Daughter of Catalonia Read online

  Madame’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. Who might these friends be? Philippe Lemont? Why certainly he was still here. ‘Such a good man, Philippe, and he has done so much for the school.’

  Monsieur Curelée at this point raised what seemed to be a rare voice in this establishment.

  ‘A good school?’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps, but there’s too much politics behind it, if you ask me. He’s a political man, that one, mark my words.’ There was presumably not much worse you could say about anyone.

  Madame was instantly dismissive. ‘Political? What nonsense. Just because he wanted to reform the school? You are talking about a man who supported De Gaulle during the war, and now we are going to have De Gaulle back, God be praised, to put some backbone into this stupid government of ours. Don’t you listen to my husband. He doesn’t trust anyone who isn’t from here. No, I tell you, Mademoiselle, Philippe is a good man, a very good man, and if he was a friend of your family then you can be sure he will be pleased to see you.’

  A frisson of pure excitement ran through Madeleine, and relief – relief that Philippe was still alive, still living in Vermeilla. Would she find him at the school, she asked?

  ‘Why no, not now,’ Madame replied. ‘Philippe only works at the school now when the new schoolmaster is sick or away for some reason. He took early retirement last year. He had some problems with his health, you know, and now he mainly plays chess by day at the Café de Catalogne. He takes his meals there most days as well. Colette has always cooked for him, him being alone as he is.’

  ‘Colette? Why Colette was the other name I was looking for, though I don’t know her family name. I remember Colette in her café. So she is still here as well!’ Madeleine’s excitement was electric. She couldn’t believe these two pivotal people were waiting for her in Vermeilla, still living the same lives as they had fifteen years ago. She had spoken of it with such faith in Paris, but in her heart she had hardly believed she could find them so easily. But then, why not? Village life doesn’t change much, and those who survived the war and stayed put were not too likely to have moved on later, as they grew older.

  Madame Curelée was in full flow. ‘Colette? Oh yes, Colette is still here. She has the Café de Catalogne, not that she speaks as much Catalan as she should, Colette, though she’s a born Catalan herself, but she keeps a good café – you’ll have passed it in the street coming down to the harbour. There are two bars in the village, apart from the tourist cafés on the front. Two bars for locals, I mean – Colette’s and the Bar du Soleil.’

  Madame’s tone of disapproval spoke volumes about the Bar du Soleil. A bar for rough men, she said. Not somewhere Mademoiselle would want to go. But Colette kept a better house. All on her own too, or as good as, with that husband of hers unable to work since before the war.’

  Monsieur interjected again, with another point of order. ‘She’s not on her own now, not now that she has the two sons to help,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Madame acknowledged, ‘Although Daniel is busy fishing. But when not fishing he helps his mother. He’s a good boy, I’ve always said so. And his brother, too, though younger and still at school – young Martin. Fancy, they say he could well be accepted one day to study to be a doctor. Such a proud thing it would be for the village, to have a young man at the university. Of course, Philippe has helped him all the way. He saw his brains and fostered them, and insisted he stay at school, and go on to the lycée as well, in Perpignan, even when Colette said she couldn’t afford the travel. Philippe insisted, and I think he helps her as well, financially.’

  Monsieur Curelée muttered something in Catalan, and Madame spoke sharply to him, an apparent rebuke, also in Catalan. Madeleine understood nothing of this quick exchange, which seemed designed to exclude her.

  Madame turned back to Madeleine with a dismissive gesture towards her husband.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she continued rapidly in French, ‘it will be a wonderful thing to have a son of this village as our doctor one day. If he comes back, of course, when he has such a bright future in front of him. But he will be the first, they say, the first ever from the ordinary folk in the village to go to university. And his mother and father simple bartenders!’

  ‘And Philippe never married?’ Madeleine asked. ‘He has no family?’

  ‘No, no. Not even brothers and sisters, I think, or maybe there is one brother. There was one visit years ago from an older brother, or a cousin or something, but Philippe never visits any family. He came here long ago from somewhere in the north, and never went back. Just stayed here on his own all these years. Colette’s boys are his family, in a way.’

