When I Was Young

by Mary Fitzgerald

  Lisette put a finger to her chin in an exaggerated gesture of thinking. “No,” she giggled. “I think I might have had a dream.”

  “Silly girl,” I said.

  She picked up a flower that I’d dropped. “What did you dream about last night?” she asked. “Was it very frightening?”

  Nobody else had mentioned it. Even at breakfast Grandmère had chatted about going to the market tomorrow and perhaps inviting Edith d’Amboise for lunch. Étienne was dipping bread in his coffee when I came into the kitchen and apart from a ‘good morning’ didn’t speak. That was fine. I was grateful to drink my coffee in silence and when I came back from the pantry with the butter and apricot jam he had gone.

  “Do you know,” I said gently, “I can’t remember. But it must have been something awful to make me scream like that. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “I don’t mind. And I was the one who went for Grandmère,” she added importantly.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I liked the hot chocolate and the almond biscuits. It was exciting to have food in the night.”

  I took her hand and we walked back to the house. Just before we went through the kitchen door she stopped and looked up at me. “I always remember my dreams,” she whispered. “They make me cry too.”

  We were a quiet group at lunch. Étienne looked hot and sweaty. Flecks of ash from the bonfire were scattered through his hair and his arms above the wrist were streaked with soot. He had washed only cursorily before coming to the table.

  “You can go on the bike to the village after lunch, Eleanor,” said Grandmère, while she was ladling green pea soup into our bowls. “There you can telephone the Consul and find out about your parents.”

  “Yes,” I said. Her insistence that I should phone for news suddenly seemed slightly sinister. Was she keen now for me to leave?

  “And Lisette, you must have a lie down this afternoon. Even if you can’t sleep, I want you to go to your room and rest.”

  The child nodded. She did look tired and far from begging to come with me, she seemed glad to be told what to do. The fact that Grandmère was thinking of her was apparently enough.

  I glanced at Étienne. He wasn’t drinking but still looked angry and frustrated and ate the mushroom omelette which followed the soup with the same sort of mechanical disinterest that Jean Paul usually showed. “Have you seen either of them,” he suddenly asked.

  “No.” Grandmère shook her head. “Not a sign.”

  “Jean Paul has taken his velo.” Lisette piped up. “I saw him wheeling it out of the shed very early this morning. He had a bag with him too.”

  “Very early?” Grandmère tutted. “No wonder you look tired, Lisette,” but her eyes were on Étienne and they were both frowning.

  I cycled to the village when the lunch dishes were cleared away. It was very hot and I borrowed the white canvas hat that Grandmère wore when she worked in the garden and it saved my head from getting burnt. My arms and legs though prickled with sweat and the short downy hairs on them felt again as though they were being scalded off.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Eleanor,” greeted the postmaster. “Another phone call, or a letter home?”

  “Phone please, M. Le Brun.” I had learnt his name and was pleased to use it. “Can you get the number for me?”

  “But of course.” I handed him the coins and the piece of paper with M. Castres’ number and waited outside the glass box while he made the call. “Here you are, Miss Eleanor,” he called and leaving the receiver dangling, stepped out whilst I squeezed past.

  “M. Castres.” I heard myself shouting then blushing and knowing that M. Le Brun would be listening, repeated the consul’s name more quietly. “It’s Eleanor Gill. Have you any news for me?”

  “Ah, Miss Gill. How strange you should telephone this afternoon. I was just composing a short letter to you. No..no… nothing urgent. We’ve heard from England that your mother is still in hospital. I’m sorry to tell you, that apparently she is no better, but she is having every care possible.”

  “Oh,” I said. “And my father?”

  There was a brief silence, then M. Castres gave a short cough. “That’s a little more difficult to assess, Miss Gill. It seems that Captain Gill walked out of the…er…hospital and was missing for several days. Please don’t worry, he’s been captured… I mean…he’s been found now and is back in care. In a more secure part of the hospital, as I understand.”

