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1938
Every week, Jacques sent a letter.
She looked forward to these more than she could say. They would arrive, smelling faintly of the island, of water and salt, and something that was uniquely him, sandalwood and bergamot, perhaps, from the home-made soaps prepared by the nuns at the abbey.
She would press each letter to her nose and breathe it in before she read his words. Over the years, he’d shared a glimpse of his studies with her: the patterns and changes he saw in the birds he observed, as well as the cold and wind he felt there along that northern point, so very different from their sunshine corner of the Mediterranean.
His letters though, recently, held new stories of the arrival of a group of Germans from the navy who were beginning work on a reclamation project. He wrote:
So far, they’re staying on their side of the island, while we keep to ours. We were concerned that they might be a bit domineering, and we should pack up and leave, but they’ve made an effort to not be too intrusive, which has surprised us – I think we were expecting them to be domineering and possessive… but the official message appears to be that their instructions are to be respectful. I am meeting with one of them this week to show them around our sites of interest. I must admit it’s a relief. Though, if I’m honest, I’m beginning to count the weeks till I can come home to you. As polite as they are, it does make me a bit apprehensive having them here.
Love to you both (give the belly a kiss from me).
Jacques
Elodie and Monsieur Blanchet were relieved that for now the news out of the island was good. She read him her most recent letter one night after dinner. He was sipping pastis, and staring at the burning coals in the fireplace. Before them both was the chess set, ready for their regular evening game.
Monsieur Blanchet was to go first, but he’d yet to make his move. He sighed. ‘I think I will rest easier when he’s home,’ he admitted, and she saw the dark circles beneath his eyes.
‘You haven’t been sleeping?’
He looked up at her and said, ‘Not a lot.’ Then pulled a wry face, and tugged at his moustache anxiously. ‘Forgive me, I don’t mean to worry you.’
She shook her head, and a strand of dark blonde hair fell forward. She was wearing one of Marguerite’s cosy cardigans, it was emerald green and rather baggy, but even that could not disguise her very swollen stomach. ‘You haven’t made me worry, I’ve been worrying about that for a long time,’ she admitted. ‘But sleep is hard even without the worry.’
He smiled then, and it lightened their mood as they thought of the child to come. It would be good to have something to look forward to.
Spring seemed to arrive early in Provence. In February, Elodie helped Sister Augustine plant seedlings and bulbs in the abbey’s greenhouse. The nun wore a gardening smock over her habit and wedged her feet in wellingtons. The sight amused Elodie.
With the cold weather, Sister Augustine made them a pot of English tea, Earl Grey, which was Elodie’s favourite. Freddie always sent over boxes of the stuff for her, and she had brought some for Sister Augustine one year to try and now she was hooked on the stuff.
They sipped their tea from big green tin mugs, Elodie taking a seat at a planting table, while Sister Augustine dropped an old blanket over her knees to keep her and the baby warm.
They planted seeds for the potage, basil, cauliflower and aubergine, and flowers for the nuns’ home-made remedies, perfumes, soaps and tinctures, like ageratum and geranium. Some of the seedlings they planted included things like sunflowers, tomatoes, squash and strawberries, plants that one would only sow under glass much later in England, according to Sister Augustine.
Elodie was grateful for the work and enjoyed listening to the nun as she explained some of the properties of the plants. It was distracting. Perhaps she still looked anxious, because the nun commented when she looked at her as she wrote a label for the geranium seeds she’d planted.
‘You know, the oil from geraniums has been used throughout the centuries by some for the treatment of anxiety and even depression.’
‘Really? Does it work?’
Sister Augustine shrugged. ‘I find it to be calming, even just sniffing the scent. I’ll get you a bottle.’
‘Thank you,’ said Elodie gratefully. ‘I’ll tell Monsieur Blanchet to put some drops on his pillow too.’
Sister Augustine nodded, then placed a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. ‘He’s still worried for Jacques?’
Elodie nodded. ‘Yes. I think we’ll both rest easier when he’s home.’
Sister Augustine’s eyes were sympathetic. ‘I’ll pray on that tonight.’
‘Thank you,’ said Elodie.
Jacques’ letters were increasingly about the presence of the Nazi naval officers, and his latest one in the second week of April caused her some distress.
For the most part they have been polite, respecting our research areas and even going so far as to show an interest in what we’re trying to accomplish. However, this week there was some tension when they disturbed some of the breeding sites of northern gannets as well as the dwindling razorbills. One of our teammates, Herman, got into a heated discussion with a junior officer about it. In fairness to the Germans, it’s difficult to do their work without disturbing the nature around them, and we are trying to be appreciative of that, but it is such a sensitive time, as Herman’s and my research is on the meticulous study of the breeding patterns of all of these migratory birds.
I’ve reminded him to keep a cool head. In June, we will be able to wrap up our findings, though we do worry about what will happen to the island once we’re gone…
