by Lucy Coleman
‘I, well, no. We rowed, constantly. You see, I won’t take his name and he sees that as the ultimate betrayal.’
I’m stunned. ‘Oh.’
I don’t quite know what to say to that. Ronan presses himself back into his seat, toying with the glass of water on the table in front of him.
‘I said it was complicated and it is.’
‘Well, I’m here and if you feel like sharing then I’m happy to listen.’
He inclines his head, indicating that I might be sorry I asked.
‘When my mother, Eve, was sixteen years old my grandmother wanted her to get in touch with her Irish roots. So, my mother left France and went to live with my aunt in the town of Killarney, County Kerry. She enrolled at St Brendan’s College and, while she missed her mum, suddenly her life got a whole lot more exciting. A year later she met my father, Oliver Traynor. He was four years older than her, although at the time I suspect he had no idea that was the case. They had a very brief affair, from the little I can gather.
‘I have no doubt at all that my mother had fallen madly in love at first sight, but for him it was a transient thing. His future career path came before everything else at that time. When my mother discovered she was pregnant, he didn’t want to know. She ended up quitting college and my aunt had a tough time with her, as she was an emotional wreck. My father made no attempt to contact her at all after hearing the news and when she registered my birth she used her name, Arnoult, and his name didn’t appear on the certificate.
‘Eventually, out of guilt no doubt, he did get in touch and began supporting us both financially. I think he was worried my mother, or my aunt, might make trouble for him and the last thing he needed was the threat of gossip.’
‘How awful for your mother,’ I say, sadly. ‘She was facing an exciting new future, only to end up broken-hearted at such a young age. That’s tragic, as having a baby is a joyous event and a blessing.’
Ronan nods.
‘That’s life. These things happen. She was so young and rather naive. It was an unfortunate twist of fate, because suddenly Mum’s options were limited. My father was promoted around the same time and it was making people sit up and notice him, raising his profile. Whether he realised that money was such an issue for us, I don’t know.
‘My aunt looked after me, as my mother had to work two jobs just to keep a roof over our heads until he finally stepped in to help out. She never got over my father’s rejection and she’s a proud woman, so when he did offer to help it would have hurt her to accept it. In the small community in which we lived no one was aware of our link to him and she wanted to keep it that way.’
‘But you don’t use your mother’s maiden name any longer?’ Now I’m really confused.
He gives a little smirk. ‘Hell hath no fury… as the saying goes. When I was old enough for my mother to sit me down and tell me the whole story, she talked a lot about Ireland. Grandma Colleen was very proud of her Irish roots. Sadly, after numerous miscarriages my mother was her only surviving child. Grandma herself was one of five girls and although there were five cousins, only one was a boy. Tragically, he died at the age of six after falling out of a tree. There was no one to carry on the O’Byrne name. Now, my grandfather had two brothers, one of whom had two sons, so the Arnoult line continues to thrive. I’m sure my mother was only trying to honour my grandmother, but the sting in the tail in asking me to change my surname by deed poll was that she knew it would be another slap in the face for my father. He hated the fact that I had never carried his name and this sent a clear message that I never would. I was old enough by then to appreciate that fact, and I suppose I, too, was exacting a little revenge for the way he rejected her… well, us.’
My jaw drops slightly. That’s quite an admission and yet it demonstrates very clearly how close Ronan, his mother and his grandmother were. I supposed that was only natural, given what they had been through.
‘I was a young teen at the time, and I told you it was a long story. Inevitably, the day came when he made contact with me. My father said he regretted some of the decisions he’d made in his younger years and offered me a job. He’s a very persuasive man in many ways and I thought he was genuinely reaching out to me. This was my chance to get to know him, as well as an opportunity to hone my skills. I wouldn’t simply be learning something from him, but my ego kicked in and I wanted to impress him, I suppose. So, I went for it. And that’s when the real horror story began. He has a ruthless streak when it comes to business and he’s a bully if people don’t simply jump to attention and do his bidding.’
I take in a deep breath. ‘How did your mother take the news?’
‘She was torn, I think. I was fresh from university and the job market was saturated at the time, so we both knew it was an offer anyone would have jumped at. She might not have wished him well, exactly, but she has always put my interests first. Like it or not, he’s my biological father and Mum hoped his intentions were good. This was his chance to make amends, if you like.’
‘After having had virtually no involvement in your life, I presume his family understood his sudden desire to get to know you?’
‘I really don’t know. I didn’t have much to do with them, and his wife made it clear she had no intention of recognising me formally as a part of the family. I had my own place and I was happy enough once I’d settled in and made friends.
‘His girls, my half-sisters, are a few years younger than me; one was hoping to become a fashion designer with the help of our father’s cheque book and the other one was off backpacking around the world with her adventurer boyfriend. At the time my father was very annoyed to have funded her trip to Australia, in what was supposed to have been her gap year before going to university. He hasn’t seen much of her since, I gather.’
Ronan is very matter-of-fact about it all, but it sounds like a war zone to me. No wonder he turned his back on them, just to get a little peace.
‘Well, that’s karma for you,’ I remark.
