by Karen Abbott
Christi had listened in silence. She knew nothing of what had happened. Maybe even her mother had known very little.
“What about Pierre? How did he die?”
“Unfortunately, he was killed during the final operation of liberation.”
“Did no-one try to contact my grandmother’s family?”
“Of course. When the war ended, Grandmère wrote again to Angèlique but when she didn’t receive a reply, she wondered if she too had been a casualty of war. Things were bad here. The war changed so many things … torn so many families apart … destroyed so many lives. There was so much rebuilding to do ... of lives as well as property. I imagine it was much the same in England.”
Christi sighed. What a tragic ending to two people’s love for each other. She supposed similar things had happened to thousands of lives during the course of the war and its aftermath. She hadn’t realised how much it had affected her own family.
There was so much more that she longed to ask.
But not now. Jean-Claude had put down his empty mug and was rising from his seat.
“We will discuss what we are to do with you later. Right now I need to collect my cousin Virginie from school.”
With a few rapid words to Georges and Marie, he left the kitchen, leaving Christi to sort through her tumult of thoughts as she helped Marie to set six places at the table for the evening meal.
The arrival home of Georges and Marie’s sixteen year old daughter took Christi’s mind off her family history. From the moment Virginie bounded into the cosy kitchen, a chill settled on the place. Her expression revealed a mixture of curiosity and hostility. The latter increased when she recognised the clothes that Christi was wearing. A torrent of words conveyed her displeasure, as she indignantly plucked at a shirt-sleeve.
Christi blushed, realising what it was about, although she didn’t understand the words.
“I’m sorry … er … je regret, mademoiselle …” she began.
Tante Marie rattled off a stream of French.
Virginie tossed her dark curls and glowered at Christi, refusing at first to acknowledge Christi’s outstretched hand. After a sharp reprimand from her mother, she briefly touched the hand and swung away, her face sullen. She had dropped her bag of school books under the table. She now stooped to retrieve it, picked up two pastries from the table and marched upstairs.
Christi sighed inwardly, wondering just what Samantha had landed her in.
She was glad when Marie brought out the coffee pot and the family meal drew to a close. She inwardly acknowledged that she had put her cousin Samantha through some uncomfortable encounters but she reckoned that Virginie’s attitude beat them all—or was that because she was on the receiving end of this encounter? Maybe her problems with Samantha had been partly of her own making?
That thought didn’t rest too well with her ... but the main surprise to her was that she felt more embarrassed for Virginie than for her own discomfort.
If the girl addressed her at all, it was in rapid French—and her face openly displayed her disdain at Christi’s halting replies. Christi looked down at her plate, aware of the mounting tension around the table.
Virginie smirked at her discomfort. Jean-Claude frowned heavily at her but she avoided making eye-contact with him, throwing a triumphant glance at Christi.
Luc glanced at his sister, then turned resolutely towards Christi.
“Do you like horses, mademoiselle?” he asked in careful English.
Christi considered what to say. She had seen the stables as they had passed through the main concourse of the farm. They obviously played a big part in the family business.
“I haven’t had anything to do with horses,” she admitted. “I lived in the town centre. There was never enough money to pay for riding lessons.”
An inelegant snort from Virginie drew a frown from the three adults and Christi was sure Jean-Claude had given his cousin a warning touch of his foot against her ankle. She was glad no-one spoke a reprimand. She knew from her own reaction to Samantha’s frequent censures that too much criticism would make the girl worse. It was something she was going to have to learn to deal with herself.
Fortunately, Luc was unaware of the tension around the table and he enthusiastically declared, “I have my own horse. I will show her to you when it stops raining.”
Christi smiled warmly at him.
“That will be nice. Er … Quelle bonne idée!”
“Quelle bonne idée,” Virginie mimicked in ponderous tones, flicking her eyelashes upwards towards the ceiling.
Christi felt her cheeks flushing but was prevented from making any response by a sharp rebuke from Georges.
“Assez!” Enough!
Virginie banged down her cutlery and leapt up from her chair, pushing it noisily back across the tiled floor. She glared at Christi and, with her lips pressed tightly together, flounced from the room.
Christi felt dismayed to have been the subject of a family row. Why did the girl resent her so much? And Marie and Georges … they looked uneasy. Maybe it was just Virginie’s outburst … yet …? She shook her head. She was surely imagining it.
Jean-Claude had said he would discuss her future with them later that evening but he and Georges were called out to attend to the drainage ditch that had collapsed further. Jean-Claude briefly translated for her.
“Have an early night,” he advised. “You look tired.”
He was right. She was tired. She had been in England this time yesterday—now she here on this rain-swept island off the coast of France. And seemed to be the centre of a family dispute ... which, for once, wasn’t of her making.
She was thankful when she could wish everyone goodnight and retire to her room. No doubt everything would seem better in the morning.
