‘It’s also the symbol of Yorkshire,’ Jane remarked. ‘Would you like to wear it now, Grandma?’
Joyce nodded and Jane fastened the clasp behind her neck. Her grandmother touched the pendant with the tip of her fingers and seemed lost in her thoughts for a while. The only sound in the kitchen was the tick-tock of the clock on the wall. Then Joyce started talking.
‘I met Henri at the Conservatoire. It was an exciting time to be young in Paris. There were clubs and bars, concerts and impromptu gigs, poetry readings, café-théâtre. One of our favourite artists was Serge Gainsbourg, and La Javanaise became our song.’
‘My grandfather loved that song,’ Grégoire said. ‘He often played it in the evenings, when he thought we were asleep.’
‘Why did you split up?’ Jane asked.
Joyce sighed. ‘It was my fault. I was insecure, I suppose. When Henri’s career took off, he started travelling a lot. He met people, went to parties. I was afraid he would find me dull and grow tired of me. I didn’t want him to feel that he was stuck with me, that I was holding him back… so I finished it first, before he did. I never thought he would remember me, or the song, after all these years.’ She squeezed Grégoire’s hand. ‘Please tell me all about him, about you, and your family.’
Chapter Six
Saturday afternoon, one week later
‘How long is Monsieur Gorgeous staying at the farm?’ Sandra clipped her dog’s lead onto the table leg and pulled a biscuit out of her handbag for him to chew on.
Jane arched her brows. ‘You mean Grégoire?’
Sandra laughed. ‘Who else?’
‘Grandma told him he could stay as long as he wanted.’ Jane spread the music sheets on the table and sighed. Grégoire had fitted in very well at the farm. So well, in fact, that he seemed to have become indispensable to her grandmother. He took her out, did chores around the farm, and even helped look after Arthur and the other rescue donkeys. Above all, he made her grandma smile.
Sunlight streamed through the windows of the community centre. She should be at the farm, doing jobs or baking a batch of biscuits and muffins for the café, but with the summer fete less than a week away, and the choir far from ready, an extra rehearsal had been arranged for that day.
There was also the issue of Grégoire and the unsettling effect his thoughtful eyes and seductive smile had on her system. She blushed so hard every time he was near, she feared she might spontaneously combust. It was safer to spend as much time as possible away from him.
Pauline patted her labradoodle’s head and said in a dreamy voice, ‘I think I’ll call round tomorrow. I want to take another look at him.’
Brenda nodded. ‘So do I. Actually, my French is a little rusty. Perhaps he can give me private tuition.’
‘My French isn’t the only thing that’s rusty,’ Pauline retorted.
Jane put her fists on her hips and shook her head. ‘You two are impossible.’
‘What’s going on?’ Dixie strolled in with Lady Madonna, her Irish wolfhound. She had weaved ribbons in the dog’s hair and it looked like it had dreadlocks, like its owner.
‘We’re talking about Jane’s Monsieur Gorgeous,’ Pauline said.
‘He’s not my Mr Gorgeous!’ Jane protested.
‘But he is gorgeous,’ Dixie retorted. ‘I love his eyes and his sick French accent.’
‘There’s nothing sick about his accent,’ Jane snapped, remembering too late that Dixie meant it as a compliment.
The rest of the choir ladies arrived with their dogs, and the conversation about Grégoire continued, much to Jane’s mortification.
‘I hear your grandma has taken a handsome French lodger,’ one woman started. ‘When are you going to introduce him to us?’
‘Paws off, I saw him first,’ Brenda said.
Pauline hissed an annoyed breath. ‘I did!’
Miss Moonshine strode in with Napoleon, her ancient chihuahua, in her arms. ‘Actually, I saw him first,’ she said, bending down to put the tiny dog on his blanket. ‘He came into my shop on the day he arrived, and I sent him over to see Jane at the pub.’
Jane gasped. So they’d been right. Miss Moonshine had sent Grégoire to The Old Bull on purpose.
‘Never mind who saw him first,’ Sandra retorted. ‘I’m the one who’s going to teach him about Yorkshire hospitality and bake him a batch of my fat rascals.’
