Francine stared at the letter, then put it down on the draining board. She’d not expected this, it was not part of the deal. It mattered that Simon had written a letter, not opted for email or a text. His handwriting scrawled untidily across the page, his hands suited to more practical purposes than putting words on paper. The thought of his hands disturbed her, not unpleasantly.
How could she have worked with this man for ten years and not known his feelings? A few years younger than Francine, confident and pleasant with suppliers, there was never any banter with the regular customers, most of whom were women. With the recent popularity of baking shows on TV, baking had become sexy, and Francine knew it wasn’t just the bread and cakes that drew increasing numbers through the door. He was single, attractive in a chunky sort of way. She’d wondered about his sexuality, maybe having grown up in a less tolerant era, he preferred to keep his private life private. But the myth had exploded on that night some weeks ago and now she was here, estranged and adrift, wandering in this no-man’s-land far from having any answers. The letter rattled her, unexpected as it was and with that muted declaration. Not at all what she had expected and certainly not what she’d sought.
She flung on her coat and set off for the fields away from the village centre. Outside the Cheval Blanc, Thierry’s battered Renault was parked on the pavement, its tailgate open revealing the morning produce he’d collected from the market in town. Thierry had always foraged well, finding the seasonal best of what was on offer. Piled in the back of the van were crates of kale and artichokes, a basket of cèpes de Bordeaux, cèpes roux, walnuts, and the lunchtime supply of bread. The villagers would soon emerge from their houses and queue to buy directly from the van, there being no alternative now. She remembered going with her father in his van to sell bread in the smaller communes and how later, Evie had done this too. She remembered the girls sitting on the window seat in the kitchen, talking to William, the telephone resting on the deep stone sill, Evie holding the receiver while Joanna held the earpiece they called the ‘turnip’. In those days, to hear their father both at once from another country, was simple magic. How blissful those summer weeks together always were, without the ragged spite that dogged their normal life.
Thierry appeared from behind the restaurant carrying an empty crate. ‘Salut,’ he said, dropping it noisily at his feet. He wiped his hand on the front of his jacket then held it out in greeting. Francine shook it briefly.
‘We missed you last night, Francine.’
‘Oh, I ate lunch in town,’ she said, beginning to move away. ‘I’ve had a lot to see to.’
‘Perhaps we’ll see you later then?’ Thierry eyed her closely. ‘This evening? Be our guest. Pascale is home now – she’d be glad to see you.’
Francine doubted that. There had never been much love lost between them. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Not sure what my plans are.’ She walked on, calling over her shoulder, ‘I’ll let you know.’
Climbing the steep lane out of the village, she stopped by the water tower, shielding her eyes from the glare. To the left, remnants of the year’s sunflower crop lay scattered across the dead fields; on the slopes to her right stretched row upon row of vines. Her home, her heritage, yet not. The years had seen many changes: property, empty and unused for years, now burst into life as a new generation filled them with plaster, breeze blocks, and paint. At the other end of the village behind the Cheval Blanc, a small estate now stood on the waste land where she’d taken bread to the families who camped there. She wondered at times what became of them, where they had gone. The encampment had moved further out, beyond the confines of the village, but where once the migrants had wandered in from Southern Europe and North Africa, they now came from further afield, from the Middle East, fleeing conflict and oppression. She still heard mutterings in the tabac: how nowhere was safe anymore, the need to keep doors locked, complaints about the mess.
Yet Albières had prospered and new enterprises opened up: a garage, hairdresser, a second bar tabac. Francine absorbed these changes as a mark of progress, a sign of posterity when so many villages had gone into decline, the young moving away to a brighter future in some distant city, another country. Just as I did, Francine now thought, pulling her coat further round her shoulders. I made a new space, a new home, but kept a foot and half my heart in each. Now I’m far removed from them both. Cut off, dépaysée – no precise translation.
In the kitchen, Simon’s letter lay wrinkled from the damp draining board. Francine picked it up and read it again. He made no declaration, referring to their liaison in the mildest of terms: ‘what happened’ – as if she’d merely dropped a tray of cakes and not her underwear. She put the letter away in her handbag. Simon did not expect or even warrant a reply. She would email sometime in the next few days. This, she told herself, was no more than a business update.
Twenty-Two
For want of something better to do, William found himself in the café at the local garden centre. Situated on the ring road, a mile or so from home, he’d decided to walk, although there wasn’t much in the way of pavements and now his knees ached from struggling along a bumpy grass verge. He ordered a pot of tea and a fruit scone and was sitting at a wobbly table as far as possible from the counter. He disliked the smell of cooking food.
William wasn’t much interested in gardens, having left his own little patch open over the years to Evie’s helpful suggestions and occasional bursts of activity. But those moments had been rare of late, and non-existent for the past year.
The café was full of gaudy Christmas trappings and a large number of old people, sitting in clumps. A bit like a garden itself, William thought, a garden full of beige and grey plants nodding in the breeze. He wondered if he looked old too, then realised that of course, he did. At the next table, oddly incongruous, a young man sat scrolling through his phone. He wore tight trousers that rucked round his ankles, and rather pointed shoes. William remembered pointed shoes. He’d never worn them himself but he’d been at the sharp end of them more than once: a dusting in the changing rooms, just for the hell of it.
