1.
Surprises
Entrenched in the delicately brittle pages of a frayed, second-hand book, Halette DuPont lay curled in her mother’s favourite art nouveau armchair, placed by the window in the upstairs bedroom of her parents’ stone farmhouse. Having just finished her last year at school, Halette had few plans for the summer, quite content as a light sun shower blurred the squared glass panes of the wooden window frame behind her, sending ghostly shadows over the worn pages of the adventure she was reading. The soft rain made a slight hum on the slate roof, yet Halette barely noticed, for she was absorbed within the rare gift her father had brought back from the local village of Baschel.
Halette had decided not to continue studying at the University in Paris. She had dreams of traveling, finding somewhere exotic where she could live out an adventure of her own. Some of the girls she knew had already left for the summer, those whose families could afford to travel. Others had married the boys they’d been with all through school; their lives now set upon their chosen path. Yet here, in the soft, curved chair overlooking their small farm, Halette felt most comfortable. Life was simple, and though Paris University was barely fifty miles away, she had no desire to move to the city. In fact, Halette had little desire to move from her chair.
Slight of frame, Halette had grown little since she was thirteen. She’d hoped that adventure would find her once she left school, that she’d become embroiled in exploits and affairs from which she would emerge changed and strong. Yet she knew this was unlikely to happen, for farm life was tedious and dull, so she immersed herself in tales of wonder instead. The heroine of her current story, Francesca Dell’Acqua, a daring woman whom Halette felt no man could contain, had stumbled across a group of bandits hiding in caves while escaping France into Spain. Trapped by the Alps, with no way to turn back, she’d have to kill or be killed if she was ever to find freedom. Francesca stepped out to confront the bandits when a faint voice drifted over the rain. Halette tried to ignore it, wanting only for the adventure to continue, but the voice became louder and expectant.
“Halette? Halette!”
She rose and leaned over the desk. Through the window, over the garden beyond the driveway and sheltered beneath the broad arms of a large oak tree, her mother was standing under the eaves of their small barn, her hair tied back beneath her faded red scarf, her dark blue overalls covered in mud. Halette desperately wanted to pretend she couldn’t hear, but she placed her bookmark neatly within Francesca’s heroic escape and pushed the window ajar.
“You can’t spend all day lost in those adventures,” her mother called out. “Come down and help.”
Begrudgingly, Halette descended the creaking, wooden stairs. She stowed the book away next to the half dozen English books her father had collected, proud that she was the only one in their family who had read each one. As she turned for the kitchen and the front door, she imagined this was her heroine’s cave and outside stood the rabble of thieves, yet she stopped disappointed in the light rain as she stepped beyond the door, for the only ones waiting were her mother and four cows in the pale afternoon sun. Her hopes of adventure dashed, Halette crossed the garden through the gate and walked slowly toward the barn where her mother waited inside.
“Honestly, Halette,” her mother said with a wry smile, readjusting her hair. “Even the cows try and stay dry.”
Her mother gestured toward a wooden stool. Beside it sat an empty pail, over which stood a black and white cow.
“You promised you’d learn once school was over.”
Her mother patted the cow’s rump. As Halette sat, the cow turned and looked her square in the eye. Nervous, Halette took a teat in each hand.
“Remember,” her mother said, encouragingly. “Squeeze and pull.”
Halette felt a familiar warmth as her mother knelt behind her to check that Halette was milking as she should. Halette loved being with her. They were not a family of farmers, not anymore. Her father had been studying to be an engineer when the Great War broke out. When his father had been killed in 1917, they had been forced to sell much of their land once Halette’s father returned. Now, they kept only a few animals, the four cows and some chickens. Her father continued his career as an engineer of sorts, but she admired the way her mother still worked around the house and farm as though their livelihood depended on it. Having found her rhythm, as she listened to the sound of the milk squirting against the side of the tin bucket, she became lost in the thought of what her parents’ lives could have been like had war never come. They seemed content, yet she knew they made the best of what opportunity had given, and what circumstance had taken away.
Staring down the driveway, with her head leaning against the cow’s warm belly, she suddenly remembered that her father had gone to the market in Baschel. It was the main town about four miles away, beyond the small forests, through the local farmers’ lands, tucked into a small nook of the Seine River. Each Saturday morning, he went to buy food for the week, but when he left, he’d said he was bringing back a surprise.
At the thought of what it might be, her concentration waned. She missed a beat and pinched the cow’s teat. The cow suddenly shifted, almost knocking Halette from her stool.
“Concentrate,” her mother scolded. “This is no place for dreaming. You’ll have to do this on your own one day.”
Halette felt embarrassed as her mother ran her comforting hands down the cow’s side, but she then wrapped her hands over Halette’s, aiding her in reclaiming her rhythm. Halette felt the roughness of her mother’s skin, her hands calloused from years of hard work around their farm. There was an assured strength in her mother’s touch, and though she was being chastised, Halette felt safe in her mother’s embrace.
