‘This looks delicious but it’s not what I expected,’ enthused Oscar. ‘I thought we might have a traditional French meal, like confit de canard.’
‘Or, cuisses de grenouilles, frogs’ legs, eh?’ replied Bertrand with a smirk. ‘This chicken is from the local farmer and my gardener grew all the vegetables that are in the casserole. This is a typical French meal. However, if you want something very French, I can bring you in some snails from my garden. They keep eating the vegetables so you can have them with pleasure.’
Oscar giggled. ‘I’ll pass on the snails, thanks, Bertrand.’
Bertrand gesticulated enthusiastically at the table. ‘We also have a typical French dessert. It is a tarte Tatin de pommes. It is delicious. My gardener’s wife made it so, of course, it is delicious.’
Lewis raised his glass. ‘To Bertrand and to his gardener’s wife for this super meal,’ he offered.
Bertrand bowed his head. ‘You are very kind.’
Jim helped himself to a large portion of chicken. He breathed in the aromas from his plate. ‘I can definitely detect garlic and thyme in it. I always use thyme, bay leaf and plenty of red wine. Can’t have too much red wine in a fine chicken casserole.’
‘If you make casserole as good as this, I’m going to demand you write down the recipe for Mom,’ Oscar declared. ‘In fact, you should write a cookery book. I’d certainly buy it.’
‘Lewis could give you his world-famous cornflake cake recipe to add to your collection,’ offered Bryony, earning an exaggerated grimace from Lewis.
‘Bryony’s right. People would really want to know how to make those little beauties. They’re very tricky to prepare.’ Lewis took on a voice of one presenting a cookery show. ‘Take one box of cornflakes. Open the box and tip approximately a quarter of the flakes into a large bowl, filling it to the halfway mark. Next, the tricky part.’ His face became mock serious. ‘Place a bar of top quality chocolate in a heat-proof bowl over a pan of boiling water and allow it to melt. Add the melted chocolate to the flakes, and mix in well. Roll small balls of mixture into round shapes using your hands and leave to solidify, then consume at will.’
Jim’s moustache twitched as he suppressed a laugh.
‘Any chocolate will do although I believe adding a rum-flavoured chocolate is not to be recommended, especially when doling out said offerings to small children.’
They all chuckled at his remark. Jim spoke again, more animated now. ‘Cathy suggested the same idea about writing a cookery book but I never seem to have enough time and I can’t see me sitting behind a desk typing all day. I used to spend hours preparing dishes. I especially love cooking pastry dishes or baking bread – I do enjoy that,’ he added with gusto. ‘After I left the army, I went to work in a local family-run bakery. I used to rise – forgive the non-intentional pun – at three o’clock every morning to warm up the bread ovens and prepare the specialist breads: olive bread, rosemary and oregano and so on. We won an award for our steak and ale pies. I came up with that recipe. I added a secret ingredient into them to make them extra-tasty.’
‘What was it?’
‘If I told you, it wouldn’t be secret.’
‘True.’
Jim’s eyes twinkled. He leant forward in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Guinness. I added Guinness to the pies.’ Satisfied he had impressed his audience, he finished with, ‘I loved working at the bakery. The smell of warm bread or pies always brings back fond memories.’
‘Did you not fancy starting up your own catering business?’ asked Lewis. ‘I’m sure you’d have been successful. You obviously have a penchant for cookery.’
Jim placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate. ‘As it happens, Lewis, I did consider the possibility. I even started to save to buy my own shop. I fancied a small delicatessen that provided lunches. I thought Cathy could serve all the cheeses, breads and meats and I would do the catering in the adjoining restaurant, using some of the produce we had in the shop. Cathy was excited too at the prospect. It became our dream. I would work at that bakery, pummelling the dough and planning what I would cook when I had my own little shop. Then, out of the blue, my Cathy was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. It was a terrible blow, I can tell you. She’s a trooper. She didn’t let it get her down and she fought to stay active but her condition deteriorated all too quickly and I chose to give up work altogether to help look after her. We got by on the savings and my army pension but there wasn’t enough money left for any ambitious plans to set up a restaurant and shop, and besides, none of that seemed important any longer.’ He looked off into the distance for a moment.
