When I Was Young

by Mary Fitzgerald

  “She’s getting very good,” grunted Grandmère and then to Lisette who had wandered in, “where on earth have you been?”

  “On the bridge,” said the little girl, settling in her chair and taking the piece of bread from Étienne. “I saw Maman.”

  Étienne and Grandmère looked up sharply. “Where?” said Étienne. Was I mistaken or was there choke in his voice?

  “In the river,” said Lisette. “She is floating.”

  Chapter 16

  It was if a bomb had gone off somewhere outside. The shrapnel not touching but the explosion stunning us all into silence. We sat, mouths slightly open and eyes fixed on the child in disbelief. All appetite had flown away and only Lisette continued with her meal, spooning soup into her little mouth all the while humming a tuneless song.

  “What did you say?” Étienne asked carefully, his voice unnaturally quiet. “About your mother?”

  “She’s in the river. I saw her.”

  Before she’d finished speaking he jumped up, his chair crashing down behind him and ran from the room. I followed and Grandmère grunting with the effort wasn’t far behind me.

  “Wait, Eleanor,” Grandmère panted. “This is not for you.” But I took no notice. I wanted to see. Could it be true?

  It was. I stood beside Étienne on the bridge and we looked down on Mathilde’s body, floating on the surface of the river, her poison green dress caught on a tree branch which had dipped into the water. Her black hair streamed out behind her, melting into the dusk like all the weeds close to the bank and her sightless cow eyes gazed at the violet evening sky. She was patently dead.

  “Oh Christ,” murmured Étienne and turned to me. “You shouldn’t have seen this.”

  I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Mathilde’s corpse. This was my first sight of a dead body but strangely I felt no alarm; for me, she was infinitely less frightening in death than she had been in life. I remember feeling no horror, no emotion and not really any surprise. Certainly I felt no sympathy and looking at Étienne and Grandmère it was obvious that they felt none either. She was so hated that death seemed to be the best outcome.

  But she had stunned us and although in the distance I could hear a car engine and birds in the willows tweeting as they searched for insects, it felt as though we humans had been frozen into silence. I shook myself. “She must have fallen,” I ventured. “The railing is splintered there.” I pointed to the place I’d noticed earlier and then a thought struck me. Why hadn’t I seen her, then?

  “Get her out of the river.” Grandmère had found her voice and was issuing instructions to Étienne. “It isn’t decent.”

  “Yes,” he nodded but didn’t move, seemingly unable to drag his eyes away from the sight of his dead wife bobbing gently amongst the weeds and willow branches. “I must.” But he still didn’t move and neither did Grandmère, nor I. I suppose we would have stood there longer, immobilised by shock but with a rustle of the undergrowth, Lisette appeared on the near bank leading M. d’Amboise by the hand.

  “My Papa is there on the bridge.” Her little voice carried on the evening air and we turned in unison to look at the newcomers.

  “Look, Étienne. I have the tractor part. Francois at the garage had just piece you wanted. The child told me where to find you.” Henri d’Amboise’s cheerful voice faded away as he looked at our faces one by one. Puzzlement etched lines across his brow and then, as if drawn by an invisible string he turned towards the river.

  “Mon Dieu!” he shouted, crossing himself quickly. “What has happened?” He leant over the railing and pointed to the body in the slow moving river. “That surely can’t be Mathilde?”

  “It is.” Étienne’s voice was bleak. “She is dead.”

  “We’re just going to get her out,” said Grandmère, gathering her senses. “I’m glad you’re here M. d’Amboise. You can help my son.”

  “Of course, of course. Then I’ll drive to the town and get the doctor and the police. They’ll have to be informed. Shall I call on the priest too?”

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough for him.”

  I realised as I walked back to the house with Lisette that M. d’Amboise hadn’t offered condolences. He like everyone else who subsequently came to the house, knew that expressions of sympathy were not necessary.

