The Patron Saint of Lost Souls

by Menna Van Praag

Viola stands straighter, but keeps scrubbing. ‘Neither do you.’

  ‘I can’t afford to.’ He smiles. ‘With you, I’ve got to watch my back.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  Henri’s smile deepens. ‘You flatter me.’

  Viola frowns at him. Is he flirting? Since her radar is clearly so off lately, she can’t be at all sure, yet it certainly seems that way. It wouldn’t be surprising, perhaps, since Henri flirts with virtually everyone, waitresses and waiters alike, though he’s never before flirted with Viola. At least, not that she’s realised.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Viola says. ‘You think you’ve already won.’

  ‘I do not.’ Henri laughs. ‘I don’t underestimate you.’

  Viola smiles. ‘I’m glad one of us doesn’t.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so modest,’ he says. ‘I’m under no illusions about you. I know how good you are, I’ve been watching you.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he says. ‘Why do you think I work so hard? You are a very …’ Slowly, Henri steps forward until he is only inches from Viola’s hand, resting on the scourer. ‘A very … worthy adversary.’

  Viola looks at him, at his dark eyes, long nose, full lips. She blinks but says nothing. And then, Henri leans forwards, ever so slowly, as if asking, with every inch of air, inviting her to come in and meet him. Viola doesn’t move, but she doesn’t pull away. And, when his lips finally touch hers, she opens her mouth and lets him in.

  The kiss is surprisingly gentle, surprisingly sweet. Viola would have imagined that Henri was rough, as determined, as self-centred in his love making as he is in his work. Without thinking about it, before she realises what she’s doing, Viola has slipped her arms around Henri’s neck and is pulling him tight, pressing her body against his, reaching her fingers into his hair. As she kisses him, she thinks of the other Frenchman, the one she drank mulled wine with, the one she really wanted to kiss, and she imagines that that’s what she’s doing now. It’s quite easy really, as it’s been so long since she’s kissed anyone at all; Henri’s lips could be his lips, Henri’s body his body – all Viola has to do is close her eyes and believe it is so.

  ‘You surprise me,’ Henri says, when they pull apart, pausing for breath. ‘I didn’t imagine you had such fire.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t underestimate me,’ Viola says, keeping her eyes fixed on his lips.

  ‘In the kitchen, yes,’ he says. ‘But, in the bedroom, I think – I didn’t imagine Englishwomen were so … passionate.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve only slept with waitresses,’ Viola says. ‘Not chefs.’

  Henri raises both eyebrows. ‘Slept with?’

  Viola gives a slight shrug. ‘I hear the booth on table seventeen is quite … accommodating.’

  ‘Oui.’ Henri smiles. ‘I might have heard the same rumour.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ Viola says, still studying his lips, still tasting him on her own. ‘In fact, I bet you were the one who started it.’

  He reaches up to tuck a curl of hair behind her ear. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Now Viola raises an eyebrow. ‘That you’re the kitchen slut? Now, where could I possibly have got that idea?’

  ‘Hey!’ Henri protests. ‘That’s hardly—’

  But he doesn’t finish, because Viola pulls Henri to her again and kisses him. All she wants is the other Frenchman, more than anything, and so she will take the one she has in her arms.

  ‘Take me to the table,’ Viola whispers. ‘And talk to me, don’t stop talking to me …’

  ‘OK,’ Henri says, ‘OK. I will, I …’

  Still kissing, they half-shuffle, half-fall out of the kitchen together and towards the restaurant.

  ‘But, but,’ Henri stumbles, ‘what do you want me to say?’

  Viola shakes her head as they kiss. ‘No, no,’ she mumbles, ‘French, talk French to me. I don’t care what you say, just in French …’

  ‘OK—’

  ‘French!’

  ‘D’accord, je vais t’amener à la table,’ Henri says, ‘je parle en français pour toi …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Viola says. ‘Don’t stop, just don’t stop.’

  ‘D’accord,’ Henri says. ‘Je vais te baiser, tu es si belle, si séduisante, ma grande adversaire, mon fantasme…’

  And, as Henri talks, as he touches her, Viola shuts her eyes and thinks of Mathieu, of his voice, his lips, the way he spoke, the way he looked at her. And Viola tries, as she kisses Henri, as she fumbles with the buttons of her bright, white uniform, to remember Mathieu’s name.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Mathieu is looking for her. He goes to the market now with a single aim, to find Viola. For the past forty-eight hours he’s been cursing himself. He can’t believe that he let her go like that. So easily, so thoughtlessly. What must she have thought? That he was a coward, probably. That he did not know what to do with a beautiful woman, that he no longer knows how to flirt, how to woo, how to love. And does he? After Virginie died, Mathieu didn’t think so. Love for him had died with her and he’d never imagined it returning to him again. And yet, here it was. But can he manage it? Can he contain it? Does he know what to do?

  Mathieu had felt so … comfortable with Viola, so at ease, so at home. And, at the same time, so excited, so alive, so full of hope. Just as he had been with Virginie all those years ago. Viola conjured up again the feelings Mathieu thought he’d lost for ever when his wife had gone. And yet, he hadn’t simply been reliving the past, he had delighted in Viola, in her humour, in her funny English ways. Indeed, Mathieu had adored every moment of their morning together, sitting on the King’s College wall together, freezing fingers warmed by mulled wine, freezing toes forgotten whenever he’d caught her eye. So why hadn’t he told her? Why had he let her go, when she clearly wanted to stay? Why hadn’t he invited her to join him for another drink the next day, when it would have been so easy just to ask? Because he was a bloody coward, that’s why. And Mathieu has been cursing himself for the fact ever since.

  He returned to the wall a few minutes after walking away. He hadn’t reached the end of King’s Parade before he realised this, before he turned right around and hurried back in the hope of finding Viola as she walked off. He’d even run, as best he could, slipping on the cobblestones down Trinity Street, searching for the sight of her dark-red hat among the crowds of shoppers. His heart had sunk when he’d reached the Round Church and neither Viola nor her hat were anywhere to be seen.

  Mathieu had spent the rest of the afternoon, before he’d had to leave to pick Hugo up from school, picking his way through a dry cheese sandwich as he surveyed the market from a bench outside the Guildhall. He’d returned the following day, heading straight for the Mexican mulled wine stall after dropping Hugo at school and making the cup last as long as he possibly could as he stood alongside the ever-replenishing queue, hopeful that Viola might eventually join it.

  Later that day, when the warmth of the wine had evaporated, along with his hope, when the freezing air had seeped into his bones so deeply that he ached with the chill, Mathieu retreated to the departmental library and sought solace in pictures of cherry clafoutis, beef madrilène with gold leaf spangles, petit pâté en croûte à la bourgeoise, crème brûlée. But the food only makes him think of Virginie and Viola, and neither brings him any comfort.

  Eventually, Mathieu abandons the pictures and opens his laptop, passing the early afternoon hours searching for ‘Viola’ and ‘Cambridge chef’ and many variants thereof, scrolling through endless fruitless pages until it’s time to pick up Hugo from school again and he’s no closer to finding her than he was before he even knew she existed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The following two evenings Gertie and Jude return to the Golden Wok and then go back to Gatsby’s to eat, sitting on the floor as is now their ritual, carving out enough space for a small rug – a rather pricey Persian rug that Jude always prays doesn’t fall foul of a few stray no
odles – upon which they place commemorative plates from Queen Elizabeth’s Coronation and solid silver cutlery from the reign of her father, King George. And, each night, after devouring what remains of the takeaway, Gertie ensconces herself upon the pink silk chaise longue and promptly falls asleep.

  A little guiltily, Jude breathes a sigh of relief. With any luck, her niece will sleep for a few hours, affording her a few hours free from accusations and antagonism. After clearing up the picnic, Jude steals upstairs to her favourite place on the third floor to sit next to the window and gaze out onto the street below. She sits in blissful silence until that silence is punctuated by a voice.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jude darts from gazing out of the window to look behind her. She stares, open-mouthed at the ghost – for what else can it be – of a woman, a very beautiful woman: tall and slim with long, straight, black hair and big brown eyes rimmed with long, dark lashes. Now, the fact of a ghost is something Jude might doubt, but whether or not she’s a spirit or a figment of her imagination, there’s no doubt about who she is. She looks exactly as Gertie will in twenty years.

