farewells without him. We crowded solemnlyback into the bedroom where Grandma lay. Philippe stood at the end of the bed. He said a few loving words and then a
Pater Noster
and an
Ave Maria
. Grandpa’s sister, ever acerbic, declared that it was ten
Ave Marias
that must be said. Claudette began, the others joined in and all the endless and, to me, pointless repetition of the prayers of my Roman Catholic childhood came flooding back. The confessions, when I scratched around for a sin or two to tell the priest. My bewilderment as to why four Our Fathers and six Hail Marys would make it all better, and the difficulty of getting any of my questions answered. Then I felt ashamed of the rebellious anger that had momentarily welled up in me. Dealing with death needs every comforting ritual. ‘Holy Mary, pray for us sinners, now, and in the hour of our death,’ indeed. We all lined up to kiss her. Grandpa stood back until last, and in Occitan, the old language that they often spoke to one another, he shouted at her, in the way the very deaf do. Then he embraced her and howled ‘
Addio
’ and then I did cry.
It was a scorching day for the funeral, which was held the next day at 5.30 in the village church. We went early to help prepare and found that Mme Barrou, who keeps the keys, had decorated everywhere with a variety of vases filled with delicate pink cosmos, no doubt from her own garden. Mlle Bruet, was also there, plugging in her portable organ. She looked alarmed when she saw me as we had met some yearsbefore at a rehearsal for Véronique’s wedding when I had expected her to play my accompaniment for an
Ave Maria
I was to sing. It was then that I discovered that she could only read the melody line, which she played with one hand. Fortunately, at that time, my friend Christina, an expert accompanist and stalwart improviser on even the most dire instrument was staying with us for a few days, and she kindly managed to record my accompaniment onto tape before she went back to England.
Now Claudette had asked me if I would sing the same
Ave Maria
for the funeral, as Grandma had so enjoyed it. Grandma herself had a sweet voice and had taught me to sing
Le Temps des Cerises
, Cherry Time, a great favourite with the older generation. I quickly reassured Mlle Bruet that I was happy to sing unaccompanied and left her to rehearse the small choir of elderly ladies in hymns all set, alas, as always, too high for them. The choir were very undecided about my solo. They shook their heads and fretted that perhaps it would be necessary to ask the
Curé
. It was quite likely that an
Ave Maria
would not be considered at all suitable for a funeral. I was determined to sing it anyway but when the
Curé
eventually arrived he shrugged and said loftily, ‘
Je ne vois aucun empêchement
, I see no obstacle.’ I forbore to point out that I was singing it not for him but for Grandma. Sung in a lower key and muchslower than for the wedding, the
Ave Maria
ended the simple service and felt right.
I was proud of Philippe who spoke movingly about his grandmother. He looked so tall and handsome and I remembered the slim, brown-legged boy who had come out, eager to greet us the very first time we had driven up to the farm. When the service was over we all wound our way through the village and up to the small cemetery where, after a long and hard life, this loving and much loved grandmother was laid to rest.
We walked slowly back home from the vineyard, the dying sun slanting through the poplar trees at the edge of the track before it disappeared, and we drank a toast to the two old people who had, over so many years, shown us such kindness.
C HAPTER S IX
Guy and his friend from university turned up as they had promised and dealt with our piles of garden rubbish, the speed and ease with which they worked making us feel very old. I had known Guy since he was a baby. In the following summers we had all been enchanted by this blonde toddler who loved
Pater Noster
and an
Ave Maria
. Grandpa’s sister, ever acerbic, declared that it was ten
Ave Marias
that must be said. Claudette began, the others joined in and all the endless and, to me, pointless repetition of the prayers of my Roman Catholic childhood came flooding back. The confessions, when I scratched around for a sin or two to tell the priest. My bewilderment as to why four Our Fathers and six Hail Marys would make it all better, and the difficulty of getting any of my questions answered. Then I felt ashamed of the rebellious anger that had momentarily welled up in me. Dealing with death needs every comforting ritual. ‘Holy Mary, pray for us sinners, now, and in the hour of our death,’ indeed. We all lined up to kiss her. Grandpa stood back until last, and in Occitan, the old language that they often spoke to one another, he shouted at her, in the way the very deaf do. Then he embraced her and howled ‘
Addio
’ and then I did cry.
It was a scorching day for the funeral, which was held the next day at 5.30 in the village church. We went early to help prepare and found that Mme Barrou, who keeps the keys, had decorated everywhere with a variety of vases filled with delicate pink cosmos, no doubt from her own garden. Mlle Bruet, was also there, plugging in her portable organ. She looked alarmed when she saw me as we had met some yearsbefore at a rehearsal for Véronique’s wedding when I had expected her to play my accompaniment for an
Ave Maria
I was to sing. It was then that I discovered that she could only read the melody line, which she played with one hand. Fortunately, at that time, my friend Christina, an expert accompanist and stalwart improviser on even the most dire instrument was staying with us for a few days, and she kindly managed to record my accompaniment onto tape before she went back to England.
Now Claudette had asked me if I would sing the same
Ave Maria
for the funeral, as Grandma had so enjoyed it. Grandma herself had a sweet voice and had taught me to sing
Le Temps des Cerises
, Cherry Time, a great favourite with the older generation. I quickly reassured Mlle Bruet that I was happy to sing unaccompanied and left her to rehearse the small choir of elderly ladies in hymns all set, alas, as always, too high for them. The choir were very undecided about my solo. They shook their heads and fretted that perhaps it would be necessary to ask the
Curé
. It was quite likely that an
Ave Maria
would not be considered at all suitable for a funeral. I was determined to sing it anyway but when the
Curé
eventually arrived he shrugged and said loftily, ‘
Je ne vois aucun empêchement
, I see no obstacle.’ I forbore to point out that I was singing it not for him but for Grandma. Sung in a lower key and muchslower than for the wedding, the
Ave Maria
ended the simple service and felt right.
I was proud of Philippe who spoke movingly about his grandmother. He looked so tall and handsome and I remembered the slim, brown-legged boy who had come out, eager to greet us the very first time we had driven up to the farm. When the service was over we all wound our way through the village and up to the small cemetery where, after a long and hard life, this loving and much loved grandmother was laid to rest.
We walked slowly back home from the vineyard, the dying sun slanting through the poplar trees at the edge of the track before it disappeared, and we drank a toast to the two old people who had, over so many years, shown us such kindness.
C HAPTER S IX
Guy and his friend from university turned up as they had promised and dealt with our piles of garden rubbish, the speed and ease with which they worked making us feel very old. I had known Guy since he was a baby. In the following summers we had all been enchanted by this blonde toddler who loved
Similar Books
