by Karen Clarke
‘It is improving, merci.’ He paused to grip the back of a wooden chair positioned by a small round table in the centre of the stone-flagged kitchen. The table had been polished to a gleam, a cut-glass bowl of fruit in the centre reflected in the surface, and I was impressed by how clean and tidy everything looked, even though the room was small enough to feel crowded. ‘I am trying not to…’ Gérard’s bright blue eyes scrunched up as he sought the right word, white eyebrows meeting in the middle. ‘Not to rely on ma canne.’ He jabbed a finger at his stick by the door, tossed aside in a way that suggested a love-hate relationship. ‘My Maggie, she would ’ave said, “It’s a slippery slope, Gérard.”’
His uncannily accurate accent made me smile, and I remembered his wife had been Scottish – which explained why his English was good.
‘I understand, but it’s important to know when you need a helping hand,’ I said, recalling how fiercely independent Great-Grandma Augustine had been.
Even after she came to live at the farm, due to her failing sight and dodgy hips (she refused to enter a hospital, terrified she’d never come out), she’d insisted on ‘doing her share’. Luckily for us, it had mostly involved her life-long passion for baking – a skill Dolly had inherited, but bypassed Mum and me.
‘You don’t want to have a fall,’ I added now to Gérard. It had been Augustine’s worst fear.
‘It is nothing.’ Gérard waved a gnarly hand and shuffled in soft moccasins to an old enamel kettle with a wooden handle perched on the shiny stove. Picking up a box of matches, he said, ‘You English, you like to ’ave a cup of tea,’ in that funny, hybrid accent. ‘It was Maggie’s favourite boisson. I learnt to love it too.’
‘Oh… well, thank you.’ Although I’d planned to take some more photos before returning to the café to work on my blog, it didn’t seem right to just leave. Especially as he’d lit the gas beneath the kettle with a flourish, and was placing two floral china cups on matching saucers in a way I guessed his wife used to do. Instead, I eased off my boots and wiggled my toes, embarrassed that my socks were bright pink and patterned with yellow bananas. ‘Were you married a long time?’
‘Almost ’alf of a century,’ Gérard said. ‘We were trés heureux. Very ’appy.’ A blanket of sadness seemed to settle around him and I felt bad for asking.
‘Je vous envoie mes condoléances.’ I wasn’t sure it was appropriate at this stage to offer my deepest condolences, but he nodded as if appreciating the sentiment. Turning, his craggy face creased into a smile.
‘I ’ope you will find such d’amour, un jour.’
‘One day,’ I agreed, wondering how he knew that I hadn’t already found such a love. Probably because Dolly had told him, as she seemed to treat her regulars like beloved family members.
I removed Dolly’s hat and scruffed up my hair, then wriggled out of my coat. It was hot with the old-fangled wood-burning stove pushing out heat. Hamish had settled beside it, already dozing off, and I glanced around, taking in the traditional wood-beamed ceiling where an old-fashioned light-shade hung. There were lots of rustic cupboards lining the walls, and shelves laden with cookbooks, jars and a collection of wooden utensils. Everything was orderly and well-cared for, and I guessed he had someone to help look after the place.
‘I will make food.’
‘Pardon?’ I turned to see Gérard with a knife in his hand, preparing to hack into a loaf of bread that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
He pointed to a block of aged-looking cheese with a rind. ‘Fromage.’
‘Oh, er…’ It didn’t appear to be a question, and the fresh air had given me an appetite so I nodded. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
‘Go, sit down. I will bring a tray,’ he said, but when I made to pull out a chair at the table, he shook his head.
‘Non, non, not ’ere.’ He pointed the knife to a door leading off the kitchen. ‘In there.’
It sounded like an order. I wondered whether Gérard had once been in the armed forces. He certainly looked forbidding, brandishing the knife and glowering from under his eyebrows, but there was a trace of anxiety in his expression too. ‘It is a little…’ He waved his arms and I took a step back to avoid being pronged with the knife. ‘I ’ave a lot of des choes,’ he concluded. ‘Possessions.’
‘OK.’
‘You will need to make a space.’
