Living with Strangers (2 page)

16th April 1966

Josef had been gone three years, two months and five days. I’d written that at the top of the page in a cloud bubble. I’d forgotten about the bottle, it wasn’t one of the few things I brought with me. It seemed right somehow to leave it behind, waiting, with just an old piece of broken glass trapped inside. I left it with everything else that tied me to that time – my glory days with Josef before he went.

***

It’s early spring, the day we find the bottle. In our house, spring arrives when Oma’s fire is not lit on two consecutive days. This year, Molly and my father Saul have allowed us to go to the river on our own. Josef has a small knapsack, inside it he’s tucked a packet of Nice biscuits and a bottle of orange squash. I’m left to carry the fishing net, two feet longer than me, and a jam jar tied round the neck with string. I don’t mind, it’s enough that Josef has chosen to take me with him.

At the river’s edge a small patch of shingle has formed between the arched roots of two willows. No more than four or five feet square, just large enough for two bodies to stand side by side, we call it the beach. In winter when the water runs full and cold, churning up the banks, the beach disappears. We stand on the fragile tufts of grass and peer down to where it was, considering its fate beneath the sludgy torrents. Then each spring, miraculously it reappears as the waters subside, fractionally changed, lengthened perhaps or swept a little higher, revealing its new collection of debris, tempting us back to examine the goods.

This time when we get to the river, the beach has emerged invitingly, a replica, more or less of the year before. We mess around a while, leaning out over the murky water.

Suddenly Josef is pointing. ‘What’s that, there. Look!’

‘Where?’

‘Over there.’

‘I can’t see.’

Josef pulls me down to kneel beside him on the bank. Below the surface, beyond the upturned image of the opposite bank, something bright is resting beneath a clump of weed.

‘Is it money?’

‘Don’t think so, it’s too big.’

‘Can you reach it?’

‘I’ll have to go in, it’s too far over.’ He begins pulling off his plimsolls and socks.

‘Let me go, I’ve got boots on.’

‘The current’s too strong – you’ll never stand up,’ and he wades in up to his knees, pausing as the icy water batters his skin.

Shivering, I watch as he begins to poke at the riverbed.

‘It’s stuck.’ Josef rolls up the sleeve of his pullover and plunges his hand in again. Moments later he struggles back to the bank clutching a green glass object.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s only a bottle,’ he says, teeth chattering. The bottom edge of his shorts are soaking, his lumpy knees blue.

I take the bottle from him and hold it up. ‘But look, inside!’ Resting at the bottom among the mud and weed, I see what looks like a large stone – too large to have passed through the neck of the bottle. ‘How did it get in there?’

Josef rotates the bottle slowly, watching the stone slide. ‘Lets clean it up.’

We crouch by the water’s edge, dunking the bottle into the river and poking inside with my handkerchief tied to a thin stick. When the glass clears, the trapped object appears not as a stone but a piece of chipped crystal with dozens of irregular facets glinting through the green glass into the sun.

I gaze at it. ‘Is it a diamond – can we keep it?’

‘Well we found it so I suppose so.’

‘What if it’s very precious, shouldn’t we tell someone, just in case?’

‘In case of what? It’s ours. No one needs to know.’ His voice has an edge. I grow used to that edge later, the one that consigns me to an irritation, as he starts to close up, in the months before he leaves.

I ask quietly, ‘What are we going to do with it?’

‘We’ll bury it,’ he says, ‘under the shed.’

***

I had been sitting on my kitchen floor for over an hour. The tiles were cold, my back had seized up. I put on a pan of water to boil – making tea here did not involve a kettle. I picked up the letters and put them back on the table. There were eight altogether. Was that all? Was that all I had sent? I seemed to spend so long in writing, dashing down thoughts at random, wanting to write out the whole sorry mess that followed his leaving. Then I remembered the pages I had thrown away, pages and pages of rambling discourse, shaming sentiments that served no useful purpose. I sent only the best, the best I could offer, and had nothing in return.

I tried sorting the letters in date order, leaving out the one I had just read. The postmarks on the envelopes were barely legible so I began opening each of them and checked the date at the top. Then as I turned over each envelope I noticed a faint mark on the bottom left hand corner. A number – each envelope had a number. Now, going through the pile, it was clear that someone had marked each one. The letter I was holding was numbered 6.

Tears gathered, they dripped off my nose and onto the ink. The pencilled numbers were the first and only sign I’d had from Josef in all this time – a tiny indication that the letters had been important enough to number, to catalogue. He might even have read them. In that gesture, something I wrote had mattered to him. He may never have written back but he had endorsed my attempts to hold on to him.