Brenda sniggered. ‘I think he’d rather sample some of Jane’s muffins. They may be for dogs but they taste a lot better than your fat rascals. What’s more, I saw the way these two looked at each other at Arthur’s party. There’ll be romance in the air before long, you mark my words.’
A chorus of oohlalas followed, and Jane was about to call everybody to order when her grandma walked in with Grégoire.
‘Grandma! You didn’t say you were coming.’
Joyce seemed surprised. ‘Didn’t I? It must have slipped my mind. Grégoire, be a good lad and bring me that chair over there.’
‘Of course.’ Grégoire fetched the chair and looked at the women petting the dogs at one end of the room, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘I thought you were joking when you said it was a choir for women and their dogs.’
Joyce laughed. ‘Why do you think the choir is called “Barking Mad”? Jane set it up last month to raise money for our local hospice. She thought it was an unusual idea.’
‘It is certainly unusual,’ he said. ‘Don’t the dogs howl and mess about?’
‘Only when we sing badly. They’re perfectly well-behaved the rest of the time. They will be good as gold when you play the piano for us.’
Grégoire shrank back. ‘No! I told you. I don’t play anymore.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘I can’t play anymore.’
Joyce shrugged. ‘Of course you can. Besides, we need your expertise.’ She patted his arm and pushed him towards the piano.
‘Grandma!’ Jane hissed. How could her grandmother be so insensitive?
Her grandmother ignored her. ‘Come on, ladies. We’ll start with something nice and cheerful from our ABBA medley. What about “Take a Chance on Me”? Jane, my darling, give Grégoire the music in case he doesn’t know the song.’
Chapter Seven
Sweat beaded on Gregoire’s forehead as he lifted the fallboard and stared at the black and white keys.
‘Are you all right?’ Jane whispered.
He tried to answer, but his throat was so parched it hurt even to breathe, let alone speak.
He looked at his hands, the backs crisscrossed with scars, and the fingers surgeons hadn’t managed to straighten. What if he couldn’t even manage one ABBA song? What if the dogs started howling and Jane and the other women laughed at him?
‘Grégoire.’ Jane’s hand on his arm gave him a jolt. ‘You look like you’re about to faint.’
She moved closer and her warm, sunny fragrance reached him. It was the scent that had been driving him crazy all week when they’d bumped into each other in the farmhouse’s kitchen first thing in the morning, her skin and hair still damp and fragrant from the shower, and wearing a t-shirt with the logo of that weird café she managed. She baked a batch of dog cakes every day as he came down hunting for coffee and company. For the first time in his life, he had enjoyed talking about all kinds of silly things he knew nothing about, like donkeys and recipes for dog muffins.
Jane’s blue eyes were filled with worry and kindness. ‘It’s all right. I’ll play.’
And then it hit him. He was behaving like an idiot – worse, a diva. This wasn’t about him losing face because he couldn’t manage Liszt or Rachmaninov anymore. It was about Jane’s weird choir and the summer fete. What did he have to be nervous about? His audience today consisted of a bunch of dogs who wouldn’t know the difference between Chopin and “Chopsticks”, and a group of women who would be grateful for any help he could give them.
He let out a long breath. ‘I’m fine.’
Sitting down, he hesitated as his fingers made contact with a keyboard for the fi
rst time in months and launched into a fast jazz tune. The conversations stopped and everybody, dogs included, turned to look at him.
‘Not only is he gorgeous, but he can play too.’ One of the women licked her lips and stared at him as if she wanted to eat him alive.
Joyce winked at him. ‘The boy has many talents. Come on now, ladies, let’s make a start.’ Gesturing towards him, she added. ‘Maestro, whenever you’re ready.’
*
Two hours later, the dogs and their owners left in a chorus of yapping, chattering and laughter. Miss Moonshine invited Joyce to try a new restaurant. Brushing aside Jane’s concerns for her health, Joyce accepted. It was time she enjoyed herself again, she decreed, and moderation was all very well and good, as long as you didn’t overdo it.
The woman who had been staring at him during the rehearsal came up to Grégoire and laid a possessive hand on his forearm. ‘Why don’t you come for a bite to eat at my house?’
