The French Promise (10 page)

He knew he was staring, bewildered,
so he opted to simply be polite. ‘Thank you,’ Luc said, clearly relieved that someone had come for them. ‘Er, this is my family.’ Lisette had seen Johnno arrive through the station window and had come out to join them.

John nodded with a bright grin. ‘G’day, Mrs Ravens. Welcome to Launny.’ Luc blinked. ‘Roy-vins’ again. ‘Your little bloke looks pretty done in, eh?’

‘I think we all are,’ Lisette
said, finding a soft smile, and Luc was miffed that she had no trouble whatsoever understanding the local brogue. He would have to concentrate harder.

‘Well, let’s get you to the hotel and settle you in. It’s fearsome hot out there, Mrs Ravens. Did you bring a sunhat?’

‘Er … no, I don’t believe I did,’ she said, handing over their son to Luc’s strong arms.

‘Well, I guess that’s the first purchase.
You’ve got such perfect skin, Mrs Ravens …’ he stammered, suddenly self-conscious, and didn’t continue.

‘Oh, Johnno,’ she sighed, ‘you’re very kind, this has been such a long journey,’ she said. ‘I’ve never felt so ragged.’

He shrugged sympathetically. ‘Can’t move around Launny in summer without a hat, Mrs Ravens. You too, Mr Ravens, and the young tacker. Got to be careful with this heat. Newcomers
die from it!’ He cut them a wide grin. ‘Off we go then,’ he said, picking up several of their bags.

‘John,’ Luc called as the young man began leading them out. ‘What about these people?’ he asked, gesturing towards the Italian family.

‘They’ll be migrants coming to work on the hydro electric
project. The company will send someone—’ He grinned and nodded to reassure Luc, who was still translating
what he’d just heard from John. The word ‘moygrans’ had him fooled for a few moments. ‘Ah,’ John continued. ‘Here he comes now. G’day, Laurie. These your folk?’

A man with a tanned, heavily lined face took off his wide hat and smoothed his hair. ‘I reckon that’s them.’ He nodded at Luc, walked past. ‘Are you the Vizzaris?’ he said, a little louder and slower than necessary, Luc thought.
They were Italian, not deaf.

The men in the party nodded, smiling. They looked as relieved but also as lost as Luc was sure he appeared.

‘Come on, then. I’m Laurie.’ He nodded. ‘Laurie,’ he repeated loudly, pointing to himself, and led his party of new arrivals out into the street towards a waiting bus.

‘It’s a short ride to Cameron Street,’ Johnno said, returning Luc’s attention. ‘Just a minute
or two. Ready, Mr Ravens?’

‘Lead on,’ Luc said, getting more used to the brogue.

Dark burgundy and cream trolley buses rumbled past as they emerged from the station, and the air hung heavy with the smell of oil in the stifling heat.

Lisette smiled. ‘Were you born here, Johnno?’ she said, taking over the conversation as the luggage was loaded.

‘Yes, born and bred, though I envy you folk sailing
all the way from Europe.’

‘Are you an adventurer?’ she teased lightly.

He grinned. ‘Maybe. My grandfather died at Gallipoli; my father survived El Alamein. I listened to stories from Dad’s letters about the desert where they trained. And as a boy I used to collect stamps from countries all over the world and I’d dream of going to see them.’

She nodded. ‘I hope you do now the war is over. Will
our trunks be sent to the hotel?’

‘The ship will organise that, don’t you worry. They’ll deliver to the hotel … unless you’ve given another address?’

She shook her head. ‘We are yet to work out where to live.’

Luc privately marvelled at how simple she made that sound. He didn’t know many other women who would confront such a dilemma with the same ease, especially with a youngster in
her arms. Luc sniffed fresh timber on the air and mentioned it to Johnno.

‘Launceston is putting up so many houses all over the neighbourhoods. Lots of furniture factories, too – see there,’ he said, pointing. ‘That’s a straddle truck.’

Luc’s mouth opened in awe to see an enormous truck clattering slowly in the distance with its driver perched above a gigantic rack of timber.

It took only a minute
or two before they were pulling up outside The Hotel Cornwall, an attractive, pale, double storey building that resembled the Australian Victorian-style architecture they’d glimpsed in Melbourne, with lace fretwork on the upstairs balcony that formed a shady verandah below. Rendered walls and a tin roof completed the structure.

Luc glanced at Lisette with soft apology, feeling responsible for
the long journey. He knew she was desperate to get Harry into a bed.

‘Home,’ she said, smiling softly.

‘Not quite,’ he whispered, ‘but soon, I promise you.’

After making sure that Lisette and Harry were settled, both of them yawning impolitely in his face and falling asleep as he whispered ‘Sweet dreams’ to her and ‘Don’t let the bed
flea bite’ to his son – never quite sure why that made Lisette
laugh – he left her a note to say he would not be long and wandered down to the lobby of the hotel, far too unsettled to join them.

Johnno walked through the reception. ‘Oh, hello again, Mr Ravens. Can’t sleep?’

He shook his head. ‘Not in the middle of the day.’

‘Is your wife resting?’

‘Out like a light,’ he remarked, hoping he’d got that one right.

‘You have a lovely family, sir. Mrs
Ravens is very beautiful, if you don’t mind me saying it,’ the young man said, his tone earnest.

‘I don’t mind at all,’ Luc said, flattered.

‘It’s the middle of the night back where you come from,’ Johnno pointed out.

Luc shrugged. ‘I think I’d prefer to get used to this time zone. I’ll sleep when it gets dark.’

Johnno nodded. ‘You going to explore, then?’

‘I suppose so,’ Luc replied. ‘Which direction
should I take?’

Johnno hesitated. Luc lifted an eyebrow.

‘If you want, you’re welcome to come with me,’ the younger man offered. ‘I have to run some errands but I don’t mind showing you around a bit … you know … if you’d like.’ Johnno lifted a shoulder, looking uncertain. ‘Half an hour, tops. You may be sleepy enough by then.’ He shrugged.

‘I would like that. Thank you, John.’

‘You’ll get a feel
for the place. Won’t take you long, Mr Ravens.’

‘Call me Luc.’

The young man nodded. He was tall, broad and muscled, with curly blonde hair and a tanned complexion that made him appear healthy and vaguely wild. His white teeth smiled back at Luc; he was like a poster boy for Australia’s good life. ‘Only if you’ll call me Johnno. Only my mother calls me John … and only when she’s cross with me.’
He winked.

Driving together in the hotel’s delivery van, Johnno said, ‘How about I give you a quick run around the town, Mr Ra … er, Luc? I guess it won’t feel so strange then if you know the landmarks.’

‘That would be a real help,’ Luc agreed, wiping a handkerchief over his damp face.

Johnno drove confidently and Luc was happy to settle back to listen and absorb all the new sights
and sounds.

Johnno pointed. ‘Can you see that tall white building? The silo.’ Luc peered into the distance. ‘That’s King’s Wharf over there. It’s full of traders bringing sheep, cattle and produce from all the tiny islands nearby and taking back all the fresh goods they need.’

They passed houses made of timber boards with green, corrugated iron roofs and picket fences that flanked roads wide enough
to make Luc whistle. ‘Your streets make the ones in Provence seem like alleyways.’

He noted that the buildings were all on one level, so the city certainly looked neat, though in Luc’s opinion it appeared a bit wearied. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing his chin in the direction of a tall red-brick building.

‘That’s Boag’s Brewery, where we’re stopping. I have to drop off a package from The Cornwall.’

Johnno parked, but left the car running. ‘Won’t be a tick,’ he said.

Luc could smell the hops and the yeasty aroma of brewing but he could also smell gas, and if he wasn’t wrong, animals. How could that be? He mentioned it to Johnno as his young companion leapt back into the driver’s seat and crunched the van into gear.

‘Cor, you’re good, mate,’ Johnno said and gave a soft whistle. ‘Or
maybe I don’t smell it any more. The gasometers of the town’s gas company are right next door to City Park, where we have monkeys.’

Luc wasn’t sure he’d heard right. He blinked expectantly at his friend. ‘As in apes?’

Johnno laughed. ‘Yeah, we all love ‘em. There’s ducks and swans on the ponds, too – the kiddies love feeding them. I’ll swing by the park.’

They passed a green oasis in the middle
of the city with manicured lawns and magnificent deciduous trees. Luc could see people stretched out on the grass, dozing, and mothers and children playing beneath the shade. He looked at Johnno incredulously.

‘Yes, I can hear the monkeys,’ he said, full of wonder.

‘Righto, off to The Quadrant and we’ll be done,’ Johnno said.

Luc discovered that The Quadrant was a street of small shops.

‘I’ve
got to call in to Becks,’ Johnno said, and Luc could see it was a providore with sawdust on the floors, just like in England. He nodded. ‘That’s Gourlay’s Sweet Shop there,’ Johnno pointed. ‘You might find some lollies in there for the little bloke when he wakes up.’

‘Good idea,’ Luc replied and gave his friend a half-salute.

Luc wandered into the confectioner’s and let his gaze roam
over the jars of sweets he recognised from England … acid drops, toffees, butterballs, even coconut brittle. But definitely some lollipops for Harry or Lisette would fuss that he’d choke on boiled sweets. He picked out three bright discs on sticks, asked for a small bag of jelly babies too and ordered a quarter of the brittle for Lisette – she loved coconut.

‘Back to the hotel, then,’ Johnno said,
and began to point out shops that Luc should know, including Duncan’s Shoes, impressing upon Luc that it possessed an X-ray machine for checking the right fitting.

‘You’re a good tour guide, Johnno – thanks.’ The young man flashed a grin. ‘Come on, I reckon your wife might be wondering where you are.’

They’d been in Launceston for several days, getting themselves acclimatised. Once Luc had the grid of the city clear in his mind, he realised just how small it was. Not much bigger than his local town of Apt, Provence, in the 1930s that he would visit two or three times a week to pick up provisions for his family.

Lisette had quickly charmed her way into
the hearts of the owner and staff of The Cornwall, and already a babysitter had been found for Harry.

‘Why would you leave him with a stranger?’

‘We’re not going to have this conversation again, Luc,’ she warned. ‘And she’s not a stranger; we’ve met a few times and become friendly. Everyone at the hotel knows her, too. I need just a couple of hours off, and besides, we have to find this plot of
land. We haven’t even begun looking and—’

He kissed her to stop her talking. This was not a time for arguing but for staying close and strong.

‘You’re right,’ he said when they pulled apart.

‘Let’s go the cinema tonight,’ Lisette suggested. ‘I’ve discovered there are four theatres. Come on, it’s Saturday. What do you feel like seeing? A Western? Oh no, wait – there’s
The African Queen
on at one, I’m sure. Say yes!’

‘Yes,’ he said and hugged her. ‘But right now I’m headed out to find some casual work – there’s probably a job going at one of the building sites.’

She frowned. ‘Luc, we’ve got enough money. The exchange rate is brilliant. In fact, it’s—’

He kissed her again, this time lingering on her lips. ‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘But a man needs to work … especially
in this country or I’ll be thought of as a ninny boy.’

‘Nancy boy,’ she corrected, amused. ‘Rest assured, there’s nothing nancy boy about you …’

‘Even so, I must work. They’ll hire me by the day. I can keep it flexible. We’ll start looking for farmland next week. By then, Harry will be more settled and hopefully we’ll have both stopped yawning by three in the afternoon.’

‘Fine, but don’t dawdle.
I’ll meet you outside the cinema at six-thirty. Here’s the address,’ she said, scribbling it down. ‘The show starts at seven.’

He pecked her cheek. ‘Stay in the shade,’ he said.

It turned out to be easy for Luc to find work. Being the weekend, the foreman was checking over the progress at the expansive building site where houses were going up rapidly and their framework of fresh timber scented
the air. One look at Luc’s youth and size and the foreman offered him a casual job as a builder’s mate from Monday morning. No tools required either, which made it straightforward.

‘You’ll work with the same team and wherever on this
site I send you. We start at just after dawn in summer,’ the foreman warned. ‘Be here for six a.m. sharp. I’ll need you all week.’

‘I’ll be here, Mr Cole.
Thank you.’

With a job tucked under his belt, flowers bought for Lisette in celebration and a new little toy car for Harry, he decided to mark his good day with a drink in the saloon of The Cornwall.

He was leaning against the bar, feeling conspicuous for not being part of the roar of other conversations, as thirsty men trooped in after a big sporting day. They’d been watching cricket, going by
their intense discussions; it was a game Luc had never understood or liked, even after years of living in Britain. For him cricket lacked action and went on for days without anything much happening.

But as the cricket season readied itself to slip into the hottest summer month of February, it heralded autumn not being far away, so these men also had football on their minds. The Cornwall Hotel
was the favoured watering hole for one of Launceston’s newest clubs. Lisette had always said Luc should adopt a football team in Britain to help him integrate but he never had.

However, even in the short time he’d spent in Launceston, he’d become intrigued by tales of Australia’s version of football. He’d watched a quarter of a preseason schoolboy exhibition match of this code called Australian
Rules and had decided there were no rules. He liked the free-flowing, athletic, rough-and-tumble nature of the game, and believed that ‘footy’, as the locals called it, might be one of his pathways into quickly embracing the Australian way of life.

The air conditioner thundered high above his head and
tassels of paper flew in its icy breeze, presumably so people could be sure the machine was on.
The varnished wood of the bar was worn in places and rings from beer glasses stained it white but he didn’t mind it; he rather liked knowing that working men had stood in this spot from decades previously and sipped their beers – some melancholy, some happy. What was he? He was shedding his skin, he was sure; sloughing off the bleak facade that had been his countenance for too long, and emerging
was a fresh man, full of anticipation and hope for the future.

Right now, however, he was learning how to like Australian beer. In Britain he’d never attuned his palate to ale or bitter. He’d prefer wine but could imagine just how well ordering that would go down in this bar. He stared at the beer glass and considered the near freezing amber liquid fizzing before him.

‘You hoping it’s
going to talk back to you, mate?’ an older man said, sidling up wearing a wry expression. He chuckled at his own jest and paid for a beer twice the size of Luc’s, which arrived with a rivulet of froth running down its side. The long bar towel soaked it up. ‘Thanks, Normie,’ he said to the barman. He had a prominent, wide nose, cluttered with red veins. His cheeks were equally ruddy and Luc could
see the imprint on the man’s white hair from where his hat had sat. ‘Maurice Field,’ the man said, his voice rasped. ‘Maurie, they call me.’

‘Luc Ravens,’ he replied, making sure he pronounced his name as ‘Luke’.

‘Cheers, mate,’ Maurie said and took a hungry draught from the glass and sank at least a third of its contents into his gullet.

Luc tipped his glass to Maurie, but could only manage a
single large mouthful.

His companion came up for air with a satisfied sigh. ‘So, you’re the frog,’ Maurie said, wiping his slightly bluish lips with the back of his hand.

Luc spluttered, coughing once as the beer caught in his throat.

‘Frog?’

Maurie laughed. ‘The strapping Frenchman we’ve heard about with the beautiful young English lass.’

Luc smiled. ‘I guess that’s me. Frog, you say?
Why?’

‘Well, don’t you lot eat them all the time?’

Ah. He laughed, genuinely amused. ‘
Grenouilles
,’ he murmured. ‘
Santé
, Maurie.’

‘Whatever you say.’ Maurie grinned as he saw Luc’s glass raised. ‘Down the hatch, mate.’ They sipped and another third of the man’s beer disappeared. He licked his lips. ‘So, you look pretty lost here all alone. Are you here for the hydro project?’

‘No. We’ve
migrated from England to start a new life.’

‘What’s wrong with the old one, then? Did you get up to mischief?’ Maurie winked.

Luc had heard before that Frenchmen were considered gigolos. He had become used to the banter with his fellow lighthouse keepers.

‘The war was hard on my wife,’ he said, deciding to be candid. He sensed Maurie would spread the word soon enough and he preferred people to
know the truth now. ‘She was a spy in France for Churchill.’

‘Get on with you,’ Maurie said, nudging him. ‘That little slip?’

He nodded, liking the sound of that phrase, which summed
up Lisette perfectly. ‘“That little slip” parachuted into France in the south and made her way up to Paris, crossing mountainous country in the winter for a lot of the way. It’s how we met. I was in the Resistance
… you know about us?’

‘I’ve heard some,’ Maurie said, draining his glass.

‘Let me get you another,’ Luc offered.

‘No, mate. Thanks and all that, but my liver’s shot and I’ve promised the missus that I’ll only have one a day,’ he said, nodding as he reached for his hat on the bar. ‘So, what’s a French freedom fighter and an English spy going to do out here in Launny?’

Luc shrugged. It
was put so baldly, sounded so far-fetched, even he wanted to scratch his head. ‘Well, I was a lavender grower once, in France.’

‘Go on. Really? I thought you were a bullfighter or something.’

He gusted a laugh. ‘They’re Spanish.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve never been anywhere. Too young for the Great War, too old for the second, but some of us had to stay at home and keep the place going, right?’ He didn’t
wait for Luc to reply. ‘A lavender grower, you say?’

‘I was. I hope to be again.’

‘Well, you’ve done your bit to keep the world safe. I lost my son in 1943. He’d be about your age. He should be here now, getting ready for the new footy season.’ Luc could feel Maurie’s pain, even though he spoke so matter-of-factly. ‘He was a good boy, our Davey. Keen to do his bit, like you.’ There was an awkward
pause while Maurie lost his thoughts to a dead son. Then he cleared his throat and fixed Luc with a firm stare. ‘I’m glad you made it, Luc, and I hope you do well here. Have you got any kids?’

‘A son. Harry. He’s still young.’

‘Well, you make sure you spend lots of time with your boy. Raise him as an Australian, support the Demons, learn to drink our beer and you’ll be fine.’ He chuckled.
‘Even though you want to grow flowers for a living.’

Luc grinned. ‘There’s money in it, if I get it right.’

‘Good on ya, lad. I hope you make Tassie famous for its lavender. You should be speaking to the folk over at Lilydale. North-east of here.’

‘Lilydale,’ Luc repeated, fixing the name in his mind. ‘Why?’

‘They grow and sell lavender at the markets. They grow lots of stuff but I’ve seen their
lavender – none better, in my humble opinion.’ He shrugged. ‘At least you know it grows here and they’d be able to give you some advice.’

Luc felt his heart begin to hammer.

‘How far away is Lilydale?’

‘Ooh, let me see now. About seventeen miles, give or take. There’s a train that runs from here to Scottsdale. It will pass through Nabowla, where the sawmills are. You can probably work out how
to get to Lilydale from there.’ He nodded at Luc. Held his hand out. ‘I’ll see you again, Ravens,’ he said and winked at him as he left.

Luc couldn’t wait to tell Lisette about Lilydale and she’d had to shoosh him so he wouldn’t talk through the movie. When he kissed her and a sleepy Harry goodbye early on Monday morning, he reminded her again to ask about land available around Lilydale.

‘Have
a good day, Luc … You’ll be all right,’ she’d said.

