The Patron Saint of Lost Souls

by Menna Van Praag

  Jude crouches down next to the bed. And, since she can’t hate this shrivelled, spiritless man, she tries to bring the old one back.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Dad? Why didn’t you tell me about my sister? Why did you let me go through my whole life alone?’

  Her father is silent.

  ‘Why did you scream all the time? Why did you never hug me? Why did you hit Mum?’ Tears spill down her cheeks. ‘Why, why, why …?’

  Still, he doesn’t speak. A rush of anger flares in Jude’s chest and she is about to lash out, to strike him, when her father opens his mouth. She stays herself.

  ‘When I was young,’ he murmurs, ‘I wanted to write like Shakespeare could but … I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried.’ He stops to breathe. It’s a little while before he can speak again. In the silence, Jude wonders how she never knew this about her father. Because he didn’t tell her? Because she never asked?

  ‘When you were born,’ he says, ‘I wanted be a good father and then … I found I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried.’ He takes another shallow breath. ‘I wanted to stop drinking, when you were born, I wanted to stop. But … when I drank … I hated myself less.’

  Jude stares at her father. ‘But, why couldn’t you – I don’t understand – couldn’t you have tried harder?’

  The slight shrug again. ‘When you were a little girl you stood at my feet and reached up your arms, but I couldn’t hug you. I don’t know why – I felt something inside me would snap. And … as you grew to hate me, I tried to stay as far from you as possible.’ He takes a quick, shallow breath. ‘And I stayed away, as best I could. So I wouldn’t hurt you, so your mother could take over, so you stood a chance of survival.’

  As Jude listens she realises that she has never really listened to her father before, never stopped screaming at him for long enough to hear anything he might have to say. Perhaps that’s why he’d never told her such things until now.

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ Jude sighs. ‘I wish you’d told me, I wish you’d told me before …’

  ‘I tried to save your sister,’ he says, then looks to Gertie, ‘to save you, from the same suffering. But, but …’

  Arthur Simms lets his clenched fist fall open, an invitation. Jude stares at his wrinkled palm and then, tentatively, reaches out and lets her own hand rest there. A strange thing happens then. It’s as if time shifts, from horizontal to vertical, the past and future collapsing and colliding into each other, suddenly contained only in the single, infinite moment in which Jude sits, holding her father’s hand. And, in that single infinite moment, the sorrows of the past and the fears for the future, dissolve. Carefully, Jude turns her father’s hand over, wanting to stroke his skin, every wrinkle, vein, spot, knuckle and bone. Her fingers encircle a cluster of spherical scars she’s never noticed before.

  ‘Cigarette burns,’ she whispers. ‘Did you do this?’

  He gives a slight shake of his head. ‘No, I burnt my legs,’ he says. ‘Those were a gift from my father.’

  Gertie tugs at Jude’s sleeve. ‘Can I give Granddad his talisman now?’

  Nodding, Jude reluctantly lets go of her father’s hand, allowing it to be empty again. Gertie places her little silver hummingbird into his open palm. Jude looks at her in shock.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘But …’

  Arthur Simms glances down at the bird and smiles, as if he understands the enormity of the gift. Gertie leans down and kisses her grandfather.

  ‘I don’t deserve this,’ he whispers. ‘I don’t …’

  Jude presses a finger to his lips.

  ‘Shush,’ she says. ‘Shush.’

  As they walk back, hand in hand, along the bright hospital corridor, Jude wonders if this tunnel of white light is something like that which her father saw when he took his last breath, and if, finally, he felt the same love in his heart that she feels now. She hopes so. She thinks of Dr Ody. And Gatsby’s. And her own talisman. Then she looks down at her niece.

  ‘Won’t you miss your hummingbird?’

  Again, the shrug. ‘Yes, but I don’t need her any more. She gave me my wish.’

  ‘She did?’

  Gertie nods. ‘Yes.’

  Jude frowns. ‘But, I thought you …’

  ‘I wished for Mum to come back.’ Gertie looks up at her aunt. ‘And she did.’

  ‘Oh?’ It’s a moment before Jude realises what she means. ‘Oh, Gert.’

