When I Was Young

by Mary Fitzgerald

  I stared at my hands trying to understand what he was telling me. I noticed that my tan was already fading and I longed for that hot sun to be on my body and to stand on the bridge. I could smell the musty odour rising from the river and hear the occasional plop as a fish jumped out of the water for an insect.

  “Mr Franklin,” I asked, giving myself a little shake. “Is there any cash? I need a few winter clothes and toiletries, tooth paste, those sorts of things. I’ve hardly got anything left in my post office account.” Without money I was trapped and with this solicitor in charge of me. I could do nothing until I was eighteen. Nearly two years.

  “Mm,” he nodded and fingered his small greying moustache. “Yes, I can see that. Well, I’ll arrange to have your father’s pension paid into your account; it isn’t much, but it will do. And here,” he reached into his pocket and took out some notes. “This will start you off. I’ll invoice you for it because everything has to be accounted. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying not to sound as overjoyed as I felt. It was enough to buy some groceries and there was plenty of wood around for fuel. We would be alright.

  I’d left a thank you note on the guest room table at Suzy’s house which I knew no-one would find until that evening when they wondered why I hadn’t come down for dinner and once Dada and I walked away from the Asylum we got on the bus and went winding up through the villages until we reached the highest point.

  Of course there was a row when they discovered where we’d gone. Mr Franklin came up to the farm bringing our doctor with him.

  “We’re very disappointed with you, Eleanor,” he said angrily. “Mrs Franklin and I have endeavoured to make a home for you and this is how you repay us. By running away.”

  I was very calm. “I have a home, Mr Franklin and my father and I would prefer to be here. I’m very grateful for all the help you’ve given me but I know that Mrs Franklin and Suzy will be glad to get me from under their feet. After all, I’m not going back to school and I can’t hang around your house all day, can I”

  His face reddened a little and I knew that my words struck a chord. Mrs Franklin had probably expressed exactly the same sentiments. “But what about your father?” He went on a counter attack. “He isn’t well enough to be out of hospital.”

  “He was only there because Mother was ill and I’m perfectly able to look after him. Anyway, we’re company for each other.” I looked at Dada who was sitting opposite Mr Franklin at the kitchen table. He came inside more these days and stayed up later, watching me after supper whilst I read beside the fire. One evening he picked a library book, and started turning the pages. I said nothing and continued to read but watched from the corner of my eye as he smoothed his hand over the first page. Later, I noticed the book was missing and I knew it had been taken to his room. It was returned the following week and I was able to take it back to the library. I ignored the tiny pencilled notes he had written on some of the pages but got him a library ticket and took out extra books which I thought might interest him.

  “Doctor?” Mr Franklin turned to our GP for support. “Surely Captain Gill should be in the hospital?”

  “Actually, Mr Franklin,” the doctor said, looking closely at Dada and then at me, “I would say the patient looks better than he has for years. I think the…the change of circumstances must suit him. On the other hand, I don’t think Eleanor looks very well. A little pale, maybe?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “It’s just that my tan is fading.”

  “Mm,” he grunted. “How are you going to manage the sheep? Your mother had the strength and willpower of a man. I don’t reckon you’re cut from the same cloth.”

  “She doesn’t have to,” Mr Franklin cut in. “There is an arrangement with Mr Winstanley. He’ll run the sheep and take a percentage of the lamb price.”

  I waited for their decision. No matter what they said, I thought, I won’t go back to the town. The comfortable Franklin house with its central heating and manicured lawns no longer appealed. That lifestyle had been the dream of the old me. I’d seen better things.

  In the end, they reluctantly agreed that we should stay. “But, Eleanor,” the doctor said. “Come down to the surgery soon and let me examine you. You might need some iron pills. God knows what rubbish you’ve been eating in France.”

  As he and Mr Franklin went out I heard him say, “she’s grieving, I think. We’ll let her get on with it.” He was right, I was grieving, but not for my mother.

