The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 4)
She waved to Monsieur Boin, the farmer husband of the cook at Château Bellevue, as he tended a rotisserie of his succulent, home-raised chickens, which dripped their fat on to a tray of diced potatoes below that were beginning to turn caramel-brown.
Eliane picked her way through the milling throng to the stall where her friend Francine was cheerfully serving the customers clustered around it. Their jams and preserves were always popular and the jars of Eliane’s honey disappeared just as quickly.
‘What a price,’ grumbled a housewife as she picked up one of the amber-filled jars.
‘It’s the end of the season, madame, and the finest acacia honey.’ Francine smiled, unperturbed. ‘These will be the last few jars until spring, so I would advise you to buy today if you want some.’ She smoothed the crumpled note handed to her and slid it carefully into the leather money belt she wore before counting the change back into the customer’s outstretched hand. ‘Merci, madame, et bonne journée.’
Eliane slipped in behind the stall and kissed Francine on both cheeks. The girls had been best friends ever since they’d met on their first day at school. To many, they had seemed an unlikely pair. Francine was impetuous and outgoing whereas Eliane’s calm quietness gave her an air of being more reserved. But their personalities fitted together as snugly as the two halves of a walnut in a shell; even at the age of six they’d discovered that they shared a quick sense of humour as well as a strong nurturing instinct, which had over the years grown into a fierce loyalty. Francine’s parents had moved back to their hometown of Pau a couple of years before, to be nearer to her ageing grandmother, but Francine had decided to stay on to take care of the family’s smallholding and make her living from the land.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Eliane said.
‘Don’t worry, I knew you were moving the hives this morning. Safely done?’
‘They’re in their new winter home,’ Eliane nodded. ‘The bees seemed to be settling in when I left them. Let me take over here for a while. You must be longing for a coffee by now.’
Francine handed over the money belt and folded her apron, stowing it behind the stall. She waved to a sprawling group of friends who had pushed a couple of tables together outside the Café des Arcades, and gesticulated to them to order her a coffee. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot! You see that mec over there? The big guy between Bertrand and Stéphanie? – in fact, Stéphanie is almost sitting in his lap, flirting as usual. Well, he came to the stall earlier, asking for you. Says his name’s Mathieu something-or-other and he’s the stagiaire at Château de la Chapelle, here to help the Cortinis with their wine harvest. They told him to come and find you, apparently. Something about moving some more beehives. I’ll send him over.’
As she served the next customer Eliane glanced over at the group, who were laughing uproariously at something Stéphanie had just said. Francine pulled up a chair and leaned across to speak to Mathieu, who looked towards Eliane’s stall across the busy market square. For a moment, the crowds parted and their eyes met. Eliane’s calm, grey gaze seemed to disconcert the young man, who set down his coffee cup and scrambled to his feet so hastily that he almost upset the tin table, sending drinks slopping in all directions, to the amusement of the others – and the obvious annoyance of Stéphanie, who grabbed a handful of paper napkins and dabbed furiously at the sleeve of her blouse.
Mathieu waited, standing to one side and pretending to be absorbed in reading the notices pinned to the board in front of the mairie, until there was a brief lull in the queue of customers, and then he approached.
‘Eliane Martin?’ He held out a sun-browned hand as broad and strong as a bear’s paw, but she noticed that, despite his bulk, he moved with an easy, animal grace. ‘My name is Mathieu Dubosq. I’m working for the Cortinis. They sent me to give you a message.’
As she shook his hand, Eliane appraised him with her clear-eyed gaze and then smiled, causing his cheeks to flush as red as the jars of Francine’s wild-strawberry jam that sat on the stall between them.
‘Mais oui. The Comte de Bellevue has already explained it to me. They have some beehives that need moving to join mine in the kitchen garden at the château, n’est-ce pas?’
Mathieu nodded, running his fingers through his thick, black hair, suddenly conscious that it might be in need of a little taming in the presence of this quietly self-possessed girl whose smile seemed to have struck him dumb.
‘And they are in Tante Béatrice’s orchard at Saint André?’
