by Allen, Anne
Malcolm said, giving Louisa a hug as they said their goodbyes.
She grinned at Charlotte who could only nod her agreement. She and Gillian exchanged a quick hug,
promising to keep in touch.
Once the guests had left the two women retreated to the kitchen to clear away.
‘Well, that went well and I’m pleased you liked Gillian, though I thought you would. As she lives in Richmond
you’re not too far from each other. Assuming she stays there and doesn’t move here.’ Louisa, loading the
dishwasher, turned to face her. ‘Do you think they make a great couple? As in permanent?’
Charlotte, washing the glasses in the sink, looked up and smiled. ‘Absolutely. You can see how much in love
they are. Even when they were talking to someone else, their eyes kept glancing towards each other. I think it’s
very sweet and I’m pleased for them both. Gillian’s a lovely woman and too young to stay a widow forever. Has
Malcolm said anything to you re his plans?’
Louisa shook her head. ‘Not exactly. But the fact he’s keen for my approval speaks volumes, doesn’t it? But it’s
early days, so…’ she shrugged, yawning. ‘I must get to bed or I’ll be fit for nothing tomorrow night. I think Paul’s
planning to take me out to a nightclub he’s heard of so it could be a late one.’
Once Charlotte was in bed her thoughts turned to the loved-up couple and their obvious happiness.
Genuinely pleased for them, she could not help feeling a twinge of envy. They had been given a second chance at
love and she hoped it could be true for herself. Her face warming, she recalled the passionate kisses she had
shared with Andy. There was definitely a spark between them. But was it lust – or love? And what about the big
divide socially? She didn’t give a fig for class, she told herself, but deep down she knew it would be hard to
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relinquish the trappings of wealth. And it was clear Andy wasn’t comfortable about her background – and his.
So, where did that leave them?
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chapter sixteen
There was an autumnal edge to Friday, not surprising as October had crept in a couple of days earlier, almost
unnoticed under the guise of warm sunshine. But now it was grey and clouds scudded across the sky, chased by
a north-easterly bringing a Scandinavian chill to the island. Charlotte shrugged into her warmest sweater and
topped it with a lightweight jacket labelled “Windproof and Stormproof”. She hoped it was true as she dashed
out to Louisa’s car parked on the drive. Her friend had said she could use it while she was in Jersey and Charlotte
had dropped her off earlier at La Folie. The couple planned to take a taxi to the airport straight from work later
that afternoon and Charlotte had wished her a good weekend. Accompanied by a wink, which made Louisa
blush.
Now Charlotte was on the way to visit Mrs Vaudin in St Martins and, in spite of the cool wind, felt a tremor of
excitement. Reading Madeleine’s diary and the files in the archives, had brought the occupation to life for her
and it would be fascinating to talk to someone who had lived through it. It was a matter of minutes before
Charlotte pulled up outside the cottage off La Route des Camps.
The door was opened by a stooped old lady, leaning on a stick and trussed up in layers of old cardigans. She
peered at her with bespectacled eyes.
‘You must be Charlotte Townsend. Come in, girl, out of the wind.’
She followed the old lady down a tiny hall and into a cramped sitting room where chairs and sofas jostled for
space. Charlotte glanced around at shelves stacked with photographs and painted ceramic figurines.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, my dear? And some Gâche? I can’t carry a tray these days so if you could give me
a hand–’
‘Of course! Lead the way.’
Mrs Vaudin shuffled through to the adjacent kitchen and switched on the kettle. On the side lay a tray already
set with cups, saucers and a plate of buttered Gâche, a local fruit bread. Charlotte was glad she had accepted the
offer as it must have taken the old lady some effort to prepare. Once the kettle was boiled she filled the teapot
and carried the tray into the sitting room while Mrs Vaudin followed.
‘This looks lovely, thank you. Shall I pour? Sugar?’
‘Two sugars please. I still have my sweet tooth even though I’ve lost most of my teeth!’ The old lady cackled,
displaying a gummy mouth. She stared at her. ‘You’re not local are you? And that accent of yours means you
must be posh. Why are you talking to the likes of me?’
Charlotte wriggled on the chair. ‘No, I’m not local, Mrs Vaudin, but I am a friend of Jeanne, the writer of the
book I’m…researching. She wants me to talk to anyone who lived here through the war, so you’re absolutely the
right kind of person for me to meet.’ She flashed her warmest smile and the old lady nodded. ‘I understand
you’ve lived all your life in St Martins and remained here during the occupation.’ Charlotte sat back, equipped
with tea and Gâche.
Mrs Vaudin grunted, her eyes appearing even cloudier. She described her earlier years in the Parish and
during the war, saying it was very different at that time.
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‘I’m sure it was. Could you tell me a little bit about what it was like back then, Mrs Vaudin? My friend Jeanne
wants to make sure she gets her facts right in her next book.’ Charlotte fished in her bag for a pen and notepad.
