by Lucy Coleman
As far as I can tell, Renée lives here alone, but she does go on to tell me about the other neighbours. The property adjoining hers – number two – and numbers three and five are simply pieds-à-terre. Renée, it appears, is employed as a housekeeper, keeping the properties clean and checking them on a regular basis in between infrequent visits throughout the year.
Number four is empty right now. The man who lived there, whom she refers to as simply Pierre, died a few months ago. I can sense the sadness in her and maybe I misconstrue her babble of words, but I feel she was close to him. His family haven’t decided yet what they are going to do with the property and her frown tells me it is a change she isn’t looking forward to.
‘Et numéro six?’
It’s a holiday let, and it’s run by a management company. She rarely sees the owner, a young man who lives and works in Paris.
When we part, she gives me a very warm hug and I point towards her phone. She passes it to me, and I pop in my number.
‘Call me, any time. Appelez-moi si vous avez un problème,’ I say, handing it back and holding my left hand up to my ear so she understands. ‘If you need water – de l’eau.’ I mime turning on a tap and filling a jug.
As she sees me out, she doesn’t say anything further, simply placing her hand over her heart for a moment and giving me a look of sincere thanks. I make a mental note to visit her tomorrow and I’ll make sure I bring my phone, so I can look things up if I struggle to find the right word.
Heading back, I prepare a quick chicken salad and work while I eat, re-reading my notes for tomorrow. When, eventually, I slip into bed, I’m feeling very sleepy and it doesn’t take long before dreams claim me. I’m back at Versailles. Laughing, I launch myself into the Grand Canal, splashing around as if I am a child with no cares in the world. In my head, the only sound is that of running water.
9
I’m Living the Dream
It’s shortly after seven a.m. when I lock the front door and set off. The birds are particularly noisy this morning, a little group of them chasing in and out of the small trees in the courtyard. Every day it’s more evident that winter is over, and nature is already awake and showing the world its glory.
I glance across at number one, but there’s no sign of any movement and it’s too early to knock on the door. I did hear a car pull into the courtyard around six o’clock last night, so I think it’s safe to assume that Renée’s plumber managed to fix her tap.
Taking a left turn, I walk past the little boulangerie, called La Cuisine des Boulangers, waving when one of the ladies appears in the window as she leans across with tongs to grab a couple of croissants. I get a hearty wave back, and the tempting smell of freshly baked bread and pastries filling the air makes my feet long to take a quick detour. Instead I take a deep breath, which makes my mouth water, and keep walking.
All the staff are very friendly and the café on the other side of the gateway is owned by the same family; it’s only second generation, but it’s a thriving little business and is always heaving with locals.
I’m beginning to feel very comfortable now I’m actually doing some real work. As I walk, I’m excited about today’s interview, but I’m also anxious as it is still early days. And despite feeling as if I’ve settled in, I’m still missing home a little; just the chance to pop in and see Maisie and check on my sister or drop in for a coffee with Mum. Just then my phone pings, and I grab it from my pocket to see it’s a text from the lady herself. She must have been thinking of me at the exact same moment!
✉︎ Morning, honey. Just to say good luck today and I hope the first interview without your lovely interpreter guy goes well. Ring me tonight if you get a chance and tell me all about it. Break a leg! x
Sidestepping a metal sign outside the last little gift shop on the Avenue de Paris before the three roads converge at the Place d’Armes, I hear my name being called out. Glancing around, Solange is waving at me and I stop so she can catch up.
‘Bonjour!’ I greet her with a smile. I didn’t realise she lived within walking distance of the palace.
‘Bonjour, Lexie. What a beautiful day again.’
She falls in alongside me as we continue on.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m good, and you?’
Her smile is warm and engaging, and I see that she’s rather gingerly carrying a little box from the boulangerie in her hand.
‘Wonderful pastries.’ I smile at her, nodding at her parcel.
‘Oh, the best!’
‘I didn’t know you lived so close to the palace,’ I add.
She gives me a rueful look. ‘I don’t. But I know a young man who does.’
I kick myself mentally for the offhand remark, but she simply grins back at me.
‘Another day of filming. How is it going?’
‘Very well, thank you. There are moments when it all makes me catch my breath. I’ve dreamt of being here for such a long time.’
She turns to look directly at me as we stop for a moment to look both ways before crossing the busy road in front of us.
‘I can tell. When there is a personal connection it has even more meaning,’ she enthuses.
‘You knew someone who worked here in the past, too?’ I hazard a guess but can see that I’m right.
She nods. ‘My first boyfriend, several years ago. We met at a seminar and he invited me for a visit. Versailles grabbed my heart on that trip, and I knew that someday I would end up making my way back. However, it wasn’t to be with him, and he no longer works here.’ She laughs out loud and I give her a smile. ‘Life moves on and now I’m seeing someone who lives close by.’
Interesting. I did wonder about a possible relationship between Solange and Ronan, but it seems I was wrong about that.
‘Do you have a partner back in the UK?’ she enquires matter-of-factly.
‘Um… no. I’m married to my work.’ Why did I say that? It sounds lame. ‘Guys come and go, but I haven’t found anyone I consider a keeper yet.’