  ‘F-Frances?’ Jude says, though it’s not really a question.

  The woman smiles. ‘Thank you, my dear sister, thank you for everything. I really do appreciate it more than you can ever know.’

  There might be a million things Jude could ask, a million things she might want to know, a million ways she could express her incredulity. But, frankly, she doesn’t have the time or inclination for any of that. Perhaps she’s dreaming, or hallucinating; it doesn’t matter. All she really wants to know now is how to make her niece happy.

  ‘Why does she hate me?’ Jude says. ‘What am I doing wrong? How am I doing it all so totally wrong?’

  ‘Oh, you aren’t,’ Frances says. ‘She’d hate anyone right now, for not being me. It’s awful and if there was anything at all I could do to change it … But, sadly, you’ll just have to ride it out for a while. It won’t last for ever. She’ll be OK.’

  ‘That’s what I said, but I …’ Jude sighs. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘OK, so I guess I don’t know.’ Frances shrugs and Jude can’t help but smile, recognising her daughter in the gesture. ‘But I believe it, I really do.’

  ‘Oh, God, I hope you’re right. I don’t know what I’m going to do otherwise, I just don’t.’

  ‘It won’t be easy,’ Frances admits. ‘But you’re up to it. I know that for sure, or I wouldn’t have picked you.’

  Jude sits on the windowsill. ‘Why on earth did you pick me? You don’t know me at all, I might be the worst mother in the whole world.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Of course you won’t. You’ll be wonderful. It’ll take a while, but you’ll figure it all out.’ Frances smiles. ‘Anyway, it’s not as if I was the world’s best mother. When Gert was six months old I took her into Heffers – I missed books, I hadn’t read one since she was born – and I started reading something, then I bought it and walked out of the shop without taking her with me. I was halfway along Trinity Street before I remembered I had a baby. I hurtled back and there she was, still in the Classical literature section in her pram, sucking her fingers. Hell, motherhood has the highest expectations and we do our best to meet them, but we never will. No one does. So you might as well let yourself off the hook now.’

  Jude sighs, not quite sure she’s able to do that just yet – she’s still quite firmly installed on that hook.

  ‘All a child really needs is two things,’ Frances says. ‘To be loved and for the person or people who love them to be happy.’

  ‘Well, there you go, I’ve failed on the second count already,’ Jude says. ‘She’ll be in therapy for the rest of her life.’

  ‘Are you so very unhappy?’ Frances asks.

  Jude doesn’t answer.

  ‘But, why?’

  ‘I don’t really … I always have been, I suppose.’

  Frances laughs again.

  ‘Hey, what’s so funny about that?’ Jude’s slightly indignant.

  ‘Oh, it’s not, I’m sorry,’ Frances says, hand over her mouth. ‘But I spent my whole childhood jealous of you, for having our father, for having a family – and there you were, having an even worse time of it. You’ve got to admit, there’s a certain amount of amusing irony to be gained from that. Don’t you think?’

  Jude looks at her sister somewhat askance. ‘That depends on your sense of humour, I suppose.’ She pauses. ‘When did you know about us?’

  Frances shrugs again, though her shrugs are much more effortless, more elegant than her daughter’s. ‘My mum told me as soon as I could understand, I think – we used to watch you all sometimes. Well, Dad when he went to work and you and your mum in the playground and at the library – that sort of thing.’

  Jude gazes at her sister. ‘You did?’

  Frances nods. ‘I almost went to the same school as you, but Mum drew the line there, at least. But, yeah, I pretty much grew up comparing my life – unfavourably – to yours.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Jude says. ‘How ironic.’

  ‘Well, unfortunately, I didn’t realise that till I finally met him. Then I figured out the sort of life you lived.’

  ‘Was he very awful to you?’

  Frances doesn’t answer. ‘What was he like, as a father?’ she says instead. ‘Was he always drunk?’

