The Sea Garden (12 page)

“But that was—”

“I know. But I don't need it anymore to tell me you care. All the years since have told me that—my dearest, sweetest man.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. This way, we give it together to show we care.”

“But if Auguste can come up with a few things too—”

“We'll manage somehow. We have to.”

Marthe stood stock-still against the wall. The sense of elation at her achievement with the violet perfume had drained away.

In the days afterwards, as she tried and failed to decide what to do, the words went round in her head, humiliating her like a public slap. She was too frightened of what she might be told if she opened the subject herself with Madame, so she kept quiet, wanting to hold on to her job with the Mussets for as long as possible. There were many kinds of darkness, she realised then, and the most daunting was being cast off by those who had previously offered comfort. Marthe bore the secret knowledge as a fight she was not yet willing to concede, but nothing was the same. The water from the spring tasted bitter, where once it held flavours of thyme and mint. She ate sparingly, careful to take as little as possible at meals, and lay awake hungry, night after night.

The violet perfume was praised to the skies, but the Mussets allowed her to make only a very small quantity. Spring burst out and warmth returned, yet Marthe's world contracted tightly around her. She was more isolated than she had ever been before. Lonely too, in the most profound sense, as lonely as she had been when she first arrived at the school for the blind, but this was worse because once the Mussets had opened their magical world to her, she would always know what treasures were inside. She wanted to protest, but sensed that her only weapon was her pride. She would work harder than ever to prove herself.

 

S
uperficially, nothing had changed, but Monsieur was away on ever more frequent delivery trips, often taking Arlette with him. Auguste's role had changed to involve him much more in the product distribution, too. Madame often seemed preoccupied.

“Just the war, my petal,” she would say when Marthe asked her if everything was all right.

When winter returned for a few weeks, frost killing any green shoots, it seemed a reflection of the mood at the Musset farmhouse. Dank mist over the orchard trees muffled birdsong and reduced voices to echoes in the gloom.

4

Thyme and Fig

April 1944

A
t the farm on the slopes above Manosque, the clock on the shelf ticked too loudly. It always ticked louder than usual and much too slowly on Thursday afternoons as they waited for Arlette to return from making deliveries in Céreste on the bus. Only when the latch rattled on the back door and Arlette's voice punctured the tension did it slip back to its normal volume and rhythm.

The hour sounded: five soft hits on the bell mechanism. Mme Musset opened a squeaky cupboard door and then closed it again, as if compelled to find some mundane business for her hands. The chink of a glass, water running. Monsieur padded over to the range and struck a match. The thin blue scent of a poor cigarette.

“She's normally back by now,” said Madame, unnecessarily.

Each week Arlette returned from Céreste with tales of the lazy brutishness of the young blond soldiers who stood guard over Route Nationale 100 as it came through the village, of the
miliciens
kicking up the dust in the streets of the old quarter to harass the inhabitants of its narrow houses.

The Milice were a triumph of Vichy fascism, according to Monsieur. The French themselves had created this corruption of the military and the police, with the help of the Germans, as a paramilitary force to be unleashed against any dissent, in particular the growing influence of the Resistance. These
miliciens
soon became cruelly expert in executions and deportations. Some were criminals who were told their sentences would be commuted for this loyal government service. Some were the starving who joined for the regular pay and food. Many were locals recruited as part-timers, and all were more dangerous than the Germans because they knew the language and the terrain. After a year and a half, the vicious methods of the Milice were no better than the Nazis'. The old networks of families and neighbours had been corrupted. No one knew who to trust anymore.

The quarter hour
ting-ting
'ed.

Seconds later Arlette's chatter preceded her through the doorway. There was a clumsy thump as she brought the large woven basket down on the table. The scent of a fresh loaf of rationed bread. A rattle of cups and plates. Quick, light steps and flurries of air nudged the room back into its usual rhythms.

“How did it go?” asked Musset.

“Fine,” said Arlette. “No need to be worried. I did nothing, said nothing, out of the ordinary.”

She squeezed Marthe's hand in greeting. Rosewater softened the air as she drew close.

“What did you see? Did you notice any changes?” M. Musset was already asking her. “It's the smallest details that make the difference, even if you don't know what they mean yet.” He was here in the kitchen every Thursday when Arlette returned, eager to know what she had observed on her rounds. Needing to know that she was back safely.

“There are definitely more soldiers in uniform, going in and out of the Mairie and looking purposeful,” said Arlette. “A couple of new ones in the café. Two young men I'd never seen before. One of them leered at me, like a pig with small eyes.”

