Page 31 of The French Wife

‘During the occupation, Grand-maman had an officer lodging here with her. He seemed a polite, kind man, but she hated him with all her heart.’

‘Did you know him yourself?’ Emma asked.

‘Not really. Grand-maman wouldn’t let me speak to him. He lived in a room above the barn. It’s behind the house, across the little courtyard.’ She gestured behind Emma to the window. ‘It meant he could come and go along the side alley without coming through the house. Grand-maman preferred it that way.’

Emma turned and looked through the window behind her at a little courtyard, where a rampant vine grew up the stone walls. There was an archway on one side, and directly behind the window stood a barn, with a flight of stone steps leading to a door on an upper floor. It was strange to think a German officer had once lived there in such a pretty spot.

‘And did you know anything about Le Châtaignier in those days?’ Emma asked.

‘A little. My mother used to go up there grape picking during the war,’ Madame Brodin said. ‘She didn’t like it much, though. The farmer, Bruno Garnier, was a difficult man. A hard taskmaster. He had all sorts living up there to work on the farm in those days.’

‘All sorts?’

The old lady drew herself up and tucked in her chin. ‘Foreigners mostly, people without papers, I wouldn’t be surprised. Jews, some of them.’

‘Did you ever go to the farm yourself?’ Emma asked.

‘Once or twice. To help Maman. The farmer didn’t like children working for him, though. He soon put a stop to it.’

Emma smiled inwardly; this discussion was proving far more fruitful than she’d dared to hope. She decided to press on.

‘Did you ever meet someone called Étienne Moreau at the farm?’

‘Old Étienne? Of course. Everyone in St Marie knows him. His father used to work up at Le Châtaignier and Étienne used to go up there too. Sometimes he worked, sometimes he just hung about. He was fifteen or sixteen at the beginning of the occupation. A few years older than me.’

‘I met him the other day,’ Emma told her. ‘He still seems to hang about at the farm, but I have no idea why. I found him in one of the barns. He seemed very confused.’

‘That sounds like Étienne,’ Madame Brodin said, shaking her head.

‘Did you know Madame Garnier? Amélie?’ Emma asked. ‘I have a photograph of her. At least I think it was her. It might jog your memory.’ She took the faded photograph of the young woman with dark hair and sad eyes out of her bag and held it out for Madame Brodin to take.

Madame Brodin produced some glasses from her pocket and put them on. Then she took the photograph from Emma and peered at it long and hard. Emma watched the old lady’s face, and a look of discomfort entered her eyes, followed by something stronger. Was it dislike? No, Emma realised, it was disapproval.

‘That’s Amélie Garnier alright,’ she said drily, handing the photograph back to Emma. ‘She was an attractive woman, I’ll give her that.’

‘I take it you didn’t like her?’ Emma asked.

Madame Brodin turned to look at Emma and leaned forward. ‘Nobody liked her, my dear. Nobody at all. And she only had herself to blame for that.’

‘What do you mean?’ Emma asked, intrigued by the woman’s vehement reaction.

‘I can’t say,’ she said, drawing back and stiffening. ‘I’d prefer not to talk about it. It was a long time ago and she’s long gone.’

‘Can’t you tell me what happened to her? Why nobody liked her?’

Madame Brodin stood up. ‘People in this town have long memories, and nobody has forgotten Amélie Garnier and what she did back then. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.’

Emma took another quick sip of coffee and got to her feet.

Madame Brodin ushered her to the door. As she opened it, she said, ‘It’s been difficult to answer your questions, Madame Hudson. I don’t like thinking back to those times, I’m afraid, it makes me too depressed. I haven’t talked about the war for a very long time, and I’d like to forget about it again.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ Emma said, wishing the old lady hadn’t suddenly clammed up. ‘It must be hard remembering such a difficult time. I am very grateful for what you’ve told me.’

The old woman gripped her hand. ‘If you want to know what happened to Bruno Garnier, you should pay a visit to the churchyard. It’s not far from here – over the weir, which is a little way along this road beside the river on the way out of town.’

‘But what happened to Amélie?’ Emma asked, mystified. ‘Is she not buried there too?’

Madame Garnier shook her head. ‘Nobody knew what happened to her.’