by Katie Penryn
“Mpenzi, my darling, I don’t believe it,” she said. “May I hug you?”
Nonplussed by such a show of affection — I didn’t remember my mother ever hugging me — I stood there unmoving.
She put out a tentative hand to touch my arm. “People change, you know. Often for the better.”
She put her arms around me and pulled my resisting body into a tight hug.
Such a confused medley of emotions ran through me. Guilt for all the harsh thoughts I had harbored about her. Shock to find her there. My inner child screamed at me to accept the love I had desired and needed for so long. The lawyer in me screeched not to let her off so lightly. She couldn’t be allowed to undo years of abandonment in five seconds.
We stood frozen in a biblical tableau of the prodigal son, only this time the prodigal was the mother.
Jimbo broke us apart. “Are you really my Mum?”
“Are you Jimbo Munro?” she threw back at him with a smile.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then I’m your mother. Come here and give me a hug.”
Sam had approached but stood off watching at a safe distance. Like me, his feelings were mixed.
Our mother released Jimbo and turned to Sam. Reading his body language correctly, she held out her hand. Sam drew closer and shook hands, all the while staring at this unexpected apparition.
“Well,” she said. “This is a bit of a shock for all of us. More for you than for me because I did at least expect you all whereas you had no idea at all that I would be here in Beaucoup-sur-mer, did you?”
We shook our heads in unison, still too surprised and disturbed at events.
The waiter jolted us back into motion, asking us if we wanted fresh tea or coffee.
“You’d better join us,” I said to her. “Perhaps you can explain.”
Jimbo pushed in between our mother and me saying, “I want to sit next to Mum.”
I took the chair opposite and Sam the one on her other side.
For a while we all sat there, no one saying anything. Our mother spent the time searching our faces. I guessed she was trying to read what had happened to us in the intervening seven years since her disappearance.
I spoke first. “I’m sorry but I can’t call you Mum. It’s all too long ago and I’ve had to do so much because you weren’t there.”
“I do understand, Penzi. Maybe one day you will understand my behavior, but today we have to settle you in your new home.”
“You know about that?”
“Of course, that’s why I’m here. But first, why don’t you call me Gwinny — that’s short for Guinivere as I’m sure you know.”
Sam nodded. “I’ll call you that, too.”
“I won’t,” said Jimbo. “You’re my mum and I shall call you Mum. I’ve wanted a mum all my life.”
“But Penzi has been kind to you and looked after you,” Gwinny said.
“I know, but she’s not my mum. And she doesn’t want to be a witch. You do.”
Sam and I shushed him. Gwinny flashed a knowing look at me which I pretended I hadn’t seen.
The waiter arrived with the fresh tea and coffee and we busied ourselves for a few moments pouring out our choice and dealing with milk and sugar. It gave us a breathing space to process the miraculous reappearance of our wayward mother in our lives.
“So?” I prompted her.
“Archie’s will set up a trust for me. He knew I was having a hard time and had made bad choices in life. He was a generous man and willing to let bygones be bygones. Under the terms of the trust I had to come to Beaucoup-sur-mer to renovate his house and get it ready for you. I will receive a lump sum for doing that. If I make my home here—”
I shifted back in my seat. Too much too soon. I didn’t want Gwinny living with us. Much as I had hated being in charge all these years, I was suddenly reluctant to give up the responsibility, especially to someone I deemed feckless.
“Whoa, Penzi. Not to live with you, but in a small cottage some distance away. Archie wrote me a letter to be given to me if he died before me.”
“I wish I had seen my Dad,” said Jimbo. “He sounds like a nice man.”
Gwinny gave his shoulders a squeeze. “He was. He was kind, amusing and clever.”
“Why didn’t you stay married then?”
“Oh lovie, he was away so much and I was lonely. But that’s for another time — when you are older.”
I was older, and I didn’t understand how a mother could run off and leave her three children to fend for themselves. She must have seen the look on my face.