“I hope you—”

“I smiled very sweetly, nothing more. The Milice were counting the passengers on and off the bus from Aix, but not ours.”

“They say there are more soldiers coming, German and those they're putting into uniform from the east of Europe, more every week—read the newspaper. Baumann is boasting of doubling the garrison.”

“May the saints preserve us!” Mme Musset interrupted.

There was silence, broken finally by Arlette. “That explains the next order. Here's the list, longer than ever.”

“Good girl. We will let them have what they need,” said Musset.

“They'll get what they need all right,” said Arlette defiantly. “I hate them. Over at Castellet last week two families in the hamlet were shot outside the church on Sunday just for supplying food to the Maquis. They say there are six hundred Maquis in the hills behind Céreste—all of them hungry and impatient.”

“Some of them are young hotheads. They don't think before they act, though I admire their spirit.” Monsieur sucked hard on his cigarette and then ground it out. A tarry bitterness hung over the table. Each week brought more tales of subordination and sabotage, followed by retaliations, swift and brutal.

“More and more are joining them, now they sense the tide has turned,” said Arlette.

“Make no mistake, the enemy is always most dangerous when it is pushed on to the back foot.”

No one said anything.

Madame began to investigate the contents of the basket, rustling paper wrappings. Since food rations had been cut, their coupons brought less and less back to the table. But they were better off by far than many, with their orchards of fruit and nuts and olives, chickens and land to grow vegetables. On market day in cities there was often little more to buy than swedes and turnips and tough plucked crows on the butcher's stall.

She sniffed. “That cheese isn't too bad.”

“Exchanged for a bar of lavandin-rosemary soap,” said Arlette.

“You've done very well, my dear.”

“Tell me what the engineer had to say,” said Musset.

Marthe felt the imprint of Arlette's hand on her shoulder and then a renewed sense of loss when her friend walked away into the garden with her uncle to continue their conversation.

 

A
few days later Marthe was sitting alone on the terrace by the kitchen door, trying to separate the scents as they rode a warm breeze: thyme and lemon balm; the fig tree's spices, sweet as cinnamon milk in the drowsy afternoon heat. Madame had gone out to check on the chickens, hoping for eggs. A click sounded. It could have been the wind in the tree by the door. Marthe listened harder. Light footfalls came up the path and stopped in front of her.

“Who is it?”

“Christine.”

Auguste's girlfriend, who worked in the dress shop. Marthe tried to imagine what marvels of new clothing adorned her. All she could picture was a princess in an old book in a swirling puff of organza, and that could not have been right.

“Do you know where Auguste is?”

“I don't—I'm sorry,” said Marthe. “In the fields, I would imagine. Either here or at one of the other farms.” Auguste had recently taken on a supervisory role at several other lavender farms, where workers were in short supply, linking them into a cooperative to keep supplies coming.

“And Arlette—where is she?”

“I'm not sure. Have you tried the shop?”

“She's not there.”

“She might be helping with the deliveries.”

“She might be. Or she might be with Auguste.”

“Well, I suppose she might. It's possible.”

“So are they somewhere together?”

“I've told you, I don't know.”

Christine reached across her. She picked up and set down various objects on the table: a candle lantern; a magazine; some papers under a weight.

Marthe stood up. “I'm not sure how I can help you, Christine.”

“I am. You can answer my question: are they together?” Her tone was impatient, bordering on rudeness.

“I have no idea,” snapped Marthe.

A silence stretched between them. Then the other girl made a noise of furious frustration. She seemed to be focusing her anger on Marthe, but then swept past her and into the kitchen. The door slammed.

“Hey, you can't—”

She obviously had.

Marthe got up and stood in the doorway. Christine was opening drawers and cupboards. “You won't find them in there!”

Without another word the woman pushed past her. Marthe followed the movement to the wall of the terrace. Footsteps broke the path's crust once again, and the unsettling incident was over.

Marthe pressed her hands to her forehead and tried to recover her composure. She was trembling. She did not understand what had just occurred, sensed only that something untoward had taken place.

“Madame!” she called.

When there was no answer, she made her way down towards the chicken run, one hand on the wall that ran down to the stone barn. She knew every stone of the way. Lizards skittered. Sunlight seared her face and bare arms, then faded as if thick clouds had pushed in and absorbed all the heat.

A rustling noise caught her attention, then a low intermittent hum. She slowed, straining to hear, while creeping forward, keeping her steps soundless.