‘Ah, that’s sad, but we have to live in hope. I’m hopeful at the moment and I think he is, too. You’re staying in the little courtyard behind the boulangerie. I was in the shop when I spotted you walking past.’
‘Yes. It’s a perfect little place to stay and an easy stroll away.’
‘And you have met Renée,’ she replies.
I look at her in surprise. ‘Yes.’
‘She is my boyfriend’s grandmother.’
Well, that’s unexpected. ‘A lovely lady, I just wish my French was better. But we manage to chat a little,’ I reflect.
‘And I want to thank you; Philippe is a plumber and replaced her tap last night when we went to see her after work. As soon as she mentioned your name, I made the connection. She’s very independent, but she isn’t getting any younger, I’m afraid. I call in on her from time to time when Philippe is away working. To be honest, if number four comes on the market, he has it in his head to buy it and I think it’s a wonderful idea.’
‘It must be hard being away from your family.’
‘It is,’ she admits as we walk through the outer gates of the palace and she slows, indicating that she’s heading into the ticket office. ‘My father and I haven’t spoken since I left. But my life is based here now and he must learn to make his peace with that if he truly wants me to be happy and not just be a dutiful daughter, pining away for dreams that remain unfulfilled.’
‘Well, if you’re ever in need of a chat, you know where I live.’
She looks at me intently. ‘Thank you, Lexie, that is most kind. I will remember that.’
As we part, I walk away thinking that following one’s dream isn’t always easy. How can anyone be sure that the choices they make will turn out to be the right ones? Or how different life would have been if they’d gone in another direction? I suppose it’s about listening to what your gut instincts tell you and making the best of it, whatever happens.
I’ve lost my pride a few
times over the years and it does shake your confidence, but the lessons I learnt were invaluable. Hardest of all though is when a family member turns on you – it’s a hurt that never goes away.
‘Three… two… one!’
My eyes shift from Cameron to face the camera, my expression easing into what I trust is an engaging and welcoming smile.
‘Louis XIV ruled France for seventy-two years and the palace and gardens are a testament to his belief in the absolute power of monarchy. His aim in creating a fitting environment for his divine presence was to showcase the power and wealth of his nation.’ I half turn as Elliot pans around, then zooms in to take a close-up of the magnificent spectacle below us.
‘We’re standing on a balustraded terrace in the South Parterre, overlooking the magnificent Orangery. Below us, reached by a flight of stone steps flanked by statues of sphinxes with bronze Cupids astride them, the South Parterre is sheltered from the prevailing cold winds.’
I step aside now, to allow Elliot unrestricted access as he continues to zoom in on the extraordinary detail as I resume my narrative.
‘The gardens take the word “manicured” to a whole new level. Separated by the gravel pathways are intricate swirls of lush-looking grass set in a pattern, so meticulously trimmed that the attention to detail is astounding. It really is akin to looking at the finest example that ever came from an embroidery needle; almost too perfect to be real. Each of the six swirling patterns are edged with low-level hedging, the lines of which are crisp and even.
‘In the centre of the first block of four of these areas is a circular pond. On one side it’s bordered by the immense edifice of the Orangery itself. To my left, in the distance is the Lake of the Swiss Guards.’
It’s captivating. My imagination conjures up hazy images of ladies in elaborate wigs and beautiful gowns, escorted by dashing young men. A time when a stroll wasn’t simply about getting a little exercise; there was intrigue, romantic liaisons, plotting, social climbing and the necessity to make oneself visible. It was a very different world here for the courtiers and, while privileged, it came with what was often quite an onerous and restrictive set of rules.
Elliot brings the camera back around to face me.
‘In creating a microcosm, the Orangery parterre covers three hectares in total. Many of the twelve hundred planters are kept inside the building during the winter months.
‘Today some of the palms, citrus and pomegranate trees are still inside the Orangery, protected from the early-morning and late-night chill. Traditionally, the placement of the containers on the wide, gravelled pathways is regimented. Long straight lines of trees and shrubs, interspersed with a host of specimen topiary for which Versailles is renowned. Spaced and arranged so meticulously that it takes hours to reconstruct when all of the containers are brought back out after their spell indoors.’
I half turn, indicating for Elliot to zoom in.
‘The circular pond behind me breaks up the straight lines beautifully, cleverly focusing the eye and lending yet another dimension. Here the containers add a second concentric circle, the height of which reflects the outline of the trees upon the watery surface. It is, most certainly, a garden fit for a king.’
I draw to a close. Elliot gives me a thumbs up, lowering the camera and kneeling down to make a few adjustments.
‘Great job, Lexie, and we’re really lucky today as there’s hardly any breeze. It’s so exposed up here. No sound problems, Cameron?’
‘No, mate. It’s all good. It looks more like a computer graphic from up here, doesn’t it? I moan about cutting the lawn at home in the summer and my wife says I never do the edges properly. She’d love this.’ He laughs.
