When I Was Young Page 4

  “I like your shoes,” I said. “They are very pretty.”

  “They belong to Maman. But she lets me wear them.”

  The child poked out one foot and then another before twirling round to show off her whole outfit.

  Grandmère grabbed her by the hand. “That’s enough, Lisette,” she warned, “go and wash before supper.”

  Unmoved, the little girl pulled her hand away, but obediently turned and tripped unsteadily towards the house and I had to turn back to Jean Paul.

  He was about my height, shorter than Étienne and darker. His eyes were a little like Mathilde’s, round and slightly prominent but where her look was unconsciously bold his was even more bovine as though nothing that other humans did was entirely clear to him. Presently he looked bored and to my added dismay, angry. He didn’t want to talk to me.

  Étienne came to the rescue. “Maman,” he said, addressing Grandmère who had followed the various exchanges closely, “will you show Miss Eleanor to her room while I feed the calves.”

  He turned to his son and when he spoke he didn’t bother to hide the exasperation in his voice. “Put the van away, and get out the tractor. I have work to do after supper.”

  My arm was grasped gently and I turned to see Grandmère. “Come, Miss Eleanor. I will show you your room and then it will be time for supper.”

  Chapter 3

  My first supper at Riverain was an experience which in the long years that followed I have never forgotten. Sixteen year old children, and I was a child then, are impressionable and although I didn’t understand what was happening, the beginnings of a jigsaw puzzle were laid before me.

  We sat on large exquisitely carved chairs around a polished wooden table in the cool dining room. This and the salon, a room I rarely entered, had the best furniture in the house but it was formal and uncomfortable and I soon learned to stay in my bedroom or lie on the grassy bank beside the river for relaxation. Later, when we became friends, I would sit with Grandmère in the little parlour where the chairs were old but soft and the oil lamps smoked a dim light. But during the first few days, I trailed about the house, wondering where I was supposed to be, for Jean Paul was no help and would disappear off and leave me for hours. It was Grandmère who saved me.

  The room to which she showed me on arrival was up the first flight of stairs and then along a corridor and up another three steps. Grandmère had opened the door into a pretty little room which, when I pulled back the shutters, had a view of the countryside at the back of the house. I could see the river, moving sluggishly and gleaming in the evening sun. Its stench drifted up to me, hot and sour like compost and I wrinkled my nose in distaste wondering how I would live with it day and night. Strangely, after the first few days, I didn’t notice it. Maybe the whole ambience of Étienne’s farm had entered me and I smelled of the river and the fields too. Whatever it was, it no longer mattered.

  But that first evening my view of the river and the drooping shade trees which dipped their arrow leaves into the water seemed entirely foreign to my northern eyes. There, rising up beyond the river was the field of vines, neat rows of green and brown, a place I knew I would have to explore. At the top of the vine field I could see a building, a cottage perhaps or a barn but built from beige stone like all the buildings on the farm.

  Grandmère had come to stand beside me.

  “Ah,” she said. “My son goes to check on his vines. It is necessary. The mildew can be a problem at this time of the year.”

  I looked down. Étienne was walking across a narrow wooden bridge which spanned the river. The wood looked old and some of the planks were broken. I wondered if it was safe and if I would dare to try it but even as I wondered, I saw Étienne striding across, obviously not seeing any danger.

  “We must close the shutters,” said Grandmère. “The sun is strong at this time of the day and you will be too warm. Yes?”

  “Yes,” I replied and stepping back into the centre of the white-washed room I gazed around. I loved my room immediately. I loved the big iron bed and the fat soft duvet which covered it. Miss Baxter had warned us to expect duvets and told us to remember to air them by throwing them across the window ledge of our room in the morning.

  “That is correct in the country, girls,” she instructed. “Those of you with city placements must take advice from your hostess.”

  I smoothed my hand across it and studied the other pieces of furniture. Grandmère had put my case beside a big wardrobe which when I opened it I saw would hold the contents of ten cases. My few clothes looked forlorn hanging from the metal rail. But the wardrobe smelled of cedar and in years to come whenever I happened across that aroma I was immediately back at Riverain and in my room.

