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PROVENCE, 1934–37
Grand-mère and Monsieur Blanchet were delighted that they planned to wed. Elodie’s father was not quite as thrilled, but now that she was living in Provence, he didn’t exert quite as much influence over her as he once had.
Freddie, on the other hand, was thrilled and vowed to move heaven and earth to make sure that he could be there when it happened.
They decided to have it soon, in the last week of Jacques’ leave.
Marguerite woke Elodie a few days before the wedding, and told her to follow her. There was a smile on the older woman’s lined face.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, her bare feet sinking into the lawn outside the farmhouse.
‘On a little walk. I had an idea,’ she said, handing her a pair of summer slippers. The air was fresh and cool in the dawn. They walked through the vines, and then veered off towards Monsieur Blanchet’s property, turning right just before where his land and Grand-mère’s met, separated by a small kissing gate where her vines stopped and his began. Somewhere between these two stood a small stone outbuilding. A place she had hardly paid much attention to as it was just a part of the farm.
Except, she was seeing now, it wasn’t.
To her surprise, Grand-mère beckoned her toward this building.
It looked different from the last time she’d noticed it – years ago now. Back then, large old disused farm equipment had littered the ground, like tyres, and a few wine barrels. Now it was all cleared. The stonework had been cleaned and re-mortared. A flower bed had been created all around it, filled with lavender and roses, and blue shutters placed on the windows.
‘We thought,’ said Grand-mère with a smile, ‘that this could be yours and Jacques’, for the newlyweds,’ she said, shyly, inviting Elodie inside.
Elodie gasped. ‘Grand-mère! When did you do this?’
‘It wasn’t just me. Monsieur Blanchet helped,’ she said. ‘And Jacques of course,’ and when she stepped over the threshold they were there beaming.
It was a tiny cottage with fresh flagstone floors, with a small blue kitchenette, next to a sofa, and a coal stove in the corner. There was a bedroom at the back, and on the twin beds that had been pushed together was a patchwork quilt.
‘It’s still a bit of a work in progress,’ said Jacques, pointing out the windows that needed mending.
Elodie’s eyes spilled over. ‘No, it’s beautiful,’ she cried.
‘Oh, ma petite,’ cried Grand-mère, and soon they were all hugging one another. ‘Oh no, now we’re all off,’ she said.
‘No, no,’ denied Monsieur Blanchet, who began to blub, fishing out a red-and-white handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and blowing his nose hard. Then, hooking his thumbs behind his suspenders, he added, ‘I have allergies.’
This made them laugh all the harder.
The wedding was held in the vines between both their family homes, not far from their new stone cottage.
Sister Augustine brought rose petals from the abbey and she helped to scatter these along the gravel pathway with Grand-mère.
Elodie wore a simple white silk gown with tiny roses embroidered along the bodice. Braided in the front of her hair were wildflowers from Jacques’ mother’s garden. The rest of it was left to curl naturally down her back.
Freddie wore his linen suit and straw boater and had been made Jacques’ best man.
It was attended by all the local villagers and farmers, and when Elodie walked down the vines path towards them, carrying with her a bouquet of lavender and roses, they all cheered.
But she only had eyes for Jacques, who looked so wonderful in his suit, his dark eyes brimming with tears. Their vows were simple, traditional ones from the priest and when it was over they kissed for a long time in the late-summer sun while their friends and family cheered.
Married life, she found, was a happy one. In September he came home for several months and they would be together for the first time in years until the spring. They took one week to revel in being a newlywed couple, and then got down to the business of making a life together.
In the mornings while he watched the birds, she went swimming with Grand-mère, spent the afternoons in the restaurant, but their evenings, after dinner, usually in the company of Monsieur Blanchet and Grand-mère in the big farmhouse, were their own, and were filled with love.
In November, Elodie began to feel ill, and she found that almost anything could make her become sick. It wasn’t until Grand-mère witnessed this one afternoon, just after she’d begun to fry up some truffles, and had to run outside to the privy, that she considered that she might in fact be with child. ‘Have you had your monthlies?’ she asked.
Elodie stared at her for some time, and then her eyes widened. ‘I… haven’t, actually. I’m late.’
Grand-mère smiled and she said, ‘Well, that’s how it starts.’
