The Forgotten Summer

by Carol Drinkwater

  Had Luc been sinking personal earnings into the family wine business? If the estate was running at a loss and he had felt obliged to chip in, to borrow money to keep this family affair afloat, why had he not shared the situation with his wife?

  How could I confide in you, Jane? It would have served no purpose but to aggravate the bad blood that already exists between you two.

  Would that have been his reasoning? Jane lowered her head in shame. ‘You’re right,’ she whispered, to the man who was no longer there.

  ‘It’s unlocked. Just lift the latch.’

  Aside from the day when she and Luc had assisted Clarisse with her move from the bastide to the cottage, Jane had never set foot inside her mother-in-law’s house. The door opened directly into a sitting room, low-ceilinged, lacking light. In spite of the season it felt chilly. Jane stifled a shudder as she stepped over the threshold and onto a flagstone floor. Clarisse, as extravagantly attired as ever, was seated in an armchair with her legs outstretched and her slippered feet resting on a Moroccan-designed leather pouffe. Her crippled hands were mapped with veins, her fingers with jewellery. Nails manicured, painted. A small wooden table to her right held a sprawling jumble of papers – bank statements, cheque books, bills and a pile of out-of-date film magazines. Alongside the paperwork was a bone china cup and saucer and an empty Scotch glass. Both cup and glass bore the residue of Clarisse’s Persian pink lipstick. She was smoking and the room was mildly fuggy. In her lap lay a black Spanish fan.

  ‘I can’t say I rate you highly as a daughter-in-law, Jane. You arrived yesterday, I hear from the staff, and you didn’t even have the courtesy to drop by. I haven’t seen you, indeed barely had a phone conversation with you, since my son’s funeral.’

  Jane hovered inside the half-open door. ‘I arrived this morning, Clarisse, about two hours ago, not yesterday. No one could have told you otherwise. I made it clear when I rang you that I was flying in today. How are you?’

  ‘Close the damn door and come in. There’s coffee in the machine. Serve yourself. Or, if you prefer gin, the bottle’s by the fridge. I’m resting my legs.’

  It was a little late in the day for Jane to drink coffee and certainly too early for gin, but she walked dutifully to the bar that separated the living space from the kitchen on the other side and poured herself a small quantity of black coffee from a percolator, taking her time over the process.

  ‘So what has kept you so busy these last months? My God, I might have believed you were killed in the accident along with Luc for all the attention you’ve paid me.’

  Still with her back to her mother-in-law, stirring the liquid that contained neither milk nor sugar, Jane measured her response. ‘Sorry not to have been in touch.’ Turning, cup in hand, she rested her weight against the bar.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, sit down. Don’t stand there, playing it cool, as though you were about to leave the moment you’ve arrived.’

  Jane sighed, obeyed. At all costs, she was determined to avoid an argument, yet Clarisse’s hackles were rising.

  They sat in silence facing one another.

  ‘So, what’s the news?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me! Have you settled everything? Don’t be so fucking tight-lipped. What about the insurers?’

  ‘Which insurers?’

  ‘The car. Luc’s policies. Have they paid up? Jesus, Jane, you’re hard work.’

  Was Clarisse asking because she, the estate, needed money, because she was angling for a share in Luc’s assets?

  ‘Luc died without any life or mortgage policies in place. There is nothing to be paid out.’

  Clarisse lifted her head, pouting, raising her chin into the air. A habit she had when deep in thought or churning over unexpected information. It exposed the turkey skin of her aged neck. ‘What about his car?’

  ‘He had downgraded the policy to third party.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought you would have known, but since you don’t …’

  ‘Known what?’

  ‘Luc’s assets amount to nothing, except a rather alarming catalogue of debts.’

  ‘Rubbish! He was always so prudent with money.’

  Jane shrugged. ‘I was wondering whether he had mentioned his financial problems to you. Was he investing in your wine business?’

