Daughter of Catalonia (11 page)

‘Yes,’ she admitted to Philippe. ‘I’ve always remembered the journey, just snatches, you know, and of course never fully understanding where we were or what was happening. Papa had told me I had to help
Maman
and look after Robert, so I just kept talking to Robert, and trying to keep him happy, because he was the only person I actually understood! And he cried a lot, probably because it was all so tiring, and nothing was familiar or routine. So I tried to feel superior to him and remember that I could tell Papa later how good I’d been. It sounds insufferable, but I suppose it was just a way of coping. I don’t remember the boat, funnily enough, or arriving in England. I mainly remember the early bits of the journey. Maybe it all became a blur after a while.’

Philippe nodded. ‘It was such a long time before we heard that you had arrived safely. Luis had left Vermeilla by then, and was living in a safe house, but he kept coming back whenever he could get transport, hoping to get news. In the end it was he who heard first, from the same
passeur
who had helped you across the mountains into Spain. He’d asked for information, and had it relayed back that you’d caught a boat safely. Luis kept hoping for a letter, but that was impossible, as he knew, really. We could get letters out sometimes with people crossing into Spain, and I know your father sent letters to Elise, but nothing ever came back. So you all just disappeared, and your father followed Allied movements with even more interest, and talked non-stop about when it would all be over, and you would all come home.’

‘But we never did.’

‘No,’ sighed Philippe. ‘You never came back, and we never again heard from Elise. I wrote to her, of course, as soon as Luis died, and then I wrote again after the liberation, thinking maybe the first letter would not have reached her. But she never wrote, even after the whole ghastly war was history, and letters were flowing normally. I wrote one last time in early 1946, and then gave up.’

Madeleine wondered what had happened to all these letters. Had her mother received them all? She knew the first letter from Philippe had got through, because the news of her father’s death had broken over them at Forsham just as France was liberated. But letters from her father? Had any letters from Luis ever reached Forsham? It was impossible to know.

She told Philippe. ‘Your first letter reached us, I know, with the news. The others probably did too. But my mother wasn’t herself afterwards, you know. I doubt whether she would have had the will to write.’

Philippe shook his head in bewilderment. ‘How strange,’ he said, ‘to try to think of Elise like that. How tragic. And Luis nearly made it, you know. He only died two months before the liberation. D-Day had just taken place and the allied forces were back on French soil. He was ecstatic the last time I saw him, talking about the end of the war being in sight.’

‘So what happened?’ Madeleine asked. Her question hung between them.

‘He was shot, my dear. Shot by the Germans who found the camp where he was living. I can tell you a bit more,
from the little I know; but not now. It’s lunchtime, and we have raised enough ghosts for now, and should go out into the world and remember the present for a while. Colette will be waiting for us, and whatever she has prepared for us, I would hate to risk keeping her waiting.’

The streets of Vermeilla were deserted as they emerged from Philippe’s home and headed back to the Café de Catalogne. Shopfronts were shuttered, and as they passed the entrance to the
cave
where they had earlier drunk Banyuls, the cavernous arch was filled by heavy wooden double doors. In something of a daze Madeleine realised it really was lunchtime, and the people of Vermeilla were already at table. She hadn’t realised they had been so long in the little apartment, buried in the past.

‘It’s a good thing Colette told us lunch would be late today,’ grinned Philippe. ‘We would be seriously overdue otherwise. As it is, we’ll get away with it.’

He set a fast pace which brought Madeleine briskly back to the present hour. She smiled back at him and answered, ‘We may get away with it, but first we have to get there.
My legs are shorter than yours, remember. Could we walk just a bit more slowly?’

His lips twitched, and he slowed down infinitesimally, just as they rounded a corner and the café came into view. A few couples were eating at the tables outside, and one noisy family inside, but Colette was nowhere to be seen. A waiter and barman seemed to be in complete command. Philippe greeted them and then led her through the café, the length of the polished wooden bar, to a steep, narrow staircase hidden at the rear. Climbing it at his usual pace, two steps at a time, he halted before a door at the top and knocked decisively, then opened the door without waiting for an answer. Madeleine followed in his wake.

They were in a narrow corridor, with two doors off it at the front, and then it opened onto a large living area with more light than Madeleine had expected, coming in through double glass doors opening onto a large balcony with intricate wrought iron railings and the same tiny, dark terracotta tiles which ran through the rest of the building. On the far side of the living area another corridor led to more rooms. Later Madeleine was to learn that the front rooms were two guest rooms which had once been rented out commercially, while the back corridor housed the kitchen, bathroom and separate bedrooms for Colette and her invalid husband. The two sons had rooms up another winding staircase in the tiny attic.

A large table on the left of the simply furnished room was already laid for lunch, with a starched embroidered tablecloth, and a selection of chairs, none matching, all in differing shades of polished wood. It was overlooked by a
picture of the Madonna and child, demure and saintly in a heavy wood frame.

As they entered the room a young teenager was putting some last articles on the table, overseen by Colette, who followed him around the table adjusting most of the places he had laid, scolding fondly the whole time. To the right, by the open balcony doors, Daniel straddled an easy chair, reading the local newspaper. He got up as soon as he saw them enter, and came across with a smile, ushering them into the room.