  This time her niece doesn’t correct her. They walk on.

  ‘So,’ Jude says. ‘Perhaps wishes can come true. Just not always in exactly the way we think they should.’

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  ‘You’re not Mathieu.’ Viola stands on the doorstop, eyeing the stranger who’s just opened Mathieu’s front door with some suspicion.

  ‘I could pretend to be,’ François says. ‘If you’d prefer. Or, dare I say, you might find me a rather more … exciting alternative.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  François reaches out his hand. ‘His brother. His older, decidedly more experienced and distinctly more sophisticated, brother.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘François. But you can call me Fran. Or, indeed, anything you like.’

  Just then Mathieu comes striding along the hallway. ‘Fran, step away,’ he says, before reaching them. Grinning, François turns away, but not before giving Viola a little bow.

  ‘I’m sorry about him,’ Mathieu says. ‘He’s incorrigible.’

  ‘Yes,’ Viola says. ‘I got that distinct impression.’

  They lapse into silence.

  ‘So …’ Viola ventures. ‘Will you invite me in? Or am I still in the doghouse?’

  Mathieu frowns. ‘What house?’

  Viola gives a slight smile. ‘It’s an English expression. I’ve no idea where it comes from. It means – are you still upset with me about the other night?’

  Mathieu says nothing.

  ‘Yes, of course you are,’ Viola says. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry I blamed you. It wasn’t your fault, of course it wasn’t. I was just upset—’

  Mathieu opens his arms. ‘Come here,’ he says. And Viola steps into his embrace.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says again, mumbling into his chest. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Mathieu releases his arms, reaches down and cups her chin. ‘Enough,’ he says, then smiles. ‘Didn’t you know, love means never having to say you’re sorry.’

  Viola frowns. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, then clearly you didn’t. It’s a line from an extremely cheesy, but also rather heartbreaking, film from the seventies.’

  Now Viola smiles. ‘Long before my time, old man.’

  ‘Watch it,’ Mathieu says. ‘You’re still on thin ice. Anyway, better you didn’t see it, since it probably ruined countless relationships – I bet the divorce rate skyrocketed as a result. As a romantic weepy, it was very effective, as marital advice, decidedly less so.’

  ‘You didn’t call,’ Viola says.

  ‘I didn’t want to crowd you.’

  She frowns. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  Mathieu shrugs. ‘I think I forgot how to date. With Virginie and I it was all so, so quick, so effortless, so easy. We just tumbled head first into each other and never came up for air, until …’

  ‘And we’re not easy, are we?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Mathieu says. ‘I didn’t mean to compare. See, what did I say? The line from that silly film shouldn’t have been “love means never having to say you’re sorry”, it should have been “love means saying sorry frequently and with feeling.”’

  Viola smiles. ‘Can we go inside? I’m freezing.’

  ‘Gosh, yes, of course,’ Mathieu says, stepping aside so she can step past him into the hallway. He shuts the door behind them.

  ‘So, your brother came for Christmas?’

  ‘Yes. He’s like a stray dog.’

  They walk into the empty kitchen.

  ‘I heard that!’ François calls from the living room.


  ‘Good!’ Mathieu calls back. ‘It was a hint that perhaps you could feed us today instead of inhaling everything edible you can find.’ Mathieu opens the fridge. ‘You’d better go shopping sharpish! There’s nothing left!’

  He turns to Viola. ‘I was going to offer you a cup of tea, but I’m afraid we’ve no milk.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Viola says. ‘I’ll take it black. But I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till tomorrow for more. All the shops will be shut today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s Boxing Day—’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Mathieu exclaims. ‘I’d forgotten about your quaint English customs. But why is it called Boxing Day? I’ve often wondered.’

  ‘You know what, I’ve no idea,’ Viola admits. ‘I’ve never even thought to ask.’

  ‘Funny that, isn’t it?’ Mathieu says. ‘How we so often accept our traditions without question.’

  Viola nods. ‘As a kid I thought it was cos of all the boxes left over from the Christmas presents, but I don’t think it is.’