  Madeleine sat entranced, absorbing this information so simply given. It was all too easy, really. She cradled the dregs of her glass of wine, turning over what she had learnt.

  Madame Curelée moved around the table in the little dining room, preparing the other tables for breakfast in the morning, and sending Monsieur running to the kitchen for more knives. She paused, and looked across at Madeleine, her eyes questioning, suddenly very alert.

  ‘Tell me, Mademoiselle.’ she said, wonderingly. ‘Your name, Garriga. It’s Spanish, you tell me. Was your father Luis? Are you the daughter of Luis Garriga?’

  Madeleine nodded, suddenly unable to speak. This woman had known her father.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Madame, slowly, with a curious note in her voice which Madeleine could not quite understand. ‘You are very welcome in Vermeilla, my dear, very welcome indeed. And you most certainly need to talk to Philippe Lemont.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Despite her travel fatigue, it was a long time before Madeleine fell asleep that night. She lay in the narrow little bed with its overstuffed mattress, and listened to the sound of the sea through the open window. It moved sluggishly under the stilling influence of the moon, occasionally slapping gently against the quayside. The rough, blue-painted shutters shut out the moon and the stars, so she opened them to the night, and stood for a long time before returning to bed, poised halfway between the domesticity of the Hotel Bon Repos and the deep dark of the bay, her mind unfocused, lulled and weary, yet the night lights of Vermeilla twinkled a promise, or possibly a challenge, and stirred her beyond sleep. The sea felt close and intimate here in the bay. We all feel moved by the sea, she thought, especially at night. It can bring its melancholy into any room. She looked towards the darker shadow of the sea wall, imagining the bigger swell of the sea beyond the bar.

  Sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me! Tennyson’s words came from nowhere, from out in the bay, triumphant words of death and resurrection. How did it continue? And may there be no moaning of the bar, when I put out to sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep, too full for sound and foam. In Madeleine’s melancholic state, the words spoke not of resurrection but only of loss. The ache of loss for her mother, and, suddenly, piercingly, as she gazed out to sea, a sense of loss for her father, whom she would not find living his life here in Vermeilla – who was beyond finding.

  Confused and, as she realised, overtired, she lay down again on the bed, and willed herself to sleep. Better thoughts came to her. Memories teased her mind of a row of tables, fishermen gossiping over coffee, her father playing cards with Uncle Philippe, and Colette offering her childhood treats of leftover sticky doughnuts and furry, juicy apricots. I’m here, she thought, and found the warmth she had been looking for, dropping at last into sleep.

  She woke the following morning from a deep, dark sleep, dreams hovering around her consciousness, troubling dreams which she couldn’t bring back to mind. She lay for a moment bemused and lost, until a rattling sea breeze and the sounds of the morning in Vermeilla brought her awake with a jolt. Through the open window came the sound of boat engines and oars, and men’s voices, calling out to each other in Catalan.

  Madeleine had heard snatches of Catalan on the train, and of course the hurried exchange between the Curelée’s which had so efficiently shut her out the previous evening, bu
t now she lay drinking in the noise and chatter in this language which was so elusively familiar, so frustratingly no longer her own. It was a strange mixture of Spanish and French, unembellished; ‘pagan’, her father had called it, laughing as he caressed her with its deep, guttural syllables. Always, when alone with Papa, she had spoken Catalan, even though it was officially banned by the government then, for fear of the Catalan independence drive wafting towards them from over the border in Spain. Maman had never learnt. She and Papa spoke French, always. And with the children Maman spoke English, a language Madeleine loved to make her father speak, with his halting accent and slow understanding. Three languages, one of which she had not heard again until now, and the rush of pleasure she felt was quite physical.

