The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 25)
She patted the red silk around her neck and he nodded approvingly. ‘I’ll let you know,’ he said.
She left him in the quiet of the chapel, sitting where a ray of sunlight filtered through the diamond-paned window above the statue of Christ. The light made the dust motes dance around his head in the cool air and illuminated his hands, which were clasped loosely on his lap. As she pulled the door softly to behind her, she heard his voice again, an indistinct mutter on the other side of the thick walls.
She’d be prepared to walk again tomorrow, as she had done not frequently but on several occasions since that first time. The direction and number of circuits she was told to make varied sometimes; although she never knew what she was communicating, nor to whom. But she hoped that – along with the count’s afternoon prayers – the messages she sent out into the wide blue yonder might, somehow, be making a difference.
Abi: 2017
Karen and I are cleaning the chapel this morning. The summer sun has cranked the thermostat up to ‘high’ today, so it’s a relief to step through the door and into the cool half-light. We sweep the flagstones, collecting the detritus of the last wedding in our dustpans; a few of the dried rose petals that Sara provides as an alternative to confetti; a couple of discarded order-of-service sheets; dust from the soles of so many pairs of smart new shoes, bought especially for the occasion. The polished wood of the pews gleams where a ray of light filters through the lead-paned windows.
Together, Karen and I shake out the laundered linen cloth and spread it over the little altar that sits before the statue of Christ. She flexes her wrist, which is still a bit stiff at times, though it’s mended pretty well, and then glances at my arm. I notice her looking and pretend to smooth a non-existent wrinkle out of the altar cloth to cover my self-consciousness. In the heat, I’ve had to discard my usual long-sleeved shirts for once. I know it’s not a pretty sight. The bones splintered when they broke, tearing through the skin. The pins they put in to fix it have created more scar tissue, so my arm is lumpy and misshapen. The scars from the lacerations stand out as hard, white wheals against the faint tan that I’ve picked up while sitting by the riverbank in my swimming costume on my days off.
Karen fixes me with her candid gaze. ‘Here I am feeling sorry for myself because my wrist’s a bit sore. That must have hurt you a whole lot more, I reckon.’
I shrug, trying not to remember. Trying to blank out the images that come, unbidden, into my head. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. But it was a while ago. Nearly healed now.’
She looks at me searchingly for a moment. ‘You’re doing okay, you know, Abi. I’ve seen a few people come and go in my time, and you’re one of the good ’uns.’
I’m not sure whether she’s referring to the work I do around the château or whether she’s talking about something else, but her gruff kindness brings tears to my eyes. I duck my head and bend down to gather up my dustpan and brush so that I can regain my composure. From the yard outside, the sound of Jean-Marc’s mower passes, growing louder and then fading. He must be on the way to park it in its shed, on his way in for lunch.
As I straighten up, Karen’s still looking at me appraisingly, and then she grins, saying, ‘And I reckon I’m not the only one around here who thinks that, y’know.’
As we leave the chapel, I pause for a moment before stepping back out into the glare of the midday heat, and I think of the count spending his afternoons here. And in that moment, in the hushed half-light of the chapel, it’s as if I can hear the faint whisper of voices, transmitting their messages from the past.
Eliane: 1942
Word spread quickly through the market in Coulliac that the new season’s honey was available. There were serious food shortages now, despite the strict rationing that had been in place. Sugar was one of the most precious commodities, and one of the scarcest, and so a queue quickly formed at Francine and Eliane’s stall.
People were resigned to queuing for everything these days – queuing at the mairie for travel permits and petrol coupons; queuing at the bakery to collect the dwindling daily rations of bread and at the butcher’s shop to pick up a meagre square of horsemeat; and queuing at the checkpoints that sprang up on roads where, previously, they had been able to go freely about their everyday business.
People padded out their rations as best they could with whatever was available: fish from the river, sometimes; wild salad leaves – dandelion, chickweed and mâche – from the hedgerows; and when the supplies of wheat fell short, as they so often did these days, Gustave and Yves would grind chestnuts into a coarse flour that could be made into heavy loaves of yellow bread that sat in the stomach like a brick. But no one was complaining. After a winter of surviving mostly on turnips and root artichokes, everyone welcomed the relative plenty and variety that came with spring and early summer. The dense chestnut bread filled a hole in an empty stomach. Some honey, though – now that would transform even the mildewed heel of a loaf of bread into a treat.
