The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 18)
Lisette nodded, then found her voice. ‘Yes, it certainly was lucky that our Mireille was able to find Blanche in Paris and bring her to us in Coulliac. Imagine having another baby in the family at my age, though!’
On hearing this exchange, Gustave looked a little startled, but Lisette gave him a reassuring smile. ‘I’m sure we’ll adapt to being new parents, won’t we, chéri? After all, family is family.’
It took Eliane a moment or two to register why Francine had said this, but then she realised the significance of what her friend had just done for their family and for Blanche.
All around them in the queue, people smiled sympathetically and nodded their support. Although Stéphanie, who had also been listening to the conversation, shot a piercing glance at the baby in Lisette’s arms and then scowled with her usual bad grace.
Francine hugged Eliane once again, taking her leave. ‘Now that the bridge is closed, the mayor is going to allow a market to be held here in Coulliac instead of Sainte-Foy.’ She pointed towards another notice pinned to the board outside the mairie. ‘So I’ll see you on Saturday as usual then? Have you got that new batch of honey ready?’
Eliane’s grey eyes were filled with a mixture of sorrow and love as she squeezed Francine’s hand tightly and bid her farewell until the weekend.
When Lisette explained that all the family’s papers had been destroyed in the bombing, it hadn’t taken much persuasion for the harassed and over-worked mayor to issue an ID card for Blanche with her surname given as ‘Martin’. The baby’s birth certificate, which Esther had put in the little bag of belongings that she’d packed so hastily when she and Mireille fled from the city, had been surreptitiously removed from the bundle of papers that Gustave had been holding, and thrust deep into the pocket of his overalls. When they returned to the mill house, Lisette had taken it and carefully smoothed out the creases, folding it into quarters and tucking it into the pages of her heavy book of herbal remedies, which sat on a shelf in the kitchen.
The following Saturday morning, when Eliane came down early to gather together what she’d need for the market stall in the new venue of Coulliac, her father was already at work in the barn. She heard him whistling, and the sound of a saw and then a hammer. The noises stopped at the sound of her footsteps approaching the door, which was slightly ajar.
‘What are you making, Papa?’
Gustave relaxed when he saw it was only Eliane, and he grinned. ‘I’m making a sign, ma fille. Inspired by the efficiency of the new administration, I’ve realised that, for the safety of the general public, we have been remiss in not warning people about the dangerous weir and strong currents in the river here. It would be a terrible thing if someone were to lose their life trying to cross it.’
Eliane laughed. ‘Surely this is one of your jokes?’
His expression was grave, suddenly. ‘Non, ma fille, this is absolutely serious. It’s only a matter of time before the Boches realise that they haven’t quite managed to seal off every crossing point to the unoccupied zone. So I’m going to camouflage what we have here, just in case it should ever be needed.’
‘But, Papa, if the Germans come to check, all they need do is walk on to the weir and they’ll find how easy it is to cross.’
Gustave smiled again. ‘You’ve never seen the river when all the sluice gates are closed, have you?’
She shook her head. ‘You always leave one set open – either to bypass the mill wheel or to make it turn.’
‘That’s right, and that maintains the balance of the flow. But if I close both sets of gates, all the water coming down the river has to flow over the weir itself. It’s quite something to behold: the water level rises and the weir becomes a torrent. Anyone trying to cross then would be swept away in an instant.’
Eliane nodded slowly, considering her father’s plan.
‘I know it may seem a bit crazy, what I’m doing . . .’ Gustave picked up the sign he’d been making. ‘But maybe crazy times like these call for crazy plans like this. I have to try, at least. The Germans will probably seal off the whole riverbank in any case, but if we can make it look as if this small section is so hazardous that it needs no defending then it might just be of use to someone, sometime.’ He picked up a sledgehammer, a sharpened wooden stake and the sign, which read: ‘Warning! Hazardous Weir. Danger of Death!’
‘Want to come and hold this for me while I set it up? And then I’ll give you a lift to the market.’
Eliane smiled at her father. ‘Since it is our duty for the greater protection of the public at large? But of course, Papa!’
