Just A Summer Romance

by Karen Abbott

  “If you’d only see sense and get him in a nursing home or something, you wouldn’t need to be acting as nursemaid to him. He’d have as much money as he needs from selling up while the price is right.”

  If m. Boudot thought his reasonable tone of voice would win him any points, he was sadly mistaken. Lys was incensed by his words.

  “How dare you tell me or my grandfather what to do? It’s none of your business! You are supposed to be giving us an independent authorised assessment of the safety of our property. I think you had better keep to your remit!”

  M. Boudot eyed her speculatively and snapped into official mode.

  “Very well, mademoiselle Dupont. As soon as you are ready, I am here at your disposal. I will wait in my car.”

  Lys watched as he strode back to his car and re-seated himself inside it. She was unperturbed at ruffling his feathers. His attitude had annoyed her and she felt sure that he had no official backing to speak as he had. She returned to the cottage and told her grandfather that m. Boudot had arrived and was going to assess the condition of the windmill.

  “But the structure is quite sound, I’m sure,” she assured him. “It only needs some running repairs and a lick of paint.”

  “But what’s the use?” Grand-père sighed dispiritedly. “I’m too old. I just want to be left in peace.”

  “If it keeps the authorities happy, we’ll do everything we can to make sure it’s safe and then there’ll be no need to sell the windmill or have it pulled down. I’m sure you know someone whom I can get to help me … a handyman or a joiner. I can run up a ladder and do some painting and I can’t wait to get rid of all those weeds out there. We’ll soon have it looking like it used to!”

  Etienne didn’t look convinced but Lys felt enthusiastic about restoring the exterior of the windmill and cottage to its former prettiness and hoped she could also persuade her grandfather to modernise his cottage a bit.

  Within five minutes, she went outside and approached m. Boudot’s car. Another man was with him, she saw. They both got out and m. Boudot nodded briefly towards his companion.

  “My clerk,” he said briefly. “Show mademoiselle Dupont our authorisation. She likes to go by the book!”

  His companion drew out a paper and held it out for Lys to read. She took it from him and skim-read it. It seemed to be in order. She folded it up and slipped it into the rear pocket of her jeans.

  “I’ll read it in detail later.”

  She took the key for the windmill from another pocket and led the way over to the windmill and opened the door.

  “It’s bit dusty in here,” she said over her shoulder, “but I think you’ll find everything quite sound. This floor is flagged and …”

  “I would prefer it if you let me make my own assessment, mademoiselle,” m. Boudot said coolly, pausing in the doorway to poke at the wooden doorframe.

  “Well-rotted!” he murmured, nodding at his clerk, who dutifully wrote it down, “and the door needs to be replaced, as well. The other’s probably just as bad, so make that two doors and frames.”

  He took a metal rod out of his pocket and scraped along where the walls joined the floor.

  “Crumbling walls,” he said shortly. “They need to be re-pointed and re-surfaced.”

  He stood in the centre of the ground floor and glanced around pursing his lips. Finding nothing else to comment on there, he strode over to the staircase, shook it slightly and then climbed up it. Lys made as if to follow but the man bade her stay on the ground floor. “You stay as well! I don’t want either of you to hurt yourself if the staircase gives way” he commanded his clerk. “I’ll call details down to you.”

  “The staircase is perfectly safe!” Lys objected.

  “I will make the decision about that, mademoiselle,” the surveyor said curtly.

  Lys pressed her pips together, to stop herself from answering back. There was no point in antagonising more than necessary. She could hear him striding about on the next floor; then a thud as if he had jumped to test its strength. A short silence followed and she imagined him poking at the floorboards or into the walls. The silence lengthened and Lys began to feel apprehensive. What was he doing?

  “The next staircase is weak,” he called down. “I’m about to test it for weight-bearing.”

  “No, it’s not!” Lys objected, taking a step towards the wooden staircase. Before she reached it, a shout echoed above, followed by a crash. She froze. What had happened?

  She exchanged a glance with the clerk … and they both moved towards the steps at the same instant. Lys got there first. Careless of her own safety, she ran up the steps. M. Boudot was half-sitting/half-lying at the foot of the next staircase ... except, as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, she realised that the handrail to the staircase was no longer there. It lay at her feet in broken pieces.

  M. Boudot was dazedly pushing himself to his knees and struggling to his feet.

  “I think we have the answer as to the soundness of the windmill, mademoiselle! Don’t you? In my opinion, it would be best to pull it down before it falls down!”

  Chapter Four

  Xavier had wakened early that morning and was instantly alert. It didn’t take him long to perform the simple ablutions that his basic facilities in his hut allowed him and, ten minutes later, he was seated at the end of the pier munching an apple as he watched the sky change colour with the rising sun.

  The intrusive putt-putt of an engine drew his gaze towards the main channel that flowed straight out of the port towards Bourcefranc on the mainland. He swiftly flipped open his sketchpad and drew a quick outline-drawing of the flat-bottomed boat that was setting out to visit the oyster beds in the deeper water that flowed between the island and the mainland.

