Return to the Little French Guesthouse

by Helen Pollard

  ‘How are you doing?’ I asked him.

  ‘Not good. My spine will be permanently bent from that sodding sofa at this rate.’

  ‘I didn’t mean physically.’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  I decided to be more specific. ‘The other day, you said that Gloria might expect you to sell up and move on.’

  ‘That has now been clarified. She’s willing to put up with it for a few months, a year at most, while we get back on an even keel and look for a buyer. But La Cour des Roses will have to go.’

  My hackles rose. ‘Are you happy for her to dictate to you like that?’

  ‘You would think not,’ he answered mildly. ‘But as she pointed out, it’s not only about what I want. A marriage involves two people, and Gloria has put forward a case that makes a surprising amount of sense.’

  ‘Really?’ The disbelief in my tone was clear as a bell.

  He chuckled half-heartedly. ‘Yes, really.’ He sighed. ‘She kindly pointed out that I’m getting older.’

  I winced. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘I only have so many years left in me with regard to La Cour des Roses. Would I still be up to it at sixty-five? At seventy? Eventually, it would become too much and I would have to sell. And so, selling sooner wouldn’t make much difference, according to Gloria.’

  I was tempted to point out that the world according to Gloria was very different to the world according to normal people, but I refrained. Instead, I asked him, ‘How do you feel about being forced into your dotage so soon?’

  ‘I don’t like to think of it that way, Emmy, but she does have a point. La Cour des Roses can be tiring – as you well know. And, as Gloria reminded me, my health has not exactly been sparkling lately.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! You had a scare, that’s all. Your angina is under control now, and you’re miles fitter than you were before. How much weight have you lost?’

  ‘Over a stone,’ Rupert admitted, running a hand over his stomach.

  ‘Well, then. Look at me, Rupert. I’m nearly thirty years younger than you, but I’m as red as a beetroot following that ruddy dog of yours and I can barely breathe. You’re doing fine. I think it’s more a question of whether you’ve had enough of the rest of it. The cooking. The guests. The company. Your downtime in the place you built from nothing.’

  He was quiet for a moment, staring off across the fields. ‘No. I still enjoy those things. And now that you’re here, the tiredness has improved no end. You do a darned sight more than Gloria ever did.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be hard.’

  ‘I know. But it’s made my life so much easier, having someone I can trust who’ll get on with things. I don’t know how long you’d be with me, but while you were, I could manage. I don’t see why a few extra years on my clock would make any difference.’ He tugged at the dog’s lead and we turned to retrace our steps. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’ve told me very clearly what Gloria wants, but not really what you want.’

  He sighed. ‘I like my life here, Emmy. I have friends. The dog. You. I enjoy the guests’ company, mostly – meeting new people. But if I want to stay here, it would be without my wife. The only woman I really loved.’

  And now for the million-dollar question. ‘Do you... Do you still love her?’

  ‘I used to. Very much. But she’s changed, and maybe that’s my fault and the fault of La Cour des Roses. Perhaps she’s right – perhaps we could get all that back, if we do things the way she wants.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  That’s because I’m not. ‘Have you...’ I wondered if I was going too far, then thought what the hell. ‘Have you slept with her?’

  Rupert suddenly became very interested in his shoes. ‘She tried a few times, but I held out. Gloria can be very persuasive.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Don’t read anything into it, Emmy. If it happens, it’s only sex.’

  I let out a strangled laugh. ‘Well, it shouldn’t be! You’re man and wife! You’re considering giving everything up to spend the rest of your life with her. It shouldn’t be “only sex”. It should mean something.’

  ‘That’s... interesting.’ He straightened his shoulders, which had been sagging throughout the walk, as though he had the weight of the world on them. ‘This is putting a strain on everybody, not just me. I feel like it’s my duty to make my mind up sooner rather than later. Put everyone out their misery.’