‘The most precious thing we have is time, isn’t it? I didn’t want to spend all of mine working. Spending quality time with Cathy became my priority. It still is. I can’t imagine my life without her. We go out every morning if she’s feeling strong enough, and then in the afternoon, the little ones come around. It brightens our day. They always make us smile. I love seeing Cathy happy.’ He paused for a moment; the memories of his grandchildren made his eyes shine.
‘Our daughter, Susan, is looking after the old gal while I’m here. Cathy understands how much I enjoy a good quiz or game show. She insisted I audition for What Happens in… I get lots of quiz-like practice at home, watching the television and doing various puzzles while she’s resting beside me on the settee. I suppose quizzing has become my hobby these days. Keeps my brain active.’
He picked up his knife and fork once more.
‘Sorry to hear about Cathy,’ said Lewis. Oscar and Bryony nodded earnestly.
‘We’ve learnt to live with her condition. If I could win some money, then I’d really like to take the old gal to the coast for a long holiday. Maybe stay in a posh hotel. Treat her. Some sea air would do her good.’ He blinked away tears and continued, ‘Oscar, tell us about ballet dancing. I read somewhere that a male dancer lifts over one to one and a half tons’ worth of ballerinas during some performances.’
‘They certainly keep you on your toes.’ Oscar snickered at his own pun.
The conversation moved on to France, the show and what they might expect in the morning. With full stomachs it was not long before they began to feel ready for bed.
Jim was the first to make excuses to leave. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be and I usually turn in about nine o’clock. At my age, I need my beauty sleep. I had a super night thanks to you all. Thank you. It was good to chat and very nice of you to listen.’ He tugged at his moustache – a nervous gesture. Behind the disciplined, military man was a shy one. Bryony felt the urge to hug him.
‘It was a pleasure, Jim. You’ll have to give us some of your recipes before we part company, especially for your steak and ale pie.’
‘I’ll walk Biggie around the garden and come up in a minute, Jim. I won’t be long. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. Night, everyone.’
Bryony and Lewis plodded up the stairs. From the room near theirs came the sound of someone panting and groaning. Bryony maintained a poker face and said, ‘Probably someone doing late-night sit ups.’
With pursed lips Lewis agreed, all the while wrestling with a smile. He unlocked the door and they raced inside as the noise reached a crescendo and French voices moaning in ecstasy reached their ears.
‘Or they’re performing very energetic star jumps,’ offered Bryony.
‘I suppose that’s a possibility. I once knew a bloke who would hang upside down off a bar in his bedroom for fifteen minutes every night before he went to sleep. He claimed it was good for his circulation. There’s a saying that comes from the north about people being odd: “there’s nowt as queer as folk”. It seems to be accurate,’ replied Lewis.
‘I didn’t know you were from the north.’
‘I’m not but while I was living in London I once worked for a woman from Yorkshire. She had all sorts of little sayings and words that amused me.’
Bryony dropped onto a chair and removed her shoes. ‘I have no idea what it is you actually do for a
job. I’ve spent loads of time with you and know next to nothing about your actual life. Melinda told me you were into acting or something similar but that can’t be the case. Even though you were accomplished at acting when we played the murder mystery game,’ she added. ‘You seem to return to London a fair bit, and didn’t you go to some exhibition recently?’
‘There’s not a lot to tell you. Being a male escort isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’
Bryony dropped a shoe in surprise. ‘A male escort?’ she repeated.
‘I accompany wealthy women who need a partner for an event such as a charity gala dinner. They usually require the strong, silent sort who won’t show them up, are polite, can look good in a dinner jacket and don’t slop soup down their tuxedo.’ His face cracked into a mammoth grin. ‘Not really. I design websites. Nowhere near as exciting. I work from home which until recently was in London.’