  Clarisse shook her head. ‘He said nothing, but that’s hardly surprising. He was never forthcoming. Your wedding is a fine example.’

  Jane pushed ahead, ignoring the allusion to their wedding. ‘Robert Piper filled me in. Luc had escalating loans. I don’t know what the money was used for.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ Clarisse whispered. ‘How serious is it?’

  ‘I’m obliged to sell our flat.’

  ‘Sell the –’

  ‘It should cover everything, or so Robert has assured me.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Robert calculates that when the debts have been cleared, I should be left with sufficient to buy a modest studio or small flat in London. So I shan’t be homeless.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘To make some sort of a claim? Are you after money? Because if you are, you’re out of luck.’

  ‘My God, Clarisse! You really know how to stick a knife in. I came to clear out my possessions, as I requested on the phone. I’ll be out of your life within a couple of days. I’ll pay the outstanding bills for the main house, as Luc had agreed with you, up to the present, but beyond this, I can’t. I’m sorry, really I am.’

  ‘So you’re not planning to stay?’

  ‘You know I’m not.’

  A moment’s silence. Clarisse dragged on her cigarette, eyes half shut. ‘How’s your father?’

  Jane felt her spine stiffen. This was unexpected. ‘He’s doing well, under the circumstances. Thank you for asking.’

  ‘Have you told him about Luc?’

  ‘I told him the week after Christmas that Luc had been killed in an accident. I haven’t mentioned the rest.’

  ‘You should bring him over here.’

  ‘My father?’

  ‘There’s plenty of room on the plantation.’ Clarisse frequently referred to Les Cigales as a ‘plantation’ rather than a domain or an estate, as though insisting she lived in the tropics with a bevy of servants.

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘He could live with you up at the main house. He liked it here. He was happy. He could have played an important role in this estate if …’

  Jane took a breath, bit her lip.

  ‘You may not like it, but your father was happy here. And he was doing a fine job for our export market and would have gone on doing so, if you …’

  ‘He doesn’t remember the place now, or you.’

  ‘Nothing of it?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’ Jane caught the fleeting crease of pain in Clarisse’s eyes and couldn’t help but relish the minor moment of victory. Then, instantly, she chided herself. Such unkindness was unnecessary. ‘It would only confuse and upset him to be moved from where he is. I have explained to him several times about Luc’s death. Each visit, once he’s connected to who I am, he asks after Luc, but within fifteen minutes he’s wanting to know when Luc might see him and I have to go back over the story.’

  ‘What a tragedy. Dear Peter. How he loved to dance, and sing. Do you remember all those evenings when he played his guitar and crooned to us? After you’d gone to bed, we’d dance, dance in the moonlight and then … Such a sense of humour he had. No one made me laugh the way your father did.’

  Jane lowered her head. ‘He still sings.’

  ‘Should I telephone him? Give him a ring, cheer him up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve just told you, he wouldn’t know you.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know me, that’s rich.’ Clarisse rummaged for a handkerchief stuffed up her sleeve, dabbed at her
eyes, then pulled out another cigarette, forgetting the one smoking in the ashtray. ‘Really rich …’

  They returned to silence, Jane clinging to self-control. The last person in the world she wished to appear vulnerable in front of was Clarisse, but the memories of Peter out on the terrace singing, embracing Clarisse, had melted her resolve.

  ‘So you’re leaving again in a couple of days? I thought I might persuade you to stay on for a while. Keep me company.’

  ‘I have to be available to show the flat until the sale goes through. Once Luc’s financial commitments have been resolved, I’ll need to look for somewhere to live.’

  ‘The estate agent can show the flat. That’s what they’re paid for.’

  ‘I need to get on with my life.’

  ‘Leaving me high and dry?’

  ‘That’s silly, Clarisse. Obviously we’ll stay in touch. I’d better get going.’ Jane rose.

  ‘You carry your hate like a little prize, don’t you?’

  ‘Please, don’t let’s rake up the past.’

