In the New Year, Francine moved into a small bedroom at the back of the house, away from the street, from thoughts of her mother, and of Simon. Having signed over the business to him, she had secured a little capital and would now have to work out how to build a new home, in the place she had started from. She began to plan the changes she would make to the house: new heating and electrics, a bathroom that did not spew out brown sludge whenever a tap was turned, a refit in the kitchen. Little by little, after years of stagnation, she would transform the place: the outhouses would become a small gîte, or a couple of guest rooms, she could serve breakfast in the newly decorated salon, she might even make bread again.
One evening towards the end of February, as the days began to lengthen and larks rose in the fields beyond the orchard, Francine sat down to write a long letter to Evie. She made good her offer of help, laid out her plans – the building work needed, the space, the spare rooms – and left it with her. Whatever Evie’s response, whatever the outcome would be, she had after all, done her best.
Epilogue
April 2016
I wake early. Sunlight slicing through the shutters lies in ladders across the floor. Opening the casement, I lean out into early spring warmth. It will be hot today, long forgotten heat, soaked in long forgotten sounds: swifts whistling to and from the eaves, the cigalles already stirring. The view from this window where Joanna and I would stand as children, is almost untouched: the land beneath stretching away over hectares of nodding sunflowers, still green and hopeful. Only to the south where the newly turned earth lies staked and waiting are there signs of change. Our flower farm will grow on new soil, far from its former site.
I’m still unsure how things will work out with Joanna, in spite of Andy’s faith in her: it won’t get in the way long term, she loves you too much. But there have been weeks of silence, even after I left messages to let her know what we were planning. I know she’s been in touch with Helena, that she must be working through it all in her own way. I have to trust that one day she’ll understand.
I think of these past months, the sweep of change: meeting my mother again, my own faltering steps into motherhood. Under Jack’s watchful eye, Helena is slowly gaining strength – she has even allowed him to move in. I will forever be thankful for those sheltered weeks together but as my own health improves and I settle into this new life we’ve been given, this gift, pieces of the past slot gently back into place. I may have lost one mother, but it seems I have now found two.
I can see Francine standing with Edward at the end of the orchard. I hear his cries of delight in the still morning air and wander down to join them by the broken gate. Side by side we look out across the peaceful fields, a new and shared perspective. Bringing us here, giving me a home for the second time, is more than I had a right to expect, but we will live here and life will be good.
Behind us we hear the swish of Mark’s footsteps in the long grass heading for the old pig pen. A mug of coffee in hand, he waves, disappears inside and begins another day of clearing out.
Walking back through the orchard, Francine pauses to check the peach blossom. The flowers have faded, new fruits have formed, beginning to swell. In the summer, with luck, there will be tartes aux pêches to greet our first intake of guests.
Acknowledgements
My grateful thanks go to Cressida Downing for her invaluable editorial advice and guidance and to the team at Troubador for their expertise and patience. Much appreciation also goes to Jennifer Clare for her care and encouragement with the early draft and to the members of my writing group for their ongoing loyalty and support.
The Place Where Love Should Be Page 22
