Read Online We All Ran into the Sunlight by Natalie Young - Free Book Online
Authors: Natalie Young
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though.’
Arnaud coughed with uncertainty rather than impatience . He was trying to make her happy and he had come here full of hope. She turned, lift up your hearts women of France ! and shook her head quite prettily for him, her eyes going wide as she spoke.
‘If you’re not hungry, Arnaud?’
He reached forward for the handle and clicked it down. The door slammed behind him. Lucie watched his stocky legs plough through the long grass on the roadside and disappear into the trees.
In Paris, the girls said life would be good, much easier, down in the country. In the room above the hairdressers they had tried to imagine it. One of them stood up and staggered across the room with her arms out in front to mimic the weight of food. The others laughed. Lucie watched them all, smiling on the window ledge. Marie made gobbling movements in the air.
‘And if the land is fruitful, girls?’
They were women thinking of bigger things. In their hearts they were fighting another war which was the war of women sent back to the hearth but still they knew how much she wanted to have a baby. Her sister was one of them. Marie wore black culottes with boots and thumped her heart when she went in and out of the printing room. She said there would be nothing else to do down in the south: baking and babies, baby baking, my God, you could bake the fucking babies …
A hawk circling for food above. The sound of dogs barking in the valley. The Germans wouldn’t have come this far south. No one would. The land was rough and barren and there was nothing for it to do but slough off now and slide all the way to the sea. She would not be able to do it here, to make a go of things and make it work.
There was bright green grass beside the road. Dandelion, wild fennel. There was rock on the other side of the road – a sheer wall of black basalt and a plateau that stretched all the way back to the town. They had driven through it in silence, he with his hands firm on the wheel, his brandy bottle in the leather pouch around his neck. They had driven almost all the way from Paris in silence, stopping only to rest a little in Lyon.
Lucie watched her husband walk back towards the car. He cut under low hanging foliage, pulling back branches of eucalyptus and fern. In his hand he carried a leaf, and he held it up for her to see. You could do worse than use the acorns of oak trees for coffee, she thought. Others had used chicory. Both would be bitter. But people had done worse.
In the village, the shutters were worn, colourless and closed. You got the feeling nobody came out, nobody dared. But the square was attractive; there were young cats in the roots of lime trees, a red winter rose bobbing on a balcony and a child folding itself over the fountain.
Arnaud turned the car into a passageway that looked too small for it and they twisted between houses made of crumbling stone. There were plant pots on narrow steps scrabbling up the sides of houses, a rustic wooden chair with a pair of polished shoes left out on its wicker seat. Lucie thought of the women standing behind these small bolted doors, whispering, holding pans of fish, boiling fish heads, wooden tables, bread.
Arnaud got out of the car and walked towards the tilt of gates, leaning in on each other, two withered sheets of green iron. Behind it, the walls rose up. They were high walls, the stone black as iron in places, windows few and far between.
In the courtyard, the car choked on the weeds. At the far end of it a pine tree soared high into the air. There was a low stone wall that marked the start of the vineyard. Lucie turned her head in the wide open space. The quiet was strangely calming and there was no one there but a huge solitary crow labouring down through the air and landing on the steps, wings rustling with the attitude of a businessman, or an old watchman paid to behave like one, its thick charcoal hook pointing at them, then back at the house, as if to say: Come on then,
Arnaud coughed with uncertainty rather than impatience . He was trying to make her happy and he had come here full of hope. She turned, lift up your hearts women of France ! and shook her head quite prettily for him, her eyes going wide as she spoke.
‘If you’re not hungry, Arnaud?’
He reached forward for the handle and clicked it down. The door slammed behind him. Lucie watched his stocky legs plough through the long grass on the roadside and disappear into the trees.
In Paris, the girls said life would be good, much easier, down in the country. In the room above the hairdressers they had tried to imagine it. One of them stood up and staggered across the room with her arms out in front to mimic the weight of food. The others laughed. Lucie watched them all, smiling on the window ledge. Marie made gobbling movements in the air.
‘And if the land is fruitful, girls?’
They were women thinking of bigger things. In their hearts they were fighting another war which was the war of women sent back to the hearth but still they knew how much she wanted to have a baby. Her sister was one of them. Marie wore black culottes with boots and thumped her heart when she went in and out of the printing room. She said there would be nothing else to do down in the south: baking and babies, baby baking, my God, you could bake the fucking babies …
A hawk circling for food above. The sound of dogs barking in the valley. The Germans wouldn’t have come this far south. No one would. The land was rough and barren and there was nothing for it to do but slough off now and slide all the way to the sea. She would not be able to do it here, to make a go of things and make it work.
There was bright green grass beside the road. Dandelion, wild fennel. There was rock on the other side of the road – a sheer wall of black basalt and a plateau that stretched all the way back to the town. They had driven through it in silence, he with his hands firm on the wheel, his brandy bottle in the leather pouch around his neck. They had driven almost all the way from Paris in silence, stopping only to rest a little in Lyon.
Lucie watched her husband walk back towards the car. He cut under low hanging foliage, pulling back branches of eucalyptus and fern. In his hand he carried a leaf, and he held it up for her to see. You could do worse than use the acorns of oak trees for coffee, she thought. Others had used chicory. Both would be bitter. But people had done worse.
In the village, the shutters were worn, colourless and closed. You got the feeling nobody came out, nobody dared. But the square was attractive; there were young cats in the roots of lime trees, a red winter rose bobbing on a balcony and a child folding itself over the fountain.
Arnaud turned the car into a passageway that looked too small for it and they twisted between houses made of crumbling stone. There were plant pots on narrow steps scrabbling up the sides of houses, a rustic wooden chair with a pair of polished shoes left out on its wicker seat. Lucie thought of the women standing behind these small bolted doors, whispering, holding pans of fish, boiling fish heads, wooden tables, bread.
Arnaud got out of the car and walked towards the tilt of gates, leaning in on each other, two withered sheets of green iron. Behind it, the walls rose up. They were high walls, the stone black as iron in places, windows few and far between.
In the courtyard, the car choked on the weeds. At the far end of it a pine tree soared high into the air. There was a low stone wall that marked the start of the vineyard. Lucie turned her head in the wide open space. The quiet was strangely calming and there was no one there but a huge solitary crow labouring down through the air and landing on the steps, wings rustling with the attitude of a businessman, or an old watchman paid to behave like one, its thick charcoal hook pointing at them, then back at the house, as if to say: Come on then,
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