Gwennie's Girl Read online

  So, when the king had ridden away from his beloved valley, the people quietly set to work. They took the white stones of the castle and dragged them down the hill. It was hard work and it was sad work. But they did it. They took the stones of the castle and built themselves a strong, safe little village of stone homes that rested just under the brow of the hill. They called it St Hiliaire because Hiliaire was the name of the little princess.

  And a story came back to the villagers from a traveller who had met a man who said he was once a king. The man said the traveller should tell the villagers that the king had seen a tiny golden bird living happily in a nest under an archway of the beautiful Port du Gard.

  Richard’s voice stopped. No one moved or spoke. Lizzie felt the sun on her face and the breeze on her skin. She breathed in deeply and stretched her arms wide in the fragrant air. Every muscle in her body seemed to relax. It was good to be alive. ‘Time to move on,’ said Richard.

  That had really been a beautiful weekend, thought Lizzie as she stood on the terrace in a winter’s night. They had swum in the River Gardon and baked like lizards on the rocks. They had been to the Saturday morning market at Uzes where the stalls wind around little alleys and under arches. There were sections for the riotous colour of Provencal cloth, lavender and baskets.

  There were sections for food. How they ate and drank that weekend! Gleaming black olives and melting creamy cheeses by the river. Huge dishes of paella in a leafy courtyard for Sunday lunch. Sun filled wine on the terrace. She had joined in a boule tournament in the village-square, tossing the heavy metal balls so that they landed with a dusty plop. Her limited French didn’t allow her to follow all the conversation but it was sufficient to understand the teasing, the mock horror when she, the foreign woman, managed a particularly good throw (amazing—she always had been hopeless at any sort of ball game).

  And she had made a new friend. She had apologised, mentally, to Richard for having been a bitch, and now she enjoyed his company. In the van on the way home, she had written her impression of his village and Bill set it in a frame. They had given it to Richard for his birthday.

  Soft sleeping

  on a terrace

  in the sky,

  waking briefly

  to respond

  to the fingers of Mistral

  crisp on my cheeks

  and to smile

  at the Northern scatter of stars.

  No fear here.

  Morning announced

  by the smiles

  drawn by swallows arcing the cloudless blue.

  Eyes dropping to Geranium,

  her pungency,

  flirting

  with the warm smells

  of croissants

  and orange-brewed tea.

  Perhaps this is peace.

  A blue door opening

  as a friend

  walks across from her roof.

  Another voice calling

  from the kitchen.

  The Pont du Gard

  bridging two curves

  of my sky line

  (A princess once said,

  ‘If I were a bird I’d live here’)

  and my feet touching coolness

  of tiles

  baked of red, red earth

  that Romans trod.

  No fighting here.

  The market,

  A kaleidoscopic sweetness

  assaulting my senses,

  archways

  and tiny, stone streets

  rioting with colour,

  sounds and smells

  of fruit and flowers,

  honey and herbs,

  clanging and calling,

  of pots and cloths,

  and people and people

  and people.

  Perhaps I am safe.

  Basking like a lizard

  on a stone.

  By a river of wine-bottle green

  that is cool

  in a canyon

  whose arms

  capture the heat

  of a golden day

  and hold it

  for me

  to luxuriate.

  There is strength—but I am not afraid.

  Eating paella

  and drinking golden wine

  that tastes of old courtyards

  and green vines

  and sun

  under a tree

  with new-born leaves

  within mellow walls,

  propping terracotta pots

  full of red, pink, orange and

  blue.

  Perhaps, I could risk here.

  Listening to a legend

  told by a man

  in love with the story

  of a sad princess

  and golden birds

  who died

  in a mountain castle

  whose monumental blocks

  we skirt

  as we crush the thyme

  that grows

  to sweeten

  the loss for a village.

  There is healing here.