I put the letter back in its envelope, clumsily creasing the pages, and stacked them all in sequence, a neat row on the table.

*

That evening in the bar there was more than the usual knot of regulars. Tables were laid in two rows, covered with white paper cloths. A large group had returned from a clay pigeon shoot at the château and Antoine and I, more rushed than normal, frequently collided. I was grateful to be occupied, distracted from the day’s events, but my precision was flawed, orders muddled, pastis poured instead of calvados, absinthe for kir.

Antoine raised an eyebrow in my direction. ‘You want to pour away my profits? Lose my guests?’

‘I’m sorry Antoine. I’m not doing very well.’ I didn’t elaborate.

He wiped a glass and put it back on the shelf. ‘Go and help Marie-Claude, she’s run off her feet. I’ll manage here.’

I looked around doubtfully; noise levels were rising. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, go, they’ll be eating soon anyway.’

In the kitchen Marie-Claude was preparing a huge supper. An exquisite cook, only rarely did she share her skills, putting on a table d’hôte for Antoine’s friends on occasions such as this and a
méchoui
for the village on the 14
^th
of July.

I grabbed an apron and joined her by the stove. ‘What can I do?’

Marie-Claude looked up from the soup pot and brushed a damp lock of hair from her face. ‘You could stir this for five minutes while I check the meat. We’re almost there now.’ She bent down to the oven and pulled out three large tins spitting with roasted chicken; rosemary, garlic, onion filled the room.

A dozen soup plates were laid out on the worktop. ‘Shall I serve up?’

‘I’ll let them know.’

Through the swing door I could hear the rumble of anticipation and a scraping of chairs as the guests settled for the meal. We served the soup and brought out carafes of red wine, then returned to the kitchen, leaving Antoine to play host.

Marie-Claude busied herself with the soup pot, scraping out the remains into a smaller bowl and putting it on one side. ‘You’ve been crying, haven’t you?’

My jaw ached from the effort to stay composed. I started to wash up, leaning over the low sink, hiding my face.

‘Well?’

‘Marie-Claude, it’s difficult. I need to think about things, to decide what to do.’

‘So can I help you decide?’

‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘But not now. Tomorrow, maybe, or in a day or so. I think there’s something I have to do first.’

*

We finished serving dinner at ten thirty but it was midnight before I was back in the flat. Instead of weariness and a longing for my bed, I was anxious to stay awake. Chloé slept deeply, lying on her back, gentle grunting sounds issuing as she stirred and resettled.

I had read one letter; it was clear now that I must read them all. Josef had read them, I knew that – why else would he have numbered the envelopes? I would read them and remember. I would have to let it out of the cupboard – my family and what had gone wrong. Was it only Josef’s leaving? What was it that had really brought me here, to this strange haven in a foreign country, that should, by dint of heritage, be Germany, not France? I had been all adrift – nothing in my life had matched or fitted or followed on, my route strewn with failed plans and hopeless projects. Even Chloé, my one constant since Josef, had been far from planned. Yet now she anchored me as he had once done, giving reason, light and purpose to all I did.

I picked up the row of letters and sat down in the armchair Antoine had brought up for me in the early days when I needed somewhere to feed Chloé. It had a damp, weathered smell, comforting, yet resonant of so much I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. I sniffed the letters. Where had they been? In a drawer perhaps, or a box? Under the bed? What did Josef’s hands look like now he was grown up? What did
he
look like, how had he changed? Often, when I thought of him, I imagined him on horseback, a stranger riding across the prairie, a Canadian Clint Eastwood in canvas and leather. At other times he was the old Joe, familiar and close, the one I had carried in my heart and had to let go.

Flicking through the pile, I found the first letter and began to read.

It was almost dawn before I crawled into bed, cold and stiff from my long night of reading. Pulling out the past did not lend itself to sleep. Chloé would wake in a couple of hours; I hoped to manage a little before then. But an hour later, strips of sunlight crept in through the shutters and fell on the floor by my bed, bringing with them early morning movement from downstairs. Marie-Claude had started her day clearing the debris from the shooting party and I knew there would be no sleep.

In my kitchen, the letters still lay on the table as I had left them. I warmed some milk for Chloé when she awoke, then dressed and went downstairs to join Marie-Claude in the bar. I found her holding a crate of empty bottles, leaning against the back door struggling to hold it open. I took the crate from her and put it with the others in the yard outside.

‘You’re up early.’ She held the door as I came back inside.

‘I didn’t sleep much.’

‘And the little one?’

‘She’ll wake soon.’

Marie Claude went into her kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

‘Please.’