  “Here,” said Grandmère, taking my arm and showing me to a door which opened off my room. When she pushed it open I saw a shower and washbasin and to my confusion, a lavatory and bidet. Miss Baxter had been too modest to explain the function of that particular piece of bathroom equipment.

  “Very nice,” I mumbled, pleased and surprised that I would have my own bathroom.

  Grandmère straightened one of the embroidered towels which hung over a wooden stand. “It was put here when the…lodgers… visitors, were in the house. During the war.”

  I struggled over the word, lodgers, as Grandmère had too. Then I realised that she probably meant evacuees. We’d had them too during the war. A woman and her little boy who had been bombed out of Liverpool and sent to the country. They hated our house and only stayed for a few weeks. I was glad when they went.

  “And here,” she opened another door, “is a staircase. It goes directly to the kitchen. Be careful if you use it. Some of the steps are loose and it has no light.”

  I was careful and on that first evening walked along the corridor on the first floor until I found the main staircase. The doors to the rooms I passed were open and looking in I saw fat bedding on iron beds and bare floor boards. The room closest to mine had bare floor boards and a man’s suit on a hanger hooked over the wardrobe door. Was it Jean Paul’s? Or maybe Étienne and Mathilde’s.

  One room had pretty blue and white Toile de Jouy wallpaper and a dark blue rug. The red shoes that Lisette had been wearing were lying on that rug and I guessed that this must be Étienne and Mathilde’s bedroom. The one next to it was much smaller and had a single bed pushed against the wall. On the floor, beside the bed was a miniature iron bedstead with a similar white cover but this one had occupants…dolls. They were sitting up, half covered in bedding but dressed elegantly in velvet and silk, six of them propped against the head and foot boards looking as though their presence was the most natural thing in the world. It had to be Lisette’s room. Another corridor led off to the side where I could see more doors. More bedrooms.

  I descended slowly to the little square hall. It was dark, the shutters half closed against the evening sun and only fingers of brilliant light pointing onto the stone flags.

  A well polished hall stand leant against one wall, bare of coats or hats on the wooden hooks and only a single black umbrella in the iron well. I stood in front of the rectangular mirror set in the middle of the stand and examined myself. My hair was tidy, brushed off my face and held in a pony tail and my dress, my blue gingham school dress which I’d worn all day would do. It would have to.

  I looked taller in that mirror and thinner and for the first time saw how like Dada I looked. I had his finely chiselled face and pale skin.

  “That girl has the map of Ireland on her face,” Jed Winstanley used to joke, “like him indoors.”

  Mother hated him saying that, she would turn her mouth even further down and quickly change the subject but now I could see that Jed was right. There was nothing of Mother to see in me. No ginger hair, no rough red cheeks. Nothing to show that I was her daughter. Staring at me was a girl from the west of Ireland with Atlantic blood in her veins.

  I turned away and swallowed the small lump in my throat. Dada would be missing me; I knew
it even if no-one else did.

  “Ah! Miss Eleanor.” It was Grandmère, her shoes making a soft slapping sound on the stone flags in the hall. “Come to the dining room.”

  The family were gathered. Étienne at the head of the table, wearing a clean blue shirt and water slicked hair. My seat, which remained my seat for the entire visit was between him and Mathilde. Grandmère sat opposite Étienne and Jean Paul and Lisette were seated along the other side.

  Only Étienne greeted me with a grin. “You are hungry, Miss Eleanor, ready to eat?”

  I nodded and sat down. No-one else spoke, not even to each other, but awkwardly fingered their cutlery and draped their napkins as though this was the first time they’d used this room and felt uneasy.

  Étienne poured wine into our glasses, even a little into Lisette’s glass which while I watched amazed, she put it to her lips and drank.

  “Wait,” said Grandmère sharply, and poured water from a big earthenware jug into Lisette’s wine. Étienne stood up and reaching for the baton of bread and the knife, carved a piece off and gave it to the little girl.