  Laughing

  Talking with friends

  New people, new images

  And

  although

  I still need

  sometimes

  to wrap myself up

  in my blanket of silence

  I let myself

  dream

  that, perhaps,

  one day

  I shall dream again.

  She had returned to St Hiliaire for several more visits, and always she came back refreshed and relaxed. Funnily, she always had that sense of something strange, different—she couldn’t really explain it to herself. It was something about a sense of time, almost as if the times of other people’s lives from other periods of time, overlapped in St Hiliaire. No one had ever spoken to her about the recent history of the village so she had no idea what had happened during the wars, whether there had been resistance or collaborators or anything.

  Yet, one evening as she strolled through a narrow laneway, she had a strong awareness of a man, rather burly and with sleeves rolled up, coming to stand in the doorway of his house—she knew it was his house—and he was looking out casually. There was a sudden noise, and the man was shot and fell to the ground with blood on his shirt. She couldn’t actually say she saw it. She just knew from some distance it had happened. She sure as hell didn’t tell anyone because they would really think she had lost it! She had absolutely no reason to believe she had what Nanna called “the sight” so she could only shrug and assume it was something about the atmosphere and her over active imagination.

  The really strange thing was that she suspected the stonemason mayor was somehow “in the know”. It was probably just the famous French male way of looking at a woman, of really looking as if he knew what she were thinking, of looking as if he recognised her from somewhere else. Even more probable, of course, was that her little middle-aged libido and latent lasciviousness were springing back into life. Get a hold of yourself, woman. But there was always some special smile at the back of his eyes and he always seemed to be enjoying some special joke with her.

  And what about the clock tower?

  Get a grasp, Lizzie. There was nothing about the clock tower. You drove past it and saw a group of teenage boys sitting and lounging around the tower. You drove around the small block, realised you were heading the wrong way, circled back about two minutes later and instead of the kids there were old men. In exactly the same position and attitudes. You think. How could you know that? They probably kicked the kids off because the “olds” wanted to talk there. And the stone mason mayor throwing back his head and laughing at the look on your face? Well, you probably looked like a dork.

  Yet, there was something about that village. And it was something good. Lizzie had exhaled and begun to heal.

  Healing

  Yes. St Hiliaire had been part of the healing as Lizzie had actually accepted that there were some things she couldn’t un
derstand and couldn’t control—and it was still OK. You know, Lizzie, if the creeping cancer doesn’t leap out and gobble you up and you do live to be a hundred and ten, you’ll—maybe—have this living routine licked. Maybe. Go to bed, Lizzie. You have to work tomorrow.

  In her nighttime ritual, she stepped out onto the tiny balcony into the silver cold of winter in Geneva. It was after midnight so the lights had gone out on St Pierre but she knew that in the darkness there was still the bronze timelessness of its spire on the hill of the Old Town. The houses at the base of the Saleve had settled into the sleep of glowing embers and, perhaps, up on the Jura snow would be falling. It was real and beautiful, and Lizzie, the summertime girl and sun worshipper loved the crystalline Swiss winter too. Odd that she, who loved the coast and the sea so much had also discovered this love of snow—and, strangest of all, she had loved the wide expanses and the light of the desert.

  She had spent time in the desert of Tunisia soon after she settled in Geneva. As her plane came in for landing, she had looked out over that other foreign desert landscape. The colours were so soft. The land was so hard. Creams. Pinks. Faded greens. All ice cream colours under a wash of dusty brown. In the town, the men were elegant reflections of the land with their gelibayas, the same clear colours with edgings of dust. It was the light. She found she loved the light of desert countries as much as loved the light of the ocean. Here, there was a luminosity that belied the dust that reminded her of coral reefs, the colours, the shapes, but most of all the toughness. There was the same endurance of coral that knew and understood about time taken to build and grow. The intricate shapes, the spirals and whorls of the underwater lattice could cut and hurt. It was beautiful but difficult to penetrate. It had conquered its environment and whole communities lived in it. But those who are not of the coral community, keep your distance. Rub your flesh on those seemingly fragile buttresses and you will bleed.

