The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 21)
My blood froze at his words. I’d have loved a child of my own, or two or three, but the thought of how that would trap me – and them – in his web, so tightly that there could be no escape, ever, terrified me.
He took me by the hand. ‘In fact, let’s start trying now, tonight!’ His expression was tender again, concerned that I’d tried to pull away, that I was struggling against the silk threads of the web that he’d bound me in. ‘Throw away your pills, my love, and come to bed.’
In the bathroom, I opened the mirrored cabinet above the sink and took out the box of contraceptive pills that was kept there. I knew he’d check. So I left a half-used pack in the box and chucked it into the bin beneath the sink. But I took the other packs and tucked them into the sleeve of my shirt, waiting in the bedroom until he’d gone to brush his teeth before I slipped them into the inner pocket of an old handbag that I kept on a shelf in the wardrobe.
Looking back, perhaps that was my first act of resistance. Perhaps I shouldn’t feel so ashamed of myself, after all.
PART 2
Eliane: 1940
As the summer wore on, Eliane was relieved to see her sister’s strength returning. Being at the mill slowly worked its magic on Mireille and the combination of simple but nourishing home-cooking, the loving care of her family and peaceful days spent playing with Blanche beside the river began to heal her wounded spirit. The sluice gates had now been opened again, so that the deafening roar of water over the weir had reverted to its more usual hush in the background of life at the mill. By late August, the vivacious spark had returned to Mireille’s eyes and then, one miraculous Sunday afternoon, Lisette and Eliane smiled at one another as the sound of Mireille’s laughter rang out once more, as welcome and as joyous as a peal of church bells.
‘Just look at this naughty little monkey!’ she exclaimed as she handed Blanche to Lisette. ‘She managed to crawl all the way to the edge of the pool and then started trying to eat the mud!’
‘She’s covered in it!’ But Lisette couldn’t help laughing too. ‘And you’re no better, Mireille. What a mucky pair! Look at you – you’ve got just as much mud on your hands as she has.’ She wiped a smudge from Mireille’s cheek with a corner of her apron.
‘Well, since she was in a bit of a mess already, it seemed like a good opportunity to make a few mud pies,’ Mireille grinned.
Lisette washed Blanche’s hands and face and then whisked her upstairs to change her out of her muddy clothes. Mireille sat down at the kitchen table and idly began turning the pages of last week’s newspaper.
‘How is Monsieur le Comte bearing up?’ she asked Eliane. ‘It can’t be easy for him, living in the cottage while the château is full of les Boches.’
‘He’s doing okay. He’s a courageous old man.’ Eliane didn’t elaborate – the count had continued to impress on her the need to stay silent, even with members of her family. ‘At a time like this, knowledge can be a very dangerous thing,’ he’d told her. ‘You will be keeping your family safe by not telling them about anything that goes on up here. For the same reason, I do not intend to explain to you the details of what I am doing: if the Germans were to find out, it would be better for you and Madame Boin if you did not know.’
Indeed, it didn’t seem to Eliane as if much was going on at all in the way of subversive activity. Sometimes she wondered whether Monsieur le Comte was becoming a little delusional – it would have been perfectly understandable, given his age and the upset of having his home requisitioned by the enemy. He spent quite a bit of time reading in the château’s library – a room that the Germans were happy to allow him to use in light of how accommodating he’d been in welcoming them into his home – and he took his meals in the kitchen. He usually spent much of the afternoon taking a nap in the cottage and often retired early to his bedroom there once the women had given him his supper, leaving them to clear away and get home in time before the curfew.
Madame Boin refused to leave her kitchen, now that the château was ‘infested with les Boches’, as she put it. She prepared meals for the Germans, as the count asked her to, but with as much bad grace and clashing of pans as she could manage. On the count’s instructions, Eliane would set everything out in the dining room before the Germans’ mealtimes and wait until they’d left to go back and clear away, so her path rarely crossed with theirs. The only exception was the translator – Oberleutnant Farber – who acted as a go-between, passing on requests (which were, in fact, orders) from the officers billeted in Château Bellevue. He was a pleasant enough man, Eliane thought, although his uniform made her nervous. The insignia on his jacket – the silver eagle with wings outspread and the sharp geometry of the swastika – seemed to her to be brutal icons of dominance and persecution.