There was an awkward silence as Mathieu tried – and failed – to concentrate on what she could possibly be talking about.
‘The bees,’ she prompted gently. ‘Are the hives in the orchard of Patrick Cortini’s aunt? I believe Monsieur le Comte said they belong to the sister-in-law of Monsieur Cortini?
‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’
‘Eh bien. In that case I will see if my father and brother can bring the truck over before first light on Monday. That will be the best time to catch them still in their hives. I’ll bring what’s needed.’
‘I’ll be there, Mademoiselle Martin, to help carry them.’
The light in her eyes seemed to illuminate her entire face as she smiled at him again. ‘It’s Eliane. Thank you, Mathieu, I shall look forward to seeing you on Monday then.’
He stood back, watching as she served another customer, apparently in no hurry to return to join the group at the café.
Stéphanie pushed her way through the throng, which now filled the marketplace as the church clock struck eleven. She picked up a jar of mirabelle jam from the display, wrinkled her nose and set it back, out of place, on the stall. ‘Oh, bonjour, Eliane,’ she said, as if she’d only just noticed who the stallholder was. ‘Come on, Mathieu, we ordered you another coffee to replace the one you spilled and it’s getting cold.’ She tucked her arm through his, proprietorially. ‘And look,’ she scolded, tapping his hand with mock-severity, ‘you have ruined the sleeve of my blouse. It’s a good thing it’s only an old one.’
Gently and politely, he extracted his arm from her grasp. He picked up the spurned mirabelle jam and balanced it back in its place on top of the neat pyramid of jars. Then he reached out his bear-like hand once again and – gaining in confidence – returned Eliane’s candid gaze with his own shy, dark-eyed smile. ‘Goodbye then, Eliane. Until Monday.’
Abi: 2017
The sky outside the kitchen windows is ripped open, time after time, by flashes of lightning and loud thunder cracks, and the rain drums furiously on the roof of the château as the storm engulfs it.
The thunder makes me jump. ‘Do you ever get struck by lightning up here?’ I ask, nervously.
‘Don’t worry.’ Sara carries on serenely emptying a basket of shopping on to the countertop. ‘The château’s been here for more than five hundred years. We have a very efficient series of lightning conductors installed nowadays, which protect the buildings. We just have to make sure all the appliances are unplugged, otherwise they can get fried by the power surges.’ She stashes cartons of milk into the door of a vast stainless-steel refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of wine. ‘It’ll soon blow over. In high summer they can go on half the night, but these spring storms never last very long.’
‘You speak excellent English,’ I venture.
Sara laughs. ‘Well, that’s a compliment! I am English. I moved out here a few years ago. And then married a Frenchman.’
The kitchen door opens suddenly. A man dressed in builder’s overalls slams it behind him and shakes the raindrops from his hair, reaching to pull Sara into his arms. She laughs, not seeming to mind at all that his clothes are both dusty and damp, and kisses him back.
‘We have a guest,’ she turns to gesture towards where I’m sitting at the scrubbed wooden table.
‘Excuse me, madame.’ He comes over, wiping his hand on the leg of his overalls before shaking mine. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘This is my husband, Thomas. Thomas, this is Abi. We met on the road just as the storm was breaking.’
‘You look as if you’re an escapee from the yoga centre?’ he smiles.
‘I suppose the Lycra leggings are a bit of a giveaway. I’m sorry to have invaded your space. Sara very kindly offered me shelter. I’ll be heading back as soon as the storm’s passed.’
‘You’d better have some supper with us.’ Sara pours three glasses of the chilled wine and puts one of them on the table in front of me. ‘You’ll have missed it at the centre by now. I’ll run you back afterwards.’
The ache in my leg and the throbbing burn of the blister on my heel urge me to accept her kind offer.
Thomas takes a sip of his wine and then excuses himself to go and change out of his work clothes.
‘Can I lay the table?’ I ask Sara, as she busies herself sautéing a panful of potatoes with some garlic. The smell fills the air and makes my mouth water as I set out the cutlery, napkins and water glasses. I take a small sip of wine, which is fruity and delicious.