Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  They climbed the narrow path which led upwards round the side of a rocky bluff and along the top of a steep cliff. Although the cliff was fenced at this point and the drop a safe distance away, Julie gripped Peter’s hand more tightly. They came to a corner where the path led away from the cliff and paused.

  Peter said, ‘Look, a fishing boat!’

  Julie turned and followed his gaze. A small boat was drifting gently a short distance from the shore, its tan sails hardly filling in the windless lee of the headland. Several rocks were plainly visible just above the surface on the seaward side of the vessel. Julie shook her head. The Bretons were known for their knowledge of this coast, but all the same …

  She looked beyond the boat, towards the horizon. At night she could see the flash of a light from her bedroom window. Now, squinting her eyes against the sun, she could make out the form of the lighthouse itself. It was a tall grey and red structure standing stark and solitary in the middle of the sea. It marked a plateau of rocks lying just beneath the surface some miles offshore. She shivered slightly; the tower seemed lonely and somehow sad.

  She turned away. ‘Come on, darling.’

  They climbed up to the top of the ridge and walked slowly towards the village, just visible through a dip in the land. Although the path was fairly level now, Peter was puffing and panting as he strived to match her step. Presently he began to hang back and Julie wasn’t surprised when he said, ‘Mummy, please carry me.’

  She lifted him over her head and on to her shoulders.

  She said, ‘I don’t promise to take you all the way. You’re too heavy, young man!’

  It was true: in five minutes or so her shoulders would ache and then she would have to put him down. A man could have done it easily. But there wasn’t a man.

  She hardly ever thought about Peter’s father. It was as if he belonged to another world that had existed a long, long time ago. Her memory of him was completely neutral; she neither hated him nor cared about him. It was almost as if she had never really known him. The only thing she felt, possibly, was gratitude: he had after all given her Peter. But at the same time she never thought of Peter as belonging to him. Peter was hers and hers alone.

  She’d adored her son from the start, and it surprised her. In the months before the birth she didn’t have much time to think about how she’d feel; she was too busy sorting things out – difficulties mainly. It was only in the last few weeks that she realised she was about to give birth to a person, somebody who would rely on her for everything. It frightened her, but she was determined to do the right thing, to do her best.

  Settling in Brittany had been far from easy. Looking back, she wondered how she’d stuck it out. In fact, at one point just after she arrived, she’d nearly given up and gone home to England.

  The village was in full view now, a group of grey stone cottages standing out against the pastel grey-greens of the fields. Julie regarded it fondly. She was glad she hadn’t given up and run away.

  *

  As soon as she’d decided on Brittany Julie had written to her uncle and aunt. She didn’t know their full address, only the name of the village: Tregasnou. She asked if she could stay with them while she found somewhere to live.

  The reply came in two weeks. It was short, stiff and impersonal: they would be expecting her and they had a spare room where she could stay.

  The journey lasted three days. She took a ferry from Dover to Calais and then a train to Morlaix. She had to change three times and then wait two hours for a bus from Morlaix to Tregasnou. By the time she walked up the long hill to the small grey house, a heavy suitcase in each hand, she was exhausted.

  The farmhouse was typically Breton: it was built of grey stone with a high, pitched roof and low eaves which came almost to the ground-floor windows. There were two small dormer windows in the roof where the upper rooms must be. Various outbuildings extended from the back of the house and, as she approached, Julie heard the sounds of animals stamping and shuffling in a barn somewhere.

  The house was silent and, though it was almost dark, there was no light showing in the window.

  Julie knocked on the door. There was no reply. She knocked again, louder. After a minute there was the flicker of a light as an inner door was opened. Finally the front door swung open and a large, rather fierce woman stood in the doorway.

  Julie smiled and said in French, ‘I’m Julie.’

  Suddenly the woman smiled and nodded. She called something over her shoulder, then beckoned Julie in.

  A small, squat man appeared from the back room and with a shy smile shook her hand. ‘You are welcome, welcome. Please come in.’

  She was shown to a chair by the kitchen range and offered coffee. Her uncle and aunt sat opposite, watching her and smiling politely. Julie realised they were nervous. They were sitting upright in their seats, their hands clasped in their laps, looking strangely uncomfortable. For several moments no-one could think of anything to say.

  ‘It’s kind of you to have me to stay,’ Julie said at last.

  Her uncle smiled. ‘Not at all, not at all.’

  Her aunt took a decisive breath and said, ‘Well, let’s make sure you’re comfortable. First, have you had something to eat?’

  ‘I had a sandwich on the train.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like some soup?’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ Julie smiled gratefully.

  Her aunt got up and put a pan on the stove. She turned and started to speak again, quicker this time. Julie concentrated on what was being said, but to her chagrin, missed several key words. Before she could ask her aunt to repeat them her uncle was speaking and Julie realised with bitter disappointment that she could not understand all he was saying either. It was the accent, perhaps, or maybe her French was rustier than she thought.

  At one point her relatives started to speak in Breton until, remembering Julie was there, they returned apologetically to French.

  Julie suddenly felt depressed. She’d assumed that because her father came from this village she would have some bond with these people, some feeling of belonging. Instead she felt a complete stranger, a foreigner who knew and understood nothing.