  The conference had lasted five days. Bloody hell these bureaucrats could talk. And talk. And talk. And talk. Lots of Emperors in lots of new clothes and no honest child to yell, ‘Hey, that Emperor’s in the nuddy!’

  She had seen nothing of that town and didn’t care because every spare minute was spent writing her story and her report so that when the conference was finished, so was the bulk of her work. A few hours to complete it, a few hours’ sleep and she was free to go where she wanted, when she wanted, if she wanted, as she wanted. She revelled in the sheer delight of it. Sure, Raoul Macin’s words reminded her, ‘Don’t forget that freedom has a price. Bitter herbs and unleavened bread. That is the price.’ Sobering words but then the joy of the lines, ’But also don’t forget,

  It’s a price worth paying.’ Oh yes, it was worth paying. The herbs really had been bitter and there was still a sour after-taste at times, but it was definitely a price worth paying.

  She took a bus to Hammamet, a tourist spot on the coast, planning to stay in a hotel a day or two and pamper herself with sun, sea, sky and solitude. Then she would decide what to do with rest of her days here. L’Hotel des Oranges was a study of white on white with white stone walls and white clear marble floors where the light from the sea shimmered in through the lattice and slipped along the hallways and corridors.

  Her room looked out across a narrow garden to golden sand that sprouted slinky fringed shelters of the some colour. Then there was the sea. She let out a long sigh and felt her body begin to relax. Already she could feel that sense of total release that came when she was hot in the sun near the sea. Of all things, that was the cure for her when she was tense. The only thing that came close was walking in the wind along a coast with battering surf. But this, this sun and sea just melted her and let her mind and spirit drift free.

  She went straight to the beach. Let the meltdown begin! For the next six hours, she did not have one thought. Instinct took her from sand to water, occasionally into the shade. It reminded her to slap on more lotion. Slip. Slop. Slap. The Aussie theme for summer. Slip on a shirt. Slop on some sunscreen. Slap on a hat. Thinking about it, there might be some justice if she had had skin cancer after all her youth spent as a lizard. Sometimes, cancer, I think you have a warped sense of humour.

  When the sun finally dropped lazily over the rim of the world and the sand began its transition from gold to silver, she gathered herself and went back to her room. Oh, the bliss of a long wallow in the bathtub and the feel of icy green moisturiser soaking into her skin. She felt that tingle that was both hot and cold simultaneously, and her body remembered lots of summers gone.

  By now, the moon was rising and creating a gleaming path from the deep, deep blue of the evening sky to the pearly sheen of the sand. She dressed and wandered down to the dining room. This was crowded, garish and not at all in tune with her mood but outside there was a terrace. That’s where she wanted to eat. The maître had led her to a little table inside. She had smiled—be honest—she had simpered and looked longingly at the terrace. He had preened and gone to look. Really, sometimes she understood why women did this routine so often—it actually worked.

  Well, almost. He returned looking downcast and spreading his hands—in despair, if Lizzie were to believe his expression. All tables were taken. Unless…unless she were prepared to share with a gentleman who was also alone? He pointed to the table. It was right on the edge of the terrace, close to the flowering vines and with an uninterrupted view of the night. The gentleman had his back to her. Well…if the gentleman did not mind? A big smile. No, the gentleman had already agreed. Why not? She followed the maître out into the warm coolness of the terrace.

  The gentleman went to stand.

  ‘No, No. Please don’t. Are you sure you don’t mind if I join you? I should much rather not have to eat in that noisy room.’

  He smiled. ‘You are most welcome. It shall be my pleasure to dine with you.’

  Oh, she knew that gentle courtesy. She had never seen him before but she knew that golden skin, pearl smile and those eyes that were the velvet of the evening. There was a brief moment of panic. Steady, Lizzie, steady. No play-acting now. This is grown up land remember. Keep it ordinary.

