17.

 

The open stalls in the Place du Marché displayed a colourful array of fruit and vegetables, while, in the rear, in the covered market, were laid out an incredible selection of shellfish, sausages, cheeses, preserves, olives, breads, pastries and much more. Sue and Jayne took turns to restrain one another, but in spite of this, accumulated a mouth-watering collection of foods for breakfast. With two coffees-to-go, they settled on a bench under a tree.

‘What could be nicer?’ said Sue. ‘Better than a Full English any day.’ A similar breakfast with Ben at Hydra sprang to mind: sitting leaning against their backpacks on the stony ground beside a dry-stone wall with bread, olives, cheese, watching the sun climb higher and higher creating a white path across blue water and knowing it was going to be another scorching but memorable day. They had shared so many good times. Sue did not want them to be over.

‘Personally, I’d rather be sitting in a street-side Parisian café watching the world go by, but …’ Jayne paused. ‘So, what’s on the programme today?’ she asked as they wrapped up the remains of the food. ‘It’s your show.’

Well, that’s a shift, thought Sue. ‘First, I’d like to go back to the hotel and search the phonebook for any people by the name of Dujardin.’

‘Bit of a long shot.’ Jayne might be trying, but she could not keep the lack of enthusiasm out of her voice.

‘Maybe,’ said Sue, rising to her feet, ‘but I’ll do it anyway.’

Sue sat on her bed, phonebook in hand. Jayne had gone exploring and they had arranged to meet at the Old Port at eleven. It was only a small phonebook, La Rochelle and the surrounding area. Sue turned to ‘D’ and scanned the names. No Dujardin. Disappointing. A deadend so quickly. She had hoped that the population would be relatively stable in a long-established place like this and that there would still be descendents living in the area. Brigitte’s maiden name was Clémence. There was a long list of people of that name; should she start there instead? she wondered. Or perhaps she should look under ‘J’ rather than ‘D’. ‘Jardine, Jardin,’ she read, moving her finger up a column. ‘du Jardin. Only three of them. Worth a try,’ she said aloud.

Sue spent a minute working out what she wanted to say, in French. Then she dialled the first number. No reply. The second was answered after six rings. Sue started to speak then realised it was an answerphone. The third number was for a du Jardin GR, Expert Comptable. A chartered accountant. At least there should be someone to answer the phone.

‘Bonjour. du Jardin et Perot, Experts Comptables,’ said a bright, female voice.

‘I would like to speak to M’sieur du Jardin,’ Sue said, in French.

‘I’m afraid he is not available just now,’ the woman replied.

‘It is a personal matter, not business.’ Sue paused, deciding to exert a little pressure. ‘It is possible that he is a distant relative.’

‘O là là. He is on the telephone, but if you would like to wait, I am sure he would take your call.’ Sue wondered why she had been sure enough to make such a positive claim. Still, it was giving her the chance to ask. He might know something or someone to help in her quest. ‘Putting you through now.’

‘du Jardin,’ said a firm male voice.

Sue quailed, but took a deep breath and launched forth with her prepared speech, ending lamely: ‘I started with the telephone book and, well, I saw your name.’

‘And you wondered if I might be a relative, Madame.’

‘Well, yes. Rather a … a long shoot.’

‘Rather a long shoot, as you say, Madame.’ His laugh was warm and engaging. ‘But perhaps you have hit your mark.’

Sue gasped. Had she truly found a relative so easily?

‘Can I suggest we meet and talk over lunch? I am a little busy right now.’

‘That would be perfect.’ Even if it turned out to be a dead end, it could be interesting.

‘Do you know the Café de la Paix? In Place de Verdun?’

‘I’ll find it.’

‘One o’clock?’

‘That will be fine. Er, my sister is here with me. May I bring her, too?’

‘Of course. A bientôt.’

‘A bientôt.’ Sue launched into a dance of triumph. ‘Yes! Yes!’ she cried, punching the air. Hard as she tried, she could not stop herself believing this was a positive lead. Her mind was racing ahead; perhaps she could change her return flight, stay here longer, play historical detective.

It was too early to meet Jayne, so Sue decided to follow the suggestion of the nice man in the Archives Nationales. Her map gave no indication where the La Rochelle archives might be housed, so she headed for the Hôtel de Ville. Built like a small castle, flags flying on the ramparts, the city office stood in a square of its own name. After taking several photographs, Sue entered the cobbled courtyard through an archway and found the information bureau. Without interrupting her conversation with another attendant, a smart woman in black behind the counter took a map and, with her bejewelled hands sparking in the fluorescent light, marked the route to the archives in orange highlighter – only a few blocks away in the Place Saint-Michel. Nowhere was far away in La Rochelle.

Sue wound her way through narrow streets and emerged into a cobbled space enclosed by two-storeyed buildings of cream stone. The archives were housed in a plain building with multi-paned, unshuttered windows. Sue wondered what might be entombed there. Would there be treasures or a dead-end? She hesitated at the door as chimes reverberated around the little square. The half hour. She checked her watch. 10:30. Not enough time before eleven. She would come back after lunch. Besides, she felt too excited to concentrate on old papers right now. She was waiting to meet M. Gérard du Jardin, Expert Comptable and possible, no, probable distant relative. But first she had to sell the idea to Jayne.