  And it was clear that her uncle and aunt found her equally strange. They’d probably never met an English person before – nor, for that matter, any kind of foreigner. She was beginning to realise just how remote the village was.

  It was clear too that the farmer and his wife were not used to having guests. Julie had the feeling that she was upsetting the routine of the small household, and that they didn’t really know what to do with her. When finally she said she was tired and they showed her to a tiny upstairs room, she knew they were relieved.

  The next day started well. Julie tried hard to make conversation and offered to help her aunt with the chores. But soon she was depressed again. Her aunt was obviously uneasy about something and refused to let Julie help her with even the simplest tasks, while her uncle treated her with rigid politeness and exaggerated respect. The effect was rather chilling.

  That evening it came to a head. They had finished supper and Tante Marie started to clear away the dishes. Julie got quickly to her feet and carried the cheese and butter towards the larder.

  ‘No, no!’ Tante Marie made her put the plates down. ‘We can’t have you doing these things.’

  ‘But I must help, otherwise …’ Julie struggled to find the right word. ‘I will be a burden.’

  Tante Marie looked crosser than ever. ‘But you are a guest. You must not work!’

  ‘But please … I feel I am imposing on you.’

  ‘It is no imposition.’ Tante Marie looked quite shocked.

  ‘You are kind. But you must let me pay you, for my food and my bed, just until I can find a room to rent. I will look for one tomorrow.’

  ‘A room?’

  ‘Yes, a room to rent.’

  ‘But – why?’

  Julie stared at the older woman. She began to wonder what they had unders
tood from her letter.

  ‘Well, I can’t stay with you for ever.’

  Her uncle and aunt exchanged glances. Her aunt sat down slowly. ‘You mean, you’re staying a long time?’

  ‘Yes, I want to.’ She laughed nervously.

  Gently Tante Marie took her hand and patted it. Then Julie found it easy to explain everything they hadn’t understood from the letter: how she wanted to stay in the village, how she was going to find a room, then a job …

  It was more difficult to talk about the baby, of course, particularly when she had to explain about the husband who was meant to have deserted her. But she did it, because they’d have to know some time and it might as well be now.

  After she’d told them, she felt much better. At least everything was out in the open.

  It was different then. In some strange way, her aunt and uncle were pleased. They insisted she stay with them. Terms for board and lodging were soon agreed. Everything was settled.

  They went out of their way to make her feel at home. Her uncle prepared a room for her at the back of the house in the lower of two rooms which had once been used for storage; her aunt allowed her to help with the chores; and the formality of the evenings was replaced by what Julie realised was a well-established routine of occasional conversation interspersed with long silences.

  But it was a long time before she did feel at home, partly because the way of life was so different and partly because she was lonely. The villagers did not take easily to strangers, let alone foreigners. And she had the unpleasant feeling they had heard the story about the disappearing husband and not believed it. Doubtless one or two of them were aware that she was entered on the Aliens Registration at Morlaix as Juliette Lescaux, not Juliette Howard, the name she had called herself when she arrived in France. She had chosen it after her favourite film actor, Leslie Howard, and then laughed at her stupidity: ‘H’ was the one letter the French could not pronounce.

  Finding a job was the hardest part. There weren’t many jobs around, even for those who spoke good French and weren’t pregnant. But she persevered. At last, when her money was beginning to run low, she was taken on as a secretary to a vegetable wholesaler in Morlaix. She suspected that the manager was tickled by her English accent, but whatever the reason, she wasn’t going to turn the job down.

  She was still there, three years and a baby later.

  Peter was like a lead weight on her shoulders. She said, ‘You’re breaking my back. I’m going to chase you home!’

  Peter giggled. ‘I’ll win! I’ll win!’

  She lowered Peter to the ground and the two of them ran down into the village and along the main street. Tregasnou was a small village, no more than a scattering of cottages built around a crossroads. There was one shop and a café. The shop sold bread brought in daily from the larger village of Plougat, as well as butter, cheese, simple provisions, and a rough local wine. For everything else you had to go into Plougat itself, or, for really special shopping expeditions, to Morlaix.

  Because Julie worked in Morlaix she often delivered or collected items for her neighbours. She was pleased to do it because it helped her to get to know them. Not an easy thing by any means. At one stage she despaired of being accepted by them. But then she realised it was a mistake to be too interested in their customs or to be too curious about their lives. They distrusted that. It was better to show polite interest and then offer information about England and how things were done there. They respected national pride and liked to hear about foreign customs, if only to reassure themselves that, all things considered, their way of doing things was the best.

  Julie thought some of their ways were quaint, others just out-of-date – it wasn’t done for women to go into the café for instance – but she never commented on it. That was the way things had always been done around here, and she wasn’t about to change them.

  Now, on Sunday afternoon, when almost everyone in the village took a stroll, it was impossible for her to get down the street without stopping for a chat. Most people made a pretence of talking to Peter and she realised it was mainly shyness which had held them back. Some were intractable – the old people mainly, who distrusted French-speaking people, let alone foreigners – but most treated her with kindness and warmth.

