What a huge relief it is to hear him say that. I’ve been wondering if he’s been quiet recently because our old life seems rather staid and boring by comparison. His eyes have been opened to so many things beyond our safe little world at home. Would the thought of coming back to me be enough?
‘Funny, we’re thousands of miles apart and you still know when I need you. Now that’s love.’ His words are full of emotion.
I can feel the tears just waiting to be unleashed, but I hold myself in check. Deep breaths, Fern, end this on a high note.
As we say our goodbyes and disconnect, I close my eyes, trying to remember what it felt like to be wrapped in Aiden’s arms. I give up, wondering how I’m going to get through another six months like this, knowing the divide between us could grow and trying not to imagine someone else in his arms.
Any thoughts of Nico are now fading into the shadows as I accept the inevitable. Our paths were only ever meant to cross for the briefest of moments – one year in an entire lifetime seems forever when you are living it, though. When, eventually, I look back, all of this will seem like a distant dream and I know that I will be given the strength to get through it.
March 2019
27
Facing One’s Fears
The Haven is busy. Since Christmas, the weather has been very mixed; January and February saw several flurries of snow falling over a large area of France that didn’t hang around for very long but were a nuisance. But it hasn’t stopped the new arrivals and we’ve been full virtually the whole time.
The twentieth of March is officially the start of spring, but the beginning of the month has brought strong winds, interspersed with bouts of heavier than normal rainfall. The sort that permeates every little nook and cranny if you venture out, and leaves you feeling miserable. At least in the frosty weather, when there was a little crunch beneath our feet, we could wrap up and enjoy a long walk. But it’s frustrating waiting for spring to really make its presence felt.
Even Bastien has been running indoor workshops, with only the odd session down in the barns. He’s taken over the ground floor of the art studio in the courtyard, with Nico’s classes now confined to the mezzanine. Bastien teaches tooling on squares of vegetable tanned leather. Visitors can make bookmarks, belts and wallets.
What I found touching is that, despite the weather, Taylor and Bastien designed and assembled Fred’s bench for me. Made from solid oak I purchased from a local sawmill, it now has the most beautiful plaque inscribed with:
In memory of Fred, beloved husband of Patricia.
Heaven is where you are now,
Inside the hearts of everyone whose lives you touched.
Patricia wrote the inscription and we were all affected by the poignancy of her words. For me, it was because I knew she understood how enormous a gift he gave to Nico. They both did. We thought that maybe visitors would read it and relate it to the setting, maybe sitting here to take a tranquil moment to remember loved ones they’d lost.
We’re all looking forward to getting through March and anticipating the usual, milder weather April has been forecasted to bring with it. Our newest staff member will arrive in a week’s time. Yann Bisson is a personal fitness trainer and I’m hoping to join in with some of his classes. Maybe that will finally shake off the winter blues which don’t seem to want to go this year.
The place does have much more of a buzz these days and the visitors are responding well to the new facilities on offer. Every morning, the gym becomes the meditation zone between ten and eleven. I’m still assisting Pierce by being another set of eyes and ears.
Now I have a better understanding, I can sit down next to someone and demonstrate the correct sitting position. Some people find it hard to get comfortable and often it’s a case of doubling up the mats to help. Occasionally, we might have someone with a knee problem which prevents them from sitting on the floor, so I try and find a suitable chair.
There are two ground-floor rooms in the cottage which are permanent quiet rooms, although I find even that too intrusive with people coming and going. Instead, I’ve taken to heading up into the attic space in the château when I need time alone. The bedrooms here are infinitely more private than the accommodation the staff now have in the courtyard buildings. The walls are thin there, and the rooms are smaller. I miss being here, close to Nico, too. But every evening is spent in the studio together and I treasure that time.
There’s something about the transitional period when winter bows out reluctantly but the signs of spring are few and far between. I long to get outdoors, but the unusual amount of rain this year makes it difficult. If I was at home, it would be freezing cold, of course, and we’d still be spending our evenings in front of the gas fire in the sitting room.
We heard today that our paintings have arrived safely at the gallery in Seville and will be on display as early as next week, so I should be feeling elated, but instead I’m deflated. Maybe it’s because I’m a little under the weather; I’ve had a sore throat and a headache off and on for nearly two weeks now and this virus doesn’t seem to want to leave me alone.
After waving off the last batch of visitors, I welcome the start of the weekend with a sense of lethargy. Nico is treading carefully around me, concerned that I’m not my usual self. He thinks I’m homesick, but it’s more than that. I’ve been so worried about how I’ve been feeling that I even mentioned it to Pierce yesterday.
‘We talked briefly about when you lost your sister and I don’t want to labour this, Fern, but I really do think some of your anxieties stem from that. Your level of worry over the people you love is, at times, a little excessive. Do you feel you are in control, or is it getting out of hand?’ he’d asked, and I’d shrugged my shoulders, unsure of how to answer him. That’s all I needed, something new to add to the burden of worries.
‘If this continues, then we ought to sit down and talk it through properly. I can’t believe you didn’t have counselling at the time. I suspect there’s a link between a sense of loss you’ve never recovered from and your reaction to being apart from your family. Not getting a proper night’s sleep is a red flag and that in itself can lead to a depressed state, as well as fatigue and moodiness. I’m here, Fern, and it’s what I do. But you need to be ready to open up and accept that there could be deep-seated issues at play.’
His concern was real, and maybe he was right. Losing Rachel like that, without warning – without being able to say goodbye – left me feeling empty and powerless. I was angry that someone so vibrant could be snatched away from us because of an accident. It was supposed to have been a dream holiday with her two best friends. Why is fate so cruel at times?
Naturally, I cling on to the people I love now, because I don’t ever want to lose them. Obsessive, maybe, but perfectly understandable surely. I’m not ready, yet, to unlock that box, even if I’m fooling myself that I can handle it without seeking help.
However, I feel guilty that it is Nico who has to suffer as my mood plummets late in the day when I’m tired. Listless, irritable and this damn temperature of mine is up and down all the time, making my skin itch. He tries hard to distract me.
As we paint, sometimes we talk, and he tells me stories about his life; mainly happy little memories from his early childhood living in a Spanish village. Other times, we work in silence. Like tonight.
The wild splashes of crimson, as I repeatedly swipe my brush on the canvas in front of me, invoke an anger that has materialised, seemingly from nowhere.
Suddenly, Nico is at my shoulder.
‘What is it, Fern? What is really troubling you?’
He throws an arm around my shoulders, easing the brush out of my hand. Then he pulls me into him, holding me tightly until my anger subsides, only to be replaced by tears.
‘I feel that nothing will ever be the same for me again and I don’t know if I can stand that thought. The weeks are flying by now. When it’s time to leave, I’ll be different, too. In the last eight months, I
’ve never felt more alive in some ways, although in others I feel incomplete, because I know something is missing. My family. But here it’s easy to just take each day as it comes. People come to the château to relax and have fun learning new skills, so they’re happy and they’re healing themselves. But this isn’t real life for me, Nico.’
The truth is that tonight I’m utterly exhausted. I haven’t had more than a couple of hours sleep each night for the last two weeks now, and it’s taking a toll. Feeling a little feverish, my mind is conjuring up all sorts of imaginary worries.
‘What else is going on in that head of yours? You’ve coped perfectly well until recently. What has tipped you over the edge all of a sudden?’ He leans forward. Our foreheads are almost touching as he stares deeply into my eyes, a worried frown wrinkling his brow.
‘It’s obvious Hannah’s having problems at uni and losing heart. Something has gone wrong and she doesn’t want to worry me, so her texts and calls have dropped off. Which is worse, as I keep going over what it might be. Maybe she’s quit, who knows?’ I sniff, pulling a tissue from my sleeve. ‘Owen is flying out to take part in a NATO exercise in Norway and that’s scary. His texts will be few and far between; the reality of his world is beginning to fill me with dread.
‘And it was Aiden’s thirtieth birthday on Thursday. I couldn’t get hold of him, so I texted and then emailed him. I know it’s silly as we’ll have a party later in the year, but I wasn’t with him on a landmark day in his life. I hope he was on a high, exploring Thailand, but he’s about to move on again. Last time we spoke his plans were vague and he wasn’t his usual self. He’s becoming more and more withdrawn with each week that passes. He’s been travelling almost continually for over a month now and a break that was supposed to re-energise him is leaving him feeling exhausted.
‘Even Mum and Dad don’t seem to be around much, and I have no idea what’s going on with them. I feel cut off from everyone; I’m not used to that – we usually discuss everything.’
‘They aren’t shutting you out, Fern. When they need you, or they have some real news, they’ll be in touch. Why are you torturing yourself like this?’
‘Because we should be united as a family and we aren’t.’ It’s a battle to restrain the terse edge to my voice because I know how I sound. Possessive, needy.
‘That’s nonsense,’ Nico says, forcefully. ‘It’s life and you can’t bind the people you love to you, as if they are too fragile to venture out into the world on their own. It’s wonderful to love someone without reservation, but you can’t lead their lives for them. All you can do is be a safety net. That’s the bond families enjoy and that’s special; the feeling that no matter what happens there’s always someone who cares enough to listen and help when you need it.’
I can see that he’s speaking from the heart.
‘You didn’t have that, did you? Well, not with your father.’
He shakes his head as he gently releases me. He turns, still talking as he begins to pack up for the night. ‘My mother was the rock in our family, but her life was hard. It’s a long and sorry story.’
‘Is it too painful to share?’ I ask, gently, and I can see from his stance a moment of hesitation.
‘Yes… No… I don’t know is the truth because I never have.’
After a few minutes spent tidying things away, we head towards the attic without saying another word. Nico has arranged two old armchairs, facing each other just three feet apart and positioned so that we can lie back and stare up at the heavens. It’s become a special place for us both.
Once we’re settled, I look at him, frowning, giving him time to think about where to start. He takes a few minutes to compose himself and when he begins speaking his eyes are directed upwards, so I lean back and do the same.
