by Fiona Valpy
‘And now . . .’ Mireille got to her feet and gathered up an armful of similarly wrapped parcels. ‘Let’s go and give these to Maman and Papa and help set the table for lunch.’
As they scraped their plates to collect the last crumbs of succulent frangipane and sweet pastry, Eliane surveyed her family gathered around the kitchen table. She’d been concerned that this first meal at the moulin might be an ordeal for Mathieu, but he displayed none of his shyness as he answered Gustave’s questions about this year’s wine harvest and Lisette’s questions about his home in Tulle. Eliane had already told her parents that Mathieu’s mother had died of a severe haemorrhage – every midwife’s dread fear – after giving birth to his younger brother, Luc.
‘I’m taking the train home tomorrow to be back for la Toussaint. We always put flowers on my mother’s grave. I haven’t seen my father and brother since the wine harvest began, so it’ll be good to catch up. They work on a farm just outside the town – beef cattle and feed crops mostly.’
Gustave set his fork down finally, reluctantly accepting that his plate was empty now. ‘And will you go back to cattle farming when you’ve finished your stage at Château de la Chapelle, do you think?’
Unable to help himself, Mathieu glanced across the table at Eliane and a pink glow suffused his deeply sun-browned features. ‘I’m not sure. My father wanted me to try the experience of wine farming and I’ve found it very interesting. I like this part of the world too, so I may stay on with the Cortinis for a while longer. They’ve already asked me to, so I’ll tell my father tomorrow. After all, Coulliac isn’t too far from Tulle . . .’ He trailed off, suddenly conscious that he may have given too much away.
Eliane smiled at him. The most like Lisette of the three Martin children, she had inherited her mother’s intuition and her uncanny ability to see beneath the surface, reading people’s innermost thoughts and feelings. She understood Mathieu’s unspoken hope that their future would be a shared one. The first tentative flickers of mutual attraction were blossoming into something far deeper than just a friendship and were binding them together more strongly every day.
She stood up from the table to collect the empty plates and, when Mathieu handed her his, her fingertips touched his hand for a fleeting moment, a touch as gentle as the brush of a butterfly’s wing and as strong as a promise that had no need of words. He would go home to place his remembrance offering of flowers on his mother’s grave, just as the Martins would visit the little churchyard of Coulliac to pay their respects to their forebears, and when la Toussaint was over and November well and truly begun, he would return so that they could be together again.
Eliane and Mireille rested their elbows on the stable door and watched the pig as it buried its snout in the trough, snuffling contentedly as it rooted out some turnip tops from among the potato peelings.
Eliane scratched behind the animal’s ears with a stick. ‘You see, she’s forgiven us already.’
It had taken them the best part of an hour to find the pig in the forest, where she’d been turned out to enjoy an autumn feast of acorns, and then to persuade her to return to her sty with the help of a tempting bucket of swill. Perhaps she suspected the fate that was in store for her once the winter weather arrived in earnest. But until that day arrived, she would be well fed and well cared-for.
The sty was more of a small cave, really, hollowed into the wall of limestone through which the river had etched its course for thousands of years. The rock rose abruptly behind the mill house and soared upwards to form the buttress upon which the Château de Bellevue perched, high above them. Ancient underground streams – most long-since disappeared – had carved a network of tunnels through the porous rock across the whole of this region, and one of these tunnels formed an invisible link between the moulin and the château. According to Monsieur le Comte, it had been a vital lifeline when the château was besieged in the Middle Ages. The invading army couldn’t work out how the Comte’s forebears trapped within were able to survive for so many weeks without access to food and water, and eventually they’d got bored and left.
The tunnel had been blocked up at both ends for years, although Gustave had removed the rocks and rubble that had plugged the entrance at the back of the pigsty in order to use a few feet of the tunnel to store wine. This natural larder would also be used when butchering time came, as the cool, dry darkness provided the perfect conditions for curing hams and saucissons, as well as preserving the jars of pâté that Lisette would prepare to see them through the winter. An old door, overlaid with several sheets of corrugated tin, concealed the tunnel’s opening and made the outer part of the cave into a snug home for the pig, who had now settled down for a nap on her comfortable bed of straw.
