Page 71 of The French Wife

‘That’s La Tramontane,’ Gaston had told her, securing the windbreak with guy ropes and tent pegs. ‘It blows a lot along this coast. We’re used to it, aren’t we, Charlotte?’

‘Yes, it’s fun!’ Charlotte beamed, holding her sun hat in place with both hands.

Emma saw this must be a beach for locals as everyone else had come prepared, like Gaston, with tent pegs to hold down sunshades, and rocks to anchor towels to the sand. She huddled behind the windbreak but soon got used to the constant battering of the wind. It was bracing after the hot, still air of St Marie, and it was good to smell the fresh, salty, sea breezes too.

They swam in the sea, Charlotte taking great delight in splashing them both. When the girl got tired and Gaston took her back to the beach to dry off, Emma lay on her back and let the waves take her weight, staring up at the deep-blue sky. For the first time in she didn’t know how long, she felt completely relaxed and – dare she say it – happy.

That Monday morning, after Gaston arrived with his truck and they’d enjoyed coffee together, she had telephoned the notaire in Carcassonne.

‘Ah, Madame Hudson. I’ve done some digging about the previous occupants of Le Châtaignier. I just haven’t had a moment to write to you, I’m afraid,’ he’d said.

‘I was wondering if you’ve found any information about Amélie Garnier’s death?’ she asked. ‘Only I’ve heard some odd rumours about her…’

‘Strange you should ask,’ he said. ‘When the farm was repossessed by the state in the 1960s, there was no death certificate available for Madame Garnier. There were sworn statements that she hadn’t been seen for many years from several of the locals – the doctor, the mayor, the prefect and so on – so in the end a decree was accepted that she was presumed to have died.’

‘So, no death certificate then?’

‘No, no. As I said, a presumption of death was made instead.’

Emma had puzzled over those words ever since she’d put the phone down, wondering what this information could possibly mean. Had Amélie disappeared? Could she even be alive still? She sighed. The secrets of Le Châtaignier seemed to become more elusive the harder she tried to get to the bottom of them. Perhaps Madame Vernay would be able to shed some light on what had happened to Amélie.

A clock struck eleven as Emma walked down the street towards the boulangerie. She was exactly on time. Feeling nervous all of a sudden, she rang the bell beside the apartment door and waited. A few seconds later she heard the rattle of bolts being pulled back and then the door opened.

‘Madame Vernay?’

The old lady holding the door open for Emma couldn’t have looked more different from Madame Brodin. She was about the same age, perhaps a little older even, but where Madame Brodin always wore black, this lady was dressed in a colourful skirt and a red blouse. Her grey hair was neatly waved, and her lipstick matched her shirt. Behind her glasses, her dark eyes were smiling.

‘Madame Hudson, my granddaughter, Annette, told me you wanted to talk to me. Come in, come in.’

Emma stepped inside the passage and they shook hands.

‘It’s always a pleasure to meet new people. I hear you’ve bought Le Châtaignier?’

‘Yes. I’ve been there a few weeks now. I’m doing the place up gradually,’ she said. ‘With the help of Gaston Marchand. He sends his regards, by the way.’

‘Oh, Gaston. Such a lovely boy! I remember him from when he was quite small. Always so polite when he came into the shop. Come on up to the apartment. Would you like coffee? I have some brewed ready.’

‘I’d love some, thank you.’

She followed Madame Vernay up the stairs, noticing how sprightly the old lady was. She had to be in her late eighties, but moved as if she was decades younger.

The apartment was bright and colourful, like its owner, with pot plants dotted about, modern art on the walls and bright scatter cushions.

‘Do sit down.’ Madame Vernay gestured to a comfortable-looking settee where a huge tabby cat was curled up and Emma sank into it beside the cat, who barely stirred. ‘Now, do you take your coffee white?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘That’s no problem. I always buy milk for the cat. Would you like a pastry too? They always bring me up a selection from the shop. I have tarte Tatin today.’

‘I’d love one, please,’ Emma said. She wasn’t hungry, but she didn’t want to offend Madame Vernay.

The old lady brought the coffee and slices of tarte Tatin to the coffee table in front of Emma, then sat down opposite her. She came straight to the point.

‘I understand you want to know about Le Châtaignier during the war.’

‘I do. I’ve found out little bits of information about Amélie and Bruno Garnier, but I don’t have the whole picture. I understand from Madame Bertrand that you stayed there for a time during the war?’

‘I did. Amélie took me there. She tried to warn us in advance, but my parents were arrested during a round-up by the SS. I managed to hide.’ She glanced at the ceiling. ‘Up there, actually. Amélie found me and took me back to the farm. They were sheltering other Jews there too. A couple of families. Bruno wasn’t best pleased when I turned up, but he came round when he realised I could help with the cooking and cleaning.’