  “Thank you,” she said in her small, bell like voice and pulled the bread to pieces on the table. I watched as the pieces were dipped it into her glass before being popped into her mouth. Drips from her bread made tiny puddles on the polished table and I glanced at Mathilde out of the side of my eye wondering if she would say something to Lisette but there was silence. Mathilde wasn’t looking at the child. Her strange eyes were fixed on Jean Paul and when I followed her gaze I saw that Jean Paul was staring back at her. They didn’t speak out loud at all but his lips moved slightly in what might have been a word and then relaxed into what could have been a smile but appeared to me more of a smirk. I think that even then I must have loathed him.

  The glass of wine in front of me was a problem. I’d never drunk wine nor alcohol of any description and I was nervous about making a fool of myself in front of my hosts. Cautiously, I lifted the glass and took a sip. To me it tasted sour but not unpleasant and, thirsty, I took a larger mouthful.

  Étienne watched me and nodded his head approvingly. “It is good to try everything. Yes?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “This is the first wine I’ve ever had.”

  That caused Jean Paul to move his stare from Mathilde to me. I thought he might say something, anything, to make the conversation flow but nothing came out of his mouth and after a moment, he looked away.

  In front of Grandmère was a white china soup tureen and when she lifted the lid steam rose and filtered into the room, carrying a herby smell which I couldn’t recognise. The pale green soup when I tried it was like nothing I’d ever tasted, sharp with the flavour of the vegetable garden and loaded with tiny scraps of ham. I loved it, scooping it into my mouth greedily and with one eye on the way my hosts tore up their bread and used chunks to wipe round their soup bowls, I eagerly followed suit.

  The soup was followed by a plate of little pink pieces of meat which were impossible to identify but I still felt incredibly hungry and ate the meat without questioning.

  I thought of home and remembered that it was Saturday and Mother would have made a pan of mince. I could almost smell it, but that memory was diluted by the waft of rosemary which came into my head. I looked at my plate and saw a sprig of herbs lying beneath the meat. What would Mother think, I wondered and felt a smile beginning. Would she like this food? The pink meat, the sliced sautéed potatoes which dripped (?) in butter and the green beans, whole and shiny with odd flecks of red between them. I thought not. Fuss and nonsense, she would say. And a ridiculous waste of butter.

  I didn’t care. Anything was better than the grey mince and the heaps of boiled potatoes and cabbage.

  “Do you like your supper?” Étienne leant forward and offered me some vegetables. “Is it to your taste?

  “It’s very nice,” I muttered. “Delicious.”

  Later I learned that Grandmère liked to add pimentos to the beans and tiny silvery onions and shredded lettuce to the peas. In the weeks that followed I came to love those tastes and many a night after, when back in the gloomy farm kitchen at home, I craved a wooden bowl of pungently dressed salad, or a dish of tiny shrimps served simply with a baton of crusty bread. But on this first night, despite my hunger and the delicious tastes, I picked my way tentatively through each course and watched with alarmed fascination as Étienne tucked the baguette under his arm and sawed off roughly cut pieces which he tossed across to each diner. I wanted only for the meal to end and to escape to my bedroom.

  The conversation when it started was muted. Lisette chattered, but of such inconsequential matters that no one listened. Jean Paul ate steadily, all the while staring at his food and looking up only on the rare occasions that I spoke. Then he would watch my mouth as I formed unfamiliar words and struggled to remember French grammar.

  It was so difficult. I, who had been the best French speaker in my class, the one who was always top, was now struck almost dumb with embarrassment. I wondered briefly how the other girls in my group were getting on. Suzy was hopeless at languages and could barely speak more than a few words. She was so poor at French translation that she would get me to do her homework. But Suzy would be all right, I was sure. She always came out on top and hadn’t she gone to a family who appeared to speak perfect English? I bet she’s in some fancy restaurant now on the Champs Elysee, I thought, miserably. She’s having a really wonderful time. While I’m stuck with this family of…peasants.

