But Jane couldn’t know for sure.
10
Later, towards evening after a hard but invigorating day on the land, followed by several hours of translating a rather dry medical-research text, Jane returned to the cellars. She was standing on a chair, rummaging through cupboards and drawers, when she fell upon a cardboard box containing a trove of old pictures, including some Polaroids. Here were stored joyful souvenirs, uplifting memories from their early married life and courting days. Luc, one eye closed, operating a movie camera, his cigarette smoke clouding the image. She had taken that shot of him in Rome, days before or after their wedding. On the reverse he had written, On honeymoon with J. Promised her I’ll be the next Truffaut!
Jane in the Cambons’ old family fishing boat in a bathing costume, grinning proudly while displaying her catch of one sardine no larger than a pinkie finger. Luc in the same boat drinking beer, wearing flippers and swimming trunks, smoking. They had made love in that boat, offshore, awkward and uncomfortable yet passionate, giggling as he removed the flippers, rocking wildly, diving overboard afterwards, playing naked in the water together. She sat and idled through the entire batch, reliving those days of unadulterated bliss, days when no lonely destiny loomed, when doubts were not tearing her to shreds, when she and Luc had had prospects and a secure future together.
As she was sliding the box back onto its shelf, she dislodged an unmarked pale blue folder that had been pushed to the rear of the cupboard. It fell to the table, like a fan unfolding, foolscap pages spreading: a tenancy agreement for a two-bedroom appartement in avenue de la Dame Blanche, close to Bois de Vincennes. It had been drawn up in the name of Luc Cambon, his address given as Les Cigales, not London, and countersigned by a property letting agency in the fifth arrondissement in Paris. The date of the contract was 10 October two years previous. The duration of French agreements was usually three years, renewable. So, a little over fifteen months was left to run on the first term. Unless it had been cancelled when Luc died. Jane shuffled through the pages in increasing turmoil. She was searching for the bank from which the sum of 1,800 euros per month was paid by direct debit. When she found the clause it confirmed her worst fears. The flat’s monthly rental and charges were collected from the same Crédit Agricole account Luc had used to pay a thousand euros to ‘Annabelle’.
Luc’s fatal accident had occurred east of Paris, north-east of the suburban town of Vincennes, close to Bois de Vincennes. Wasn’t that the information Roussel had given her? The three missing hours had never been filled in. The last time she had spoken to her husband, he had been battling through foggy, snowy conditions somewhere a little north of Beaune. His direction had been to Paris but not towards the motorway for Calais. He was intending to make a stop, to deliver papers. Wasn’t that what he’d said? Jane fought to recall their conversation, to drag it from her damaged memory. His voice had been weary with exhaustion.
‘If I put my foot down and the roads stay clear, I might just manage the last Shuttle,’ he had told her. ‘If not, I’ll check into a B-and-B somewhere in Calais and board the first one in the morning.’
But there was more. He had said more.
‘I have one brief stop to make outside Paris.’
‘Oh, really, what for?’ had been her reply.
‘Some paperwork, research material to deliver.’
‘Couldn’t you have emailed it across?’
Pause.
‘Luc?’
‘It won’t take long.’
‘Luc, it’s Christmas.’
Outside Paris? To the address on the rental agreement? He must have left the rented flat, driven north and, in no time, had hit the tree. Had he been cunningly attempting to celebrate two Christmases? A Christmas stopover with gifts for the boy and the boy’s mother – his mistress? – before speeding onwards to his wife, a woman kept in ignorance?
What if Jane had agreed to spend the holidays in the south with Clarisse? How would Luc have played that? Excused himself, driven north to ‘outside Paris’ for a swift pre-Christmas ‘business meeting’?
Fuck you, Luc! I’m forced to sell our home for this?
Luc, so honest. A man respected for his professional integrity … How could this be? Since when had he been negotiating this double existence? Weaving such a hateful tapestry of lies.
‘I told you I didn’t want to know!’ Was she, ‘A’, the last person he’d seen?
She flung the contract onto the desk.
No, there had to be another explanation.
A sealed envelope slipped from a pocket in the folder. It was addressed in Luc’s black-inked writing, his elegant, slightly forward-slanting script, to ‘Madame Clarisse Cambon – In case of my untimely death’.
Had he been expecting an untimely death? The Colt in the drawer. Suicide, or under threat? Or was he simply being cautious? What had Roussel said? The OAS had sympathizers today and there had been concerns for Luc’s safety?
Jane, shaking with anger, tears streaming down her face, held the unopened envelope at arm’s length, as though it might contain a bomb. It was addressed to her mother-in-law. She should deliver it to Clarisse. It was her duty to deliver it to Clarisse. She ripped the flap open and tugged out the letter.
Chère Maman,
By the time you read this, either you will already have acknowledged our responsibility towards Annabelle’s son or I will have reached an untimely end and someone else will hand you this missive. If the latter, this will make you cognizant of the situation and it expresses my wishes.
My intention is that I will find a quiet moment to talk this through with you myself, rather than you read it here.
Whichever, and no matter how you feel about Patrick’s existence, when the inevitable date arrives, it is only right that he inherits the estate.
