A Springtime to Remember

by Lucy Coleman

  As soon as we disconnect, I begin to have second thoughts. I mean, he’s a nice enough guy, although his attitude is a little disarming, but I have a rule never to mix business with pleasure. But then I doubt he would think that cheese on toast was a way to impress anyone, so I should stop jumping to conclusions.

  I wonder if he thinks I actually do have information that could help his research.

  Gathering together my papers, I close the laptop. I hope he isn’t going to be very disappointed when he realises I don’t know anything at all; I simply wish I did.

  Oh. My. Goodness.

  ‘This is so not cheese on toast!’ I exclaim, cutting into the heavenly looking, golden-brown stack on the plate in front of me. I will admit that the accompaniment of a glass of red wine is rather welcome.

  ‘What were you expecting? An English toasted cheese sandwich?’ Ronan is laughing at me now and I look at him, raising my eyebrows.

  ‘No.’ I put a small forkful into my mouth, savouring the perfectly complemented flavours of home-cooked gammon, crisply baked bread and the oozy, cheesy, béchamel sauce, all coated in what appears to be a very thin mushroom omelette.

  ‘Mushrooms?’ I muse.

  ‘Ah. Well. I’m not really a purist, although it was Solange who taught me how to cook this properly. I hope you’re getting that hint of mustard on the Emmental cheese, but let’s keep the mushroom omelette just between us. Although, some people serve it with a fried egg on top, but I feel that lacks a sense of refinement. Either could be construed as sacrilege, I suppose, but I prefer to view it as a modern twist on an old favourite.’

  I burst out laughing.

  ‘Okay. Your secret is safe with me. You and Solange get on well, then?’ I’m just making conversation really – it’s not that I’m interested.

  Well, I don’t think I am.

  ‘Solange moved here from the South of France a little over a year ago and she didn’t know anyone at all. I could sympathise with that. People assume it’s hard for a foreigner in a new country, but for Solange, too, following her dream meant leaving everything behind. Her family didn’t want her to come to Versailles and her father hasn’t spoken to her since she left.’

  I put down my knife and fork.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear she’s had to contend with that. She obviously loves what she does. I thought I’d researched enough to prepare me for the experience of being here in person but I was so very wrong.’

  Ronan looks across at me and smiles knowingly.

  ‘Eat. This is best consumed hot and not cold. Solange said you were hooked.’

  ‘Hooked?’ As my eyes flash over his face I can see he’s enjoying himself, and I will admit that I’m feeling much more relaxed around him.

  I wait while Ronan chews through an enormous forkful of croque-monsieur.

  ‘Under the spell of Versailles. I came here seven years ago to record an audio version in several languages for an exhibition that was running at the time. I’m still here.’

  He opens his eyes wide, indicating that it probably wasn’t a part of his plan at the time.

  ‘And two books later?’

  ‘Yep. Still hunting for new information about the past. My research so far has left me with gaps. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle where I don’t have all the pieces but at least now I have a good idea of which ones I’m looking for. But I hate loose ends.’

  Now I understand. Solange was doing Ronan a favour mentioning my connection. And maybe she thought it could be a two-way thing.

  ‘That must be frustrating. I can sympathise with that, as my grandma was very secretive about her year in Versailles.’

  He stops eating, a frown wrinkling his brow.

  ‘Well, Versailles holds so many secrets. The more you uncover, the more you realise the surface has only just been scratched, even after all the years of intense scrutiny. I’m very lucky to have been given access to some of the mountain of records and journals relating to the gardens. If you’re happy to give me a little more information about her I can see if I can trace her name.’

  I’m a little surprised by his offer. I thought maybe he’d be firing questions at me, notebook in hand, but he seems very relaxed and genuinely interested in helping me out. What harm can it do?

  ‘That would be great, thanks.’

  He smiles and our eyes meet. I feel a little prickle of heat making the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise. I think, with Ronan involved, digging a little deeper might just turn up a clue, or two.