As the cow relaxed and milk began to flow, her mother gently let go.
“Good,” her mother said. “You’ll fill the pail in no time.”
Concentrating harder, Halette carried on, enjoying her mother’s company. It didn’t take long before the pail was almost full, the cream frothing at the top.
“Empty it carefully into the bottles in the kitchen, then bring it back,” her mother said, gesturing to the other cows. “You can deliver some to the neighbours when you’re done before it gets dark.”
Halette took hold of the heavy pail, using both hands to carry it, yet she’d barely emerged from the barn when she heard the familiar sound of a ringing bell.
“Papa?”
Through the haze of the light rain, Halette saw her father cycling home along the gravelly, willow-lined driveway. She turned, looking at the cows yet to be milked, then looked pleadingly at her mother.
“Go on, then,” her mother said, laughing. “But you’re still delivering.”
Halette placed the pail on the ground inside the barn, hugged her mother and kissed her cheek, then ran out into the rain to meet her father.
“Halette, wait,” her mother called, exasperated, holding out a coat for Halette to wear, but Halette was already soaked as she reached her father. His round glasses were fogged from his warm breath. He, too, looked drenched, dressed in a fine, brown woollen suit, covered by a thick raincoat and hat.
“Papa! Did you get it?”
She raced alongside her father as he approached the house.
“Help me get these inside,” he said, pulling the bike against the gate leading to the house. “Careful of that bread.”
He unfolded a waterproof flap on the front of his bike. Their week’s shopping was neatly packed into a large tray, wrapped in waxed paper and cloth. Though they grew enough fruit and vegetables on their farm for themselves, her father always desired a treat of local meat, cheese and bread. Inside the basket was a sumptuous feast of delectable foods. She even saw a wrapped bottle of wine, often gifted to them by her father’s friends, but Halette kept hunting through, for it wasn’t the food she was hoping to find.
“Where is it, Papa?”
A broad smile crossed her father’s face.
“Inside, quickly. The sooner we unpack, the sooner you see the surprise.”
Halette almost crushed the bread in her hurry to bring everything into the kitchen. She took more than she could carry, her arms overflowing, the cured ham and ripe cheeses permeating the air, returning at once to help her father with anything he couldn’t carry. Though their main kitchen was small, the farmhouse had a modest scullery and pantry. After they’d packed the food away, Halette turned to see her father sitting at the kitchen table, his wet coat folded over the back of a wooden chair, a wrapped box resting on the table before him.
“You want to open it first?”
Halette stared at him in wonder, excitement running through her veins, then she rushed to the table.
“Careful,” he said, with a smile.
Halette eased out a chair. Kneeling on its cushion, with her elbows on the table so she could get close, she began gently peeling back the paper wrapping. She felt chills, the soft hair on her arms lifting as the label of a new, unopened box was revealed.
“The Reflex–Korelle II,” her father said with pride, even before she’d completely unwrapped the camera. “Made by Franz Kochmann, in Dresden, it has a die cast aluminium shell, with pressed-steel top and bottom plates with chrome plating. It was only released last year.”
Knowing her father couldn’t wait to tinker with it himself, Halette passed the box to him. He lifted the camera out, its black and chrome shell spotless.
“Look. It has a viewfinder on top, so you can look through the lens. And a little magnifier to help you focus.”
He popped the viewfinder open and let Halette look through. She aimed it toward the kitchen window.
“Everything’s backwards,” she exclaimed, continually moving the wrong way to put things in frame.
“It’s a reflex camera. It’s like looking through a mirror to another world.”
He said the last with inspiration and awe, then took a pouch from his pocket and produced a roll of film.
“It takes twelve photos on what’s called 120 film that are six centimetres square, one of only a few that can.”
Halette watched with fascination as her father open the camera’s back door, slipped the leading end of the film roll into the spool, clipped it in place then clicked the backdoor shut.
“You wind the film on like so, until it clicks, ready for the first frame. You can adjust the focus by turning this part of the lens. You click this button to take the photo, then wind the film on using this handle until it reaches the next frame. And look, it even has a self-timer.”
Halette was trying to supress her laughter, but she couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“You’re obsessed.”
He shared her laughter, but when it faded, Halette found she was still curious. Her father reached out and affectionately squeezed her hand.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked. Halette was confused.
“You just told me. It’s a reflex camera, made by Franz Kochmann with a die cast aluminium shell. It has pressed-steel plates with chrome plating, a backwards viewfinder, square exposures, a self-timer with adjustable focus.”
Her father laughed, impressed.
“Very good. You are correct, in the same way that you, Halette DuPont, are simply a concoction of skinny arms and long legs and tanned skin with a face and freckles and weirdly straight hair. But also like you, a camera has a soul beyond the purpose given to it by the things it is made of.”