‘Where will we sit,
Maman
?’ he asked, turning briefly to Colette. ‘Should we go onto the balcony?’

‘No, my son. We are late already. We will take our aperitif at the table. Come, my dear,’ Colette beckoned to Madeleine. ‘Come and be comfortable, and meet my other son, Martin.’ She caressed his hair as she spoke, and turned him towards Madeleine.

Madeleine looked curiously at this prodigy about whom she had learnt from the Curelées at the hotel. He was of a different build to Daniel, more like his mother, stocky and Catalan, with masses of dark curls and the broad cheeks and dimples which characterised Colette, but more masculine and planed. He might be thirteen or fourteen years old, she thought; a good ten years younger than Daniel. Colette’s fingers still threaded his hair, an attention which he accepted without seeming to notice it. This, thought Madeleine, is clearly the cosseted darling of this household, the late-born child with such huge promise and his mother’s greatest pride. She moved towards him, smiling a greeting, hand outstretched, and as she neared
him Martin smiled back, a smile as endearing as Daniel’s, but with an impudent sparkle his brother lacked.

‘
Bonjour, Mademoiselle
,’ said Martin conventionally. ‘You have just arrived in Vermeilla? I hope you are enjoying our small village?’

‘Very much, thank you. It is such a beautiful place, and I have been so happy to find old family friends like your mother and Philippe.’

‘You can’t be in Vermeilla and not meet
Tonton
Philippe. He is the heart and creative mind of this place.’ He turned to Philippe and held out his cheek easily to be kissed. ‘
Bonjour, mon oncle
. How is your creative mind today?’

His manner was nicely deferential yet slightly teasing, his voice reassuringly still that of a child. This, thought Madeleine, was definitely not someone who lacked self-confidence. Philippe kissed him on both cheeks then laughingly took him lightly by the ear.

‘Never mind my creative mind,’ he retorted. ‘How is yours? How is the Ovid translation coming on, young man?’

‘Coming,
Tonton
, coming, I promise you, and even faster if I didn’t have to lay tables and all the rest while my brother lounges around.’

Daniel was waiting on the other side of the table to seat himself when the others were ready, but at this he took a stray piece of string from his pocket and flicked it at his brother.

‘Some of us work for a living, you little ass,’ he said, though his voice was more amused than affronted. The resemblance between them was mainly in colouring, and in
their eyes, which in both were softer than the usual Catalan mahogany, with long, curling lashes.

Colette let Martin go, and turned to Madeleine with a shrug. ‘For Martin,’ she acknowledged, ‘laying the table is hard work. He can write some fancy essay, but ask him to do any household chore …’ Her voice was eloquent, but Martin merely grinned back at her.

Colette gestured them to the table. ‘You must all be very hungry by this hour. Let’s sit down. Daniel, could you go and fetch your father?’ she asked.

Daniel nodded immediately then disappeared into the back corridor. Madeleine and Philippe sat at the table, while Martin went to the kitchen for the bread and the plate of anchovies which was to be their first course. Some minutes later Daniel reappeared with an old man leaning heavily on his arm. Or at least that was Madeleine’s first impression, but then she realised that what seemed like the shuffling steps of an elderly man were actually the rather rigid, painstaking movements of a man who had only partial control of his legs. His face, too, seemed old at first, lined and set, with deep furrows around the mouth and on his forehead, and thinning grey hair completed the initial impression, but his eyes were a clear blue, and the skin on his arms and the backs of his hands was smooth. In reality Colette’s husband was probably a great deal younger than Philippe.

Daniel had taken after his father, Madeleine realised, with his fine features and lean build. Only his colouring and eyes were Colette’s. He settled his father into a chair at the head of the table, and once he was sure he was
comfortable he took his own place next to him.

‘Madeleine, this is my husband Jean-Pierre,’ said Colette in a neutral voice, and then to her husband, ‘Jean-Pierre, we have with us today the daughter of Luis Garriga, who has returned to Vermeilla after all these years. I am sure you will want to welcome her to our house along with the rest of us.’

The formality of the presentation made the man at the head of the table a stranger. At first he didn’t react, seeming to take time to absorb the information. Madeleine felt the need to speak first.

‘
Je suis enchantée, Monsieur
,’ she said. She was too far from him to offer her hand, so she merely smiled.

Jean-Pierre Perrens contemplated Madeleine with a disconcerting stare, almost childlike in its directness. Next to him Daniel watched, waiting for his father to speak. The silence extended, and then Jean-Pierre Perrens turned away from Madeleine and muttered to his wife.

‘Who did you bring here? Luis Garriga, you said? What has she to do with Luis Garriga?’

‘I said she’s his daughter, Jean-Pierre. You remember! Little Madeleine who used to come to the café before the war! She went away to England, and we haven’t seen her since, but now she is a grown lady, and she has come back to visit us. We are all very happy to see her.’

Colette’s voice was oddly emphatic, as though she wanted to imprint the information on his mind. Jean-Pierre gazed for what seemed like several minutes at his wife, although in reality it could only have been a few seconds, and then looked across again at Madeleine.

