Free Unravelling Oliver by Liz Nugent Page A

not think of anybody who I would want as a father to my child, except Pierre and he had married and moved north to Limoges.
    It had now been six years since my liaison with Pierre. He was strong and handsome and was interested in old
maps and books. I began to regret not accepting his proposal, which I think had been sincere. He had not ever met Papa, but they had shared interests, for example books and me, so they might have been friends.
    Pierre visited his uncle once a year, and there was the small matter of timing within my cycle to be considered. I know it was deceitful of me, because perhaps I could have told him the truth and got the same result, but I was afraid that Pierre’s inherent decency would preclude him from cheating on his wife if I had baldly made my request. All Pierre’s qualities were of the kind one would want for one’s child, is that not so?
    I set out to seduce Pierre, but my window of opportunity was brief as he was only around for two weeks to take lessons from his uncle, the longest-established charcutier in the region, and I had only four or five possible days within that frame to get pregnant.
    At first Pierre failed to respond to my seduction, out of fidelity to his wife and concern for my welfare, but I knew he liked me and, although it took some persuasion, thank God he did not make me beg and I did not have to demean myself. The next three nights we spent together in the annexe to his uncle’s abattoir. It was not the most auspicious of locations for a seed to be planted, but the breeze through the valley blew the smell of the slaughterhouse downwind, and a little pastis helped us to forget our circumstances. Pierre was a warm and tender lover, and I regretted that this affection was just temporary, that he would be returning to Limoges to his wife. I fell in love a little for the first time. Pierre was terribly sweet and had an innocence about him that I felt I had defiled by the time he
left. He was practically apoplectic with apology for leading me astray, and I assured him that we would never speak of it again. I insisted that it would be best if he did not return to the village the following year, and that we both must move on from our folly, and that he must do his best to make it up to his wife. True to his word, Pierre stayed away, and I was glad and sorry.
    I was able to confirm my pregnancy, to my father’s delight, and in 1967 my precious Jean-Luc was born, a big and healthy baby, to our enormous relief. I realize that having a baby out of wedlock is shameful in some families, and I am sure that the village must have been alive with gossip, but I think that out of respect for my father and me, they started to refer to me as ‘the widow’. Better in those days to be a bereaved wife than a single mother. Papa, his mischievous spirit finally returning, was highly amused, as if we had played a successful prank on all our neighbours. ‘How is the widow this morning?’ he might say, with a wink.
    From the time of the birth, Papa and Jean-Luc were inseparable. Papa fashioned a harness out of leather straps and carried Jean-Luc on his back as he went about his business in the markets or at the mayor’s office or with the estate manager. As the boy grew, Papa’s general mood improved, although he was growing slightly frailer with each passing day. I tried not to be upset when Jean-Luc’s first word was
Papi
– Grandpa – particularly since he had been coached from birth to say it. We were completed by him, Papa and I. I had not realized how much I needed my boy until I had him and tried to think of life without him.
    In the years that followed, my father returned to his
former self, as if the war had never happened, with renewed vigour and spirit. A peach orchard was planted on one side of the struggling vineyard; an olive grove on the other. Jean-Luc’s arrival blessed the house in some way, and our finances began to improve. We began to employ migrant labourers, men and