The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 37)

At the far end of the cavern, more rough steps were cut into the bedrock, leading steeply upwards. Eliane walked over to them and lifted her lantern. She smiled as she saw the curved staves of a wine barrel covering the opening at the top of the stairs. She put a finger to her lips, motioning to Jacques to keep his voice down and then pointed upwards.

‘The château’s wine cellar: the kitchen is just above that – and the Germans, too.’

‘Don’t worry; they won’t be able to hear us. There’s several feet of solid rock between us and them, as well as the cellar space.’

The light from the lantern cast shadows across his face as he smiled at her and took her hand. ‘What a place! It feels as if we’ve stepped out of the real world and into another completely separate one. How strange – and how wonderful – it is to be cocooned here. And yes, you’re right – underneath the noses of the German army! Are you sure no one else knows about the tunnel?’

Eliane nodded. ‘Only the Comte de Bellevue has been down here in living memory, and that would have been many years ago. There’s no way he could manage the stairs down to the wine cellar these days, never mind those steep steps in the rock. Papa uses only the first few metres of the tunnel at the end by the mill house and, as you saw, he keeps the entrance well hidden. You’ll be safe here until they can get you out.’

‘And you?’ He caressed her hand with his thumb, trying to comfort her, and she smiled back at him. ‘You’re okay staying here with me, Eliane? I know it must be difficult but, as you know, the Milice and the Gestapo may well search the mill. It’s better that you are not there when they do.’

A look of fear flashed across Eliane’s face. ‘Papa . . . And Maman . . . It doesn’t feel right not to be with them.’

He put a hand on her arm to reassure her. ‘If your parents are questioned, don’t you think it will help them more to know you are safely out of the way? Your father will come and get you when it’s safe, as he said.’

She nodded, reluctantly agreeing that he was right.

Jacques removed his jacket and spread it on the floor of the cavern. ‘Don’t worry, your parents will be alright. There’s no evidence against them. As long as the tunnel remains a secret, we’ll all be safe.’ He put his arms around her to comfort her and then added, ‘I promise I’ll keep you safe, Eliane.’

His chest was broad and his shirt smelled of the forest – of fresh air and pine resin and leaf mould – as she pressed her face against it, breathing him in, this familiar stranger who had come to live among them and was risking so much as he worked to help co-ordinate and strengthen France’s Resistance.

‘Were you with Yves today?’ she asked.

When she looked up at him, his blue eyes were gazing down at her, filled with an expression of such tenderness that it made her heart skip a beat. She’d known they were growing closer, but until this moment she hadn’t realised fully how much he loved her.

He smiled and whispered, as if someone might overhear him. ‘Yes, I was. He’s on good form. He’s one of the more experienced members of the group now. They’re very busy, planning . . . And I can’t say any more than that.’ He stopped short. She could see that he was annoyed with himself for having already said too much. But perhaps he felt, like she did, that there was something about the otherworldly feel of this place and about being hidden safely together that had made him relax his guard.

‘I know,’ she said. And then she stood on tiptoes and her lips brushed his. Cocooned from the war for this brief spell, away from the daily grind of danger and deprivation, she, too, had lowered her guard for a moment. But then she stepped back, confused and ashamed at her own uncharacteristic boldness.

With mock formality, to help cover her embarrassment, he gestured to the jacket on the floor and said, ‘Mademoiselle Martin, please take a seat and let us dine together. After all, we find ourselves in such a very exclusive restaurant. I believe the food is supposed to be very good here.’

She laughed, relaxing again, and settled herself on the floor, untying the silk scarf and letting her honey-blonde hair fall forwards on to her shoulders. She pulled closer the basket that Lisette had packed for them.

With a lethal-looking commando knife that he pulled from a concealed pocket sewn to the inside of his jacket, Jacques cut slices from a loaf of dense, yellow chestnut bread, and spread them thickly with creamy, herb-flecked goat’s cheese. There were two of the huge red tomatoes that had been sun-ripened in Eliane’s potager beside the river, and he cut slices from these and placed them on top. ‘Your tartine, mademoiselle. I hope it is to your satisfaction.’ He presented it to her with a flourish.

