said it would be a disaster and she was right. Then I thought again about Mother and poor Dada and before I knew it, I was sobbing, hot, convulsive, uncontrollable sobbing and that’s how Luc d’Amboise found me.

  “Eleanor? What is it?” He squatted down and put a hand on my shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

  I couldn’t speak. Not only because of the shuddering sobs that took all my breath away but because of the sheer embarrassment of him finding me here, sitting on the side of the road.

  I shook my head, “It doesn’t matter,” I managed to whisper between sobs, hoping he’d get up and carry on walking along the lane towards his house but instead he sat down beside me and put his arm around me.

  I cried on his shoulder for what seemed like hours but in reality was probably only minutes. He didn’t say anything but squeezed my shoulders comfortingly and waited until the last heaving of my chest had subsided and I could drag a hand across my face to wipe away the streaky tears.

  “Now,” he said and his voice carried the authority of someone twice his age. “Tell me. Are you ill?”

  “No,” I shook my head.

  “Is it about your mother and father?”

  “No. Not really.”

  Well, what?”

  “It’s…” I didn’t know how to put it. “It was Mathilde, she frightened me.” The explanation came out in a rush and I blushed as I said it. How childish I sounded.

  Strangely, Luc didn’t seem to think it was childish. When I turned to look at him he was frowning. “What did she do?” He sounded
serious.

  “I went to the grape barn and wanted to get out of the thunderstorm but Jean Paul wouldn’t let me in. And then a man came out and asked if I was available and then Mathilde came out and…” I went over the scene in my head, remembering things that had flashed by me at the time. “Luc,” I gabbled, “she wasn’t wearing her dress and had no shoes. She was holding money.”

  “Oh, God,” Luc groaned, “you shouldn’t have seen that.”

  I felt all the emotions rising again. “What,” I grasped his arm, “what did I see? I don’t understand.” But the thing was I did understand. My friends in school whispered about women who worked on the streets and some even knew which streets in town these women went to. But here? On this idyllic farm? I couldn’t bear to think about it. Then I thought, does Étienne know? Grandmère? But of course they did. That’s why they hated her so much.

  “Did she see you?” Luc took my hand.

  I nodded. “She was furious. She accused me of spying on her…I wasn’t, honestly, then she said…” I swallowed, the burning bile again in my throat making my voice croaky and hesitant. “She said she would kill me.”

  At first he said nothing but stared at my tear stained face, his boyishly handsome features twisted into a frown. “She didn’t mean it,” he said eventually. “Not really. But… stay away from her as much as you can. I don’t think she’s to be trusted.”

  Why? I longed to say, what do you know about her that you aren’t telling me? Is she really a… I didn’t know the word and wouldn’t have said it out loud even if I did. Instead I got up. “I have to go. It’s lunch time.”

  “Yes, me too.” Luc got up and shook hands with me in that polite French way. We started walking in opposite directions then I turned and called, “Luc, thank you.”

  He waved his hand and grinned. “It’s alright.”

  When I got back to Riverain I went straight to my room. I needed to wash my face and hands and change my clothes but really I wasn’t ready to face Grandmère yet. Those dark eyes of hers would penetrate my mind and I would be unable to avoid her questions.

  She was in the kitchen piling tiny pink shrimps onto an earthenware dish and didn’t look up when I finally came down the back stairs. A lettuce was on the draining board ready to be washed and I went straight to it, tearing off the root and separating the leaves carefully. It was when I was drying it on a clean tea towel that she spoke.

  “I know something has happened, Eleanor. If you want to tell me, this is a good time. We are on our own.”

  Should I keep quiet, shrugging the incident away like they all seemed to or lie, pretending not to have witnessed anything? The last thing I wanted was for her to disbelieve me or worse to think that I was a meddling interloper so perhaps it would be better to say nothing. But when I looked around she was staring at me, her face strangely softened and full of compassion. It was the expression I’d longed to see on my mother’s face.

  I told her then, everything, from start to finish including Luc finding me in the lane and him comforting me. “And Grandmère,” I added, my face scarlet, “there is another thing.” I put the lettuce leaves in the wire draining basket and pulled the crumpled newspaper cutting from my pocket. “This was in your drawer when I put the cards away last night. I was curious. I’m sorry.” I put it on the table beside the dish of shrimps.

  Lisette wandered into the room and Grandmère snatched up the newspaper cutting and put it into the pocket of her apron.

  “Is it time to eat? Papa has come home.”

  “Yes it is. Wash your hands, Lisette and then go and sit in your place. Eleanor and I will bring in the food.

  As I carried the salad into the dining room Grandmère murmured, “we’ll talk later,” and gave me a little pat on the arm. I felt calmer.

  There was no sign of Mathilde at the table but Jean Paul was sitting in his place, his head lowered, not looking at anyone. Étienne was uncharacteristically silent too. I supposed that his business dealings in town hadn’t gone well this morning, maybe it was to do with money. My mother was obsessed with money, how she hadn’t any and that made her furious. Étienne hadn’t changed out of his striped suit and looked hot and uncomfortable but as I watched him out of the corner of my eye, he shrugged out of his jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. His white shirt looked damp and crumpled with a tiny pink wine stain on the front and the sleeves rolled up over his muscular arms. He must have been drinking in town, I thought, watching him as he carved the bread into thick diagonal slices and tossed them across the table.