Mireille took a handful of acorns from her pocket and tossed them into the trough with a sound like the rattle of hailstones, which caused the pig to open one eye. ‘I do miss lots of things about home,’ she remarked, ‘but I’ll be quite happy not to be here when your time is up.’ The pig grunted in reply.
‘It’s hard to imagine you in Paris, wearing your chic dresses and working in that elegant atelier. I don’t think I’d enjoy living in the city at all.’
Mireille smiled at her sister. ‘City life certainly isn’t for everyone. One of the apprentice seamstresses has already packed up and gone home to Normandy. She hated Paris. It can take a while to make friends there too. It’s strange that you can be a lot lonelier among all those people than you ever would be living in the countryside. But I’ve made friends with some of the other girls now, and I do enjoy the work – even if some of the clients are impossible to satisfy! Maybe you can come and visit me one day and I can show you round.’
‘Maman doesn’t like you being so much nearer to Germany. Everyone’s been nervous ever since the Nazis marched their way into Czechoslovakia.’
‘Don’t worry; Paris is safe enough. There wouldn’t be so many refugees flooding into the city if it weren’t. The best thing everyone can do is to get on with their day-to-day lives. Perhaps you and Maman could come and visit me together. I can show you all the sights. The Eiffel Tower is amazing, and the churches are simply huge!’
Eliane thought of the little chapel where they would go tomorrow to put their Toussaint flowers on the ancestral graves. Its simple, whitewashed walls and solid oak beams always made her feel safe. And in the churchyard the earthy scent of chrysanthemums would perfume the air, reassuring the souls of the departed that they weren’t forgotten and they could rest peacefully. Even as another year ended, there was the reminder that the seasons would turn and, after winter’s death, there would be rebirth in the spring.
She spared a thought for Mathieu, who would be in the train by now. Her heart beat a little faster when she recalled the hours they’d spent sitting on the riverbank. With other people, he was usually so silent; but when the two of them were alone together he relaxed, confiding to her his hopes and his dreams. She smiled as she thought of the way his dark eyes shone when he described his work in the vines and everything that he was learning in the winemaking chai. But then she reminded herself that the trip he was making today wouldn’t be an easy one for him . . . How sad it must be for him to lay his offering of Toussaint flowers on his own mother’s grave, as he had done each year since her death.
As if she had read Eliane’s thoughts, Mireille said, ‘Mathieu’s nice. I enjoyed meeting him.’
Her sister nodded. ‘He’s a good friend to us all.’
‘I get the impression he’d like to be something more than just a friend where you are concerned, ma p’tite.’ Mireille grinned.
Eliane’s cheeks flushed as she studiously concentrated on scratching the back of the pig’s neck. Then she smiled in her turn. ‘I like him too. Very much. It feels . . .’ She tailed off.
‘Yes?’ prompted Mireille.
‘It feels right. It feels like we have a future. I can see us together.’
‘Well, if it feels that way, then it is right.�
�� Mireille gave her sister’s arm a fond squeeze. ‘I’m glad.’
Just then Lisette opened the kitchen window, pausing for a moment to enjoy the sight of her two girls exchanging confidences, before she called to them. ‘Please can you bring some more wood for the fire when you come in? Supper’s nearly ready.’
Abi: 2017
My bedroom in the attic of the mill house is an oasis of calm and order among the chaos of the building project.
‘We started at the top and are working our way down,’ Thomas had explained. He and his team of builders have created a light, airy room with limewashed beams, and added a bathroom tucked in under the eaves. There’s an old-fashioned bath with claw feet, where I can soak to my heart’s content, and a wooden towel rack that holds two of Sara’s fluffy towels. She insisted on bringing a few finishing touches down from the château – a worn, but still beautiful Aubusson rug; a watercolour painting of beehives beneath a blossom-laden tree; and a canopy of mosquito netting, both pretty and practical, which she drapes above the wrought-iron bedhead. I’ll be able to draw it around me as the nights begin to grow warmer, leaving the windows open to allow the cool breath of the river to caress me as I sleep.
