When I Was Young

by Mary Fitzgerald

  “Did you enjoy your afternoon with the d’Amboise children?” Grandmère addressed Lisette, putting small portions of potatoes and beans on her plate. The fish had been handed around and I held the platter tightly when it came my turn to pass it Mathilde. I guessed she would endeavour to spitefully drop it and I was determined not to give her the opportunity. She did try, her hand dipping the moment I turned to her and I felt a moment of triumph when instead of putting it into her hands, I placed it on the table in front of her. The small, irritated tch sound was victory indeed.

  “Oh yes. So much. We played in the garden and then Claudine showed me the doll’s house that her Grandmère has. It’s in one of the upstairs rooms and very precious. It has lace covers on the tiny beds and curtains and rugs. Oh, I loved it. We couldn’t touch it, of course, but we looked at it. That was lovely, then her little brother came in so we pushed him out and shut the door. He would break it, Claudine said and her Grandmère would cry. I didn’t think she would. Grownups don’t cry.”

  “And what about you, Eleanor? What did you think of the cave.” Grandmère was making conversation, for Étienne was silent, eating his dinner without enthusiasm but refilling his glass constantly. At one point he got up and took the carafe into the kitchen to refill it. Grandmère frowned and when he came back and shook her head at him.

  “It was interesting,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. But I don’t think I would like to live in one of those houses built into the rock. I think they would be too dark and airless.”

  “They are warm in the winter and cool in summer, my friends tell me,” she said, “but like you, I prefer a house that is open.”

  “I’m going to extend the vineyard.” Étienne suddenly burst into the halting conversation and everyone, even Mathilde, turned to look at him. “I’ve been to the bank and seen my lawyer. More vines will be laid down and new machinery will be bought. The grape barn will have to be demolished and a larger one built to house the new press.”

  I heard the gasp from Mathilde. It was under her breath but I saw her chest move and just caught the hissed intake of breath. Étienne’s fist crashed unsteadily on the table and Lisette sank lower in her chair. “Yes,” Étienne continued loudly, almost shouting. “Things will be different from now on. I’m getting rid of the rubbish.”

  I flinched as Mathilde jumped to her feet, deliberately scraping her chair backwards on the stone tiles. She was still holding her knife and she pointed it at Étienne. “You leave that barn alone.” Her voice had risen above the normal cold sneering tone she usually adopted.

  “No.” He raised his glass to his mouth and with a swagger, took a long swig of wine. Some of it dribbled down his chin and dripped onto his shirt. “It goes. It all goes.”

  I was sure that there was another conversation going on, something that I didn’t properly understand but after my experience with Mathilde only this morning, the hidden meaning was beginning to trickle through my naïve brain.

  “Bastard!” The word shot out of Mathilde’s thin mouth and I could see that she was shaking with rage. “You’ll be sorry,” she shrieked, “just wait.”

  “I’ve been sorry for years,” Étienne replied. He didn’t even seem angry but almost buoyed by her rage and as I watched, one hand to my mouth, he started to grin. He was drunk, drunker than I’d ever seen him. “For years,” he repeated and laughed wildly, out loud.

  The laughing was more upsetting than his shouting and I heard a tiny moan escape from Lisette’s mouth. The evening sunlight coming in through the long window glistened on the tears filling her hazel eyes and her little body was wobbling. I began to get up from my seat but surprisingly it was Grandmère who pulled her from her chair and wrapped her close in her arms.

  Mathilde’s chair was flung aside as she stalked out of the room. We all watched her, even Jean Paul who had continued to eat mechanically throughout and Lisette lifted her head from Grandmère’s ample bosom and followed her mother’s exit from the room with what appeared to be relief.

  In the silence which followed Grandmère cleared her throat. “I think we’ve all finished now. Eleanor, take away the plates and bring in some cheese from the pantry and Lisette,” the child was held away from older woman and her tear stained face gently wiped with Grandmère’s napkin, “can you carefully carry in the basket of peaches from the kitchen table?”

