Sea of Memories (Page 17)
As though by mutual agreement, none of the three sought out news from the outside world that week, preferring to turn their backs on the turmoil and strife on mainland Europe and, with war looming, hoping that diplomacy would somehow work. Instead, they spent each day doing the things they loved best: cycling across the island for picnics on their favourite beaches; luxuriating in the golden haze of the late August afternoons, the girls reading on the terrace while Christophe worked at his sketch-book; picking sun-ripe fruit in the orchard – soft figs and the last perfumed white peaches – while Anaïs cropped the bleached grass contentedly nearby; sitting out late into the warm nights, talking of their plans and reminiscing, the twins making Ella laugh at their stories of holidays they’d spent on the island when they were young; and, of course, sailing Bijou out across the aquamarine expanse of the ocean, the boat dancing joyfully before the wind as she heeled to, her hull lifting from the water as though, encouraged by the sea-birds calling above her, she too might spread her wings and fly.
It was Sunday, September had just begun, and even in the space of just a week the light was noticeably softer, lending a golden haze to the mown cornfields where hay-bales sat, neatly stacked, amidst a foaming froth of Queen Anne’s lace, which had sprung up opportunistically after the mowers had passed. The pyramids of salt, raked from the shallow pans on the island’s north-west shore, dazzled the eye with their sun-bleached whiteness, like drifts of fresh-fallen snow come early. Ella, Christophe and Caroline had returned from a cycle ride, pedalling back through the deserted, late-afternoon lanes of Sainte Marie de Ré, where the low rays of the sun shone through the tissue paper petals of the hollyhocks, setting their colours aglow.
Sitting on the terrace with glasses of cool water, Christophe glanced lazily at his wristwatch as the church bell began to sound. ‘This is an odd time for them to sound Evensong,’ he remarked. ‘It’s only just gone five.’ They sipped their drinks. But then, one by one, they set their glasses back on the table as the bell continued to toll, on and on as though it would never end.
Caroline’s eyes grew wide with alarm. ‘Christophe . . . ?’
As one, the three of them rose and moved quickly to the drawing-room to switch on the radiogram. They caught the end of the announcement, scarcely able to take in the words that filled the peaceful room, resonating from walls hung with watercolour scenes of summers gone by.
‘This morning, with our ally Great Britain, France issued an ultimatum to the German leader, demanding the withdrawal of his troops from Poland. The deadline has passed and therefore, with deep regret, both France and Britain are now at war with Germany . . .’
Numb with disbelief, Ella gazed through the open window, framed by its billowing curtains of white muslin, out across the vineyards to where the spire of the church in Sainte Marie rose from the marshlands to point heavenwards as the news tolled out from village to village across the island. A flock of doves, disturbed by the alarm call of the bells, soared skywards as one and then scattered, falling back to earth again as though attempting to take shelter from a storm.
No one had any appetite for supper that evening, and Caroline excused herself early to go and finish packing up the house. There had been no need for discussion. They had all simply made their way upstairs from the drawing-room to pack their things and prepare for the journey back to Paris the next morning. Instinctively, they each knew that they needed to be back there, to plan what to do next. Ella felt a heavy sickness in the pit of her stomach, along with a sudden, childlike longing to see her parents, wishing she could hear the sound of their voices telling her not to worry, that everything would be alright.
Christophe took her hand and, snatching up a rug from where it hung over the back of one of the chairs on the terrace, he led her, wordlessly, through the sand-dunes to the beach. They sat there together, as the sun set far out over the ocean and darkness fell. He drew her to him, draping the blanket around their shoulders as a faint chill crept into the air.
They watched as, one by one, the stars came out, their light reflecting in the ink-black sea, and listening to the waves, which, tonight, brought little comfort as they whispered warnings of hidden menace – of warships and U-boats – in a sighing lament.
Ella turned and kissed Christophe, tasting salt on his lips. ‘We will be together you know, no matter what,’ she told him.
