The Lavender Keeper (4 page)

Luc’s footsteps resounded on the cobbles of Saignon and he waved to the priest emerging from the church as he strode down the street-lit lane. He had a perfect view of the Bonet home ahead, an imposing triple-storeyed building that sat directly behind the central fountain.

The house was cloaked by evening now, but of an afternoon its pale ochre colour glowed warmly beneath the summer sun and the greyish blue of its shutters and window boxes made a typically bold Provençal contrast. Perhaps he took its simple, exquisite prettiness for granted. And it was only on the rare times he’d been taken to Paris that he’d seen how very lacking in colour a big city was; how lacking it was in the purples and pinks, greens and yellows, oranges and blues of Provence.

To Luc, the Luberon was like a laughing country girl with generous hips, loose hair and the scent of a garden, wearing a colourful dress and a blush at her cheeks. Meanwhile, Paris – oh, Paris was a chic woman with a slightly bemused expression,
slim-hipped with perfectly cut clothes in conservative dark grey. But she was coquettish – her grand boulevards lined with plane trees, her fabulous gardens and daring monuments, her romantic street lamps. Oh, yes, Paris was more than capable of being playful, yet her demeanour never anything less than graceful. He loved both these women and it hurt his heart to hear that Paris was now draped in huge swastika flags; that those same romantic streetlights were extinguished, and that Adolf Hitler was dressing her in a fearful red and black … the colours of carnage.

Luc was so preoccupied that he nearly walked into the baker. ‘
Pardon
, Monsieur Fougasse. Forgive me. I was dreaming.’

The grizzled-looking man shrugged beneath a flour sack on his shoulder. ‘We all need dreams, Bonet.’ His voice was surprisingly gentle. Fougasse was a solitary figure. His wife had died early in their marriage and they had been childless. Several of the village women had tried to catch Fougasse’s eye but he kept to himself. He certainly worked hard, baking for many of the villages that didn’t have their own boulangerie.

‘You’re working late,
monsieur
,’ Luc remarked.

‘There are always people to bake for.’ Fougasse gave a typical Gallic shrug. ‘Someone has to make sure the children get their morning
tartines
.’

‘I might reserve a few of whatever treats you bake tomorrow … My sisters are home; they need fattening up.’

‘I noticed. They will need more than cake to cope with what they may have seen; there are bad reports coming through from Paris.’

‘Reports?’

Fougasse gave him an unflinching look.

How could Fougasse, a baker in the isolated alpine region
of southern France, know anything about what was happening in the capital?

The baker turned back into his shop. ‘
Bonne nuit
, Bonet. My best regards to your family. I will cook some treats just for your sisters. Take care of yourself.’

Luc was bemused. ‘
Bonne nuit
, Monsieur Fougasse.’ He nodded with a smile but the baker had already disappeared.

Luc continued down the lane, his mind a tangle of warring thoughts and sorrow. Today had been the most unpleasant of his life, but his father was clearly counting on him to carry on. He could see Jacob and Wolf ahead.

Shutters were open on the houses flanking the lane, the residents hoping to catch any vague breeze, but they would have to be closed soon. Hot or not, curfews meant no light must escape the village after ten. Luc caught snatches of conversation, grumbles, laughter, children’s voices and the sound of Madame Theroux’s new baby whimpering. The
milice
had come through and confiscated wireless sets several months earlier, so the familiar sound of the radio could rarely be heard these days. Luc had been working late in the field when the
milice
had swooped, but even so he’d found it hard to take the threat seriously. The
milice
were French, like them, and no one felt any fear of their own people.

But these French were in league with the country’s Nazi overlords. Waving government papers and bullying the seemingly timid villagers, the police had collected wireless sets from everyone, regardless of wealth or position. The villagers, keen to avoid trouble, dutifully handed theirs over.

However, like a couple of other wily families, Luc’s grandmother had seen fit to hide their good set in the cellar, and with eyes lowered, gnarled hands trembling, she had
offered up their old, crackly wireless on a wheelbarrow. Since that time, Luc and his grandmother regularly tuned in to the BBC. The height of the Luberon gave them a clear signal to hear the dulcet tones that only Luc understood. And while he was not as confident in English as he was in German, Luc could translate well enough, whispering the gist of what he heard to his saba, who hung on his every word. Luc would sit on the floor, liking the earthy smell of where they kept their preserves and some of the fruit and root veg they grew. Saba would put her hand on his strong shoulder and they’d sit like that – connected – and listen to the curious
messages personnels
, both of them delighting in some of the odd French phrases and sayings that were clearly coded messages.

