Authors: Deborah Lawrenson
W
ithout André, it was hard to keep up with the chores. Neglect, of the land, of the buildings, of myself, crept in for far too long until you could hardly think it was the same place that once had so many people living here—four, even five families with children, and all the animals, too.
Animals drinking springwater at the trough under the fountain, the stone bowl giving the scene a decadent air, had been a symbol for so long of the farm’s unique blessing, and now the trough filled with dead leaves whirring down from the plane trees.
I should have—could have—married. A good, strong husband could have taken charge, but after André, strange as it may seem, I never met a man I loved in that way. Henri (he of the accordion and the unfortunate lower lip) asked me, naturally, and I even seriously considered accepting, but in the end, I turned him down. I liked him too much, you see, to shortchange him like that. It would always have been a compromise of feeling. Besides which, I’m not sure I could have gone through with . . . the physical aspect, not with him, not after knowing what it could be with André. So that was that.
Marthe once said I was shooting the messenger, but she was wrong.
M
arthe wanted me to go to Paris, and I did—for a visit. What she had in mind was for me to live with her there, and gradually make my own way in the metropolis, taking advantage of all the introductions my sister would have been able to give me in scent firms and shops, but I always felt uncomfortable in a great city, and longed to be back on the hillside with the valley spread out before me.
Besides, I had to get back to Les Genévriers. I wasn’t feeling well and needed to be home.
I
have heard it said that a happy childhood is a curse, because what follows can never measure up. All I can say is, those people must want too much; they can’t accept that life is a series of struggles and that happiness can be found in overcoming them, drawing strength from the reserves laid down in the good years.
Back at the farm, I tried to soothe my ills by lying in a bath infused with lavender essence. I put my faith in its healing properties, in a fog of forgotten prescriptions of the nuns who grew it as a medicine, and sent the buds to be strewn on the stone floors of palaces and monasteries to mask foul odors and fight disease; the good witches’ herb, believed to repel evil spirits from entering the house.
As I lay soaking, I summoned the scents of the past. The spicy blue junipers and the lemon thyme on the hot, dry slopes below. The winter heliotrope, also known as sweet-scented coltsfoot, which grows in hedges and at roadsides, by streams and even on wasteland. There is nothing rare or precious about it. It is treated as a weed, an invasive nuisance, but it always reminded me of Marthe and our childhood, and spurred me on as I tried to block out the pain and the growing certainty that I knew what was wrong.
S
o it was that not long after I returned from Paris, I went to see
Mme.
Musset in Manosque.
Marthe had spoken fondly of her, and then given me a selection of perfume samples, which I offered to take to her old mentor. I suppose I could have sent them in a parcel, but I chose to take them myself on the bus and the train. I had realized by then, you see.
I needed help, and
Mme.
Musset was the one person I knew who could supply it.
W
hen I got back, Dom was there.
He was sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands. I was so choked by angry questions that I could only stare at him, trying to pretend I wasn’t frightened by what might happen next.
“Sorry.”
He sounded defeated. I turned away instinctively from whatever it was he was sorry about. I didn’t want to hear any more lies of omission. It was obvious that he had been hiding a great deal from me, but I couldn’t decide whether hearing it was worse than not.
“They let you go, then.”
He scarcely managed to raise his eyes, let alone meet mine.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
At that, he blanched. I had never seen the color physically drain from a person’s face before.
“Happened?”
“With the police, at Cavaillon?”
“I don’t . . .”
“Let me guess. You don’t want to talk about it.”
He closed his eyes tightly.
“Why did they take you in, Dom? On what grounds?”
A shake of the head and a mumble I didn’t catch.
I had no idea what to say next. My head was bursting with frustration and anger. I wanted to rush at him and lash out, pound the truth out of him, but of course I did not.
“What is wrong with you?” I shouted at last.
Slumped at the table, he seemed to shrink.
“Why do you not want to tell me anything? Whatever it is I would help you but you push me away all the time! I’m not stupid, I’m not insensitive, but I need to know! Otherwise . . . otherwise what am I to think! Please, Dom . . .”
My words seemed to ring, too thin and high, all around us in the silence.
Then he broke. His head went farther down and his shoulders rose. A horrible sound came from his chest. I stood there, waiting, still furiously running through possibilities in my mind, waiting for him to tell me something—anything. It was a few minutes before I realized he was sobbing.
Even then, I couldn’t bring myself to comfort him. I continued to stand over him, as his shoulders heaved, and the strangled noises from his mouth made me feel hard and brittle and confused.
Sabine’s parting shot still reverberated. How could she suggest Rachel was still in Provence, maybe even here on this property? That made no sense. But then Dom’s arrest made no sense to me.
“They released me without charge,” he said.
His voice was so quiet I had to lean in close to hear him. Through the window, the hills were misted, each a darker tone; the effect was that of a Victorian silhouette panorama in a box, so flat was the light. A thunderstorm would break soon.
“So . . . why arrest you in the first place? Just because you are the owner of the property? They had no other reason than that, no?”
“I suppose.”
“What did they want to know that you hadn’t already told Severan here?”
“They just kept asking the same questions.”
“Did they ask about Castellet?”
He looked at me as if he hadn’t heard right. “What?”
“They didn’t mention . . . Castellet?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
I reined myself in. “And could you tell them anything more—about the bones?” I asked, with a small measure of relief.
“How could I? Of course not.”
“It’s just that . . .”
“How could you ask that?”
“How?” I shouted. “Because you won’t tell me anything! How do I know you’re not guilty?”
“Guilty . . . ?” His face was still drained. Tiredness and tension were etched into every line.