‘You committed us to wasting our time with some old geezer we don’t even know?’ Jayne slapped her street map against her thigh – thwack! thwack! thwack! – and paced backwards and forwards on the cobbles.

‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.’ In fact Sue would rather Jayne were not there if she was going to be so grumpy.

‘I’m not letting you go on your own. He might be a rapist for all we know,’ Jayne pouted.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Sue wondered where the mature woman had gone; Jayne was like a slightly more grown up Charlie, about as changeable and unpredictable.

‘What did he tell you about himself?’ she persisted.

‘Well, nothing, I suppose.’

‘There you are, then,’ said Jayne, triumphantly.

Could Jayne be right? Was she being reckless? But it was only lunch in a reputable restaurant and Jayne was invited, too.

‘He was busy. It was good of him even to take my call.’ Sue had not come so far to back down at this point.

It seemed dark as Sue and Jayne moved from the sunlit Place de Verdun under the stone arches and into the interior of the Café de la Paix. Even when Sue removed her sunglasses, the café retained a dim, intimate tone. It reminded her of pre-war cafés in Vienna and Budapest: high ceilings, dark wood, large mirrors; waiters in white shirts, black waistcoats and trousers. A restrained, sophisticated atmosphere. She peered into the long interior, seeking a middle-aged man seated alone and expectant. Jayne dragged her feet behind Sue. A waiter approached them.

‘A table for two?’

‘No, thank you. We are meeting someone.’

‘Me, perhaps?’

Sue swivelled. She could not make out his features against the light, but she recognised the voice. ‘M’sieur du Jardin?’

‘Gérard. Delighted to meet you.’ He held out his hand to Sue and took hers warmly in both of his. ‘It is the custom here … Do you mind?’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘And you must be the sister.’ He took Jayne by the shoulders and kissed her also. Jayne allowed the gesture but did not reciprocate.

‘Jayne,’ said Sue.

‘Jayne.’ Gérard quickly arranged that they have a table to the rear, beyond an archway. As Sue followed the waiter to the table, she saw herself multiplied infinitely in mirrors that clad both walls, converting a narrow passage into a wide dining hall. She felt strangely gauche in cargo-pants and thick-soled sandals, carrying her backpack.

‘You had no trouble finding the café?’ Gérard asked, holding the back of Sue’s chair and pushing it in as she sat down.

‘Not at all. It is just around the corner from our hotel of the same name.’ Sue smiled at the tall, greying, expensively dressed man opposite her. Was he a distant cousin? she wondered.

‘You speak French very well, Suzanne.’

‘Please call me Sue.’

‘Sue. And you, Jayne? Do you speak French also?’

‘I do.’ She put her bag under the table and pulled in her chair as Gérard reached for it.

‘Ah. Well educated women,’ he said, seating himself. ‘Then we can all understand each other. Now, let’s order, and then we can talk. I have limited time. Some wine?’

Over a grilled flat fish with sauce Hollandaise, asparagus, pommes frites, salad and a glass of chardonnay, Sue recounted what she knew of the French emigration and her forebears. Gérard explained that he was aware of relatives who had emigrated to New Zealand, and also to other colonies. ‘Claude and Robert are names that crop up from generation to generation in my family,’ said Gérard. ‘My middle name is Robert, after my grandfather.’

Sue could barely contain her excitement. She had not expected things to fall into place so readily. ‘So Robert Dujardin could be Claude’s father. A gardener at the château.’ She felt the flush in her cheeks as she leaned forward eagerly and fixed his eyes, one blue, one almost hazel, with her own – she wondered which eye she should be looking at. ‘My great-great-great-grandmother, who came to New Zealand, was born Clémence. I haven’t – how do you say? – tried to ring any of the Clémences in the phonebook. There were too many. Do you know any people named Clémence?’

Gérard nodded and dabbed his mouth with his serviette. ‘I have distant cousins, Clémence. I don’t know if they are related to Brigitte. It is possible.’ He shrugged. ‘People in this part of the world do not move about very much from one generation to the next. One hundred and fifty years is not very long by our standards. I shall try to find out. But not today. I have no time. What do you plan to do next?’

‘This afternoon I shall go to the archives and see what they hold.’ Jayne groaned. ‘What a waste of a fine day.’

‘You don’t have to come. We can meet later at the hotel.’

Gérard looked from one sister to the other. Sue wondered what he was thinking. ‘And tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘Tomorrow I have time.’ Sue could see Jayne wriggle in her chair.

‘I want to take the bus to Rochefort, where the Comte de Paris sailed from.’

‘I could take you,’ Gérard said, twisting the gold band on the fourth finger of his right hand. ‘It’s Saturday.’

‘Really?’ Sue’s smile expressed her gratitude. ‘I want to go to the Marine Archives.’

‘They should be open in the morning. You might miss them if you go by bus.’

‘What about,’ Sue looked at the ring Gérard continued to worry, ‘your wife – will she join us?’

‘I should take this off, but I can’t.’ He tugged the ring to prove the point. ‘It has been on so long.’

