by Fiona Valpy
OTHER TITLES BY FIONA VALPY
Sea of Memories
The French for Love
The French for Always
The French for Christmas
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Fiona Valpy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542047036
ISBN-10: 154204703X
Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com
For my friend Michèle,
with love
CONTENTS
START READING
PART 1
Eliane: 2017
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1938
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1938
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1938
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1939
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1939
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1939
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1940
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1940
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1940
Abi: 2017
PART 2
Eliane: 1940
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1940
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1942
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1942
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1942
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1942
PART 3
Eliane: 1943
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1943
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1943
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1943
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1943
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1944
Abi: 2017
Eliane: 1944
Abi: 2017
Abi: 2017
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower,
But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee.
For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life,
And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love.
from The Prophet – Kahlil Gibran
A honeybee performs a ‘waggle dance’ to communicate the distance and direction of a new foraging site to her coworkers in the hive. She dances in a figure eight, moving in a clockwise semicircle, then in a straight line . . . and, finally in a counterclockwise semicircle.
In the winter, bees stop foraging and cluster together with the queen in the center of the hive. They generate heat by uncoupling their flight muscles from their wings and ‘shivering’ or rapidly contracting and relaxing these muscles.
from The Beekeeper’s Bible – Richard Jones and Sharon Sweeney-Lynch
PART 1
Eliane: 2017
She knew that this would be her last summer. The warm caress of the late-spring sunlight couldn’t roll back the fog-like weariness that crept through her bones these days. But then there had been so many summers. Almost a hundred. She glanced up the hill, towards the little graveyard beyond the vines where those she loved the best were laid. They were waiting, now, to welcome her.
A worker bee, one of the first to venture out of the hive that bright morning, drew dizzy spirals in the air as it orientated itself, sensing the nectar in the flowers that she had nurtured in her garden. It circled around her, drawn by the scent of beeswax and honey that saturated her age-soft skin. ‘Good morning to you too.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t worry: I’m not going to abandon you just yet. I know there’s still work to be done.’
Beside the whitewashed hives, she set down the basket of frames that she’d been carrying and settled the veil of her broad-brimmed hat over her head and shoulders. She opened the first hive, gently lifting off the sloping roof, and bent closer to inspect the drones, a seething, humming mass of bodies attending their queen. Their honey supplies had lasted well over the winter and already the colony was expanding.
She slotted the new frames into an empty box and set it in place above the mass of bees. ‘There you go – room for expansion,’ she told them. ‘And for this summer’s honey.’
Working methodically, she attended to each hive in turn. When she’d finished, she paused, stretching her back to ease the ache from the effort of lifting the boxes of frames. She peered up into the delicate tracery of acacia leaves that cast their dancing, dappled shade over the hives. Any day now they would burst into flower and the cascades of clustered white blossom would turn the trees silver, and then the bees would drink their fill of the sweetest nectar of all. Her jars of acacia honey would be like bottles of summer itself, sweet and golden.
She smiled to herself. Yes, there had been so many summers. But just one more would be a gift.
Abi: 2017
I’m lost. Lost in France, just like in the words of a stupid song that I can’t get out of my head as I trudge along the road. I stop for a moment to wipe my face with my shirt, which is already soaked with sweat. The road runs along a ridge that falls away steeply to one side and, I must admit, there could be worse places to lose my way. The view sweeps away in front of me, patchwork fields of green and gold interrupted here and there by dark velvet woodlands. The broad satin ribbon of a twisting river edges the valley floor beneath me.
Peace and quiet in the French sunshine. It’s exactly what I’d imagined when Pru and I signed up for the yoga retreat. ‘Look, it’s just what you need, Abi.’ She’d brandished the glossy leaflet at me as we were putting away our mats and pulling our boots back on after the regular Thursday-evening class. ‘“A week of springtime yoga, meditation and mindfulness in the heart of the French countryside,”’ she’d read.
I didn’t point out to her that I’d hardly been able to bring myself to leave the apartment for the last couple of years, and that walking to the yoga class and back was the furthest I’d been in months. Besides the hospital visits, that is, where the physios and psychologists had tried to help me stitch the shattered pieces of myself back together.
But the retreat had been a tempting thought. I’d always loved France. Well, more the idea of it really; I hadn’t exactly spent a lot of time travelling there – or in any other foreign countries either, come to think of it. French was my best subject at school, though. Something I had been good at, immersing myself in the wonderful world of Maman, Papa and Marie-Claude and their lovely safe, orderly lives, as set out in the textbooks. And I knew I needed to make more of an effort now to get my life back on track, to start getting out a bit more again. Being able to travel with Pru would make it that much easier, I had thought. She’s good company and always very organised. We’d bonded over cups of cinnamon chai after she joined the yoga class to help get over her divorce. She’s got a good sense of humour and doesn’t witter on the whole time, which would set my nerves jangling, so I reckoned she’d make a good travelling companion and agreed to go. She’d signed us up that evening for the retreat and book
ed our flights too, so backing out wasn’t an option – even though I desperately wanted to, the minute she called to confirm the arrangements.
