Just A Summer Romance

by Karen Abbott

  “M. Boudot came back after you’d gone. He said he could claim compensation for his injuries … but he won’t, if I agree to sell the land to someone who is prepared to develop it … and we know who that will be, don’t we!”

  “Michel Fayau, I suppose.”

  “You haven’t agreed, have you?” Xavier asked quickly.

  “Sort of. He didn’t give me much option. I can’t afford to pay compensation, that’s for sure.”

  “He had no right to put pressure on you like that!” Xavier said firmly. You didn’t sign anything, did you?”

  “No. He said he’ll be back on Monday … no, Tuesday. It’s the Pentecost holiday this weekend, isn’t it?”

  “It is indeed. That gives us three days to look into it. I’ll get on with the survey, shall I?”

  “It’s no use throwing good money after bad,” Etienne said wearily. “I’ve just got to accept it. My home is done for. I’m sorry, Lysette. I know you wanted to make it look nice for me but I’ve left it too late.”

  The catch in his voice made Lys take hold of his hand.

  “It mightn’t be, Grand-père. Xavier trained as a surveyor. He’s going to give us a second opinion.”

  “I’ve told you, I can’t afford it!”

  He was becoming agitated and distressed.

  Xavier took hold of his other hand.

  “Lys and I have arranged a deal, m. Dupont. For a start, I’m not qualified, so I can’t charge you any money anyway. What I would like is permission to sketch and paint your windmill and this wonderful cottage … and yourself, too, if you will let me. That’s the deal. You get a second opinion … and I get myself a genuine old windmill and its miller to paint to my heart’s content.”

  Etienne looked at Xavier suspiciously. “This isn’t charity, is it?”

  Xavier laughed. “Indeed not! I rather think that I have the best of the bargain!”

  He spent the next two hours going through the windmill, poking into the walls and floorboards; testing the first stairway and examining the fallen pieces of the second one.

  Feeling that so much depended on his opinion, Lys could hardly bear to ask him what his opinion was but she made herself ask the question.

  Xavier looked down at the notes he had made.

  “There is quite a bit of woodwork that needs to be renewed in order to make it absolutely safe but the stonework is very sound. It just needs some pointing and the rendering renewed. The sails are well rotted, of course, and would need to be replaced; and much of the roof needs to be repaired. I’ve not examined the state of the machinery up in the roof space. The parts I’ve seen seem to be in need of some repair or replacement but that doesn’t affect the state of the structure of the building.”

  “But, what’s the point of repairing it?” Etienne asked despairingly. “Even if I could afford it, I can’t run it commercially. The government put a stop to that, years ago! The large companies would undercut me, for another thing. And I’m too old and my state of health …”

  His voice trailed away and he sank back against the pillows.

  Lys squeezed his hand. “I think I know what’s in Xavier’s mind, Grand-père. He’s thinking of us operating it as a sort of ‘living museum’.”

  She looked eagerly at Xavier. “Am I right? Like I was telling you about the old farm at Le Grand Village? Only, we’ll be actually working it and still producing flour, even if it is in small amounts!”

  Xavier nodded. “Yes. And I think you would qualify for a grant of some sort towards its restoration. I know someone who will be able to advise you properly. Shall I get in touch with her on your behalf? If she’s available, I’m sure, as a favour to me, she’ll come down to have a look. What do you say?”

  Lys’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

  “Oh, yes!”

  She turned excitedly to her grandfather. “We could get it working again, Grand-père. And people would pay to come in to see it and maybe buy some of the flour we produce! It wouldn’t be like full-time. Just an hour or so each day. And you could teach me how to do it. I’m sure I’d be up to it!”

  Etienne shook his head sadly.

  “But you’re forgetting Leon Boudot, both of you! If I don’t sell, he’ll lay charges of injury through negligence against me! I’ll be in debt for the rest of my life!”