For a moment she didn’t realise where she was when she first opened her eyes the following day. There was the sound rain and the raucous call of some bird or other and then a girl’s voice complaining in petulant tones; a man’s sharp response; the sound of a car door slamming; and the crunching of tyres upon gravel as the vehicle was driven away at some speed.
Her mind snapped into gear. Of course! That was Virginie being taken to school … and there was probably some work to be done. Wanting to make a good impression, she swung her legs out of bed, grabbed her bag of toiletries and hurried along to the bathroom. She suspected she was probably the one one to still be upstairs she and she quickly got ready for the day.
Breakfast for the rest of the family was over when she arrived in the family kitchen. Only Tante Marie was there ... and she was scrubbing the floor from one end to the other. The smell of coffee and freshly baked bread rolls wafted over from the table. A dish of butter and a jar of jam sat nearby. Tante Marie replied to her greeting and waved her hand towards the table.
Christi didn’t need telling twice. She was hungry … and if she was to go out in that rain she needed some sustenance. She had almost finished her breakfast when Jean-Claude returned. He was looking more relaxed today, she was pleased to note as he joined her at the table. It gave him a younger and more pleasing expression. She was also relieved when he started to speak in English.
He began with a question, as he buttered a fresh roll.
“What do you expect of your stay here with us?”
Christi hesitated.
“I’m not sure,” she began. “Samantha rather threw it at me and didn’t give me much information—or much time to think about it. But, if you can give me a job for a while, I would much appreciate it. I would like to find out more about where my grandmother lived. Even my mother didn’t know much about her ... only what her grandparents could tell her about Angela’s childhood. They didn’t talk about what she had done during the war. I don’t suppose they knew much about it. My mother always felt they had been shocked when their daughter arrived home expecting a baby, especially as they only had her word that she had married. Now that I am here, it would be good to get to know Pierre’s fami
ly, if that is possible. Pierre was my grandfather, after all and so his family are mine also. But only if it’s convenient, of course!”
Jean-Claude’s expression seemed to indicate that he was weighing up her words and considering his response ... but he shrugged his thoughts away and merely repeated her last two words.
“Of course.”
He smiled suddenly, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle. Christi’s heart leapt. Wow! He hadn’t had quite that effect on her yesterday. She had felt more intimidated by him than anything else, whereas now …
Jean-Claude’s voice drew her back to attention.
“I was asking what sort of jobs you are willing to do.”
“Oh!”
For a moment she was flustered. “Er … anything. I know you might regard me as a bit of a ‘townie’ … but I’m willing to try whatever is needed. I have worked in an office … I am familiar with computers, spreadsheets, accounts and suchlike but ...”
“I do all of that at the moment but we could consider it later on, when we have decided … mutually, of course … where you might fit in. As for now …?” He looked searchingly at her face. “If you really mean what you say about trying anything ...?”
She held his gaze. “Of course I mean it! I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“No, I don’t think you are.” He studied her face once more and then nodded. “I will employ you throughout the summer, alongside my other seasonal workers and will give you an opportunity to try all the different aspects of the work here … on one condition.”
“What is that?”
“That you leave all queries about your grandparents until your trial period is over.”
“Why?”
He was silent for a moment, choosing his words with care.
“It would get in the way of your work. If you agree to work here, I can’t have you taking days off to scour the countryside for family links and following up leads here, there and everywhere.”
“Do you know Pierre’s family? Are any still living here?”
Once again Jean-Claude considered his words before answering. He answered reluctantly.
“There are ... a few.”
“Have you told them I am here?”
“We haven’t told anyone. We weren’t even sure you would come. It is better if no-one knows of your connection ... for the time being.”
“Why?”
“It could cause ... problems. It will be better if you are accepted for being as you are ... not relying on your family history. We Oleronais have long memories.”
“But …”
“No more questions! If you agree to my terms, at the end of that time, when the season is over, I will help you in any way I am able. What do you say? Are you prepared for all the hard work?” He reached out and picked up her right hand. “These hands …”
Her heart beat perilously quickly. She wanted to pull her hand back but was mesmerised by his gentle touch as he turned it over, stroking its velvet softness with his own calloused fingers. He had done this yesterday, soon after he had picked her up in his truck. Then, she had only felt annoyance. Now she felt …? She ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. She felt its seductive powers.
She raised her eyes to meet his. For a moment there was an answering gleam … or was he teasing her? The glint had disappeared and he was businesslike once more as he released her hand.
“Your hands won’t be that soft at the end of the week,” he challenged. His voice softened. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Christi pulled her thoughts together and calmly met his gaze.
“Yes … and I agree to your … condition … only, you won’t forget, will you?”
“No. I do not go back on my word.”
No, she didn’t really suppose he would. There was something steadfast about him that she liked … and he certainly stirred pleasurable tingles within her. Heavens! She was here to work—not to fall in love with her boss.