By the time Eliane arrived with her basketful of jars of honey and beeswax, Francine had already set up a trestle table in the square, as far as possible from the swastika flying outside the mairie. She had covered it with a brightly checked cloth and was setting out pyramids of jam jars and conserves. A few other stallholders were setting up shop, but this makeshift market in Coulliac was a far cry from the hustle and plenty of the one in Sainte-Foy.
A German soldier wandered around the square, a rifle slung casually over one shoulder, and came to inspect each of the stalls. When he reached the girls’ table, he paused.
‘What is that?’ He pointed at the jar Francine was holding. She froze. Then, dropping her eyes, replied, ‘Reine Claude preserve, m’sieur. It’s made from a type of green plum.’
‘It’s good to eat with bread?’ The soldier’s French accent was hard-edged.
Francine nodded. Her hand shook as she passed the jam to him for closer inspection.
‘How much?’ He balanced his rifle against the table as he fished in his pocket for some coins. ‘Thank you, miss. Good day.’
Eliane continued to set out her own produce, but said softly, ‘Are you alright, Francine?’
‘Sorry, it’s stupid of me to be so nervous. But it doesn’t feel good, living like this. Soldiers and guns should have no place in day-to-day life. What is happening to us?’
Eliane sighed. ‘War is happening to us. And I’m very much afraid this is just the beginning.’ She, too, felt tense and off balance. She wanted to tell Francine not to worry, that she had nothing to fear, that everything would be alright. But she found that she couldn’t give her friend that reassurance because Eliane, too, could sense the threat that hung over Francine’s head as clearly as she felt the glare of the sun beginning to beat down on them from above. ‘Come on, here come our first customers. Give me a hand with this umbrella,’ she said briskly, giving Francine a quick hug. ‘Otherwise the beeswax is going to melt.’
The customer, who was making her way purposefully across the square towards the girls’ stall, was the mayor’s secretary.
‘Good morning, Eliane. Francine.’ She’d worked in the mairie for as long as the girls could remember and knew everyone in the commune by name. ‘I need some more of your beeswax, please, and a jar of confiture aux myrtilles also.’ She counted the exact money on to the table and as she did so she smiled at Eliane. ‘How is the baby today?’
‘Blanche is fine, thank you.’
‘And your sister?’
‘She’s much better now. Her feet are mending well.’ This was true, although Eliane knew Mireille’s mental scars would take far longer to heal.
‘I’m pleased to hear that. Give my best wishes to your parents.’ As if as an inconsequential afterthought, she added, ‘Oh, and you might like to mention to them that the moulin has been scheduled for a visit on Monday. Sometimes it’s nice to be able to prepare for visitors in advance.’
Then, with a businesslike nod, she scooped her purchases into a string bag and continued on her way.
That Monday, the sound of the jeep pulling up in front of the barn was drowned out by the noise of the river flowing over the weir in full spate. Gustave and Yves were heaving sacks of flour into the back of the truck. An officer and official translator, both in uniform, got out and stood for a moment, assessing the scene before them. Gustave’s sign looked as if it had been in place for years, thanks to a light going-over with a sheet of sandpaper and the application of a couple of smudges of river mud. The officer picked up a stone and threw it towards the crest of the weir. The water snatched it greedily and swallowed it into the depths. He raised his eyebrows and instructed the translator to make a note on the clipboard he was carrying.
Only then did the officer turn to acknowledge the presence of Yves and Gustave.
‘Good morning. I’m looking for Herr Martin, the owner of the water mill.’ He had to shout to be heard above the roar of the river.
‘You’ve found him,’ replied Gustave, heaving the final sack on to the truck and then dusting the flour off his hands before pulling the tarpaulin cover into place.
‘Perhaps we could go inside, where it’s a little quieter?’ the translator said with careful courtesy, his manner a little less abrupt than that of the officer. ‘We are sorry to disturb you at your work, monsieur, but there are a few things that we need to sort out with you.’
Gustave led the way and showed them into the kitchen, where the Germans pulled out chairs and seated themselves at the table, gesturing to Gustave to do likewise. Yves, who had followed them inside, remained standing, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded.