The Forgotten Summer

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The Forgotten Summer Page 11

by Carol Drinkwater

And then had come the summer when she had turned fourteen … the summer of her first real kiss, of womanly longings. The summer of perfumed evenings … the summer when Luc had wished her au revoir and headed off for Paris, when she and Clarisse had clashed and everything had been destroyed.

  After that summer, the spell had been broken. She and her father had driven away, a hasty retreat. He resigned his contract with Les Cigales, found other sources for wines, and Jane had not visited the estate again until a decade later when she came back as Luc’s newly wedded wife.

  Gone were those idyllic childhood expeditions, sojourns along the southern shores of France. Her dreams had been extinguished, her hopes shattered.

  ‘That girl will never set foot on this estate again.’ Clarisse’s angry threat.

  During the years when Luc was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris and Jane was still at secondary school in England, she had dreamed of him, pined for him. Scents, tastes, sounds had drawn her back over an imaginary bridge to the land of their enchanted days together, her pre-teens.

  The lost domain inhabited by Luc.

  While her school chums were dating, Jane had passed her teenage years speculating on whether her friend had found someone else, because, for sure, he would find someone, or whether their paths would cross again before too long. She buried her mother and all sexual longings, and grew plump, blemished by acne.

  And then he had telephoned and invited her to Paris …

  ‘Jane!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jane! What are you doing out there with the door open, letting the cold in?’

  Jane sighed, turning slowly from the rising mist, the flood of her memories and the first drops of rain. ‘I’m coming in now, Clarisse.’

  After everything, after the ebbs and flow of life’s kismets, had it really come to this, that the only one who remained, the only voice left to call her inside out of the cold, was Clarisse?

  During those teenage years, her years of estrangement from the estate and Luc, her loathing of Clarisse had burned within her, choking her. She was stuck at home in Kent caring for her ailing mother. Yet she had longed to return to Les Cigales to rediscover Luc, to reclaim their blissful summers in one another’s company and to show him that she wanted to give herself to him. What wouldn’t she have sacrificed to relive those summers? Summers of escapades, expeditions, discovery, of innocence. Perfumed summers lying idle in the heat, skin dripping and tangy from dips in the sea, a bottle of rosé from the Cambon estate buried at the water’s edge in the damp sand, Luc on his stomach at her side, smoking, perusing soggy, salt-stained newsprint while she covertly gazed upon him, lusting after his tanned leanness through partially closed eyes.

  That first tender kiss, that briny ripple of pleasure, of desire. Tobacco on his breath. The breeze from the sea blowing their hair, the departure of innocence.

  Her last adolescent summer there, full of happiness, exquisite happiness, anguish and longing. The delicious scents of night as he’d sat in her room, reading at her side, with the windows wide open, and she had pressed herself against him.

  His hesitancy: ‘You are still a child.’

  ‘I’m not a child. I’m fourteen and I love you, Luc. Je t’aime.’

  He had laughed warmly, not in an unkind way. He had taken her chin in his hand and looked deep into her eyes, his green ones swimming with tenderness. ‘What can you know of love, ma petite amie?’

  ‘Everything, because I love you.’

  A few days later, he had flown to Paris, to return to his studies.

  He had not been present on that haunting, life-changing night. The night of the discovery. Luc had been far away, absent, ignorant of the screaming rows that ensued and the banishment that succeeded the scene. Early the following morning Jane, with her father, had retreated, driving off into the sweltering day. If Luc had been present, he would have defended her; he would have put a stop to the injustice. He would have called her back. But he had never known, never been told, what had come to pass that night. Jane’s guilt had kept her silent. She had blamed herself, not for what she’d exposed or for fear of maligning Clarisse’s reputation, but because she had forced the knowledge of her discovery onto her own mother. Her adolescent self-righteousness had caused her mother’s heartache. And possibly seeded her sickness.

  Back home Jane, who had sailed early towards womanhood, had thought that she’d lost Luc, that all hope for her dream of him was doomed.

  ‘Luc Cambon is engaged to be married,’ she learned from her widowed father.

  Her heart almost stopped. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘They were gossiping about it at one of the vineyards in the Var. Clarisse Cambon, they said, has been crowing to the world about the sumptuous wedding her son and his fiancée are arranging.’