  Even Lisette picked up on the sombre mood, not chattering as usual but eating her shrimps quietly, dipping them neatly into the delicious mayonnaise that Grandmère had prepared to go with them.

  It was Grandmère who broke the silence. “Lisette,” she said. “Madame d’Amboise’s daughter is coming this afternoon with her children. She has asked if you would like to go and play.”

  “Me?” Lisette breathed, her face pink with excitement.

  “Yes. After lunch you can walk down the lane to their house. Make sure you behave yourself and don’t be rough with the little boy.”

  I couldn’t imagine Lisette being rough with anyone and I raised an eyebrow in amusement which Grandmère caught and gave me one of her rare smiles.

  “Lisette is always a good girl.” Étienne grunted from the head of the table and we all turned to look at him. He was pouring wine, his hand rather unsteady so that the earthenware carafe clinked against his glass. He had opened the top two buttons of his shirt exposing the sheen of sweat on his neck which extended down into the black hair on his chest.

  “Thank you, Papa,” squeaked Lisette, her cheeks pink with excitement. “I will be good.”

  “I’m sure you will.” He drained his glass and reached for the jug again then stopped his hand in mid-air. “Oh! I’ve remembered. I have to go to the cave, the tuffeau, this afternoon. Perhaps Eleanor would like to come with me.” He turned to me and to my delight I saw that his grin had returned. “You’ll find it interesting, I think. Something different.”

  The tuffeau ? The cave? I smiled back at him, uncomprehending. Why would he need to go to a cave? I mentally searched my French vocabulary for a translation of the words. Did he mean the cellar or maybe some sort of a cavern? A tourist spot, maybe. I turned to Grandmère for help.

  “Étienne has to go to the place where he buys wine,” she said. “The cave is like a shop for wine. A cellar.”

  “Oh,” I said, slightly disappointed that he was only going shopping but thrilled that he wanted me to go with him. “Yes, I’d like to see it. That is,” I added, turning back to Grandmère, “if you don’t need me.”

  Grandmère started gathering the plates. “Go and enjoy yourself,” she said, not looking me in the eye. “I’ll see you later.”

  I looked around the table, happy for the first time today. Lisette was singing quietly, excited about her trip to the d’Amboises and when I caught her eye she showed her little mouse teeth in a sweet smile. Étienne had stopped drinking and was writing a list on the back of an envelope, perhaps it was a list of wines he wanted to buy.

  It was only later when I sat beside Étienne in the van on the way to the cave that I thought about Jean Paul and remembered the look on his face. It was one of bewildered fury. He must have been so angry, so jealous and even frustrated that no-one wanted to include him in any activity. I felt almost sorry for him but only almost.

  Chapter 13

  We drove away from the village onto the main road to the city. Then, after a few miles, took a side road which led though acres of vineyards until we reached a road which ran alongside a river. Big puddles, the remains of the morning’s thunderstorm, spread across the unmade road but now it was hot and steam was rising from them. There was a haze about the area which made the verdant scenery look as though one was viewing it through a piece of gauze

  “This,” said Étienne, “is the Loire.” He waved his arm, pointing to the bro
ad expanse of water which shone a metalled blue in the hazy sunlight. It flowed swifter than the river which ran through the farm although the flow was broken up by an island, a long wooded strip of land which seemed to be midway between the nearest bank and the far side. I wondered if anyone lived on the island and looked for tiled roofs between the trees but there were none.

  We had arrived at a riverside village. On the bank beside us fishing punts and larger craft were tied up to posts dug into the sandy mud beach whilst out in the river it was all activity with boats of various sizes making their way up and down stream. As well as fishing smacks I saw barges, one close by had a cargo of coal and, pushing through the river traffic, was a smart white Police motor boat. On shore several men worked on their boats, caps pushed to the back of their heads and oily rags in their hands. Others relaxed in front of wine glasses in the café close to where Étienne parked the van. Further along the road I could see houses and shops and more people, women and children and a bridge across to the far bank. This was a lively place quite different from the sleepy village near to Riverain.

  “The cave is just beyond that café,” said Étienne, as I scrambled out of the van. “My old friend, Robert Brissac owns it and there’s nothing he doesn’t know about viniculture. His family have been trading wine since before the revolution.”

  I nodded and followed him along the road. He stopped to exchange a few joking words with the drinkers at the cafe and I marvelled at how different he seemed away from home, freer somehow, almost like a different person.

  “Robert and I grew up together and were compatriots during the war. He was my leader.” This last was said with what sounded like respect and admiration.

  Leader in what, I wondered and then smiled to myself. Leader in blowing up castles.

  The shops and cafes were built on and in some cases directly into the white limestone rock face which bordered the road. I even saw a few houses, two stories with the windows at the front decorated by iron trellis baskets which held pots of red geraniums. I could only imagine how dark it would be inside at the back, cosy perhaps but claustrophobic. I thought of home, my house on the hill, uncomfortably open to the elements where the raw wind blew in through the badly fitting windows and under the doors, so that the outside was always part of our lives. Standing on that sandy river road in the steam laden heat of a summer afternoon in France, I felt homesick for a moment.