  Deep-sea fishing and the culture of oysters and mussels were two of the mainstay industries of the island. He liked including people in his paintings; people at work in their everyday jobs, occupations that chiselled character into their faces. There’d be the farming community as well, the melon growers and vintners; the market traders; and …

  The image of a windmill flitted into his inner vision and he thought of his encounter with Lys, who was going to stay with her grandfather, a former miller—that was another ancient trade of the island.

  He vaguely stored the idea in a corner of his mind as he got to his feet. There would be other activities in the port to sketch if he made his way back along the quayside.

  Later, he bought a couple of croissants from a café in the main square and returned to his hut, where he spent the morning setting up his simple studio. He sprayed a fixative onto his sketches, mounted them on card and displayed them on the double wooden doors and then stood his three equine paintings on his best easels. These he placed prominently at the open entrance of the hut and then made a large notice inviting passers-by to feel free to browse amongst his work without obligation to buy.

  The tourist season was only just beginning but a few casual visitors lingered briefly and he sold two of the sketches he had drawn that morning.

  Deciding to break for lunch, he left his work on display and sauntered along to the small restaurant beyond the road bridge where he ordered a grilled fillet of sole and a glass of wine. This was the life!

  It was too hot in the afternoon to set off reconnoitring any more of the local scenery, so Xavier decided to knock together a few simple easels and prepare some canvasses in the cool interior of his hut and go exploring later.

  Engrossed in his task, he was suddenly aware that someone had entered his hut and was silently watching him. He was surprised to see that it was his chauffeuse of the previous day. He was startled by the pleasure that coursed around his body.

  “Salut!” he greeted her.

  “Salut!”

  Lys glanced around. “It hasn’t taken you long to get started,” she said casually.

  Xavier grinned. “I told you, I am dedicated to my work!”

  “Hmm! What are you doing?”

>   “Preparing some canvasses. This cloth … it’s called ‘duck’ … has to be stretched onto a frame and then primed with gesso. I usually put three coats on to get a good finish and then I have to let it dry.”

  “Why are you doing three at once?”

  “Because I usually like to work on at least three paintings at any one time—unless I am doing something that really grips me! Even then, I need time away from it to let my ideas simmer in my head.”

  “Do you have to let each bit you paint dry before you can add any more?”

  “Not when I’m working in acrylics … which is my favourite medium. You do with oils and sometimes with water colours, depending on what effect I want.”

  He eyed her quizzically, wondering why she had searched him out. He hadn’t expected her to but he was pleased that she had, even though she obviously wasn’t ready to disclose her reason as she had stepped away from him and was studying the three equine paintings by the door.

  “They’re good!” she finally declared, with a note of surprise in her voice. “How do you come to know horses so well?”

  “I … er … used to work in a stable where horses are trained for steeple-chasing and show jumping. I … keep in touch every so often. The owners of the horses often ask me to paint their favourites. It’s a good money-earner!”

  “Doesn’t painting for money upset your principle of painting your ‘soul’?” she asked mischievously.

  Xavier grinned, acknowledging her insight. “The money I earn from commissions allows me to indulge myself in painting from my soul. Even artists have to live! I am fortunate that I am able to do both.”

  Lys looked at him hesitantly. “Would you be willing to do … other things … for money?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Other things? What sort of ‘other things’?”

  She shrugged slightly, as if reluctant to say what she had in mind … and then said diffidently, “Like a bit of surveying?”

  She paused … and then hurried on, “You did say you had nearly qualified. I’m sure you must have covered most of your course, even though you ducked out before your exams. We wouldn’t expect it to be perfect. Just a general idea. Something to go on.”

  “And what do you need me to survey? As you say, I couldn’t give you a certified opinion and you wouldn’t have any legal right to quote my assessment or anything.”

  “Oh, I know. That doesn’t matter! We can’t really afford to pay a proper surveyor, you see. Not without borrowing the money from my step-father, and we don’t really want to do that.”

  “But you don’t mind asking an unqualified stranger?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “We don’t expect you to do it for nothing! We’ll pay whatever you think is a fair price!”

  “Are those your own scruples or your grandfather’s?”

  “There’s no need to be so hateful! Grand-père doesn’t know I’m asking you, as it happens! He probably wouldn’t like it but I don’t know what else to do. And you did say …!”

  She stopped abruptly and her shoulders sagged as she began to turn away. “It doesn’t matter. Forget I asked. I should have known you’d ‘have scruples’ about it!”

  Xavier’s voice softened. “Come back! I’m teasing you! Why don’t you explain what it’s all about and then I can say what I think about it? Come on. I owe you one anyway for the lift. You could have thrown me out. Let’s call it ‘quid pro rata’.”

  “You don’t have to. It was cheeky of me, really. I’m taking up your time.”

  Lys made as if to go again but Xavier called her back in exasperation.

  “Just like a female! You talk a man into it and then change your mind! Do you want my skills or not? I can listen whilst I put the next coat of primer on, if that makes you any happier!”

  Lys shrugged and stepped nearer again. “Okay. It’s about Grand-père’s windmill.”

  She explained what had happened … Michel Fayau’s visit, Leon Boudot’s first visit, her own quick tour of inspection, m. Boudot’s return earlier that day … and his assessment of the crumbling masonry and the collapse of part of the upper staircase.

