The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 29)

There were tutorials to attend every now and then, and I could have opted for doing them online, but I saw them as opportunities to escape for the odd evening and told Zac that they were compulsory. Another lie. Another tiny act of defiance. By that time, stepping out of the apartment on my own felt like a terrifying ordeal, but I knew I had to make an effort. Afterwards, though, when the others in my tutorial group, who seemed a friendly lot, suggested going for a coffee, I would make my excuses and hurry home. I knew Zac would be watching the clock and checking my whereabouts on his phone. Any unaccounted-for lateness would mean trouble.

Nonetheless, I’d managed to cut through one or two of the silken threads that bound me to him. And I felt that little flicker of Self inside me rekindle, like a tiny, warm flame.

Eliane: 1942

Waking early the following Saturday, Eliane stacked her jars of honey into baskets ready for Gustave and Yves to load into the truck and drive to the market. Running the stall wasn’t at all the same without Francine, but she knew she had to carry on distributing the honey supplies as fairly as possible. Rationing was hitting them all harder than ever.

In Coulliac, the river and surrounding woodland offered useful sources of additional fish and game with which to supplement the meagre allocation they spent so many hours queuing for at the butcher’s shop and the bakery. And most people in the local community had at least a patch of garden where they grew what fresh produce they could. But Eliane knew things were harder for those living in the larger towns. Even in Coulliac, strict demands were placed on everyone by their German occupiers: one-third of all produce still had to be delivered to the depot; hoarding was an offence warranting arrest; and, just the other day, a notice had gone up outside the mairie declaring that anyone found secretly raising a pig would face a prison sentence and confiscation of the animal.

So the pigsty at the mill stood empty now. However, hidden in the tunnel behind the door, which was still concealed by the empty trough and a casually stacked pile of corrugated-iron sheets, the Martins had a couple of dried hams swathed in muslin, and a stack of pâtés, rillettes and grattons preserved in glass jars. They eked these out, eating them only sparingly, and occasionally Lisette would share them with her undernourished expectant mothers.

On one of Eliane’s dawn walks to gather the wild mushrooms that poked their heads through the leaf mould carpeting the woodland floor, she had come across a makeshift enclosure, sheltered by branches, where a pair of plump black pigs snuffled and muttered contentedly to themselves as they foraged for acorns. She’d smiled and then carefully covered her tracks. Someone would be having roast pork for Christmas that year.

As she helped Gustave and Yves load the baskets of honey into the truck, Eliane was startled to see a group of German soldiers appear among the trees on the far bank of the river. She had to peer over the tangle of barbed wire to make out what they were doing.

One of the men waved at her, cheerfully, perhaps recognising the mädchen who worked at the château by the scarlet scarf she wore knotted peasant-style to keep her pretty dark-blonde hair out of her eyes. Then they took off their jackets and set to work with axes and two-man saws.

Eliane gasped. ‘What are they doing, Papa?’

‘They’ve been ordered to cut down the trees over there. They’re still suspicious that people may be crossing somehow, even with all their damnable wire messing up my river. Jacques told me they’re clearing the far bank and mounting regular patrols there now.’

She wondered how Jacques knew such things, but understood it was better not to ask.

She picked up one of the jars of acacia honey that she’d filled so carefully. It was as pale and clear as champagne. Across the river, a tree fell with a crash and a flurry of leaves, which were torn from its branches like confetti. Setting the jar back in the basket, she sighed. There’d be no more acacia flowers there now. But the bees would manage to find other sources of nectar among the wildflowers and the apple blossom: even they would have to make ends meet, just like the rest of the community.

Business was slow in the market that day. Few people were able to afford a luxury such as honey, even though there was scarcely any sugar either these days. Many of the stallholders had given up coming to the market now as they had no produce to spare, with so much of it having to be handed over at the depot and rationing so tight. It was all most people could do to feed themselves and their families. One or two tables had neat pyramids of root artichokes, potatoes, courgettes and summer turnips, but they seemed colourless and unappetising compared with how things used to be. Besides, everyone was sick of eating the same things day in, day out.

