Where the Wild Cherries Grow

by Laura Madeleine

  Keep reading for exclusive bonus material including a gorgeous recipe inspired by the author’s research

  Reading Group Questions

  What did you think at first when Emeline ran away? Were you surprised at her choice?

  Do you think Emeline should have tried harder to contact her brother Timothy once she was settled?

  Was Bill mad or heroic to abandon his job in search of the truth? What might you have done in his situation?

  When Bill reaches Hallerton House, the overwhelming contents of the study threaten to derail his investigation. Were you expecting him to make a different discovery there? If so, what was it?

  What did you make of Emeline’s transformation in Cerbère? Do you believe in the healing power of food?

  Aaró is deaf and so cannot join the army and fight. What do you think it must have felt like to be left as one of the few men in that village? Was it a surprise to you that Aaró went on to fight in his own way later on?

  ‘It was love and it could not be hidden.’ Emeline declares her love for Aaró through her cooking; have you ever cooked or eaten something that you felt carried an emotion with it?

  Everywhere, it seems, is hot in Where the Wild Cherries Grow. Bill reaches Hallerton House in peak summer where he finds his suit overbearing. Emeline loses herself to the warm breezes and the baked sands of Cerbère. Why do you suppose the author chose to set her story against this backdrop?

  When Bill finally catches up with Emeline’s story there is the glimmer of hope that he will find her happy and thriving. How did you feel when you discovered what had happened to her and Aaró?

  What do you suppose the future holds for Bill Perch? Have you imagined that he might return to London to the wrath of his boss, or perhaps that the lure of Cerbère might get to him in the way it did Emeline?

  A Q&A with Laura Madeleine

  What inspired the story about a troubled young girl finding love and hope in a tiny town in the very south of France?

  The kernel of Emeline’s story actually came from a story my mum told me about her godmother. Aunt Mimi (as my mum called her) was engaged during the First World War, and her fiancé was sent to France to fight. Mimi was an accomplished guitarist, and one night, in the middle of a concert to raise money for wounded soldiers, she looked down at her hands and thought – just for a moment – that they were covered in blood. She said she knew then that her fiancé had been hurt, and would die. It was true: he’d been in an attack, and died on a hospital train two days later.

  I knew I wanted to write about how someone like that – a young, unmarried woman – might have been affected by the war. A character whose future had previously been clear-cut and decided upon by social station, who suddenly finds themselves faced with an opportunity to break free, albeit as a result of tragedy. That dynamic – the chance for a new life taken at great personal cost – is what drives Emeline’s actions. Choosing to leave her little brother, Timothy, could be called a selfish act, but for Emeline, it is a necessary one in order for her to survive. That doesn’t necessarily mean she is – or isn’t – a selfish person; just that human interaction is multi-faceted and frequently ambiguous.

  For Emeline, Cerbère is a frontier of the heart, as well as a border between countries. This book is all about people pushing up against the limits of their lives, about searching for something more, even if that turns out to be the act of searching itself.

  The descriptions of food throughout the novel are mouth-watering. How did you research the local recipes? How important is the role of food in your writing?

  As with all of my research, I tend to start digging around online, and then go in-depth with the help of specific books and historical documents. Where the Wild Cherries Grow was no different, and I’m indebted to two particular books for inspiration and education. One is The Book of Sent Sovi; a fourteenth-century medieval collection and the oldest surviving Catalan recipe book. The other is Colman Andrews’ excellent Catalan Cuisine. Although these books are separated by over five hundred years, it’s still possible to trace connections between the recipes: the ubiquitous use of almonds and almond-milk in place of dairy alternatives, the emphasis on basic sauces, the presence of picadas and of sofregit, which in Sent Sovi is made with onions alone, since tomatoes had yet to return from the New World …

  Andrews’ book is probably the best introduction to Catalan food you could hope for. It’s beautifully written, evocative and humorous as well as being incredibly informative about Catalan regions, their history and the development of recipes. I wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone interested in cooking … you’ll be hunting down pimentón in no time.

