by Karen Abbott
Lys felt annoyed that her expected pleasure at seeing the familiar scene had been ruined.
“Where shall I drop you off?” she asked brusquely.
“Wherever suits you.”
Lys knew he had seen through her reaction to his words. Who did he think he was, criticising her character and motivation? She pulled into a lay-by immediately after the viaduct, knowing it left him a couple of kilometres to walk into Le Chateau.
“This do?”
“Fine. Thanks for the lift!”
He got out of the car, opened the rear door and hooked out his ungainly backpack and appendages.
“Thanks again! See you sometime!”
She watched as he casually shrugged his large load onto his back and, with a wave of his hand, he set off towards the fork in the road that led to Le Chateau.
Lys slipped into first gear and, her tyres spinning on the loose gravel, she regained the road and sped past him, her face set straight ahead, as if intent on her destination a few kilometres along the main road through the island.
Insufferable man!
However, she couldn’t resist a glance in her rear mirror whilst Xavier was still within her vision. The young artist had a spring in his step and seemed unperturbed by having to walk into Le Chateau under his own steam—he probably preferred it, Lys thought darkly. He could give the impression of having trudged all day!
With a rueful grimace and a short laugh, she acknowledged the unworthiness of her uncharitable thought. Was it because his barb had struck home? She had to admit to herself that, even though she knew she could cope with some deprivation, she liked the comforts of her mother’s present life-style. It was nice to have it there as a safety net if it were ever necessary to fall back on it.
A picture of Xavier’s face flashed in her mind. He had been laughing at her, she knew.
Huh! If she never saw him again, it would be far too soon!
Chapter Two
Xavier watched the car disappear round the bend in the road and smiled ruefully. He’d hit a raw nerve there, much as Lys might choose to deny it. Not to worry! He might never see her again, though he had to admit she was an attractive young woman. He shrugged the thought away. His summer plans didn’t include time off for romance. His time was too precious for that complication!
As he tramped towards the old fortified town of Le Chateau, his mind was already concentrating on the memory of the heavy dark clouds that had hung low over the flat countryside of Charente Maritime prior to the storm and how the lightning had spectacularly forked through them. He thought of the colours in the fields; the vibrant greens of early summer, darkened by the overcast sky; the contrasting red glow of the poppies dancing delicately in the breeze. He began to compose his picture, seeing each aspect in his mind’s eye, experiencing that deep-seated joy of creative urge that would soon explode itself onto his canvas.
He was on the outskirts of the town now. The port lay down a short road to his right. The main road swung round to the left, past some thriving small restaurants and oyster bars; a small boatyard selling ocean-going yachts; a shop selling nautical equipment and clothes; and over one of the many channels that cut through the low-lying land around the island’s coast. This was the route he followed.
The channels went far inland, spreading the fishing industry to the neighbouring villages of Ors and La Chevalerie via the flat-bottomed boats that carried the catches to the many wooden shacks where the fishermen sorted, cleaned, packed and sold their catch. From there, the channels joined others, creating a network of waterways, known as the salines, between La Chevalerie, Le Petit Village and St. Trojan. Bird life abounded there … herons, egrets, sandpipers and the many others he had seen on his preliminary visit in the spring.
It was an island rich in contrasts. There were the low-lying salines on the inland eastern side; the large areas of forests at the southern and northern ends; the sand dunes on the western coast, holding back the spectacular Atlantic waves that crashed onto the long flat beaches; the busy ports that supported the ancient local fishing industry; and the modern industry of tourism with their sea-going yachts.
Yes! There was more than enough to keep him busy all summer. He could forget about his ‘bread and butter’ earnings from painting the favourite race horses and steeplechasers of his father’s rich clients and could sketch and paint whatever took his fancy.
Xavier came to a halt by the cluster of simple wooden huts that had served many years as local fishermen’s work-huts until they had been taken over by a group of artists and sculptors, anticipating with delight the joy of living in one of them, even of painting them. His glance slid over them, coming to rest on the hut on the right just over the bridge—it was to be his home and studio for the next few months!
