Annemarie's story
The Lavender Bag
Since she was 10 years old Sidonie and Gravender had carried out their early summer ritual. (Mrs Greeves did not like her childish name, ‘granny lavender’ so Sidonie had abridged it to the more dignified name ‘Gravender’). All those years ago she had come to the village with her parents and had been drawn to the old lady’s garden by the insistent sound of bees buzzing in lavender bushes which paraded their scent and colour near the road. Fascinated she had stopped to watch as big black bees with deep blue iridescent wings flitted from flower to flower and smaller, more numerous golden and black bees darted to and fro , saffron globs of pollen weighing down their spindly legs.
Sidonie became a regular visitor over the years but she particularly enjoyed ‘learning lavender’ as she described it to her mother. Sometimes Mrs Greeves’ two granddaughters, Bella and Maria, would be there and the three children made lavender biscuits, greedily devouring them afterwards.
As the children grew older Bella and Maria were less interested in visiting their grandmother and would rather play on their mobile phones, muttering to each other how boring it was to have to come. Sidonie on the other hand, loved visiting Gravender, who taught her to weave the lavender stems within silk ribbon encasing the flower heads, forming fragrant lavender wands to tuck among the pillowcases and sheets. They made scratchy, invigorating body scrubs and relaxing eye pillows in pretty fabrics. The lavender bags, made from antique lace, were tied with fine silk ribbon, always in tones only of purple, lilac and lavender.
Each year at the village fête Gravender and Sidonie sat side by side behind their stall, one - young, slender, lanky limbed and serious looking with dark almond eyes, the other - short, with a slightly wrinkled face and pewter grey hair. Large glass bowls were filled with pearly white, mauve , purple and lavender fizz bombs; soaps were tied with twists of lavender and silk thread; baskets lavender of eye pillows; a collection of bric-à-brac plates towered with lavender biscuits and along the top of the stall, prettier and more perfumed than bunting were the antique lace lavender bags, jostling each other like dancers in a crowded ballroom and the fragrant scent permeating the air.
Sidonie explained that all the profits went to a charity for children with brittle bones, while Mrs Greeves extolled the virtues of lavender.
« I don’t know why they don’t keep the money themselves, » Bella murmured to her sister as they passed by their grandmother’s stall.« After all, they do all the work. What a waste of time! »
They sauntered past the stalls hoping to catch the eyes of any local talent. Over the years their grandmother was disappointed, well very sad to be honest, that she rarely saw them or her son and his wife, despite living in the neighbouring village. At least Sidonie often popped in for a chat and she always helped with the lavender.
As usual Sidonie had arrived early. Warm, dry and the sky an azure blue, they sat on the oak bench waiting for the dew, which sparkled like diamonds on the spiderwebs, to evaporate but not so long that the sun drew out the perfume from the flowers.
Gravender, now dependent on her cane hobbled along carrying the basket while Sidonie bent over the bushes carefully cutting the lavender stems.
This was probably the last time they would harvest their lavender as her son and daughter-in-law were ‘advising’ her to sell her home and move to a retirement apartment - one they had found some many miles away. Little did they know she only had a few months to live and those she intended to spend in her own cosy home and garden.
After a desultory lunch under the chestnut tree Sidonie left and Graverton set to work to make the most beautiful lavender bags she had ever made. She cut out shell and rose shapes from the lace, backed them with muslin and having sewn the somewhat larger than usual bags together filled them, this time more firmly than usual. She crocheted little decorations to dangle off the sides and finished them with fine, thin spaghettis of silken ribbon.
Three months later. Out of the blue Bella called Sidonie to say that her grandmother had left her a small box of ‘ things’. No, she didn’t know what it was and frankly the family didn’t understand why.
Now Sidonie sat in her own garden, the wooden box enveloped in purple ribbon and dried lavender, ready on the table to reveal its contents. Still grieving for the old woman but remembering their many convivial times together she untied the ribbons and lifted the lid. Nestling like swaddled babies in a bed were t’en exquisite antique lace lavender bags in a tangle of silken ribbons. But what surprised her was that the ribbons were in shades of green- they had never used any other colours than the lavender, purple range.. She picked it up the flattest one and felt a crackling.. She carefully pulled the end of the emerald ribbon and inside the bag hidden in the lavender was a piece of stiff paper.
