Free The Sea Garden by Deborah Lawrenson Page B

I’m here almost all the time. I’m . . . a historian, I suppose you would say.”
    â€œI see,” she said, though she didn’t. “What kind of historian?”
    â€œMilitary history. I specialize in World War Two. And you?”
    â€œI’m a garden designer. I’m doing some preliminary work at a property here.”
    He looked over at the waiter, but the man was busy at the bar and didn’t see him. It didn’t matter, thought Ellie. Actually, it was reassuring that they could sit undisturbed.
    The world slowed. She was starting to relax. In fact, it was lovely to sit next to this man. It didn’t make sense, but it was as if she had come home after a long journey. Perhaps it was the intense atmosphere at the Domaine de Fayols; it was only upon leaving it that she realised how strange and overwhelming it had been.
    He was telling her about the different beaches on the island, and the groves of mandarin and grapefruit that once grew all along the Langoustier road, trees brought from Sicily to start the citrus groves.
    â€œIt must have been a glorious place to grow up,” she prompted, enjoying hearing him speak.
    â€œIt certainly was. During the long, hot days we children found shady hiding places and made encampments, ramshackle affairs. When we roused ourselves from these cocoons, we filled up with apricots from the orchard, then walked for hours down the hill to dip our feet in the sea.
    â€œWe judged the time by the sun, tiredness, and hunger. When we were parched and covered in dust, we would turn back to the farm.
    â€œWe lived in the open air, of course, all summer long. We ate at a long wooden table on the west-facing terrace. Each night the sunset, each night a different composition, in fire colours.”
    The way he spoke, she could picture the place exactly.
    It was as if all noise and movement had ceased around them. For Ellie, there was a sense of histories large and small unfolding.
    â€œIn the winter we hunted, the men and the boys,” he went on.
    He didn’t much like to hunt, though he learned how to do so effectively with gun and knife. They went after rabbit and pheasant, mainly. But what was the point of using up ammunition, when there was always also the constant risk of a stray bullet hitting a poacher child, of whom there were a surprising number? Better to hunt by night. Easier to track the prey to its resting place and wait, to creep up on a pheasant in the low branches of a tree and rip it from its nest.
    â€œThere was always more hunting by moonlight. Not only of game. The fishermen stole grapes at full moon to make their own wine, and it was understood by all that they would. Sometimes you could smell the bouillabaisse they cooked up on camping stoves on the rocks below the vineyards.”
    She could see it all, the men with their tin bowls, the shimmer of silver on fish and sea. The cliffs rising steeply.
    â€œIf you like history, you should go diving,” he said, his words slipping insidiously inside her thoughts. “The scuba schools are down at the harbour.”
    â€œI’ve seen them. But I’ve never done scuba before.”
    â€œYou should learn. There are fabulous dives here—wrecked ships and subterranean cliffs. And there’s a plane wreck on the seabed to the southwest beyond the lighthouse. You should ask about it.”
    â€œIt sounds very exciting.”
    â€œYou don’t have to scuba—you can just snorkel. The Domaine de Fayols place is just by the Calanque de l’Indienne—that’s as good a place as any to start. The water is so clear you can see right down to the bed in most places. But to make the most of it, you need proper equipment. Perhaps I could give you—”
    â€œWhat’s your name? I never asked.”
    He smiled, and then stood up. “Ah, well . . . it’s a small place. Perhaps our paths will cross again.”
    â€œPerhaps they