The end of the blue-painted hut at the road-facing side consisted of a double door that would be opened wide to display the interior of the hut, which was large enough to accommodate his bed-roll at night; a small primus stove suitable for very basic cooking; a folding canvas chair left by the previous tenant; a small wooden cupboard for a few items of food; and a small partitioned area containing a basic toilet and hand basin … which left plenty of space for his easels and stack of canvasses that had yet to be collected from a temporary postal address he had arranged with the agent who had handled his tenancy agreement.
He glanced around with satisfaction. The walls would hold a good number of completed sketches and paintings and he planned to hold sessions when would-be buyers could watch him at work at various stages of his art or sit for their own likeness to be drawn—an exercise that he knew would draw in the customers. The paintings would be realistically priced. He knew his worth—as did his already-satisfied clients.
Xavier introduced himself to the occupant of the neighbouring hut, who willingly agreed to keeping an eye on his pack whilst he went to get the keys off his agent and his painting equipment from his collection point … and he was soon unpacked and had allocated space to his few possessions. He carefully unwrapped three almost-finished canvasses, each portraying a well-known steeplechaser, and settled them onto three easels he had placed near the open end of the hut. It was too late in the afternoon to work on them because the light was no longer good enough but he took a step away from them and regarded them critically.
They were good, he knew.
One showed the horse in full flight over a high brush fence. The fluidity of movement in the horse’s muscular body was superb and the ecstasy of exhilaration on the face of the jockey still took his breath away.
The second painting was of a horse clearing a hurdle. It was at that heart-stopping moment when the horse’s fore hooves were about to touch the turf and the spectators were holding their breath until the rear hooves touched also and the horse regained momentum. Was the light quite right? Had he caught it as perfectly as he could? It needed just a little more work on it.
The third canvas was a horse and jockey being led into the winner’s enclosure by the proud owner. He knew he had pandered to the owner’s vanity in this one. He had less of a paunch and fewer rolls of fat around his chin and neck—but the horse was perfect in every detail. The proud way it held its head; its high-stepping prance and swish of its tail portrayed a horse well-pleased with itself. It knew it had won the race!
Satisfied for the moment, Xavier stuck ‘sold’ tickets on the three canvasses. They had been commissioned by the horses’ owners … but would advertise his skill as an artist until he had some new paintings ready. He glanced casually around. There was nothing else he could do here for now … and he was hungry. It was time to sample the local cuisine. The appetizing aroma of cooking was drifting from the small restaurant on the edge of the quayside and, from the sound of voices, others had the same idea.
He picked up his sketchpad and slipped a few pieces of charcoal into his pocket, already anticipating with relish a plate of ‘moules et frites’ and a carafe of local wine, combined with getting to know his fellow-artists.
Local wine, local food and local scenery. What more could he want?
***
Meanwhile, motoring up the island, Lys marvelled at how quickly all signs of the heavy thunderstorm had passed. The sun was shining more strongly now and a long-hidden flicker of memory surfaced of her riding a pony when a storm had struck and by the time she had reached her grandfather’s home soaked to the skin, the sun was once more cracking the ground. The same flicker of memory brought the road along which she was travelling into the realm of the familiar. It was the main road that passed through the middle of the island from the viaduct to Le Phare de Chassiron, the lighthouse at the far end of the island.
She could tell that the road had altered slightly in places. Parts were now dual carriageways; some of the junctions had been widened and now had traffic lights; and others had small traffic islands to keep the flow of traffic moving along—but, on the whole, it seemed much as it had been. She pressed the switch that rolled down her window and breathed in the fresh clean air with a sense of satisfaction.