She poured beans into a grinder and switched it on, shattering the early morning calm. I began to put away the clean dishes stacked on the drainer from the night before. The room, still warm from the huge range Marie-Claude used for cooking, was heavy with food and coffee; I thought of Molly in the kitchen at home, the endless hours she would spend there. So much of this place was reminiscent of home; I wondered how much that had influenced my decision to stay here.

I finished tidying the plates and sat down. ‘I may have to go home soon,’ I said, ‘for a while at least.’

Marie Claude put two cups of strong coffee on the table and came to sit next to me. She took a sip then held her cup against her cheek. ‘Whatever it is,’ she said, ‘whatever’s happened, you need to talk to them – to your parents. Now I don’t know any details, but staying here won’t help you sort it out. Going home – taking Chloé, maybe that will. It’s worth a try. Antoine and I will still be here – there’ll always be a home for you, if you want it. But family, Madeleine – it’s important, it’s what counts.’

My jaw ached again; sadness pushed me around, taking advantage of my lack of sleep. ‘I know,’ I said, ‘at least I’m beginning to.’

Marie-Claude deserved to know more than the crumbs I had given her, but this was still not the time. I finished my coffee and went back upstairs to wait for Chloé to wake up.

In the afternoon I went into town. It was a long drive and I didn’t go there often these days – occasionally to shop or drop off a translation at the language school. I had worked there for years before Chloé was born, but when I moved to the village it became impractical. Sylvie, who ran the place, kept trying to tempt me back, and kept me supplied with translations that I could work on at home. But logistics aside, I had other reasons for not wanting to go there.

There was a new assignment to deliver so I parked the car, put Chloé in the pushchair and set off across the main square. Sylvie sat typing in reception. She looked up and smiled when she saw us then came round the desk and kissed me warmly on both cheeks. ‘What a lovely surprise!’ She greeted Chloé. ‘Isn’t she adorable – she’s grown so much. You should come in more often.’

I put Chloé down on the floor. ‘I probably should. You know why I don’t.’

‘And today – what brings you into town?’

‘I needed a few things. I’ve brought some work back too.’

‘Ah, the brochures. Brilliant.’ She looked through the folder I had given her. ‘I’ll sort out the payment but it won’t be till the end of the month now. Will that be ok?’

‘That’s fine,’ I said. It was good to see her – apart from Marie-Claude and Antoine and a few regulars at the bar, I had little adult company these days. ‘Have you time for a coffee?’

‘I’d love to, but I’m on my own all day today – there’s no-one to cover.’

Sylvie went to join Chloé by a large display tank; brightly-lit fish darted backwards and forwards across the glass.

‘Jean-Luc was here.’ Sylvie said, studying the fish. ‘Last week. He’s started English lessons again.’

With all that the last twenty-four hours had delivered, mention of Chloé’s father did little to move or surprise me. ‘I don’t hear from him, Sylvie. We’re not in contact.’

Sylvie brought Chloé back to the desk. ‘I just thought you might want to know, that’s all.’

‘Well, thank you but no, I don’t. I really don’t.’

I had known Sylvie a long time, yet in spite of the support she had always shown I would not feed her curiosity with details of a story that ended two years ago. She knew most of it anyway and there were other concerns now. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, putting Chloé back in the pushchair. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. It’s good to see you.’

‘You too,’ she said. ‘Look after yourself. Come and see us again soon.’

We walked from the main square with its fountains and brasseries, down to the quayside and joined the footpath that followed the river for miles beyond the edge of town. Always wide and full at this time of year, the water flowed with exceptional force this spring, melting snow adding to its volume. The day was warm again, as it had been when I’d sat by the hen house with Alex’s note only the day before. The day before. A lifetime ago. A life I had been forced to resurrect – a resurgence of so much I had chosen to ignore, to not acknowledge. It all waited still; nothing had gone away.

It seemed there were two choices. I could ignore it – do up the parcel, put it away and get on with my life, or I could pick up the thread – this delicate trail laid down by someone called Alex, who had given me the only real evidence in fifteen years that my brother still existed.
He talked of you often,
Alex had said.

I stopped at a bar and bought coffee. Chloé waggled her arms and legs excitedly at the seagulls as they dipped and turned above the water, preparing for their spring journey west, following the river to the sea. An old boat, long out of useful service, festered at the water’s edge, rising and falling with the current
. Ghislaine
– its name plaque still intact. I wondered who she had been to have a boat named after her, and whether she too now lay moored up somewhere, useless and alone.

Sleeplessness deprived me of reason – it was time to go. Maybe I did need to tell Marie-Claude, to open up; it might just clarify what I should do. Maybe she would know, in her quiet sagacious way, how to catch and tie down these threads that had been unfurled.