  There’s more to Ronan than meets the eye, that’s for sure. Any man who works so hard to give off that blasé, laid-back attitude, when it’s clear that beneath that lies a very complex character, is protecting himself. I wonder what he’s protecting himself from.

  We carry on and finish our supper, chatting easily throughout. There is an unmistakably flirty feeling to the atmosphere now, as the wine we’ve drunk loosens us up.

  ‘I’ll clear the dishes and wash up,’ I insist as soon as we’ve finished eating. ‘It’s the least I can do after that amazing supper. You grab a pen and some paper.’

  He gives me a look of mild surprise. ‘Okay.’

  I load up the wooden tray perched on the end of the long, highly polished oak table and carry it through into the kitchen. The large and wonderful old house wasn’t what I was expecting, especially its size when it’s clear Ronan lives here alone. Just the kitchen itself is as big as the entire open-plan area at number six, and it has a magnificent run of modern bifold doors leading out onto a patio area.

  Ronan reappears as I’m running a sink full of water.

  ‘I do have a dishwasher.’ He points towards the unit next to the sink, before settling himself down at the scrubbed pine table in the centre of the room.

  I nod. ‘I don’t do dishwashers. I think it’s better to do it by hand.’ I smile at him and he rolls his eyes.

  ‘The first thing I did when I inherited this house from my grandmother was to bring it up to date. I kept all her old furniture, because it’s what I remember from my visits, but she preferred old school. No dishwasher and no shower, although she loved her washing machine. She was a very precise sort of lady; very proud of her Irish roots. Always cleaning.’

  Swiping the plates with the soapy sponge until they sparkle, I work as I talk.

  ‘So, your grandfather was French, then?’ At last we’re getting somewhere.

  ‘Yes. My grandmother, Colleen, met him when she was in London, ironically. They were both on holiday at the time. Leaving Ireland to join him over here less than a year later was tough, as she was leaving behind her parents and four sisters. Irish families are close and I’m not sure whether my grandfather fully realised the sacrifice she’d made for him. But she was hopelessly in love and his ties were here. Versailles was his life, until it was sadly cut short.’

  I vaguely remember thinking that Ronan is an Irish name the first time I saw it, but the French connection is a real surprise. I pull the plug out of the sink and wipe my hands on the kitchen towel, before taking a seat at the table.

  ‘And your mother married an Irishman. So where were you born?’

  He smiles. ‘Ireland, but it’s a long and complicated story, which I won’t even attempt to bore you with. I spent quite a bit of the school holidays every year in France, as Mum took every opportunity she could to return to her childhood home.

  ‘Even though I never knew my grandfather, who died in 1966 when my mother was only three years old, my love of languages grew from the time I spent here, I’m sure. When my grandmother’s health eventually began to decline, we flew her back to Ireland. She died several months later, and we brought her ashes back, so they could be buried with my grandfather.’

  ‘It’s lovely to think that they were reunited in death,’ I reflect.

  ‘Her heart was always here because she had never truly got over her loss and she talked to me about him, often. She knew that my mother never mentioned him at all, but then she had no memorie
s she could pass on to me. As the only grandchild, I inherited the house, although I rented it out for a few years. I only moved over here permanently seven years ago. To cut a very long story short, after years of seeming indifference, my father decided to reach out to me. I’d been working for his company, which was based in the UK, for a few years, but things became increasingly awkward. We had one argument too many and eventually I had to walk away in order to maintain my sanity.’

  I can tell from his expression that whatever went on was a big deal.

  ‘Right. So, you mentioned 1961?’ he begins again, clearly wanting to change the subject. ‘If you’re happy to share whatever you do know, I love a challenge,’ he says, picking up his pen.

  ‘My grandma’s maiden name was Hanley. Vivian Hanley, but everyone knew her as Viv. She was a student at Barker’s Horticultural College in Cirencester. My mum once mentioned that she thought Grandma’s year here was a work experience type of thing, but even she didn’t know any more than that.’

  Ronan scribbles down a few notes and then sits back in his chair, tapping his pen against the side of his cheek.

