by Lucy Coleman
The palace doesn’t open on Mondays, so today is a free day to catch up on my own admin as well as some office work. I’ve been to the supermarket to stock up on supplies, as I’ve invited Ronan over this evening to see if he’s found out anything about Grandma’s time here. After a leisurely stroll back to number six, even before I can turn the key in the door, I hear someone call out.
‘Excusez-moi. J’ai une livraison pour vous.’
Turning around, an older woman is walking towards me with a parcel in her hands. Her silver-grey hair is tied neatly in a bun and she’s dressed entirely in black; her skirt is ankle-length and even though it’s an unusually warm spring day she’s wearing a long black cardigan over her blouse.
‘Ah. Merci, madame,’ I offer, as I take the parcel from her, wondering what on earth it could be. She indicates that she had to sign for it, and I can see a Royal Mail special delivery label with a bar code. I give her a warm smile of thanks.
‘Je m’appelle Lexie Winters,’ I add, feeling it would be rude not to introduce myself.
‘Ah. English!’ she exclaims. ‘I am Renée Duval. You stay here long?’
‘Twelve weeks,’ I reply, and she frowns. ‘Douze semaines,’ I clarify.
‘Ah. Bon.’
She nods her head in acknowledgement, then heads back to the cottage, opposite.
I open the door then slide the sizeable box under my arm as best I can, in order to grab the carrier bags. It isn’t easy negotiating the stairs as I puzzle over the unexpected delivery. Not many people know I’m here and I haven’t ordered anything. I’m so curious that I dump the bags down and carry the box across to the table before unpacking the shopping.
It’s obviously from the UK and when I turn the box over, I see it has one of Mum’s little flowery address labels on it. Grabbing a knife to slit it open, I end up sitting down on a chair with a bump as I stare at the contents. It’s full of palm-sized, spiral-bound notebooks. I pick one up and see that the paper inside is plain, like an art pad, and, flicking through, I see it’s full of Grandma’s stylish handwriting, interspersed with drawings of flowers, plants and trees. These little vignettes jump out, tantalisingly. Tucked alongside them is a folded sheet of white paper, which I slide out.
Hi Honey
Your dad once said I was being silly hesitating over when exactly was the right time to hand this box over to you. Now you’re in Versailles, walking over the very ground your grandma walked so many years ago, the time has come. I will admit I am nervous about what you might discover. But history can’t be rewritten – it is what it is.
When I had the awful task of going through her things, I found this hidden away at the back of a drawer. There was no letter but if you look closely your name is written in pencil inside the lid. I opened one of the small notebooks and realised that France was a dream my mother had to let go, but it still meant a lot to her. Oh, her passion for plants and nature in general always shone through and she shared that with us all, but I still can’t bring myself to go through the contents of this box.
In the end, what’s contained here turned out to be the sum total of her career. After she returned to the UK, she made the decision to devote her time to supporting the man she loved and to have and nurture a family. Unlike the memory box, which contained a wealth of old photos, letters and general items she happily shared, this is different.
I believe that she kept her notebooks because at some point she wanted to share her adventure with you, honey. That’s why I could never bring myself to pore over them; maybe she didn’t want to upset me. Or maybe it was because you had a very special bond with her.
You know that I don’t really believe in all that psychic stuff… too airy-fairy for me, but – and it’s a but that sent me scurrying to parcel this up and send it off to you – last night I had a dream. I rarely remember what happens once my head touches the pillow, but I woke up to find tears on my cheeks, convinced your grandma had come to visit me. As I opened my eyes, I swear I could still feel her presence and smell her perfume.
Shellie said you were intent on trying to discover whatever you can about your grandma’s time there. So, I’m sending this to you by recorded delivery because I think it was a sign. Even if it was only my conscience telling me it was wrong to hold out any longer.
At some point, depending upon what you discover, maybe we can talk about the part of her life she kept very quiet. Without a doubt, you are the one who is most like her in so many ways. If there are lessons to be learnt, then maybe that’s why she kept them. Perhaps Versailles was meant to be a part of your journey, too, although how could she have known that? It all sounds a little silly, but I’m feeling very emotional about the past, today.
Anyway, honey, please don’t go putting too much pressure on yourself. I’m so proud of what you’ve achieved already. I worry that you will follow in your brother’s footsteps. Always remember that success shouldn’t come at the cost of one’s happiness in life.
Enjoy experiencing spring in a wonderful and very special setting. But I’m marking each day off on my calendar until your safe return, because life isn’t quite the same without you here.
Love Mum. x
I swallow a lump that has risen in my throat. My heart is thumping in my chest and my stomach begins to churn. I stand, busying myself by putting away the contents of the carrier bags while I try to get my head around Mum’s letter, and the level of trust she’s putting in me. She’s torn about whether or not she wants to know what really happened. Reaching for the lid and turning it over, sure enough I see my name staring back at me.
