Wild Lavender (14 page)

He stood up. ‘I am sorry to surprise you, Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ he said. ‘I had to avoid the frenzy to get to you. I am Michel Etienne.’

He announced it in a way that suggested I might know of him. He certainly had the autocratic air of someone whose favours were sought after. But I had no idea who he was. He was of medium height and wiry, with wispy blond hair receding from his forehead. His accent was silky and nasal, and I’d heard it a few times in Marseilles now. He was a Parisian.

‘You made an impressive debut for a young girl,’ he said. ‘If you can come to Paris I might be able to do something for you.’

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card. I took it from him.

Michel Etienne

Theatrical Agent

Rue Saint Dominique, Paris

I was bewildered as well as intrigued. ‘Paris?’ I mumbled.

Monsieur Etienne gave me a fleeting smile and indicated that I should let him pass. I dragged myself up and moved out of the way. He nodded to me and closed the door behind him.

Paris? I examined the cream and gold card, imagining elegant cafés and dormer windows like those I had seen in the magazines Bernard used to bring for Aunt Yvette. I pictured lights sparkling on the Seine and romance and intrigue on every street corner. ‘If only,’ I sighed, tucking the card under my make-up tray. The train ticket to Paris alone would cost more than I could save in six months.

A knock at the door made me jump. I opened it to see Bernard’s face beaming at me.

‘Bernard!’

He rushed into the room and threw his arms around me. ‘What a surprise, Simone!’ he laughed. ‘What is this story about being a seamstress? You are the star of the show!’

‘I was a seamstress,’ I told him. ‘It’s a long story about how I got this part.’

‘Your father would have been proud to see you. The audience was dazzled.’

I took his hand and led him to the couch on Fabienne’s side of the room. My mind was still racing with the night’s events and I found it hard to concentrate, but Bernard’s enjoyment of the show gave me more pleasure than anything. I had been worried that he might not approve, but here he was telling me that my father would have been proud. If that were true, then I was sure my mother and aunt would see it the same way too. I was about to tell him about the Paris agent when I looked more closely at his face. His smile was tense and there were circles under his eyes.

‘Bernard! What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘I have something to tell you,’ he said, taking my hands and lowering his voice. ‘There has been a misfortune at the farm. You must come home as soon as possible.’

W
hen I told Monsieur Dargent that I had to leave the show because Uncle Gerome had suffered a stroke, he received the news more calmly than I expected.

‘What can I say?’ he asked. ‘You stepped in at the last minute for two of my shows and saved the day. I have investors now, thanks to you. I can hold the role for a week if you come straight back.’

From Bernard’s description of Uncle Gerome’s condition, I sensed that I wouldn’t be returning to Marseilles any time soon, so I agreed to play Scheherazade for two more nights to give Fabienne time to prepare herself for the role.

Madame Tarasova threw a party for me in the wardrobe area with Russian cakes and wine. The news of Uncle Gerome’s illness had come as a shock and stirred complex feelings in me. I had never loved him. I thought he had cheated my family, and he had sent me away from home after my father’s death when I needed my mother and aunt most. And yet, I found myself bound to return to Pays de Sault out of deeper emotions than duty. I was worried about my mother and aunt, and conscious of what my father would have expected of me—but to my surprise I also felt grief for my uncle. I remembered the pained expression on his face when I was leaving the farm for Marseilles. He was a man torn within himself. And yet, when I looked at the smiles of the people who had been kind to me at Le Chat Espiègle—Madame Tarasova and Vera, Albert, Monsieur Dargent and Marie—my
sympathy was tinged with guilt. This was the life for me now. How could I just leave it?

‘Your uncle is severely incapacitated,’ Bernard explained, in the car en route to Pays de Sault. ‘Your mother and aunt have been caring for him but it is taking a toll on them.’ Bernard was driving the same car he had arrived in for the lavender harvest, although his suit was not as elegant as the one he had worn then. There was something countrified about it, and at first I thought he was wearing my father’s Sunday best, although I realised that he couldn’t be because we had buried my father in those clothes.

‘What exactly happened to Uncle Gerome?’ I asked.

‘He was playing
pétanque
in the village. Albert Poulet was there, along with Jean Grimaud and Pierre Chabert. They say that one minute he was standing, taking aim, and the next he had collapsed to his knees. He couldn’t move his legs or speak.’

We reached Pays de Sault early the following afternoon, having slept for a few hours in the car overnight. Bonbon sat on my lap, eyes darting back and forth, taking in the fields and mountains. As soon as I saw the pine forests and gullies on either side of us, I knew the location of our farm as if my heart were a compass. The twin farmhouses came into view and I bit my lip to resist the urge to cry. Although my father was no longer there, I sensed him in the sunshine and the breeze that stirred the treetops.

Bernard pulled up in the yard. A dog barked. Chocolat, the fur on his ears and tail bleached orange by the sun, bounded towards us. Bonbon wriggled out of my arms and the two dogs touched noses and circled each other, wagging their tails. I looked around for Olly, but knowing his habits I suspected that he was sleeping off his lunch somewhere.