  ‘Your only duty is to yourself, Rupert, and if you don’t know how you feel yet, then you don’t. But if, deep down, you do know, and you’re only delaying the inevitable, then you might as well get it over with – whatever “it” might be.’

  As we turned onto the lane, he asked me, ‘No final words of wisdom?’

  I dredged my brain for something helpful. The lines on his forehead were etched deep. ‘Do you remember what you said to me when you were trying to persuade me to give everything up to come here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You told me that it was my life, and to follow my heart.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I asked if you thought my heart belonged here at La Cour des Roses.’

  ‘Did I have an answer to that?’

  ‘You told me it wasn’t for you to say.’

  I went to my room, leaving him standing in the courtyard with the dog at his side.

  * * *

  My daily check of review sites revealed another couple of short but positive reviews from previous guests, and an absolute cracker from the Stewarts, a couple who had stayed at the guesthouse when I was there last time.

  We spent a wonderful few days at La Cour des Roses in June this year. Rupert Hunter is the perfect host – helpful and good-natured, and knowledgeable about the local area. Breakfast was ample and varied, and the evening meals were out of this world – certainly comparable to the meals we ate at local restaurants. Our room was large, comfortable, spotlessly clean and tastefully decorated, and we could not fault the garden with its many beautiful sitting nooks. We would give La Cour des Roses six stars if we could, and we will definitely be back!

  I beamed with contentment. This was more like it!

  But when I trotted along the hall to show Rupert, I could hear his and Gloria’s voices coming from his lounge, so I bid a hasty retreat.

  Back in my room, the momentary victory and pride in La Cour des Roses that I’d felt from reading the review rapidly faded as I thought about our conversation that morning. The fact was, there were no guarantees that La Cour des Roses would be a going concern much longer if Gloria had her way... and after speaking to Rupert, I wasn’t convinced that she wouldn’t get just that.

  By lunchtime, Nick had sent me a link, as promised, for the sample pages of the website. They looked brilliant – and they were timely. After a quick lunch, I drove out to meet Jerry Barnes at his gîte complex. He was a lively and jovial man who was rightly proud of what he’d done with the ramshackle set of barns and outbuildings he’d got dirt cheap. They were now a series of half a dozen self-catering units, each with private seating and barbeque areas, and a communal pool. It would take a couple of years for the grounds to look a little more lived in, but other than that, I couldn’t fault them.

  I showed him the pages on my laptop and explained that the business would not go live until I’d gathered together a small number of clients and the website was finished. He said he would be happy to list with me, since it would be at no cost to him. In a cheeky bit of experimentation, I told him that I would be willing to accept his own photos but strongly recommended we use a professional photographer for a minimal flat fee – the only thing he would pay up front. He was willing, and I left happily smug.

  I went on to pay my promised visit to Jonathan. As I emptied and scrubbed his food cupboards, I gave him an abridged version of recent events, omitting anything Rupert had told me in confidence.
r />   ‘So your working life is being made a misery by Gloria, a horror that is only mitigated by the fact that you’re having sex with a tall, handsome half Frenchman?’

  ‘That about sums it up. These lentils are three years out of date.’

  ‘Chuck ’em.’ He coughed.

  I lobbed the packet in the direction of the large bin bag I had out. Unfortunately, the seam burst on the way, and a sea of tiny dried lentils washed across the floor. I climbed down from the stepladder and picked up the dustpan and brush, then got down on my hands and knees.

  ‘Your cough doesn’t sound any better, Jonathan.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Have you been to the doctor?’

  ‘They don’t like to give you anything nowadays, do they? It’ll go in its own sweet time.’

  With the lentils swept up – although I had a nasty feeling we’d be discovering them everywhere for weeks – I clambered back onto the stepladder. ‘Do you ever eat anchovies?’

  ‘Not unless Rupert cleverly hides them in something. Why?’

  ‘You have three jars at the back here.’

  ‘Can’t think why. Could you take them to Rupert’s?’

  I searched for the faded dates on the jars. ‘Not unless he wants to poison the guests.’