« For the girl who was like a granddaughter to me » written in Gravender’s sloping penmanship. She picked up the next green ribboned bag, stuffed very full, and again she opened it and tipped the contents onto the table. A diamond ring, an emerald ring and pearl earrings fell out. Each green encircled bag was emptied and the table became covered with Mrs Greeves’ treasured jewellery glittering and gleaming in the cushions of dried lavender.
Bella and Maria searched every inch of their grandmother’s home before it was sold but they never did discover what she had done with her jewellery. ‘Probably sold it and gave the money to the brittle bone thing,’ sulked Bellla.
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Geraldine's story
A BAG OF LAVENDER
It had been weeks since Charlie and Margareth hadn’t stopped anywhere with their sailing boat.
They had left from the Isle of Wight after having supplied with food, drink and fuel. Their decision had been to sail as much as possible under mainsail, gennaker, and in very strong winds under the heavy weather sails such as the storm sail.
Where were they going to ? They hadn’t really decided ! Actually, they had layed out a big bet with their friends that they would try to sail as long as possible without stepping on land. But their intention wasn’t sailing accross oceans. They would stop in sheltered anchorages all along the Northern and Southern coasts and see how long they could suffer a lot of trials and tribulations before berthing.
So, beginning of April, just a few days after spring equinox, they hoisted the mainsail and headed towards the West, along the Southern Coast. It was still quite chilly in the mornings and evenings, but in the middle of the day, they were lucky with great sunny spells. Charlie had heated water for the morning coffee and prepared two slices of brown bread each, with jam and honey. They needed these energetic foods to get going. Of course, they never moored for lunch as their aim was to get as far as possible. So Margareth would let Charlie manoeuvre “The Blue Eye” and get the fishing rods and lines out. When the speed wasn’t too high, she would easily catch 5 or 6 mackrells or herrings for lunch or dinner.
Their first anchorage was nearby Torquay and they enjoyed Margareth’s “home made” mackrell rillettes with potatoes and fresh tomatoe salad. What bliss! They would remember this meal as time went by and food became scarcer and uninteresting…
Three days later, they sheltered in Penzance, overnight and decided to sail through the Irish Sea up to the Isle of Man rather than sailing up the Western Coast of Ireland, which would certainly be rougher.
And so, they began a routine : every morning up early, the best possible breakfast in order to avoid sea sickness by rough seas, as much fishing as possible, but they weren’t always lucky. They would take turns at the helm and above all, they would keep an eye on the food supplies making sure they were using them as sparingly as possible.
Around an hour before dark, they would read their sea charts to try and spot the best place for their overnight anchorage : the main criteria would be safety, of course, which meant making sure they would get protection from the main winds. Then, approaching the place, they would look at the most beautiful scenery worth seeing and wait for the sunset while relaxing their aching bodies. Sometimes, just rain or clouds….
The cruise went on softly up the Scottish Coast, the days were longer and so was the sailing. Then, they reached the Shetland Islands : by this time, the nights became very short and the climate got much warmer. They had been through some very windy days with rough seas, high waves, and found a little Bay where they stopped for 2 days before crossing over to the Norwegian Coast on the other side. The food reserves were lowering and not very interesting : a lot of canned stuff, rice, home-made bread (they still had flour), dessicated veggies and dried fruit. But their spirits were still high. They started sailing downwards and following the Danish, German, Dutch, Belgian and finally French coasts.
One day, when they were off the British coast between France and England, Charlie asked Margareth
“What about going home now? Where do our stocks stand? “
“Well, said Margareth, we did make a bet and we still have some food on board!” Are you tired of the experience?
“Of course not, I was just wondering…. Let’s continue then.
Summer was there, the routine was beginning to exert an influence on the two sailors. Without wanting to give up, they both were dying for a nice copious meal and they started dreaming of huge steaks with spuds and greenbeans and banana-splits topped with chocolate and fresh cream for deserts.
In the middle of the “Golfe de Gascogne”, they hit a tremendous storm! It was so strong they both had to manoeuvre the boat, under the storm jib, facing the waves in order not to be ejected from the boat and sinking… They fought for 2 whole days and nights and when the wind finally dropped and the waves calmed down, they were just wrecked and incapable of moving for a few hours.
