French Collection: Twelve Short Stories

By Vanessa Couchman

For fans of all things French, a collection of short stories from the author of The House at Zaronza. 

France is a land steeped in history, whose landscapes and light have enthused writers and artists for centuries. Beneath the dust of ages lie buried countless personal histories, which have inspired this collection of twelve fictional short stories. 

Can Arlette resolve her predicament while her sweetheart fights in the trenches on the Western Front? By escaping to the countryside, will a woman be allowed to leave behind her troubled past? The celebrated painter Edgar Degas wants to paint an exotic circus performer, but will the portrait match her expectations? Can the unsightly Pierre get the girl he is afraid will never want him? These are just four of the dilemmas that must be resolved by the stories' end. 

Most of the tales are set in the past and a few contain a hint of the supernatural. All are infused with the essence of France. 

"Vanessa Couchman has a huge potential talent, and will be an author to watch." Discovering Diamonds

A 2-3 hour read of 100 pages (print version).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vanessa Couchman
• Release date: Jun 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9782956242208

Book preview

Foreword

These short stories are inspired by the history and culture of France, my adopted country. I moved to southwest France in 1997, when I began to discover the richness and variety of its landscape, people and languages. For centuries, the prevailing language in this part of France was Occitan, which symbolises the region’s separatism and independent spirit. Only in the past century has it been supplanted by France’s official language.

I am a history enthusiast. So, for the most part, the stories are set in the past, especially during defining eras such as the two World Wars, which still weigh so heavily on the French psyche. A few take place in the present but they draw extensively on the legacy of past times and on French people’s deep attachment to their rural roots. I’ve never thought of myself as a ghost story writer, but I realise that a third of the twelve also contain an element of the supernatural.

I do hope you’ll enjoy these aperçus of a land I have grown to love.

If you’d like to find out more about the history and sights of this part of France, please do visit my blog about life in France, Life on La Lune. You’ll be very welcome.

At the end of the book, you’ll also find a preview of the first chapter of my latest Corsica novel, The Corsican Widow (2018).

And, as a thank you from me for choosing this selection of short stories set in France, you’ll find another, *free* short story waiting for you when you sign up for my newsletter. The Beekeeper is set on the beguiling Mediterranean island of Corsica, where my first two novels are set.

You might know Corsica already, in which case I’m sure you’ll agree it’s a wonderful place to visit. And if you haven’t discovered it yet, you can make a start with The Beekeeper.

To get your copy, just follow this link to my website: http://bit.ly/2yVRmgh and follow the easy instructions.

Vanessa Couchman, Southwest France

Angel Maker

Better dead than unwed. That’s what I say.

La Mémé rapped her cane on the stone flags.

In my day, the father married the girl or she got packed off to the convent. Then the brat was adopted and everyone forgot about it. People will point at us in the streets. What were you thinking of, you stupid girl?

Arlette’s skirt moulded her rounded stomach. Her ears scarlet, she looked away from the heat of her grandmother’s glare.

This doesn’t help, Belle-Maman, Mère said and clattered the crockery in the shallow stone sink. And things aren’t the same as they were in your day. This war is changing everything. Of course he would have married her if he hadn’t joined up. We’re not even sure if he knows yet, although Arlette’s written to him. She’s just waiting for a reply.

Pah! It’s a pity my Emile isn’t here to teach that rascal a lesson. He’d marry her then all right. His own apprentice—what a nerve! But my son had to be one of the first to join up. That’s just like him, putting other people before his own. And what if the boy gets himself killed up there?

With a sharp intake of breath, Arlette grabbed the terracotta pitcher and slipped out into the courtyard, her eyes stinging. She sucked in the freezing air and wiped her face with her sleeve. She dropped the bucket into the well, rattled the chain to make it take in water, and then filled the jug from it.

Mère had found out earlier that day when she discovered Arlette being sick behind the hen-house. It was a wonder she had not guessed before, when Arlette had jumped up from the table gripped by nausea.

She leant against the well, staring at nothing, ignoring the cold that gnawed at her fingers.

Claude attracted the gaze of all the village girls, like metal to a magnet. Long days spent pounding iron at the forge and calming the horses and oxen while Arlette’s father shod them had broadened his shoulders and pumped up his muscles. He flashed the girls his easy smile but he walked out only with Arlette. Throughout that arid summer, while the grass scorched on the plateau above Cahors and the nights blazed with stars, they wandered the lanes hand in hand and talked of the future after his apprenticeship.

On the night of the village fête, the bonfire lit up the stone Mairie and the church, on opposite sides of the market square. They all danced the traditional bourrée to the strains of musette and violin. Their clogs raised dust from the beaten earth, which mingled with the sweat of their bodies. He pressed her close and her heart danced too. 

You’re much prettier than the other girls, he whispered in her ear.

Later, in Bessède’s barn, they lay in the sweet-scented hay and moved together to the rhythm of the dance.

A fortnight later, the crazed church bell sounded the end of peace. And then he was gone, with a tight embrace and a light in his eyes. The August heat crushed the soundless village, stripped of men. The fires of the forge died and the ringing of metal ceased when Arlette’s father left too.

Autumn advanced and the oak trees turned flame-coloured. Arlette wore thicker clothes that concealed the swelling at first. She wrote to Claude with the news. Every day, she looked out for the postman. Every day, her heart plummeted when he brought nothing. Perhaps the mail didn’t reach the Front. Père sent Mère occasional terse missives, revealing little. He could not say where he was.

Read it to me once more, la Mémé would command Mère yet again.

Arlette confided in her best friend. Oh, Simone, what shall I do? If I can’t get Claude to marry me, Père will throw me out when he knows. She covered her face with her hands.

Simone put a hand on her arm. But why didn’t you make sure he was careful?

Arlette raised her tear-streaked face. "What do you mean? I didn’t think you could get pregnant the first time."

Simone shook her head. Where did you learn that? Of course you can. She paused. "I think you’d