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.’
As they left the harbour, the road they turned on to was scarcely more than a dirt track, a dusty lane scratched by the wheels of passing carts into the mat of beach-grass that bound together the shifting sands beneath. Ella’s leather shoes pinched her feet and grew dull with the scouring of the sand as she walked. She glanced, enviously, at the soft canvas slippers that Caroline and Christophe were wearing, which left faint imprints of their rope soles in the dust alongside the deeper, more invasive prints of her raised heels. It had seemed so important, back there in that other world, to choose the right wardrobe for this summer’s trip, and Ella had sensed her mother felt so too, as she conceded, perched on a chair in the Morningside Shoe Shop, that the pair with the small heel – a feature normally frowned upon in their Presbyterian family – did look chic enough for France. But already, just minutes after arriving, Ella was realising that this ‘right’ wardrobe was all wrong for the Île de Ré.
The three of them walked alongside the donkey-cart, following the road which ran in a straight line across the island, unhindered by hills or valleys, on the flat, low-lying sliver of land. In the evening light, dusk-softened now, tall spikes of hollyhocks glowed against the white render of the fishermen’s cottages clustered here and there along their way. The colours of the flowers – raspberry pink, lemon yellow, dark plum and soft apricot – seemed particularly vivid, as if there were a clarity in the light here that was lacking on the mainland. Ella tipped the brim of her hat low over her eyes, dazzled by the setting sun ahead of them which, even this late in the day, still bathed the island in far more warmth than she’d experienced on even the most clement summer’s day in Scotland. Her body seemed to be expanding, like a seedling unfurling in a hothouse, in response to this sudden surfeit of heat and light. Again, she felt the sense of constraint in her tailored dress and jacket, her stiff leather shoes, her hat and gloves.
They came to the little town of Sainte Marie de Ré, and Ella began to wonder how much further they had to go. A blister had begun to nip on her heel and she was starting to regret not having taken up the offer of a ride on the cart. Finally, of her own accord, the little donkey turned into an even smaller lane, almost hidden between two whitewashed cottages.
‘What are those plants?’ asked Ella, pointing at the lush greenery which ran in perfectly straight rows to either side of them.
‘They are vines,’ said Christophe. ‘See, the bunches of grapes are just beginning to form.’
‘I didn’t know grapes grew so close to the sea.’
Christophe nodded. ‘Some of the best vineyards in the world are near to the coast-line. The sea-breezes are good for the health of grapes as well as people.’