It was a voice, speaking in a low murmur.

She drew closer. At the edge of the barn she could hear male voices inside. She could not understand what was being said. Perhaps they were the foreigners who worked in the fields. Marthe had known for years that itinerant Spanish and Portuguese worked the lavender farms. But they should not be up here at the Musset farmhouse. They had their own large hut in the fields owned by Auguste's family.

Moving faster now, she worked her way round to the door. Already riled by Christine, she felt a rising anger that these men might have come to steal from the very people who were providing their work and shelter.

“What are you doing here?” she shouted into the space.

No answer.

“I know you're there. Answer me!”

Hay rustled. “Caspian knows we are here,” came a whisper. A man's voice, oddly accented. So they were foreigners.

Her face was burning. “Who's Caspian?”

“Keep your voice down! You know the rules. Caspian . . . the Philosopher.”

“You're talking nonsense. I'll ask you again: what are you doing here?''

“Ssh! We're . . . waiting for the moon . . .”

Waiting for the moon? It was as though she had stumbled into another farm, one in fairyland perhaps. They might be tiny sprites, another set of workers with unknown purpose. Marthe shivered now, completely at sea.

“There's no Caspian here,” she repeated.

“Sometimes they just call him the Philosopher. You think I would say this to you if I hadn't seen you here for weeks, working, eating, and riding the pony trap with the family?”

Marthe backed away.

“I'm going back now,” she said, edging her way out. He did not try to stop her.

Her forehead was tight, her head was beginning to hurt. This man was no Spaniard or Portuguese, she realised, feeling for the top of the stone wall under her outstretched hand.

She had to act quickly.

“Monsieur! Madame!” she called as she approached the farmhouse.

No answer.

Before she reached the door, someone caught hold of her, and she jumped.

“Whatever's the matter?” asked Mme Musset.

“I'm not sure, but you need to know . . .” Marthe couldn't form the words fast enough. “Strangers in the barn. Some men.”

“Stay here, I'll deal with this.”

But when Mme Musset returned, she said not a word about the men. “Here, I've picked some courgettes and a nice fat aubergine. If you'll give me a hand, we'll make a start on supper.”

By now, Marthe knew better than to ask.

 

T
hat night as usual now she pulled away from the voices in the kitchen and sat in the corner seat with her Braille stylus device and her slate, writing to a friend from school. If she had to earn the family's trust once again from the beginning, then she was determined to do so.

“What are you doing?” asked Arlette. Perhaps she had been so bound up in whatever it was going on that she had only just noticed that Marthe was also behaving differently.

“I'm writing in Braille.”

There was a pause. “Show me.”

Marthe offered up the slate and stylus. “Once you know the patterns for each letter, you use these to make the dot from the back of the paper, writing in a mirror image.”

“Is it hard?”

“Well, not once you've learned how to do it.”

Arlette ran her fingers over the page.

“Did you know that Braille was once known as night writing—it was invented for Napoleon, so that soldiers could read messages in the dark with no need to use a light?” asked Marthe.

There was no answer. Then Arlette clasped her so tightly around the shoulders that it hurt.

“Uncle Victor! Come here quick!” she cried.

 

M.
Musset drew up a chair next to her.

She knew what came next would not be easy for him, but this was it: he was going to tell her to leave, that they could no longer support her, and she began to prepare herself for the worst, to fling herself at him and beg him to reconsider.

“I am going to make a terrible demand of you, Marthe.”

She stood up to take the blow, however it fell, though she felt as though she were sinking through the floor. “Please don't make me leave! You can trust me—you know you can!”

“Leave? Whoever said anything about leaving?”

“That's not what you wanted to tell me? I heard you talking, weeks ago—saying you didn't know whether I was safe or not, whether you could trust me,” she said.

“You heard that? We've never thought that! How could we?”

“But you said—”

There was a pause during which she sensed silent communication.

“We weren't talking about you, my dear. Never.”

It was a struggle to contain her joy.

“Now listen, child . . . I'm going to ask you something, Marthe. It is very serious. But before I do, you must know that you have a choice. You don't have to do it.”

Marthe wondered whether he realized that she could never refuse any request he made of her.

“What I have to ask you is—”

“Yes. I'll do it.”

“'Yes? You don't even know what I'm going to ask!”

“If it's you who are asking, or Madame, then the answer's yes, whatever it is.”

“That's very loyal. I appreciate that, I really do. But some demands, some actions, are extremely serious. There are grave moral implications. There might be danger of the very worst kind, my dear.”