She didn’t want that to happen for years and years—not until she had found out more about herself and knew where she fitted in the world.
A summer job … that was she wanted … wasn’t it?
Chapter Four
By the end of that first week, Christi wondered how she had survived. She knew that Jean-Claude was testing her in some way … but whether it was to test her willingness to have a go at anything he asked of her, or her determination not to give up, she wasn’t sure. It certainly wasn’t to test her previous skills—as she had never even considered that people had such work to do, let alone be doing it herself.
From the moment that he had tossed her a pair of long socks, two tall boots that reached her thighs and a set of water-proofed leggings and a jacket that almost crumpled her legs under their weight and announced that she was going to work in the salines, she knew she was going to have to prove herself.
The glint in his eye as she struggled at his side, both goaded her and encouraged her into performing tasks that she have previously declared to be beyond her strength and endurance. She was rewarded by almost imperceptible nods of … was it admiration? He didn’t put any admiration into words but she sensed he was impressed by her willingness--if not necessarily by her level of skill.
And, determined to dispel any ideas he might have about her being a soft townie, she realised she wanted to impress him ... wanted him to be glad he had given her the chance to work here.
Jean-Claude hadn’t started her at the ‘soft option’ end of the scale! In almost ceaseless pouring rain - and sometimes standing in freezing cold sea-water, she had hauled crates of oysters in various stages of their development from their places in the salines, onto tractor and trailer, from where they were taken to a long sorting-shed, where workers more skilful than she inspected and graded them and reloaded them into fresh crates, which were then taken to their next growing areas.
As they worked, Jean-Claude carefully explained to her what they were doing and why they were doing it … firstly in French, then in English to make sure she had fully understood. His detailed instruction both puzzled and fascinated her. Maybe it was his enthusiasm that fired her imagination. Whatever, she knew she had never been so intrigued by any other process so far in all her studies.
The oysters, he told her, took over four years to grow to the correct size, from the time the tiny seed-oysters, no larger than the head of a pin, were collected on the clean hard surfaces of special ‘collector tubes’, to the day they were sold from the many wayside shops throughout the island, or indeed exported to the finest restaurants around the world.
At the end of four years, when the oysters were fat and succulent, they were removed from their final growing beds and then placed once more into the salines, where the microscopic sea-algae called bleu navicule gave the Ile d’Oleron oysters their famous opaque green hue, which was their characteristic trademark.
“And over here,” Jean-Claude continued, leading Christi to a vast concrete-lined tank where layers of oysters were resting in fresh sea-water, “is where the oysters expel the mud out of their shells and learn to hold the water. They are then hosed down one last time and we grade them according to size. There are seven sizes—the higher the number, the smaller the oyster.”
He took her over to the final sorting section, where indeed she could see for herself the various sizes. Jean-Claude reached over and picked up one of the larger oysters.
“This is a number two oyster,” he explained as he handed it to her.
It felt very rough, with layers of sharp edges. She frowned as she ran her fingers over the outer shell. It didn’t have the attractive colouring of many other sea shells she had seen. Why would early mankind have supposed that anything edible could be found inside such an ugly covering?
Her dubious thoughts must have been reflected in her expression. Jean-Claude laughed as he took it back from her.
“Have you ever eaten oysters?”
“No. In England they tend to be regarded a
s the food of the rich, as they are very expensive.”
“Whereas here, even the poorest labourer eats his fill! Many people wade out into the sea at low tide and gather uncultivated ones. There is a brisk trade for them in every local market on the island.”
As he spoke, he drew a stout short-bladed knife from his pocket and inserted the point in the midst of the sharp edges, twisting it as he did so, forcing apart the two halves of the shell. The top, flat half he discarded and carefully ran his knife around the edge of the translucent pale green creature inside the lower portion.
“Here is your first oyster, mademoiselle Christi.”
She looked at it doubtfully. Somehow, she had expected it to be more … what? More substantial? But she sensed Jean-Claude was testing her reaction.
“How do I eat it?”
“I will show you. Watch.”
He took it from her and placed one end of the shell to his lips and tilted back his head.
Christi watched in fascination as his throat muscles undulated as the oyster slid from the shell and down his throat. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, realising that even watching the action was extremely sensual.
“Now, it’s your turn.”
Jean-Claude prepared another large oyster and placed it carefully into her hand.
“Tilt back your head slightly and put the shell to your lips … so. Now let it slide out of its shell and down your throat.”
They were standing very close. Christi was as much aware of him as she was of the smooth translucent oyster sliding down her throat. Hadn’t she read somewhere that oysters were considered to be an aphrodisiac? Maybe it was the shared, almost-intimate experience, as well as the consumption of them? Did Jean-Claude feel it too? If he did, he gave no indication. He held out his hand for the empty shell.
“Ah, yes, you have the right action,” he approved as he took it from her. “So? What do you think of it, eh? Did you like it?”