The Scarlet Nightingale

by Alan Titchmarsh

  I had always thought that true love must take time to mature, and in some cases that is true. I have seen enough brief and passionate affairs to know that such heightened emotions seldom last. But there are also relationships that are founded on something greater; a common bond that is stronger than mere passion and not always easy to define. Shared values, a shared sense of humour and a willingness to work at a relationship are all vital, but there must also be a spark – an indefinable element – which might not be in any way physical. It is not so much chemical as spiritual: the purest, the deepest and the most all-consuming love. I have known it, and while losing it might be the most harrowing thing on earth, to have experienced it is something that I would never wish to forgo.

  My aunt and I discovered that the house in the south of France, in spite of being occupied by German and Italian officers during the war – its garden becoming overgrown and its swimming pool turning into a pea-green pond filled with fallen leaves and litter – had been watched over by an elderly couple next door. They had – by some means or other – managed to prevent it from becoming a complete ruin.

  On the one flat and cultivatable area at the top of the rocky slope, I think they grew food for the war effort, rather as we – Ned Heffer in particular – supported ‘Dig for Victory’. Mrs Heffer and her brother retired to a tiny cottage in Broadstairs after the war, where she is still probably making her special soups. Now that the war is over, she must be enjoying a limitless supply of unlikely ingredients.

  Harry did not leave a lot of money – the villa here was his main asset – and Aunt Venetia had only a long lease on 29, Eaton Square, which ran out just after the war. So as a result, we threw in our lot together. We moved to the Villa Delphine in 1948, having had one or two alterations made. My aunt was rather elderly by this time and spent much time in bed, but she was as sparky as ever – most of the time railing against the injustices of life. I never imagined that she would want to leave Eaton Square, but having lived through the war and experienced some of the bitterest winters in living memory, the prospect of a milder climate appealed to her – and she had several friends with houses down here, vacated during the occupation but reclaimed afterwards, and so her social life could continue.

  She still held court from time to time; we had her ‘little dinners’ on the terrace, where she could still feel as though she was facilitating all kinds of diplomatic liaisons which no one was unkind enough to suggest were not remotely necessary.

  She was a great strength and solace to me in the years after Harry’s death, and in a funny sort of way I feel close to him here, and close to the spirit of Celine, who talked so many times about the beauty of this part of France. How I would love to be able to show it to her. I cannot look at the sea in its summer aquamarine glory without thinking of the engagement ring upon her finger.

  As Aunt Venetia predicted, I have come to terms with my loss – in some way, though not completely – and I am grateful for the brief time I had with Harry, whose honour and loyalty I continue to champion, even though there are one or two people who have suggested that his activities during the war were questionable. I know for a fact that he was brave and selfless and loved his country every bit as much as he loved me. There are few certainties in this life, but that I know to be one of them.

  Aunt Venetia died peacefully in her sleep in her ninety-first year and is buried in the Protestant cemetery in Cannes. I feel that somehow I have turned into her over the years; I have certainly channelled her spirit and zest for life. When all I wanted to do was die, she taught me how to live, to enjoy life to the full, to take each day as it comes, to not be embarrassed about treating oneself, and to help others wherever possible (and if that involves a nice dinner and fine wine, so much the better. Yes, I think I have definitely turned into my aunt …)

  As for Thierry, I heard no more of him until one day a caller arrived at the Villa Delphine, and asked for Christiane de Rossignol. It was many years since anyone had called me that. Jonathan, an English boy who had worked for us at the villa since leaving school, came out on to the terrace overlooking the sea where my aunt and I were enjoying afternoon tea – my morning’s work (I always write in the morning) having been completed.

  ‘A gentleman to see you, madam,’ he said, indicating the open French windows. I walked through them into the drawing room, and there he was; the same Thierry I had said goodbye to more than ten years before. He looked just the same. He had a few more wrinkles, perhaps, but the tanned complexion, the smile, the floppy hair and the piercing blue eyes were all as I remembered. He was wearing a crumpled cream linen suit and an open-necked shirt that perfectly matched his eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, in English.

  He smiled that smile and just for a moment I was back in Fesches-le-Châtel looking at him across the breakfast table. In a split second, the years fell away and it all came flooding back – the quickening of the heartbeat, the fluttering in the stomach, everything.

  ‘You came back to France?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I came back.’

  ‘But you did not tell me.’ He looked crestfallen.

  ‘I didn’t know where you were, and anyway, there didn’t seem any point.’

  He shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, I think you know.’

  He smiled again. I sat down in a chair and motioned for him to sit in the one opposite, then found myself talking just to stop myself from thinking too much about feelings I had put behind me. ‘How is Paulette?’

  ‘Paulette?’ He looked genuinely puzzled, and then the penny dropped. ‘Ah, Paulette! Yes. I think she is well. She is married now, I believe.’

  ‘You did not stay together?’

  ‘Alas, no. It did not work out. We were happy for a while and then …’

  I could imagine the rest, but could not resist asking, ‘And you? Are you married?’

  ‘Me?’ He laughed. ‘No. I am not married. I am, how do you say, a free agent?’

  Now it was my turn to smile. ‘And you like it that way?’

  Again the shrug, the outstretched arms, palms upwards and the mouth turned down at the corners in a resigned expression. ‘I fear that when you have loved someone special as deeply as I have, all other comparisons pale into insignificance.’

  ‘Your English gets better and better,’ I said, and found it impossible not to smile.

  ‘And you, Christiane? Did you marry your English hero?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And were you happy?’

  ‘We were very happy. For twenty-four hours.’

  Thierry looked puzzled.

  ‘He went to Germany the day after we married – his decision – and he was killed two months later.’

