The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 32)

Finally, the oberleutnant picked up his jar of honey and sauntered back to the mairie, pausing to speak to one of the German guards on the steps before he disappeared back inside.

‘It must be nice to have friends in high places,’ Stéphanie commented, with studied insouciance. ‘She has an advantage, of course, because she consorts with the Germans every day up at Château Bellevue. It’s very useful to have such special dispensations – the Martin family seem to eat much better than the rest of us around these parts. They’re forever showing off and handing out scraps to us charity cases. And, while everyone else has to hand over their produce, Mademoiselle Eliane is allowed to keep her honey and sell it. I’ve also heard she wangles extra petrol vouchers so that her father can fetch and carry her in that truck of his.’

Mathieu drained his coffee’s bitter dregs and set the cup rattling back down on its saucer.

‘I don’t think that’s right, Stéphanie,’ he said.

But she could see that her comments were getting a reaction from him, and that spiteful spark danced in her eyes once again. She sighed, as if in great sorrow. ‘Oh, Mathieu . . .’ She laid her hand gently on his arm once more. ‘I hate to have to be the one to tell you . . . I know how close you were to Eliane before you left. But, as a friend, I feel I have to let you know the truth.’

‘The truth? What do you mean?’ She certainly had his full attention now.

‘Look,’ she nodded to where Jacques Lemaître was approaching Eliane’s stall now. ‘See how she flirts with everyone. The baker’s assistant, that German officer – she didn’t wait long after you left, I can tell you.’

Mathieu’s face flushed red with anger. ‘That’s not true! That’s not Eliane.’

‘I’m afraid it is, these days, Mathieu. Of course, one has to try not to judge too harshly – war does terrible things to change people. But you see that scarf she’s wearing?’

He nodded. She’d been wearing it last weekend, too, he recalled.

‘Well, they say it was given to her by her German lover. Where else would she get a scarf like that around here? She shows it off everywhere she goes.’

‘But she told me it was a present from her sister, in Paris,’ he retorted.

Stéphanie laughed, lightly but scornfully. ‘Is that what she said? The only present the Martins have received from Mireille is that baby she appeared with. People say that Eliane’s not the only Martin sister to consort with Germans. Mireille dumped her illegitimate child with her family and then hightailed it back to Paris as fast as she could. We all thought it was odd that she should want to get back there so quickly, but of course the lure of the high life, being wined and dined by German officers at the best restaurants, must have been irresistible once she’d offloaded the child. They concocted that story about it belonging to a cousin of Gustave’s to try to cover up the family’s shame.’

The blood had drained from Mathieu’s face now and his skin was beaded with sweat, sallow and clammy despite his farmer’s tan.

‘I don’t believe any of what you say, Stéphanie,’ he said, sounding sickened.

She shrugged her narrow shoulders. ‘Don’t believe me then, Mathieu. I know it must be a terrible shock for you to hear the truth. All I can do is tell you what’s really been going on, for your own sake. I hate to see you being made a fool of. But it’s all the same to me whether you believe me or not.’ She stood and tugged the skirt of her dress into place, then smoothed back her hair. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Mathieu. And good luck with the job. Come back and see me sometime if you’re passing this way.’

With a glance at Eliane to make sure she’d noticed the company Mathieu was keeping, Stéphanie stooped down and kissed him goodbye.

Mathieu sat, shell-shocked, replaying Stéphanie’s words in his head. After a few minutes, Yves appeared, wheeling his bike. ‘Salut, Mathieu! Mind if I join you?’

‘Please do. Some sane company would be most welcome.’

Yves grinned at him. ‘Yes, I saw Stéphanie making a move on you. That girl never stops trying, I’ll give her that!’

‘Who’s that guy you were chatting with by the fountain?’ asked Mathieu.

‘Jacques? He’s a good mate. Works in the bakery, so I got to know him from delivering the flour.’

Mathieu noticed that Yves, who was usually so open and candid, didn’t quite meet his enquiring gaze as he said this.

‘Not that there’s much flour to deliver these days, of course,’ Yves continued. ‘We’re grinding chestnuts now. Maize and oats as well. Reduced to eating animal feed. But I suppose it’s the same on the other side of the line too? Tough times . . .’