Immediately, her friends protested that they, too, needed a crash course in French. The three of them looked at him like he was a tasty morsel. Words to decline the invitation failed him.
Jane saved him. ‘I’m sorry, ladies, but Grégoire is coming to The Old Bull with me tonight.’
‘Thank you,’ he mouthed as the women turned away, arguing between themselves.
‘They are very nice, really,’ Jane said after they left. ‘They’re just a bit –’
‘Scary? Forceful? Desperate?’
She laughed and shook her head. ‘They’re curious about you and… they fancy you.’ Her cheeks blushing bright pink, she gathered the music sheets into her huge handbag.
‘By the way, don’t feel obliged to come to the pub tonight,’ she added as they left the community centre. ‘I only said that because it was the first thing that sprang into my mind.’
‘I’d love to come.’
She smiled and a ray of sunlight shone on her hair, her skin… on his heart, and it took his breath away.
‘I’m not due at the pub until seven,’ she said. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’
‘Only if you let me carry your bag. It’s far too heavy for you.’
She laughed. ‘But it’s a handbag, and it’s pink!’
‘So what?’ He reached out for the bag and slung it on his shoulder and they started in the direction of the canal.
They walked without talking for a while, stopping every so often to point at shiny dragonflies flitting over the water or duck families paddling in line. Golden sunlight glinted on the surface of the canal, and the sky was a perfect, delicate shade of blue. Scents of hawthorn and wild flowers filled the air.
He took a deep breath. It was like a weight had been lifted off his chest, and he felt free at last, and not just because he had finally put his pride aside and managed to play again. It felt good to be here, strolling with Jane in the sunshine.
It felt even better when Jane took his hand, leant against him and whispered excitedly. ‘Look over there, by the bridge. A kingfisher!’
All he saw was a splash in the water followed by a flash of bright blue as the bird flew away – the same blue as Jane’s eyes. He gave her hand a squeeze. ‘Wonderful. This place is magic.’
‘I bet you weren’t saying that the day you arrived.’
‘True. I didn’t know it could rain so much.’
Her hand trembled in his. ‘We had terrible flooding here a while back, you know. It was awful… so many shops, houses, lives ruined. Most of us pulled back, thankfully. The pub, Man’s Best Friend café, and Miss Moonshine’s shop were cleaned up, refitted and reopened, but many didn’t.’
‘I am so glad Miss Moonshine’s Emporium did, or I would have never met you.’ He realised it was true, and not just because he wouldn’t have been able to fulfil his grandfather’s dying wishes and find Joyce.
She blushed again but didn’t pull her hand away. It was getting late so they turned and walked back, still hand in hand. As they reached the bridge, a gang of youths blocked their way. ‘Look at him, showing off with that pink handbag,’ one of the boys sniggered.
‘Nice handbag, mate!’ another shouted.
Jane turned to him, alarm in her eyes, but he only laughed. ‘Thanks, lads. I think pink suits me, don’t you?’
The boys muttered something derogatory and strode away, hoods up despite the heat and hands stuffed in the pockets of their baggy pants.
Happiness fizzed inside him, like a big, warm smile, and he couldn’t help himself. He lifted Jane’s hand to his lips and kissed it, once, twice, and once more for good measure.
Yes, it felt good just to be here, in a balmy summer evening. And to fall in love.
Chapter Eight
Saturday evening
The pub was packed inside and out, and the patio doors were open so that patrons could hear Jane’s music and sing along.
Grégoire stood next to the piano, sipping his half-pint of bitter.
‘Hurry up, or it’ll get cold,’ Barry said as he walked past.
Jane laughed when Grégoire looked puzzled. ‘It’s a joke,’ she explained. ‘People always say we drink warm bitter up here in Yorkshire.’
Amazingly, she was still smiling after playing and singing for over two hours.
‘Is it usually this busy in here?’ he asked as she finished a Coldplay number.
She nodded. ‘If you think this is busy, you should be here at Christmas and New Year.’ She launched into ‘Hello’ by Adele. Everybody started singing, and he realised he would indeed like to celebrate the end of the year here with Jane.