There were still some surreptitious exchanges: a few people who visited Eliane’s stall and hung back until there was no one else waiting to be served, then sidled up to tuck a few eggs or a couple of rabbit skins beneath the gingham stall cover in return for a small jar of honey. More often, people handed over a few coins to buy one of the larger jars of beeswax; polishing the furniture had fallen far down most people’s list of priorities now, but lamp oil was also scarce and the wax was useful for making candles to use during the increasingly frequent power cuts.

Two boys, who looked about ten and twelve years old respectively, appeared at the side of the stall. The clothes they wore, which were far too small for them, were patched and darned and the skin was stretched tight over the bones of their thin wrists, which protruded several centimetres beyond the frayed ends of their sleeves. The elder one removed a damp, newspaper-wrapped offering from inside his jacket. ‘Would you give us a jar of honey in exchange for these fine perch?’ he asked. He unwrapped the parcel to display two small fish that, she knew, would be full of bones.

‘We caught them this morning,’ added the younger boy. ‘We managed to keep it a secret. It’s Maman’s birthday. We want to give her a present.’

With a smile, Eliane gave them one of the precious jars and then wrapped up the fish again. ‘Take these back to your maman as well. They will be a treat for her birthday lunch. And wish her many happy returns from me.’

‘Thank you, Honey Lady.’ The brothers grinned. The elder one stashed the parcel back under his jacket and they ran for home, the younger boy carrying the jar of honey carefully before him, as if it were a casket of jewels.

Once the last few jars were gone, Eliane began to pack up, tucking the marché amical articles into her basket and covering them with the neatly folded gingham cloth.

‘Good morning, Mademoiselle Martin.’ Oberleutnant Farber’s voice startled her, but she quickly composed herself.

‘Good morning, monsieur.’

‘Alas, I see I am too late to buy a jar of your delicious honey today.’

She nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. And there’s no jam that I can offer you either, now that there isn’t enough sugar to make it. But, you know, there’s no need for you to buy honey from me here. I am obliged to provide it for you and your colleagues every morning for breakfast at Château Bellevue.’

‘Even so, I like to support local commerce,’ he replied. There was a pause. ‘How is your mother?’ he asked, politely.

‘She is better, thank you. Well enough to go back to work now.’

‘That’s good.’ And then, without changing his expression, he said, ‘You must miss your friend very much. The one who used to help you run this stall.’

His tone was mild, but when she glanced up at him he was watching her intently.

She nodded briskly. ‘Indeed I do. It’s twice the work without her. And so, if you’ll excuse me, monsieur, I must be getting on.’

He smiled. ‘Of course, mademoiselle, I don’t wish to delay you when you are so busy. Good day.’

‘Bonne journée, monsieur.’

Her hands were trembling after this exchange. Why had he mentioned Francine’s absence just after he’d enquired after Lisette? Usually, Eliane was an astute judge of character, but she couldn’t make out Oberleutnant Farber. He was the enemy, and yet he seemed to want to be a friend. Was he genuine? Or was it simply an attempt to trick her into giving something away? How much did he know? What had he seen? Unconsciously, as she watched him disappear up the steps of the mairie, she raised a hand to stroke the silk scarf, which she was wearing knotted about her neck today.

And only then did she realise that someone was watching her from the other side of the square. A young man as big as a bear, with dark, shaggy hair.

Her heart leaped and her eyes filled with tears of joy. ‘Mathieu!’ she cried and she ran towards him as he strode forward to envelop her in his arms.

They sat at the Café de la Paix, while they waited for Gustave to arrive with the truck, holding tight to each other’s hands as their cups of bitter, ersatz coffee grew cold on the table beside them.

Eliane had so many questions to ask him, and so much to tell him.

But there was so much that she couldn’t tell him, too, she reminded herself. She couldn’t tell him that Blanche wasn’t really the daughter of her father’s cousin; she couldn’t tell him how Jacques Lemaître had appeared across the weir one night, and that he wasn’t only the baker’s assistant; she couldn’t tell him how Yves had forewarned several Jewish neighbours of their imminent deportation, giving them time to escape; she couldn’t say what Lisette had done, nor where Francine had gone. And she couldn’t tell him about her walks around the château’s garden walls. Somehow all these secrets made her feel that there was still a distance between them even though he was there, now, beside her.