She glimpsed the expression in his starlit eyes, a sadness as deep as the ocean itself. ‘I will not ask you to stay in Paris now, my beautiful Ella. Please, for my sake, go back to Scotland as quickly as you can. Your parents will wish it, in any case. And there you will surely be safer. That is my heartfelt wish. That you will keep yourself safe, so that when this war is over you will come back to me.’
‘But . . .’
‘Shhh.’ He pressed a finger to her lips, stopping her protestations. ‘Please, Ella.’
He kissed her again, and she pressed close to him, longing to give him anything that he asked of her and more.
And, afterwards, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, their breath quietening and becoming one with the soft sighing of the sea.
The journey home was a blur. Everything had been rearranged in such haste that Ella felt a little shell-shocked to find herself standing on the platform in London, waiting to board the sleeper to Edinburgh. On the boat, she’d felt almost like an exile herself, pushed northwards ahead of the tide of refugees and troops that was flooding into Paris now.
When they’d arrived back at the Martets’ home in Paris, a telegram from Edinburgh was already awaiting her arrival. ‘Come home. Wiring money for ticket. Await confirmation.’
And so a telegram had been sent back to her parents to let them know that Ella would be on the train the next day, connecting through London and arriving at Waverley Station the following morning.
She was distraught that her plans to stay in Paris had been dashed so brutally. And she was heartbroken to be leaving Christophe. Their parting had felt like a physical wrench. He’d held her tightly to him at the Gare du Nord and whispered that he didn’t want to let her go.
‘I’ll come back,’ she’d promised. ‘Like you said. When this war is over, I’ll come to find you. We will be together in the end.’
He’d smiled down at her and smoothed her hair back from her forehead so that he could place a kiss there. ‘Ella, I want to tell you something. Without asking for any commitment from you, because the future is so uncertain now . . . I know I am undeserving, and until I am more financially independent I can’t expect . . .’ He tailed off, tongue-tied for once.
She reached up then and kissed him. ‘Shhh. There’s no need to say anything. If your heart knows what my heart knows, then it’s all understood anyway. Am I right?’
He’d looked deep into her eyes, reading what was written there for him alone, and then nodded.
‘That’s fine then. I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out.’ She took his hand and squeezed it in hers, as the conductor blew his whistle. ‘I’ll write. I love you.’
‘Je t’aime, Ella Lennox,’ he’d whispered back. And then he’d stood, looking utterly wretched as she walked away to board the train, and watched as it pulled away from the platform.
And she’d pressed her hand against the glass of the carriage window, as if still reaching for him across the distance that was tearing them apart.
2014, Edinburgh
Getting Granny Ella to the allotment has involved a week’s worth of military-style planning.
‘Why not wait until spring, when there’ll be more things growing?’ Dan asked when I suggested it to him. ‘October’s hardly the best time of year to see it.’
‘Because she might not be capable of it by then,’ I replied, pushing the thought that she might not be here at all by then to the back of my mind. ‘This half-term break might be the last chance.’
‘Bring her here to the flat instead then, for a cup of tea.’
I shook my head. ‘She’d never manage the stairs. And anyway, the main point of the exercise is to see Finn. He’ll hide in his room if we’re here at home, but at the allotment you and he can potter as normal and she can sit and watch. She loves being out in the fresh air too. Two birds, one stone.’
To my amazement, for once it all seems to be working out just as I’ve planned. I dropped Dan and Finn off, along with the bags containing the picnic lunch and the camping stove, and left them to set up the rusty deck-chairs on the more sheltered side of the shed while I went to collect Ella.
She picks her way along the path between the plots, placing her stick carefully amongst the bark chips for balance as she pauses to admire the blaze of mop-headed chrysanthemums on the plot next door to ours. Dan comes to greet us, leaving Finn digging up potatoes and counting them into a basket at his side.
Ella sinks thankfully on to one of the chairs and then takes a deep breath of the autumn air which smells of earth and fallen leaves, but also – faintly – of the last late blooms of the honeysuckle that has tucked itself into the sheltered corner by the shed.
‘Oh!’ she exclaims, turning her face towards the sweetness of the yellow stamens, ‘It does my old heart good to smell that.’