Annabelle and Patrick … not Arnaud and Pierre.
She had been punched in the gut. She sucked in breath but was fighting for oxygen. So violent was her inability to breathe that she was barely able to continue reading.
According to French inheritance legislation, once you and I have passed on, Patrick is the rightful heir to Les Cigales, so please let us not be at odds over this matter. Over time, I have come to accept, grudgingly I must honestly state, that for your own reasons – lack of courage or cold-heartedness? – Annabelle has no claim on Les Cigales, but you cannot deny her son’s rights. Patrick is your grandson, your flesh and blood, and I will not tolerate your rejection of him and his right to inherit the Cambon estate.
No one else needs to be told of our decision at this stage, but when the day comes, if I am not in a fit condition to institute the legacy, I beg you to behave with decency.
My wish is that our property and estate assets are bequeathed to Patrick. Second, you and Jane are not easy in one another’s company – another fact that I have been forced to resign myself to. I must accept some responsibility in that I have failed to change this deadlock even if I have never understood its genesis. Nonetheless, although by law Jane will not inherit my share of the estate, she is entitled to a home with us. Before anyone else, Jane has the legal right to inhabit the manor house for the duration of her life. If she wishes to remain at Les Cigales, that is, and as a member of our family. I hope she will accept this. She is my wife. She is a Cambon. If I go first, I would like to think that she will step into my shoes and enjoy the pleasures of Les Cigales.
I hope, as well, that she might come to accept Patrick.
Dearest Maman, please be just and loving in your dealings with all this.
I love you.
Your loyal son,
Luc Cambon
Jane read the letter again, then three times more. She could barely get her head round the words she had read.
Patrick is your grandson, your flesh and blood …
Her worst fears, the fears she had been denying with every breath she took, had been substantiated. Luc had had a child by another woman. Annabelle. Jane had fought with all her
being to resist, to deny this reality.
‘I don’t want to know,’ she wailed. ‘I loved you. I’ve always loved you. I would have done anything for you and now you leave me with nothing …’
A and P.
A and P, whose lives would never be the same after Luc’s death.
And what of her own life? It would certainly never be the same ever again.
Luc was providing a home for Patrick and Annabelle, the mother of his son. As well, he was taking steps to safeguard and secure the boy’s future. Why else would he have accepted responsibility for a flat with two bedrooms on the outskirts of Paris? Two bedrooms, one for the mother (with Luc when he was in town?), the other for the boy. Jane Googled the agence d’immobilier and found their telephone number. She lifted the phone and tapped in the ten digits. It was ten to seven in the evening. Most offices in Paris closed at seven. With luck, they’d still be open.
Jane was in luck: a woman answered. ‘Agence du Quartier Latin, bonsoir?’
What to say? Which questions to ask? There were so many. Had Luc accompanied ‘A’ to the agency? Had they gone together as a family of three? Would the estate agent or receptionist at the other end of the line in Paris remember Luc? Would she have recognized him as the film director? Probably not. Documentary film-making did not create celebrity status.
‘Allo?’
‘Yes, bonjour! I understand you represent a two-room, no, excuse me, sorry, a two-bedroom flat in Vincennes?’ Jane’s voice was husky – even her French felt uncertain.
‘We have several properties in that district, Madame, how can I help you?’
‘I was wondering if the monthly payments have ceased or are still being honoured?’
The representative at the other end of the phone sighed. ‘Are you ringing to enquire about an advertisement you’ve seen?’ She sounded impatient.
‘No.’
‘Well, Madame, what do you want, s’il vous plaît?’ Parisian curt.
‘To know whether a contract drawn up by you is still valid.’
‘I am sorry, we don’t release such information over the phone. Who are you?’
Jane panicked. She should have foreseen this. ‘There has been an accident. Someone died … I may … may need on their behalf to terminate the contract. If the lawyer has not already contacted you.’
‘And you are?’
‘I – I am the lawyer’s assistant. Yes, Monsieur Piper’s assistant.’ She panicked again, her sweaty palm gripping the receiver. There was a possibility that Robert Piper had lied to her. He was working for Luc and he was Luc’s long-time buddy, not hers. Robert’s loyalty lay with Luc. Perhaps he had negotiated the terms of the rental agreement. She should have thought this through more carefully before picking up the phone.
‘Give me the full address, please, and if possible the contract number. This is a little irregular.’
Jane read out the details.
‘Just a moment, please.’ The woman coughed. Jane heard the flick of a lighter as the woman called, ‘Bonsoir, à demain,’ to a colleague in her office. She heard fingers tapping a keyboard. The estate agent must be scrolling down her computer screen. ‘Hello? I have found it. Yes, I can confirm that this is a current contract, Madame.’
‘But Monsieur Cambon is deceased.’
Pause. ‘I am sorry. Let me look at the notes here.’ An exhalation. ‘Hello?’
‘Yes?’
‘It seems that we were notified of the death. All is in order.’
‘And?’
‘Madame Cambon chose to take over the lease herself. This was acceptable to us under the circumstances. An addendum has, I believe, already been drawn up and signed.’
Madame Cambon?