  “I’m not too certain about that!” Xavier said, holding out a length of wood for them to see. “This is the piece from the top of the broken handrail. It’s my belief that it didn’t just give way. It had been deliberately loosened and the brackets removed … and very recently, too, I would say!” He looked at Lys. “You said you went up the staircase yesterday, didn’t you?”

  Lys nodded.

  “Well, if this bracket had been removed before that, the rail wouldn’t have held your weight. You would have been the one to fall! It’s my belief that Leon Boudot deliberately caused his own accident … and I reckon this bracket proves it!”

  Faced with the evidence in his hands, Lys lent him her mobile phone and Xavier went outside to phone his friend, while Lys went over her rapidly expanding hopes for the windmill’s future.

  Xavier, too, felt enthusiastic about the project. He felt a strong attraction towards Lys, something that had started the previous day, even though their meeting had been less than promising! He grinned as he remembered the way she had reacted against his comments. He had thought to see fire shooting from between her lips! Or was it a fire that had burned within him?

  He shook his head. Although the thought was pleasant, it wasn’t the right time. He needed to work hard during his stay on the island. Pushing the pleasant thoughts away, he turned to the task in hand and dialled Jocelyn’s number. He knew she was on holiday with some friends on Ile de Ré, a small island about a hundred kilometres away to the north of La Rochelle, from where she had planned to visit him for a day during her holiday.

  The phone crackled to life and he spent a few moments in light-hearted chit-chat before briefly explaining the situation to her.

  “So, Jocelyn, can you make it this weekend?” he asked. “It will be a working holiday but you could stay overnight in a hotel, if you wish. I feel this guy, Boudot, is pulling a fast one and I’m very keen to paint the windmill and its owner … yes, and maybe his granddaughter! Why not? I need different models for my work! … Good! I’ll expect you tomorrow, then. A bientot!”

  Lys had stayed just inside the cottage to give Xavier privacy in his call, wondering if this Jocelyn were more than just a friend. Now that the call was over, she sauntered outside, realising from Xavier’s pleased expression that his friend had agreed to come.

  “She’ll probably stay overnight,” he said casually, “so can you recommend a good hotel? My own illustrious accommodation won’t be quite to her taste!”

  Lys felt suddenly jealous of the unknown Jocelyn.

  “There’s the Hotel de France, just off the main square. And there are a few others nearby. They might be booked up for the weekend, though. Oh, and they might want a deposit! Can you … er …? That is …” She felt embarrassed for him. He probably hadn’t enough money to pay up front. “I can lend you some from my allowance, if you need it!”

  It suddenly occurred to her that Jocelyn was coming to help her grandfather. “Or maybe we should pay should be paying the whole amount?”

  Xavier held up his hand. “Don’t worry about it. Jocelyn was coming anyway. Besides,” he grinned, “I can always promise to paint a picture of the hotel to pay the bill!”

  Lys laughed. “By the time you’re famous, that many people will have one of your paintings, there’ll be no-one left to buy any!”

  Her face was full of vitality and Xavier felt a sudden lurch deep inside him, longing to capture her expression on canvas. He would paint her, one day soon. For now, he just laughed and said he must be going.

  “I’ll ride home by the coast,” he said. “I need to reconnoitre the area. Lock up the windmill and don’t let anyone go inside until
Jocelyn has seen everything.”

  After he had gone, Lys wished she had asked him to stay for a meal. He could probably only afford cheap snacks, she reflected. She’d have to introduce him to gathering clams and other shellfish to supplement his diet!

  Xavier took his time meandering through the local lanes. There were many attractive cottages; picturesque gardens; wild, unkempt sand dunes and the long sandy beach. Nearer to the port, he came across a busy fishing channel with many of the brightly painted fishermen’s huts along its bank, many overhanging the channel, supported on stilts. They would make an evocative painting.

  Every so often, he stopped and took his sketch-pad out of his backpack, swiftly sketching his ideas … some as working drawings, others complete as they were. He had an instinctive eye for what would sell easily.