It was late when they left the pub and walked to his car. He was still carrying her pink bag, even heavier after Barry had slipped in a couple of bottles of locally-brewed beer for him to sample.
Jane looked up. ‘I was wondering if you would stay until the summer fete and see the choir through its first performance. The rehearsal was wonderful with you at the piano today. Even the dogs were well-behaved. But please don’t feel obliged to accept,’ she added quickly. ‘You must be busy, and your family must miss you.’
He shook his head. ‘They don’t – not really. My parents live in the South of France so I don’t see them very often. I would be happy to help, now I seem to have conquered my nerves.’ And my stupid pride, he added silently. ‘The only thing I would ask is that you don’t tell anyone who I am. I don’t want journalists pestering me.’
‘I would never dream of it.’ She cocked her head to one side, and added in a mischievous tone, ‘Even if it would bring the choir lots of publicity and more funds for the hospice.’
‘Good. Are you sure you don’t mind me staying at the farm?’
‘Grandma loves having you here, and Arthur too, even if he still can’t play with your train set.’
What about you? he wanted to ask. Thankfully, his phone rang before he could make a fool of himself. He fished it out of his jeans pocket and tightened his mouth when he saw the name flashing on the screen. Cassandra. Again.
‘Hi, Cassandra. What is it now?’
‘I have great news for you. My agent booked the reception room at the Ritz for a concert next Saturday. And before you complain, there will only be fifty guests, so you needn’t be anxious.’
His fingers gripped the phone. ‘How dare you go ahead with this without consulting me?’
‘I only want to help you overcome your phobia of performing in public. If you don’t like the Ritz, we could try the George V or –’
He closed his eyes. ‘I told you I wouldn’t do concerts anymore. Actually, Saturday isn’t possible anyway. I’m helping a choir perform at the local summer fete.’
‘What? You’d rather be with a bunch of old crones than with me?’
He looked at Jane. ‘They’re not all old crones, and the dogs are rather cute.’
‘What dogs?’
‘It’s a choir for ladies and their pooches, so the dogs get to sing too. Please get your agent to cancel the booking, or find another pianist.’
> Chapter Nine
Two days before the summer fete
‘What should I wear for the fete?’ Jane glanced at the clothes strewn upon her bed. It was only seven thirty in the morning but she had been up for an hour already, trying clothes when she should have been baking a tray of cakes for the café.
‘What’s wrong with the tunic you’re wearing now?’ her grandmother asked. ‘It’s a lovely colour. It brings out the blue in your eyes.’
‘I should be wearing something dramatic and sexy.’ She pulled the tunic over her head, threw it on the bed and slipped on her work t-shirt with its MBF logo.
‘You don’t wear sexy clothes, my darling. It’s just not you.’ Her grandma narrowed her eyes. ‘Does this have anything to do with Grégoire, by any chance? He will like you in anything, you know.’
Jane’s cheeks heated, and tears pricked her eyes. ‘No, he won’t. He’s used to beautiful women wearing designer evening dresses. I’m just…me. A pub musician who works in a café, lives on a rundown farm, and bakes cakes for dogs to make ends meet.’
‘Don’t you dare speak about yourself and my farm in that way.’ Joyce’s sharp tone made her look up.
‘I’m sorry, Grandma, about the farm. Everything else is true, though.’
‘No, it’s not. You are the most beautiful, the most talented and creative granddaughter I have.’
Jane shrugged. ‘Huh! You mean I’m the only granddaughter you have.’
She couldn’t hold the tears any longer and buried her face in her hands as she slumped on the bed.
‘What’s brought this on?’ The bed sagged as her grandmother sat next to her, wrapping her arm around her shoulders. ‘Are you worried about the performance? Grégoire said everything is going really well and the choir only needs a little tweaking.’
Jane shook her head. ‘It’s not that.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘He’s going to leave after the summer fete, and I’ll have to forget him. But I don’t think I can ever forget him.’
‘Oh, love. You have it bad, don’t you?’
Miss Moonshine's Emporium of Happy Endings: A feel-good collection of heartwarming stories Page 12