  ‘Your wretched little jealousies. You’ve harboured them for years, close against you, like some precious gold locket.’

  Jane rubbed her fingers through her hair. Her head was exploding with questions. She didn’t want this animosity. She just wanted to fill in the gaps and get on with her life. ‘Clarisse, I can’t deal with anything but the present right now.’

  ‘My boy is dead and buried. If you hadn’t insisted that he drive to London, he’d be here now. Alive!’

  Now Jane was fighting for control. ‘That is grossly unfair.’

  ‘It’s a fact. You just don’t want to face it.’

  She had readied herself. Even so, Clarisse always knew just when and where to pull the trigger.

  ‘I’m on my own with no one to help me run this place, and once your affairs are sorted and you’ve paid the “outstanding bills” – thank you kindly – you’ll drive off from here, boot laden, and I’ll be lucky if I get a fucking Christmas card. You’ve never cared one jot for me or the sacrifices I made, have you?’

  Sacrifices?

  Jane lowered herself back into the chair, perched her cup on its saucer on the small table alongside her mother-in-law, nudging papers to make space, and stared at her empty hands clutched in her lap. ‘Don’t let’s begin all this again. We’ve been there. Not again, Clarisse. Let’s part amicably.’

  ‘But that is about the sum total of it, isn’t it, Jane?’

  In spite of all the years and memories, Clarisse’s summation was accurate. All they had in common was Luc. Too much had passed between them, too many sour encounters. ‘Our relationship has never been easy. For God’s sake, Clarisse, it’s too late.’

  ‘And Luc’s wishes count for nothing? His dream that we would work together, rebuild the estate …’

  ‘He never expressed any such wish to me. I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Well, it would seem that there is rather a lot he never mentioned to you.’

  Jane was stunned by this remark. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Did Clarisse have answers? To the identity of A and P? About Luc’s missing hours?

  ‘His financial mess, for a start. And the rest.’

  ‘The rest of what?’

  Silence.

  ‘What, Clarisse?’

  ‘You couldn’t handle it,’ she sneered, and took another drag on her cigarette.

  ‘Clarisse, if there is something you know, something you want to tell me …’

  ‘There’s nothing.’

  Jane pursed her lips and waited. She refused to allow herself to be dragged into this game. The old woman didn’t know anything.

  ‘I’m only pointing out that my son appears to have been a dark horse, not to have shared his financial worries with his wife.’

  Jane ignored this. ‘I’d like to clear out Luc’s studio while I’m here, unless you have any objection?’

  Clarisse shook her head.

  ‘Is there anything in there you would like to keep?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what is in there. It was his private space. Film stuff, I suppose. If there’s a photo of him, I’ll have that.’

  ‘I’ll find you one. By the way, I’ve been looking for his address book. The burgundy leather one. It wasn’t in London and I can’t find it here. Have you seen it?’

  ‘What would I want with his address book?’

  ‘It must be in the cellars, then.’ Jane rose, lifting up her cup. ‘Dishwasher?’

  ‘Leave it.’

  ‘I’ll rinse it.’

  ‘I said, leave it.’

  Jane leaned towards the bar, depositing the cup next to the coffee machine. Back to Clarisse, she asked casually, ‘Do the initials A and P mean anything to you?’

  Clarisse rubbed her hands over her face and lifted her empty gin glass, twirling it. ‘Can you pass over that bottle?’

  ‘It’s a little early for gin.’

  Clarisse sighed theatrically and pulled herself to her feet. Jane reached for the bottle first.

  ‘Do they, Clarisse?’

  ‘Matty’s family, I suppose.’

  Jane stood silently, registering this, as her mother-in-law snatched the bottle from her, poured herself a drink and shuffled past her to the kitchen in search of ice.

  ‘I’m going to the village after lunch. Can I collect anything for you?’

  The old woman shook her head.

  ‘How about I cook us dinner later?’