“Guilty, Dom.” I knew I was twisting the knife, but I had no intention of stopping now, not after all the evasions and uncertainties. “Guilty of something, I’m sure of that. You’ve been secretive. There’s more locked away than you will ever admit, but you get so angry if I ask . . .”
He was waiting, making me come out and say it. Terrified as I was of the answers he might give, I blazed on. My eyes stung with the effort of holding back the tears. “You say it’s not true, but I can see you’re not happy! And when I look back to see whether it’s me, what I’ve done wrong, I keep coming back to the same point. Me wanting to know about . . . Rachel.”
The light outside was now a deadly ocher.
Dom’s hand trembled. His posture, his expression, his voice: all were deadened. “Why does everything come down to Rachel with you? What has this to do with her?”
I swallowed. “If I ask you some questions, now, would you answer them?”
He stared somewhere beyond my head, and nodded, imperceptibly.
“Did you and Rachel have a child together?”
“No.”
“Do you still love her?”
It was as if I had hit him in the face. “You’ve asked me that before.”
“Because . . .” I went on shakily, “Because I’m trying to understand you, and—and you make it so hard. Because I’m beginning to wonder if I know you at all, and what I’m doing here.”
There, it was said.
“Are you telling me you want to leave? Please don’t . . .”
“No . . . I am not saying that.”
It seemed he hadn’t heard me. “Because, you know, I don’t think it would look good . . . Not right now, the police . . .”
“I won’t—”
“I need you, Eve. You have no idea how much. Promise me you will stay with me, even if it’s only until all this is over. After that . . .”
“So answer me. Did you leave her, or . . .”
The silence seemed to stretch forever.
“She died,” said Dom at last.
I knew it. All around us was a sense of fruitlessness, of utter weariness. It was a while before I could even say it. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
M
aman died in her sleep.
She was too young to go, but she looked far older than her years, by the end. The doctor couldn’t find a reason, any heart attack or stroke. One day she was there, and the next she wasn’t. An awful time, I don’t want to say more.
As for Pierre, he returned briefly to lay our mother to rest after Marthe and I put a notice in the newspaper. I had no idea where he was. I had no means of contacting him, and neither did I have any particular wish to. Like so many of the young men, he went away to the town sure that he knew everything about modern life.
Meanwhile, I stayed, occasionally feeling betrayed, usually just lonely.
Poverty is stunting. Even the threat of it bears down on the human spirit. For centuries, people had known what it was to be poor: it meant that there was no choice but to go on scratching what they could from the soil, and gathering what grew wild. Now there was a choice. The wheels of industry were moving, drawing people down from the old life—the old imprisonment—in the hills. Many did not realize they were exchanging one kind of poverty for another.
In the past, there was never any poverty of purpose, of love, of faith, of companionship, of family support in the villages and farmsteads. For all the backbreaking work and the unpredictability of due reward, there was richness for the senses all around. Independence, neighborliness, and mutual understanding.
W
hen Marthe suggested selling the farm, I said no. Under no circumstances would I be willing to sell, which was a display of bravado, partly an unwillingness to admit failure, and mostly stubbornness. I did not say that to her.
Anyway, my position was irrelevant. The truth was, without being in touch with Pierre, we were stuck. We could not sell without his consent, consent between the three siblings clear for all to see at the notary’s office.
And who in their right mind would want to buy a failed farm? If we, who had lived there for generations, could not make it pay anymore, what hope for anyone else? Besides, the
paysan
—the country person—is custodian of the land, and it must be worked; that was what Papa always said. I struggled on.
A
s the years passed, the world’s turning brought with it the hope of a solution, of sorts. This region had always attracted summer visitors, and now, with the success of the great move to the big, industrialized centers, the workers were returning, hoping to renew themselves with a week or two under the southern sun.
By the 1960s, more and more people had money to spend on travel. All they wanted was sunshine and scenery for a few weeks. A few forward-thinking families had begun to offer rooms to rent at reasonable rates, and found themselves doing well. Many letters passed between us, and in the end, using Marthe’s money, we decided to repaint and repair the cottages to take in paying guests.
Thanks to Marthe’s prestige in Paris, among the growing number of her happy clients were plenty who were charmed by the suggestion of staying at her childhood home. They came and stayed, and spread the word. After a few years, we were able to afford to employ a young couple to help. Soon we were opening at Easter and receiving guests until mid-October, when the sun’s sorcery was finally dampened by rains and the approach of winter. They were good years.
The couple, Jean and Nadine, stayed for five summers. They were hard workers and we got along well. The more acclaim Marthe’s perfume shop received, the greater was the demand for our cottages. The visitors would ask all about my sister and I was content to tell them tales of our life here as a family, though carefully omitting any mention of the precise circumstances of Papa’s death.
Over time, visitors began to include wealthy foreigners—northern Europeans, who rarely saw the sun, and Americans, who roamed our country and others in their big, bright clothes.
It was after the stay of one friendly, boisterous family from California, in 1972, and on their suggestion, that Marthe and I decided to invest some of our profits in a swimming pool.
If we hadn’t had our magnificent source of springwater, we wouldn’t have entertained the idea. But it all seemed to make sense at the time. It was to be a very basic affair, using local men to dig out the hole and line it with concrete, but it would be an added attraction, commensurate with the cachet of Marthe Lincel’s name, and it would certainly give us another advantage over other local holiday properties. To be honest, the pool was never really very good. It would go green in the heat of August, and it always leaked, in a slow, dispiriting seep. But that was later. I am getting ahead of myself.