Pru was highly disapproving at first when I announced my decision to check out of the yoga retreat and spend the summer living and working at Château Bellevue. But Sara invited her to come and see where I’d be staying and I could see that Pru was impressed. I promised I’d send her regular texts, letting her know how I was getting on and reassuring her that Sara and Thomas weren’t actually slave masters keeping me here against my will.
After the first night, even though I was in an unfamiliar room, in a strange house in a foreign country, I felt immediately at home. The whitewashed walls of the attic bedroom emanate calm and tranquillity (even when the builders are busy shattering the peace and quiet elsewhere in the building with their noisy power tools). And the honey-coloured floorboards give off a faint scent of beeswax that perfumes my dreams.
There is a sense of placid permanence about the mill house, standing firm as the river rushes by, the water whipping itself into a froth as it cascades over the weir. The vast mill wheel no longer turns, although Thomas has said it wouldn’t take much to get it going again. ‘They still used to grind flour here just a few decades ago,’ he’s told me. ‘Ask Sara to tell you the story of the family who lived here. It may look peaceful now, but in the war years this area was occupied by the Nazis. Even today, this community bears the scars of that time. The wounds may have healed a bit, but they are still there, just beneath the surface.’
At his words, I glanced around, taking in the graceful limbs of the willow tree trailing green fingers in the water, the cluster of ancient buildings whose cream stone walls basked in the early-summer sunshine and at the pool beneath the foaming weir where brilliant-blue dragonflies hover. It’s hard to picture this place as anything other than harmonious. But as I’d stood there I’d run my hands down the sleeves of my shirt and felt the faint ridges of my own scars, which I keep hidden there. I know as well as anyone that sometimes you have to look beneath the surface to discover the secret history of places. And of people.
And then something Sara said when I moved my things into the mill house echoes in my mind. As I’d set down my small holdall of belongings, I’d mused, ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? The different paths that bring us here from such different backgrounds and places.’
Sara had smiled. ‘You know, Abi, we all bring our own baggage along with us. Perhaps that’s what we humans have in common – what binds us together. When you get to know this place a little better, you’ll begin to see.’ Her eyes were like dark pools, fathoms deep. ‘There’s something about this corner of the world. It’s drawn people to it down the ages. Not just the tourists and the people who come on yoga retreats, but pilgrims and others too. Local people say there are three very ancient lines of energy – ley lines – that converge here. And then there are three rivers that converge in this region, the Lot, the Garonne and the Dordogne. Three of the pilgrim routes to Santiago de Compostela from the north meet here too. Who knows? Call it what you like, but maybe there’s something that draws people to this place just at the point in their lives when it’s most needed.’ She shoots me a shrewd glance. ‘Anyway, I’m glad that our paths crossed when they did.’
Standing beside the river now, I run my hands over the scars beneath my sleeves once again and I think, Me too.
Eliane: 1939
The day after Good Friday was the only time the ancient bread oven at the mill was fired up. Everyone had the modern convenience of a range, or even one of the new electric ovens, in their own home. But it was a tradition in the Martin household, handed down through the generations, to bake the plaited loaves of bread for Easter Day in the mill’s original wood-fired oven.
Mathieu had become a frequent visitor, spending all of his spare time with Eliane. In the past month, they could often be seen working alongside one another in the vegetable patch by the river, clearing the last of the winter crops and preparing the ground for spring planting. On that Easter weekend, he came over to help Yves and Gustave stoke the fire and bring the four-à-pain up to the right temperature for baking. In the kitchen, Eliane hummed as she helped Lisette and Mireille – who was back from Paris again for a few days – to knead the bread dough and then deftly plait it into three loaves that would prove in the warmth beside the range for a while longer before they were carried out to the oven.