That’ll teach me to be spontaneous, I think, as I trudge along the hot tarmac of the road. Nothing good ever comes of it. And now I’ve no idea where I’m going, up the hill from the centre, through the vines – one vineyard looks exactly like the next, if you ask me. A tiny bit of me has to admit it’s rather beautiful, though, that golden light on the flourishes of lush green leaves springing from the gnarled, dead-looking wood.
But I don’t want to be distracted from my anger by the beauty of my surroundings. I need to let my fury at Pru – abandoning me like that – simmer and seethe for a while longer. My counsellor would be pleased; she’s always telling me that anger is part of the healing process. And at least I’m feeling something. Which may or may not be better than feeling nothing at all.
But so much for the serenity and enlightenment that the retreat brochure had promised. I stomp along a little further. Actually, I know I can’t really blame Pru. Most people would have done the same, given half the chance. The thought of a bath and a proper bed, never mind with some fit and flexible Dutchman alongside you, is certainly tempting. I’m just jealous; but still definitely entitled to be furious with her.
She’d met him in the queue for the loos, after lunch on the second day. A fast worker, our Prudence – not one to live up to her name, it turns out. She said they’d both felt an instant connection. ‘Kindred spirits’ were the words she used when she finally cornered me, plonking herself down next to me at lunch.
‘Based on a synchronised need to go to the loo after a plate of spicy lentil stew? It’s not exactly soulful,’ I retorted, unable to stop myself.
Ignoring my outburst, she said, ‘He’s paid the extra to stay at a guesthouse nearby. Apparently it’s gorgeous. He’s got a whirlpool bath, en suite.’
I sighed. ‘Well that certainly beats a mildewed concrete shower with someone’s grungy old plaster stuck in the corner.’
We’d arrived at the centre three days earlier. It had been evening when we got there and most people were already installed, their tents set up, claims staked, seeming to know their way round. A helper in a tie-dyed T-shirt, his shaved head gleaming in the late sunshine, showed us a corner where we could pitch our own tent. It was very obviously the last available spot: ‘handy for the loos’ would be the best way to describe it. We managed to get the tent up after a bit, although it took us a while to work out where the poles go. Banging the pegs in with a rubber mallet wasn’t easy either, since the ground was as hard as concrete. Eventually, we got three out of four corners staked down quite well, and the fourth a bit more precariously, and two guy ropes in, front and back, so it should stay up. There’s been no wind anyway. The weather’s been gorgeous – at least the brochure got that bit right. It’s been cold at night, but in the mornings the sun quickly warms the air and by midday it’s been downright hot.
I jump, nearly out of my skin, at a sudden rustling in the verge beside me, catching sight of a thin yellow-and-black-striped snake slithering away. A snake in the grass. Watch out for them; they’re the most dangerous of all. I take a deep breath and sigh it out, the way the counsellor taught me, to help calm myself when the alarm bells in my brain get triggered.
Get a grip, I tell myself. Try to stay in control: that’s the key. Don’t let the memories overwhelm you. Give it time – that’s what everyone says.
I’ve reached the top of a rise and the road flattens out in front of me for a bit before climbing again. I pause to catch my breath, pressing my fist into my side where a stitch is griping, and then push on, at an easier pace now. I glance at my watch. It’s gone six. Supper will be over in the dining hall at the centre, the portions of rice and vegetable stew doled out and consumed, rounded off with a piece of fruit. We’re all detoxing, although so far all this healthy eating seems to have achieved is an awful lot of irritable people with headaches, flatulence and really bad breath – talk about toxicity! But no one’s going to put on any weight on this holiday, that’s for sure. Unless Pru and her Dutchman are secretly pigging out back in his luxurious guesthouse. I imagine they’re probably swigging champagne and eating chocolates in bed.
I plod on, thinking that right now I’d kill for a bacon sarnie. Now there’s a sentence you’ll rarely hear on a yoga retreat, even if it is what most people are probably thinking half the time when they’re sitting on their meditation cushions trying to empty their minds. Or perhaps that’s just me.
It had all been a bit overwhelming, the evening of our arrival. After we’d got the tent up it was time for supper so we followed the tide of fellow retreaters to queue at the serving tables. We were all secretly eyeing each other up while trying to appear yogic and laidback. Pru had changed into a kind of long floaty kaftan-thing, very different from her usual attire. After the wrestling match with the tent, I’d felt grubby and hot. I hadn’t bothered changing out of my shirt and jeans, the uniform I wear to cover up the worst of the scars on my arms and leg. I could already feel the mosquitoes biting my ankles above the straps of my sandals too.