‘Right.’ Wouldn’t it just be easier to eat in the kitchen? Hamish whined, but when I looked down, he was sleeping, paws twitching as though dreaming he was chasing Bon-Bon up the snowy beach. ‘I’ll go through then,’ I said, stepping around Gérard, who’d turned his attention to the stove where the kettle was starting to whistle. ‘Sure you don’t want a hand?’
He waved me away as he switched off the gas and I pushed open the door and stepped inside a living room so different from the traditional, homely kitchen it was like entering a parallel universe; one filled with chaos and darkness – and lots and lots of clutter. There were newspapers – heaps of them, stacked in random piles – and cardboard boxes stuffed with pictures and paintings, some with clothes spilling out, and there was fabric piled on the furniture: two armchairs and a sofa, pushed against the walls as if better to accommodate the mess. The curtains were pulled across the window, but a finger of light spilled through a gap where they didn’t quite meet, highlighting a jumble of photos and ornaments all higgledy-piggledy on the dresser, as if Gérard had started to rearrange them and lost heart. There was no dust that I could detect, just stuff on every surface, and definitely no room to sit down.
Make a space, Gérard had said. Instructed, almost. My fingers twitched with a life of their own and before I’d had time to think it through, I’d rolled up my sleeves and started shifting things. First, the newspapers became one pile instead of five and I transported them to the furthest corner, out of the way of the fire – even though the grate was empty, they were an obvious fire hazard.
After depositing armfuls of fabric into a wooden chest beside the dresser (perhaps Maggie had been a seamstress), I tucked the spilled clothes into their respective boxes before stacking them neatly by the newspapers, pausing to look at a black and white photo of a newly-wed Gérard and Maggie, which was lying on the floor. They were beaming for the photographer on the steps of a church, confetti raining around them, joy evident in their faces. Gérard was easily recognisable, even in a snooker-player suit with short dark hair and no Santa beard – something about the brightness of his eyes – while Maggie was tiny and twinkly in a fussy dress with ruffled shoulders, her copper hair styled in a beehive.
I placed the photo in the centre of the stone mantle above the fireplace, switching some candlesticks and a trailing plant to opposite ends, and draped a gold locket I’d spotted in one of the boxes around the frame. Much better.
I crossed to the window and whipped open the curtains, blinking as daylight streamed in, and turned to study the room. The floorboards were visible now, bare apart from a big rug in earthy tones, and I knelt in front of the fireplace and placed some logs in the grate from a basket in the hearth. There was a box of matches and the fire didn’t take long to catch, the dancing flames throwing out instant warmth. Not that I needed warming up. All the exertion meant I wished I wasn’t wearing a thick jumper, but the room still didn’t look quite right. Squinting, I eyed the array of furniture – no television, I noted – trying to imagine where Gérard would sit, then heaved the solid sofa round to face the armchairs and plumped up the chintzy cushions that the piles of fabric had been hiding. After arranging a soft, blue knitted blanket along the back of the sofa, I positioned a fifty-pence shaped table, previously buried beneath a pile of crime novels – now gracing the bookshelf under the window – between the armchairs and placed a lamp on top. Perfect. A matching table looked just right beside the sofa and would serve as a holder for Gérard’s tea – or coffee – as well as his newspaper and a pen for his crosswords.
Casting a critical gaze around, I hummed an off
-key version of ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree’ and noticed a couple of faded patches on the whitewashed wall where pictures had once hung, the hooks still in place. Dipping into one of the boxes, I tugged out a pretty watercolour in a pale-wood frame, its amateurish quality suggesting it had been Maggie’s work – that and her name painted in the corner. The picture was of pastel-coloured boats on the sand, waiting for the tide to come in, a heron nearby in a puddle of seawater, the sky a luminous wash of pearly pink and grey. I instantly recognised Loix, having cycled there on my last visit, meandering through the salt marshes that covered the island. I’d been struck by the atmosphere, which had seemed eerie and otherworldly, full of the pungent smell of iodine.
Still humming, I hung up the painting and found another, of a church with a black-and-white steeple rising up from sunflower fields. It had to be Ars-en-Ré – one of the island’s prettiest villages (apart from Chamillon) – the steeple was a landmark for boats entering the bay, and I’d stopped off there to have crêpes and cider at a touristy café.