  Just then, Hugo strolls into the kitchen. ‘Oh, hello, Viola,’ he says. He nods, then looks at his father. ‘Uncle Fran says he wants a beer.’

  Mathieu glances up at the clock. ‘Tell him no beer before noon.’

  Hugo shrugs, turns and walks back out of the kitchen.

  Viola stares at Mathieu. ‘My, God. He was actually quite civil. What happened?’

  Mathieu smiles, clicking on the kettle. ‘I hate to credit him, but I dare say it’s the influence of his eponymous uncle. He’s basically a kid himself and Hugo’s always so much happier when he’s around. Fran is a frightful influence, but he is fun.’

  Viola, who had been tracing her finger on the worktop, suddenly looks up. ‘I’ve been offered a job.’

  ‘You have?’ Mathieu pours hot water into the cups. ‘That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.’

  Viola bites her lip. ‘It’s in Paris.’

  Mathieu stops pouring and sets down the kettle. ‘Paris?’

  ‘Yes, my colleague, he’s been offered to head a restaurant there – one of our rich customers owns a Michelin-starred place in the Marais district. He wants two stars and thinks Henri can get them.’

  ‘Henri?’

  ‘I worked with him,’ Viola says. ‘He called me yesterday and offered me the position as his second in command.’

  ‘But …’ Mathieu says. ‘But, I thought you wanted to be a head chef.’

  ‘Yes, of course I do,’ Viola says. ‘But since I’m unemployed right now, it’s a good step up from that, wouldn’t you say? And Paris … Well, it’s an incredible opportunity.’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  ‘It’s a very prestigious restaurant,’ Viola explains. ‘After a year there I’d probably be able to walk into any head chef position I chose. I could come back to London. I could even come back to Cambridge and set up my own place, I bet—’

  Mathieu stares at the two cups of half-filled tea. ‘Is that what you want? To have your own restaurant?’

  ‘Of course,’ Viola says. ‘That’s all I’ve ever wanted, since—’

  ‘So, why don’t you just do that instead?’ Mathieu asks. ‘Why don’t you skip all that, Paris and London, and just open up your restaurant here now?’

  Viola laughs. ‘Are you offering to fund this venture? Do you have a spare few hundred thousand stashed away you’ve not mentioned?’

  ‘Sadly not,’ Mathieu says. ‘But that’s what banks are for – in addition to paying their directors exorbitant bonuses – giving loans.’

  ‘Oh, Matt,’ Viola says. ‘I love your optimism, but no one in their right mind would give me a loan. I’ve got no track record. I’m not a big name. I’m nobody. But if I take this job, in a few years, I’ll build up a reputation … I might even be able to have my own place before I’m forty.’

  ‘I see.’ Mathieu picks up a cup and takes a sip of scalding tea. ‘Well, yes. That all seems to make perfect sense.’

  Viola looks at him. ‘Paris is only two hours from London,’ she says. ‘We could meet at the weekend …’

  ‘Won’t you be working fifteen hours a day?’

  Viola swallows. ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. At first, anyway. But, maybe you could come to me … I mean, wouldn’t Hugo enjoy meeting up with his friends? And …’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he would,’ Mathieu says.

  Viola brightens. ‘Well, then, that’d be perfect, wouldn’t it? You could be with Hugo during the day and meet me after work at night.’

  Mathieu sets down the cup. ‘Won’t you be exhausted?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Viola says. ‘I’d stay awake for you.’ She smiles and steps towards him. ‘Especially if you perform those magic tricks you – that thing you did with your tongue in London …’

  Despite himself, Mathieu manages a smile. ‘My patented move,’ he says. ‘You liked that, did you?’

  Viola reaches up to touch his cheek, to bring his eyes to meet hers. ‘Very much,’ she says. ‘Very much indeed.’

  ‘I’ve got more where that came from.’

  Viola raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

  It’s then that she notices his finger, now empty of the foil Ferrero Rocher ring.

  ‘Did you lose yours too?’

  ‘What?’

  Viola nods at his hand. ‘Your ring.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Mathieu gives a slight shrug. ‘I took it off. You don’t have yours any more anyway, so it seemed silly to keep it.’