  One interesting challenge that the translators of Sent Sovi and Andrews both comment on is the lack of lexical choices when it comes to describing Catalan cooking processes in English. As Emeline learns in Where the Wild Cherries Grow, a sofregit should be cooked slowly, softly on the stove, a process that the verbs ‘fry’ or ‘sauté’ fail to capture.

  Details like this helped me breathe life into the cooking sections, and into the novel as a whole. The food of a region reflects so many things; the landscape, the climate, the life of the people, even economic and social concerns. For me, that makes it fascinating and impossible to ignore.

  If you could spend a day with any one of your characters, which would it be?

  I’d love to sit drinking wine and shooting the breeze with Bill and Puce, on a summer’s evening in Belleville, overlooking Paris …

  The story of Where the Wild Cherries Grow is shared between two narrators. Why did you choose to use two contrasting viewpoints – and periods in time – to tell your story?

  I’ve always been fascinated by history, and how events can ripple across time to join people in unexpected ways. As for contrasting viewpoints, I actually see Emeline and Bill as kindred spirits. Although they come from vastly different backgrounds, Bill recognizes in Emeline (or at least her journal) many of his own unaddressed feelings, and that resonates forcefully with him. Her actions of fifty years before give him the key to a different life. Both characters abandon societal expectation – and responsibility – to search instead for something that makes them feel truly alive.

  Who are you major influences – or just your favourite writers?

  For this book – as you’ll see in the acknowledgments – I’m hugely indebted to Alan Garner’s The Owl Service and to W. G. Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn. Both writers are a major influence on me: they’re masters of tone and feeling, of capturing the profound, unsettling, unseen aspects of life. I love Jean Rhys’ writing for its economy and power, and for this book I also read a lot of Katherine Mansfield’s short stories and letters, in order to try and capture the tone of the era.

  Emeline and Aaró’s relationship comes at a turbulent time in Europe, and we learn they are affected by both the First and the Second World Wars. What role does war play in Where the Wild Cherries Grow?

  It’s interesting, I’ve always thought of myself as a pacifist, and assumed I would have been a conscientious objector when it came to war. But after reading a lot of Sebald, and talking to my grandmother – who was sent from Brighton to the munitions factories of Birmingham during the Second World War – I don’t have that certainty any more. With hindsight, we can look at the utter horrors of war from either side of the conflict and shake our heads, but at the time, in the face of the greatest atrocities committed, the question becomes less a case of could we fight? and more how could we not fight? That’s what Emeline and Aaró, both excluded in their own ways from fighting during the First World War, are faced with. When war rolls around again, they can’t not fight. On the other hand, Bill is in the privileged position of never having to face that decision, even though in 1969 the violent realities of fascism were lurking just across the border from Cerbère.

  What does a typical writing day look like to you?

  I work best in the morning. I’m usually at my desk by about 8-8.30a.m. Once
I stop for lunch it’s game over for a few hours, so I usually try to prolong the morning as much as possible. Sometimes I trick myself by having ‘second breakfast’ – like a hobbit – at 11ish, so I don’t have to stop again until 3p.m. I’m useless in the afternoon, so I tend to do other things then. Sometimes, if I’m on a deadline or feeling particularly inspired, I’ll fit in another hour or two of writing between 6-8p.m. Towards the beginning of the writing process, I seem to find it helpful to work in cafés or other more public places; something about being surrounded by people when creating new characters, maybe.

  What would your advice be to aspiring authors?