  So it was a fact, incontestable. The pain in her heart swelled, like a river about to burst its floodgates. If only she could find him, put a stop to it, remind him of her love. Or was it a fabrication on Clarisse’s part, intended to reach Jane’s ears?

  Her father’s wine business – estate wines from the South of France, summer drinking wines – that he had built up from those early days at Les Cigales, scratched out of his garage in Kent into a flourishing affair, began to spiral downwards due to fierce competition in a burgeoning market and an increasing loss of competence. It had not been caused by his dementia – no, that had not yet been diagnosed, not for many years to come – but by grief and a growing incapacity to cope with details, remarked by Jane after the death of her mother. Suave, charming, outgoing Peter had not managed so well after Vivienne’s departure. Jane had asked herself whether he might not be suffering from regret as much as grief, for whatever it was that had gone wrong, not worked out between them … but this was not a conversation she and her father had ever shared.

  On that first evening in Luc’s studio in Paris, perched on his matchbox bed, guzzling Moët, bubbles giving her hiccups, emboldening her, as they were hastening towards becoming lovers, she dared broach the subject.

  ‘Engaged to be married, me?’ He had laughed. ‘My mother fantasizes.’

  Her love had lain silent within her, fostering its hope.

  After Jane had begun her university studies in London, their contact had dwindled to the occasional letter. She had written frequently, ardently and at length. Luc had replied but intermittently and then almost not at all. ‘I am filming, working all hours, loving it,’ he had scribbled on a card as an apology. His first commission. Little time for anything else. Luc was moving with zeal and confidence towards his bright future, and she had not figured in his vision.

  Not at that stage.

  Armed with a decent degree in French and Spanish, Jane had found employment as a freelance interpreter. Her life in London was unfolding. Fellow students, work associates were inviting her out for evenings at the pub, dinner parties, dances, clubs, but she accepted infrequently, preferring weekends alone, walks in the park, solo outings to the cinema. Her heart remained with Luc. She tried to forget him, but she couldn’t put their brief affair, their enduring childhood friendship, behind her. Serendipitously, she was offered an assignment in Nice at a European health conference. While strolling down at the old port, one sunlit evening after work, she had caught sight of Luc, seated alone in a café reading Le Monde, jotting purposefully in a notebook, smoking, an untouched espresso on the table in front of him. She had blurted out his name. He had looked up, locked green eyes with hers, then a frown creased his brow. He was perplexed, hadn’t recognized her. She took a step backwards, regretting her cry. He had forgotten her. Luc had forgotten her. She had turned on her heels, cut to the heart, ashamed, embarrassed, and almost missed her footing.

  ‘Jane! Mon Dieu, it’s Jane.’ Rising from the table, knocking the cup, spilling the coffee, he had taken hold of her, swung her about, embraced and hugged her, like a sister. My precious little friend, he’d said. ‘Ma belle petite Jane. You’ve lost weight, cut off your blonde locks
. You’ve flowered into a woman. Une très belle femme.’

  Luc had also changed. He had matured in different ways. He was quieter, self-contained, more certain of himself, passionate about where he was going, fired, obsessed by his projects. His first film had been well received: it had won a minor award. There was talk of a theatrical release. Now he was at work on his second and the finance was already in place. There was clarity about who he was, what he wanted from his life. Honesty, yes, an open face with clear forgiving eyes, but never garrulous, never a word or thought wasted. A contradiction, perhaps, but Luc, honest, compassionate, full of integrity in his dealings with others, had always withheld a substantial part of himself. And that reticence had advanced, developed over the years.

  Beyond that chance encounter in Nice, their friendship rooted, flourished, blossomed, took flight. He came to London to spend weekends with her – lying in bed reading the Observer, drinking coffee he’d brought from Paris – or she crossed the Channel to him. A long weekend in New York, two nights in Madrid, a rendezvous in Normandy. Greedy for opportunities, they created dates to be together, making love, listening to music, travelling, dancing, high on a love that had been born almost two decades earlier, a love that had grown up.

  They had married when Jane was twenty-five, Luc thirty-two. He had desired a wedding on the estate but Jane had procrastinated and eventually refused, which bemused him. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Your mother doesn’t approve of me.’