Pru got the giggles in the tent that night when I said, ‘Do you think we’re allowed to kill the mozzies or is that bad karma?’ I got my spray out all the same; anything for a good night’s sleep. Although the chances of getting much sleep at all were pretty much slim to none, what with the damp chill of the night-time air soaking into the tent and my bites itching and the loo doors banging next to us all night long. I wasn’t feeling very serene by the time morning came around and a cock began crowing at a nearby farm, just when I was finally managing to get a bit of sleep at long last.
I walk past a cottage at the side of the road and a dog appears out of nowhere, hurtling towards me with a volley of vicious barking. I nearly jump out of my skin once more, nerves set a-jangling as the panic systems in my brain are triggered all over again. It’s a good job there’s a fence between him and me. A dangerous place, this, what with the snakes and the rabid dogs.
Now my sandal has rubbed a blister on my heel so I stop walking and reach down to loosen the strap, my fingers still shaking in the aftermath of the almost-too-close encounter with the dog. The skin’s raw. It’s going to be fun walking back to the centre. I’ve no idea where I am or how far I’ve come. There’s a tall wrought-iron cross on the crest of the hill a little way ahead, so I limp up to it and sit down on the grass (first checking carefully for snakes, of course). A milestone beside the cross reads ‘Sainte-Foy-la-Grande 6 Kilomètres’. There’s a blue-topped post beside it with a yellow cockleshell design on – I recognise it as the sign for that pilgrim route Pru was banging on about the other day, when she was reading from her guidebook over breakfast.
I think back to this morning’s talk in the meditation hall, which was about karma; what goes around comes around. It was all I could do not to give Pru a death stare at that one, though of course that would have been bad karma so I kept to the moral high ground. She and her Dutchman were sitting there on their cushions a couple of rows in front of me. She’d called me over to sit next to them, but I’d shaken my head and stayed put. No thanks. I don’t need your charity and I certainly don’t want to be a third wheel on your bicycle. I sat on the little purple cushion with my legs crossed, even though my stiff knee was complaining loudly and I immediately got pins and needles in my foot. It’s been nearly two years since the accident, so you’d have thought that with all the physio and the yoga stretches things would have healed by now. I’d closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see Pru turning around every five minutes to smile at me. She was probably trying to be conciliatory, but in the frame of mind I was in it just came across as smug.
How on earth do people sit still for so long? It was impossible to get comfortable and I started fidgeting all over the place. My mind started fidgeting too, thoughts crowding in. So much for emptying it. And thinking is the last thing I want to do.
I’m starting
to believe I’m not cut out for meditation. We were supposed to be doing it on the walk this afternoon as well. Being mindful. Rather than having a mind that’s full, which is what mine is. The fields around the centre were full of people doing the walking meditation, drifting like zombies, focused on every step – ‘staying in the moment’, as we’d been instructed to do. I was doing okay for the first few minutes, but then the sight of Pru and Mr Netherlands floating along in tandem set me off again and I stalked off up a narrow path into the trees. I’d suddenly felt that I couldn’t bear to be in that slow-moving crowd for another second.
As I’d stomped away from the walking meditation, it was a relief to be in the woods – cooler, and safer-feeling too; less exposed. It’s been a while since I’ve had a full-blown panic attack (the medication has helped), but I’d definitely started to feel my throat and chest tightening, and my head pounding. So now it was a relief to be alone at last. I’m not used to being around other people the whole time.
I wonder how many miles I’ve walked. The milestone doesn’t give me any clues as I’ve completely lost my bearings. I’m now drenched in sweat and there’s a major blister on my heel. I inspect my foot again and find that the skin’s ballooning up into an opaque bubble over the raw patch. To take my mind off the pain I scratch viciously at a mosquito bite on my ankle, just below where my yoga leggings end, until it starts to bleed. Then I lean back against the rough face of the milestone and stretch my legs out in front of me, looking around at the view.
Neat vineyards fan out in all directions, with creamy stone buildings nestling among them here and there. Red-tiled roofs glow in the evening light. There’s a bit of a breeze now, up here on the crest of the hill. Gratefully, I lift my chin to let it blow on to my sweating neck and burning cheeks. At least it’s all downhill from here on in. If I follow the road back down maybe I’ll recognise some landmarks, or find a sign for the centre.
I turn to look back the way I came and am horrified to see massive black storm clouds billowing up. I can almost see them growing as I watch, towering higher and then covering the sun, the light suddenly changing from mellow gold to a sickly, bruised purple. There’s an ominous silence too and I realise the background chorus of birds and crickets that has accompanied me on my walk up until now has suddenly fallen quiet. I put a hand on top of the milestone and grab the stem of the cross with the other to haul myself up, gingerly putting weight on to my sore foot. I’d better be heading back, and fast, before the storm hits.
