she was small. She and her brother, who were very close in age, were brought up by a much older, married sister. The family owned and worked quite a large mill, but by the time Grandma and her brother had grown up, the sister’s husband had squandered all the money. The mill and all the land had to be sold. Grandma’s inheritance is now a flourishing, four-star campsite owned by a Dutch company. We used to make the occasional nostalgic trip on a Sunday after lunch, to see how it had been altered.
Sometimes Grandma would tell of her courtship, of how Grandpa would call to take her dancing on a Saturday evening. I imagine them setting off proudly in the Citroën, she, without a doubt, the envy of all the local girls. In the late twenties not many young men had a car. She was very pretty, with dark curly hair and very small hands and feet. Grandpa certainly didn’t pick her as a sturdy wife for a farmer. He too was slightly built with a mop of fair hair. They were married in 1931 and she came to live at the farm. I don’t think she got on too well with Grandpa’s difficult and possessive sister, who lived in the next village. But with the war, all petty disputes were put aside as thewhole community faced real hardship, especially when, with Claudette still very small, Grandpa, conscripted into the French army, was captured and spent five years as a prisoner of war in Germany.
‘
Ah oui
,’ she would sigh. ‘
C’était dur! Très dur!
’ And that was all. Grandma always preferred to talk about happier times.
We were shocked when we arrived that last summer to see her so changed. She was in a wheelchair. A long silk scarf was tied round her waist to hold her safely in. She was confused and incredibly thin and frail, a sad reunion for us. Adam, my elder son, his wife, Caz, and my two grandchildren, had arrived by car on the first of August. Elliot, then two years old, was carried, still sleeping, straight to bed. Six-and-a-half-year-old Thomas demanded food and then raced all round the garden whooping with joy. We finally persuaded him into bed and had just sat down to a very late meal when Jean-Michel appeared. With tears in his eyes he told us that Grandma had died an hour ago.
Mike and I went down to comfort a sobbing Véronique. Grandpa sat, his head bowed, his sister by his side. Raymond’s brother and his wife stood as if uncertain what they should do. Claudette, dry-eyed, just kept repeating bewilderedly, ‘She was all right when I put her to bed.
Elle a même pris un peu de bouillon
– a little broth.’
She shook her head as though she still couldnot believe it – as though she had not been able to acknowledge her mother’s clearly impending death.
‘When I put her to bed,
elle était comme toujours
,’ she began again as she led us to the bedroom. Grandma, her jaw tied up with a crepe bandage, now lay there in her best dress, the one she had worn for her diamond wedding, six years before. She looked so small. A rosary had been wound around her bony, work-weary, little hands. Our great sadness was mitigated by relief that this gentle old lady no longer had to suffer the indignities of her illness.
The following evening we were invited down for special family prayers. There were other family members; Philippe and Corinne had come from Toulouse, cousins from La Capelle. In a large rough circle we sat outside in the open-ended hanger, waiting for the
Curé
. We waited and waited. No one seemed to know what to do. There was such a deep sense of shared loss and sadness. Mike suggested that we hold hands and he said a brief prayer. The family seemed grateful. Still we waited. The absent
Curé
was not, alas, the sweet old priest who had officiated at both Philippe’s and Véronique’s weddings. This priest was fairly new and not particularly popular. He did nothing to improve his reputation that evening with a grieving family. He did not come.
Eventually Philippe decided that we would have to say our
Sometimes Grandma would tell of her courtship, of how Grandpa would call to take her dancing on a Saturday evening. I imagine them setting off proudly in the Citroën, she, without a doubt, the envy of all the local girls. In the late twenties not many young men had a car. She was very pretty, with dark curly hair and very small hands and feet. Grandpa certainly didn’t pick her as a sturdy wife for a farmer. He too was slightly built with a mop of fair hair. They were married in 1931 and she came to live at the farm. I don’t think she got on too well with Grandpa’s difficult and possessive sister, who lived in the next village. But with the war, all petty disputes were put aside as thewhole community faced real hardship, especially when, with Claudette still very small, Grandpa, conscripted into the French army, was captured and spent five years as a prisoner of war in Germany.
‘
Ah oui
,’ she would sigh. ‘
C’était dur! Très dur!
’ And that was all. Grandma always preferred to talk about happier times.
We were shocked when we arrived that last summer to see her so changed. She was in a wheelchair. A long silk scarf was tied round her waist to hold her safely in. She was confused and incredibly thin and frail, a sad reunion for us. Adam, my elder son, his wife, Caz, and my two grandchildren, had arrived by car on the first of August. Elliot, then two years old, was carried, still sleeping, straight to bed. Six-and-a-half-year-old Thomas demanded food and then raced all round the garden whooping with joy. We finally persuaded him into bed and had just sat down to a very late meal when Jean-Michel appeared. With tears in his eyes he told us that Grandma had died an hour ago.
Mike and I went down to comfort a sobbing Véronique. Grandpa sat, his head bowed, his sister by his side. Raymond’s brother and his wife stood as if uncertain what they should do. Claudette, dry-eyed, just kept repeating bewilderedly, ‘She was all right when I put her to bed.
Elle a même pris un peu de bouillon
– a little broth.’
She shook her head as though she still couldnot believe it – as though she had not been able to acknowledge her mother’s clearly impending death.
‘When I put her to bed,
elle était comme toujours
,’ she began again as she led us to the bedroom. Grandma, her jaw tied up with a crepe bandage, now lay there in her best dress, the one she had worn for her diamond wedding, six years before. She looked so small. A rosary had been wound around her bony, work-weary, little hands. Our great sadness was mitigated by relief that this gentle old lady no longer had to suffer the indignities of her illness.
The following evening we were invited down for special family prayers. There were other family members; Philippe and Corinne had come from Toulouse, cousins from La Capelle. In a large rough circle we sat outside in the open-ended hanger, waiting for the
Curé
. We waited and waited. No one seemed to know what to do. There was such a deep sense of shared loss and sadness. Mike suggested that we hold hands and he said a brief prayer. The family seemed grateful. Still we waited. The absent
Curé
was not, alas, the sweet old priest who had officiated at both Philippe’s and Véronique’s weddings. This priest was fairly new and not particularly popular. He did nothing to improve his reputation that evening with a grieving family. He did not come.
Eventually Philippe decided that we would have to say our
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