  ‘It’s not a name I’ve come across in the records, but that’s not to say I won’t find it in one of the daily signing-in ledgers. Do you know what month she arrived here?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. She married my granddad in the August of 1962, so I guess she will have returned in the late spring, early summer of that year. Sadly, she died in 2006, shortly after my sixteenth birthday. I’ve tried quizzing my mum, but I genuinely think Grandma Viv only ever talked about her childhood, or about her family. We have what she called her memory box, including a package of letters exchanged between my grandparents during Grandma’s year in Versailles.’

  Ronan’s body language indicates an immediate interest, as he sits upright in his chair, his eyes on mine.

  ‘Letters?’

  I shake my head. ‘Don’t get excited. I skimmed through a few of them and quite honestly all she talked about were plants, the weather, the food and how captivated she was by her surroundings on her daily walks. Granddad’s were in similar vein, mainly all about his work. But he did talk a lot about a new band, named the Beatles, he’d seen at a gig while visiting Liverpool.’ I find myself chuckling. ‘Granddad played guitar and was in a band at weekends. Considering they were married shortly after her return; I didn’t even see any references to that. I saw no mention of people she worked alongside, or any friends she made over here. Maybe in a handwritten letter the whole point was to give a flavour of what was happening in one’s life, not the nitty-gritty detail.’

  He nods.

  ‘I think we suffer from the opposite these days. I can’t believe how many emails I send in a day. If I had to handwrite them, I’d write an awful lot less,’ he admits. ‘Anyway, a name is a start and as she was here between 1961 and 1962, that narrows it down considerably. I’m already aware from previous research that there was some sort of experimental work experience programme in relation to the trees, going on in the early sixties. It folded later that year, due to budgetary constraints. It was a time when opinions were divided, and emotions ran high.’

  I look at Ronan in surprise as his tone becomes more serious and he shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘Back in the sixties some experts believed that many of the trees at Versailles had been allowed to grow too tall, both for their root systems and the drained swampland area on which a lot of the park was established, to be able to support. Others saw it as doom-mongering, predicting a mass loss of trees being blown over in strong winds. A bid to grab more of the budget, let’s say. The internal politics threw up general conflict as departments fought to grab as much funding as they could. The truth is that management didn’t always get their priorities right and sometimes tough decisions had to be made.’

  ‘But surely, the gardens have always been a major part of the attractions at Versailles?’ I ask, rather surprised at his words.

  ‘They are, but the building had fallen into disrepair and things like holes in the roof had top priority; much of the privately donated funding went to things like the statuary in the grounds and keeping the fountains working.

  ‘One of the gardeners put forward a theory that the high water table associated with the boggy land resulted in the root systems growing very close to the surface. That, he proposed, was the inherent danger for the future as the trees aged, and that’s what I think the tree survey project set about to prove for the first time. By looking in detail at the pattern of tree loss over the previous twenty years, it was hoping to trigger urgent action with regard to a major replanting programme.’

  Ronan is very knowledgeable, and I’m impressed.

  ‘I’m sure everyone was aware the solution wasn’t going to be a simple one. If the money had been there, I assume it would have been a totally different story and the scheme would have had backing. I bet it was a bitter blow to those involved, though.’

  His expression is one of exasperation.

  ‘What was the point of wasting what little money was available, when from the outset no one was going to listen? That was the travesty.’

  ‘Do you think my grandma could have been involved in this tree survey?’ I’m a little taken aback at his in-depth knowledge. He knows his stuff, that’s for sure.

  ‘Possibly. It’s all common knowledge, of course,’ he adds quickly. ‘No secrets being divulged here. Although it’s a pity those early rumblings in the sixties were pushed to one side. Maybe some of the very old trees that should have gone on to stand for a long, long time could have withstood the storms. In tandem with a replanting programme, one proposal was to drill holes and inject nutrients into the ground to encourage the roots to go deeper. Whether that would have worked is anyone’s guess.’

