CHAPTER FORTY THREE REMEMBRANCE
The characters, places and situations of Doc Martin are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.
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We rejoin Louisa and Joan who are waking up in Villequier, France on their holiday.
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
As I opened my eyes to the the dim light of dawn coming through the window, the gentle rain falling did not encourage my getting out of bed. I had slept peacefully in spite of the fact that Joan had brought up my cancer. I choose not to be troubled by those thoughts because I have been blessed with life.
Joan was still deep in sleep. Her studies yielded long hours of work and short nights of rest so she was grateful this was a relaxed holiday. My body was forcing me to get up so I went ahead and pulled on some joggers and slipped on a shirt, untucked. Running a brush through my hair I wandered into the kitchen where Madame Baptiste was pouring coffee. Thankfully she and her husband spoke a bit of English and offered me coffee and suggested we sit in the living room. It was small but tastefully furnished, the chairs upholstered in damask. The front window looked out on the narrow street receiving an offering from the dripping eaves.
"I hope the cats fighting in the street last night did not keep you awake."
"No, we slept very well, thank you. I didn't hear the cats. Think I was quite tired after driving from Paris and walking about all afternoon."
I discovered Monsieur Baptiste's given name was Martin and his wife was Martine. He brought me a large cup of café au lait. My Martin would so enjoy this. As I began to drink the delicious coffee, Martine asked me what our plans were for the day.
"I really don't know. When Joan comes out, we'll discuss it." She went on with some suggestions.
"Why don't you spend another night here and leave in the morning? You could enjoy a day in our quiet village. You must see the Musée Victor Hugo. Then you could have lunch on La Seine at Le Grand Sapin. Martin and I would like to invite you to have supper with us."
I began to hear stirrings from our room and it was not long before Joan appeared barefoot, in jeans and a sweatshirt. "Good morning everyone. I can't believe I slept so long. Ohhh that coffee looks so good."
Our hosts went to the kitchen and returned shortly with more café au lait, crusty bread with butter and jam as well as fresh orange juice. Simple can be exquisitely delicious.
Sometime around mid morning, having made ourselves more presentable, we wandered into the village. We took our time, savouring the place, greeting people as we passed them. The towns in the north of France are close together but Villequier still had verdant pastures surrounding it, at least on one side. The river Seine defined its full length on the other. Cattle and sheep in the fields filled in the pastoral scene.
We arrived at a large manor house and realized it housed the Victor Hugo Museum. Being France's literary giant, this was but one of several museums focused solely on him. I had read his works a good bit at uni, in translation of course. Millions know of him because of the play, Les Miserables. He lived a long and complex life and this museum was another grand tribute to his literary career. You are not here long though before you realize there is a major focus on his daughter, Leopoldine.
After about an hour of viewing displays here and there, Joan and I were drawn to the story and poems about her. In February of 1843 she married Charles Vaquerie, the son of the owners of this museum house. In September of that same year she tragically died in a boating accident on the river. Her husband died attempting to save her. Losing his daughter affected Victor Hugo for the rest of his life. Many poems in the compilation known as Les Contemplations have to do with this immense loss.
As we read the accounts of Leopoldine's life we became unnaturally quiet and somber. Joan finally broke through the cloud of our thoughts. "Mum, this is beyond sad. I almost wish we hadn't stopped here. You should read this poem. It breaks your heart."
"I know Joan. I have read it and I'm not sure I can read it again."
She began to read aloud,
Hélas ! laissez les pleurs couler de ma paupière,
Puisque vous avez fait les hommes pour cela !
Laissez-moi me pencher sur cette froide pierre
Et dire à mon enfant : Sens-tu que je suis là ?
Alas, let the tears run down from my eyes,
since you have made Men for this!
Let me lean over this cold stone
and say to my child: Do you feel that I am here?
Je verrai cet instant jusqu'à ce que je meure,
L'instant, pleurs superflus !
Où je criai : L'enfant que j'avais tout à l'heure,
Quoi donc ! je ne l'ai plus !
I will see that instant until I die,
the instant, no tears needed!
where I cried: the child I had a minute ago—
What? I don't have her any more.
Thankfully we were the only ones in the museum at the time. Joan put her arms around me and wept silently into my chest, her body trembling with the intensity of her feelings. As she settled some I put my arm around her and we silently exited onto the broad expanse of grounds in front of the mansion. We walked slowly and anyone seeing us from behind would not have been able to tell if it was one person or two.
Neither of us wanted us to pass the rest of the day in this mood but did not know how to shake it. We walked a bit and I recognized how close we were to the restaurant Madame Baptiste had suggested. "Listen Joanie, let's sit down and have a slow lunch and talk if it comes and if not, just watch people and the river."
The young woman brought us each a glass of wine. We decided to wait to order food. I did not want to be quiet. I had to tell Joan of my thoughts from the night.
"Joanie, I must tell you what came to me again last night as I went to sleep. Your speaking about my cancer caused me to relive the whole experience. It flashed through my mind and while no one wishes to go through something like that, it changed my whole perspective on my life, on our family, really. I can never take life for granted. Leopoldine died and that is all so sad, but we are alive and we should live, really live. Going to the museum today sort of underlined that for me.
With a twinkle in her eye Joan said, "Well, Mum I must say I learned a lesson today too."
"Oh. What was that?"
"One should never go out in a bloody boat with heavy skirts on."
How could we not but laugh at a comment like that? The humor was macabre, but it did serve to lighten the atmosphere. So that plus another glass of wine plus a child spilling a whole glass of milk in her mother's lap put us on another track. Now we were ready to eat and this menu held great promise.
The day had turned out beautiful and that always brings people out of their houses. The restaurant was busy. The Seine did not carry romance in its flow today. With our visit to the museum and the rains painting it a muddy brown, it looked very much like,...well, like a river. The only boats we saw were commercial barges. That did not lessen the brilliance of the village shops and houses. The opposite shore was like a green carpet stretching up a hill.
After our meal I suggested to Joan that we should have a sweet. "Even if Marie Antionette didn't really say it, I think it is sound advice. So, let us eat cake!"
We were indulging in a heavenly Opera Cake when my mobile rang.
"Oh no Joanie. It's your father. He has caught us in the empty calories again."
"Hello Martin. How are things there, Love?"
With that we did begin a brief conversation filling each other in on what had happened since we spoke yesterday. I know Martin and he, being at loose ends, had wanted to hear our voices.
I filled him in on plans as I knew them. "We'll spend another night here and drive to Bayeux tomorrow. We can't miss The Bayeux Tapestry and certainly want to visit the British War Cemetery. We'll catch the ferry for home in a few days. What's that? What did you say?"
"What's up Mum," Joan wondered.
"Your father did not want me to ring off. Told me to hold on. Someone is knocking on the door."
He must have carried his phone with him because I heard him open the door and exclaim, "Eleanor! What are you doing here? Wait just a minute."
He walked into another room as he was speaking quietly but in a panic.
His exact words were, "Bloody hell Louisa, it's your mother. What am I to do?"
I replied, "Well Martin, I suggest you do not leave her on the door step for when you can, call me back and tell me what has brought her to Portwenn this time."
I rang off and my face must have been a mix of confusion and humor. "Joan, your granny is in Portwenn."
"You're kidding. Granny and Dad together. Just the two of them. Mum, does that change our plans? What should we do?"
"Well, Joan, for now, let us eat cake."