  “I’ll never see my mother again,” said Lisette. Her hand was clutched in mine and I stopped walking and kneeling down wrapped my arms around her.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, suddenly realising that the girl was now an orphan. “This has been a terrible day for you.”

  She snuggled into my chest like a little cat, her thin fingers kneading my shoulders and almost purring in her pleasure at being held. “It’s alright, Eleanor,” she said, her voice muffled in my shirt. “I don’t mind.”

  “But…” I started to say, then stopped. Mathilde had shown little affection for her daughter and clearly it was reciprocated. Lisette wasn’t at all upset, obviously quite the reverse.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get some food into you.”

  An hour later two local policemen came to the farm and the doctor from the town. I went out to watch them even though it was nearly dark and it was difficult to see what they were doing. They had torches which they shone down on Mathilde’s body which had now been dragged onto the far bank, while the doctor did a quick examination.

  “I can confirm that she is dead,” he said, unnecessarily “but she’ll have to be moved to the mortuary for further examination. Can you radio that in for me?”

  “No, doctor,” said one. “We don’t have radios with us, but I’ll drive into town and organise it. Jacques here,” he jerked his head towards the other policeman, “will stay with body so you can get back.”

  “Good man,” said the doctor, pulling the blanket that Grandmère had brought from the house back over Mathilde. He stood up, pushing his trilby hat to the back of his head and looked up to the bridge where Étienne and I were standing together. He was young, almost too young to be a doctor I thought and because it was a hot evening, he’d left his jacket in the car and was in his shirt sleeves. “M. Martin,” he called. “Does anyone in the house need my attention? A sedative perhaps?”

  “No, thank you, sir. We are fine.”

  The doctor paused for a moment and although I couldn’t see his face clearly, his look to the policemen was telling. Even he knew that Mathilde wouldn’t be missed.

  “Grandmère has a little fever,” I said as Étienne and I left the bridge after the doctor had gone. “Maybe the doctor could have given her something?”

  “She’ll be alright,” Étienne grunted. “Once this is all over she’ll be back to normal.”

  I wanted to say that she was ill before we found Mathilde but he’d made up his mind and it wasn’t for me to interfere. “I’ll look in on her before I go to bed,” was all I said.

  “Thanks.” He heaved a sigh and getting out a handkerchief, blew his nose. “Thank you, Eleanor,” he repeated, not looking at me although we had stopped in the yard. “I didn’t mean to be unpleasant. I’m surprised you can be so kind especially after the awful time you’ve had with us.”

  He turned to go and so did I, heading for the kitchen door but suddenly he gently took my arm. His hand was rough on my bare skin but it was nice.“I’d almost forgotten how normal people behave,” he muttered. “You’ve reminded me.”

  He went off to the calving pen while I was still thinking about what he’d said when I went into the kitchen. It had been cleared after our interrupted meal but I could see that Grandmère hadn’t made her usual preparations for the morning. Her apron was hanging over the back of a chair and I took it out to the wash house. I looked in the pantry, wondering what she had thought of for tomorrow’s meal and saw a piece of frying beef wrapped in greaseproof paper lying on the stone slab and stock for soup in a large jug. If Grandmère wasn’t well tomorrow, I thought I could manage to make us a couple of meals.

  I tapped on the
parlour door and went in. It was dark in there, the lamp hadn’t been lit but I could see Grandmère in her chair. She had wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and despite the hot night she was shivering.

  “Oh, Grandmère,” I said. “You’re really not well. What can I do?”

  “Get me the cover from my bed,” she said quietly. “I’m cold,” and she leaned back and closed her eyes.

  I did as she asked and tucked the cover around her. After lighting the oil lamp I went back to the kitchen and fetched her a glass of water and a small round cardboard box which contained aspirin. “Take two of these,” I said but she was reluctant.

  “I don’t need them. Get me brandy, instead.”

  “No,” I said firmly, amazed at my own boldness. “You must take some medicine.” And I took two tablets out of the box and held them out. “They’ll make you feel better.”