She was glad she had come. She had loved her holidays here with her paternal grandparents and regretted not having been since her parents had split up. It hadn’t been a deliberate omission on her part; it had simply been more convenient and more enticing to go with her mother and new husband to such places as Cannes and St. Tropez. She had missed her grandmother’s funeral since she was in the middle of first-year examinations … and her mother hadn’t passed on the news until the summer vacation.
Still, she was here now and intended to make up for any neglect to her grandfather.
Almost before she knew it, she was and on the road to Dolus, a left turn towards Vertbois, round the next bend into Le Deu … and there it was, Grand-père’s windmill and single-storey cottage.
The two buildings seemed smaller than she remembered and both had an air of neglect. Some wooden lattes were missing from the conical roof of the windmill; paint was peeling from the cream walls; the wooden sails were in complete disrepair. A flicker of sadness washed over her. Grand-mère had always kept everywhere immaculate, with window boxes and tubs filled with geraniums and impatiens.
Now, the window boxes were empty and weeds were growing rampantly amongst the ramblings roses and tall hollyhocks and the rest of the enclosed land. The ancient well, the only source of water to the property, was surrounded by an untidy mass of weeds and flowers, though a track of trampled weeds showed that it was still in use.
She pushed her sad thoughts away. Now that she was here, she would soon put things right. A coat of paint; weeding and planting; and maybe the help of a local handyman for the roof and sails. The thought gave her a boost of optimism and it was with a light heart that she parked her car on the spare plot of land that had served as a parking ground to the miller’s customers’ horse-drawn wagons.
Switching off the engine, she rolled her head from side to side and eased back her shoulders. Oh, it was good to stretch her muscles! Leaving her belongings where they were, she went towards the door of the cottage that was set a few metres away from the windmill itself. She knocked softly and opened the door.
“Hello? Grand-père? It’s Lysette! Are you there?”
She stepped inside the dim interior. The familiarity of it brought a lump to her throat. It was just as she remembered.
The main living room was sparsely furnished with a wooden table … not as well-scrubbed as it had always been in her grandmother’s day; four chairs were set around the table; a tall simply-styled wooden dresser that held all of Etienne Dupont’s crockery and cutlery stood by one inner wall; his pans, formerly kept shining as brightly as on the day they were bought by her grandmother, were now blackened by use on the coal-fired oven range and were hanging on nails on the dark roof rafters; on the draining board by the shallow sink were the dishes Grand-père must have used for his lunch, washed but not dried; and a few rush mats lay scattered on the flagged floor.
Before she could take in any more, a faint voice from an inner room called an enquiry and Lys hurried across to the open doorway. Etienne Dupont was lying in bed, his much shrunken figure propped up on pillows.
“Grand-père!” Lys cried, hastening forward.
“Ah, Lysette! Is it really you?” He struggled to sit up but the effort was too much for him and he sank back against his pillows. “It’s good to see you, my little one! Madame Giraud told me you were coming but I hardly dared to hope it.”
His voice sounded frail but nonetheless held a note of pleasure and his smile was full of welcome. His face was more lined than she remembered and had lost its bronzed weather-beaten tan. He looked older and frailer and Lys found her throat tight with emotion. It was difficult to get any more words out. She hugged her grandfather tightly and, when she eventually pulled away, saw that his eyes were as moist as hers. She laughed shakily.
“We’re a fine pair, aren’t we? We should be laughing—not crying! Oh, I’m so sorry I haven’t been to see you for so long!”
Her voice almost broke as she said the words and she wiped further tears away with the back of her hand.
“No matter, child. You are here now and I’m glad to see you. Madame Giraud will be pleased also.”
He weakly lifted a hand from off the thin bedcover and waved it vaguely in front of him. “She has done what she can for me but she has neglected her patisserie in doing so … but could I tell her so? She takes no notice of anything I say! Comes fussing round here four times a day or more! I tell her it’s enough to cause a relapse!”
His voice softened. “Eh … but it’s good to see you, child!”