‘You almost convinced me then.’
‘Almost?’
‘You spilt a dollop of gravy down your shirt tonight. Male escorts wouldn’t be so clumsy.’
Lewis pulled at his shirt, hunting for the gravy stain.
Bryony spluttered in glee. ‘Ha! Got you back. You didn’t spill any gravy.’
‘Touché! I deserved that. Nice to see you smile. You’ve been unusually quiet this evening.’
‘Sorry. Tired, I guess. I’ll get ready for bed.’
‘You sure you’re okay about me sharing the bed?’
‘Yeah, it’s fine. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘I’m chill. As long as you don’t snore or I’ll have to ask you to decamp and join Biggie Smalls.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SUNDAY, 23 JULY – NIGHT
Bryony removed her make-up and stared at her bare-faced reflection in the mirror. After the euphoria of the day she now felt at a low, her brain befuddled by the wine. She hoped a good night’s sleep would sort her out. She couldn’t shake off the disappointment over Anneka Rice not hosting the show no matter how much she tried…
* * *
‘I’m going to ride in a helicopter like Anneka when I grow up,’ says Bryony. She’s snuggled next to her sister. They’re watching Treasure Hunt and Hannah has hardly spoken. Bryony knows Hannah wishes she was the one in the helicopter in the red suit swooping over towns then jumping out and running across gardens or fields to the next clue. Hannah looks a bit like beautiful Anneka. She has large open eyes and long, golden hair. Bryony shifts in her chair. Maybe one day Hannah will go on television and dazzle other girls just like them.
Hannah should not really be watching television. She has homework to do. Bryony wants to help her sister but the work is too difficult for her; besides, Bryony has her own problems. Today she got sent home from school again. She had been in Miss Lawrence’s class finishing a picture of a chaffinch for a project. It had taken her ages to draw the bird and get every detail correct. She had watched the chaffinches in her garden each morning and knew she had captured the beak, the colours and the minute details in her picture. She was really happy with her effort and oblivious to the others in her class who sniggered behind her back when her shoulder suddenly jerked to one side, pulling her head with it. She loved the chaffinches with their merry song. She would like to be a bird and soar in the sky, free from the constraints of a rebellious body.
The painting was almost complete. Miss Lawrence had seen it and was astonished at the accuracy of the picture. It would definitely receive a gold star and that would make her parents proud. She didn’t go into school very often these days. The doctor told her parents her illness came from ‘chorea’, a Greek word that meant ‘dance’. The doctor told them it would get better in time but Bryony didn’t know when. She hated it. She never knew when it would happen – when she might flinch or a shoulder might jerk or when she would suddenly blink her eyes or her face would tighten into a grimace. The more she got worked up about it the worse it became. And the children tittered and nudged each other even though they’d been told not to laugh.
Bryony dipped her brush into the jar of water. She needed to put some black onto the chaffinch’s head. Without warning, her hand jerked open and before she could cry out, the jar of water tumbled over, soaking her beautiful chaffinch.
Bryony did not want to think about it any more. She had cried all afternoon. The teacher had sent her to the school nurse, who had phoned her mum to come and collect her. Her mother had not been as sympathetic as she hoped. ‘It’s only a picture. You can paint another.’ She first became exasperated and then annoyed with Bryony. ‘You’re making a fuss about nothing,’ she declared and left Bryony in her room where she sobbed and sulked until Hannah came home from school.
Hannah had come into her bedroom, sat on the bed with her and stroked her hair. ‘It’s okay, little sis. We’ll paint a picture together. You and me. We’ll make the best picture ever.’
Bryony loves Hannah. She understands how horrible it is to be the kid who is picked on. She never laughs when Bryony’s face suddenly contorts into a grimace or her eyes develop a tic.
Now she is next to Hannah on the settee and both are absorbed in watching Treasure Hunt. Hannah catches her sister looking up at her.
‘You okay, little sis?’