  Peter was running ahead, his small legs flying in a funny wheeling motion which was peculiarly his own. Julie walked briskly after him, waving briefly at an old woman sitting in her doorway, and to a fisherman and his wife strolling towards her. Because it was a Sunday people were in their best clothes, black for the older women, simple printed cotton frocks for the younger. The men wore ill-fitting suits and shirts too tight at the neck so that they ran their fingers inside their collars. Julie smiled. The women loved dressing up, but how the men hated it!

  Peter disappeared into the lane that formed one arm of the crossroads. When Julie turned the corner and looked up the hill she saw that the small figure had slowed down and was waiting for her. She caught up with him and bent to kiss him, then together they climbed slowly towards the small house which stood alone on the brow of the hill.

  After a while Peter began to drag his feet and look unhappy. His breath came in short pants, like a small steam engine. Julie reached down and, taking his hand, squeezed it.

  She said, ‘Not far now.’

  He gripped her hand tightly and looked up. ‘Mummy, it is a tall hill, isn’t it?’

  She nodded and smiled. She thought: Why can’t it always be like this? Why did Monday ever have to come?

  Finally they reached the house. Julie pulled the latch and they entered the darkness of the front parlour. The room was simply furnished with a large darkwood table, six straight-backed chairs, and a dresser. The walls were covered with a traditional Breton wallpaper, a pattern of flowers on trelliswork, and were bare of pictures except for a cheap religious print framed in gilt. The ceiling was low and supported by heavy beams.

  As they took their coats off there was a call from the kitchen and Tante Marie appeared. As soon as she saw Peter her round face broke into a smile.

  She leaned down to pinch Peter’s cheek. ‘And how did you enjoy your walk, my hero?’

  ‘Oh, we saw a boat, and I picked Mummy some flowers …’

  Peter chattered on in his broken French, and Tante Marie listened studiously, exclaiming loudly at the amazing things that had happened, and sighing deeply at the list of creatures that had not, on this occasion, presented themselves for Peter’s inspection. There had been no ants’ nest this time, nor a nesting plover.

  Julie sank gratefully into a chair by the old stove and watched Tante Marie’s face as it went through all the necessary reactions from astonishment to amazed delight. Julie decided, not for the first time, that it had all turned out pretty well. Not only did the old woman love Peter, but she took trouble with him. During the day, while Julie was away, she taught him things, about why plants and flowers grew, and how things worked; and they drew pictures and built paper castles together.

  The old woman straightened up and, going to the larder door, emerged with bread, cold meat and a dish of late strawberries. ‘Here, a surprise!’ She put them on the table and Peter wriggled up on to a chair, his little face glowing with delight.

  Tante Marie sat down on the other side of the kitchen range and smiled as she watched Peter. ‘I picked the strawberries this afternoon. We’ll have a few more bowlfuls yet.’

  When the old woman smiled her face was transformed. She was only about fifty, but she looked ten years older. Like many of the women in the village she made no effort with her appearance beyond neatness and cleanliness. Her grey-black hair was parted in the centre and scraped back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her figure was full and round and it was a long time since she had made any attempt to lose weight. Now she thought it unimportant. Her clothes were simple to the point where she had two working dresses, which she wore alternate weeks, and one best dress. She hardly ever felt the cold and made no concession to the
weather, except when there was snow on the ground, and then she wore a cardigan.

  Her face was round and plain and red-cheeked. She thought life was too serious a business to smile about it. When her husband read from the newspaper she always tutted and shook her head: she thought the world mad and she viewed people’s motives with distrust. The only important things, she believed, were the family, honest work and fear of God.

  But with Peter she was different. With Peter she smiled a lot. She had never had children of her own.

  Peter pushed the cold meat to one side and got down to the strawberries. Tante Marie turned to Julie and sighed. ‘Your uncle is very worried. He thinks war will really come.’

  Julie frowned. She really hadn’t been following the news very carefully. Occasionally she glanced at her uncle’s newspaper, or listened to a neighbour’s wireless – there was none in her uncle’s house – but her real passion was for books. In England she’d hardly read at all, it hadn’t interested her. But in Brittany she’d started reading to fill the long evenings and improve her French. Now it was her greatest pleasure and she was rarely without a book in her hand.

  People had talked about war, but she hadn’t taken it seriously. Now she wished she’d read the papers more often.

  ‘Do you think there’ll be war?’ Julie asked.

  ‘I think people are selfish and cruel enough to do anything. Particularly the Germans.’ Tante Marie had firm opinions about almost everything.

  ‘But why? Why do the Germans want war?’

  Tante Marie shrugged. ‘You ask me? I wish I could tell you. The usual things, I suppose. Power and hate and jealousy.’

  There was the sound of a door opening. Tante Marie inclined her head at the front parlour. ‘Here’s your uncle. Ask him. He’s been down in the village talking about it most of the afternoon.’

  The parlour door opened and Jean Cornou came in. He nodded a greeting.

  Julie smiled up at her uncle. ‘Hello. Did you have a good afternoon?’

  He grunted and shook his head. He pulled up a chair and sat down, breathing heavily after his climb up the hill.