And Mathieu realised that the conversation had been well and truly diverted from the subject of Jacques Lemaître. For some reason, Yves didn’t want to talk about this great new friend of his.

Mathieu looked across the place and Eliane caught his eye and waved. She adjusted the silk scarf so that it lay straighter and then began to pack up the stall.

Instead of going across to help her, as he normally would have done, Mathieu sat, watching her thoughtfully and letting Yves’ stream of inconsequential chatter wash past him.

He was quiet in the truck on the short drive back to the mill house and then scarcely touched the lunch Lisette had prepared for them, using vegetables from Eliane’s potager to make a rich broth that was served with chestnut bread, soft goat’s cheese and, in honour of Mathieu’s visit, a few slices of precious dried ham from the cave behind the pigsty.

The good food turned to sawdust in Mathieu’s mouth, poisoned by the doubts that Stéphanie had sown in his mind.

When they’d finished their meal, he said, ‘Come, Eliane, let’s go for a walk along the river.’

She took his hand in hers as they set off, and curled her fingers around his broad knuckles, but he barely reciprocated. As they followed the riverbank, picking their way along a narrow, dusty path that skirted the coils of barbed wire, she asked him, ‘Mathieu? Is something wrong?’

He stopped and turned to look at her. Then he reached out and touched the rich silk of the scarf that she still wore knotted loosely around her neck. ‘Who gave you this?’ he asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

She dropped her gaze. ‘I told you – it was a gift from Mireille.’

‘Eliane,’ his tone was pleading now. ‘Tell me the truth. Where did you get this scarf?’

She looked up, meeting his eyes again. ‘I’m sorry, Mathieu. I can’t tell you.’

‘I see,’ he said, quietly. ‘And Blanche . . . ? Who are her real parents?’

She frowned slightly, confused at the change of subject. ‘I’m sorry, Mathieu, I can’t tell you that either. I want to tell you the truth. But the truth is that there are things I cannot tell you.’

He turned to face the river, where the water was incarcerated in its cage of steel wire. He seemed to be struggling to speak and he swallowed several times before saying, ‘Oh, Eliane. What has this war done to you?’ His voice trembled with the unbearable pain that was tearing his heart in two.

She reached to try to hold him, but he turned away from her. ‘Mathieu,’ she said, ‘look at me, please.’

With an effort, he faced her again. He bit his lip hard, and his eyes were red-rimmed, stung by the tears that he refused to let fall.

‘This war has done the same things to me that it has done to you,’ she said. Her voice was calm and firm, where his had been so full of emotion. ‘I have had to make choices and decisions, just as you have done. All any of us is trying to do is survive.’

‘But Eliane, the war can’t last forever. So what happens afterwards? When it’s over, every one of us will have to live with the things we have done.’

‘Yes, Mathieu,’ she replied. ‘We’ll have to live with the things we’ve done. And every one of us will have to live with the things we haven’t done, as well.’

They stood in silence for a while and then turned and walked back to the mill, each cocooned in their own thoughts.

‘What do you want to do now?’ Eliane asked him as they reached the final part of the track to the mill house.

He shrugged. ‘I’ve been away from my father and Luc long enough. If I leave now, there’s a train I can catch from Sainte-Foy that will get me home tonight.’

A tear ran down her cheek then and fell on to the scarf, staining the scarlet silk border a dark blood-red. ‘Mathieu,’ she choked, ‘I’m sorry.’

He nodded, unable to speak again for a moment. And then he said, ‘Do you remember what I said last weekend? That they’ve taken our voices, as well as our country.’

She raised her eyes to his. ‘They can’t silence us forever, though. The day will come, eventually, when the truth can be told.’

He shook his head. ‘The truth seems to be such a very complicated thing all of a sudden. Sorry, Eliane, but it’s best that I collect my things and go now.’

She went with him as far as the bridge. She watched him show his papers to the guards and then be waved across. And as he walked away, unable to look back at her, the line that separated them seemed to have become more impossible than ever to cross.