Bryony nods enthusiastically.
‘I was thinking how you could do that too.’
Hannah laughs a warm, happy laugh and squeezes her sister affectionately.
‘Why not? And maybe you could be the helicopter pilot and together we’ll find treasure.’
Bryony’s heart swells with pride. How she loves Hannah.
Gradually, she surfaces from her dream. The vision fades.
A sudden wave of sadness washes over her as her conscience interrupts the memory. Hannah will never be able to go on a treasure hunt with her. Hannah has gone.
A chill seeps into her body and a familiar twitching sensation begins in her face and then spreads to her shoulders. She cries out in alarm.
* * *
‘Bryony, are you okay?’ Lewis asked, leaning over to her side of the bed and rubbing her arm gently.
Bryony snuffled. She had been crying in her sleep again. Her heart felt heavy in her chest. Confused and disorientated, she tried to place where she was, whimpering as she sat up.
‘Hey, come here,’ whispered Lewis. He drew her into his warm arms and held her, pulling her hair from her damp face, much as Hannah had done all those years before. The tender gesture made her sob further and she allowed the tears to flow, unable to stem them.
Lewis held her close until she gained control. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in between sniffing and gulps of air.
‘Don’t be sorry. It must have been a doozy of a nightmare.’
‘It wasn’t really a nightmare. It was a memory – a bittersweet memory.’
‘I’ll get you some water and a tissue,’ he offered, releasing her.
Immediately she missed his strength. She wanted him to return and cuddle her again.
‘Here,’ he said and shuffled back under the covers.
She thanked him, blew her nose and then accepted the water. She leant back against the hanging pillow.
‘I dreamt about Hannah. It was so vivid. I could smell the apple shampoo she used and I could feel the warmth of her arm around me as we watched television.’
‘Go on,’ whispered Lewis.
‘I went back in time to a point just before it all fell apart. My sister was with me. How I wish I could change what happened soon afterwards.’
‘Do you think she might be dead?’ he asked softly, holding her hand as he asked.
‘Truth is, I don’t know. I never gave up believing she was alive. Even after the police could find nothing to point to it. In my heart I feel she is alive. I wish with all my heart I could find her. I need to find her.’
‘Have you tried a detective?’
‘Yes, and I tried placing adverts in newspapers asking her to contact me. This was pretty much my last hope.’
‘Tell me about it. How you hope this show will help to find her. Anneka Rice. Everything.’
‘It’s a long story.’
Lewis flicked on a small bedside lamp and opened the drawer beside the bed. ‘In that case, do you want one of my secret supply of chocolate biscuits?’
She smiled, a weak smile, breathed in and began.
‘Hannah loved watching game shows and in the eighties we used to sit in front of all manner of shows but her favourite programme was one called Treasure Hunt.’
‘I remember that show. Go on.’
‘When Daphne, the woman who sat next to me at the audition, told me Anneka Rice was going to host it, I got it into my head Hannah would tune in, and if she watched the show, she’d see me and get back in contact. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed plausible and I became over optimistic. As it is, she might not watch it and I’ll have to rely on my original plan – to try and win the public’s sympathy and interest.’ She blew her nose and then, gripping the tissue, resumed her story. ‘As you know Dad had a stroke a few months ago. He’s recovering but the chances are he’ll have another and next time he won’t get better. Since the stroke, it’s become imperative I locate Hannah. I have to try everything humanly possible and persuade her to come home before it’s too late. I can’t give up on her. Not now.’ She shook her head in dismay. ‘You see… I’m the reason she ran away from home.’
Lewis heaved a sigh that almost stirred the curtains across the room and placed his arm around her shoulders, pulling her towards him again. ‘She might or might not have watched if Anneka had been hosting. She still might tune in. You can’t become disillusioned yet. It was a slight setback, that’s all. We’ll both have to hope your sister sees the show regardless of who hosts it. It’s never wrong to be optimistic, Bryony.’
What Happens in France Page 12