  ‘You threw it away?’

  ‘Like you said, it was only a chocolate wrapper. I realised I was only overreacting, before. The whole thing, it was all a bit spur of the moment, wasn’t it?’ Mathieu laughs. ‘It’s like Fran always tells me, I’m hopeless at dating. I go straight to marriage. And we’d only been together – what? – less than a month. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘I thought Virginie proposed the day you met,’ Viola says.

  Mathieu smiles to himself. ‘You’re right, she did. But she always was impulsive. Nothing scared her …’

  Viola watches Mathieu, his faraway look as he remembers his wife. There is a place, Viola realises, where she is not invited to join him, where she will never be able to go, even if he wanted her to come, which he clearly does not. Viola glances again at his bare finger and feels a sudden pang of regret. She’s blown it. She feels more deeply for this man than she’s ever felt for anyone in her life and he felt the same way. Past tense. Since he clearly doesn’t feel that way any more. He was crazy for her. He was. And now he’s cooled off. And it’s all her fault. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why was she so scared? Why did she run off? And now he’s retreated into himself and Viola can’t reach him.

  ‘I don’t have to go to Paris,’ Viola says. ‘I can stay. If you want me to, anyway. I can stay. Matt?’

  Mathieu refocuses. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?’

  Viola looks at him. ‘I’m rethinking Paris,’ she says. ‘I’m not sure I should go.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mathieu says. ‘Really?’

  Viola nods. ‘What do you think?’

  Mathieu opens his mouth, ready to say ‘yes, stay, please, stay!’ And then he remembers something. The first year of his marriage Virginie had been offered a scholarship to study in New York. She’d been so excited to go. It would have meant a year living apart and she was certain that it’d be OK. They couldn’t afford the flights but they would write to each other, they would call. ‘It’ll be like a hundred years ago,’ Virginie had enthused. ‘We can write long, beautiful love letters. We’ll be infused with longing, we’ll be aching with it.’ She’d grinned then, he’d remembered that grin. ‘Imagine the sex when I’m home. It’ll be earth-shattering. Mind-blowing. The best sex two people have ever had.’ And he’d talked her out of it. He’d been cautious, tentative, concerned about what it’d do to their marriage. He’d said he didn’t know if he could handle the separation. Not for a whole year. And so she hadn’t gone. An
d that year, the year she had meant to be in New York, Virginie had been different. Subdued. Silent. Sometimes Mathieu would see her staring out of the window for long, listless hours and he’d know that his wife was wishing she was off across the ocean. She’d never said anything, never complained, never rebuked him. But he’d felt it, all the same. He had taken something from her that he could never give back. He’d regretted it for the rest of their marriage. He regrets it still.

  ‘You must go,’ Mathieu says. ‘I want you to go.’

  ‘You do?’

  Mathieu nods. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘What about us?’ Viola asks. ‘Do you think we’ll be OK?’

  Mathieu smiles. ‘Of course. We’ll be fine. We’ll make it work.’

  Even as he speaks, Viola knows it’s not true. They won’t survive the year. Their relationship is too fresh, too tender. She wants to protest, to say she’s changed her mind, she’ll get a job in London. But he doesn’t want her to stay. He wants her to go. Perhaps this is his gentle way of breaking up with her. He doesn’t want to say it directly so, instead, he’ll just let them drift apart. Naturally. Inevitably. Painlessly.

  ‘OK,’ Viola says, managing a smile. ‘Of course, I’ll go.’

  One Year Later

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  ‘What are you thinking about, ma chérie?’

  Viola looks up. How long has she been gazing out of the window, staring at nothing at all? ‘Oh,’ she says, biding her time, trying to conjure up a suitable subject. ‘The restaurant. The red tablecloths, whether or not they’re the right choice. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’

  Viola returns to the window. She still, even after a year, can’t quite believe how beautiful Paris is. Every now and then she wants to pinch herself, to be sure it’s real, to be sure she’s not just dreaming. Because, especially lately, Viola often feels like she’s dreaming: a little foggy, a little distant, a little dazed and as if everything around her is ever so slightly surreal.