Annabel

By University Writing Group

As we neared Alet-Les-Bains, the roads narrowed; their surfaces became more uneven and pebble-grey. The valley loomed behind us, thick, luscious trees casting a shadow over the abandoned abbey. The earthen coloured buildings had vibrant flower boxes under the water-colour shutters. We approached a bustling tree-lined square, where stalls were being erected in preparation for the Fête de l'eau (or water festival), which was beginning the following day. C hildren's laughter and birdsong filled the air. The taxi crawled through the square and turned right into a small shadowy street, bounded by half timbered three-story houses, with closed drapes and charcoal-coloured shutters. A shaggy mongrel dog with sad eyes and greying hair loitered in a doorway; an old bicycle, its basket full of sweet-smelling French bread, was propped against a crumbling sill. We reached the end of the street and turned a corner into a quiet triangle of cappuccino-coloured houses and pulled up outside the pension, a sixteenth century cottage next to an imperious foxglove tree. The driver unloaded my bag from the boot and accepted his payment with a sincere smile and slight nod of head. I noticed he had a limp as he circled back to the driver's door.

The interior was of stone and crepie with wooden beams and the proprietress who greeted me introduced herself as Monique and spoke fluent, accented English, much to my relief. She had a wide lipstick smile and warm cinnamon eyes. I immediately took to her easy nature as she led me up a narrow staircase to my room, fiddling with a large bunch of keys until she came upon the correct one for my door. The room was large and airy with white-washed wooden floors and the curtains whispered in the late afternoon breeze. Lines of flower motifs stencilled in a subtle shade of grey peppered the powder-blue walls and a single patchwork throw on the bed highlighted the crisp white linen underneath. A sunbeam hitting the Moroccan lampshade threw streams of amber across the room, and a puppet dressed in rich hues of golds and blues hung from the bed-post. A Parisian-style chest of drawers under the window drew my eyes towards the sun-drenched courtyard. Unpacking my belongings, I was engulfed by a sense of déjà-vu. Something about this rustic-looking room, and the enigmatic woman who owned it, seemed familiar - as if part of a favourite novel or a happy memory. I unhooked the puppet from the end of the iron bed; it smelled of spices and its eyes were lined with dark kohl, with a slash of red for its mouth.

I felt a bubble of hunger rise in my belly and headed back downstairs to the reception area where I found Monique, who recommended a quiet bistro that was a ten-minute walk along the Aude River in the opposite direction from the square I had passed. Her tone was affectionate and soothing, but her feline eyes were edged with the trace of pain. I wandered along to the bistro where I ordered a platter of cured meats, cheeses and breads and a diet coke. Having finished my food I poured the rest of my drink onto the pebbles of ice that remained in my glass, and enjoyed the easy silence. While I had never been a great fan of my own company, I found this solitude comforting and idly began a novel I had found on the bedside table in the pension. Evening came; its dark, warmth and quiet gently enveloped me. And so I made my way back to the pension, and fell into a feathery sleep.

I awoke the next morning to the tapping of the white shutters against the chipped window frame and a morning glow of sunshine forming a puddle on the wooden floors of my room. I had dreamt of Annabel again; I recalled fragmented pieces that made no sense to me; a missing puzzle piece, and a fleeting memory like a word on the tip of my tongue. I heard noises in the courtyard; Monique breakfasting by the stone fountain. An intricate tagine lay open on the cast-iron table at which she sat, with orange halves, and pastries steaming against the cool morning breeze.

Peering out of my window I was met with her warm, open smile; she was barefoot and wearing a white cotton dress that complemented her lightly browned skin and ebony hair, tied at the waist with a gold ribbon. From her wrists hung a rainbow of clanging bangles that told stories of bustling Moroccan Souks, snake charmers and hidden palaces. I splashed cold water on my face from the off-white sink in the corner of my room and quickly changed into some linen trousers. Into my tan leather satchel which had followed me around the world, I threw some euros, my guidebook and an unopened letter from Annabel that had arrived from Africa the day of my departure. I padded along the landing to the staircase and made my way toward the square I had seen the previous day.