  Too weary to argue with me she swallowed the pills and drank deeply from the water glass.

  “Shall I help you into bed?” I asked. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

  “No. People die in bed.” We looked at each other. Not all people, I thought and knew that she was thinking that too. “No, I’ll be alright here. Just leave me. I’ll be better in the morning.”

  “Well,” I said. “If you’re sure. I’ll refill your glass before I go.”

  “Where’s Lisette?” Grandmère suddenly sounded like her old self. In charge.

  “I’ve put her to bed,” I said. “She’s alright. Not really upset.”

  “She wouldn’t be,” said Grandmère. “Still…”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll look after her and I’ll see to the cooking tomorrow. You rest.” Of course I’d forgotten that I’d asked M. Castres to help me leave. My conversation with him seemed to have happened years ago not merely hours.

  I left her then and went to my room and thought that I would lie awake for ages thinking about the extraordinary happenings of the day but I didn’t. As soon as my head hit the pillow I was asleep and woke up when the early light was filtering through my shutters.

  The baker was glad, I think, to see me. He knew, of course, about Mathilde but was careful in his questioning. “She drowned, I hear,” he said. “Please convey my good wishes to M. Martin and Madame Martin senior.

  “I will, thank you,” I said, taking two baguettes this morning because I thought we might have a sort of sandwich for lunch and maybe we would be required to feed more people throughout the day. “Have you cake?”

  “I have galette.” He pointed to an open fruit tart which was made from pastry with a filling of peaches and what looked like to me, custard. “Good,” I said. “I’ll take one of those.”

  He paused, his hand hovering over the tart. “Madame Martin usually makes her own deserts.”

  “She isn’t well, “I said. “She has a fever.”

  “Well, in that case,” he said carefully wrapping the galette in shiny paper. “Please give this to her with my compliments. No charge.”

  “Thank you.” I turned to leave the shop when the post master came in.

  “Ah, Miss Eleanor. Terrible events at Riverain, I hear.”

  I nodded, anxious to leave but he continued. “How did it happen? Did she fall? Or was it…?”

  The baker was leaning eagerly over his counter. “Was it an accident?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, surprised that they would think that it was anything else but when I was cycling home I thought about Mathilde in the river and wondered.

  I made coffee and took some into Grandmère. She was still in her chair and looked pale but she wasn’t shivering like she had been last night.

  “How are you this morning?” I asked, putting the coffee bowl on the little table beside her and shaking two aspirin out of the box.

  “Better, I think.” Her voice was firmer and there was a suggestion of the old glint in her eye. “I’ll come into the kitchen in a while.”

  “No you won’t,” I smiled. “Stay here a bit longer and rest. I’ll bring you some breakfast and see to the food today. It won’t be up to your standard, but I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will.” She took a long drink while I opened the little window in her room and let some air in. The room was stifling and smelt muggy and I thought of my mother saying ‘fresh air blows illness away,’ when I tried not to go to school, pleading a cold or sickness.

  Grandmère wasn’t so keen though. “Close it, Eleanor. All the flies will come in.”

  Étienne was in the pantry when I came back. He was using his penknife to carve off a chunk of sausage. He looked tired, as though he hadn’t slept well and I supposed he hadn’t. No matter how much he loathed her, the circumstances of Mathilde’s death were bound to have an effect. I squeezed past him to get at the butter and jam and he smelt of the farmyard and of the cattle.

  “I’ve got fresh bread,” I said, backing out and putting them on the table.

  “Good.” He came then and sat opposite me and we drank coffee and tore at the baguette together.

  “The police will be here again, today,” he mumbled, his mouth full. “I don’t think they’ll want to speak to you but,” he shrugged, “who knows?”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. “There’s nothing much for me to say.”

  “That’s right,” he said firmly. “The less we tell the police, the better.”