‘Luis Garriga,’ he said again, and his voice struck an unfathomable note. He looked at her for a few more seconds and then seemed to forget her and turned to contemplation of his napkin.

As the meal progressed, Madeleine couldn’t figure out whether he was an intelligent man who had withdrawn into himself, or a man with a mind as damaged as his legs. Around him conversation flowed, and the rest of the family seemed to talk as though he wasn’t there. Colette was clearly an indulgent mother, and Philippe the favoured uncle, and the sons therefore spoke and argued more freely than Madeleine had ever felt able to do in the presence of older adults. Her upbringing seemed so stiff in comparison. The conversation here was noisy and ceaselessly energetic, about the poor state of fishing, about the petition to the local council to build a bigger quayside so that they could bring in more modern fishing boats, about the iniquities of the council in not allowing new balcony railings on a neighbour’s house.

‘Just because they say the design is too modern,’ Daniel snorted. ‘They’re dinosaurs, that’s what they are! You watch, this council will turn this village into a dead place in the name of preservation. Port Vendres already has a new quay, and now they are going to have the latest fishing trawlers which can catch ten times what we can. What chance do we have? You know what will happen? All the fishermen are talking about moving their boats along the coast to Port Vendres, and all the buyers will go there too, and Vermeilla will become a place for picture postcards, full of old people and tourists.’

‘But the new quay at Port Vendres is so ugly,’ exclaimed Colette.

‘Ugly but alive! What do you think Philippe?’

And all the while, as the arguments went back and forth, Jean-Pierre sat at the head of the table and ate what was put in front of him, anchovies, grilled squid, little meatballs in a rich sauce with beans, all local delicacies prepared especially for their visitor, and said nothing. Occasionally, though, Madeleine caught him looking at them all, one by one, seeming to measure them and discount them in one slow sweep of his eyes. The family ignored this, but Madeleine found his stare disturbing, and looked across at him several times to find his gaze upon her. He seemed to be especially focused on her, but she thought this might be because she was a visitor.

It was at the end of the meal, after a dessert of caramel flan, then coffee, that Jean-Pierre finally found his voice. In a small break in conversation he suddenly barked, not mumbling, but almost fiercely clear, ‘That Luis Garriga. Where is he now?’

There was a silence, and then Colette replied, her voice sharp-edged.

‘Luis Garriga is dead, Jean-Pierre. You know that. He was shot by the Germans during the war, just before the liberation.’

‘I know, I know. But where is he now? Where did they put him?’ His voice was querulous, demanding, and his hands were gripped tightly around his little coffee cup, as if it was too small for him to grasp properly. Madeleine found herself gripping her own cup just as
tightly. She couldn’t take her eyes off his contorted face.

‘Put him?’ The question seemed to surprise Colette as much as it did Madeleine. ‘Why, you know what happened to him, Jean-Pierre. The Maquis took his body down to Philippe, in Amélie-les-Bains, and he was buried there in the cemetery.’

‘Cemetery,’ Jean-Pierre was still agitated, frightened almost, and his eyes were fixed on Colette. ‘Not our cemetery, I hope. Not here? They didn’t bury him here?’

Now it was Philippe who intervened. ‘No, Jean-Pierre, in the cemetery in Amélie-les-Bains. He’s buried in Amélie-les-Bains. I’m going to take Madeleine up to see his grave one day. But it’s not in Vermeilla. You know that. Luis died up in the Vallespir, and was buried up there. He didn’t come back to Vermeilla.’

His voice was steady and reassuring, insistent, and seemed to get through to Jean-Pierre, sitting twisted in his chair. Twisted, that’s what he’s like, thought Madeleine. He’s like a tree that’s got all twisted out of his shape, and his mind is all out of shape too. Why should he want to know where my father was buried? Why does he sound scared?

‘Vallespir. That’s right, up in the Vallespir! But she came here. Is she his daughter? His daughter!’ Jean-Pierre laughed, a nasty, semi-triumphant laugh.

Colette spoke up, her voice quietly commanding. ‘You can go through and sit on your balcony now, Jean-Pierre, and have one of your cigarettes. Daniel will take you through.’

Jean-Pierre held her gaze for a moment, and then his
head lowered, and he said no more. He allowed himself to be led away, head between his shoulders and his strange eyes hidden. At the door he grumbled something to his son, and Daniel made more room for him, and then they were gone.

There was what seemed like a long silence in the room, then Colette signalled to Martin, and he got up wordlessly to clear the table. Once he was in the kitchen Philippe let out a sigh.

‘Well that was a strange outburst,’ he remarked, almost idly. ‘It’s been a long time since he spoke like that. Not nice for the boys, of course.’

‘And not very agreeable for you either,
ma petite
.’ Colette’s voice was troubled. ‘I’m sure you do not want to hear your Papa’s grave being talked about in that way. It must have been me mentioning Luis’s name which set him thinking, not having heard the name for so long. He gets very confused, you know, since his accident, and strange things worry him. And the occupation frightened him because he felt trapped, and when so many other people were evacuated we were stuck here running the bar for the Germans.’