Tilting her head to follow the arc of the gull’s flight, Ella glanced back at the mainland receding steadily beyond the foaming wake of the ferry. For a moment, she had the unnerving impression that she’d stepped off the very edge of the earth, that the bustling staging-posts of her journey – Edinburgh, London, Paris – might still exist back there in some other universe, but now she’d left that world behind.
The boat ploughed its way onwards and the white sands of the Île de Ré drew ever closer, reminding Ella of the paintings by Turner that she’d studied in art lessons at school. In the wash of the light of an early summer’s evening, the sea shimmered with shifting tones of lapis and turquoise and the island seemed forged from white gold beneath its thatch of dense green pine branches. Taking a deep breath of the salt air, Ella suddenly wished the crossing would last forever, that she could live her life in this state of suspension, flying as free as the birds that soared in the dizzyingly blue sky above her.
But then, all too soon, the ferry was drawing alongside the passenger jetty on the edge of a port where the gangling, awkward arm of a crane swung cargo into the hold of a larger ship, to the accompanying cries of men and sea-birds.
The ferry’s passengers surged forwards, gathering up bags and parcels. The man with the beret balanced the crate of chickens on a bicycle and wheeled it down the short gangplank, safely on to dry land.
Ella picked up her cases and made her way, a little lopsidedly, off the boat. Marianne Martet had written that they’d be there to meet her, but Ella had no idea what they looked like. Mother had described her old friend as being very beautiful and vivacious, with big eyes and dark curly hair. And, in her letters, Marianne had said that her twins – Caroline and Christophe – were now eighteen years old and were looking forward to the company of another friend for the summer, especially one so near their own age.
As the crowd cleared and the cars that had driven off the ferry moved away down the dusty road, Ella became aware of a donkey-cart drawn up at the far end of the jetty. Standing on it, so that they could see over the heads of the crowd, and waving their arms in her direction were two young people, a girl with a cascade of auburn curls and a boy whose fringe fell low over his dark eyes. The light caught the planes of his face, high cheek bones casting shadows which emphasised the handsome set of his features. There was a completely unselfconscious and relaxed beauty about the pair, which made her warm to them immediately, dispelling any apprehension she’d had at the thought of spending the summer with strangers. The girl wore a short-sleeved shell top and pedal pushers that left her tanned calves bare, and the boy had on a cotton smock, the sort a fisherman might wear, over loose trousers. All at once she felt constrained and overly prim in her neat, tailored jacket and full-skirted dress.
Christophe and Caroline jumped down from the cart and came to greet her. Ella held out a hand to shake Caroline’s, and blushed awkwardly as Caroline leaned in under the hat at the same time to kiss Ella on both cheeks. Flustered, her hat pushed askew, she turned to Christophe and paused, unsure of the correct etiquette now. And her cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of pink as he, too, planted a kiss on each of them. To cover her embarrassment, Ella clamped the crown of the hat firmly back on to her head, grateful for its wide brim.
‘Eleanor Lennox. You are welcome!’ Christophe’s eyes were alight with amusement as he stooped to pick up her large suitcase.
‘Please, call me Ella, everyone does unless I’m in trouble.’ She was relieved to find she could understand his French and, although she spoke hesitantly at first, she was able to find the words to reply.
‘I don’t believe a girl such as you could ever be in trouble,’ he laughed. ‘You look far too neat and tidy for that! Oh là là, and this case is clearly full of more such costumes. It’s going to be far too heavy for poor Anaïs to pull. We’ll have to walk alongside the cart.’
‘Please don’t listen to him, he’s only teasing.’ Caroline took Ella’s hand in hers. ‘Your dress is beautiful, and so is this travelling case. You must excuse us, we are always so very décontractés, so relaxed, when we’re on the island. It makes such a nice change from life in Paris. We forget what civilised people look like!’
‘Ah yes, but what is civilisation, truly?’ Christophe paused, setting down the heavy suitcase in the dust behind the donkey-cart. ‘I would argue that the way we are on the Île de Ré is how life really should be and the posturing and posing of Paris is the sham. There are plenty of people in the city who could be said to be the very opposite of civilised. And as for the wider world,’ he continued, warming to his theme, his eyes blazing suddenly, ‘we have the Fascists in Spain killing their own brothers and the Germans ignoring every promise they made at Versailles and rearming, then annexing Austria. They are intent on expanding their empire – who knows for what purpose? – but it surely cannot be an innocent one. Refugees are flooding into Paris, our own relations have been displaced through fear of persecution. The whole of Europe is in turmoil! How can any of that be described as “civilised”?’
From beneath the brim of her hat, Ella watched his attractive face, which became even more animated with youthful passion as he spoke. He gesticulated with his strong, sun-tanned hands, emphasising the point with sudden force.
‘Come, Christophe,’ Caroline spoke gently, laying her own fine, equally tanned fingers on his arm, ‘now is not the time for a political diatribe. Eleanor must be so tired after her long journey and Maman is expecting us at home.’
With a sigh of resignation, Christophe bent to pick up the suitcase once again and, with some effort, heaved it on to the back of the small wooden cart with a bump that made the fawn-coloured donkey look up from where she was tearing mouthfuls of grass from the side of the road and gaze around at them with dark eyes and a look of dreamy bewilderment.
‘Anaïs, meet Miss Eleanor Lennox and her enormous suitcase,’ Christophe announced with a mock flourish and then went to caress the little donkey’s soft ears and muzzle, gently taking hold of the harness so that he could lead her in a broad circle to turn the cart in a homeward direction.
‘Hello, Anaïs. You’re beautiful.’
‘Climb up, Miss Eleanor Lennox. Your carriage awaits.’ Christophe’s eyes danced, belying the stiffness of his invitation.
‘Please, as I said, it’s Ella. And I think I’d rather walk actually. I’ve been sitting on trains for so long, I’d prefer to stretch my legs.’ Secretly, Ella was anxious that perhaps her suitcase really was too heavy, but she wasn’t about to let this laughing French boy know that his teasing had found its mark.
He was looking at her now with what seemed to be a glimmer of admiration as she stood up to his jesting. She was aware of him taking in the graceful line of her waist and arm as she held her hat firmly on her head, defying the mischievous, snatching breath of the sea-breeze and fixing him with her clear, green-eyed gaze, but she couldn’t know that his fingers were itching for a pencil and a sheet of paper on which to capture those flowing curves and the way the wind blew those strands of her hair. His expression grew serious suddenly and he nodded. ‘Alright then. Ella it is. And Anaïs thanks you for your thoughtfulness.’