What if this reveals not just the contents of a box, but a secret that changes my perception of Grandma Viv forever? Is it possible that the wonderful memories I have of her could be tarnished by what I might find? Do I have the right to do what even her own daughter can’t bring herself to do? But then again, Grandma could so easily have destroyed the notebooks, and no one would have been any the wiser.
With so much apprehension and doubt swirling around in my head, I go over and place the lid firmly back on the box. There’s a supper to prepare and I want to impress Ronan after he was kind enough to put so much effort into our cosy little meal. Reading the notebooks is something I’m going to have to think long and hard about before I go any further.
When Ronan arrives, he steps inside with a big smile on his face and thrusts a small bunch of pretty pink tulips and a bottle of wine into my arms. We’re beyond shaking hands now, I realise as he’s leaning in to kiss my cheek. The space is so confined it’s impossible to avoid each other anyway. I return his smile, tilting my head to alternate cheeks. I can feel myself blush as I turn to head up the stairs.
‘Well,’ he comments as he follows behind me, ‘something smells good.’
‘I hope you’re hungry, I’m cooking my mum’s favourite recipe from the seventies, based on a French classic.’
He laughs out loud, slipping off his jacket. ‘That would be coq au vin, then. Actually, the modern version has barely changed and it’s still very popular.’
I will admit the smell is amazing and it’s my go-to dinner party dish. I’m pleased at Ronan’s response and I head over to the kitchen area to put the flowers in a vase of water.
‘Thank you, these are lovely, but you shouldn’t have, really.’
‘Oh, it’s my pleasure. It’s been a while since—’ He pauses, awkwardly.
‘Since you had a date?’ Heck, there’s no point in avoiding the obvious.
Ronan casts me a rather nervous glance. ‘Well, yes, a date – I was rather hoping that’s what this is.’
‘Take a seat. Maybe you can uncork the wine while I dish up? I think the bottle you brought will be a safer bet than the one I randomly picked off the supermarket shelf.’
That raises a smile too. Ronan is wearing navy trousers and a slim-fit white shirt, which really suits him, and I can see he’s made an effort tonight. I think he’s even styled his hair, as it’s usually a little w
ayward on the top. I pull out the plates that are warming in the grill, trying not to look his way as he rolls back his sleeves and turns his attention to uncorking the wine.
We work in a companionable silence as I ferry the casserole across to the table, then the dish of crispy roast potatoes. After pouring a little wine, Ronan picks up the small box of matches next to the candle in the centre of the table to light it.
‘I like that you’re a candle person,’ he says, his words softly spoken. ‘This is vanilla?’
I nod. ‘Yes. I think it’s my TV brain and the years I’ve spent being reminded about lighting, and the mood of a room.’
We’re side by side staring down at the table and I turn my head to look up into his eyes. My mouth has gone dry.
‘Um… well, take a seat and let’s eat!’
I was a bit nervous that acknowledging this was a date might make things a little awkward between us, but I needn’t have worried. In between two helpings we chat almost non-stop, mainly about childhood memories. Ronan admits he yearned to travel.
‘You’ve obviously always been curious and an explorer,’ I add, as I watch him finish clearing his plate.
‘Now that was good.’ He sighs, relinquishing his knife and fork. He wipes his mouth on a napkin, sitting back in his chair to relax. ‘My mother, Eve, was over-protective, and the truth is that there were occasions when I felt hemmed in. I spent a lot of time in my room either reading or watching films and it opened up a whole new world.’
‘It sounds like a rather solitary existence for a child.’
He shrugs his shoulders.
‘It was all I knew. I was the centre of her life. I guess in my head I wanted to become this intrepid explorer, wielding a machete as I stumbled through the jungle discovering ancient ruins. Or white-water rafting, to reach some far-flung village, away from the beaten track.’
‘Ah, now I understand. And that wasn’t such a bad thing in your case.’
He cradles the wine glass in his hands, staring down into it.
‘I felt it was my job, well, my role, to keep her happy; to make up for the fact that she loved my father, but he didn’t love us. They were never married and had never lived together, so she only ever used her maiden name, Arnoult. When, eventually, he did marry he had two daughters, but there was no contact and hadn’t been for years. I doubt they even knew of our existence at that point. To my cost, much later I came to learn just how badly he wanted a son, but one who was under his roof and his control.’
The undertone of bitterness he can’t hide is poignant. To be rejected once is hurtful, to be rejected twice is unforgivable.
‘She must miss you, even after seven years, but I’m sure she understands why France was such a draw,’ I offer.
He raises his head. ‘There were two reasons I turned my back on the UK and my mother’s well-being was one of them, ironically. It forced her to take a step back and start living her own life before it was too late, but it was tough on us both for a while. We’re gradually repairing our relationship, but she hasn’t totally forgiven me yet. But it did force her to look for ways to get out and meet people, including a widower named Frank, when she joined an art class. They’ve been seeing each other for two years now and he’s good for her. In all honesty, there were times I felt I couldn’t breathe, if that makes sense.’
It’s a sad story, but something he said has made me think about my own family rift.