“And it’s good to see you, Grand-père!” Lys responded. “Now, what can I do? A cup of coffee? I’ll pop the kettle on and bring some of things in and we can have a nice little chat.”
Etienne shook his head. “The fire isn’t lit, Lysette. It’s been too hot. Madame Giraud fills a jug with water from the well for me.” He gestured towards a jug on the bedside cupboard. “A glass of water will do me fine. Pour some into that glass and help me to sit up a little.”
Lys did as instructed, pumping up his pillows to make him more comfortable. Water was fine for her too, so she got herself another glass and carried a chair into the bedroom.
Like the main room, the bedroom was sparsely furnished. It held only the bed, a wooden armoire that held Etienne’s few changes of clothes and a wooden chest that probably held the rest of his possessions. Its lid bore an intricately carved design that Lys knew her grandfather had carved in the long winter evenings of his courtship of her grandmother.
As they chatted, Etienne told of his sudden heart attack but hastened to assure Lys that he was well on the mend and, as soon as his fool of a doctor gave the word, he would be out of his bed and no trouble to anyone!
“You’re no trouble, Grand-père. And I can stay all summer, so you’ve no need to rush things. That is, if it’s all right with you,” she added hesitantly.
His face lit with delight.
“More than all right!” he declared.
A knock on the door drew Lys’s attention but she before she had risen from her chair, whoever it was had already stepped into the living room.
“Here she comes! She’ll have seen you arrive. I knew her nose would lead her over here before you’d had time to take more than a dozen breaths!” Etienne cackled loudly.
“Grand-père!” Lys hissed, shocked at his impolite manners.
“After fifty years of Etienne Dupont, my skin is too thick to hurt, mademoiselle Lysette!” the visitor responded, standing in the doorway, casting a quizzical glance at the grinning patient. “It is good to see you, mademoiselle. Do you remember me?”
Lys rose to greet her and they exchanged the traditional French cheek-to-cheek kisses.
“Yes, of course, madame! And I remember your lovely pastries and croissants. Thank you for the way you have taken care of Grand-père.”
“It’s a wonder I’m not dead, the way the woman fusses!” Etienne grumbled.
“Get away with you, you grouchy old man! You’ve been glad enough to see me coming through that door!”
Madame Giraud was a lady in her late fifties, Lys guessed. Her grey hair was fashioned in a bun at the base of her head and her round face bore a cheerful smile. Her ample figure gave her the appearance of a comfortable and pleasant neighbour, in spite of the exchange of words. Lys remembered her with affection.
“Sit down, mme. Giraud,” Lys invited, indicating her chair.
“Don’t bother asking her! She never has time!” Etienne grumbled sourly. “A fellow could die of boredom round here and not be missed by his neighbour!”
“Grand-père!”
Lys was embarrassed and turned to apologise to their visitor but realised that there was no need. Mme. Giraud was standing with her hands on her hips, a ready riposte on her lips.
“I’d miss your grumpiness, all right! I can tell you, mademoiselle, there’s not been a worse patient in the whole of Christendom than this old fraud! Had us all thinking he was dying, he did! Just after a bit of attention, if you ask me!”
Lys laughed. She could tell from Mme. Giraud’s tone of voice that it was all in good humour.
“Aren’t all men the same! They create a drama out of a cold!”
“I was dying!” Etienne protested. “I just thought I’d stay around a bit longer to plague you all! Besides, I just wanted to see my granddaughter again … and here she is!”
“And all due to my excellent nursing!” mme. Giraud claimed triumphantly. “But do I get a word of thanks? Not on your life!”
“Get away with you, you silly old woman! You wouldn’t know what to do with a ‘thank you’ if it hit you in the face!”
“Hmph! Maybe not!” mme. Giraud conceded. She turned to Lys. “I just came round to tell you that I’m making a fish pie for supper. Come and collect it about six o’clock. And don’t let your grandfather run you off your feet. He wants everything done yesterday!”