Swarms of insects buzzed in the trees. The ground was sun-scorched and crackled. Summer had been dry. It was hard for me to believe there had been a time when the farm and I had shared the same calendar, when my daily life had been dictated by the changing seasons. For the past few
months I had lived my days according to rehearsals, performances and costume fittings.

‘Simone!’ Aunt Yvette called out from the kitchen doorway. I ran towards her and we embraced. Her collarbone poked into me. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her. ‘I hope you are not working so hard that you don’t eat.’

My mother appeared from the distillery and ran up the hill towards us. Bonbon broke away from Chocolat and dashed towards her. My mother stopped and stared at the little dog, then turned to me.

‘Bonbon,’ I said.

My mother crouched down and patted her thighs. Bonbon sprinted to her, leapt into her lap and started licking her chin.

‘This is not a dog,’ she said. ‘It’s a fox pup.’ My mother put Bonbon down and threw her arms around my neck. Her hair tickled my cheek when she kissed me.

Aunt Yvette linked her arm with mine. ‘It was God’s will that this should happen,’ she muttered. ‘It was God’s will.’

I stared at my hands, puzzled that Aunt Yvette could feel sorry for a man who had treated her so badly.

‘Come on,’ said Bernard, ushering us into the house. ‘Let’s talk over some food. Simone and I are starving.’

Aunt Yvette unlatched the kitchen shutters and threw them open to the afternoon air. They hit the outside walls with a thump and a rattle. Olly appeared on the windowsill. I slipped my hands under his back and cradled him in my arms. After handling featherweight Bonbon for so long, Olly felt like a sack of potatoes. He purred and rubbed against me so vigorously that wisps of his fur spun into the air. I scratched his stomach then placed him down on the flagstones. Chocolat and Bonbon fell asleep next to a potted geranium, the smaller dog curled up in the curve of the larger one’s stomach.

My mother poured dried figs, almonds and milk biscuits onto a plate.

‘According to the notary, if Gerome doesn’t recover, both farms will belong to you,’ said Bernard, pushing a
glass of wine towards me. ‘But even if he does live, he will never be the same.’

I took my mother’s hand when she sat down next to me. Once, when Uncle Gerome had spoken particularly cruelly to Aunt Yvette, I had asked my mother why she didn’t hex him.

‘I am a healer, Simone,’ she had replied. ‘I must do what I can to mend life, not to harm it. If Gerome is the way he is, then there is a message in it.’

I wondered what message the stroke had sent to Uncle Gerome.

I glanced at my mother, who stared back at me with pride. I had filled out a little more in Marseilles and had learned to take care of myself. The thought that she was admiring my transition into womanhood warmed my heart but made me self-conscious too. I looked around the kitchen. The silence of the house was unnerving. No creaks on the floorboards, not a cough or a sneeze. I wondered where Uncle Gerome was.

‘How will we manage the farm?’ I asked them. ‘You know that I’m useless at it.’

‘Bernard is going to move here,’ said Aunt Yvette. ‘He will manage the farm as well as act as lavender-broker for the village.’

I couldn’t hide my surprise and Bernard blushed from his throat to the tips of his ears. ‘I am happier here than I am anywhere else,’ he said, careful not to look in Aunt Yvette’s direction. ‘You are like sisters to me.’

With a scarf knotted at his throat and his slicked-back hair, Bernard was the film star version of a Provençal farmer but I had no doubt he would make a success of the farm. Since my father’s death, he had put aside his leisurely ways. Now Uncle Gerome was sick, he wanted to take us under his wing and I loved him for that. Besides, he was intelligent with a good knowledge of modern farming methods, and my mother would be an asset to him with her understanding of the seasons and plants. When we had driven through the village earlier, the men had nodded in
greeting. Despite the fact that Bernard was not interested in women, his hard work and willingness to improve the profitability of lavender production in our area seemed to have won him friends. Still, it was difficult to picture him playing
pétanque
with the village men or drinking liqueurs with Albert Poulet and Jean Grimaud under the plane trees in the square.

‘We will hire labour for the physical work,’ said Aunt Yvette. ‘There is enough money for that. Gerome has been stashing it in the fireplace for years. I need a hand with the meals because it takes so much time to look after your uncle. He can’t do anything for himself. It will be good to have you back, Simone.’

I saw the red curtain of Le Chat Espiègle close and my heart sank. There had been a time when I could not have imagined anything better than cooking with my aunt in her kitchen. What had changed?

Bonbon woke up, stretched and jumped into my mother’s lap. ‘She is a worldly one,’ my mother said, ruffling Bonbon’s fur but looking at me. ‘She’s meant for bigger things.’ I did not understand what she meant.

‘Can I see Uncle Gerome?’ I asked my aunt.

Aunt Yvette hesitated. ‘I don’t know if he will recognise you.’

‘I’d like to see him anyway,’ I said.

