It is impossibly beautiful. It does make the thought of him being here a little easier, that he gets to lie at the foot of this vast and entirely ridiculous tribute to a God that I’m not sure Etienne ever believed in.
‘You know the Virgin Mary showed up here.’ Florian kindly stops, letting me catch my breath as we ascend higher. ‘Over there by the caves. A starving girl saw her, and she gave the girl bread. That’s why this is here.’ He gestures upwards to the white stone temple that looks like it should belong in Rome, not up a hill in the middle of nowhere.
‘Funny how these saints always show up in pretty places, isn’t it? They never just pop out of the woodwork in Hounslow or Staines.’
Florian’s face is blank; it is one of the only times I am aware that we are from entirely different places, that our mother tongues are not the same. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Madame Grenaud is perched on a marble bench overlooking the gates to the graveyard. She is wearing black; of course she is wearing black. Her dark glasses and hat speak slightly of a theatrical performance and even Florian looks slightly taken aback.
‘Mama, you look… smart.’
‘Thank you.’ She kisses him like a stranger, afraid that he might wrinkle her black two-piece perhaps.
‘Ava.’ She barely glances in my direction. Florian clears his throat. ‘I am glad you could join us today,’ she adds as an afterthought, and I wonder whether he had threatened her into at least being civil.
‘Thank you for letting me come, Maxine.’ I smile and she bobs her head at my own civility.
‘Well, shall we?’
She gets to the gate but pauses, gestures for Florian to open it and then grabs onto the crook of his arm before he can register what’s happening.
There is sad grey shingle on the ground, the occasional cluster of green weeds struggle out from under the stones and swing defiantly in the breeze. It is a little strange, contradictory almost, that life is still managing to slip through the cracks.
Immediately we are banked on both sides by large marble tombs in muted greys, blacks and browns. I hang back from my two companions, my feet performing some sort of macabre wedding march, my eyes taking in the unfamiliar names, the dates, the small faded pictures in marble frames that indicate whose bones I am walking past.
Ettie is in the far corner, under the shade of a budding oak tree. It is a peaceful place with far-reaching views over the valley, a valley that probably looks as it did when his great-grandfather was the first body to be interred.
The gravel stops crunching under our feet as we reach the family vault. It is a gargantuan box of granite that rests a metre off the ground, covered with the names and faces of distant relatives that in some bizarre way I am, and always will be, related to. I take in the faded sepia cameos of the dead. I recognise a few faces from photo albums, most notably the picture of Mr Grenaud, a man who I never met. His picture is an old one; he probably was the same age Ettie would be today, smiling, in a brown suit with the same wild hair Ettie had inherited.
We all stand there in an uncomfortable silence. I watch as Madame Grenaud steps towards the monument, places her hands on the stone and starts muttering in French. Florian folds his arms to his chest, and I notice how his lips mouth an ‘amen’ when she finishes. I don’t embarrass myself with joining him; there is a strong possibility I might combust.
Madame Grenaud then steps back, gestures for Florian to do something. He reaches into a bag I hadn’t realised he was carrying and pulls out a little wooden box and hands it to his mother. She takes it gently, opening up the clasp to reveal a small oval picture frame carved out of a crisp sand-coloured granite. She looks at it fondly, her hands smoothing the edges. She says something to Florian in French, the words make him soften. She places the picture on the grave, on Ettie’s grave. It looks so out of place, too fresh and clean amongst the other weather-beaten tributes that have seen decades of rain and snow and bleaching sun.
Madame Grenaud makes space for Florian to approach. They both lay their hands on the stone again except this time they don’t mutter a prayer: they just stand there, as if they are touching something more than the cold, hard nothingness beneath their fingers. I feel like a voyeur, so far removed from the sentiment and purpose I might as well be a stranger.
Florian breaks first; he crosses himself in a way that is as automatic as washing his hands and then he falls out to my side.
‘You made it,’ I murmur, pointing to the frame.
‘Yes. Mum’s request.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
He closes the distance to my ear. ‘You should see what she made me carve in the back.’ He makes his voice low so that she can’t hear.
‘What?’ I match his tone.
‘Read it when you get a chance.’
‘Florian.’ Madame Grenaud turns towards us. ‘Are you ready?’
He clearly registers my look of relief that this is finished, but grimaces a little.
He gestures to the gilded dome of the Basilica that towers over us. ‘We go there… to pray.’
‘Oh…’ I stumble a little on my feet. ‘Right, okay.’
‘Not her.’ Madame Grenaud whips around, her eyes narrowing in my direction.
