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One day, when they were visiting Lamarin, he sighed as he took in the beautiful vista.
‘Perhaps I’ll tell father that I’m defecting too,’ he teased, as they sat drinking coffee in the village café, overlooking the green where a group of older men were playing pétanque. ‘I could be like that fellow there.’
He had an impressively thick black moustache, a forest green beret, and a bulging belly, restrained by suspenders, into which he’d hooked one of his thumbs. The other hand was supporting a tiny glass full of pale liquor, which he downed in one. Then he set down the empty glass on the grass, and made himself comfortable by a plane tree, and was soon closing his eyes, the beret covering his face.
She grinned. ‘The Provençals have mastered the art of work and rest, a fine balance. I think the pastis has something to do with it…’ She smiled, then went to order them both a glass to get them into the mood.
In the days that followed, Freddie switched his straw boater for a beret and spoke more of giving his notice, and if he didn’t love his job as much as she knew he did, Elodie was sure he would.
Part way through Freddie’s holiday, Jacques surprised them with an early visit home.
It was Sunday morning and Elodie was baking a lemon cake in the farmhouse kitchen while Freddie helped Marguerite as she used his hands to wind yarn around while she made a new rag rug.
Elodie looked from the mixing bowl and saw that someone was approaching the house in the dusky light. Then she yelped, as she recognised his figure, setting her spoon down with a clatter, and the door crashed against the wall, as she raced outside, her cry of ‘Jacques’ answering the others’ questioning looks.
Freddie and Jacques took to one another fast. It was an odd thing, thought Elodie, watching as these two men, so very different from one another, raised on separate continents, one acerbic and witty, the other withdrawn and deep, somehow found a mutual regard, One that centred, primarily, on pétanque.
The two played every afternoon after lunch. Elodie and Marguerite sat on a picnic blanket in the vines watching them, and laughing at the serious expressions on their faces.
One afternoon, Marguerite began to cough, then rubbed her chest.
‘Still not over that cold?’ asked Elodie.
Marguerite had developed a mild summer cold, and had seemed to recover pretty well, but her cough was still there.
She nodded. ‘I’m sure it will clear up soon – it’s good for me to take a little break, I think.’
She’d decided to take a few days’ rest, closing the restaurant during Freddie’s second week and Jacques’ surprise visit so that they could make the most of the time. They had been doing a lot of swimming, sitting outside in the vines, playing pétanque, and having frequent picnics.
Freddie and Jacques took a break, their faces glistening with sweat from their game, and ready to sit in the relative shade.
They were speaking of Germany, and carried on their conversation as Jacques came to sit behind Elodie. She leaned against his knee, listening in.
‘So you’re not worried about what’s happening on the mainland, then?’
‘Not overly. I mean it’s a concern, we’re all keeping an ear out, so to speak. But the island where I’m stationed, Heligoland, while owned by Germany, yes, is in many ways a world apart.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ said Freddie, reaching for a grape. ‘Used to belong to us, back in the last century – it attracted a lot of the upper crust at one point, artists, writers, that sort of thing.’
Jacques nodded. ‘Hard to picture that now. It’s quieter, I suppose, just us researchers and the islanders, which is better for what we need to do.’
‘Just so long as that madman doesn’t begin spreading his ideas there too,’ said Marguerite. ‘He’s doing enough damage where he is.’
The madman was, of course, Adolf Hitler, the leader of a fanatical group of patriotic German thugs, who had – to the surprise of everyone – been made chancellor of the country at the beginning of the year.
‘He seems to have got where he is by stirring up hatred and working on people’s fears,’ agreed Elodie.
Freddie nodded. ‘I always thought that they made a mistake there with Germany, after the war.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Elodie.
‘The crippling reparations, really. After the Great War everyone thought someone needed to pay, but I think they put too much pressure on Germany, really. It’s such a proud country. It’s one thing to defeat your enemy, there’s honour in that… but it was a bit more brutal, if I’m honest, their punishment. And it’s led to a generation fuelled by resentment. Hitler has used that to his advantage – preyed upon it really.’ His words brought a chill to the afternoon. ‘Forgive me,’ he laughed, trying to make light of it, ‘I could be accused of anti-patriotism with those thoughts.’
‘You’re right, though,’ said Marguerite, who coughed again. She patted her chest then took a sip of wine, and carried on. ‘About how he is preying on people’s fears, all this nastiness about the Jews.’
‘Just awful,’ agreed Elodie, who’d heard awful stories of his followers looting shops belonging to Jewish-owned businesses, his attempts at making them second-class citizens, with odd laws that wanted to force them out of their jobs. There had been some pushback from senior officials, thank goodness, but it did seem like it was not a good place to be of a different faith – or to have an opposing political view. Intellectuals, writers and artists were all having a hard time.
‘Just be careful, Jacques,’ said Elodie. ‘You don’t want to get involved in any of that.’
‘Oh, he won’t last,’ said Jacques. ‘Most people – most sane people, anyway – think he’s awful – he’ll soon get voted out. They’ll see sense.’
‘Will they?’ said Freddie, sounding doubtful. ‘I hope so.’
Elodie looked worried and Freddie waved his hands. ‘Apologies, you’re probably right, I do tend to think the worst sometimes.’
Jacques took her hand in his, and gave her palm a kiss. ‘I promise to get very away from the island, the minute Herr Hitler comes anywhere it.’
‘You promise?’
‘The very minute.’