  He bought a bag of cooked mussels from a retailer and sat on the bank of the canal, watching two men lift heavy metal-mesh baskets full of oysters from their boat and carry them into their shed. He sketched the scene from a variety of angles before moving on.

  From the viaduct, he discovered a path along the edge of the shore. It was rough under the wheels but he managed to ride along it, sometimes having to follow a channel inland as far as the road, but always able to get back to the shore. He watched birds wading in the shallow water, digging for food with their long beaks and the occasional boat either on its way home to port or off to work.

  Alternately sketching and riding, he was so engrossed in his pleasurable occupation that he forgot about time and the light was fading fast when he made up his mind to return to his hut. He would dump his bag and saunter along to one of the bars in town. They were ideal places for picking up tips on local interests … and local scoundrels, he reflected wryly. Someone might be willing to say what this Leon Boudot might be up to!

  He leaned up his bike against the side of his hut and fumbled in his pocket for the key to the door. Some instinct made him touch the door … and it began to swing outwards towards him. The light was dim but he could see that his belongings had been thrown all over the place.

  “Now, what the …!”

  The faint sound of a footstep behind him made him half-turn but, before he could see who it was, a firm shove in the centre of his back sent him sprawling into his hut.

  Chapter Five

  Xavier crashed to the floor. He felt as though all his breath had been knocked out of his body and couldn’t have moved had his life depended upon it … which it very well might, he thought desperately as two strong hands hauled his body a half-metre from the ground before slamming him down again.

  He groaned as his chest hit the ground, thankful that it was a wooden floor and not stone flags.

  “Ouch!”

  He was now being kicked viciously in his ribs. He curled himself inwards, as tightly as he could, to protect his abdomen and ribs. The action left his back exposed.

  Kick! Thud! Kick!

  He sensed that there were three men attacking him. One of the men lifted his head off the ground and slammed it back down again.

  “What have you done with it?” the man snarled.

  Another kick in the lower part of his back jerked his body.

  Done with it? Done with what?

  His head was raised and slammed down again.

  “Where is it?” the same harsh tones demanded.

  Xavier’s thoughts scattered and disappeared. He felt mindless and wanted only for the violence to end. He couldn’t make any sounds; he couldn’t see. He drifted into darkness … and release from pain.

  It was completely dark when he came round. At first he couldn’t move. Each time he flexed a muscle, pain screamed through his body. With another groan, he dropped back to the ground. Why hadn’t he just died whilst he was unconscious? It would have been much easier!

  What had they wanted? ‘Where is it? What have you done with it?’ Where was what, for heaven’s sake?

  He realised that his body was shaking. He was cold. He hoped they had left him his sleeping bag. Could he manage to crawl over to the back of the hut? Slowly, he rolled himself on to his knees, trying to ignore the pain, and crept slowly to where he hoped the rear of the hut was. If his sleeping bag weren’t there, he would just have to curl into a ball and hope to sleep. He could feel tubes of paint under his knees … and brushes, lengths of wood, which he presumed were his easels broken in pieces. He pushed them aside. Time to think of those tomorrow.

  A few minutes of tentatively reaching out his hand to detect the material of his sleeping bag eventually paid off. He dragged it towards him, managed to find the open end and painfully wriggled himself into it.

  Then, he slept.

  He had no idea what time it was when he awoke. It must have been well into the morning because the small patches of sky he could see through his windows were bright blue. He stared at them for a few minutes, hanging on to the realm of comfort of the unreality of emerging from sleep. Then his mind erupted into clarity and he slowly pushed himself into a sitting position and looked around his hut. It was a shambles.

  His sketches had been torn from the walls and screwed into unrecognisable rubbish; his equipment had been trashed; and the contents of his backpack strewn around the floor. Whatever it was they thought he had must have been worth the trouble … and they had done their best to find it. Would they be satisfied that he hadn’t got it? Or would they be back to try more persuasion?