Was Clarisse in on this? Jane very much doubted it. According to Luc’s letter to his mother, there was a froideur between the two women.
Jane hit the End button on her phone.
Was Annabelle masquerading as Luc’s wife?
11
The following morning Claude drove them to the foot of the Alps where the most distant of the estate’s vineyards were situated, overhung by their olive groves. ‘During autumn and winter, after the harvest, the land lies dormant. This is when we fertilize. We let it seep in nicely, into the sleeping earth. We buy our organic fertilizer from the small pig and goat farmers in the higher regions close to the national park. The meat from around those parts is rather fine, too. Matty always insists I come back with a few kilos of sausages. Mineral fertilizers and natural compost are what we use.’
The earth was red and the fruit a startling green. After a sleepless night, Jane was bleary, puffy-eyed. She had tossed and turned, tense and wakeful throughout long bleak hours. Too exhausted, she had skipped her dawn cycle ride to the beach for a swim, as well as her trip to Luc’s grave, the first day she had failed to do either since her return. Her heart was beginning to swell within her, pumped by a black despair that threatened to strangle her.
Should she fly to Paris, pay a visit to the rented flat and challenge ‘Madame Cambon’ face to face. Was this so-called ‘Madame Cambon’ even aware of Jane’s existence? If Luc had kept such a dark secret from Jane, might he have lied also to his mistress?
‘In spring, we prune the vines by hand, cutting each plant individually. This takes time and expertise. We take a great deal of care in order that we don’t harm the stems. It’s painstaking work, Jane, for so many hectares. Arnaud is employed with me full-time during that season, along with Jean and Michel. If our other boy, Pierre, is able to take some holiday from the horse farm he manages, he comes back for a couple of weeks to give us a hand as well. He brings the grandchildren, which pleases Matty. Otherwise Clarisse, Madame Cambon, I should say, gets me to hire in a few fellows from the villages roundabout. We tend to prune a little earlier than the larger estates further west so we can nab the good hands first, those who have the skills and the knowledge. If we don’t grab them, they hire themselves out to the established domains in the Var. Because of this, it’s vital that they know they can count on us, that every spring they’ll find employment with us. That loyalty saves costs, saves us dedicating time to explaining to newly hireds. This year, we have dropped the stitch. Now they will be looking elsewhere for employment. We are losing their allegiance. So, next year, if there should be a next year for us all here, we’ll have to scratch about for labourers.’
Jane was struggling to concentrate, to keep abreast. She lifted her face heavenwards. The morning was hot and sunny. A few clouds peppered the sky, puffy and white as cottonwool balls. Her skin was stinging from crying. Yes, she would go to Paris. As soon as Claude delivered her back to the manor house, she would book a flight for the following day. She had considered asking Clarisse about Luc’s private affairs but she knew that would yield no results. She would always be loyal to her only child. There was no alternative but to find out the truth for herself.
‘So, when we’ve pruned back all the vines, the alleys are free of foliage and the spring rains can more easily penetrate the soil. Oh, and you haven’t yet seen how they bleed sap when we cut them. You’ll be amazed by it next spring, I promise you. As I said, once the weeds are all gone, the bare soil can absorb the early spring rain, guzzle it up. All that goodness, the nutrients, goes into the vine stock, to process and feed its growth. It drinks in all Nature’s gifts, morning dews, early warm sun. The plants are preparing themselves for their flowering and then to give birth to the fruit.’
Jane said nothing. The old man’s enthusiasm and passion for the earth were almost heart-breaking under the circumstances.
‘Once you’ve seen the cycle of growth, Jane, you’ll look forward to each season. It puts a spring in your step to see old Mother Nature at work.’
‘Claude, I have to leave.’
‘Leave, but I –’
‘I need to go to Paris.’ She saw the shock, the disappointment in his wrinkled face. ‘We can continue when I return.’
‘Will you be gone fo
r long? Matty and I, we’d been hoping …’
‘No, no, of course not. Not long. There’s something I … need to complete for Luc. It’s unavoidable.’
‘But what about the weeding, the clearing of all the vineyards?’ He sounded as though the rest of his life depended on her response. After a fashion, it did, and she had given him and Matty reason to put their hope in the future. Now, it looked as though she might not be able to guarantee anything. Clarisse had chastised her for interfering. Perhaps she should have been more cautious. Charging in, making promises she might never keep.
‘If we dither for even a day longer, Jane, we’re done for. Why don’t I call the men in and get it all cleaned up? We can start while you’re away. We need to think of the crops and the risk of fires.’
He couldn’t know how in one night such a sea change had taken place within her. What would the investment he was asking for cost her? The total number of man hours? If she agreed, could she finance it? The funds from the flat were not hers yet, completion still a month away. Anything could happen. But she had received a nice little sum from the publishers of the guide books and they had emailed her a contract for three more. Why not agree with Claude that he could go ahead and enlist the men to clear the vineyards? She felt connected here – as Luc had once described his own relationship to Les Cigales; she enjoyed the prospect of the work that lay ahead and the changing face of Nature yet to come. But what if she discovered a truth so unpalatable in Paris that she couldn’t return?
The Forgotten Summer Page 23