‘Delicious,’ she pronounced, having taken a large bite. ‘But wait a moment, there’s something missing.’

She climbed the rough-hewn stairs and carefully pushed on one side of the barrel’s stout belly until it rolled over slowly and rested against its neighbour. She climbed up into the cellar and, in the darkness that was lit only faintly by the lamp from the cavern beneath her, felt her way along the wine racks. She took a modest bottle – not one of the count’s finest wines, but not one from the despised 1937 vintage either – and climbed carefully back down the steps, pausing to reach for the length of knotted rope attached to the bunghole of the barrel. With a gentle tug, the barrel rolled back into place, covering the stairway once again.

Using Eliane’s penknife, they managed to remove the cork.

‘Now this really is what I call fine dining,’ said Jacques. He put his arm around her again. ‘I can’t think of a more perfect way to spend an evening.’

After they’d finished their meal, they turned out the lamp to conserve the remaining oil for the morning. They lay on his jacket and Jacques held Eliane close to him.

She brought her fingertips to his face, softly tracing his features in the pitch-darkness. ‘What is your real name?’ she whispered.

He hesitated for a moment. And then whispered back, ‘Jack Connelly.’ He spoke the words with an English accent, which startled her a little. The French accent of Jacques Lemaître had evaporated, suddenly, and in English he seemed like someone else altogether.

‘Jack Connelly,’ she repeated, and then she pressed her finger against his lips, as though sealing in his secret again.

He kissed her, seeking her lips with his in the darkness. And then he whispered, in that same pure English accent, ‘Jack Connelly loves Eliane Martin.’

Abi: 2017

Sara and I are prepping vegetables for tonight’s supper. The guest list for this weekend’s wedding includes two vegetarians, a vegan, one person with a severe nut allergy and three people who don’t eat fish. Sara has consulted her extensive collection of recipe books and managed to come up with her usual creative and delicious menu suggestions and now I am spiralising enough courgettes to feed a small army.

‘So are you telling me Eliane and Jacques spent the night hiding right underneath where we’re now standing?’ I ask, amazed.

Sara grins. ‘Yup. After you’ve finished that I’ll show you if you like.’

As I take a break from my spiralising to chop the ends off the last few courgettes, she washes her hands and then opens the door to the wine cellar. Picking up a torch from a shelf beside the door and glancing back over her shoulder, she smiles at me. ‘Well, are you coming to see the cavern or not then?’

It’s all just as she’s described: the three barrels in the corner of the wine cellar; the steep steps cut into the rock leading down to the cave beneath the kitchen; the light from the torch bouncing off the curved rock above us; the dry, dusty floor, which is scuffed with the smudges of footprints – could some of them even belong to Eliane and Jacques, I wonder.

Sara beckons me over to one side of the cavern and directs the torchlight on to the rock wall. Wordlessly, she points.

‘It’s them!’ I gasp.

A heart is incised into the rock as distinctly as if it was carved only yesterday, protected from the elements in the darkness of the cave. And still clearly legible are the initials within it: E. M. and J. C.

I run my fingertips over it, tracing the outline and trying to imagine what they must have felt as they hid here with the German soldiers living just a few metres above. Fear, perhaps? But Sara has said that they’d felt safe in this other, underground world, away from the challenging reality of the world above them.

So maybe, for that one night, they were able simply to feel love.

Eliane: 1943

She hadn’t expected to sleep, lying beside Jack on the dusty cavern floor, but awoke to find she’d done so surprisingly well, nestled against the warmth of his body, with his arms wrapped around her. He was already awake and she wondered how many hours he’d spent watching over her in the darkness. He felt for the matches in the basket and lit the lamp.

‘What’s the time?’ she asked. Usually, she had no need for a watch as she could sense the time of day from the intensity of the light, the length of the shadows and the songs of the insects and birds all about her, which told the time as accurately as any clock. But in the darkness of the cavern she had no sense at all of the hour.