  We lived comfortably, Dada and me, sitting beside the log fire in the winter evenings, reading and listening to the wireless I had bought with some of my money.

  I cleaned out and painted the pantry and repaired the window so that it was usable again and filled it with vegetables which I bought without the necessity of coupons and made soup.

  I think Dada liked my cooking, omelettes, meat stews and fresh fish, bought weekly from the fish man who would drive into our yard and try to persuade me to buy the cheap coley or whiting. “No,” I’d say, examining the catch that he’d brought. Nothing was as fresh as it should be but sometimes there would be a nice piece of cod or haddock and once he had trout. “My nephew gets this,” he said and tapped his nose. I presumed his nephew was a poacher but I bought the trout and made us a lovely meal.

  I had a letter from Luc just before Christmas. Good news, he started. M. Martin was released from prison last month. The police could find no positive proof against him and the prosecuting judge insisted that he was freed. The thin paper of Luc’s letter shook in my hand and, aware the Dada was looking at me, I smiled at him. “This is a letter from one of my friends in France,” I said. “He says that the Martin family are well and…” I read some more, “they are planting more vines.”

  I saved the rest of the letter to read when I was on my own and despite the driving rain I put on my coat and walked out on the hill to a place where I could shout out my joy. “Yes!” I yelled to the sky, ignoring the rain lashing my face and soaking my hair. “He’s free!” Then I burst into tears and sobbed out all the despair and frustration I’d kept to myself since I’d come back to England.

  The rest of the letter I read in my room when I went to change out of my wet clothes. I was calmer then and able to take in more of what Luc had written. “There has been much talk in the village but everyone is happy that Étienne is home. Lisette is at school and my mother says she is doing well but she is missing you. She told my mother that you are her big sister and that she thought of you every day. I do too.

  Do you remember Robert Brissac? He died, having finally succumbed to all the injuries he had during the war. Everything has been left to Jeanne and I expect she will be more pompous than ever!

  Before M. Brissac died he went to the Police Department in Angers and spoke to the Commissaire. Nobody knows what was said but Étienne was released soon after. He did leave his shares in Étienne’s vineyard, back to Étienne in recognition of the part Étienne played during the war. He mentioned particularly Étienne’s bravery in rescuing Jeanne from underneath the noses of the Germans when her mother was killed.

  I send you the best wishes of my mother and father, they hope you are well. I send you best wishes too. Please write to me. Luc.

  I read the letter several times, picking apart the bits of information Luc had given, trying to understand what it all meant. Robert Brissac had been to the police and said something that had freed Étienne and I finally realised that there was only one explanation. Sitting in my cold bedroom I cried again. Étienne had known or perhaps guessed who the murderer was but out of respect for his friend and commander, he said nothing. He would have gone to his death, still silent.

  I think Grandmère knew too.

  The next day I got the bus into town and bought two Christmas cards. I sent one to Luc and his family and the other, a chintzy card with robins and snow and lots of glitter to Lisette. To dearest Lisette, I wrote, wishing a Happy Christmas to you from your loving sister, Eleanor.
Then I wrote, much love to Grandmère and to your Papa. P. S. I am well. I hope you are too.

  Throughout Christmas and in the weeks after I thought I would hear from them, but nothing came and I despaired. Then, in the first week in February when the snow was heavy on the ground, a letter from France arrived. It was from Grandmère and very short. All is well now that Étienne is back from prison. The child is growing and has learned to be good and useful. We miss you, dearest daughter and are waiting for you to come home. That’s when I started planning.

  I went to see the doctor and was put on iron tablets and given a telling off. But he made all the necessary arrangements and I was grateful. At first he talked to me as though I was a child but gradually his attitude changed and we had a sensible conversation. “I still worry about you, Eleanor,” he said. “In that cold place.”

  “I’m alright,” I reassured him, “and my father is taking on more tasks these days. He is happier, I think.”