Spring was always one of her favourite times of year, the season of new life and new beginnings. In the walled garden up at the château, the bees were venturing forth on a daily basis now, blissfully drinking the nectar from the abundance of pear blossom that frothed above the hives.
One day last week, Monsieur le Comte had brought a chair and his painting things and begun a picture of the scene. ‘It always seems such a hopeful time,’ he’d remarked to Eliane as she gathered tender young salad leaves for his lunch, although they were both aware that that year it was overshadowed by the news from beyond France’s eastern borders.
Mireille had told them that Paris was filling up with refugees who were flooding in from Austria and Czechoslovakia, which were now under Nazi occupation. What must it be like, Eliane wondered, to wake up one day and find that your country was being run by an invading force?
‘Aren’t you worried that they may decide to target Paris next?’ she asked her sister again.
Mireille shook her head firmly and gave the bread dough another good thump. ‘They wouldn’t dare! Think of the backlash it would create. France and her allies wouldn’t just sit back and let the German army march across the border. Every day in the Parisian newspapers we read of the political and diplomatic efforts that are being made to bring this madness to a halt. They will win through: no one wants another war across Europe.
‘I feel so sorry for the refugees, though,’ she continued. ‘We’ve got one working at the atelier now. She’s from Poland – Esther is her name. She’s going to have a baby. Imagine how desperate she must have been to leave her home in her condition, carrying only a few belongings. Her husband is in the Polish air force. Sometimes you see whole families, often with young children. Paris is full to overflowing with them these days. There’s talk of the French borders being closed to prevent any more coming in.’
Lisette finished rinsing the cooking implements piled up in the sink and wiped her hands on a cloth. ‘I wish you’d come home, Mireille, just until things quieten down a bit. We worry about you.’
‘Don’t worry, Maman, I reckon Paris is about as safe as anywhere else in France. I love working at the atelier; I’m getting such good experience, working on all that beautiful couture. I wouldn’t have such opportunities back here. So I think I’ll stay put for the time being. I can always come home if the worst does happen.’
Mathieu appeared in the doorway, his bulk blocking the sunlight for a moment. ‘Gustave says the oven is ready whenever you are,’
he reported. He came over to stand behind Eliane and peer over her shoulder to see what she was doing. She turned and popped a scrap of sweet pastry into his mouth, then kissed him on the cheek. He put his arms around her and pulled her to him, before remembering where he was and, becoming flustered, glancing over towards Lisette.
From the other side of the kitchen, she smiled at him fondly and said, ‘We’re looking forward to meeting your father and brother tomorrow, Mathieu. It’s lovely that they can be with you for Easter, and so kind of the Cortinis to invite us all to eat together.’
He smiled his shy smile back. ‘I know. I’m looking forward to it too.’ Gaining in confidence, he wrapped an arm around Eliane once more and said, ‘They’ve been wondering why I’ve been so busy in the wine cellar, at a time when not much is going on in the winemaking calendar, that I’ve not been able to come home to see them more often. I told them that pruning the vines has been keeping me occupied, but I think they’re growing suspicious!’
Mireille laughed. ‘I think they’re probably more than suspicious by now . . . Tulle isn’t so far away from Coulliac that the gossip can’t reach them there!’
‘Surely the dough has proved enough now.’ To change the subject, Eliane lifted a corner of the muslin cloth that covered the loaves to protect them from any wayward draughts.
‘They look perfect to me.’ Lisette smiled.
‘Here then, Mireille, you can carry one and Mathieu you bring this one. Let’s get them in the oven.’
It was the morning of Easter Sunday, and after church the bells, which had been silenced for the past two days since Good Friday, pealed out from village to village in joyful pronouncement that Christ had risen. Dressed in their Sunday best, the Martins drove over to Château de la Chapelle in the neighbouring commune of Saint André, bearing gifts of golden, plaited bread and a basket of eggs that Eliane had coloured with natural dyes gleaned from her larder of winter crops: yellow from onion skins, deep pink from beetroot and azure-blue from the leaves of a red cabbage.