Instead of charging a king’s ransom, which was what most people would have been prepared to pay for a jar, had they had the resources, the girls charged a token amount, distributing the precious supplies as widely as they could among the families of Coulliac. In some cases, they weren’t averse to participating in the marché amical (a far friendlier name for it than ‘black market’), and would quietly exchange a jar of honey for a chunk of dried sausage or a few wizened apples, the last of the previous year’s crop. These items were hastily secreted behind the stall.
On the surface, Francine appeared to be her usual cheerful self. But, a few days ago, she had been ordered to present herself at the mairie where, after standing in the obligatory queue for over two hours, she was issued with a yellow star and told it was to be worn on her outer clothing at all times. Eliane could sense her growing anxiety. And no wonder – the newspapers carried reports of deportations with increasing frequency. Jews, in particular, were being rounded up and sent to labour camps in the east, and the tone of the reporting was becoming more and more openly anti-Semitic.
When Oberleutnant Farber stepped up to the stall to buy – at full price – one of the few jars of jam they’d been able to make that year (the shortage of sugar having limited their usual production), Francine’s hands shook so much that she scattered his change across the cobbles of the square. Jacques Lemaître, who was next in line, helped gather up a few of the stray coins and handed them to the soldier.
‘Merci, monsieur,’ the oberleutnant said.
Jacques simply nodded pleasantly and then, waiting until the soldier had strolled off towards the mairie, turned to Eliane and Francine. ‘A jar of your very fine honey, please, mesdemoiselles,’ he said gallantly. ‘And how are your parents? And your brother?’ he asked Eliane. ‘Have you had any word from your sister in Paris lately?’
Stéphanie, who’d been standing behind him and had been intently watching the exchanges with both men, reached across in front of Jacques on the pretext of examining the last remaining jar of jam, made from wild plums that the girls had gleaned from the roadside in the spring.
‘Allow me, mademoiselle,’ he said politely, passing the jar to her.
‘Why, thank you, m’sieur. I don’t believe we’ve met? I think I’ve seen you working in the bakery, though.’ She introduced herself and extended a well-manicured hand, simpering as she did so.
‘Enchanté,’ he replied. ‘That’s right; I’m Monsieur Fournier’s assistant.’
‘Hello, Eliane,’ said Stéphanie, suddenly redirecting her attention. ‘What a pretty scarf that is! I’ve seen you wearing it a lot. Where on earth did you get something like that, I wonder?’
‘From my sister, Mireille,’ Eliane replied.
‘Really? Not from one of your grateful German soldiers up at the château?’
Refusing to rise to the bait, Eliane replied firmly, ‘No. A grateful client in Paris gave it to Mireille and she passed it on to me as a birthday gift.’
‘I see.’ Stéphanie’s laugh was brittle with insincerity. ‘I wonder whether that client was female or male. And how is that charming baby your mother so thoughtfully took in? She must be getting quite grown-up these days.’
Eliane could sense Francine tensing with anger beside her. She smiled calmly at Stéphanie. ‘Yes, Blanche is doing really well now. She’s a happy child, with quite a will of her own.’
Stéphanie sniffed, and then handed the jam jar back to Jacques, turning the full focus of her attention to him once again. ‘Please could I ask you to be so kind as to replace that for me, monsieur?’
Francine glared again as Stéphanie blatantly fluttered her eyelashes in his direction. ‘Just a jar of honey, please, Eliane.’ Stéphanie’s gaze swept over Francine, her eyes deliberately lingering on the yellow star pinned to the front of her blouse. She stashed the honey in her basket and then extended a hand to Jacques once more. ‘Until we meet again, monsieur.’ She swept off across the place, smoothing back her glossy black hair.
‘Goodbye then, Eliane, Francine.’ Jacques’ smile took in both of them. As he was moving off, the mayor’s secretary bustled up to him.