  She rose from the bed and went barefoot to the window, relishing the cold scrape of the tiles under her feet. Below on the quayside were several open boats, like long rowing boats. Some had masts, which leant forward in a strange triangle, and thick sails now furled in loops underneath, orange and brown. Most of the boats had motors, small outboards at the stern, and a few of these had removed their masts. The rough wooden hulls were curved in shape, curved above, below, to the sides, all curves and grace, and brightly painted in greens, pinks, blues. They had clearly just returned from a night’s fishing, and Madeleine could see floats with lanterns attached, which she seemed to remember were lit at night to attract the unsuspecting fish to the surface. The men were hauling the nets off the boats and laying them along the quayside to dry, attached to wooden posts. And beyond them were a group of tradesmen and black-skirted fisherwomen, inspecting the baskets and waiting to take the fish away. Madeleine couldn’t see inside the baskets. They were too far away. What did they catch here, she wondered? She had no memory of that. It made her feel like an outsider. That and the language – her language, which she no longer understood.

  It must be quite early, she realised. The sky was blue above but still purple in the distance, and the sun was too low on the horizon to be visible. The air was freshened by a brisk breeze which rattled shutters and rustled around the boats. The wind came from along the quayside, Madeleine noticed, not from the sea. It whipped the water into small white peaks, and the gentle stir of last night was now a steady crash around the sea wall. She’d read of the Tramontane wind which blew from time to time from the heights of the Pyrenees down to the plains below. Swirling and dry and achingly cold in winter, as Tante Louise had testified. Now, at the end of May, the morning was crisp but not cold, although the fishermen below were dressed in thick wool jerseys below their blue cotton jackets.

  Madeleine dressed quickly in a new white skirt and a cotton blouse in deepest Mediterranean blue to match the sea, and threw a white cardigan over her shoulders before heading downstairs for breakfast. There were a few others in the dining room, a young couple dunking croissants in their coffee, and an older couple eating bread and olives. Both couples looked at her curiously, and Madeleine greeted them all rather shyly, aware of her youth and single status as she hadn’t been yesterday evening. This is 1958, she reminded herself. Women do many things on their own, even young single ones, and surely even in traditional, rural France? She sat down decisively at the little table laid for one, trying to look composed and mature, despite her twenty-one years. She would feel even younger and even more alone, she was sure, before the day was over.

  A young girl, even younger than Madeleine, was serving breakfast, but Madame Curelée was hovering behind, and surged forward to greet Madeleine with more questions than she could answer. Had she slept well? Did she feel rested? Would she like coffee or chocolate? Or tea? The latter was said hesitantly – it was such a barbarous idea to drink tea for breakfast. Madeleine opted for coffee and spread some home-made jam on a croissant. She wanted to ask Madame about the Café de Catalogne. What time would it open? When should she visit? She was eager to go and yet terrified inside at the thought.

  Madame was encouraging. The café would be open from early morning, she told her, serving breakfast and coffee to the fishermen coming in from their boats. Just wait a little while, was her advice. The bar would be too busy just now, but would be quiet again soon, and then Philippe Lemont would come down for his own breakfast, after the rush. Madame squeezed her arm in a comforting gesture. She was Madeleine’s sole acquaintance in Vermeilla for now, and a warm, motherly figure whose gossipy tongue was the only familiar thing in a bright but unknown world.

  So Madeleine sat over her coffee, listening to the tourists planning their day, and practised dunking her croissant like the French (it was disgusting, and left crumbs and jam floating in the cup). Then she went back up to her room and carefully brushed her hair and tied a coloured scarf around her neck. She was Luis’s daughter, making a first entrance for fifteen years. She wanted to do credit to the handsome Spanish Catalan who had made this village his last home. She opened her mother’s heavy jewellery box and fingered the precious pearls which were her mother’s only significant legacy to her. Her grandmother had resisted them being taken out of England, but Madeleine hadn’t wanted to leave them behind, especially not in her grandmother’s control, so they had come to France, and would stay with her. But they were not for today, she decided, as she shut the box and passed her fingers as always over the intricately carved flowers on the lid. Wish me luck, Maman, she thought.