  Our supper continued, the conversation hesitant at first but then Étienne talked more about his plans and smiled drunkenly at me on more than one occasion so I felt I’d been forgiven. Jean Paul stayed in his place throughout the meal keeping his eyes on his plate except on one occasion when he looked up and caught me staring at him. He immediately coloured up but feeling more cheerful, I gave him a little smile. Lisette fell into her habit of aimless singing and had got over her tears. But when I put her to bed later she held my hand very tightly and wouldn’t let me go, so I knew that she was still upset. Gradually though her grasp slackened and she drifted into sleep and I was able to leave. Looking back at her from her bedroom door I wondered yet again at how quickly my need to care for her had grown.

  “Come to my room and tell me about this morning,” said Grandmère when I came downstairs.

  “Yes,” I said, surprising myself at my need to talk.

  “Do you understand what Mathilde is doing?” Grandmère asked after I’d related the whole story. She looked old and weighed down with worry, quite unlike her usual self. She had brought a tray with glasses and a bottle of brandy into her parlour and poured us both a small drink. I sipped it, not really liking the taste but loving the closeness between us. Grandmère sipped at hers too, almost as though it was medicine.

  “I think I understand,” I nodded. The truth was that I still wasn’t really sure what Mathilde did but I knew that I wouldn’t make Grandmère explain further. I thought of the d’Amboise family. They must know and Robert Brissac and his strange daughter. Everybody in the village, even the baker, the post master and the priest in the church where we went on Sunday. I thought about what Luc had said about Jean Paul and Lisette not being Étienne’s children.

  “The truth is,” muttered Grandmère, resting her head against the soft back of her chair and as though she was reading my mind, “Mathilde has shamed us and made us a family without respect in the district.”

  Yes, I thought, she has and why does Étienne put up with it? Why doesn’t he stop her? That was what I really didn’t understand.

  Grandmère sighed. Strands of her iron grey hair had escaped from the tight bun which was generally kept neatly in place. She looked so tired I would have done anything to make her happy again.

  I leant forward. “You’re wrong.” I said, urgently. “People do respect you. Everyone has been nice to me and they wouldn’t if they didn’t like you and Étienne. And…” I was embarrassed to say this after only knowing the family for three weeks. “I feel no different towards you, now that I know. I love you and Étienne and Lisette.”

  Grandmère took my hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Eleanor, for saying that.”

  We sat on in companionable silence, listening to the wind in the trees by the river and the sharp patter of a brief rainfall.

  “No cards tonight, I think.” Grandmère heaved herself up from her chair and headed off to the kitchen. “You must go to bed, Eleanor and tomorrow you had better phone the consulate office for news of your parents. Yes?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, immediately ashamed with myself for only intermittently thinking about them all day. “Yes, I must.”

  I went up the main staircase to my room, looking in on Lisette on my way. She was deeply asleep, on her back with her hands clasped on her chest, looking for all the world like an effigy on a tomb. Miss Baxter had shown us pictures of the Plantagenet tombs at Fontevraud Abbey which was quite near here. King Henry the Second and his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine and King Richard the Lionheart and his wife Berengaria. “Their bodies probably aren’t there anymore,” said Mi
ss Baxter, “and there is a question over the identity of the second woman. The graves were desecrated during the Huguenot wars in the sixteenth century and then again during the Napoleonic era. The bones are thought to have been mostly scattered but the outside tombs are thought to be genuine likenesses. They were great kings and Queen Eleanor, your namesake, was the most important lady of her age. She was the wife of two kings and the mother of two.” Miss Baxter had pushed her hand through her wispy hair and shook her head admiringly. “A wonderful lady,” she added.

  Later, when I knew that I was being placed in the Loire Valley she got quite excited, her cheeks glowing pink and her watery blue eyes focussing on one of the map posters which adorned the walls of the French room. “Fontevraud is very close to where you’ll be, Eleanor. Try to get to see it.”

  I shrugged as I backed out of Lisette’s bedroom. There was little chance of another trip now but it didn’t matter, Étienne, Grandmère and I were all friends again and I could enjoy…

  “You told them, tu salope!”