  ‘Such nonsense you talk. Why would you think such a thing?’

  ‘We had a disagreement, I told you.’

  ‘Clarisse argues with everybody. It means nothing. She will be thrilled. She nags me constantly about settling down, grandchildren. I can’t wait to break the news to her and Isa.’

  ‘No, Luc, please. Not yet. Let’s surprise her. Let’s get married secretly and then tell them.’

  ‘But don’t we want a reception, family with us? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Just us, somewhere special. Then we can rush to the estate and share our happiness with them.’

  Eventually, on a warm September day, they celebrated a simple civil affair in a frescoed villa on a hilltop on the outskirts of Rome, where Luc was in the preparatory stages of his film. No family members were present. They honeymooned in Positano, ate oysters on the beach, got drunk on prosecco, and at the first opportunity Luc flew Jane north from Naples to Nice, to the estate where his aunt Isabelle and Clarisse awaited them. The gardener, Claude, had collected them from the airport. Matty was in the hall of the main house, waiting to usher them to their room. She had already prepared the nuptial chamber, the marriage feast: a champagne supper laid out on the terrace for the newlyweds. Lanterns everywhere, it should have been joyous, enchanting.

  But this was Jane’s first trip to the estate since that night.

  She was apprehensive and she understood from Clarisse’s tight-lipped greeting when she stepped into the hall, for the first time in ten years, that Luc’s mother had not forgiven her; neither had she forgotten. It was a begrudging embrace, lacking warmth or a blessing for the exiled fourteen-year-old who had returned as a woman, and as Luc’s wife.

  That afternoon, Clarisse suggested to her son that they take their horses and go for a ride to inspect the vines and to say bonjour to Antoine Pesaro and his team working in the fields. Jane, who had never been entirely comfortable on a horse, opted for a dip in the pool.

  It was more than two hours later when Clarisse, still in her jodhpurs and riding boots, strode into the library where Jane was awaiting their return. Her auburn hair was windswept, her cheeks flushed and damp, but in spite of that she looked self-possessed, arresting. Jane, alone, browsing through an illustrated book, rose at her mother-in-law’s entry. ‘Good ride?’ she enquired tremulously.

  Clarisse closed the door with a resolute click. ‘Luc’s taking a shower. So it gives me the opportunity to talk to you.’

  ‘I hope you’re happy for us?’ Jane butted in. She was edgy, tense and uncertain about being back on the domain, but she was determined to put the past behind them and build a bridge between her and her mother-in-law. She and Luc were married; there was nothing Clarisse could do.

  Clarisse folded her arms across her chest. Her cream silk shirt was puddled with perspiration. ‘Frankly, and I won’t mince my words, I couldn’t be more disappointed. My son is a talented, acclaimed artist, and he is a gentle, intelligent soul. He has achieved all that I dreamed of for him, and more. Every one of the young women he has brought home, and there have been many,’ Clarisse smiled at Jane’s sharp intake of breath, ‘has without exception been a cut above you. In style, class and brilliance, not to mention looks. No words can describe my despondency.’

  ‘Clarisse.’ Jane sank back into the chair. The book, left open on the armrest, slid and slammed shut on the rug.

  ‘Are you pregnant? Is that the explanation?’

  ‘No.’ The word stuck in Jane’s throat.

  ‘So why would my son wait till after his wedding ceremony to inform us, by telephone, of the “joyous” news?’

  Jane shrugged. ‘We … preferred no fuss,’ she stammered.

  Clarisse glared at her. ‘For Luc’s sake, because his happiness is what matters to me above all else, I intend to keep my mouth shut. But I want it to be absolutely clear between you and me, nothing has changed. I told you once to get out of my home and never come back, and I meant it. And now you have married my son out of greed and spite.’

  ‘That’s nonsense. Insulting, cruel nonsense. I love Luc with all my heart. And when I’m pregnant, you’ll know it. I want his children, lots of them.’

  ‘You don’t begin to know the meaning of the word “love”. Your love is selfish and self-serving.’

  Jane lifted herself from the chair and made for the door, brushing by Clarisse as she did so. Clarisse caught hold of her by the upper arm and held it tightly, red nails sinking into flesh. ‘If you cause my son any heartache, I will kill you. And don’t think I’m not capable of it.’