  He couldn’t be sure. At least they would find him on his feet and not so easy a push-over! He painfully pulled himself out of his sleeping bag and struggled to his feet. Leaning one hand against the wall of the hut, he staggered to the tiny washbasin and did his best to spruce himself up.

  His legs, his back, his ribs, his face … all hurt. Shaving was out of the question. His mirror lay shattered and he winced each time he tried to move his mouth. Had they destroyed everything? His paintings?

  He hobbled back into the main area and looked among the debris. There was no sign of them. They had stolen his three horse paintings. Were they what they were after?

  No, they couldn’t be! They’d said, ‘it’. ‘What have you done with it?’ Not, ‘them’. Unless they had only wanted one of them and had taken the others because they were there? But, no, that wasn’t it, either. They had already trashed his hut before he came home. He remembered seeing a glimpse of the interior before he had been pushed to the ground.

  He gave up. Whatever it was, he hadn’t got it—not now and not then! They’d got the wrong guy! They must have!

  He tested his muscles as his thoughts ran over the incident, slowly moving around. He couldn’t bend to pick things up … he just used his feet to push them together. The paints were ruined. It didn’t take long for acrylics to go off. Senseless waste! Sheer vandalism! Nothing could have been hidden in them!

  He looked ruefully at the torn sketches … they could be done again … but never the same. He spotted his primus stove. It looked as though it had been jumped on … and his jar of coffee sprinkled on the floor. Some of his brushes looked as though they had survived. He needed a large plastic bag to push everything into; a long-handled brush to sweep the place clean … and a visit to the art shop to replace his paints and paper.

  But, before that … before anything else … he needed a mug of strong, black coffee. He had no alternative but to face the outside world and hope he didn’t look as bad as he felt!

  “Wow! What does the other fellow look like?” Paul, the owner of the restaurant along the road, greeted him.

  “A lot better than me!” Xavier mumbled through puffed lips. “I think there were three of them. They jumped me! Can I have a coffee? Strong, black and loads of sugar!”

  Paul listened sympathetically to his tale, shaking his head.

  “Did none of the others hear anything?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t met many of them yet.” He glanced around. “Are any of them in here?”

  “Yes. Toni and Simone are over there in the corner
and the others are due to join us soon. We were busy last night. I’ll ask around, though. Someone might have seen something. I doubt they were locals, though. They would have picked somewhere quieter. Are you going to report it to the police?”

  Xavier nodded … if only for his paintings. They’d be easily recognisable by anyone in the art world if they were ever put on display.

  None of the other artisans had seen or heard anything. They had been holding an impromptu late-night gathering in Yves’ hut along the channel towards Ors but promised to keep a look out for anyone mentioning the paintings. Xavier thanked them and, when his lunch was finished, went to report the incident to the Gendarmerie.

  On his return to his hut, Xavier caught sight of his reflection in a shop window. What a mess! He called in a pharmacy for some painkillers.

  “You ought to go to the hospital,” the assistant advised him.

  Xavier shook his head.

  “I’ll be all right in a day or two.”

  He didn’t have the time to spend hours in the casualty department. Jocelyn was arriving around noon and he had promised to meet her outside his hut. Looking like this, she’d probably drive right past him!

  Jocelyn didn’t drive past … but her face was a picture!

  “Which wall did you walk into?”

  “Not a wall! It was the floor … and three thugs. And whatever you do, don’t make me laugh! It’s too painful!”

  He nodded indicated to some spare ground beyond his hut. “You can park your car over there.”

  Jocelyn did so and hurried back. She was immaculately attired in a cool-looking, cream linen suit and cream strappy sandals. Her fair curls were tied back with a scarlet chiffon scarf, the exact shade of the lipstick she wore.

  She raised her eyebrow at the state of his temporary home but knew Xavier well enough to know that he preferred a simple existence when he was painting … and his chameleon-like ability to blend into the very heart of whatever community he was desirous of painting enabled him to soak up the local ambience and give his work authenticity.