At great expense, William had opted for a fancy tea – green Darjeeling or something – though it didn’t taste of anything special. There was too much soda in the scone, it stuck to the roof of his mouth and his teeth crunched dangerously on burnt sultanas. Spoilt by Francine’s baking, nothing else ever came up to scratch. He swallowed hard on the scone, ashamed of how much he missed her.
Had he been too accommodating in letting her go? There were things to discuss, surely. But he’d put up no resistance either, was guilty of the easy option. Talking only seemed to lead them round the houses and never really solved anything in the end. Perhaps it was better this way. William knew there would be no sudden epiphany, no flash of clarity and all would be well. The historian in him could only accept the test of time: leave things long enough and a new order would be established. It was his job to accept the outcome, to analyse whatever it was, not try to influence it. For William, it had always been so, at least with life’s major events: meeting his first wife, accepting her wish to stay even though she’d simply broken her journey on the way to somewhere else. And then her leaving, with all the drama that ensued for Evie, for them both, and his mother’s ultimatum.
He’d never really believed the story Evie told about what she’d seen, but there was too much at stake to take chances and as always in the presence of his mother, his will had folded. He’d folded away his love too, reserving all passion for his work and a desire to do the best for his children. Even when Francine arrived on the scene some two years later with her youth and energy, he hadn’t quite been able to unpack it all, in spite of his mother’s encouragement this time: A catch William, hold on to this one. And William, weary from single parenthood, had once more taken her advice and once more, it now seemed, had failed.
‘William?’
William was staring at the sea of beig
e and grey plants. One of them had detached itself and was approaching his table.
‘William, what a lovely surprise! How are you? I haven’t seen you for ages.’
In front of him a woman stood smiling, a smile so broad that he turned round to check it was intended for him.
‘It’s Catherine – Catherine Roberts.’
‘Ah yes,’ William fitted the name to the face and rose from the table. ‘Of course. Dr Roberts. Sorry, miles away.’
‘Oh, please. Don’t get up – just thought I’d say hello.’
Awkward, half-standing, William wasn’t used to being chatted to in a garden centre, or anywhere else for that matter. He waved a hand in the general direction of the table.
‘Would you um…?’
‘Are you sure? I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
Apart from the remains of his afternoon tea, there was no evidence of any activity she might be interrupting: no newspaper, book, phone, or even much in the way of food.
Dr Roberts pulled out a chair and settled herself opposite him. She clutched a handbag on her lap and fiddled with the zip. Her hands were large, William noticed, lined but pale, no liver spots. Being a doctor, she must have the sense to cover them up in the sun.
‘How are you William?’ Doctor Roberts asked. ‘And the family?’
An innocent question, backing him into a corner, William opted for the facts. ‘Very well thank you, yes. Francine’s mother died recently – she’s had to go to France to settle things over there. The house and so on. She’ll be back soon.’
‘And the children? Not children now of course. I heard Evie has a new baby, that’s wonderful news.’
‘It’s a little boy – Edward, after my brother. You may remember I had a brother who died very young.’ Dr Roberts nodded slowly, a frown gathering. ‘I remember you telling me about it. What a lovely gesture – from Evie I mean.’
William hadn’t thought of that. He wasn’t sure why he’d mentioned his brother either, it was rather more than a fact. He picked up his cup, then realised all the tea had gone.
‘Would you like some more?’ Dr Roberts pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘I could manage another.’
William stood up too. ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said, ‘but I’ll get them.’
Dr Roberts sat down again and put her handbag on the floor while William went to the counter, ordered a pot of tea for two and wondered what on earth he was doing.
Twenty-Three
Francine woke to the sound of breaking glass and a loud thumping in her chest. She turned for William and then remembered.
The crash came from downstairs, on the street side beneath her bedroom window, a scrunch of rapid footsteps on the sandy pavement fading away. The room was dark, no light came in through the shutters. Francine felt on the floor for her slippers, wrapped her coat round her shoulders and picked up a torch. The clock read three-thirty. She felt her way to the door, the thump in her chest now a rhythmic swish in her ears. At the top of the stairs she paused, straining for further sounds, then made her way down, each step an echo on the stone. If anyone was still in the house they would have heard her by now.
In the kitchen there was no sign of damage, the closed shutters protecting the window. But in the living room, where Francine had neglected to fasten them, a cold blast of air greeted her, shards of glass clicked and crunched beneath her feet. She turned on the light. In the middle of the floor lay a large grey rock the size of a brick. She picked it up half expecting to find something attached to it: a note, a warning. No note this time. This had happened before, when her father took his small stand for liberalism, for fairness, when others in the community were not of the same mind. Why was this happening again now?