  I’m always a bit loath to give writing advice; what works for me won’t work for other people … So, I suppose it’s important to try and work out what helps you write. Maybe it’s a particular time of day, or place; maybe you have to have a coffee beside you, or headphones on, be surrounded by people, or completely alone. Try out a few things, and if something seems to spark, use it. This is especially true if you’re trying to juggle other full-time commitments and it’s a challenge to find time and mental energy to write. I know quite a few authors who use their lunch break or their commute as dedicated writing time. Apart from that, the other general piece of advice I’d give is to finish things. When a piece of work hits a rut, it’s tempting to leave it and start something new, but unless you work out why you’re struggling, and push on to completion, you’ll likely hit similar ruts again and again. It doesn’t matter if it’s a complete mess on a first pass; that’s what editing is for, and you’ll learn more about the writing process – and your own writing – that way than you will from a dozen half-finished stories. Also, if you can write something from beginning to end, regardless of what it is, you’ll know that you can do it again … and again …

  Wild Cherry Cake Recipe

  When it came to creating a cake to accompany Where the Wild Cherries Grow, I knew I wanted it to contain three things. Cherries – as might be found on Emeline and Aaró’s secret tree – were a must. Almonds too; the medieval Catalan recipe collection The Book of Sent Sovi is full of recipes featuring fragrant almonds, in broths, sauces, creams and puddings …

  Last of all, I wanted it to contain a hint of sweet, heady wine, the kind I drank during my visit to French Catalonia. Banyuls is vin doux naturel, a strong dessert wine made in only four places along the Côte Vermeille: Banyuls-sur-Mer, Port-Vendres, Collioure and Cerbère. It’s almost a metaphor for the spirit of the place; the vines have to be hardy to grow in the rocky, arid soil, but they’re helped along by the bright sunlight that ripens the grapes and la Tramontana, the wind from the mountains, that sweeps any pests out to sea. In my memory, Banyuls tasted honeyed and deep, like peaches and apricots baked slowly in a clay pot over embers …

  Sadly, Banyuls is notoriously tricky to find outside of France, so I’d suggest using whatever good quality, rich dessert wine you can lay your hands on. Of course, if you do happen to find a bottle, you know who to call if you want to share.

  For the cherries in syrup:

  150g morello cherries, fresh or frozen (and defrosted)

  3 tbsp good quality sweet dessert wine

  1 tsp ground cinnamon

  2 tbsp golden caster sugar

  For the cake:

  200g butter, softened

  200g golden caster sugar

  3 free-range eggs

  160g self-raising flour

  40g ground almonds

  1 tsp vanilla bean paste, or 1 vanilla pod, seeds scraped out

  Large handful of dried cherries

  1 tbsp flour

  Handful flaked almonds

  Icing sugar, to decorate

  Allons-y!

  1 Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas mark 4. Grease and line a 23cm, 9” deep cake tin.

  2 Place the cherries, wine, cinnamon and sugar together in a bowl and toss gently until combined. Set aside to infuse.

  3 In another bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy.

  4 Add one egg to the butter mix, along with a tablespoon of the flour (to stop the mixture from splitting) and beat well. Repeat with the rest of the eggs, beating well in between.

  5 Add the rest of the flour in thirds, folding in gently until it is just combined and no streaks are showing.

  6 Gently stir in the ground almonds, vanilla and dried cherries.

  7 Spoon two-thirds of the infusing cherries onto a plate and toss in the remaining 1 tbsp of flour. (This’ll stop them all sinking to the bottom.) Put the syrup and remaining cherries to one side.

  8 Carefully stir the flour-coated cherries into the mixture, making sure they’re evenly distributed. Add a splash of milk if the mixture needs loosening.

  9 Dollop into the tin, smooth over the top and bake for around 30-35 minutes, or until golden and risen, and a skewer inserted comes out clean. Leave to cool slightly in its tin on a wire rack.

  To decorate:

  1 While the cake is still warm, prick holes all over the surface with a skewer.

  2 Spoon the cherry-wine-cinnamon syrup over the top so that it soaks in.

  3 Lightly toast the flaked almonds in a dry frying pan for 2-3 minutes. Keep your eye on them, because they’ll catch quickly.

  4 Decorate the cake with the remaining infused cherries, almonds, and a dusting of icing sugar. Eat with a glass of brandy or sweet wine and dream yourself away to a warm summer’s night, outside a seafront café, at the very end of France …

  Acknowledgements

  This book owes a debt to three remarkable writers: W. G. Sebald for his East Anglia, Alan Garner for The Owl Service and Colman Andrews for his beautiful introduction to Catalan food. A strange trio, perhaps, but I like to think they’d enjoy a good meal together.

