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‘It is? How do you know that?’
‘My mother was from Lorraine, it’s on the border – her family spoke both German and French at home. She taught me the language when I was little.’
Elodie spotted the butterfly then, just off a patch of wildflowers. She chased it, falling over onto the side of the riverbank, and the butterfly went flying off.
When she stood up at last, the mud was covering her all the way to her waist.
Jacques helped her out, but couldn’t help giggling, especially when she narrowed her eyes at him, only to have her shoe get stuck in the mud and for her to fall onto her backside and she joined in.
They laughed even louder when one of the villagers walked past and gave them both a second look.
When she finally got free and they were sitting beneath one of the large willows, Jacques opened up his sketchbook and did a rough sketch of the butterfly from memory, making a note of its hue. She saw him write in pencil that it was paler than the typical ones he’d seen. When he was finished, she rubbed her hands on the grass to get rid of any mud, and asked if she could have a look. He passed it over.
‘These are wonderful,’ she exclaimed. The sketchbook was full of nature drawings, illustrations and observations; it was dominated by birds.
‘So many birds,’ she exclaimed, then laughed aloud when she saw that many of the birds didn’t have fancy Latin names at all!
‘Geoff?’ she asked, grinning widely. ‘Aimee? Those can’t be their scientific names, can they?’
He grinned in response. ‘No, but they are all friends, you see,’ and he explained about how his mother had taught him how to make friends with birds by creating a welcoming place in their garden and home.
It was the second time he’d mentioned her, but Elodie was sure that she had never seen her back at the house.
‘Is she—?’
‘She died,’ he said, nodding. A shadow passed over his eyes. ‘It was a year and a half ago.’
He took the sketchbook from her, and then flipped the pages until he came across a coloured illustration of a woman with long brown hair like his. She was sitting in their cottage garden, and all around her were birds. A blue tit was sitting on her lap. Next to the picture, he had recorded a poem.
‘It was my mother’s favourite. By the German-Jewish poet, Heinrich Heine.’
He said the words in German, then translated it for her into French:
‘There lies the heat of summer
On your cheek’s lovely art:
There lies the cold of winter
Within your little heart.
That will change, beloved,
The end not as the start!
Winter on your cheek then,
Summer in your heart.’
Elodie touched it. ‘It’s beautiful. I didn’t know she died, Jacques, I’m sorry.’
He nodded. ‘When I heard that you’d lost your mother too, I came to find you that day outside the café in the village.’
‘What, why?’ she breathed.
‘Because, I thought, I don’t know… maybe I could help, somehow.’
She swallowed, touched more than she could say. ‘You have,’ she said.
‘I’m glad.’
There were still times that she woke up in tears because in her dreams she was still with Maman, but because of Grand-mère and Jacques, it felt like she could live with the pain, which was always there; the small winter that was always in her heart.
‘When did it become better for you – does it get better?’ she asked.
He picked up a pebble and played with it. Huginn called out to Jacques, then went to scratch in the ground. They saw him happily unearth a worm and gobble it up, and watched him for a moment.
‘It took a long time. Papi helped, but he was grieving too. I found being busy was good, I created a garden for her full of her favourite flowers, with areas for the birds. I spent most of my time watching them, spending time getting to know them; I didn’t really want to be around humans, apart from Papi. Well, until I met you,’ he said, almost shyly.
She looked away, blushing slightly. Glad that she could at least help him too.