  ‘Most of the time. Nearly every night he was home. Luckily, he was also out quite a lot too – I guess that’s when he met your mum, one of those nights.’

  ‘Did he ever hit you?’

  ‘He hit Mum a few times,’ Jude says. ‘But no, he never hit me. He wanted to, many times, I could see it in his eyes, but he never did.’

  ‘I suppose that’s something.’

  ‘It was the fear,’ Jude says. ‘I was always scared, all the time. I don’t ever remember not being scared, not until I moved out. Well, actually, probably not until the day I stood up to him for the first time.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was over my mother – when she got ill – he didn’t think she should have a mastectomy, and she always listened to him. I told him he was wrong, I insisted she do it.’ Jude sighs. ‘Not that it made any difference, in the end.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Frances says.

  ‘Do you …’ Jude struggles with the most polite way of asking. ‘Do you know who Gertie’s father is? Only, on the birth certificate …’

  ‘He wasn’t ready to be a father,’ Frances says. ‘So, I didn’t think it was fair to name him.’

  ‘Oh,’ Jude says. She wants to ask, for her niece’s sake, who he is, for when the time comes that Gertie wants to know. But somehow, it doesn’t feel right, not now. So she waits, looking her sister up and down. ‘You’re so … composed so … content. Were you like that when you were alive?’ Jude smiles. ‘If so, you must tell me how you did it.’

  That effortless, elegant shrug again. ‘I guess … one day, probably the day Gert was born, and I knew how much my happiness meant to her, how she would absorb me and … I didn’t want to be bitter and angry any more, I wanted to choose a different way … It took a fair amount of effort, forgiveness, acceptance, all that.’ She smiles. ‘My light side didn’t always triumph over my dark but, for the most part, happiness won out in the long run.’

  ‘That’s …’ Jude trails off. ‘I wish I could do that, but I don’t think I’m as strong as you are.’

  ‘Maybe you just haven’t had the motivation yet, not for yourself, but perhaps you will now, for Gert. Will you at least try?’

  Jude nods. Although she doesn’t entirely understand what Frances means, it doesn’t seem to matter. ‘I will, I promise.’

  And she knows, as she says it, that she means it. And she feels, as she speaks, a slight shift within her already. What exactly, Jude isn’t sure, but the change – however slight – is undeniable.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Viola has sought solace in Henri several times since the first ti
me. Every day she tells herself she won’t do it again. And then, she does it again. It’s challenging since they are always the last two left in the restaurant at night, and she’ll be scrubbing the counter tops or washing copper pots, when she feels his breath on her neck and his words in her ear. If only he wasn’t so damn attractive, if only he wasn’t French, it’d be so much easier to resist him.

  ‘Don’t think that I won’t still fight you tooth and nail in the competition,’ she says, as he kisses the back of her neck, so softly that she shivers. ‘No matter how good you are at this, I won’t …’

  ‘Good,’ Henri says. ‘I want a good fight, I wouldn’t—’

  ‘French.’

  Henri smiles. ‘Je suis désolé, j’ai oublié – je voulais dire, si vous avez cessé de vous battre, je ne vous respecterais plus …’

  ‘Yes,’ Viola says, though she no longer has any idea what he’s saying and nor does she care. Indeed, if she could understand him the illusion would collapse like a pierced soufflé. It’s only this way that Viola can pretend that Henri is someone else entirely, that she can put his voice, his lips, to another and imagine that that man is declaring his undying love for her. While they fuck – it cannot be called anything else, since there is no tenderness between them, no feeling – Viola expresses both her anger at the loss of that other man, as well as her sorrow. She bites the flesh of his neck as he thrusts into her, she pulls back his head with fistfuls of hair between her fingers. She slaps her palm against the bare skin of his back if he stops talking, stops whispering French words, a constant commentary, the seductive soundtrack to their every action, without which Viola wouldn’t touch Henri, let alone let him touch her in all the ways he does. But, all the while, Viola keeps her eyes firmly closed, never once looking at his face.

  ‘Who do you think of while you’re with me?’

  ‘What?’ Viola is pulling her whites back on while Henri leans back against the dark-brown leather of the booth, still half-naked.