  ‘Merde.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you have not …?’

  ‘No, I have not …’

  His face relaxed a little and the smile began to creep back. ‘So you are single once more?’ he enquired.

  ‘Technically, yes. But practically, no.’

  He tilted his head to one side, the better to ask the unspoken question.

  ‘I live here with my aunt – she is outside on the terrace. I look after her now … and she looks after me.’

  ‘But that is such a waste!’

  Now it was my turn to shrug.

  ‘Do you remember how it was? Between us?’ he asked. ‘The spark! The night of passion? The magic?’

  ‘Yes. I remember perfectly,’ I said.

  ‘Do you think we might …?’

  ‘No, Thierry. Not now. It was all wonderful. You were wonderful, but you are you and I am me. You don’t want to settle down …’

  ‘But my chateau in the Garonne. It is still there …’

  ‘So why aren’t you in it?’

  ‘Because I have no one to share it with.’

  The look on his face was so beseeching I could have given in. I could have asked him to stay, thrown myself into his arms, and we could have rushed ups
tairs to my bedroom and picked up just where we left off ten years before – heaven knows I was lonely enough deep inside for that to be momentarily tempting – but I knew in my heart it could not last. I may write romantic novels but I have never been one to stretch credulity that far. Thierry was a born Gallic lover, destined to roam the earth in search of conquests, pleasing a woman and then, when custom began to stale her variety, moving on – nicely, politely, with that shrug and that winning smile, but he would move on. Thierry was never going to feature in a happy ending – at least, not for the woman who hoped to pin him down.

  ‘You should know,’ I heard myself saying, ‘that I did love you … a little. I think I could have loved you more, but you moved on. It’s what you do, Thierry. I really couldn’t cope with that.’ I got up, anxious to bid him goodbye before I changed my mind and said something that would, in the long-term, only lead to heartbreak.

  Thierry rose from his seat as I did and bowed gently before stepping forward and kissing me softly on the cheek. Just the one. Instantly I was back standing beside the plane and the aching void returned. But I stayed strong – I am still not sure how – and walked with him to the front door, avoiding the terrace and the consequent questions from Aunt Venetia.

  ‘Au revoir,’ I said as we reached the foot of the steps that led up to the villa.

  ‘Thank you for coming.’

  He smiled that smile one last time and made to leave. Then he turned and said, ‘I almost forgot. I have a daughter now. The mother is no longer with me but I do see my little girl from time to time.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said, meaning it.

  ‘Her name is Christiane.’ And then he was gone.

  Life is full of unforeseen ups and downs and I have learned the wisdom of the words carpe diem – seize the day. Aunt Venetia and I had begun our south of France adventure helped by the fact that my first novel was accepted for publication in 1949; it did so well that I was asked to write another one each year. The income was enough to support our modest lifestyle back in those days (modest except for Aunt Venetia’s extravagant dinner parties which I did my best to restrain). Now I am lucky to have enough to afford me a very comfortable lifestyle.

  As you know, Archie, Diana Molyneux married Billy Belgate after the war – and that came as a surprise, I can tell you. As a result she was ‘well set up’, as Aunt Venetia put it. Their elder daughter – your mother – was my goddaughter.

  Your great-grandfather Charles Belgate you will not remember, but he was the archetypal English gentleman who rather took a shine to me. It was he who christened me ‘The Scarlet Nightingale’ on account of my nom de guerre and my predilection for red ink. It was he who gave me the file containing this memoir after the war as a souvenir. If it had not been for your great-grandfather’s intervention, I do not know what would have happened to me. He did his best to discourage Harry from returning to the fray, but I cannot blame him for failing on that front.

  Harry was always going to fight for King and Country. He worked for the King on the royal stamp collection. Have I mentioned that? I cannot remember now. It was only a part of what he did, really, but he did enjoy it. And I do remember still the smell of that car of his – the Talbot. He was so proud of it, but I sold it after the war. It would have been too painful to hang on to it and, anyway, as you know, I never learned to drive.

  I was only twenty-one when I was widowed, and you might assume that I was young enough to get over my bereavement and make a fresh start – certainly after what they used to call ‘a respectable period of mourning’ – but somehow I never did find anyone who quite measured up to Harry. Oh, there were dalliances with handsome Frenchmen whom I always rather foolishly compared to Thierry. But rather like Thierry himself, none of them seemed to quite match up to Harry. There is great good fortune in meeting the ones you love most when you are young, but incomparable misfortune if they are snatched from you without warning and you spend the rest of your life comparing them to others.

  But I am not complaining. I have the happiest of memories and a good life here in a part of the world that I have come to love.

  I think of Devonshire a lot, but I know I will never go back there. That countryside, rather like Harry and Thierry, is a part of my life long gone. Rosamund Hanbury is gone, too. When I married I became Rosamund Napier, and I took as my nom de plume as a novelist the name that Harry bore during his time with the SOE – Rosamund Hawksmoor. By using both his names, I find I can feel more a part of him than if I were just ‘the Widow Napier’.

  So there we are. I leave you with no advice about how to live your life, except to live it to the full and to make errors of commission rather than omission so that you never have to say ‘what if?’

  Grasp life by the scruff of the neck and love it. Love everybody and hang the consequences. You will risk feeling pain and loss and disappointment, but you will also find moments of deep joy which outshine and outlast all the sadness. But only if you take the risks. I took a few myself, and regret none of them.

  My only sorrow is that Harry is not beside me as I write. But he remains steadfastly where he has always been – deep in my heart.

  Find someone who can occupy that space in yours.

  With much love,

  Your honorary ‘Aunt’ Rosamund Hawksmoor.

  An Alan Titchmarsh novel for every mood!

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