Her father’s voice filled her with a sense of wonder. He was a simple engineer, he loved the inner workings of how things were made, but every-so-often he revealed secrets behind his mechanical world.
“In the right hands,” he reverently whispered, “a camera reveals truth. It captures emotion… and offers hope.”
Halette squeezed her father’s hand in return.
“Then mother will certainly be happy,” she said, facetiously. “You bought us home a magic camera.”
Her father cast her a playful yet thoughtful look.
“Perhaps it is magic, if that’s the way you treat it.”
He ushered her from the table, led her to the open kitchen door, then handed her the camera.
“Go on. Try it out. Tell me what you see.”
Intrigued, Halette stepped just beyond the door frame. Before her was an ordinary scene she saw every day. Their front garden, the white fence with the gate opening onto the gravel driveway. In the barn, next to the large tree leading to the path through the farmland and the stream beyond, her mother was still milking cows. Yet the moment Halette lowered her gaze and looked through the view finder, the rain stopped, and everything changed. The matted glass darkened the light, making the distant clouds seem angry. A gentle breeze wafted tree branches in and out of frame, waving for her attention, while a single shaft of late afternoon sunlight broke through the clouds, its warmth emblazoned across the driveway, striking the edge of the barn. At that moment, her mother walked into frame, basking in golden light as though she herself glowed, never letting the darkness prevail. Halette glanced at her father, begging for permission to click the shutter. He smiled and gave the slightest nod, and Halette captured the heroic image of her mother, a true-life Francesca Dell’Acqua.
“I love it,” Halette simply said, looking at the world once more with her own eyes, seeing nothing of what the camera had shown. She absentmindedly handed the camera back, her gaze still set on where her mother stood, but when her father took it without comment, she turned and found him pointing the camera her way. He looked up and smiled, his pride clear, but there was something more. Halette sheepishly remained still as her father framed his shot.
“Won’t mama want to be in the picture too?”
She turned to watch her mother easing the second to last cow from the barn, admiring her for her ceaseless hard work, when she heard the camera click.
“What was the point of that?” she asked her father. “I’m just standing by a door.”
Her father laughed, folding the viewfinder down as he stepped outside and stood beside Halette.
“I see more than that,” he said kindly. Halette turned to him, and he cupped her cheeks with his hands.
“You say you’re just standing in a doorway, but I see my beautiful girl, half-way between home, where you’ve always belonged, standing with a bright future somewhere beyond this door. I see someone who will make a difference in the world, someone who will find love, and be loved. Most of all, I see someone who gives me joy every day.”
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead.
“You’d better help Yvette while I prepare dinner. I interrupted your chores, and I’m sure she only wants one dreamer in the house.”
Halette laughed. She gave her father a fierce hug, then made her way to where her mother had the last of their cows lined up, ready to be milked.
“I don’t suppose Henri’s coming to help.”
As an answer, Halette simply gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, then sat on the stool beside the cow, and placed the pail beneath its udders.
“Any job a man can do, a woman can do twice as well, isn’t that what you always say?”
Her mother laughed.
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t get to do it at all.”
Halette shared her mother’s laughter, then wrapped her fingers around the cow’s teats.
“Remember what I told you,” her mother said. “Encourage the flow. And don’t frighten this one. We don’t want the taste of scared milk.”
The cow mooed, turning to eye Halette as its milk hit the bottom of the pail. Halette wondered what she’d do if the cow decided it didn’t want to stay still. Yet, as she stared at the frothing milk, she wondered where her future lay, her father’s words echoing in her thoughts.
“You look like you’re far away,” her mother said. “I’m guessing your father brought home his surprise.”
As if in answer, they both heard the click of the camera’s shutter behind them.
“What did you do that for?” her mother asked. Her father offered Yvette the camera, which she refused.
“Because it mirrors what my heart sees,” her father said, “and it sees how beautiful you both are.”
Exasperated, sweat covered and with matted hair, Halette’s mother wiped her hands on her mucky clothes, then looked balefully at her husband.
“You don’t need that camera to see us, Henri. We’re right here, in front of you.”
Resting her cheek against the cow’s fat belly as she continued milking, Halette caught her mother’s eye, who gave her a wry smile and suddenly stood as though posing for a magazine.
“Besides, there’s no need for photos,” her mother said. “We always look this beautiful.”
Halette laughed, and the cow nudged forward, kicking over the pail of milk as though it vehemently disagreed. Laughing harder, Halette joined her mother as they each struck over-exaggerated poses for her father.
Framing a photograph, Henri closed in on Halette.
“I’ll send the photos to Paris,” he said through his own laughter. “Can you imagine, this time next year.”
He raised his arm as through revealing a famous actor’s name upon the silver screen.
“Halette Du Pont. Cover model for Vogue Paris. 1938.”