  Then she went outside. And walked up and down the quay, past the now deserted fishing boats, past the shingle beach, still empty of tourists at this early hour, past two restaurants just opening their doors. And back again, then to return, and back again. Anything rather than walk up the little cobbled street which led from the sea to the market square, past the little café where Uncle Philippe might even now be sitting, coffee in hand.

  But then she began to be afraid that if she didn’t make a move now Philippe might finish his coffee and move on, perhaps to the school, or to play boules. Suddenly she found herself hurrying up the little street, and standing at the door of the Café de Catalogne, hovering between the little metal tables in the street at the front, and the interior of wooden tables and polished tiles. She wondered whether to sit and order a coffee herself. There was no waiter in sight, just one or two young fishermen still sitting at the bar, and further back, a rather stooped figure alone at a table reading the morning paper. Madeleine looked at him for a long time: grey hair thinning at the temples, angular limbs and long hands with oversized knuckles visible even from where she stood. She couldn’t see his face but she knew it was him.

  Breathing rather hard, she entered the café and moved past the tables to stand before him, waiting for him to raise his head. He was engrossed in his paper, but eventually her presence, and the shadow she was casting, penetrated his immersed mind, and he looked up at her. She was aware that she must strike a rather strange figure, hands twisted in front of her, gaze fixed on him with uncomfortable concentration, so she found her voice.

  ‘Monsieur Lemont?’ she said, her voice a question. He nodded, his wide-boned face benign but indifferent.

  ‘Yes, Mademoiselle. I am Philippe Lemont. What can I do for you?’

  She licked dry lips, and swallowed, trying to lubricate her mouth and throat. There was only one thing she needed to say. Her voice cracked a little as she spoke.

  ‘Monsieur, my name is Madeleine Garriga. I came here to find you.’

  There was just the slightest delay while Philippe took in her words, and then he froze, his eyes fixed intently on her face. She couldn’t read his expression at all. His face seemed closed, almost elsewhere. The long pause, the stillness, hung intimidatingly in the air. Feeling slightly sick, Madeleine met his gaze, and willed him to speak to her.

  ‘Madeleine Garriga,’ he repeated, eventually, with a long sigh. ‘Mon Dieu. At last! Our little Madalena.’

  And as he said her name his bony face opened into a broad smile. He reached out his hand and just touched her arm, then took her hand. At the words ‘La petite Madalena,’ tears had come to
her eyes. He remembered her. Not just her father, but herself, the real herself, the little girl who had left here to run away from war and danger, leaving her father behind.

  She smiled back at him, and squeezed the hand in hers. There didn’t seem to be anything to say. No words she could think of. Then suddenly he found his voice and his energy, and surged out of his chair and folded her into an embrace. His words came in a rush.

  ‘Little Madeleine. My God, you’ve turned into a very beautiful young woman. You look like your mother and your father. Like them both. Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu. I can’t believe it. Is it really my little Madalena? It’s so wonderful to see you again. I want to know all about your life. How is your mother, my lovely Elise? And your little brother? What happened to you all? We never had any reply to our letters. Where have you been? Where on earth have you been?’

  There was no time for her to reply. A woman came out of the kitchen and Philippe hailed her urgently.

  ‘Colette, come here. My God, Colette, look whom we have here! It’s little Madeleine, little Madeleine Garriga. Our Luis’s daughter has come home. Come see, come see.’

  A surge of black and white had been coming towards them, but at Philippe’s words Colette stopped suddenly a few metres from the table. Madeleine had a first impression of a set, closed face, with pretty features but tired eyes, olive skin coarsened by years of work. The face of an embattled woman, she thought with a rush, a woman burdened but strong, her stained white apron protecting a neatly pressed black dress, and a white scarf above protecting a flowing mane of greying hair. Colette stood where she had halted, her gaze fixed in almost fearful bewilderment on Madeleine. ‘Luis,’ she muttered, then paused. ‘Luis’s Madalena.’