Mrs Vaudin talked and Charlotte wrote, asking the occasional question. Her account of what happened while
under German rule tallied with what Charlotte had read, both in the archives and in Madeleine’s diary.
‘Did you hear anything about informers, Mrs Vaudin? I understand there were those who reported their
neighbours for having forbidden radios and things like that.’
‘I did hear my parents talking about such things when they didn’t know I was listening, but no names were
mentioned, like. People were angry about it, for sure. By the time we were liberated, everyone was looking over
their shoulder. Bit paranoid we were. A bad business, all told,’ she said, with a shake of her head.
‘Yes, I absolutely agree.’ Charlotte coughed. ‘I understand a certain Edmund Batiste, who lived near St
Martins Point, was accused of being an informer before dying in mysterious circumstances. Did you hear
anything about that?’
The old lady sniffed. ‘Well, I know the Batistes, for sure. Everyone round here does. Old Harold’s the local
bigwig, thinks himself some sort of lord of the manor! Not a real one, mind. Not like Mr Peter de Saumarez,
who’s a proper gentleman and lives at Saumarez Manor down the road,’ she said, waving her arm yet again. ‘But
I never heard of no Edmund Batiste.’ She frowned. ‘Died in suspicious circumstances, you say? What happened
exactly?’
‘He…he was beaten up and pushed over the cliff at St Martins Point. He was Harold’s older brother.’
Mrs Vaudin’s mouth opened wide.
‘You don’t say! Well, I never! I didn’t know there was a brother. All I know is Harold took over the farm and
everything else when old man Batiste died. My pa did some work for him once, said he was a right stingy bugger
with a vicious temper. Mmm,’ she said, looking deep in thought.
Charlotte, anxious not to cause rumours which might get ba
ck to the rector, went on to say it was only a story
she’d heard, and it may have been far from the truth.
‘Oh, I know how easy it is for rumours to spread here! People’s words get twisted, like those Chinese
whispers thingy. I had a friend once who said she thought her little girl might have an ear infection, and before
you knew it, the word went round the little mite had gone deaf!’ Mrs Vaudin chuckled. ‘Wasn’t funny at the time,
but it goes to show you have to be careful what you say, doesn’t it?’ She tapped her nose. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, I
won’t repeat what you said. Wouldn’t want you getting into no trouble when you’re only trying to help your
friend.’
She breathed a sigh of relief. That had been close! ‘Thank you, Mrs Vaudin, I appreciate your discretion. Now,
I’d better leave you in peace. Let me clear everything away first. And is there anything else you’d like me to do
while I’m here?’
Mrs Vaudin brushed aside any offer of further help, other than the taking of the tray to the kitchen. As she
left, Charlotte opened her bag and pulled out a box of chocolates – soft centres fortunately – and handed them to
the old lady.
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‘Thank you so much for your time, you’ve been a great help. And for the lovely tea and Gâche. Goodbye.’
The old lady grinned and waved her off before shuffling back into the cottage.
Charlotte was left feeling somewhat wrung out, but pleased someone from outside the family had a poor
opinion of Harold. A picture was building up of an unlikeable, greedy man which fitted Madeleine’s description
perfectly. As she started the car she thought of the close call when mentioning the Batistes. She would need to be
more careful another time.
~ ~
Andy checked the casserole slow-cooking in the oven. Yes, it should be cooked in time but perhaps he should
add a drop more wine? He was on a mission to impress and the boeuf bourguignon was part of the plan. That
and his natural charm and good looks, he teased himself. Although he had spoken to Charlotte on the phone a
few times during the week, he had only seen her briefly when dropping round the diary. The memory of their
day in Herm was still up there as one of the best days he’d experienced in a long time. Years, if he was honest.
Watching the potatoes simmering on the hob reminded him he had not invited anyone, let alone a beautiful
woman, around for a meal for ages. Since splitting with Julie, he had thrown himself into the practice, working
hard to build up his client list and achieve a measure of success against fierce competition. In this Andy thought
he had succeeded. Word was spreading and he was now so busy he wondered if it was time to take on a young
graduate. He shook his head – time to think about the business later.
For the moment the priority was impressing Charlotte. She was working hard on his behalf with the research
and he wanted to show his appreciation. And he would like to think she was interested in him as well as the
family schism. And proving what a dab hand he was in the kitchen might help, he thought, straining the cooked
potatoes prior to creating a buttery mash.
The food was keeping warm in the oven when Charlotte arrived on time. Checking he hadn’t spilt anything on
his clothes – no, all was well – Andy ran a hand through his hair before opening the door.
‘Charlotte, great to see you again. And looking so…well,’ he said, wanting to say gorgeous but thought it might
be too much. Even though it was true. She was wearing a brown suede skirt and red sweater which emphasised
her green eyes. He felt self-conscious in his jeans and open-neck shirt, standard weekend wear.
She smiled, her eyes sparkling as she thrust a bottle of wine into his hands.
‘You’re not looking too bad yourself,’ she replied as they moved forward into an embrace. He kissed her
lightly on the mouth and felt his body respond. Quickly moving back he ushered her inside.