Together they had shared the rousing broadcast from London by the exiled French former war minister, Charles de Gaulle, urging the French to stay strong, to resist the Germans in any way. ‘France is not alone,’ he had declared, and then the call – ‘
Vive la France!
’ – had resounded in Luc’s ears long after the broadcast had ended.

So far, however, Saignon had been mostly left alone by the
milice
and the Germans. Life carried on much as it always had, with farmers permitted to remain on the land to help the German war effort.

Saignon was fortunate in what it produced: cherries in spring that France devoured; lavender in summer that Europe’s perfumers couldn’t get enough of; grapes harvested in autumn for the wine that certainly kept the Germans happy; and in winter … true gold in the shape of olives that would produce the precious and famed oil of the region. Most families would rather give up their wine to the Germans in war tithes rather than their olive oil.

The swallows had gone to their roost for the evening. Their frantic activity had given way to the music of a Provençal summer evening – the chirrup of cicadas. Luc sighed as he glanced up towards the glowing moon in a purplish sky. An ignorant man would imagine all was well in the world.

As Luc entered the square he was reassured to see a few men drinking quietly in the bar after a long day in the field. While life on the surface of Saignon ticked along since the advent of war, sadly nearly half of the village’s men were now prisoners of war. Defeat had been so unexpected for France and came so swiftly, as the German war machine ignored the Maginot Line and swept brashly through the Low Countries in 1940, catching hundreds of thousands of French soldiers unaware.

In the chaos of the Occupation some of the men had managed to escape and return to their families. They were already back in their farming routines, rising at five to tend to animals, even earlier in summer. There was, however, talk of conscription, and their freedom might be short-lived. The Vichy government was soon to introduce
la relève
, asking the men of the Free Zone to volunteer their services to work in Germany. Although it was draped in the notion of being voluntary, there was no doubt it would fast become compulsory. For every fit Frenchman who volunteered, three French prisoners of war would be released. Laval was selling his concept hard, using guilt to coerce men to leave their homes and do the right thing for their fellow men.

Luc knew families would be torn apart as a result of Laval’s scheme. And he hated the French police and the
milice
that was complicit in the blackmail. They both might as well have worn swastikas on their uniforms. No, he would do nothing
to advance the German war effort – even though he knew some of the villagers were probably talking behind his back; he was young, fit, unmarried. He was the perfect choice to do two years’ work in Germany if pressed, but he was beginning to realise that the Germans wanted no man with a Jewish surname entering their borders.

After his two years’ military service he’d avoided conscription because he was considered a primary producer of a valued crop that made France wealthy.

Lavender was the key base ingredient for the flourishing perfume market. America would gladly take all of what Luc could produce in essential oil, but he chose to sell most of it to the perfumers at Grasse, north-west of Provence. They paid the premium for the true lavender
fin
, harvested by hand over just a few weeks when the flowers were at their optimum to yield a smooth, almost sleepy bouquet that would amplify other floral oils.

And it was not only the French who needed Luc; the Germans wanted lavender farmers producing plentifully for the plant’s antiseptic properties. They couldn’t get enough of it to the front lines, where wounded men were in dire need of the oil’s magic.

Luc nodded and smiled as he passed the men, a few of whom called out to give his parents their respects. Word had travelled fast that the Bonets had returned.

Marcel approached, a lanky, dark-headed man with an earnest look. ‘I hear Rachel is back … and the whole family,’ he said casually.

Luc flicked at Marcel’s shoulder with the stalks of lavender. ‘I’ll let her know you asked after her.’

Marcel would be a good match for Rachel. She would not have to work; she would be well cared for and, war permitting, would
be able to fulfil her dreams of writing or music, if not teaching.

Marcel slapped Luc’s back in return as he walked on. ‘I’d appreciate that, Bonet.’

Luc didn’t look back but simply lifted a hand. By the time he reached the house, Jacob and Wolf had already gone inside, satisfied. He was still rattled – the secret of his birth felt too overwhelming to consider all at once – but was glad he’d had some time to calm down. Now he had to hold himself together. For his father’s sake.

In the family house, the mouth-watering smell of chicken stew enveloped Luc like a comforting blanket as he entered through the back door, straight into the parlour. Saba liked her family to eat at the scrubbed pine table, often decorated with a simple vase of flowers. However, this evening the pine table was laid with their fine linen, and even finer crockery.

Golda looked small and spent. He kissed her and lingered with a reassuring hug. He winked at his two elder sisters but there was no response. They were both withdrawn. He could only imagine what they had seen in Paris. He winced at the yellow stars he noticed were dutifully sewn onto the sleeves of their jackets that hung on the wall hooks.

Sarah was serving wine but her gaze had followed his. Now their eyes met. She shook her head as if to warn him to not mention the yellow stars.

‘I thought you were never coming!’ Gitel exclaimed. ‘It’s so good to be home.’ She flung her tiny frame into his arms, squeezing him hard.

‘Hungry?’ he threw at her with a grin.

‘Ravenous,’ she admitted, and he could believe it. No nine-year-old should feel like a sack of bones, he thought.

‘Coming, coming,’ their grandmother replied from the stove.
‘Help your sisters, Gitel. Your father’s water glass needs topping up.’

Luc went to the kitchen. Ida looked smaller than ever as she hovered over her pot.

‘Ah, the
lavande
. Thank you. We need its magic to improve your parents’ humour. I shall burn some tonight to ward off evil.’

‘Magic,’ he repeated in an ironic tone. ‘Prayer not enough?’

‘Don’t mock me, child.’ She shook the stalks. ‘If not for this, they’d be demanding you go and join all the other fools in Germany.’

‘Those other fools don’t have much choice. But if I were to go, I’d have a whole country of new, very blonde women to—’

She glared and stopped him saying any more, pulling the flowers off the stalks before inhaling their fragrance and tossing them into her simmering stew. ‘I pray for all our young men, believe me. Ah, can you smell that?’

He bent over and sniffed the steam rising from her pot. ‘Wonderful.’ It was her rich, creamy chicken stew – everyone’s favourite – flavoured with garlic and herbs from the garden, her homemade mustard, and enriched with a few dollops of cream from Monsieur Benoit’s cow. He knew no other person who used lavender in their cooking.

‘Always keep the lavender safe and it will keep you safe, my beloved boy,’ she muttered.

He turned and went back to the parlour, smiling softly at her faith in his flowers.

‘Marcel asked me to say hello to you,’ he whispered to Rachel. ‘You know he’s in love with you.’

She pushed him away affectionately but he could see her genuine pleasure. Nonetheless, the family was struggling to embrace the happiness of the moment. Luc looked around at
the long faces and, setting aside his own worries, he leapt to the old gramophone. On a rare visit into Marseille the previous winter he’d paid a small fortune for it on the black market but not regretted a franc. He didn’t understand what ‘Begin the Beguine’ meant, but he didn’t care. The music transported him.

‘Dance with me, Rachel,’ he said, daring her to have fun.

‘What?’ she said, taken aback. She was the prettiest of his sisters, normally vivacious with a laugh that could set an entire room of people off. Rachel only ever saw the good in people. It made her current mood seem all the more devastating for Luc. But he would tolerate no sadness tonight – not here, not in this house, not even in himself. He would lead the way out of the gloom.

Luc dropped the needle onto the vinyl and the velvety sound of the clarinet announced the start. He clicked his fingers and bobbed his head in time with the mellow brass section. Then he turned with a cheeky look to Rachel.

‘Luc,’ Rachel warned, but he was already weaving a dance step back towards her. Gitel clapped and giggled while Ida began swaying and humming by her stove. Jacob watched intently.

Luc opened his arms, beamed at Rachel and allowed the music to carry him away on its happy notes. Right now all that mattered was Artie Shaw’s swing sound and seeing Rachel laugh, watching Sarah’s big dark eyes glitter again. Even Golda seemed to have lifted herself out of her curious stupor, as though the music had finally awoken her. A tremulous smile crept onto his mother’s face as Rachel laughed.