I followed Aunt Yvette upstairs to the bedroom at the end of the corridor. She pushed the door open and gestured for me to go inside. Uncle Gerome was lying on the bed, supported by a mountain of pillows and covered to the waist with a quilt. The floorboards creaked under my feet. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting Aunt Yvette to still be there. But she had gone, leaving the door ajar. I heard her rejoin my mother and Bernard downstairs.

I inched towards the bed, expecting Uncle Gerome to stir or to glance in my direction. But he didn’t move. There was a crucifix above the bed and a photograph of my father on the side table. It took a few seconds for me to gain the
courage to glance at Uncle Gerome’s face. He had been shaved clean but even if he’d still had his moustache I don’t think I would have recognised him. He lay prostrate like a corpse, the colour bleached out of his face and his gaze fixed on the ceiling. The only signs of life were the rise and fall of his chest and a flicker in his eyes. It was the left side of his body that had been affected. His mouth was twisted as if his lip was being tugged by an invisible thread. The muscles around his eye had collapsed. His left knee was bent out to the side and his fist was clenched next to it. I faltered, my hands turning to ice. His resemblance to my father was overwhelming. I had to steady my breath before I could take another step.

‘Uncle Gerome,’ I whispered.

His eyes wavered in my direction but there was nothing I could read in his expression. The sinews in his neck were rigid, his arms and hands were skeletal. I had no idea if he was pleased or horrified to see me, or if he even knew who I was.

A rattle rose in his throat, as if he were trying to speak. A towel had been tucked up around his neck to catch the drool that slid from his mouth to his chin.

‘Uncle Gerome,’ I said again, although I had no idea what I wanted to tell him.

The rattle sounded louder. The man on the bed was not fierce now. He was frail. The stroke had been a bomb, detonated within him. The way his body was contorted and twisted out of shape, he seemed like a man who had been turned inside out. Perhaps what I was seeing was his tortured soul, brought to the surface.

The following afternoon I visited my father’s grave in the village cemetery. His was the newest stone amongst the weather-beaten tombs and lopsided vaults. A lizard, sunning itself on a nearby rock, scurried away when I crouched down in the dry grass.

I breathed in the cemetery’s scent—an odd combination of mildew, rosemary and thyme—and thought about how close my father had come to fulfilling his dream and how quickly his life had been snatched away. Although I was happy to see my family again, I despaired at the idea of staying at the farm for good. Life at Le Chat Espiègle had changed everything, and seeing Uncle Gerome had helped me understand that if you didn’t take chances in life when they presented themselves to you, perhaps you never would.

I closed my eyes, imagining my father’s smile. ‘Paris,’ I whispered.
Go
, I heard him tell me
. Go and take a chance on your dream.

I opened my eyes and looked around me. There was no one to be seen but the voice had sounded distinct. I ran my finger over my father’s name on the headstone—Pierre Gustave Fleurier—then contemplated the surrounding tombstones, some humble, some grand. I had come to the cemetery searching for an answer and I had found it.

I watched my mother cut the artichokes for dinner. My aunt was the cook and artist in the kitchen, but my mother was the sorcerer. She sang to the water boiling over the fire and coaxed the vegetables to perfection. She had a way of bringing magic to even the most mundane things.

Every so often my mother would turn and tell Bonbon something in
patois
about the farm, about lavender harvesting or about what she was doing. ‘I peel the artichokes like this and cut them as evenly as possible, see?’ she said, holding out a slice for Bonbon to inspect. My mother talked more to Bonbon than I had ever seen her talk to anyone else.

‘Maman, Bernard told you about my performance at the music hall in Marseilles, didn’t he?’

My mother glanced over her shoulder. ‘He told me that you were very good.’ There was no judgment in her voice.
For a woman who had spent all her life in the country, my mother found little to approve or disapprove of. She seemed to accept everything for itself.

I told her about how I had come to work in the music hall, about Bonbon and Camille, about Monsieur Dargent, Madame Tarasova and Zephora. Then I told her about Michel Etienne and his offer to manage me if I went to Paris.

‘I am like Bernard,’ I said, glancing at my hands. ‘Only the opposite. I don’t belong here. I belong in the city.’

My mother nodded towards the lavender fields. ‘You do belong here, Simone. This is your home. The soil you come from. You will always belong here and you will always be welcome. But I know what your father would have wanted, and so I will tell you the same. Go to Paris, go and take a chance on your dream. There is some money left over from the harvest for a train ticket and to help you out with rent for a few weeks. But if it doesn’t work out, I want you to promise me that you will come back here.’

I threw my arms around her and buried my face in her neck. She had said the same words I had heard in the cemetery. She knew my father so well it was uncanny.

‘What about Bernard and Aunt Yvette?’ I asked. ‘How will Aunt Yvette manage without me?’

‘Stay for the winter, if you can,’ my mother said. ‘After that, there are plenty of girls looking for work. We will get help for the house if we need it. Don’t waste your life on Uncle Gerome; you don’t owe him anything.’