‘My thoughts, exactly. It’s just easier for me being here now, as I don’t get pulled into any of it any more. My mother is finally making a life for herself and learning to let go of the past. Living with resentment constantly welling up inside you isn’t good for anyone and it nearly destroyed her for a while. My father has no need to contact her and now she knows I’m happily settled, she can at last relax. That’s not to say she doesn’t phone me all the time to chide me about being more focused, but she knows I’m content.’
It must be difficult to share such a harrowing life story, and I’m glad Ronan seems happy to put his trust in me.
‘Right. That’s enough about that. Did you drive or walk? I have the car and can give you a lift back, if you like.’
‘Thank you. I wasn’t relishing the idea of the walk.’
Pulling into the entrance in front of the gates, Ronan insists on driving in, parking up while I search around in my backpack for the key. When he follows me out of the car and walks round to the front door of number six, I wonder if he wants to come in for coffee. He hesitates for a moment before stooping to kiss my cheek, and then turns to kiss the other. His body language indicates that he was considering kissing me on the lips and as he turns to walk away from me, I catch his hand.
Ronan turns round and I lean into him, resting my head against his shoulder.
‘What’s wrong?’ he murmurs into my ear.
My arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders and I give him a gentle squeeze.
‘You’re a good man, Ronan, and I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. I just felt you needed… a hug.’
He laughs softly, leaning back a little to place his hand under my chin. Tilting my head, he gazes into my eyes. His smile is warm and tender.
‘Hey, you don’t miss what you never had. Besides, we were better off without him. I only needed to look at his present-day family dynamic to see that.’
‘Well, I’m glad you weren’t fooled, as it’s human nature to give people the b
enefit of the doubt. Sometimes that’s a good thing; sometimes it isn’t.’
Ronan continues to stare down at me, his eyes scanning my face as if it’s a page in a book.
‘There’s a soft heart beating beneath that highly professional exterior of yours, Lexie Winters. My instincts are telling me that it’s something you try to hide. And that’s a shame.’
I don’t know quite how to respond, until he pulls me even closer. Which turns out to be a good thing. As our lips touch, I begin to feel a little light-headed. The gentleness is sweet, but I think it’s obvious we’re both holding back. A noise on the other side of the courtyard sees us drawing apart and we exchange slightly embarrassed smiles. Words lie, but kisses don’t.
‘Well, I, um… had better let you get some rest.’
8
Being Neighbourly
After every adrenaline high comes the fall, and when I wake up this morning, I’m glad it is a day to chill out and go through my notes in preparation for tomorrow’s filming. By lunch time I’m pretty much up to speed and, grabbing my iPad, I decide to download Ronan’s two books from Amazon.
Clearing a space amongst the piles of paperwork on the dining table, I figure I might as well have a little read while I eat. I should have popped to the boulangerie, but I have half a large baguette left over from yesterday. It’s lost its crunch but it’s the perfect accompaniment for creamily soft Pont-l'Évêque cheese, a handful of walnuts and some apple slices. Heaven on a plate.
Turning on my iPad, I flick past the cover and go straight to the dedication page of the first in Ronan’s series and, despite the huge piece of bread I’ve just popped into my mouth, I stop chewing for a second.
In memory of my grandfather, Fabien Arnoult,
whose spirit lives on in the gardens
he loved more than life itself.
The words jump off the page and my head involuntarily jerks backwards a little, as if I’m having to dodge them. More than life itself? I wouldn’t even say that of my dad, who I’m sure loved his work just as much as he loved his family. It’s one thing to give whatever you are doing your complete attention, but another to place it above all else. I swipe and begin reading.
When lunch is done, I saunter over to the sofa with my iPad still firmly grasped in my hand. Stretching out on the sofa rather lazily, I only intend to continue reading for a little while before doing some laundry, but an hour passes and another. It’s fascinating reading, but what I’m really looking for is any reference to his grandfather. Before I know it, I’m already a third of the way through and there’s no mention of him at all. I was expecting a formal textbook charting the history of the key people involved, but instead Ronan has woven a rich narrative, based on in-depth interviews conducted over quite a period, and his detailed research. It is as gripping as any good novel; he has been able to give a real insight into the lives of a succession of gardeners.
What stands out already is that the behind-the-scenes politics didn’t end when Versailles was no longer a seat of power; the disagreements, differing viewpoints and the constant struggle with money were a real battleground and even today there are still tough decisions to be made.
The first half of the book talks in length about Versailles in the early 1900s. The palace was going through a period of restoration and conservation, led by Pierre de Nolhac, interrupted, of course, by two world wars; in the 1920s, philanthropist John D. Rockefeller donated in excess of two million dollars to the project.
The latter half of the first book takes the reader through to the late 1950s. The second book, by the looks of it, is based almost exclusively on the working life of Maurice Perrin. After a long career spanning forty-one years, he ended up being one of the most influential of the chief gardeners during his time at the palace.
He joined the team in 1945 at the age of twenty-four. Sadly, he died, at the grand old age of ninety-four, a year after Ronan’s series of interviews with him was completed.
My eyes are beginning to grow weary and reluctantly I press the off button.