  “Yes,” the doctor sighed. “You’ve done wonders for him.”

  Mr Franklin visited a few times, still cross with me and then more so when he saw my situation. “I knew that your living up here was a mistake,” he raged. “You need looking after.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “I’m fine.” Then I changed the subject. “How’s Suzy?” I asked. I hadn’t seen her since I left their house.

  “She’s well,” he said. “Got some sort of a boyfriend. I’ve met him once or twice, quite a nice young man, he’s got a place at Oxford, I believe. Mrs Franklin likes him. He’s from a county family.”

  “I want to go back to France.” It was a direct announcement but I could think of no way of dropping it into a general conversation.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.

  “I don’t mean now, but in the summer. Perhaps July or August. Before the grape harvest.”

  “Before the what?” He looked at me as though I was mad.

  It was left in the air but as he was leaving I said, quite firmly, “I will go, Mr Franklin. On my eighteenth birthday and you won’t be able to stop me. You should let me go sooner. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Chapter 26

  We got off the train at Angers station on a hot afternoon in early August. It was busy with people coming and going, women carrying stuffed shopping baskets and men racing down the platform to jump on the train before it resumed its way south.

  I sniffed the air and smiled. The sun shone in a clear blue sky and a gentle southern breeze blew balmy air onto my face. France was all around me, filtering into my lungs and pervading my skin. My sweet pea dress reflected the brilliant light and I felt alive and beautiful. I was home.

  Dada, who was carrying the pig skin case and its larger matching companion caught my eye and gave me one of his rare grins, he understood and was happy for me.

  We walked out of the station and I stopped at the taxi cab rank. When I told the driver where we wanted to go he frowned. “It’s twenty miles, Madame and back again for me. It won’t be cheap.”

  “I’ll pay you now,” I said, “if you’ll take us.” And, shifting my bundle, I took out a handful of notes and offered them.

  “No,” he smiled, throwing away the thin cigarette which was hanging from his mouth and opening the door of the battered Peugeot. “Wait until we’re there. Come on. Get in.”

  I watched every mile of the journey to Riverain from my seat in the back of the not too clean taxi. The neat regiment of trees threw wonderful shadows on the roads and ahead, I could see the water mirages sparkling on the dusty concrete. The sight nearly brought me to tears but I controlled myself. There would be plenty of time for tears later. We turned onto the side road where the verges overflowed with vegetation, creamy cow parsley and pink mallow and through the open window I could smell the fields.

  Yesterday, we’d ridden in another taxi from our bleak hillside to the station. Jed Winstanley had taken the house keys from me and wished us luck while the taxi driver had let his engine run up the pennies. Neither Dada nor I bothered to look back as we drove away. We would never come back.

  Mr Franklin had finally given in to my constant requests to be allowed to leave and had, in the end, been surprisingly helpful. He’d arranged passports and organised the sale of the house and land to Jed Winstanley. “The money has to be kept in trust for another year until your eighteenth birthday,” he said and sighed his frustration. “But your father’s annuity has been paid into your account and you will be alright for a while.”

  “We’ll be alright anyway,” I’d smiled. “I’m going home.”

  “You are sure that they’ll take you in?” He was still worried.

  “You saw them,” I answered. “How could you doubt it? I’m going to be with the people who love me and want me and to the farm where I’ll stay for the rest of my life. It is enchanting. Can you imagine a more beautiful place?”

  Mr Franklin stared out of his office window, at the noisy streets below and the factory tower hooting the midday break. Then, shaking his head, he turned back to me. “No, no I can’t, Eleanor. I can’t.”

  So now we were on the road home, Dada and me and…the driver turned his head. “We turn off around here,” he asked. “Which way, exactly?”

  “Next right,” I said, dreamily and looked over the fields to where I could see the white farmhouse nestled in its pillow of lush fields. I could smell the river, hot and sludgy and as my eyes travelled above the white house I could see the vineyard.