  Mathilde was in the corridor outside Lisette’s room, her poison green dress fading into the gloom of the poorly lit landing and her hand grabbing my arm.

  “What?” I gabbled, not understanding the insult.

  “You told them about the barn.”

  Her fingers were curled cruelly around my arm and her painted red nails dug into my flesh, raising wheals that would linger for days.

  “I didn’t,” I choked the words out. “I didn’t have to because they knew. Everyone knows.” I was struggling to breathe calmly because she terrified me but was determined not to show it. I shook off her hand and looked down to her pale, spiteful face. “Everyone despises you.”

  “Oh!” she gasped, the whites of her strange eyes growing larger and seeming to fill the air between us. “How dare you!” and repeated the insult, “tu salope,” which I later knew to mean ‘you bitch,’ as well as other words that even now I can’t say out loud. “Watch out,” she hissed, “I’ll get you. If you don’t get out of this house, I’ll make you suffer.”

  I walked away from her then along the corridor and up the steps to my bedroom, my heart thumping and unbidden frightened tears spilling down my face. She was watching me, I could feel it and almost expected her to run after me. Was she capable of physically hurting me? Would she dare? Could she hit me or worse… I imagined a knife being plunged into my back and blood running down my legs onto the bare floor boards. By the time I got into my room with the door shut behind me, I was shaking.

  Washing my face in my little bathroom helped calm me and I undressed and put on my cotton nightdress. The room felt stifling and I opened the shutters so that air from the river would cool me and leant against the sill. The faint breeze that blew against my face was warm too, coming up from the south, presaging another hot day in this foreign country. I have to go home, I thought. Apart from the fact that my parents needed me, the reasons for going were obvious. I was causing trouble here and it was bound to get worse because Mathilde, the witch, wanted me out of the house.

  Outside it was quiet, no clip clip sound of Mathilde’s shoes nor sight of Étienne on the bridge. Only the cry of an owl and small rustling noises among the saplings on the bank disturbed the night.

  I lay on the bed, still too hot to get under the duvet and closed my eyes. Sleep came quickly, perhaps a subconscious desire to escape from reality but it wasn’t restful. I dreamed, confused, violent dreams where I could hear people whispering and see ghostly faces appearing from behind doors. There was no sense to be made, no story or purpose just episodes which seemed like threats and danger. Then the dream became worse. I could feel pressure as though all the breath was being squeezed from my chest and desperate, I tossed my body this way and that to try and relieve it.

  “Lie still,” the voice in my ear demanded. “You know you want it.”

  For a split second I did lay still and listened. Was this still a dream or…? My eyes shot open and blind at first in the darkness of my room, I grappled frantically with the heavy body on top of me.

  “Get off,” I screamed, “get off me.”

  I grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and pushed as hard as I could, removing one of his hands from my shoulder only for it to fasten around my face and push my head into the pillow. My legs were held down by his, I could feel trousers and an open belt buckle pressing against my knees. His other hand was pushing up my nightdress and in a horror of confused recognition I knew which part of his body was rubbing against me.

  “No,” I wailed, twisting my head so that my mouth was free. “Stop!”

  “Shut up!” he panted. A hand was on my breast and then on my belly and …oh God… Using all my strength, I heaved myself up, pushing him to the side and releasing his hand from my face. “Get away from me,” I screamed and at that moment, my eyes now accustomed to the dark, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Mathilde, peering out from behind the door that led down to the kitchen. Her terrible smirk told me all I needed to know.

  But I was being grabbed again, my nightdress ripping and his hands once more pressing me down. He was strong, stronger than I’d imagined and now one of his hands was clutched around my throat. I tore my nails down his face, hating the feel of his skin and desperately brought up my knee ready to jam it into his genitals, but suddenly it wasn’t necessary. He had gone.

  “You little bastard,” roared Étienne, throwing Jean Paul across the room with such force that he crashed against the wardrobe and landed in a heap on the floor. “Now I will kill you!”

  “No, Papa,” howled Jean Paul. “She wanted me to do it. I was told.”

