Read Online We All Ran into the Sunlight by Natalie Young - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Natalie Young
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come see it if you must; I’ve been waiting all this time .
In the kitchen they stood with their suitcases, like two people who had found themselves in a different country.
Arnaud’s cousin had said it would be like this. Empty for years, he said. The family were wine people and went to ruin. The only remaining son killed in the Great War. Arnaud bought the land because he believed it would make a wine everyone would care about – See the shape of the valley, Lucie, just think of all the water, how it will collect in this basin.
From her suitcase, Lucie took a photograph of her and Marie in Paris with their parents. She stood with the photograph in her hand, unsure where to put it, what to do first. Arnaud jiggled himself about to keep warm. He capered about, folding his hands into a funnel and shouting into the corners of the room, up at the ceiling.
‘We can’t see,’ he said, pushing on the shutters. She looked at his thin little fingers and wondered again how they would manage, just the two of them, and this great old house, like an empty liner out on the ocean.
‘You should go to the café if you need something to drink, Arnaud.’
He was grinning and he backed out into the hallway and through the big front doors, stumbling backwards down the steps and out into the sunlight. She saw his shadow and looked beyond to where the same enormous crow was strutting among the weeds in the courtyard, making for the car whose doors had been left open, exposing the food in their basket.
‘Arnaud!’
But he had already got to the car and was bending down inside it making strange whooping noises. In a moment he was back, bounding up the steps, the basket in one hand, their suitcase of things in the other. He stood in the doorway and beamed at her. He was full of confidence , full of hope. Lucie smiled back at him. He took his cap off and threw it in the air, which was when she felt the tension in his recklessness – how clown-like it was – something staged to release or undermine her.
‘There’s no time for cafés, Lucie,’ he said. ‘We need warmth. We need a fire. The courtyard is full of sticks. I’m going to make us a mountain of sticks.’
‘We don’t need a mountain though. Just a few. For kindling . Then logs.’
Lucie pulled the air in and held it in her lungs until her eyes began to blur. It would have been easier to sit down now, to curl up and fold herself away. But the women of France had a duty to rebuild this country. There were babies to be born, families and homes to be repaired. The women had to rise up now – women of France, lift up your hearts – they had to make do, be strong. And the women of the village, what would they be like?
‘I could start by making a cake, Arnaud. Inviting some women round?’
It was dusk of that first wintry day. They had pulled the shutters and they sat together staring into the fire. Lucie laid out the eggs, the bread and the cheese on the table.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘I will look for a saw. There is a tree blown down in the garden. Have you seen it, Lucie?’
But she hadn’t seen anything yet. It was Arnaud who went upstairs to look around. He laid the mattresses they brought on the roof of the car, in front of the fire, and covered them in the blankets. He said the rooms upstairs were not so big as these. They ate slowly and cradled cups of hot brandy and water. She felt the alcohol loosen her, set something free.
‘This is a new beginning, Lucie.’
‘But God knows where to begin.’
‘What?’
In the night, she knew that the dreams would come; snow on the streets in Paris, people scavenging for food, the radio broadcasts, the terrible waste…
‘God?’
‘Yes. What can he do?’
‘Who?’
‘God.’
‘God is everywhere, Lucie. You know that.’
‘Yes, but what can he do?’
‘Hm?’
‘To help us.’
Arnaud said nothing. For a long time he sat chewing on a small piece of bread. Lucie didn’t repeat her question .
In the kitchen they stood with their suitcases, like two people who had found themselves in a different country.
Arnaud’s cousin had said it would be like this. Empty for years, he said. The family were wine people and went to ruin. The only remaining son killed in the Great War. Arnaud bought the land because he believed it would make a wine everyone would care about – See the shape of the valley, Lucie, just think of all the water, how it will collect in this basin.
From her suitcase, Lucie took a photograph of her and Marie in Paris with their parents. She stood with the photograph in her hand, unsure where to put it, what to do first. Arnaud jiggled himself about to keep warm. He capered about, folding his hands into a funnel and shouting into the corners of the room, up at the ceiling.
‘We can’t see,’ he said, pushing on the shutters. She looked at his thin little fingers and wondered again how they would manage, just the two of them, and this great old house, like an empty liner out on the ocean.
‘You should go to the café if you need something to drink, Arnaud.’
He was grinning and he backed out into the hallway and through the big front doors, stumbling backwards down the steps and out into the sunlight. She saw his shadow and looked beyond to where the same enormous crow was strutting among the weeds in the courtyard, making for the car whose doors had been left open, exposing the food in their basket.
‘Arnaud!’
But he had already got to the car and was bending down inside it making strange whooping noises. In a moment he was back, bounding up the steps, the basket in one hand, their suitcase of things in the other. He stood in the doorway and beamed at her. He was full of confidence , full of hope. Lucie smiled back at him. He took his cap off and threw it in the air, which was when she felt the tension in his recklessness – how clown-like it was – something staged to release or undermine her.
‘There’s no time for cafés, Lucie,’ he said. ‘We need warmth. We need a fire. The courtyard is full of sticks. I’m going to make us a mountain of sticks.’
‘We don’t need a mountain though. Just a few. For kindling . Then logs.’
Lucie pulled the air in and held it in her lungs until her eyes began to blur. It would have been easier to sit down now, to curl up and fold herself away. But the women of France had a duty to rebuild this country. There were babies to be born, families and homes to be repaired. The women had to rise up now – women of France, lift up your hearts – they had to make do, be strong. And the women of the village, what would they be like?
‘I could start by making a cake, Arnaud. Inviting some women round?’
It was dusk of that first wintry day. They had pulled the shutters and they sat together staring into the fire. Lucie laid out the eggs, the bread and the cheese on the table.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘I will look for a saw. There is a tree blown down in the garden. Have you seen it, Lucie?’
But she hadn’t seen anything yet. It was Arnaud who went upstairs to look around. He laid the mattresses they brought on the roof of the car, in front of the fire, and covered them in the blankets. He said the rooms upstairs were not so big as these. They ate slowly and cradled cups of hot brandy and water. She felt the alcohol loosen her, set something free.
‘This is a new beginning, Lucie.’
‘But God knows where to begin.’
‘What?’
In the night, she knew that the dreams would come; snow on the streets in Paris, people scavenging for food, the radio broadcasts, the terrible waste…
‘God?’
‘Yes. What can he do?’
‘Who?’
‘God.’
‘God is everywhere, Lucie. You know that.’
‘Yes, but what can he do?’
‘Hm?’
‘To help us.’
Arnaud said nothing. For a long time he sat chewing on a small piece of bread. Lucie didn’t repeat her question .
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