‘Umm, something smells delicious! Is cooking another of your talents?’ she asked, as he led her into the
kitchen diner.
‘Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a talent, but I’m not bad. Having a French mother does have advantages
where cooking’s concerned. You know how important food is to them,’ he said, encouraged by her compliment.
‘Please, take a seat and I’ll pour some wine. Lunch will be ready in five minutes.’ Once Charlotte’s glass was filled
he checked the vegetables before joining her at the round table set with his best china and cutlery. She gazed
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around at the handmade wooden kitchen units, topped with a gleaming granite worktop set against soft green
painted walls, and smiled.
‘What a lovely room. I like the way you’ve kept a cottage feel but included some modern touches. Feels cosy.
And welcoming,’ she said, her eyes locking onto his.
He licked his lips, his mouth inexplicably dry. ‘Thanks, I’m pleased with the way it turned out. And…and the
rest of the cottage, which I’d be happy to show you after lunch, if you like.’
‘Love to. In the meantime I’m starving! My gastric juices have gone into overdrive thanks to that wonderful
aroma. Would I be right in guessing you’ve added wine to whatever it is you’re cooking?’ she said, her head
tilted.
Andy laughed. ‘You’d be right! A good old-fashioned boeuf bourguignon positively swimming in Burgundy.
And accompanied by mashed potato and steamed beans. Would Madam like to eat now? Or we could wait a little
longer–’ he teased.
‘Now, please! Do you need a hand?’
He was already lifting the casserole out of the oven to put on the worktop before taking out the dish of
mashed potato and the warmed plates.
‘No, it’s all done. I only need to strain and butter the beans. You stay put while I prove to you I’m not only a
great cook but also a rather mean waiter.’
He set the dishes on the table with a flourish and gave a slight bow.
Charlotte chuckled. ‘Not bad so far. And it all looks divine. Your mother taught you well.’
He sat down, beginning to feel his tense shoulder muscles relax under her smiling gaze.
‘I guess. She was determined I would make someone a good husband one day and saw my being a reasonable
cook as a step in the right direction. I did share the cooking with my ex, and she seemed to enjoy what I made.
My father, on the other hand, has no interest in anything which happens in the kitchen except when the meals
are served in front of him. He’s a relic of the chauvinist era, I’m afraid.’
Charlotte helped herself to the food and waited while Andy filled his plate.
‘Well, I have a confession to make.’ He looked up, shocked. ‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s nothing terribly awful, but
I’ve never learnt to cook. Never needed to, you see. But I’m making an effort now and Louisa is helping me. I’ve
progressed from being completely useless to knowing how to prepare vegetables and, at a push, how to cook
them.’ She beamed at him and he couldn’t resist laughing.
‘I see. My mother would be horrified but…’ he waved his arms, ‘I’m not. Surprised, yes. Presumably there’s
always been someone to cook for you?’
She told him a little about her background, enough for him to realise her upbringing was even more
privileged than he’d imagined. While he chewed on this dist
racting thought, Charlotte took a mouthful of the
casserole.
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‘Andy, this is wonderful! My congrats to the cook and whoever taught him,’ she said, her eyes dancing.
‘Thanks. I’m glad you like it. I’ve made a French apple tart for pud and before you ask, yes, it’s another of
Mum’s recipes.’ He released an inward sigh. Knowing Charlotte must have dined at the very best restaurants had
been a huge concern. Andy acknowledged he was no Raymond Blanc.
‘Lovely. I look forward to it. Now, I simply must tell you what I’ve found out…’ Andy was all attention while
she gave him the gist of what Madeleine had written in the remainder of her diary. Although there were no
revelations, he was content to listen as Charlotte, in a husky voice, which he found incredibly sexy, described his
grandmother’s experiences. It made it so much more real to him and he wondered how much his father knew.
Sometime soon he’d have to raise the subject with him but Andy wanted to wait until he had something concrete
to impart. Something that would change his father’s life.
‘…and I went to see this sparky old lady yesterday and although she couldn’t tell me much, what she said did
corroborate Madeleine’s view of Harold.’ Charlotte filled him in further as they ate their food, which, he had to
admit, was cooked to perfection. He sent a mental ‘thanks, Mum’ to his mother as he listened.
‘So, there we are. What do you think?’ Charlotte asked, before scooping up a final mouthful.
‘I think the finger’s pointing at Harold, for sure. We just can’t prove it, yet. And nothing you’ve learnt
incriminates Edmund in any way. I’m more and more convinced he never snitched on anyone. Sounds totally out
of character. Whereas Harold…well, it’s something I could imagine him doing. We know he and his father were
happy to buy on the black market and hide some of their extra food, making both of them unscrupulous. And
Harold tried to rape Madeleine which puts him beyond the pale.’ He stood up and paced around, anger at Harold
taking hold. ‘It would give me enormous pleasure to bring the bastard to justice, and it can’t come soon enough.