  Poor Dada. Captured? I felt so sorry for him. He must think he’s back in the prisoner of war camp and be so frightened.

  “Are you still happy to stay with M. and Madame Martin?” M. Castres interrupted my thoughts of Dada.

  “Well, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I’ve been with them for too long. They haven’t said anything but I do think I should go home.”

  “But where will you stay? I’ve been told that your home is remote and you’ll need to be able to get to the hospitals to see your parents.”

  “I know,” I said miserably. “I just can’t think of…” Suddenly it struck me. Suzy. I was sure her parents would let me stay with them for a week or two until Mother and Dada could come home. They had plenty of room and Phyllis wouldn’t care. I didn’t think Mr Franklin would mind either.

  “M. Castres. I have a friend who might put me up. In the town. If I give you their address maybe you can get in touch with them and explain the situation. They do have a telephone but I’m afraid I don’t know the number.”

  “Well, Miss Gill,” he sounded relieved. “Read out the name and address of your friends and I’ll see what I can do. That might be a very good solution. And as for your homeward travel…we can lend you the money for it and your parents can repay it when they are better. Now, the address, please.”

  It was only when I was cycling back to Riverain that I realised that it was beyond the date when I should have returned to England and that Suzy would already be home accompanied by her French exchange girl. The visitor would be sleeping in their spare bedroom, so would Suzy want me there too? Oh God. It was a mess.

  The yard was empty and quiet when I cycled in and Grandmère wasn’t in the kitchen so I had no-one to tell what M. Castres and I had decided. It would have to wait until supper and that would be difficult too. Would Étienne and Grandmère feel that I was rejecting their kindness? Or would they think that Jean Paul’s attack on me was the cause for my decision to leave. Of course, they didn’t know that Mathilde had threatened me and that I was very scared of her or that I thought that my presence in this lovely place was making things difficult for everyone.

  I wandered across the bridge and up into the vineyard. The bonfire beside the grape barn was still burning, sending a spire of acrid blue smoke into the clear sky and as I walked between the vines I saw Étienne come out of the wrecked door of the barn with a pile of what looked like clothes.

  “Hello,” I said, reaching him. I recognised one of Mathilde’s dresses, the black and purple one she wore for church and also the little green hat with the drooping feather. Flames from the bonfire were already licking around a shiny cream sheet and the remains of a heavily patterned rug and with a gesture of distaste Étienne dumped Mathilde’s clothes on top them.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, astonished. “Those are Mathilde’s.”

  “She won’t need them anymore,” Étienne grunted and picking up a long stick stirred the bonfire so that sparks cracked and danced into the air and the fire burned more fiercely.

  I was dumbfounded. “Why,” I asked.

  “Because she’s gone. These were left and I’m getting rid of them.”

  I stood, bewildered and watched the fire crackle. Étienne went back into the barn and almost in a dream, I followed him. I had longed to see inside but now, with the door sledge-hammered off its hinges and the stone surrounding it broken and knocked aside, it had taken on a menacing air. So it was with very cautious steps that I left the brilliant afternoon and entered the barn.

&nbs
p; At first it was difficult to adjust my eyes but gradually the light coming in from the enlarged doorway and from a small window in one of the walls revealed a stone interior with a dusty floor. Wooden beams, painted black, criss-crossed the high roof which was peppered with pin-prick holes. Larger holes appeared where the roof met the walls and I could see clay and twig nests at intervals and even some small birds flying around. It was blessedly cool in the barn after the baking heat of the afternoon outside, so much so that my bare arms felt suddenly cold and I shivered. Thinking back I wonder if that was cold or the realisation that I was in the witch’s lair.

  I looked round, taking in the old machinery, presses and large round tanks and other iron and wood equipment, none of which I understood. To my surprise, a mattress lay on the floor next to one of the old basket presses and I had to step aside quickly because Étienne was dragging it out.

  “Does Mathilde sleep here?” I asked, too surprised for tact and forgetting that she had gone. I had thought the bedroom next to Lisette’s was hers.