“Penzi, we’ll talk later. Now we need to move you into your new home. Do you want me to come with you today?”
“Yes, please,” said Jimbo.
Sam and I exchanged looks.
“What about the key if we go on our own?” he asked.
“That’s not a problem. It’s always kept under a stone on the left of the front door. But I’ll be disappointed if I can’t come and help you unpack. I’m longing to show you all the changes I’ve made. You won’t recognize it.”
My eyes narrowed as I scanned Gwinny’s face. I found it difficult to accept such a change of character. It didn’t seem fair that she thought she could step back into our lives just like that. And how was I to know whether this was a permanent development? I didn’t want Jimbo upset if Gwinny was putting on an act for the trust money and planned to vanish again.
Sam kicked me under the table and nodded at me.
All right, I would give our newly made-over mother the benefit of the doubt. “Fine. Come with us. I’m sure we’ll need someone to explain everything.”
Jimbo jumped out of his seat and did a war dance. “Can I go in Mum’s car, please Penzi?”
How could I deny him? Poor kid. He hadn’t had a mother or a father. Maybe a tarnished mother was better than no mother at all.
“Of course, you can, but behave yourself.”
“Cool. Will you do some magic on the way, Mum?”
“Shush,” Gwinny hushed him.
*
Madame came in to tell us the hire car had arrived. The breakdown company would be settling our hotel bill so we were free to collect our overnight things and the dogs. However, the hire car was a small two-door hatchback with no room for the dogs and their crates. So, Gwinny came in useful after all. Jimbo and the crates travelling with Gwinny, while Sam and I took the dogs. We left it to Gwinny to lead the way down the narrow street towards the sea.
It ran straight down the hill to debouch onto the Esplanade. There before us lay the perfect horseshoe bay that made Beaucoup-sur-mer so popular with both French and British holiday makers. As we ran along towards the left side of the bay, down below us the beach was crowded with families enjoying the clean white sand and the soft Atlantic waves beneath a sky of cerulean blue. I wished Jimbo was in the car with us so I could have heard his cries of excitement but there would be other days.
On our left a variety of small shops with brightly painted facades faced the Esplanade, looking out over the sea, and offering all the trivia beloved by holiday makers: souvenirs, drinks, beach clothes and fishing tackle. Tables and chairs from the cafés and bars spread out across the wide pavement. The happy sound of laughter and chat sailed through our car windows.
“This is a fun place,” said Sam. “Lots of talent,” he added, as I braked for a troop of girls in skimpy shorts and halter tops crossing in front of the car paying no attention to the traffic.
I warned him. “We’ll be working hard for the first few weeks.”
Sam swiveled in his seat and gave me a hard look. “Penzi, you are much too serious. You have to lighten up. Let yourself go. This isn’t gray old London. This is Holidayland.”
I shrugged and turned off along the left arm of the horseshoe. The tires hummed over the cobbles. The road was barely wide enough for two cars to pass. On our left the houses fronted onto the pavement with no garden. A waist-high stone wall, topped by a hand rail, ran al
ong the right keeping traffic and pedestrians from falling over into the sea. Dad’s house was the last one. It stood proud looking out over the ocean on its left side and over the bay at the front. I pulled up close to the seawall behind Gwinny. Keeping a close hold on the dogs’ leads we let them out of the car and rushed to look over the seawall. Twenty feet or so of solid cut-stone rampart dropped down to the sea.
Gwinny came up beside us with Jimbo holding her hand. “The seas are rough around here in the winter, hence the need to build the houses up so high above sea level. It would be a nasty fall onto the rocks at low tide when the waves have receded.”
Jimbo had seen the nameplate at the side of the front steps. He tugged Gwinny’s hand. “Mum, why is the house called Les Dragons?”