  It’s a sobering thought and I feel sad to think of what has been lost

  ‘It will take several lifetimes for the park to be returned to anything like its former glory. In 1990, so many trees were lost in the first of two devastating storms which hit the park, that a restoration project was finally developed by a committee of experts. It was agreed that somehow the funds would be raised, because there was an outpouring from people around the world who wanted to help when they saw photographs on the news of the damage. At the time, no one could have predicted the further, colossal damage to come in December 1999. Over eighty per cent of the oldest, more rare species were destroyed in a two hour frenzy of tornado-strength winds.’

  No wonder feelings ran high in the sixties, when there were those who foresaw how devastating the delay would be for the future of the landscape. If Versailles inspires anything in people, I’m starting to understand it’s a passion for the beauty that was created at such enormous expense.

  ‘I can’t imagine what it’s like to see a huge tree toppled overnight,’ I admit. ‘But I suppose it’s a case of prioritising when there’s also the fabric of the building to consider. That’s such a difficult choice to make, though.’

  Ronan gives a wry smile. ‘The Sun King would simply have raised taxes when his coffers ran low.’

  And look at how that ended, I can’t help thinking, as he continues.

  ‘The park is a lot less private these days, having lost so many of the tallest trees – some in excess of one hundred and twenty feet tall. We’re mainly talking about some of the apartment buildings bordering the furthest extremes of the park’s perimeter, though.’

  He realises I’m looking at him with what is, no doubt, a look of fascination on my face.

  ‘Sorry, it’s one of my pet topics and that sounded a bit like a lecture.’

  ‘No, it’s interesting, really it is, and something that has never even crossed my mind. I can imagine how excited my grandma Viv would have found all of this. And as a passionate gardener herself, I know how strongly she would have felt about forward planning. A tree or a hedge takes a long time to grow and when something is lost overnight, suddenly the view changes quite dramatically. To my grand
ma the garden was an outdoor room and she always said that it required as much attention and dedication as anything inside the house.’

  Ronan groans. ‘Now I’ve made you maudlin and that wasn’t my intention at all. Enough of this. Leave it with me and I’ll let you know what I discover, if anything at all.’

  It seems like a natural time to say goodnight and head home.

  ‘Supper was delicious,’ I compliment him as I stand, sliding the chair beneath the table. ‘I’ll invite you back very soon, but I don’t think I can beat that, so I don’t want you to set your expectations too high.’

  We exchange a good-natured laugh. ‘I confess the dishes in my repertoire are rather limited, but I cook what I know and leave the clever stuff to people with the right skills. It’s been a nice evening, though, and thanks for the company.’

  I feel myself blushing slightly as Ronan stands opposite me. I wasn’t expecting him to be so open and honest with me, even if he didn’t elaborate more on what happened with his father. As we get to know each other a little better I wonder if he will take me into his confidence. It’s often easier to talk to someone you hardly know than those you are close to. Especially when that someone is only passing through. Ronan is turning out to be a man whose thoughts run deep and I like that.

  6

  A Surprising Turn of Events

  After several very intense days of preparation and two meetings with Elliot, our sound man, Cameron, and Ronan, we’re all counting down to the first interview. It turns out that Ronan’s YouTube channel contains footage of a walking tour of various areas of the park and gardens around the palace. Together we watched a few of his downloads, as they were useful background information.

  ‘Your camera work is good.’ Elliot was full of praise. ‘It’s not easy to film and commentate at the same time.’

  Both Elliot and I were intrigued to discover that Ronan’s father owns a film production company. Ronan spent a number of years working for him behind the camera and then behind the scenes, as an editor. The company specialises in high-end animation and visual effects, as well as making video trailers. Being multilingual, as well as good with a camera, Ronan must have been a real asset. No wonder his father came back into his life, although I hope it wasn’t just to use him. Ronan still hasn’t mentioned the reason why he left the company, and I daren’t ask, although my curiosity grows by the day over their falling-out. Business and family aren’t always a good mix and the irony is that he’ll probably understand the situation between me and Jake.