  ‘Chuck ’em. Will you speak to Rupert again?’

  ‘I think he’s told me all he’s willing to. I don’t want to pry any more.’

  ‘You two have been to hell and back together, Emmy. I don’t think he’d see it as prying, but perhaps there’s nothing more to be said. All you can do now is pray he makes the right decision.’ Yet another cough.

  ‘Do you have any cough medicine?’

  ‘In the bathroom cabinet.’

  ‘How out of date will that be?’ I trooped upstairs to fetch it. ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘Oh. Washing. Sorry. Could you bring it down and shove it in?’

  I did that, made him take some medicine, then looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘Right. What next?’

  ‘Can we make a start on the junk in the spare room? I can never find anything in there.’

  We trudged upstairs, and Jonathan perched on a stool while I clambered amongst boxes and discarded lamp shades and teetering piles of books, showing him stuff so he could decide whether to keep or bin.

  Feeling hot and grubby, I was about to call it quits when a heavy book fell on my toes, making me yelp. It was an old photograph album, and dust whooshed from between its pages when I opened it.

  ‘You ought to take better care of this,’ I told him, blowing ineffectually at it before handing it across.

  He silently took it and, without even looking at it, placed it on the bin pile.

  ‘Wrong pile, Jonathan.’

  ‘Right pile. I’m not senile.’

  ‘But that looks like an old family album. You must want to keep it.’

  His face was hard. ‘No. I haven’t looked at it in the last twenty-five years, and I’m not going to start now.’

  I suddenly realised that there were no family photos in the lounge. ‘But Jonathan...’ I picked up the album and flicked through it, making myself sneeze as I glanced at black-and-white photos, some so faded you could hardly see the people. ‘What family do you have back in the UK?’

  ‘Brother. Sister. Nieces and nephews.’

  ‘Do you see them very often?’

  ‘Never.’

  I couldn’t hide my shock. ‘Never? Why?’

  ‘Because they disowned me, Emmy.’

  ‘They what?’

  ‘When I told them I was gay. I waited until my parents died, because I knew the truth would kill them. They would have been so disappointed in me. Once they were gone, I couldn’t live a lie any longer. I had to tell people or go mad. My brother and sister said they never wanted to see me or speak to me again.’ His hands twisted together in his lap.

  ‘But why would they do that?’ I spluttered. ‘How could they do that?’

  ‘Different generation, Emmy. A very strict upbringing. It went against the grain of everything they’d known and been brought up to believe. That was why I kept it hidden for so long. But eventually, I had to be true to myself.’ He let out a heavy sigh. ‘I paid a very high price.’

  ‘Is that why you came to France?’

  ‘Yes. I was in my mid-fifties so I took a reduced pension and made a new start. Not too long after, I found Matthew and some happiness. Even though Matthew’s gone, I have those memories to cherish, and I’m grateful for the time we had together.’

  ‘Oh, Jonathan, that’s awful. I had no idea!’ I couldn’t imagine not having any family to turn to. Not knowing that Mum and Dad and Nick and Aunt Jeanie were all there for me if I needed them.

  ‘It’s over and done with, Emmy, and it has been for a long time.’ He reached out and patted my hand. ‘I think we’ve done enough up here for today. I need a cup of tea.’ He hoisted himself from the stool and set off downstairs.

  Placing the album carefully on a shelf, I followed him down, but as we went through the lounge towards the kitchen end, we stopped in dismay. There was water all over the floor. Slipping off my sandals, I sloshed through it to turn the washing machine off. The door was sealed tight, so I could only presume it was the hose around the back – and there was no way of getting to that without pulling the machine out. I tried, but it was tightly fitted and I couldn’t get a purchase on it – and I suspected I wouldn’t be strong enough anyway.

  I turned to Jonathan. ‘Don’t you dare come any nearer!’ I warned him. ‘That’s all I need, you going flying and me trying to get you up again! Do you have a plumber?’