‘My father’s family were olive farmers, but his heart wasn’t in it when eventually he inherited the farm. He tried for a while because he knew they would have been bitterly disappointed in him, but in fairness it was a bad time, economically. I was a young boy and all I remember is that my parents rowed incessantly as his dependency on alcohol grew. By then he spent his days painting, veering from heights of great joy to the depths of despondency. My mother had no choice but to employ two local men, as my father lost interest in everything else around him. I spent my time avoiding him and trying to help out when I wasn’t at school.
‘He drank when he was happy, and his work was going well, then he drank when one single brushstroke seemed to ruin it all for him. Those were the times when his disappointment would overwhelm him. Sometimes he’d drink for several days at a time, and I learnt how to make myself invisible. My mother had enough to cope with, worrying about paying the bills, as well as making sure my dad didn’t end up setting fire to the house or falling down the stairs and breaking his neck.’
The imagery in my mind, as I stare up at the darkness, is powerful. For a young boy that must have been frightening; for a mother, a desperate situation when her options were clearly limited. They were all prisoners in a hell that Nico’s father had created.
‘There were good times, but increasingly they became few and far between. My mother wasn’t happy when I, too, first picked up a paintbrush. I’d always drawn. But when my father was in a good mood and he encouraged me into his personal space, I can remember the feeling of tremendous excitement, so vividly.
‘He used traditional oil paints, so the smell of the linseed he mixed with it to help the drying process and the turpentine, which he used to clean his brushes, was prevalent. To a young boy, it was an exciting environment; the smells alone were heady. It was a place where beautiful things were created.
‘I longed to express everything I was holding back, deep inside, and wanted to be given free rein. There was this need in me to have my passion acknowledged, but it never was by my father. Even today, walking into my own studio invokes a wide range of emotions, but I use that to fuel my creativity.’
‘How old were you when you started painting?’
‘I started with watercolours at school; I was probably around eight years old. My art teacher recognised an inherent talent within me and eventually she persuaded my mother that it was wrong to inhibit that. You can imagine that was a tough thing for her, as it was destroying my father before her very eyes. It brought him less and less satisfaction, but she could see that indulging me allowed me to escape for long periods of time. I was prolific, excited to experiment and see where it took me.’
There’s great positivity in his voice, as if he’s reliving that time and experiencing the lift it gave him.
‘Suddenly I had a sense of purpose,’ he admits.
‘What effect did that have on your father?’ I ask, hesitantly.
He stops looking upwards and our eyes meet. ‘I was only allowed to paint in a loft, in one of the barns, out of sight of him. It was a couple of years before he realised what I was doing. He never visited my school; my mother went on her own as he was too wrapped up in himself to show any concern over what was going on around him.’
I swallow hard, feeling sad for a young boy expressing his talent and yet having to hide it.
‘One day he was desperate for a drink. My mother and I had just returned from a shopping trip and were carrying boxes through to the kitchen. I went out to get the last few things, while my mother moved the pickup truck. As I walked back inside, he was combing through the boxes. Wine bottle in hand, he discovered a bag with tubes of watercolour paint my mother had purchased for my birthday. At that time, it was all she could afford, and we made up the canvases together, because it cost very little.’
I can’t help but suck in a deep breath as I can see he’s in the moment, transported back more than twenty years. I don’t want to move, or make a sound, fearful of breaking his train of thought.
‘He looked at me as if I was a traitor. The wine bottle slipped from his hand, splashing droplets of the rich red colour and tiny pieces of glass over our feet. He grabbed at one of the tu
bes, angrily, and made a fist, crushing it until the side fractured and I remember the stain of Prussian Blue as it forced its way between his fingers and started to drip onto the floor.
‘He screamed at me “You want this?” as he unclenched his fist, holding up his paint-splattered palm. “Then you are more of a fool than I took you for, Nico. It is destroying me, and it will destroy you, too; a foolish father begets a foolish son.” He spat the words at me.’
My heart feels crushed for that young boy.
‘The farm was losing money and when my mother’s parents passed on it was decided we should move to France and take possession of the château, rather than sell it. She said there was no point in trying to keep the farm going and she was tired of it all.
‘When we were packing up, that’s when my father discovered my canvases. Many had paintings on both sides and my passion had grown to the point where I did odd jobs for neighbours in order to buy more materials.
‘He said nothing at the time and when we first arrived in France, we unpacked everything, and my paintings were brought up here to languish. It was several years later that I discovered what he was doing, by accident, really. By then I had my own little studio in one of the old stables. Sadly, it had to be knocked down when I began the renovations. I had graduated on to oil paint and I was signing my work. My mother was actively encouraging me as she could see that I wasn’t the weak man my father was and art was my destiny. We set up the market garden to generate some additional income to keep us going and things were working out well. She was as happy as she could be, given the circumstances.’
Nico’s face shows the shadow of a haunting smile as he thinks of her. Instinctively, his whole body shifts, discomforted by his thoughts. Placing his hands firmly on the arms of the chair, he turns his head once more, heavenwards. The silence is peaceful, but the sadness is tangible.
Summer in Provence Page 24