I came to the abbey ruins, a short walk along the angry flow of the Aude. According to legend, a hoard of riverbed gold remained hidden in its long abandoned cloisters. I imagined monks in deep hooded robes, and heard their Gregorian chants, calming yet ghostly, worshipping a God I was no longer sure existed. A sea of dull grey tombstones contrasted against the multihued flowers tenderly placed here and there in remembrance of a loved one. The remains of the two commanding towers, the Notre Dame to the north and St Michael's to the south, were illuminated by the bright yellow sunlight creeping over the valley.  My guidebook told of a bitter religious war in the late sixteenth century, which saw Huguenot Christians causing the demolition of the abbey. Such ruin made me think of Annabel and her self-destruction. Her addiction to euphoria was an exquisite torture of a precious and beautiful life. I wondered what had driven her to it, and whether the answers would lie in my letter. As a breeze stole across the land, I strolled back through the ruin to the square.

A while later on the crowded veranda of a family-run restaurant, I ordered a very late breakfast in the broken, unpolished French of my school days; great hunks of doughy bread, sugar sweet jam, fresh orange juice and bile-bitter coffee. Hours passed as I read the letter from Annabel; it now danced in the breeze, dampened by my tears.

As the setting sun began spilling on the square I pored through my guidebook, thirsty for more information on the history of Alet Les Bains. Sitting in the dripping honey sun, my espresso sat like thick mud in the bottom of my coffee cup. The sounds of the village, immersed in the day's ongoing festivities, seemed to increase; the click-clock of the women's heels, the conversation of the idling men in doorways, the peals of laughter from clusters of bright-eyed children. The smell of flames licking the shell of roasting chestnuts, and the sugary aroma of candy-floss clouds fluttered in the approaching sunset.

As I left the café, I heard the church bells ringing for evening mass, and smell of ancient incense struck me as I passed the oak doors. Dressed in black, head down, the tiny figure of a grand-mere trotted towards the church, where the mellow sound of prayer united the elderly congregation.

After having walked along the riverbank, lined with its rainbow of sleeping canoes, I reached the square, which was alive with hustle-bustle and merriment.

In the square, I saw Monique seated at a café table with a friend, a bottle of wine and two glasses beside them. She ushered me over. I was glad for the company. She introduced me to her friend, Brigitte. We ordered another bottle of wine, and she indulged in a passing moment of flirtation with the young waiter who was clearly enticed by her exotic looks. We fell into easy conversation, and they told me of adventures in Italy many years previously, where they had worked as interior designers in Milan. They had stayed there for two years, but one baking hot summer, when Milan had been abandoned by its locals, they too had left, returning to the soft breeze of the Aude valley.

From the various stalls of the fête came the sounds of much laughter and shouts; tucked away in the corner of the square, by a looming chestnut tree, was an old lady with an intricate and beautiful spread of tarot cards on the table by which she sat, inviting a fortune telling to stir your thoughts; over there by the fountain was a harlequin, producing collective shrieks of delight from open-mouthed infants. A plump woman with an ample, matronly bosom, wound sticks of syrupy pink floss, and filled paper cones with powdery bonbons, gladly taking fistfuls of pocket money in exchange for her sweet treasure.

A torchlight procession brought with it a chill in the air, and Monique offered me a pashmina from her bag. A palette of purples, it calmed my shivers.

Intrigued, I joined the tail of the procession alongside yawning children and tired-eyed parents, having bade goodnight to Monique and Brigitte. I wondered at its surrounding mystery; the orange flames licked against the inky sky and many in the procession wore elaborate masks. We reached the abbey ruins, where I saw a lone man standing by a grave, luminous in the silver moonlight. Curiosity drew me to him, and I slipped out of the procession to where he stood, by an ancient tombstone, freshly cleaned, carved in a strange language, and with new flowers put by it. He was dark-skinned, his black hair showed no signs of age, belied by his lined face, which revealed him to be in his seventies. Despite this, he was still a handsome man, with bright eyes and a defined jaw. He spoke to me in French, with a thick accent, and asked whether I understood Greek. I shook my head, 'no', and he then traced his finger along part of the inscription: " Ἀ μάλθεια" reading the name Amalthea. Amalthea, he told me, meant 'Tender Goddess' and was the origin of, or closely related to the name Annabel.