Then, cautiously, they started looking inside the boat to see if any damage had been made. Everything was soaking in seawater, the jars and bags with the sugar and flour had opened and spelt all over. They had put the rice in a fabric cloth to gain space and it had burst and there was rice in every corner of the “Blue Eye”. A disaster.
They started pumping the water from the bilge and found a small leak in the bow section. That meant they would have to stop for repairs on the hull, which also meant they had reached the farthest place without berthing. A quick look at the charts indicated that the nearest place for these indispensable repairs was La Corugna in Spain, on the lowest part of the Golfe de Gascogne. It meant, probably another 8 hours of navigation. Charlie and Margareth took turns for the final approach to an inland shelter and when La Corugna Port was within sight they started laughing, and laughing, and laughing at the idea they were going to step out of “Blue Eye”, try and find their balance after those 3 months at sea and, at last, find a restaurant where they would be able to order the most memorable meal ever.
As they finished docking on the pontoon, they decided to start with a shower in the harbour facilities and staggered along the lane as if completely drunk - which they were not, of course- and everything swaying around them. They immediately spotted a shop and bought a couple of bermudas and T-shirts in order to dress in something dry. On the way out of the shop, they saw a little “bag of lavender” with a fragrant smell. They immediately turned back to the shop and bought it. This would most certainly help getting rid of the nasty odors that they would have to face during the cleansing, the repairs and the trip back home which they would undertake as soon as “Blue Eye” would be ready to sail again!
Sarah's story
A bag of lavender 4: (Mick)
(15.07.2021, rev 03.09.2021)
NB: be sure to read Mick’s dialogues with an Australian accent!
Mick was despondent. Four days since he’d arrived from Down Under and he hadn’t had a bit of fun. The friends he had expected to meet weren’t there, where the hell were they? And he hadn’t met another soul. Not anyone worth meeting, that is. He moped along the street, loath to go back to his hotel once again. The pubs in this town were a disaster, nothing but up-tight bank clerks in this godforsaken place.
A couple of women passed him, going in the opposite direction, and the wind brought back a snatch of conversation. He pricked up his ears. Hadn’t he heard “the end of a party”? A something or other party. It had sounded like a “hope party” but that was impossible, right? He must have heard wrong: a coke party, of course! Cocaine—if he needed something right now, that was it. He turned to look after them. No spring chickens, all right, but not too bad. He set off after them.
It took some going, because they were walking rather quickly. Of course. Didn’t want to miss the end of the party. Nor did he! He hastened his step, in fact he scampered after them. When he had got more or less up to their level he coughed.
“Hi, girls! Going to a party?”
When they turned round, his blood congealed somewhat. From behind they hadn’t looked too bad, but up front their faces showed them to be sixty at least. None of his friends were over 40.
“Going to see Pattie?” said the taller woman, with a slightly disapproving look. These young people, she was thinking, with their passion for nicknames, very cheeky of them. “Yes, we are going to see Patricia. You are, er … a nephew?”
“A friend.” He flashed a broad smile. Surely the others would be younger and sexier.
“There’s gonna be a lot of coke?” he asked hopefully. He caught a wiff of something that reminded him, not unpleasantly, of his grandmother.
“’No coke,” said the shorter one primly. “We’re going to take tea”
“Ha ha!” Must be an in-joke, he thought. These old birds were really hip.* By then they had reached a house and rung the bell.
When the door opened, the shock was almost too much for him. If these chicks were 60, their friend must be eighty at least.
“Happy birthday!” they cried.
“Thank you and welcome! You’ve brought a bag of lavender, I hope, Hattie?”
“That’s just what I asked her,” said the short woman. “And she has!”
“But who was your friend?” the old lady asked, looking over their heads. They turned to see Mick slinking down the path to the road.
“No idea,” they said.
But Mick didn’t hear them. He had plummeted to the depths of despair. Must’ve misunderstood something, he thought, as he headed back to another dull night in his room.
*In Australian hip slang, “coke” is cocaine and “tea” is marijuana.
NB: the joke depends on pronouncing “party” “pa-a-ty”, in the Australian way.
+ 485 wds