  “Here,” I said and the taxi drove cautiously through the pale stone arch and into the cobbled courtyard. “Go round,” I directed, “into the yard.”

  We stood in the yard as the taxi turned and rattled off back to Angers. I looked at the kitchen door and the red geraniums on the window sill beside it. I should go in, I thought, suddenly nervous, but then I heard a small bell like voice coming from the vegetable garden.

  “I heard a car, Grandmère, I really did. I’m going to see who it is.” And within seconds a leggy brown haired child came running around the corner of the house and skittered to halt as she saw us.

  “Eleanor!” she squealed. “Oh Eleanor.” Her arms were wrapped around my waist and as I bent my head to kiss her the tears started.

  She cried and so did I and then through my tears I saw Grandmère coming towards me with a look of so much joy that my tears overflowed.

  “My dear, dear, daughter,” she crooned. “You’ve come home.”

  We were quiet for a moment and then she stepped back. “What have you brought us,” she breathed and I put the bundle into her arms. Lisette squeaked in excitement.

  “Where is he,” I asked.

  She raised her eyes to the field of neat rows above the river. “In the vineyard, of course. He’s waited so long for you.”

  “And I for him.”

  Dada put down the cases and looking around the yard and up to the fields, took in a deep breath, crinkling up his nose, at the smell of the river, I think. Just as I had done and just as I had done he would forget to notice it after the first day.

  “This is my father, Edward Gill,” I said. Then I remembered. “Don’t shake hands, he doesn’t like to be touched.” But I was too late. Lisette had grabbed his thin fingers and had started pulling him towards the kitchen door. “Come on, my Grandpère,” she warbled. “Let’s go inside.” And he went, willingly, with a courteous bow to Grandmère and a murmured ‘Bonjour Madame.’

  “I’m going to the vineyard,” I said, taking the bundle from Grandmère.

  “Good,” her voice choking. “He’ll be so…” Then she coughed and smoothed back her hair where a strand had come loose. “I’ll give M. Édouard some coffee and then start on the vegetables for supper.”

  “I’ll help you when I come down.”

  “Take your time, Eleanor, my dear. There’ll be so much say.”

  I walked, slowly, so I could savour the bliss of being back at Riverain. The trees swayed in a gentle southerly breeze and I fancied I cou
ld smell the grapes ripening on the hillside. The sun beat down on my head and now I could feel it on my arms and legs. Oh, it was ecstasy.

  He saw me as I stepped onto the bridge and calling my name, ran down the hill while I waited for him. The water flowed, the birds twittered in the willow trees and I was in that enchanted land once more.

  Then he was by my side, breathless, glowing and his dark eyes wide with shock as I put our two month old child into his arms.

  “This is Stephen,” I said. “Your son. And we have come home.”

  The End

  Historical Note

  Fontevraud Abbey was founded in the year 1100 by wealthy patrons of the Benedictine order. Uniquely it housed both monks and nuns but the ruler of the Abbey was always an abbess.

  Many of the religious occupants came from the Royal houses of Europe and the Plantagenets were amongst the Abbey’s early benefactors. King Henry 11, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Richard 11 and King John’s wife, Isabelle, were buried there as well as other minor royals. Subsequently, during the religious wars, the graves were violated and the bones scattered but the effigy tombs remain.

  Napoleon declared the Abbey to be national property and in 1804 turned it into a prison. It remained so for nearly two centuries before the prison was closed and restoration work begun. It is now open to the public and the effigy tombs are on display. The tomb holding Isabelle of Angouleme was originally thought to be that of Berengaria, the wife of King Richard, Coeur de Lyon.

  Some of the captured members of the Resistance were kept in the prison at Fontevraud and some were executed there. I have taken a bit of licence and sent my characters there on a visit in 1950 but I have reasoned that Étienne might have known the guard and the guard might have known him. I hope readers will forgive me.

  Mary Fitzgerald.