That night I dreamt of Annabel again. I dreamt that she died. Walking on a beach, t he sand was soft and warm beneath my feet as I neared the lapping waves and shell lined shore. I felt Annabel beside me, and turned to face my beautiful sunshine sister, whom I had so dearly missed. We walked together through the deep sand towards the smouldering sunset, its fingers of light streaming through the pinky clouds. As we walked, my eyes skittered over the flat of her arms; no track marks lay there, no lasting evidence of her deadly addiction. She took my hand in hers and smiled at me, the cornflower-blue sparkle of her eyes radiating her face. A string of unscripted images flashed before me; the two of us playing as young girls, with ribboned hair and checkered sundresses, a childhood filled with bike rides and country walks, bedtime stories and log fires. I felt a devastating sense of longing for the past, for a time of innocence and carefree living, bubble-wrapped in our naivety.

I tightened my grip on her hand, but as I did so I sensed her slipping away. And then she was gone, and I was alone again, and as I looked behind me, over the stretch of butterscotch sand, there was just one set of footprints; Annabel's were no longer there.

I awoke choking on my sobs; the grief I felt was all-consuming and intense. Outside, dawn was breaking, and as I opened the shutters, I could see a waist high mist. Disturbed by my cries, Monique reached my room before the sun did; and there was a light tap on the door, which creaked as she pushed it open. She held a steaming cup of tea in her hand. Putting it down, she opened her arms, and held me as I cried.  Through my tears, I described my dream, my strange meeting in the graveyard the night before, and briefly explained what had led me to Alet Les Bains.

In response, she recounted a story that her mother had told her when she had been a young girl of eleven. She had had terminal cancer of the bowel and knew she was dying. Shortly before she died, Monique went to visit her in hospital, a place she disliked due to the biting smell of disinfectant and death. She climbed onto her mother's bed and her mother clasped her hands tightly in hers. As a way to soothe her tearful daughter, she told her that many, many years in the future, when she was an old lady with pepper-grey hair like hers and had a beautiful family of her own, she would be able to reflect on her life the way she was then able to. She wanted her to know that there would be times of great happiness, but also times of hardship. And she told her that when she looked back through her memories of days gone by, she would see a second set of footprints along the way, because although she would no longer be with her in body, she would always be with her in spirit. "The only times there won't be two sets are the times when you are suffering", she told her. Confused and upset, she asked her mother why, when she most needed her, would she not be there with her, to which she replied "The times when there are only one set of footprints my child, those are the times when I will be carrying you."

Leaving the pension a couple of hours later, a photograph of Monique's mother caught my eye. Her hair was the colour of moonlight and fell like a veil over her dark wise eyes; liquid pools that told a thousand stories, of both suffering and joy, in a single glance.  My heart began to race as I absorbed this image, her sharp cheekbones, her jutting chin. A red ribbon was tied around the top right corner of the oak frame, a local tradition to commemorate a loved one on the anniversary of their death. Then, somehow, the final jigsaw piece fitted in the puzzle, as I saw my dear sister smiling straight back from the photo frame.

The grass was soft and damp to my feet as I neared the ruined abbey towers. I crept through the graveyard that had put a thousand souls to rest and sat on a dishevelled rock, with the valley stretching out in front of me. A sense of calm nostalgia overcame me. For things that could have been, for things that never would, for a chapter in my life that had passed, and for a new one yet to begin.

The sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept across the grass, covering me like a kaleidoscope of emotions. And I sat alone by the abbey, with moist eyes and a heavy heart saying a silent prayer for my darling Annabel.