‘Of course. It’s just labouring work. I’ve done enough of that in my time.’

However, now that he was on the building site, he felt the tension like a hum of electricity. It was fine while he was working. They’d given him repetitive jobs and that suited him because he could work alone. But now it was a break. They called it ‘smoko’ and he was
trapped by the lack of activity and the inevitable attention he was sure was headed his way. Luc sat apart but deliberately not so far away as to entirely alienate himself, sipping on a mug of instant coffee, while everyone else seemed to prefer tea. He sighed inwardly that he’d come to another nation of tea drinkers and shocking coffee makers.

It didn’t take long before he was noticed.

‘Is Ravens your real name?’ one bloke asked.

Luc shrugged. ‘It’s the only one I have,’ he lied, wishing he didn’t have to.

Other men quietened to listen, dropping their heads slightly, cigarettes hanging between their knees.

‘Sounds German,’ the fellow continued.

A few raised their gazes to eye him more aggressively; they’d obviously been talking.

‘I’m French,’ he stated in an even tone, staring
at the block of a man who was leading the conversation. He wore dusty black shorts and a shirt cut off at the shoulder, so he looked to be wearing a vest. His arms were thick, roped with muscles and tattooed. The man’s skin, which hadn’t seen a razor in a few days, had turned leathery from years under the sun and was a muddy brown like the tea he was sipping from his thermos cup. The area was quiet
suddenly and the foreman was nowhere to be seen.

‘We’ve all lost family and mates to the fuckin’ Nazis,’ another man threw at him, as he flung down a cigarette butt.

‘Nazi?’ Luc gave a scornful laugh. ‘I was born and raised in southern France,’ Luc replied, as evenly as he could. It had to be 90 degrees Fahrenheit today. He was sweltering but he knew this heat – it was like a Provence summer.
He began undoing his shirt like the other blokes had. ‘I moved with the French Resistance and helped Allied spies to cross over the mountains out of danger, or on their missions. My job was to keep the British in particular safe. I’m no Nazi.’

He stood, disgusted; knew he should walk away before any hint of his true background came out.

It seemed his companions weren’t ready to let him
off the hook, though. ‘We hear the French were cowards … collaborators,’ someone else said and fresh murmurs erupted.

That hurt. Luc decided they might as well get this over with. He schooled his features to betray no anger and ensured his voice sounded light, calm even, though he could feel his pulse pounding at his temple.

‘Yes, some were collaborators,’ he admitted, glad that Lisette had made
him work so hard with his English. ‘Most weren’t. And of those who weren’t, all were brave, doing what they could to defy the enemy every chance they found. And many French women and children died being brave, defying the enemy.’ Despite his best intentions his ire was up now and even though he tried to bite back the words, out they flew. ‘Your women and children stayed at home, safe. You forget,
we were occupied. We starved, we had to work for the Germans – leaving our homes to live in Germany as slave labour. French nationals even had to fight for the Germans in Russia.’

‘Australians fought and died for you lot too,’ a new voice growled.

‘They did. But I didn’t call any of you cowards. I just want you to understand that a lot of good, honest and loyal French died trying to
defend the Allied push. I lost everyone in my family to the Nazis – grandmother, both parents, three sisters. The youngest was fourteen. She was gassed in one of their concentration camps. Fourteen!’ His voice nearly broke on the number, but still he wouldn’t quit. ‘Here you all are – good mates, as you call yourselves. Well, I lost my closest friends to Gestapo. I watched one of them marched out
to a public square to hold his head high and still shout defiances at his torturers before they shot him at close range. No trial, just a bullet. My other oldest friend, who held me when I was born, was tortured by Gestapo until he could do little more than beg for the bullet that I gladly delivered to finish his suffering. If I’d had another bullet in that pistol, I’d have shot the smiling bastard
who gave me the option of shooting my friend to save him more pain, or walking away and leaving him to more torture.’