Walking over to the window and peering out, I’m surprised to see Madame Duval, throwing what looks like a bundle of dripping items out through her front door. She immediately disappears for a second or two, rushing back with her hands full of even more saturated items. I turn and head straight for the stairs.
Hurrying across the courtyard towards her, I call out.
‘Is everything all right, Madame Duval?’
She throws up her arms to the heavens, a babble of words coming back at me in a very agitated tone of voice. I don’t understand exactly what she’s saying, but I can see that there is a pile of sopping-wet towels in front of her.
‘Leak? You have a leak?’
She looks at me, frowning. ‘Water,’ she declares, drawing it out so it sounds like waterrrr. ‘Dans ma cuisine,’ she adds with desperate urgency, before hurrying back inside. The hemline of her skirt is heavy and dripping.
I stride out to catch up with her, negotiating the narrow hallway and following her into the ground-floor kitchen. I’m surprised by the very different layout, but I guess not having a garage opens up the options. But even before I step through the inner doorway, I can hear the sound of water flooding out of a tap. To my horror, there’s an arc of water shooting up into the air. Only some of it is falling back down into the sink itself, the rest is hitting the floor in a constant stream. Madame is on her hands and knees with even more towels to absorb the waterfall.
‘Where do you turn off your water supply?’ She looks back at me, uncomprehendingly. ‘Où fermez-vous l'eau?’
Madame blinks and points to a small cupboard in the corner and I head straight for it, pushing aside a bucket and some mops and turning the stopcock with all my might. It’s impossibly stiff and I can see why she hasn’t managed it herself, as I’m struggling to move it even a millimetre. After some encouraging and much pressure, it finally releases and the sound of the rushing waterfall in the background quietens.
When I turn around Madame Duval is leaning against the sink unit and she visibly sags. Rushing over, I put an arm around her and walk her across the kitchen to sit her down, pulling a chair out from beneath the old pine table.
‘It’s fine. Just sit quietly and let me clear up,’ I tell her, not sure she is even listening to me.
I notice there’s a hammer lying on the worktop and next to that is the top part of the tap.
She nods. ‘Merci, oh, merci,’ she groans. I’d love to stop and make her a cup of tea, but I need to mop up the puddle of water before it does irreparable damage to the bottom of the kitchen units.
It takes about twenty minutes of toing and froing to take the sopping towels out into the courtyard, wring them out and return to soak up some more of the water. Eventually, after throwing open both windows above the sink unit and keeping the front door wedged open, there’s no surface water left. Thankfully it’s not chilly today and there’s a warm breeze being drawn through the cottage, which should soon begin to speed up the drying process.
‘Slippery, madame. Dangereux,’ I advise her as she sits watching me. But at least she has a little more colour in her face now. For one awful moment I thought she was going to faint. I lift the kettle, glad to feel it has water in it. ‘Thé?’ I enquire, thinking that there’s no point in doing anything about the tap until the floor has dried out a little more.
She nods. ‘I make. Je suis très reconnaissante… thankful. Please to call me Renée.’ She stands, giving me a warm smile, and begins bustling around the kitchen. Opening cupboards, Renée pulls out cups, a delicious-looking homemade tart and some beautiful little china plates decorated with roses.
I continue running a dry mop over the dampest part of the floor, as I’m worried it’s still a bit of a hazard, but at least she seems calmer now.
‘I wish my French was better,’ I admit out loud. ‘I can understand a little more if you talk slowly. But when it comes to replying I’ve forgotten a lot of what I lear
nt at school.’
She gives a little laugh and I turn my head to look at her, realising she got the general drift of what I was saying.
‘Please. Thank you. Hello. C’est tout ce que je peux dire en anglais!’ she explains.
Now we both laugh. I gesture towards the tap, using my hand in a turning movement and frowning. She walks across to show me the problem. Picking up the hammer, she indicates a swift blow and shrugs. It looks as if she wasn’t able to turn it off for some reason, so she used a little force. The tap is very old and if it was as stiff as the stopcock in the cupboard, then I doubt her wrists would have been strong enough; goodness, even I struggled and thought for a moment I wasn’t going to be able to shift it.
‘Plumber?’ I make a gesture of holding an imaginary phone to my ear and suddenly her eyes light up. She turns and walks over to one of the units, pulling open the drawer. When she walks back to me, she has a pair of glasses and a phone in her hand. Well, that’s a good place to keep your phone if you don’t like being interrupted. Within a few minutes Renée has made a call and gives me a huge smile, nodding her head very happily.
‘Oui. Il arrivera dans une heure,’ she informs me. It’s followed by several sentences obviously telling me something about the plumber she called, some of which I do manage to piece together. Mainly that he lives close by, but he’s at work at the moment.
Over tea and a slice of meltingly gorgeous pear tart, we have a conversation of sorts, using odd words and hand signals. It causes much laughter between the two of us. But as I tune into her voice, I find I can understand a lot more of what she’s saying; the frustration is that I can’t talk back to her as fluently, only in part sentences.
Afterwards she takes me out into her little garden. Both cottages on this side have similar sized plots to the rear and Renée’s garden has a spectacular display of spring bulbs. Daffodils, lily of the valley and even wood violets create a wonderful splash of colour.