  Thanks go to the indefatigable Ed Wilson, who nudged this book into being; to Harriet Bourton, who took it on trust, and to Bella Bosworth, who stepped in to smooth its rough edges. To everyone at Transworld, in fact, for taking a manuscript and making it into a Real Book.

  I have to thank Yves at the Hotel La Dorade in Cerbère for his generosity, his spirit, and for bringing the town and its history to life.

  Thanks also go to Becky and Jude, for putting up with my antics. To Dave and Cheryl, for their support. To my mother – and her Auntie Mimi – for an original idea. To my father, for being more of an inspiration for Bill than I should probably admit …

  To my sister, Lucy: my constant companion in the world of writing and a rock in stormy seas. And to Nick, for being there at the beginning, middle and end of this book.

  Prologue

  Paris, 1910

  The boy ran up the stairs of the metro, emerging into the quiet evening. It was earliest April, and cold enough still for his breath to mist in the air before him. For a moment, he listened to the bells of a church somewhere, striking ten o’clock. He looked about, almost furtive, before movement caught his attention. He grinned and leaned down the stairs, holding out a hand.

  Slim fingers encased in dark kid gloves took his, and a young woman hurried up the last few steps to stand beside him.

  ‘Les Halles?’ she asked breathlessly, pushing an elegant hat back into place. ‘What are we doing here? Everything will be closed at this hour.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure.’ The boy rubbed his bare hands and held out an elbow. His jacket was thin and did nothing to keep him warm, but for once, he didn’t care. ‘I believe you will like this evening’s trip, Mademoiselle.’

  Face bright, the girl took his arm.

  A fine mist was hanging above the streets, softening the light from the gas lamps, as if they shone through cotton. Winter’s fingers held onto the night, but the cold was ebbing, and soon it would be spring.

  They walked together as any respectable couple might, sneaking looks at each other until neither was able to suppress a grin. Through the mist, a noise was growing, not one sound but many: a voice that was a hundred voices, a rattling, squelching, feathery, dru
mming din. The girl’s eyes were wide as they rounded a corner and were confronted by a building with high glass and riveted arches that embraced the chaos and bounced it back all at once.

  ‘You said you wanted to see the real Paris, Mademoiselle,’ the boy murmured in her ear. ‘Here it is.’

  Despite the late hour, the market was seething with life, spilling onto the pavement in a riot of peelings, sawdust and straw. Horses and motorized carts stood alongside each other. Errand boys danced in their boots to stay warm. Braziers gave up the scent of charcoal and chestnuts.

  ‘Can we go in?’

  Beaming, the boy took her hand, and they stepped into the fray.

  At first there were stares – the girl’s fine clothes were out of place among the threadbare linen and much-darned cotton – but as they pushed forward, and the more crowded the space became, no one saw their clothes, no one cared. Here, the only language was commerce. It was spoken in a constant bellow, a market patois of sous and weights that made no sense to outside ears.

  The girl pulled on his arm and pointed towards a vegetable stall. Wooden crates of pale new potatoes sat in their dirt, old wrinkled winter onions and garlic woven into loose plaits above them. A man with frostbitten fingers was tying up bunches of sorrel. The girl laughed as a pair of vegetable women tossed spring cabbages from the back of a cart into a large wicker basket. They were making a game of it, seeing how fast they could throw them, egged on by the traders all around. Their pinned-up hair was untidy, their cheeks red with exertion and mirth.

  A crowd had gathered around the next stall. Here, the shouting was particularly fierce. A man was filling paper bags, handing them out to the buyers as fast as he could take their money. Dropping the boy’s hand, the girl gave him a wild smile and pushed her way between the muscled shoulders. He tried to stop her, anxious about the jostling crowd, but a minute later she was back, her dress trampled at the hem. Triumphantly, she placed a small yellow globe into his hand.