Here are extracts from a selection of the stories from Issue No 4.
I learned about Guillaume Le Conquérant in a two-room schoolhouse in Ligré. The next year, having returned to school in Canada, I discovered that Guillaume Le Conquérant was really William the Conqueror. Or, was it the other way around? All I knew for sure was that everything had been different in France, not just the 11th century kings of England, but us, me, my family, and life.
It was 1974, and I was eight years old. My father, a law school professor, had a sabbatical leave, and we came from Canada to France to live for the year. There were my mother and father; me, their eldest and only daughter; my middle brother, six years old, two years younger than me and adopted; my youngest brother, who turned two a few months after we arrived; and our au-pair, which was really just a fancy way to describe our babysitter from across the street back home in London, Ontario…..
Crouching down among the pebbles, she examined each one with a nostalgic tenderness, turning them over, feeling the edges, the thickness, the weight, as she had done before. Each one she picked up seemed to hold a memory inside, one that had been smoothed over and cast away among others. She scanned the speckled stretch of beach for the right shape, one she knew he would have been pleased with. She had learned to pick out the good ones with a sweep of her gaze, like a lighthouse beam. It had to be smooth, a sort of squashed oval, the size of an egg, flat, not too light, not too heavy, easy to clasp and curl fingers round, to unleash.
He had said, ‘That one’s too thin, but about the right size – if you find one a little sturdier. You see that edge, it won’t work as it’s not balanced … that one’s better. You’re getting the hang of this now. Are you tired? Here, watch.’
He had curled himself up so his elbows were pressed to his sides, his knees bent, then he turned towards the open sea, flicked his arm twice and released the stone with such speed that she was barely able to follow the movement. She had looked out to sea, watched as the small oval skipped once, twice, three times, then was just an ellipsis of water growing larger and larger until it melted into the undulations around it.
‘Do you feel really settled in now you two?’ asked Jim’s brother, Des, the last of their summer visitors, as he helped himself to another glass of Medoc. ‘You know, do you think you’ll stay here in Normandy?’
‘Do you mean, do we want to die here?’ Liz threw at him aggressively. ‘The truth is, well it’s marvellous in Summer, eating outside, all this lovely countryside and peace and quiet. The only thing you see on the road is an odd tractor now and then. Only… in the winter it can be a bit lonely, a bit primitive somehow. And of course, whilst it’s wonderful to be together so much – well, it’s a whole new life to be learned….’
‘Nonsense,’ said Jim, ‘that’s all superficial rubbish. This is where real life is, rediscovering rural skills, enjoying the natural world around us in a simple, unspoiled way. There’s always plenty to do in the garden: wood to chop for the fire, everything to keep tidy. It’s what I’ve always wanted, just Elizabeth and me, and a house in the country away from it all.’ …