‘It must be a relief for you. Family stuff can be hard to deal with sometimes. I haven’t seen my older brother for a few years now and it does hurt; the family no longer feels complete. It’s heartbreaking for my mum. Being on her own, she tends to spend a lot of time worrying about us all, even though we try to encourage her to lead a full life. My dad spent most of his working life travelling, so she was very much the rock in our family. It worked for us, but maybe for my brother, Jake, being brought up in a household full of women, he was the one who missed Dad’s influence the most. It never occurred to me that as the oldest he might feel he had to step up. I thought he was just full of himself. He’s a bit like that.’
The candle between us flutters as the melted wax swamps the wick. The light dies and the last few puffs of smoke are blackened, filling the air with an acrid smell.
‘Hmmmm. Time to clear the table, I think. Are we going to sit and finish this wine, or did you drive? I could put the kettle on.’
‘I came by taxi as parking isn’t the easiest here,’ he admits.
We clear the plates between us, and I quickly run a sink full of water, washing as we talk. On several occasions our arms brush as we work around each other in the confined space. I’m certainly not complaining and neither is he.
‘If you carry the glasses over to the sofas, I’ll dry my hands and find another candle. Can you turn the side light on, too? Thanks.’
The evening is going so well and I can’t remember the last time I felt this level of connection on a date. I find Ronan fascinating to talk to and there is definitely that little physical thrill thing going on between us. Maybe it’s because I’m not on my home turf and France adds that frisson of being able to let my hair down, away from anyone who knows me. Whichever, it’s clear we are both enjoying it.
When I walk over to Ronan, I hesitate momentarily about whether it will look presumptuous to sit next to him on the sofa rather than opposite him, but there’s something about the twinkle in his eye and I decide to take a seat next to him. He hands me a full glass of wine and raises his in a toast.
‘To a fabulous evening with great food and wonderful company. Thank you, Lexie!’
We touch glasses; our eyes are on each other as we each take a sip, before settling back in our seats.
‘So, are you ready for tomorrow?’
‘Yes. There comes a point when you can’t really do any more and you just need to get on with it. The nerves are beginning to kick in, but it’s been a weird afternoon, if I’m honest with you, and I’ve been a little distracted.’
He frowns, putting his glass back down on the coffee table in front of us.
‘Distracted? There isn’t a problem, is there?’
‘No. Everything is fine. This is family stuff. A part of the reason why I’m here, as you know, is to do with my grandma.’
He raises both eyebrows. ‘I’m glad you mentioned that. I trawled through some of the info on my database, but I haven’t found anything as yet. Have you discovered some new information?’
‘Maybe.’
I didn’t mean to raise this and I’m annoyed with myself for breaking the mood. I’m also not sure how much to tell him. What’s in the box has never been seen by anyone other than Grandma herself and I don’t want to betray her memory by sharing her thoughts and reflections too soon.
Ronan is watching me intently and it’s time to make a quick decision. He has told me a lot about himself and he needn’t have shared that, and my gut is saying that he’s someone I can trust.
‘My mum has sent me another box she found hidden amongst my grandma’s things. No one has ever opened anything inside it as far as we know, but she wrote my name on the underside of the lid.’
‘And it contains?’
I slide out the drawer of the coffee table and grab hold of the box, putting it on my lap.
‘It’s full of notebooks and there was a heartfelt letter from my mum.’
I’m hugging it to me, as if it’s valuable. Which it is, to me.
‘Do you want to share that, or is it too personal?’
My hand hesitates for a moment before I prise off the lid, lifting out the folded sheet of paper and passing it to Ronan. I think I trust this man, and what I need is an impartial opinion. If I’m any judge of character at all, I do believe he’s capable of that.
He takes a few moments to digest the contents before looking up at me, wide-eyed.
‘Okay. This isn’t an easy situation you find yourself in, then.’
I close my eyes, momentarily, so relieved that
he seems to understand my dilemma.
‘I know.’
‘So, what are you going to do?’
I sigh. ‘I’m scared I’ll discover something that could end up breaking my heart. My grandparents love for each other was a romance that never ended – even after his death he was still the one for her until the day she died. If I kept whatever I discover from Mum, I think she’d sense something was up. My sister warned me about my obsession with Grandma and Versailles, but I thought that if I found out where she stayed when she was here, I’d feel closer to her. However, this box changes everything, and, well, who knows what secrets there are in the notebooks? Do I take the risk and read them because that’s what she wanted, or do I let the past lie?’
‘You can’t right now and that’s obvious, just looking at you and the way you’re hugging that box as if someone is about to snatch it away from you.’
I’m feeling tearful, not least because Ronan seems to understand. It’s not my imagination; there is a real connection between us that seems to grow with each encounter.
‘But a part of me has to know. Why didn’t she just burn the contents of this box when she knew she was dying? If I’d been older at that point, maybe she would have sat me down and told me the story in full. Grandma Viv believed in passing on some of the lessons she’d learnt. Many of them repeated so many times, they’re imprinted on my mind, and it has helped to guide so many of my decisions as an adult. It’s like she’s still with me, if you can understand that.’