‘It doesn’t make you yearn to change profession, then?’ Elliot jests and it’s good to see him looking a lot more like his old self today. He hasn’t coughed once, and he doesn’t look quite as tired as he has done recently.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I can stand here and appreciate the work that goes into it, but it would do my head in fussing over all those straight lines and edges.’
Solange approaches and we turn to greet her as she introduces today’s interviewee. Monsieur Mereux is a genial-looking man, in his late fifties and dressed rather smartly, I presume because he will be in front of the camera. His hands, though, reflect those of a true gardener as he leans in to shake mine.
After a little small talk, Solange heads back in the direction of the palace and, while Elliot swaps batteries and Cameron sorts a mic for Monsieur Mereux, I run through the list of questions with him.
‘Please, call me Anton,’ he insists.
‘And I’m Lexie. No one calls me Alexandra, except my late father whenever I exasperated him – which was often,’ I admit, with a smile. I can see that Anton is going to be a good interviewee; he’s relaxed, and his voice is clear, his speech well-paced. Sometimes it’s hard to slow people down and, thankfully, his English is very good.
We begin with a general overview, building on my short introduction, and I can see that Elliot is content for me to let Anton do his thing before I wade in with specific questions.
A quick glance in Cameron’s direction confirms he’s more than happy and there isn’t too much background noise as we finish up this segment. We all head down the steps to the lower level next, and I’m really looking forward to the live demonstration as we talk in detail about the art of topiary.
The four gardeners we’re going to be filming are waiting for us, their equipment already laid out on the gravelled path around them. Elliot suggests that they simply go about their business as usual, working in teams of two, while he films. Part way through the process we’ll stop and continue the interview while they work away in the background.
As we watch the guys lay boards on the gravel at the base of the planters to catch the cuttings, Anton turns to me.
‘It is said that a friend of the Roman emperor Augustus invented topiary and that topiarus is actually the Latin word for landscape gardener.’
‘It’s certainly an art form,’ I agree.
The two shrubs being trimmed each have three separate sections. One large ball shape at the bottom, above which is a slightly smaller ball, and at the pinnacle it ends with a pointed cone shape. It’s a very elegant design and I’m surprised to see one of the pieces of board on the floor is a template.
‘I wondered how on earth it was possible to maintain that perfect spherical shape,’ I exclaim.
‘As the shrub is delicately clipped with the shears, the template is moved a few inches at a time until it’s back in the original starting position. You will note that the new spring growth is uneven and straggly. So, it requires careful attention. Too severe a cut would leave exposed woody patches, but failure to trim regularly would destroy the perfect shape. It is a slow and methodical process, repeated many times over throughout the year.’
I nod, impressed by the diligence and attention to detail as the men focus on the task in hand.
‘How many different shapes are there, Anton?’
‘Over sixty and we have almost seven hundred topiary hedges and trees in total.’
Anton speaks so passionately about his work that he’s instantly engaging. For those who can only dream of a visit to Versailles, his enthusiasm is bound to transport them here through the screen.
What viewers can only imagine, however, is the warm sun beating down on us. We are also contending with the birds squabbling and chasing each other in and out of the vast array of trees and shrubs in their spring frenzy. On the terrace above us, the crowd of people is beginning to grow, and we now have an audience. Any background noise from above carries overhead so hopefully the only sounds we are capturing are those of the repetitive clippers and the crunch of gravel underfoot as the teams continue to work their magic.
By the time we’re ready to wrap I’m starving and looking forward to a leisurely lunch with the guys. The sun is high overhead and the warmth is very welcome; but what I need now is a
nice comfortable chair in which to while away an hour or two.
While Elliot and Cameron pack up the kit I saunter off, mingling with the tourists who are now filtering into the Orangery parterre in increasing numbers. Heading towards the lake to get a closer view, I can’t help thinking about Grandma Viv. I know she would have been enthralled by all of this. Why did she never talk about it? Even to share with her family the wonders of her foreign adventure and tales of the fascinating people she met while she was here.
I realise that it’s time to make a start on Grandma Viv’s box.
10
Reaching Out
Midway through our late lunch a series of pings emanates from Elliot’s phone. He excuses himself from the table and I decide this is a great opportunity for me to get to know Cameron a little better. He has quite a sense of humour, I discover, and has me in fits of laughter when he shares some of his worst moments.
On one occasion he had to crawl on his stomach across a studio floor during a live interview after someone’s mic had become dislodged. Apparently, every syllable they uttered sounded like Darth Vader on a bad day.
I’m not really aware of how long Elliot has been gone, as when you’re languishing over a cheese board at the end of a perfect lunch, time seems to stand still. However, I find myself glancing out of the window and now I even have Cameron turning his head on the lookout, too.
‘Do you think I should go and find him?’ he offers.
Before I have a chance to reply, I see Ronan stride in through the door and he rushes up to the table.
‘Hey, guys. Lexie, I’ve just had a quick chat with Elliot. He’s outside on the phone but he needs to talk to you for a few moments.’
I can see by his face something is wrong. Very wrong. Throwing my napkin down, I sprint between the tables and out through the door. The warmth of the beautiful spring sunshine is dazzling after the cool, intimate ambience of the bistro restaurant.
