The Mistletoe Bride(31)

‘Good evening,’ I said.

There was an abrupt change in atmosphere. The woman barked a command and the children left off their game and scuttled back indoors without a moment’s hesitation. She remained where she was and did not acknowledge my companion.

He moved forward, bowed low by the dead weight of the dead animal across his shoulders. I made to follow, but he shook his head. Assuming him to be having second thoughts at having offered me shelter for the night, I made to reassure him I only intended to stay a single night, when the woman interrupted.

‘Not with him. You may stay with us.’

‘But . . .’

I turned to my companion, but he was already walking on.

I watched him leave, realising that the decision had been made for me.

‘Well, in which case, thank you. I am grateful.’ I began my explanation. ‘I am walking the cliff top path in memory—’

She cut across me again. ‘Come indoors, stranger.’

I smiled and told her my name. Her expression was neutral, neither welcoming nor resentful, yet I hesitated to enter. My gaze followed the gaunt man. He was some way further forward now, moving towards the last dwelling among the low houses at the edge of the village. In the silence of the evening, I heard the sliding of a wooden bolt. The door opened and he disappeared inside.

‘Come indoors,’ she said again.

It was an uncomfortable evening. The household was evidently poor and I felt obliged to share the food I had set aside for my evening meal. There was a salty green vegetable, much like samphire, to stretch the meagre fare, but no bread. It would have been enough for my own needs, but not sustaining when stretched to feed two hungry children, a grown woman and a tired man.

Growing up on the Left Bank in Paris, I had visited my country grandfather on many occasions. Although I had never learnt the language to any degree of fluency, it seemed to me then that I had an affinity with the people of these distant cliffs, headlands and bays. However, in this modest house, I struggled to find common ground and we exchanged little conversation. She found it hard to understand the dialect that I employed, or perhaps my accent was too difficult for her. Either way, I was grateful when she indicated I should sleep in a hammock strung between two sturdy posts.

Perhaps it was the hunger in my stomach or, possibly, I was overtired, but I tossed and turned as the hours passed. The two small windows had no shutters and my sleepy eye perceived the lightening of the sky. Somewhere around dawn I heard a boat putting out upon the water, close at hand. I remember thinking to myself that the tide must be in.

Finally, I slept.

I woke to an empty house.

I dressed and went outside, rubbing tooth powder on my teeth with my forefinger. I suppose I must have given the impression of foaming at the mouth for the two young children left off mending nets and pointed and laughed. I roared and pretended to be an ogre, which they found the most remarkable and entertaining sight.

I sat with them for a little while, impressed with the nimbleness of their tiny fingers. Had I met the two children in the fifth arrondissement I would have estimated their ages at seven and five. They may have been older. Here, in the harsh environment of the World’s End of Finistère, children grow up small. Some never attain even average height for a well-nourished city dweller.

I was hungry so, after a while, I left the children and prowled about the village, seeking some occupation that might cause me to be invited to share in their meals.

There was an onshore wind. Out at sea, a reef of black rocks seemed to bar the entrance to the bay. All the same, standing on the dense wet sand, I could see four fishing boats out on the sparkling water, sailing a channel between the reef and the grey smudge of an island still further out, perfectly situated to protect the settlement from the worst of the weather in times of storm. There was a wild beauty to it, a romance, I suppose, and I made a rash promise to myself that, should I stay in the village for any length of time, I should try and obtain passage to the island.

I had not been watching for long when, one after another, I observed the fishing boats start for home, confidently picking a path between the dangerous rocks. I took off my boots and socks, rolled up my trousers and left my jacket on a tussock and joined the others at the water’s edge waiting to help bringing the vessels up onto the sand.

As is usually the case with honest physical labour, my assistance was welcome. In these places where the end of each day of toil is greeted with a sigh of relief and a respite for stiff and weary muscles, a burden shared is not intemperately refused.

Between us, we brought three boats safely in. Their owners were soon engaged in sorting the catch. A fire had been laid on the beach and three women were heating a quantity of broth in a vast iron cauldron, blackened by years of use, which hung from a weary frame. Chilled by the onshore breeze, I stepped closer to the flames and watched the last boat dodging through the reef.