h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Danielle.

The next few weeks were busy in the farm. The wheat stood gold, ready to be harvested and everyone available helped. Michel, Henri and their cousins Raoul and Mathieu Dejean worked through the field cutting the corn. Danielle, her father and Jeanne followed on behind, gathering it into sheaves and tossing them onto a big cart, drawn by both horses. Although they started early, when a haze hung over the land, it grew hot as the sun rose in the sky. Danielle was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat but she still found the heat oppressive, and had to stop occasionally. The dog, which had been following the cart, retreated to the shade of a tree.
Work stopped in the middle of the day and everybody returned to the kitchen for a meal. Irène produced platefuls of bread, cheese, cold meat and bottles of wine. Lunchtimes lingered on, it was easy to sit and chat, and Danielle often found herself talking to Michel.
“Can you ride a bicycle?”Michel asked..
“Oh yes. I used to cycle to school when I was a girl.”
“I was wondering if I could persuade you to go cycling with me, once harvest is over?”
“Is it ever going to be less busy?”
He smiled. “Yes. Trust me.”
However, the plums had to be harvested first and Michel and Henri helped the cousins pick the fruit from their plum trees. Danielle was kept busy in the kitchen with Irène, washing purple plums, laying them out on a tray and taking them to to be dried. She carried them to the prune oven, which formed an extension to the barn, where the roof sloped towards the ground.
One afternoon, she was carrying a tray to the prune oven, when she saw Michel mending a heavy black bicycle by the barn wall. He looked up at her and smiled.
“Let me take that tray, “ he said, straightened up and stretched out a brown arm.
“Don’t drop them, or your mother will be cross.”
He smiled. “She’s not really a tyrant.”
Together they walked to the prune oven, where the air was full of a sweet, sticky scent. Behind the barn, the duck pond had diminished to little more than a puddle with a fringe of mud, over which a host of little insects buzzed. Beyond, the fields were a dull beige, full of stubble and weeds.
“I thought we could go for a cycle ride tomorrow before it gets too hot,.” said Michel.
“Is there anything to see round here?”
“We could go up to the church in Courbiac. There are good views from the top of the hill,”
Danielle hesitated. “I might have to walk up the hills.”
“I’ll wait for you. Don’t worry.”
She smiled. “I’d be glad of the break from the kitchen, to be honest.”
They returned to the kitchen where Irène was placing plums on another tray. A pile of empty crates, which had been full of plums, was stacked close to the door. Only one crate was left and that was half empty.
“Danielle and I were thinking of going cycling together tomorrow.” said Michel.
Iréne pursed her lips in evident disapproval. “There’s always work to do.”
“We’ve finished picking the plums.”
“I’m sure I didn’t do so much gallivanting when I was young.”
“Never mind, Maman, we won’t be long,” Michel promised.

Next morning, Danielle dressed in the plain white blouse and old brown skirt she had worn for harvesting. Looking at herself in an old mirror she had found in the scullery, she regretted she couldn’t be smarter for Michel. She had only managed to bring a small bundle of clothes from home and it made sense to choose the most practical for cycling. Although she had bought a pot of powder and some lipstick from a shop in Caillac, she couldn’t afford to get her hair permed. It was growing longer, and the copper colour was natural and glinted in the sunlight. She added a head scarf to conform to the local customs.
She found Michel standing by the barn wall with two bicycles.
“I have a feeling your mother resents me,” Danielle said. She suspected Irène was still suspicious of her, because she was Jewish.
Michel hesitated for a moment. “She feels she had a hard time, with Papa coming back injured from the war, and then dying. What she forgets is that we’ve had a hard time too, the two of us.”
“Do you think it’s over?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t trust the Germans.”
“Neither does my father.”
Michel shook his head, as if to disperse unpleasant thoughts “But let’s go. We can discuss this some other time.”
Danielle looked at the bicycle for a moment and nodded. “I’m glad it’s got a chain guard. Otherwise I couldn’t ride it in this skirt and I don’t have trousers.”
“You’d think my mother wouldn’t approve of women in trousers, but actually she thinks they’re practical.”
“Maybe I could make some if I could scrounge some material.”
“Maman would approve of that. That’s what a good housewife would do."
She straightened her back and looked him in the eye, with a hint of defiance“I’m not sure I want to be a good housewife. There are other things a woman can do in the mid twentieth century.”
Michel smiled. “I’m sure you’re right but don’t say that to Maman.”
They looked at each other, smiled with the awareness they shared a secret, and set off on their bicycles. They lurched and bounced on the rutted track, and there were times when Danielle nearly fell off, so she was relieved to reach the ridge and the metalled road . From there, they coasted down the long hill, and she was aware of her hair tangling as it streamed behind her. Instead of crossing the Lot, they turned off the main road and started a climb up to the village of Courbiac. The road became a cobbled climb, between houses which looked like outcrops of the local limestone. Patches of ground between them were full of vegetables. The combination of cobbles and a steep climb was too much, so she slowed, wobbled and stopped. Michel got off and walked beside her.
“Sorry, I’m not used to hills like this.” Having rested for a minute or so, she turned to him with a smile. “Goodness knows what Aunt Eugenie would think of me going cycling with you.”
“She was the one who didn’t let you play outside?”
“She didn’t approve of me cycling either, but my father insisted. Otherwise it would have been difficult for me to get to school.”
“And now you’ve found yourself working on a farm.”
“My father looks better for it.”
“And you look lovely,” he said.
They walked through an avenue of trees and came out onto the shoulder of the hill. On one side stood the stone gateway to the Mediaeval village. The other side of the road, a patch of grass provided a view of the Lot, lying like a silver sash between woods and farmland. The ground fell steeply away, clad with bushes and small trees, down towards the river.
“Of course, the river I know best is the Rhine,” she said, thinking of her home in Strasbourg. “That’s much bigger and busier.”
He shook his head. “That area’s full of Germans now.”
A sudden wave of sorrow swept over Danielle. “There were friends and relatives we left behind. I don’t know what happened to them.”
He nodded. “I understand that. There were comrades of mine…”
She turned towards him and placed her other hand on his lips. “Let’s not talk of things like that. Not here and now.”
He kissed her hand, then her arm, all the way up to the edge of her sleeve. She was caught in a confusion of feeling, between delight and concern this was something of which Aunt Eugenie would have disapproved “Michel,” she whispered, freeing her hand.
He drew back. “Sorry, I shouldn’t take advantage...”
“No. It’s just that I’ve never been kissed properly before.”
Deciding to forget Aunt Eugenie, she slipped her arm around his waist. He gathered her close and kissed her, starting at her hairline and working down her face to her lips. She met his lips readily. When he kissed her neck down to the collar of her dress, she was flustered by the desire rising in her and gave a little gasp.
“I think we should be getting back,” she said.

Hot summer days indeed....

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I didn't know that plums were dried in ovens.

I'm learning so much.

Thanks Caiman.

People used to pick the plums, dry them in ovens and sell them as prunes. They still grow plums, but they are dried in a factory.

Yes, I'm afraid I wanted to know more about the prune ovens, too. I've never considered how prunes were made!

Here's all you ever wanted to know about prunes!
A48150759

Oh, thanks, that's !

My parents had damson plum trees - damsons are so tart the birds won't steal them. But all theirs went into jelly - which is what we call a certain kind of jam. (We distinguish between jellies, jams, and preserves. Also 'butters'.)