Sue silently rebuked herself for delighting that he was no longer married. She presumed she could believe him; she thought she would believe anything he said. She felt unsettled and a vision of Ben between Aroha’s thighs flashed into her mind.

‘It might be rather – how do you say – boring for you,’ she heard herself say, and tossed her head to banish the image. Her mind was making things up; it was not to be trusted. But what if it had been more than a pass; what if Alisha had been more than a flirtation?

‘Not at all,’ said Gérard, smiling. He had a charming, quizzical smile, slightly lopsided, as though he did not take the world entirely seriously. The smile together with the eyes of different hues intrigued Sue and she struggled not to stare. ‘In truth, I would be interested in exploring the archives.’

Sue and Jayne exchanged glances, the warning in Jayne’s expression plain. Beware of rapists disguised as gentlemen, it said.

‘Very well,’ said Sue, ignoring the warning. ‘That would be most kind.’ She would enjoy having his company. A day of flattery and charm would go down well, the way she was feeling at the moment. Ben was not the only one who could be drawn by an attractive member of the opposite sex.

‘And there is much to talk about,’ said Gérard, gazing at Sue.

Sue wondered what there would be to talk about now they had discussed the few known facts about Brigitte and Claude. She would be happy enough to listen to Gérard, but she wondered what he – or any man – could possibly want to know about her. But the idea was beguiling. She could see Jayne becoming increasingly restless.

Gérard insisted on picking up the bill. Sue at first protested, then, looking again at his suit, she acquiesced.

‘Probably thought we were destitute colonists,’ Jayne said, after he bade them farewell and kissed them again on both cheeks. They stood watching his retreating figure. ‘Did you see the way he looked at you?’

‘Nonsense,’ said Sue, blushing. She was relieved Jayne was not waxing about the way she had gazed at him. Perhaps she was not as transparent as she felt. ‘He was very gentlemanly. I guess he could tell you weren’t very interested in the conversation.’

‘He could be a conman, for all we know.’

Sue laughed. That was inconceivable. But at least Jayne apparently no longer feared for Sue’s virtue.

Sue stepped into the welcome cool of a small office in the archives building. Once again, she spouted her speech of self-explication, this time to a small, grey-haired, grey-clothed woman who looked as dusty as the volumes surrounding her.

‘May I see your passport? Good. I will see what we have that may interest you.’ She turned to her computer and tapped the keys, pausing from time to time and pursing her lips. Then she smiled, jotted down some numbers and pushed her chair away from the desk. ‘I will be some minutes.’

Sue sat on a straight-backed chair and gazed out into the tiny square, watching a lone tree cast its slowly dancing shadows on the cobbles. It reminded Sue of a pohutukawa near Cape Reinga, watching the play of its leaf-shadows on brown rocks at the edge of the sea, Ben beside her. They had been students still, on a camping trip – pup tent, Lilos, swimming togs, billy and pan: all they needed. Every evening, they would sit together, holding hands, and watch the sun drop into the ocean …

The woman returned sooner than expected.

‘There’s not a lot here, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Some information about the families, letters of an official nature. You are welcome to bring them through and study them. I can make copies, if you wish.’

Sue followed her into a side room. The walls were clad with old books, some leather-bound and in varying states of disrepair. Small squares of light chequered the table beneath the window. Sue pulled out a chair, the drag of its wooden legs loud on the stone floor. She sat and drew the papers toward her with anticipation.

There was information about both the Dujardin and the Clémence families. Sue’s hands trembled as she opened the pages.

She discovered that Brigitte’s father had been a bookkeeper or accountant and the Clémence house at 87 Rue du Brave Rondeau, near the Place du Marché, where she and Jayne had breakfasted that morning, had been freehold. He had four children, Brigitte the oldest. A younger sister, Madeleine, had also married a Dujardin, but Sue could not determine from the documents whether he had been a brother of Claude’s or even a close relative. Interesting, though, in the light of what Gérard had said, that there may be a second connection between the two families, one that remained in France.

There was less information about the Dujardin family. Claude was a gardener, as was his father, Robert. They were in the employ of one Comte de Vergny, the owner of a large house, a château, on Rue Réaumur, near the city ramparts in the west. So there was one piece of information confirmed. Maybe gardening ran back through generations of the family, hence their name. Maybe Claude wanted to go to New Zealand so that he could have a garden of his own.

It was amazing to read of these people, her ancestors, somehow unreal. As the woman had said, it was not a lot of information, but more than Sue had expected.

On her way back to the hotel, Sue walked along Rue du Brave Rondeau, the street in which Brigitte’s family had lived.

Brave Rondeau – Gallant Poem. What a charming name.

Would the house still be there? She quickened her step. The houses all appeared to be of the right vintage – two-storeyed stone houses, cheek by jowl, fronts flush with the pavement. Dormer windows in tiled roofs, pale grey shutters, all houses similar yet slightly different in detail.

Then she was there. Number 87. Embroidered, sheer pennants, typical of the region, hung in each window in lieu of net curtains. A shadow moved behind one. Sue took a step forward, then pulled herself back. Could she knock on the door and ask to go inside?