  I curled myself into ball and dragged the duvet over my nakedness. My nightdress was torn and hanging off me. “I didn’t,” I sobbed, trying not to look at him although the sight of his trousers around his knees leaving his lower body exposed had a dreadful fascination. “I loathe him.”

  “But Mathilde said…” Jean Paul whimpered.

  Through my tears I looked quickly to the door but Mathilde had gone and now I wasn’t even sure that I’d seen her. Did I dream that?

  Étienne turned to me. “Are you alright? Did he…?”

  “No,” I shook my head, my voice a shaking whisper.

  “Thank Christ.”

  A light came on through the open door to the landing. “Eleanor?” Lisette was standing in the doorway. “What is wrong?”

  My screams must have woken her up as they had Étienne. She looked very frightened and was already beginning to cry. “Don’t worry.” I forced a smile on my face. “It’s nothing. I had a bad dream.”

  “Lisette.” Étienne walked round my bed to the little girl and touched her shoulder. “Will you go downstairs to Grandmère and tell her that Eleanor needs her? Can you do that?”

  “Yes, Papa,” the child whispered and disappeared from the doorway.

  “Now, you little bastard,” Étienne turned and looked back to where Jean Paul had been lying but in vain. He was gone. Slipped down the back stairs and disappeared. I never saw him again.

  “Damn him,” Étienne shouted, “damn him to hell.” Then he looked at me and heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he said. “So, so sorry,” and came over and sat on the bed. He put his arms around me and held me tight while I sobbed on his shoulder. To my shame, it was almost worth what had happened before to be in his arms with his face next to mine. If he’d wanted to kiss me, I’d have let him.

  We both heard Grandmère climbing the kitchen stairs and soon she appeared in my bedroom, pushing Étienne out of the way and taking me in her arms.

  “What happened?” she asked. Her hair was hanging in plait and she wore a black shawl over her voluminous white nightdress.

  “Jean Paul, he tried to…” Étienne stopped explaining, his eyes on Lisette who had followed Grandmère into the room.

  Grandmère understood straight away. “Now,” she said, “As we’re all awake, I think we’ll go downstairs and have something to drink and perhaps a lit
tle snack. Is that alright, Eleanor?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Hot chocolate, I think.”

  “Me too, Grandmère?” Lisette pleaded.

  “Yes. Put your shoes on first.”

  “I’m going to look for Jean Paul,” said Étienne. “I’ll teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.”

  Grandmère said nothing. This time… she agreed with him.

  Chapter 15

  I felt strange the next day, almost like an invalid and Grandmère, Étienne and even Lisette hovered around me, their eyes not quite meeting mine but all trying to stick to their normal routine.

  There was no sign of Jean Paul or Mathilde and before lunch I watched, from my bedroom window, Étienne attacking the grape barn with what looked like, from a distance, a sledgehammer. He was wasting no time.

  “Papa is breaking the barn,” said Lisette who was leaning against the window beside me. “He’s knocked the door down. And now he’s starting a bonfire.”

  “Good,” Grandmère grunted. She was stripping my bed and putting clean, sweet smelling sheets and pillow cases on it. The duvet had been stripped too, taken downstairs and hung on the washing line.

  “Let me help you,” I said, but Grandmère shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “This is a job I must do.” It was another way, I thought, of her saying how sorry she was.

  Lisette and I went downstairs then and wandered into the vegetable garden. A new row of beans had ripened and I wondered about picking some for lunch. Maybe Grandmère had already done so but I did pick courgettes and courgette flowers. These Grandmère dipped in a thin batter and fried. I loved them.

  “I saw a man on the bridge, last night,” said Lisette.

  “Did you? When?” I was bending over the courgette patch and wasn’t really listening, I had too much on my mind.

  “After the chocolate, when we’d all gone back to bed. He was with Papa.”

  I straightened up with the courgette flowers in my hand and looked down at the little girl. “Are you sure,” I said. I hated the thought that she might have seen one of Mathilde’s ‘visitors.’