I hung that painting too and stood back to admire the effect, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction that they were where they were supposed to be – as was everything else in the room, discounting the newspapers and boxes, now partially hidden by the dresser. I couldn’t resist taking a couple of photos on my phone and, as I did, I noticed something on the floor where the sofa had been: a handful of letters, slipping from a loosely tied strip of faded pink ribbon.
Putting my phone down, I crossed the room and crouched to pick them up, the pieces of paper yellowed with age, soft with handling and clearly cherished. Love letters, probably. I’d never seen any in real life – they belonged to novels and movies – and there was something irresistible about them. One had unfolded and I couldn’t resist a quick peek at the sloping handwriting in faded black ink, neatly spread across the page. My heart gave an odd little leap when I saw the name Augustine at the bottom, followed by four neat kisses.
Augustine. My great-grandmother’s name. Apparently, it wasn’t that common in France.
My darling William…
There was something oddly familiar about the handwriting, and I realised with a jolt that I’d seen it before – on old birthday and Christmas cards, and the backs of photos Mum had kept in a shoebox down the years.
My eyes skittered over the words, the odd sentence leaping out.
So wonderful to be in your arms again… how can I bear to be apart from you… can’t wait until we’re together again, my love…
It was written in English, but that wasn’t surprising as Augustine had grown up in England and was writing to someone called William. If it was my Augustine, which every cell in my body was telling me it was. Someone who wasn’t my great-grandfather Charles, who Charlie had been named after.
I checked the top of the letter for a date, but there wasn’t one, and almost leapt out of my skin when I heard a sharp intake of breath. Turning, I saw Gérard in the doorway, holding a tray of cups that were rattling on their saucers, and shot to my feet, the letter fluttering to the floor.
‘You made me jump,’ I said. How much time had passed since I’d left him in the kitchen? ‘Here, let me take that.’ I moved over and took the tray from him, worried he might drop it, though I felt pretty shaky myself. ‘What do you think?’ I followed his wide-eyed gaze around the room, my mouth trapped in a smile as I took in his reaction. ‘Doesn’t it just feel… right?’ I said, filling the stunned silence. ‘Maison heureuse, esprit heureux.’ I hoped it translated as happy house, happy mind, but when Gérard remained quiet, reality swept in and I clattered the tray onto the table at the side of the sofa.
‘Gérard, I’m so sorry. Je suis désolé.’
His hands were still poised as if holding an invisible tray and I was terrified he might be about to collapse. The only signs of life were his eyeballs darting from the sofa to the wall, to the blazing fire in the grate, and across to the towering pile of papers in the corner.
‘Gérard?’ Panic rose. What had I done? He must be a hoarder and didn’t hoarders take comfort from being surrounded by clutter, even if it made no sense to anyone else? And I’d come along – a virtual stranger – and unthinkingly stripped everything back, most of it belonging to his beloved wife. I’d pushed everything away, as though it meant nothing, and his precious newspapers had probably been in some sort of order I hadn’t understood, or maybe he’d been saving the crosswords and now… ‘I’ll put it all as it was,’ I said, backing away, hands up as though to ward off an attack. Not that he looked capable of attacking me. If anything, he seemed to have entered a state of shock.
‘Stop!’
I froze. Gérard had turned to stare at the paintings on the wall, one arm outstretched as if to stroke them. ‘How did you know?’ His eyes came to life as they rested on me, a mix of bewilderment and happiness in them that made my heart soar. ‘There was so much, I did not know how to do it, where to start, so I left it all here.’ He gestured towards the boxes. ‘I thought… I thought it would be simple after Maggie was gone, that it would be a good thing to reorganise, to évacuer but… I…’ He tapped his temples and worked his fingertips through his snow-white hair, his expression becoming anguished.
‘You became overwhelmed.’ Understanding mingled with hot relief. ‘It was easier to leave it all?’ I mimed a muddle with my hands and he nodded, mimicking the movement.
‘Le chaos,’ he said, looking around again with an expression of childlike wonder.
‘Exactement.’
He flung his arms out to the side. ‘C’est magnifique!’
‘You really like it?’ I wanted to clap my hands, but was worried I’d got it wrong.