  ‘Someone came to do something with the bathroom once.’

  He went off to make the call, while I hunted for a mop and bucket.

  ‘Monsieur Bonnet agreed to come, but he’ll be a while yet. His wife spent all morning cooking a beef-and-wine casserole and they’re having a late lunch because he was out on a long job this morning.’

  ‘Damn.’ This everything-stops-for-lunch malarkey was going to take some getting used to.

  ‘Is it really that urgent?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘A load of water has gone round the back and I’m worried about the electrical sockets. They’re all really low down the walls everywhere else. Do you know where they are at the back here?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘Then I’d rather get this machine out sooner rather than later, so we can see if the water’s gone anywhere it shouldn’t. What’s through there?’ I pointed to a narrow door in the corner of the kitchen.

  ‘Cellar. I don’t want you going down there. It’s not very safe.’

  ‘Are there electrics?’

  He winced. ‘Lighting. But I could do without you turning off all the electrics for no good reason, Emmy. It’s an old house, and everything’s temperamental.’

  I took out my phone. Rupert was out at a hospital check-up for his angina. I knew Alain had several appointments, but I tried anyway. It went straight to voicemail, so all I could do was leave a message. That done, the only option left was Ryan.

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Friends help each other.’

  I texted Alain to tell him not to worry, and while Jonathan looked helplessly on from a chair, I began the dreary job of mopping up. It struck me that this could well be a case of karma coming back to bite me on the arse – since I’d avoided the flood in Birmingham and left Nathan to deal with it all, the gods must have decided to even things up at the French end.

  By the time Ryan arrived, I was tired and sweaty and grumpy, with the potential for weepiness. He studied the washing machine wedged in its tight spot and, to my amazement, proceeded to slosh washing-up liquid all over the floor. Getting the best grip he could on the machine, slowly but surely he prised it out just a little. Once he’d got it moving, the slippery liquid eased its way until he could pull
it fully out.

  I raised an eyebrow at Jonathan. These handy people with their clever tricks.

  Ryan grovelled around the back. ‘The joint on the hose has come loose, but it’s old and knackered and needs replacing.’

  ‘Hmmph. Takes after its owner, then,’ Jonathan muttered.

  ‘The sockets are high up, presumably because the kitchen was fitted more recently, so that’s fine. Have you got a torch, Jonathan?’

  ‘In the drawer next to the cooker. But I don’t want you in that cellar, young Ryan. Haven’t been down there in years.’

  ‘All the more reason for me to check it, then, don’t you think?’ And without waiting for an answer, he was gingerly making his way down there. ‘Try the light switch, Emmy.’

  I did. No fizzing or sparks.

  He came back up. ‘It’s fine. It’ll all dry out. You’re good.’

  We heard a van pull up, and Ryan and I went out into the street to greet Monsieur Bonnet, now replete with beef casserole. From the size of his stomach, it looked as though he enjoyed beef casserole on a regular basis.

  Ryan took him inside while I leaned against the wall, trying to catch a little breeze and thinking that none of this was quite what I’d had in mind when I embarked on a new life in France.

  ‘Will you be okay if I leave you both with him?’ Ryan broke into my thoughts.

  ‘If he fixes it and doesn’t expect me to take part in a technical discussion on the wonders, or otherwise, of French plumbing systems in his native language, then yes.’ But I was sniffling a little. ‘Sorry. I’m so pathetic.’

  ‘No, you’re not, Emmy. You’re tired and overwhelmed. You’ve had a lot going on lately.’

  His sympathy only made me sniffle more. ‘You’re telling me!’

  ‘I presume Gloria’s still in situ?’

  ‘Yes. And if she stays, I’ll have no job and my business isn’t ready to roll yet and I still have no tenants in Birmingham, and I wouldn’t be able to persuade myself that Rupert had made the right decision or could ever be really happy with her, and I’m worried about Jonathan because I don’t think he’s coping, and this Thomson thing is driving me mad!’