  But as soon as that word, ‘peasants’ came into my head, I was ashamed of myself. I was being pathetic, exactly as Mother had suspected I would be and heading for a disastrous holiday. It was up to me to make an effort and I turned to Mathilde who was sitting next to me, planning to make some remark about the weather. To my astonishment, I saw that my hostess had finished her meal, lit up a cigarette and was leaning on her elbow, reading a paper-back book which she had put on the table beside her plate.

  I turned round, amazed, to look at Étienne, wondering if he too would be reading. Perhaps this was usual behaviour in French families and that I would be expected to bring my own book to dinner tomorrow evening. One glance at Étienne’s face however, assured me that I wouldn’t be. The look of rage and despair which clouded his previously cheerful expression was too obvious to ignore. He was furious.

  “Your mother and father, they are well?” Grandmère’s cool voice from the head of the table broke the uncomfortable silence.

  I let out the breath I’d been unconsciously holding and nodded. “My mother is very well, thank you. Dada is…” How could I put it?

  I started again. “My father came home from the war in a bad way. He is mentally damaged.”

  “Oh,” said Grandmère sympathetically. “It was the Nazis?”

  “No. The Japs. He was a prisoner of war and they tortured him. He doesn’t speak now.”

  Grandmère shook her head and Étienne, his face clearing and his normal good humour returning, said, “the war was terrible. For us all. The Germans were bastards.”

  There was a rustle of sound beside me and from the corner of my eye I caught the quick movement of Mathilde’s hand as it curled around the corner of the page she was holding and angrily crumpled the paper between her thin fingers. In the silence which followed she suddenly stood up, scraping her chair on the wooden floor and book in hand, left the room.

  I thought that the meal was over and started to lift my napkin from my knee but Grandmère put her hand up.

  “We have desert and cheese. You must try them.”

  I looked at Jean Paul. He was expressionless and merely picked up his spoon and waited for Grandmère to pass round the bowls of les crèmets and wild strawberries.

  Lisette hummed a little tune and Étienne poured himself more wine and nobody remarked on Mathilde’s abrupt departure. I was not that surprised. Dada often made sudden exits from the room, especially when something out of the ordinary had happened and I had grown used
to that. Maybe Mathilde had found my presence too difficult to cope with.

  “I think, Miss Eleanor, you must be tired,” said Grandmère, rising from the table. “We will see you in the morning.”

  I went up to my room then, happy to escape from the strained atmosphere and was ready for bed. However, despite my weariness, sleep wouldn’t come. I lay for hours, my mind whirling, examining all the new experiences and I mentally traced the faces of the Martin family until they were lined up in an uncomfortable row. My picture had them like the dolls in the little bed.

  Restless, I got up and opened the shutters and leant out of the open window. The rain had returned, pattering gently on the tiled roofs and onto my outstretched hand. It was warm and soft, like bath water. I heard the owl screech in the trees and an answering call from across the river and then, finally exhausted, I pulled the shutter closed and turned away to get back into bed. That’s when another sound cut into the night. It was footsteps on the bridge. Short tapping female footsteps going away from the house and over the river.

  As I drifted off into a troubled sleep I briefly wondered where Mathilde might be going during the middle of the night.

  Chapter 4

  The rain had gone by the time I woke up and through the cracks in the closed shutters I could see that it was a brilliantly sunny day. It was hot too and throwing off the duvet, I lay half awake, drowsily staring at the white-washed ceiling, going over in my mind all the events of yesterday.

  Had I landed up in a particularly strange family? Or was this how every French family behaved. I didn’t know. I had no parameters except my own experience.

  In a way, apart from the feeling that I would never be able to get on with Jean Paul, I cautiously felt better about taking him home with me. Dada’s silences were no worse than Mathilde’s and if Mother wasn’t such a good cook it couldn’t matter that much. Jean Paul appeared prepared to eat anything without comment. Mother’s carelessly cooked food would probably be shovelled in with the same lack of interest he’d shown at last night’s extraordinary dinner.