One Friday evening, as Eliane was finishing up her week’s work by mopping the kitchen floor, she’d looked up, startled, when a figure appeared in the doorway. It was Monsieur le Comte, who put a finger to his lips and then handed her a sealed envelope. She took it, puzzled, and then saw that her father’s name was written on it in the count’s distinguished handwriting. He gestured to her to put it in her apron pocket and then, with a nod of his head, disappeared back down the darkened path towards the cottage. As she watched him go, it seemed to Eliane that he deliberately kept to the shadows, avoiding the few strips of light escaping from the edges of the badly fitting blackout on the château windows, which illuminated the gardens here and there.
She had handed the envelope to her father when she got home. Gustave had simply nodded and put it in his pocket without opening it, and Eliane had known better than to ask him any questions about it.
She didn’t mention that letter to her sister now, either, as Mireille began to read aloud from the newspaper. ‘“With Paris virtually deserted, employers there are calling for workers to return. Following reassurances that there will be no further bombing raids by the Luftwaffe now that the armistice is in place, for a limited period of time additional trains will be run from Bordeaux to the capital, to ensure employees can return to their posts.”’
Eliane had taken over from her mother when she’d left to clean Blanche up after her mud-pie-making exploits. Lisette had been preparing her medicaments for the week ahead, so now Eliane was carefully transferring essential oils from glass-stoppered bottles into the smaller vials that Lisette carried with her on her rounds. She paused for a moment to look over at Mireille, as the words she’d just read hung in the air, mingling with the medicinal scents of peppermint, for heartburn in pregnancy, and cloves, for soothing the gums of teething babies.
‘Will you go back?’ she asked.
Mireille gazed out of the window; but whether she saw the river and the willow tree, or whether the visions of the carnage she’d witnessed still played before her eyes, Eliane couldn’t tell.
Slowly, Mireille nodded, making up her mind. She turned towards Eliane. ‘I’m strong enough again now. I know I’m needed at the atelier – so many of the girls left at the same time when Esther and I did. I wonder who else will go back. I wonder who else is left . . .’
‘Maman won’t like it,’ Eliane said, returning her attention to the array of bottles in front of her.
Mireille sighed. ‘I know. But there’s nothing for me here. You and Maman take such good care of Blanche, you don’t need me to help with that. In Paris I am needed, though. I had a postcard the other day from Monsieur le Directeur. He’s been told that if he can’t carry on as usual, the Germans will take over his business and put their own people in to keep the atelier going. Surely it’s better if it remains in his hands? He’s been a good boss. And he’s tried to help people like Esther. Perhaps there will be other women like her who can be given shelter and work. Perhaps I can help with that in some way too . . .’
As she spoke, Mireille’s voice grew stronger and her words carried more conviction than they had done since her return to the mill. At that moment, Lisette entered, carrying a freshly washed and dressed Blanche, who was perfumed with the scent of the massage oil – a mixture of tarragon, lavender and mint – that Lisette used as a soothing balm to heal colic and calm the babies in her care. She handed the baby to Mireille to bounce on her knee.
‘In that case,’ said Lisette, clearly having heard what Mireille had been saying, ‘you are going to need to make sure you’ve got the strength to go back, ma fille.’
Mireille’s face lit up. ‘Will you let me go then, Maman?’
‘I will do so at the beginning of September, providing that I’m satisfied that you are completely well again.’ Lisette smoothed a lock of hair from Mireille’s forehead, looking deep into her elder daughter’s dark eyes. ‘I know you. I know that keeping you here will not help your soul to mend and rebuild itself. You will find ways to do that in Paris – of this I am sure. But just remember, you can always return here to the mill if you find that you need to leave Paris again. This is your home. This will always be your home.’