  Jane shrugged herself free. ‘You’re insane.’ And with that she was out of the door.

  That evening, soon after the quartet had settled for supper at the exterior table, jazz crooned by Nina Simone playing through the open windows, the scents of autumn rising richly all around them, Jane, still unnerved by the confrontation with her mother-in-law, had the eerie sensation that someone else was present, someone watching her, surveying her, monitoring the party. She glanced about, listening to the crickets, scanning the fall of light between the trees before she caught sight of a girl of nine or ten standing in the frame of the back door. The child was wearing a crown of wild flowers, rather like a lopsided daisy chain, and striped espadrilles on her feet. Jane smiled, almost laughed, and the girl nodded. Her eyes were wide with wonder at the sight of the rose-coloured illuminations hanging from the trees and the extravagant bouquets and candles adorning the table. What Jane noticed first about the stranger was her eyes, cornflower blue. The child’s thick hair coiled in one bold plait down her right shoulder. She was scruffily attired but striking. No one else seemed to have noticed her as she loitered there, backlit from the kitchen, eagerly devouring the magic of the occasion, hungry to be included, as though she had chanced upon a fine and secret coven.

  Who was she?

  ‘Hello,’ Jane called softly. ‘Are you coming to join us?’

  A look of guilty pleasure lit the girl’s features and her face broke into a broad grin. She was a cross between an urchin and a princess. Jane’s greeting drew the attention of her new relatives at the table, whose conversation fell silent. Intrigued, heads turned.

  ‘What on earth? Be off with you, you little devil!’ snapped Clarisse, stubbing out her cigarette with quick stabs as though readying herself for action. ‘Matty!’

  ‘Yes, Madame?’ The housekeeper came running from the pantry.

  ‘Matty, take that child away at once.’

  The trespasser turn
ed on her heels and scooted out of sight. Her eyes were welling with tears, Jane observed. ‘Who is she?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Annie.’

  ‘Matty’s daughter,’ said Isabelle.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Madame,’ burbled Matty. ‘She’s been under my feet all afternoon, overexcited at the prospect of seeing Monsieur Luc again. She only wanted to get a glimpse of him and see who else was attending the party.’ Matty seemed flustered, quite unlike her placid self. ‘I think she was hoping to meet Madame Jane. You know, catch sight of Luc’s new wife.’

  ‘Well, go after her, Matty, call her back, let her meet Jane. Then we can all say hello. I haven’t seen little Annie in a long, long while,’ cried Luc, amiably. ‘How old is she now?’

  ‘She’s just turning ten, sir.’

  Jane leaped to her feet and hugged Matty forcefully, thrilled for her that she had eventually been blessed with the daughter she had so passionately longed for. Matty, arms hanging like logs, smiled awkwardly, self-effacingly.

  Clarisse, who had witnessed the exchange, reiterated her request that Matty call Claude to come and remove the child: ‘Take her home immediately and keep her there. This is a private celebration, family only,’ she stated crisply. ‘Please take better control of your offspring. Her intrusion is unacceptable.’

  ‘Oh, Maman, don’t be so harsh,’ joshed Luc. ‘You’re behaving like a Gorgon.’

  Isabelle rested her hand across the jewelled fingers of her sister-in-law. ‘She’s a child, Clarisse, an inquisitive child. You can’t blame her for wanting to see Luc again, to know what all the fuss is about. She worships him, you know that.’

  ‘She’s a pretty little thing, all decked up in her floral tiara for the party,’ laughed Jane.

  Clarisse threw a look at Jane as though the intruder’s presence or Jane’s discovery of her was somehow Jane’s fault. ‘She needs to learn her place.’

  Jane understood the unspoken message: As you should have done.

  Jane had borne Luc no children to offer her solace now. No offspring to help construct her future, to receive her into their home and bear the load of grieving with her. She had suffered the late miscarriage of their unborn boy and then nothing. After such passion, such ardour, there should have been a child, at least one, a corroboration, manifestation, of the power of their love. Childlessness had been a harsh blow but she and Luc had accepted their situation without rancour. It had not damaged their relationship. Her role within their marriage took on a different personality. She was able to travel with him on assignments, accompany him to locations, occasionally to translate scripts for him, transcribe interviews for his documentaries.

 

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