  “But I know it wasn’t that bad! I went up the steps last evening!”

  “But very warily, I presume?”

  “That was only because it was dark up there. I felt quite safe.”

  “Why didn’t you go up with him this morning?”

  “He told me not to … nor his clerk.”

  She remembered the few minutes when she was wondering what he was doing. “I reckon he did a bit of loosening work up there!”

  Xavier swivelled round on his stool to face her.

  “Why would he do that? Surely, if he works for the local authority, he should have no personal interest in the matter?”

  “He shouldn’t have! But he wouldn’t be the first to have a hand in someone’s pocket! Besides, he did sort of threaten me.”

  She tried to remember the exact words m. Boudot had said. “Something like being advised to sell before a demolition order was placed on it.”

  “That doesn’t sound very threatening.”

  “It was the way he said it! And he had already made up his mind that it was in need of demolition!”

  Lys could see her only chance of a reasonably priced survey slipping out of her grasp. “Please, Xavier! Just ten minutes or so will be enough!”

  Xavier laughed. “I see how poorly you rate my capabilities, Lys!”

  Lys turned to go but Xavier called her back.

  “Okay! Okay! I tell you what. Persuade your grandfather to sit for me and I’ll do it for nothing! What d’you say about that? Fair deal?”

  “Why should you want to paint Grand-père? You don’t know what he looks like. He might be old and shrivelled, for all you know!”

  Xavier grinned.

  “If he’s anything like his granddaughter, he’ll be a stubborn old soul with his character written all over his face! I’m thinking of doing a series on local industries and the people who work in them. It’s just an idea! Take it or leave it!”

  He turned back to the canvas he was preparing, as if he had lost interest. Lys had to make up her mind quickly.

  “All right!” she said. “It’s a deal … as long as you’re sure you can afford to do it for free.”

  “I sold two sketches this morning,” he said lightly. “I have a good pitch here. Who knows, I might be a millionaire by the end of the season!”

  Lys relaxed and returned his smile.

  “I hope so! Maybe I’d better buy one of your paintings now, whilst I can still afford it! When can you come?”

  “Are you likely to give me any peace until I’ve been?”

  She grinned. “No.”

  “Then I’ll come as soon as I’ve prepared these three canvasses. They’ll need to set before I work on them anyway. Are you in your car?”

  “No. I’ve just bought a second-hand bicycle from the bike shop. It’ll save on petrol money—and be part of my character building!”

  Xavier laughed. “Touché! Actually, I could do with one myself for getting around the island. So that’s another debt I owe you. Introduce me to your bicycle shop and I’ll get a rusty old bike for a song!”

  “Or a sketch?”

  “Who knows!”

  When he had done all he could for the time being, Xavier closed his hut, locked the double doors and walked the short distance to Rue Marechal Foch with Lys. The narrow streets and cream-washed buildings were already seeping into his inner spirit, as were the head-high pink, red and cream hollyhocks that seemed to grow wherever they wished against the buildings.

  He purchased a bicycle in reasonable condition for cash, with the added bonus of a free service within a month and free air in the tyres whenever necessary … and they set off through the country lanes, through Ors and La Chevalerie, across the main road and onto a cycle path that took them most of the way back to the windmill.

  Lys kept up a running commentary on places they passed or wher
e the different turnings led to, remembering her favourite places, unaware how much her love for the island was revealed in her voice.

  The windmill, when they reached it, was everything Xavier wished for. Even in its neglected state, it had character. Instinctively, he knew that it would be a good subject for painting and sketching. Having heard Lys’s plans for its face-lift, he was glad to have seen it first in its state of neglect. It blended in with unkempt surroundings and he knew he would paint it as such as often as he would in its renovated condition … if it proved sound enough to be renovated.

  Lys took him into the cottage to meet her grandfather. As he stepped inside the cottage, he drew in his breath, causing Lys to look at him sharply.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing! It’s wonderful! I bet this cottage has looked like this for over a hundred years! You must keep it as it is. It’s marvellous!”

  “Yes, except when you have to live in it! There’s no electricity or running water and is freezing in wintertime!”

  “Yes … but think of the history here! You’re going to have to restore it very sensitively. Cottages like this must be a rarity, even on the island! People would flock to see it.”

  “There are a few around. There’s one at Le Grand Village. It’s a sort of museum ... a farm and ancient farming equipment. A folk group called Les Dejhouqués look after it. You must go and see it one day. Anyway, come through and meet Grand-père and then I’ll take you to see the windmill at close quarters. I’ll just make sure he’s awake.”

  Xavier heard a frail voice declare, “Of course I’m awake, girl! How do you expect me to sleep with all that racket?”

  He followed her into the dim bedroom and shook Etienne’s thin hand.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, monsieur Dupont. What an interesting home you have. It makes my fingers itch to start painting it.”

  “Can’t afford any decorators!” Etienne stated firmly. “Lys tells me she’ll do what’s needed. Anyway, it isn’t worth it! Condemned, it is! Got to pull it down!”

  “How do you know that, Grand-père?” Lys asked in surprise. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to upset you.”