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PROVENCE, 1939
Sister Augustine kept to her word when Elodie came to visit her. She took her to the greenhouse to plant seeds or to the perfumery where they harvested essential oils, and she didn’t press her to speak unless she wanted to.
Instead, she distracted her with the plants. Elodie had always found the healing properties of plants fascinating, and the nun knew this and tempted her out of her grief by fuelling her curiosity.
One afternoon, while she was helping Sister Augustine weed the serenity garden, the nun pointed out one of the plants she pulled up. ‘Did you know that plant was often associated with witches?’
‘What, really?’ asked Elodie, surprised, looking at the periwinkle flowers.
‘It is aconite, commonly referred to as wolfsbane or witch’s bane, a deadly garden plant that seeded here many years ago that can cause paralysis of the respiratory system, resulting in death within moments. Women who fashioned themselves as witches in the Middle Ages used these as part of love potions but they ended up killing the intended love interest instead.’
‘Why would you have that here?’ said Elodie, shocked.
‘It’s a weed, and we make a point of pulling it out whenever we find them, but I think it was planted here in the medieval period as in small doses many dangerous plants are thought to have medicinal effects, though to be honest we haven’t really found that to be the case with this – and so we weed.’
Elodie grinned, but it did give her an appreciation for how toxic some plants were which most people were unaware of. She had seen those in other gardens too.
Later, the nun showed her another poisonous one. ‘This is belladonna, I’m sure you’ve heard of it?’
Elodie had. ‘I’m not surprised, even a small, chewed leaf can kill an adult. The flowers on the other hand aren’t toxic. What’s interesting with belladonna is that it grows as a decorative shrub, and people who have ingested it don’t always feel the effects straight away; it can come on days before the side effects – like a coma or convulsions.’
Elodie stared at the plant as Sister Augustine weeded it out, thinking of how the nuns had the knowledge to do harm as much as heal. Was it any wonder people used to associate these sorts of plants, and the women who knew how to use them, with witchcraft?
In late May, when the roses started to bloom, Sister Augustine put her to work with the garden shears. ‘You can help me deadhead them.’
Elodie was now heavily pregnant and she was feeling it. The mild sun felt like hot pokers. Her feet were painfully swollen and she felt irritable; seeing her red face, Sister Augustine quickly called it a day.
They took a break and sat beneath the shade of a tree, and Sister Augustine went to fetch her a jug of her rose lemonade.
Elodie gave the briefest of smiles when she saw it. ‘Whenever I have lemonade I always think of you,’ she said.
The nun smiled. ‘It’s one of the few recipes I have from my mother. It’s a way to remember her, I suppose, whenever I make it. She loved her gardens, too, perhaps that’s why I feel so at home here.’
Elodie took a sip. ‘I wonder when that will happen for me?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘When the memories will be happy again. Even with Grand-mère, sometimes it’s still hard to think of the happy times, without crying. With Jacques…’ she bit her lip and it began to wobble, and she spoke through a suddenly constricted throat, ‘it’s impossible to do anything else.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ said Sister Augustine, reaching for her hand. ‘I’m sorry. It’s the advice we all hate to hear, but it’s the only thing that does help with loss – time. It will never not be tinged with sadness, but someday it will be less painful, you’ll see.’
Elodie didn’t say anything. She didn’t think that would be the case for her.
Then, after a while a tear fell from her eye, and she dashed it away angrily.
Sister Augustine looked at her, concerned. ‘What is it?’
‘I – I’m just so angry, Sister. It’s been months and it’s just there – this, this, useless, impotent anger. Every day more stories come through of what is happening in Europe as a result of the Nazis. And every day I realise that no one will ever answer for what happened to Jacques. It fills me with rage,’ she admitted. ‘Everyone here has been so kind, so supportive…’ Her face wobbled as she thought of the patient locals at the restaurant and she gave a half laugh, half sob.
‘Half the time I end up making the same thing every couple of days. My grandmother rarely, if ever, repeated herself; it was always somehow slightly different to whatever she might have made previously. It was all part of the charm of visiting her. Two weeks ago, I made the same dish three times and didn’t even realise it.’
‘I heard,’ said Sister Augustine with a smile.
News spread fast in small towns.
Elodie closed her eyes in shame.
The nun reached forward and patted her hand. ‘They understand, cherie, and I promise you, they don’t mind. Besides, it’s got better – in February you made ratatouille almost every day for two weeks.’
