of her neck, ‘and then, when we have finished our food and finished our wine, we can drive up into the hills and buy ourselves some more. There’s so much room in the car. We can buy as much as we need, darling. We can buy ourselves as much as we fucking need. We don’t have to go back. We don’t have to let anything change. Not if we don’t want to. We had a plan. And there’s all this time,’ he said, standing up from the bench, holding his glass out at arm’s length. ‘All this time to drink and do what we came here for, here in the village with all the birds and the fucking insects and this rough awful heat-resistant grass…’
‘Stop it,’ she begged. ‘Please.’
Stephen was silent. He had stopped eating. Kate was sitting on the bench, pale in her white dress and she felt small and exhausted. Her mind was still, but somewhere deep inside she felt a flutter of desperation for air, and she pulled in a deep and silent breath for herself, and she held it there.
L UCIE
1949
Silence in the beginning. And the car moving on the lip of the valley like a fly on the rim of a bowl – pausing – engine rattling; Arnaud lifting his hands from the wheel and pointing down through the trees. They had come so far south. It didn’t even feel like France any more but some other place of rock and whiteness and dryness over the mountains. Lucie sank into the neck of her coat. She couldn’t conceive of Arnaud’s pale, slightly chubby fingers working the vines on these hillsides, twisting and wrenching, digging this dry, rocky earth.
‘Can you see it?’
He was pointing to the dark place in the valley. It was like a castle she had had as a child. She saw the towers rising up out of the village roofs that seemed to huddle in on each other in a nasty, conspiratorial fashion. It looked tatty down there, shabby, and old.
Arnaud wasn’t trying to make his hands look like guns, and yet it seemed this way to her. She felt the point, two fingers stretched, one hanging limp near the trigger. Bang ! She flinched and closed her eyes.
‘Lucie?’
She turned her head away from him, looked out across the valley to where the hills paled in the distance. There was food on her lap. A soft cloth parcel of food. If only she had thought to get the blankets and wrap them around her legs and shoes. The nylon stockings did nothing to keep out the cold and her shoes were worn and thin. But the blankets were on the back seat with her suitcase and it was too late now. They were nearly there.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Answer me. Can you see the chateau down there in the village?’
‘There are eggs here. Two cooked eggs. A tin of meat.’ She peeled back the cloth. ‘A decent loaf.’
He turned the wheel a little, let the car crunch onto the grass beside the track. Lucie studied the food carefully , imagining the tastes of the egg and the bread in her mouth. It was an anxious kind of hunger. As if there were mice in her stomach, steadily gnawing away. The war put mice in everyone’s stomach. She knew she was no exception .
Arnaud would most probably climb out now and take in the view. Either that or take her hand, whisper something about their future together and the fear. Whisper something about it all going to be all right. But that would be silly, foolish, of course. She wouldn’t have the egg just yet. It was better to save it for later. The more she prepared herself the less anxious she would feel. And, of course, it was possible that he’d had enough of her moods already. She was guilty of these. Up and down. Like de Gaulle’s million bouncing babies. He would tell her again that she needed to try to let go of the war. It was something they all had to live with. But it was in the past. He would tell her to think of the future. France had a future. There were babies to be born.
‘You are always thinking of the food, Lucie. Nothing but the food.’
‘It’s important.’
‘It’s not all there is,
‘Stop it,’ she begged. ‘Please.’
Stephen was silent. He had stopped eating. Kate was sitting on the bench, pale in her white dress and she felt small and exhausted. Her mind was still, but somewhere deep inside she felt a flutter of desperation for air, and she pulled in a deep and silent breath for herself, and she held it there.
L UCIE
1949
Silence in the beginning. And the car moving on the lip of the valley like a fly on the rim of a bowl – pausing – engine rattling; Arnaud lifting his hands from the wheel and pointing down through the trees. They had come so far south. It didn’t even feel like France any more but some other place of rock and whiteness and dryness over the mountains. Lucie sank into the neck of her coat. She couldn’t conceive of Arnaud’s pale, slightly chubby fingers working the vines on these hillsides, twisting and wrenching, digging this dry, rocky earth.
‘Can you see it?’
He was pointing to the dark place in the valley. It was like a castle she had had as a child. She saw the towers rising up out of the village roofs that seemed to huddle in on each other in a nasty, conspiratorial fashion. It looked tatty down there, shabby, and old.
Arnaud wasn’t trying to make his hands look like guns, and yet it seemed this way to her. She felt the point, two fingers stretched, one hanging limp near the trigger. Bang ! She flinched and closed her eyes.
‘Lucie?’
She turned her head away from him, looked out across the valley to where the hills paled in the distance. There was food on her lap. A soft cloth parcel of food. If only she had thought to get the blankets and wrap them around her legs and shoes. The nylon stockings did nothing to keep out the cold and her shoes were worn and thin. But the blankets were on the back seat with her suitcase and it was too late now. They were nearly there.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Answer me. Can you see the chateau down there in the village?’
‘There are eggs here. Two cooked eggs. A tin of meat.’ She peeled back the cloth. ‘A decent loaf.’
He turned the wheel a little, let the car crunch onto the grass beside the track. Lucie studied the food carefully , imagining the tastes of the egg and the bread in her mouth. It was an anxious kind of hunger. As if there were mice in her stomach, steadily gnawing away. The war put mice in everyone’s stomach. She knew she was no exception .
Arnaud would most probably climb out now and take in the view. Either that or take her hand, whisper something about their future together and the fear. Whisper something about it all going to be all right. But that would be silly, foolish, of course. She wouldn’t have the egg just yet. It was better to save it for later. The more she prepared herself the less anxious she would feel. And, of course, it was possible that he’d had enough of her moods already. She was guilty of these. Up and down. Like de Gaulle’s million bouncing babies. He would tell her again that she needed to try to let go of the war. It was something they all had to live with. But it was in the past. He would tell her to think of the future. France had a future. There were babies to be born.
‘You are always thinking of the food, Lucie. Nothing but the food.’
‘It’s important.’
‘It’s not all there is,
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