“It’s one of the oldest in the town. It dates from the Middle Ages and was originally part of the harbor’s military defenses. Originally, a similar building stood guard opposite, on the other point of the crescent looking out over the sea. Two dragons standing watch at the mouth of the bay. The second dragon was destroyed during the Hundred Years War. Shall we go in and look around the house?”
We crossed the road to the house and the brocante next door. Now I knew something of the history of Les Dragons, its architecture made more sense. The ground floor stood on the remains of an old tower with another three stories stacked above these old ruins. Windows built into the roof space gave a fifth floor. Ancient rendering protected the walls from the onslaught of the ocean spray. Cut limestone, now grayed by the sea air outlined the windows and doorways. The roof was slate. The buildings had a severe aspect battered as they had been by the storms and wars of centuries. I felt a prickle of foreboding but told myself not to be silly. After all, behind us the sea front was a riot of color and fun. The house was old that was all.
Chapter 6
Gwinny took the key from under a stone at the side of the short flight of steps that had been cut into the ancient defenses. We followed her up and crowded in behind her as she set the key in the lock. The front door opened onto a wide hall which ran the length of the house to the back yard. I was about to open the solid oak door at the end to let the dogs out when Gwinny came running after me calling out, “No Penzi. Don’t let them out there. It’s dangerous.”
She pulled me into the kitchen on the right of the hall and took me over to the window. “See,” she said pointing out at the worst mess I had ever seen in a residential property. The garden, if you could call it that, was full of junk as was the yard behind the brocante. Pre-war kitchen equipment, rusty lawn mowers, ancient agricultural machines, oil drums, whether full or empty I didn’t know, and piles of rotting carpets filled the space.
If that was the flavor of the house, we weren’t going to be happy there. So much for Gwinny’s renovation.
“I can’t let the boys live here,” I said, unable to keep my disappointment out of my voice.
Gwinny stepped towards me wringing her hands. “No, no, Penzi. It’s only temporary.”
“Temporary? It looks as if it’s been there for ages.”
“Please don’t be angry. I’ve ordered a dumpster and a gang to clear all that away. They were supposed to be here on Friday but they let me down. They’re definitely coming today.”
“What am I to do with the dogs? They can’t stay cooped up in here all the time.”
On cue Zig and Zag jostled each other and tugged at their leads, whining to be set free to explore their new surroundings.
Gwinny’s chin trembled. “I’ve done my best. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
I was saved from being any nastier to my mother, who had done her best even if it wasn’t enough by my standards, by whoops of joy from the two boys who came running down the stairs, Jimbo jumping down the last few and landing with a thump. “You’ve got to come and see, Penzi. It’s wonderful. Like a castle on an island.”
“The sea’s only on two sides, silly,” said Sam.
I had to explain to the boys about the back of the property. It was a forbidden area until it had been cleaned up, and they were not to let the dogs out.
I took the dogs off their leads and found them a bowl of water in the kitchen. Only then did I have a chance to look around me. Gwinny had made a good job of the kitchen. I remembered what it had been like on our last visit, like something out of Cinderella. Now the old oak cupboards had been stripped and polished. The same for the long kitchen table and chairs. The ceiling beams of ancient oak had been cleaned of centuries of smoke and the walls painted a warm ivory. A bright and shiny commercial sized Godin stove stood in pride of place in the ancient fireplace.
Noticing me admiring the new appliances Gwinny commented, “I thought you’d like to start with everything clean and fresh. The old fridge was a health hazard. It must have been in the house since just after the war. It was full of green mould when I had it thrown out into the garden. And the cooker — ugh! No wonder we walked into town for all our meals on our last visit. I always hated this kitchen and loved the chance of cleaning it up.”
I smiled at her, glad to have the opportunity to show my appreciation after my shock over what should have been the garden.
Gwinny escorted me through the rest of the house. It was unrecognizable. The bedrooms were bright with new curtains and rugs lay on the polished oak boards. I noticed new mattresses on all the beds. She had kept the old brass bedsteads and the solid cherry armoires. Each bedroom now had its own shower and loo. No more queuing up to use a dirty bath with cold water.