  She did.

  She kept the conversation light and made sure she asked most of the questions. It was a little disconcerting that he had a smile that seemed to know what she was doing. She guessed he was about mid-thirties, and he said he was not married. This was brought out very casually of course as he talked about his family and his life. He lived in France, but his brothers and their wives still lived in Tunisia. He was staying at the hotel for a couple of days only because he needed a respite between work and doing the rounds of the families. He was charming and a lively, comfortable companion, and when she finished her meal—it had been a long meal—she said goodnight and left him to have his cigarette. Once back in the room, she sat on the balcony and wondered were all Arabs charming or was she just destined to meet the charmers? Memories stirred. She went to bed.

  Go to sleep, Lizzie. Just go to sleep.

  The next morning, she walked along the beach, paddling at the water’s edge and letting her cotton wrap get wet and cling about her ankles. Then she saw a splendid sight. Huge, silken, glorious coloured parachutes were floating over the sea, attached by long ropes to speed boats and with harnesses to carry people into the air. Lizzie stood and watched. That must really be something, to fly under those domes of brilliance up, up, up into the sky. As she watched, a man was put into a harness; and immediately, the boat sped away, and he soared above them, out to sea. After a while, he was headed for the shore, the little boat turned and as it slowed, he dropped, between umbrellas, to land laughing on the sand. Other men raced to undo the straps and there he was, an ordinary mortal again.

  She walked on slowly. Suddenly, the man was speaking to her, ‘Have a try! You’ll love it!’

  ‘No. No. I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not? Come on. It’s easy. I’ll show you.’

  Sheer horror took over. ‘No honestly. Thank you. It looks
wonderful but no. No. Honestly. I couldn’t!’

  Lizzie laughed half-heartedly and walked on as quickly as she could. But the question hung in the air like one of those comic strip blimps. Why not? Why not? Because she was a coward, that was why not. Because she was a middle-aged woman who just didn’t do that sort of thing, that’s why not. But really, why not? If the opportunity ever came again, she probably would not be middle-aged. She probably would be old. Or dead. Well, if she were dead the opportunity wouldn’t come again. Would it, smart-arse? Who are you convincing? Would you like to fly? Would you like to know how it feels to float like that up into the blueness? You silly bitch, of course you would. So have a go! You’re dead a long time, remember? Do you never want to know how it feels?

  I’ll think about it.

  She moved up onto the sand and become a lizard again. Even when she reached the mindless stage, a sense of excited possibility flittered just below consciousness. Several hours went by.

  She rose, wrapped herself in filmy cotton again and began to wander back. The beach had become quite crowded. There were wind-surfers out and some were pulled up along the edge of the water, looking like single winged butterflies. There were also camels on the sand, and Lizzie realised how all the things she had ever read about their haughty expressions and vaguely simple eyes were all justifiable. They sat folded up and watched the tourists with just a touch of amazement as if such foolishness were quite beyond the comprehension of any sensible camel. Lizzie walked on and made a deal with herself. If they were still there and… if he actually asked her again… if she could do it right away, without waiting…

  They were. He did. She could. O-O-Oh shit!

  The beach was much more crowed now so she would have to land between umbrellas, windsurfer sails and camels. Something could go wrong. She could end up like a piece of flubber impaled on a gaudy swizzle stick or trampled to death under the irate feet of some dumb outraged dromedary. She had never done this sort of thing before. She didn’t know how to do it—and she would bloody well never do it again! Even if she lived, she would never do it again—and she realised it was highly unlikely that she would live. And she had just remembered, she was afraid of heights, hated heights. She was always scared of heights. And you couldn’t fly without going up high. Oh shit. Why she was doing this? Just because for a couple of insane seconds it had seemed a good idea. That would be her epitaph. She could see it engraved on a cross of gaily-striped camel bone. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’