  “She… entertained her…her friends here,” Étienne grunted. He was struggling with the mattress and I grabbed the other end and helped to lift it through the door. It too went on the bonfire and Étienne had to add more wood from the smashed door to keep the fire going.

  I went back inside the barn. Apart from the detritus of Mathilde’s occupation; cigarette ends, pieces of clothing and empty beer bottles I looked again at the original machinery which had been left unused for years. Several wooden barrels on stands were lined up against one wall and three basket presses stood in the middle of the floor. At the far end of the barn was a large desk with drawers and next to it a rack where the diamond shaped holes contained many empty bottles.

  “Were those bottles once full?” I asked Étienne who was now standing beside me.

  “No,” he smiled. “The wine went into the cellar beneath the house. My father bottled it in here. This was where he did all his experiments, testing, tasting even blending. I used to come in and he would make me taste, describe what flavours I could make out and chose my favourite.” He chuckled at the memory. “I never wanted to stay, too impatient to be out with my friends and for me, the vineyard wasn’t important. I wanted to be a farmer. But now,” he shrugged. “I’m getting old. Turning into my father.”

  “I don’t think you’re old,” I said, shyly.

  He shook his head and rubbed his boot into the dusty floor. “Have you forgiven us for last night?”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “It was Jean Paul, he attacked me and” I paused. “I think I saw Mathilde watching from the door.” I wasn’t looking at him when I said, “perhaps she was going to stop him.”

  “Christ no,” he sighed. “That bitch was encouraging him. She was sick, you know. Sick in the head. She has made him the same.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I repeated. My phone call to M. Castres was playing in my head and I knew I would have to say something about going home. He and Grandmère would think it was because of Jean Paul and Mathilde and part of me knew that it was. Another part felt that Étienne’s initial interest in me had gone. I’d had a silly crush on him and it wasn’t being reciprocated.

  I went outside into the bright blue afternoon and looked at the feathers from the mattress curling then shrinking to nothing on the bonfire. It would take a long time to burn I thought and as I watched, Étienne came out behind me with an old wooden chair which he smashed against the tumbled stones and threw on top of the mattress. The smashing and breaking seemed to be giving him some relief and I was glad. Now perhaps I could tell him about leaving. “M. Castres said…” I started but he held up a hand.

  “I have to go down to the yard. It’s time to get cattle in,” he said, giving the bonfire one last stir, “and Grandmère will be looking for you. You can tell us at supper.”

  “Yes, alright,” I said and trailed after him, down through the rows of ripening grapes whose scent was heavy on the air, sweet and sharp at the same time. I felt drowsy and slow this afternoon, the horrible events of last night finally catching up with me. For the first time I stopped and thought about what had really happened and what Jean Paul had tried to do. He had tried to…what? I didn’t know the word ‘rape’ then. Nobody had ever said it me and it wasn’t in any of the books I’d read but I did know ‘ravish’ and ‘violate’ and that was what it was, wasn’t it?

  I’d reached the bridge and leant on the railing. The planks were more rickety than ever and I noticed that part of the railing was splintered as though a rock had been thrown at it. But that was by the way, my thoughts were on Jean Paul. Had I encouraged him? Did that little smile I’d given him at supper mean more than I’d intentioned? Even as I thought about it I blushed. Oh God, the whole thing must have been my fault. Then I remembered his anger and cruelty and how he’d brutally forced my head into the pillow and torn my nightdress. He hadn’t been doing it out of desire. Foremost in my memory was the fleeting glimpse of Mathilde smirking at me from the doorway. And then I knew. Jean Paul had been obeying orders.

  Étienne was in the yard with one of the farm workers when I walked across it. They were looking at the engine of the old tractor and Étienne was hitting something inside with a hammer and swearing.