We collected our few belongings from the car and each of us stowed our things away in our new bedrooms. The bulk of our goods would be arriving towards the end of the week. Gwinny had stocked the house with new bed linen and the kitchen with every gadget one could desire. It was so appealing I might even spend time teaching Sam and Jimbo how to cook.
“Time for lunch, guys,” I called out at twelve thirty.
Gwinny was happy to show off the new crockery and cutlery. She had provisioned the kitchen with enough food for a month. It was fun laying the table with all the bright new plates, glasses and silverware.
I banished a regret that we couldn’t eat outside in the garden but that would come.
*
Jimbo was telling us a story, one of those long convoluted ramblings so beloved of small boys, when what sounded like a tank drew up outside. We abandoned our delicious French raspberry tart and rushed to the front windows to see what was going on. A battered truck stood outside complete with dumpster on its back, its engine still rumbling.
A burly guy stuck his head out of the window and yelled out, “Is this Les Dragons? The Munros’ house? Pierre Camion at your service.”
Sam hurried out the front door while I held the dogs back. Gwinny jittered about getting in the way and saying over and over again what we could see. “It’s the dumpster.”
Sam had a bit of a confab with the driver and his two laborers. There was much head shaking and finger pointing. Sam called for Gwinny and me. Leaving Jimbo with strict instructions not to let the dogs out or come outside himself, we joined what was by now the three men standing by their vehicle with their voices raised in protest at the location.
“It’s impossible, lady. We can’t leave it in the middle of this road. We’ll have the police after us.”
I waved the men to silence, not an easy task with three young Frenchman boiling over like milk soup.
“Gwinny? What had you in mind when you ordered it?” I asked her.
She blinked rapidly and looked around her as if expecting to find an answer hanging in the air. “I thought they could park it round the corner. There’s a track between the garden wall and the drop off to the sea. They’ll be blocking the track but it’s not an official road.”
“Where, lady? Show me,” said the driver and strolled off towards the corner of the house with us trying to keep up.
He turned the corner, and we hastened up behind him to find him leaning over our garden wall checking out t
he job ahead of his crew.
“That’s a real tip,” he said stroking his chin while he assessed how long it would take them.
Just when we thought he was going to say the job was too difficult, not worth his while, he turned back to us with a beaming smile.
“For you dear ladies, anything is possible. We can lift the heavy stuff over the wall with our crane and carry the smaller items through the side gate.”
Thank goodness. The sooner that war zone was cleared the better.
Gwinny and I walked back round to the front of the house leaving Sam to some man chat with the guys. He came running into the house after us. “They say they need a fourth man. Have you some gloves handy?”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” I replied. “You’re not insured for that work. You might get hurt.”
Sam brushed my objections aside. “Penzi, listen to you. The old mother hen at work again. I’m eighteen. I’m a grown man. I can decide when a job’s too dangerous for me or not. Isn’t that so, Gwinny?”
Gwinny shook her head. “Don’t involve me, lovie. I haven’t earned the right to interfere.”
Too true, I thought.
Ignoring my protests, Sam took the gloves out of the breakdown kit in the back of the car and zipped off round the corner to join the blokes.
“We’ll have to give them something to drink,” said Gwinny, twisting the hem of her blouse round in her fingers.
“All right. Tea or coffee?”
“Oh no,” she said. “They’ll want wine, red wine, by the bucketful. It’s lucky I laid in a dozen boxes.”
“So be it. Something for Jimbo to do.”
Hearing his name Jimbo left the window where he and the dogs had been vying for the best vantage point.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Gwinny will give you some glasses and a box of wine for you to take out to the men when they reach the garden.”
“Can I stay out there and watch them?”
“For a short time. Stay on the verandah. Don’t go wandering off into that jungle of junk.”