  ‘Just go, Jane, cut the bullshit.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll drop the house keys down to you before I leave … and say au revoir.’

  ‘Do what you like.’

  She hovered a moment before lifting the latch. This was Luc’s mother, no matter their chequered past. Why did it always have to be so ghastly?

  Outside, Jane paused by the cherry tree and took a long, deep breath. Arnaud and Pierre. Matty’s sons. How completely stupid she had been. How could she have overlooked such an obvious connection?

  3

  It was a short distance to Malaz, less than five kilometres, a brisk, shaded walk that Jane had always enjoyed, particularly when Walnut had been trotting along with her. That afternoon she took the rented car. She needed cash to reimburse the Lefèvres and she needed to stock up at the épicerie, provisions for her short stay, two or three days at the outside. Time to clear out her few possessions, and all of Luc’s. The sale of the Kentish Town flat was her priority, but if she could find clues in the cellars to those missing hours, the cause of his debts … she might return.

  She parked the Peugeot in the central square, opposite the bank. The place was decorated with climbing purple clematis, bougainvillaea and rows of vibrant oleanders just coming into bloom in generous-sized tubs, which demarcated the boundary between one café or bar and another. The tables were crammed with casually attired early-season tourists and second-home owners. High-octane chatter, cutlery rattling, lunch being consumed beneath spreading white parasols. This time last year, she and Luc might have been spotted among them, seated at their favourite table in the shade alongside the stone walls of the ruined abbey. Lunch in the square had been a ritual established between Luc and Jane on every summer visit, even before they had taken over the manor house five years earlier. Their first day back at Les Cigales, they were here, accompanying their meal with a bottle of chilled rosé from one of Château Ott’s three domains. It was an extravagant choice, the most expensive Provençal pink wine on any restaurant menu, and a high-end competitor to the Cambon range. How she would love to be sitting with him now, enjoying a glass at his side, Walnut spreadeagled at their feet.

  Jane switched off the engine but didn’t budge, wondering yet again why Luc hadn’t shared his financial difficulties with her. She would never have described him as talkative, but then again she wouldn’t have judged him to be so guarded, so secretive. Underhand? If he had confided his problems, what might she have done? What could she have done? Well, for starters
, they could have settled for a cheaper wine and lunched in the estate garden on baguettes and chunks of cheese. For Heaven’s sake, Les Cigales produced plenty of its own very drinkable cru classé.

  Did he ever turn it over in his mind, come close to requesting her help? When they had lain in bed, curled up against one another in the darkness, during the act of love-making, during those late-night or afternoon moments of intimacy, of tenderness, had there been one fleeting second when he had opened his mouth to divulge the truth, then decided against it? Was it pride or shame or guilt that had made him keep his problems so clandestine? Or was there another, more sinister, explanation? Since his death she had replayed ad infinitum their final few weeks together, here at Les Cigales, in Paris, trawling through the memories, raking over them for clues. Hadn’t he attempted to speak to her, then drawn back? She reached out desperately for words, phrases, but it was like trying to pick fruit from the distant heights of a tree. They remained just beyond her grasp. It was useless. Did she recall snippets of conversation, or was hindsight dictating the text? She had rewound the tape so many times now that she had grown confused, lost between actual moments and imagined ones.

  The gruelling fact was that it seemed now she would never know. There were so many questions. So few answers. So many sentiments unvoiced. If she could be in his company again, for one brief hour … But at least one piece of the puzzle had been resolved. A and P.

  She stepped out of the car and crossed the square to the cash machine.

  Fumbling for her French bank card, her thoughts still with Luc, she glanced back across the street and caught sight of a man, reddish-haired, standing by the door of a tabac, smoking, watching her. She felt sure she had seen his face recently. When he noted her observe him, he crossed the street, striding towards her.

  He had been on the same British Airways flight earlier that morning. In the queue behind her at the Heathrow check-in counter. ‘Off to Nice on holiday?’ he’d asked, grinning and winking.