Francine found an old pair of gloves and a broom and began to sweep up the mess. She took out the loose glass from the window, secured the shutters and decided to leave the rest until morning. Then she made a mint tea and took it back to bed. The sheets were cold and damp. She sat up clutching her knees and though the thumping in her ears and chest had settled, her hands still shook, the cup rattling against her teeth. She should let someone know, or contact the police, but she’d have to drag them all the way from town and it seemed such a small thing when no-one was hurt. She wanted to phone William, to hear his quiet concerned voice but it would only alarm him. He didn’t enjoy a crisis and would feel useless so far away. She had, in any case, no right to lean on him just because something had gone wrong and she was alone in a house where someone threw rocks through the window. She could send a text for him to find in the morning, but he didn’t often look at his mobile and by the time he did it would probably all be sorted.
Wide awake, Francine sipped her tea, her hands settling around the warm mug. Then she put it down on the bedside table, picked up her phone and scrolled through to find Simon’s number.
‘Hello?’ She heard his voice, heavy with sleep.
‘Simon it’s me.’
‘Francine? What the hell’s going on?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘It’s four o’clock in the morning,’ Simon’s voice cleared, he didn’t sound particularly annoyed.
‘I thought you’d be up.’
‘It’s Saturday – my day off?’
‘Oh God. I’m sorry. Things are a bit weird here. I’d forgotten what day it is.’
‘So, what’s up?’
‘I couldn’t sleep. Something happened.’
‘What kind of something?’
Francine supplied the details.
‘But why? Who would do that?’
‘I have an idea. It’s happened before.’
‘You never told me.’
‘It was years ago, when my father was alive. He made himself unpopular at times, didn’t fit in with the general way of thinking. He was too… gauchiste.’ Francine paused. It was an odd time to be having this conversation.
‘Go on.’
‘They tried to shut down the business but his customers were loyal and he survived. He went on feeding the migrant families and the mayor never forgave him. The mayor’s an old man now but one of his sons, Thierry, runs the restaurant here and he’s a good friend of the notaire.’
‘Sounds like the Mafia.’
Francine laughed. ‘Not quite as threatening. No horse heads, just bricks through the window. Last time, when Papa went to the police, two saisonniers – migrant workers – were blamed. Even though Papa knew they weren’t responsible, the families were moved on. They lost their livelihood and I don’t want that to happen again. But questions are being asked. I think Thierry wants the land here.’
‘Well then, go to the police.’
‘And tell them what, exactly? I have a suspicion, that’s all. There’s no proof. Besides, I don’t want to upset things. The notaire still has to sign off on the estate. These things can take years, I don’t want it all to drag on.’
Francine got out of bed and began pacing up and down, her feet slapping on the wooden floor. She half wondered whether Simon could hear them and why it should matter if he did. She began to wonder at this whole surreal scenario. Why was she telling this to Simon in the middle of the night – things she had never told William? Was it simply a friendly ear in the dark?
‘I just want to tie things up and come home.’
‘You do?’
‘Why wouldn’t I? It’s what I came here for.’
‘Really? Nothing else?’
Francine thought of his letter hidden away in her handbag. ‘Maybe,’ she said quietly.
Then Simon said, ‘Have you told William?’
‘Told him what?’
‘About this, the rock.’
‘No, I haven’t. It would worry him. But he does know about… what happened. I told him that.’
‘Ah.’ Simon’s end of the line went
quiet.
Francine continued, ’He’s not coping well at the moment. There’s something going on with Evie too, though that’s nothing new. You know how she’s always been with me. The odd thing is, she phoned me a while ago, soon after I came here. I’m not sure why, she didn’t really say, except that Mark’s got a new job in Yorkshire.’
‘Did she need help?’
‘Maybe. The last time William and I went over she was obviously struggling to cope. Actually, it was a mess.’ Evie’s drawn features, her gaunt lethargy, loomed up in the darkness.
‘I explained I was in France, William hadn’t told her – for obvious reasons I suppose. Perhaps I should have gone to help her, it’s just always been so difficult. She doesn’t ask and she doesn’t …’
‘Let you in?’
‘Exactly. And I need to be here for the time being, to sort things out.’
‘Can I help? Is there anything I can do?’
‘Thank you, but no, it’s fine. I can manage.’
‘It’s Saturday – I could come over later? Seeing as you’ve woken me up.’
Francine sat down on the bed, rubbed her forehead.
‘I could be there by early afternoon,’ Simon was saying, ‘assuming there’s a flight. We’re shut Monday so fly back Monday night and go to work Tuesday as normal. No problem.’
Francine pulled absently at the fastening holding up her hair until it all fell onto her shoulders.
‘Francine?’
‘I’m here.’
‘So… ?’
‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘Please come. I’d like that.’
Twenty-Four
William’s mood had lifted. He’d managed to find an alternative route home, which hadn’t involved struggling back along the bypass. He’d also quite enjoyed his tea with Dr Roberts, eventually finding some common ground for conversation. He’d kept his own situation guarded and he noted with some relief that Dr Roberts had not been inclined to pry. Some women, William found, were merciless with questions, but Dr Roberts had simply shown a pleasant interest in the sparse information he’d chosen to reveal. In fact he’d found himself surprisingly relaxed in her company. There was a moment when he feared the subject would stray into difficult realms, areas of his past he preferred not to visit, but his fears were unfounded.
The Place Where Love Should Be Page 10