‘Oui.’ He nodded, a wisp of hair drifting out like a cobweb. ‘Maggie would say, you’re a bonnie lassie.’ I grinned and shook my head, embarrassed. ‘You ’ave a gift.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,’ I said, a wave of pleasure washing through me. It was like waking from a nice dream and discovering it was real. ‘I just tidied up a bit, that’s all.’
He moved forward and stroked the knitted blanket on the sofa, his gaze returning to the paintings. ‘It is like Maggie is with me, but not…’ He shuffled his hands around and clamped them to his head, making his mouth turn down.
‘Not too overpowering?’ Gérard would have made a good mime artist. ‘You don’t want it to look like a shrine?’
He pointed, like a contestant on Give us a Clue. ‘C’est tout!’ he said, eyes shining. ‘You ’ave ’it the nail on the ’ead.’
I smiled, recognising Maggie’s influence once more. ‘Merci.’ I executed a bow to hide my flushing face. ‘I’m happy you like it, but there’s still some clearing up to do.’ I nodded at the newspapers and boxes, their presence like an itch I couldn’t reach, a guilty flush racing through me when I spotted the disturbed letters on the floor. ‘Gérard, I’m sorry, I wasn’t snooping, they were behind the sofa and—’
He waved a dismissive hand, and I guessed he’d been given enough to absorb for one day. ‘They are of no use to me,’ he said a little sadly. ‘Maggie, she kept them. They belonged to William, her papa.’
My heart lurched. ‘Maggie’s father?’
Gérard nodded. ‘It was… une affaire de coeur.’ He placed a hand on his heart. ‘Maggie, she found the letters after he died. She liked the…’ He pursed his lips and waggled his fingers, searching for the sentiment.
‘The romance?’
‘Ah, oui. Le grande passion.’
Blimey. It all sounded a bit Brief Encounter. In fact, hadn’t that been Augustine’s favourite film? I dimly remembered Dolly saying how they’d sometimes watch it together on Sunday afternoons and how her normally pragmatic grandmother would come over all nostalgic.
‘Was Maggie’s mother not William’s grand passion?’ I asked as a thought occurred to me. Did he and Augustine have an affair while married to other people?
‘He did not talk about such matters.’ Géra
rd spoke gravely. ‘He was a private man, so quiet, but I think he and Maggie’s maman, they were ’appy together.’ His eyebrows dipped. ‘Maggie was very surprised to find the letters,’ he added. ‘He did not ever speak of another amour.’
‘Could I… would you mind if I borrowed them?’ I glanced at the letter I’d discarded. ‘I find them fascinating.’
Gérard raised his shoulders. ‘They are of no use to me,’ he said and then he smiled. ‘You may do as you wish with them, ma chérie, after what you have done for me.’
When I’d scooped them up and clumsily retied the pink ribbon – half-hoping I was mistaken and it was another Augustine altogether – he gestured grandly at the tray. ‘Maybe we go to the kitchen now.’ He cast a loving glance at the sofa, as if he’d forgotten what it looked like without layers of fabric heaped on top. ‘We do not want to be messy in ’ere.’
I hid a smile, suddenly ravenous, as I carefully tucked the letters under my arm, picked up the tray and followed him out to the kitchen. After transferring the letters to my coat pocket, I sat at the table with Gérard, watched closely by Hamish, who’d woken up and was hopefully sniffing the air.
A simple lunch of fresh bread and cheese, washed down by strong tea from a china cup, had never tasted so good. Every now and then Gérard would look at me and chuckle, shaking his head as he delicately sipped his tea, and I smiled back, while Hamish tracked our every mouthful. I pushed the letters to the back of my mind as Gérard talked a bit about Maggie – her dressmaking skills and her love of Scotland, where they’d met when he was twenty-one on a visit to the Scottish Highlands – and his granddaughter Jacqueline, who had a gift for painting, like her grandmother.
‘I think she will be happy to come here now.’ His face was lit with anticipation. ‘It has not been easy for her to see our home like this, and I…’ He put down his cup. ‘I would not let her help, like a stubborn old goat.’ Another Maggie-ism. ‘My petite fille, she will come to play now.’