  It was a coded message which I understood at once and it suited me. I had no wish to tell anybody about what Jean Paul had done to me and if that was related to Mathilde’s death, well, so be it. That brought a new thought. Where was Jean Paul?

  “Étienne,” I said, tentatively, my face buried in my coffee bowl. “Do you think Mathilde had an accident or did she do it deliberately? There was talk at the bakers. People are wondering.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know,” he sighed “although I can’t imagine Mathilde killing herself. She wasn’t…” He pushed his coffee bowl away and stood up ready to go back into the yard. “Mathilde wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone. Certainly not me.”

  “But you said she’d gone.” I looked up at him. “You were burning her clothes.”

  He was heading for the door and had his back to me. “I thought she’d left with her son,” he said bleakly. “Hadn’t you noticed? They couldn’t bear to be apart. They were…” he stopped and turned his head so that I could see the revulsion in his eyes, “… they were evil.”

  Chapter 17

  It was a strange day. People came to and went from the house constantly. First Edith d’Amboise and Luc who came to see if they could help. When Madame d’Amboise discovered that Grandmère was ill she immediately went home and returned with a beef and red wine stew which I think she had planned for their own dinner.

  “We have meat in the pantry,” I said, embarrassed for Grandmère. I knew she would hate to be thought of as an invalid. “I can’t take your food.”

  Madame d’Amboise behaved like the school mistress she was and would have no argument. She even wagged her finger at me. “Listen, Eleanor. People will be here, the police, the priest even. There won’t be time for cooking. That stew can go in the oven and look after itself. You might have other things to do.”

  I nodded. She was right.

  “And,” Madame d’Amboise said, “where’s Lisette? I’ll take her back with me. Get her out of the way for a while. It’s not good for her to be listening to all the… well, all the unpleasant words that might be spoken.”

  But I couldn’t find her. She’d had breakfast and seemed to be her normal self, not sad about her mother but very concerned when I told her that Grandmère was ill.

  “Oh no,” she’d whispered, her hazel eyes filling with tears. “I don’t want her to die too.” A ring of chocolate drink surrounded her mouth and I leant over and wiped it away with her napkin.

  “She won’t,” I said. “Now eat up your breakfast and don’t wander off today. There might be a lot people coming here and I don’t want
you talking to them. Stay close by me or your papa.”

  “Is he still angry?”

  “No.” I looked at her wondering what she’d seen or heard. “He isn’t angry.”

  She carefully put apricot jam on her bread. “But he isn’t sad. He didn’t like Maman.”

  What she said sounded very cold coming from her little mouth and was an awful thing to hear from a child about her parents. But it was true, neither Étienne nor Mathilde had hidden their feelings about each other and there was no point in my trying to deny it.

  “He’s worried,” I said, “and there’ll be lots of arrangements to be made and people to speak to, so you be a good girl and not get in the way.”

  “I will,” she promised. “Shall I pick some flowers for Grandmère?”

  Then Edith d’Amboise and Luc arrived and Lisette disappeared.

  Luc sat at the kitchen table while his mother went to fetch the stew. I washed up the breakfast dishes and started on the ingredients for a vegetable soup. He didn’t waste any time and came straight out with it.

  “What d’you think happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, chopping the leeks in neat roundels. “I suppose she tripped.”

  “In daylight?”

  I shrugged. “What else could it be?”

  “Think,” said Luc. “You had a big row with her in the morning. You found out what she was up to in the grape barn and she would know that you’d tell Grandmère. How long would it be before they turned her out? Jean Paul has left. Come to think of it,” he stared at me, “why has Jean Paul run off?”

  “No idea.”

  He wouldn’t let it go. “Something happened yesterday. You nearly told me. Tell me now.”

  Had I nearly told him? So much had happened in the last two days that events and conversations were muddling in my head and I was struggling to remember what I’d said to whom. “It was in the night,” I started and he leant forward in his chair urging me to continue.

  Just then Étienne came in through the kitchen door and I remembered what we’d discussed and said no more.