  “This tractor is a load of shit,” Étienne shouted, throwing the hammer against the folded up engine cover where it clanged and bounced back at him. “Shit!” he repeated then stopped and looked at me. “Ma mère has been looking for you,” he called out, still sounding angry but the other man grinned and touched his cap to me. I shuddered. Had he been told about what had happened? Had Étienne told the farm workers and they’d all had a good laugh and punched each other on the shoulder. I was sure there was nothing working men liked better than dirty gossip about sex. But as soon as I thought it I knew it was entirely my imagination. Étienne would never do that.

  “Alright,” I called and went in through the kitchen door.

  “Wherever have you been?” asked Grandmère. “Did you speak to M. Castres? What did he say?”

  Her questions were rapped out while I picked up a glass from the shelf above the sink and filling it from the tap took a long drink. For once Grandmère wasn’t at the stove and that seemed unnatural. She was sitting at the kitchen table, fanning herself with the raffia fan that usually hung on the hook behind the kitchen door. Her cheeks were very pink and the collar of her black blouse was undone.

  “Are you feeling ill, Grandmère?” I asked. “Shall I get Étienne?

  “No. No, child. It’s nothing. A little fever, that’s all. I’ll be alright. Just tell me about M. Castres.”

  I sat beside her then and repeated what the Consul had said. About Mother being no better and about Dada running away from the asylum. That made me think again about Dada. Where had he gone? And how had he fed himself? “He must be so frightened in there,” I said repeating out loud what I thought earlier.

  “And your mother is no better?”

  “No. She isn’t. And I don’t really know what’s the matter with her.”

  “Mm.” Grandmère’s fanning slowed down. “But you can stay on with us?”

  “Well,” I started, intending to tell her the whole conversation with M. Castres but a knock on the door and a called ‘hello’ announced M. d’Amboise and Luc.

  “Madame Martin!” boomed M. d’Amboise. “I bring greetings from Madame D’Amboise and this basket of late cherries. They’re the last from our trees and should be very sweet.”

  “Thank you, indeed,” said Grandmère, “and thank Edith. We’ll have them this evening. Now, can I offer you a drink?”

  “No, very kind of you but I must have a word with Étienne and then I’m on my way into town. Luc might, though. He’s brought a gift for Miss Eleanor.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Grandmère start fanning herself again but I was turning to Luc, wondering what gift he’d brought for me.

  “Here,” he said, holding out a book towa
rds me. “I thought you’d like to read it.”

  It was a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. “Oh, I couldn’t take it,” I said. “You said you loved it. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of it.”

  “No,” he laughed. “I’ve got mine. I bought this for you when I went into town.”

  I was thrilled. It was almost the best present I’d ever had. “Thank you, Luc. Thank you.”

  Walking in the garden with him a little later I told him that we thought Jean Paul had gone. I said nothing about the events of last night nor about Étienne burning Mathilde’s clothes. “I’m going to have to leave soon too,” I added. “My parents are no better and need me.”

  “Will someone help you in England?”

  “I think my friend Suzy’s parents will. The Consul is going to ask them.”

  “What do the Martins think of that?”

  I sighed. “Oh, Luc. I haven’t told them yet. I know they’ll think it’s because of Mathilde and Jean Paul and maybe it is. She scares me and last night Jean Paul…” I left the rest of the sentence unsaid.

  “What? What did he do?”

  “Nothing,” I said it quickly. “It doesn’t matter.”

  I think he would have pressed me for more but I could hear Grandmère calling me from the kitchen and he left then and I went inside.

  Again it was just the four of us at supper which I had prepared because Grandmère was still hot and flustered and happy to let me heat up the soup and make a mayonnaise to go with the shrimps.

  “Where’s Lisette,” I asked when I was ready to take in the soup.

  “She went out, a few minutes ago,” said Grandmère. “Call her.”

  I heard the child shout, ‘coming’ and took in the soup. Étienne was in his place, clean now with wet hair which had recently been in the shower and a white shirt. He seemed quiet but more cheerful and gave me a big grin when I ladled out a helping for him.

  “So, you are the cook tonight?” he asked.

  I nodded, smiling. “Only under supervision.”