The Legacy of Lucy Harte

by Emma Heatherington

  ‘Anton agrees with me that we have the perfect place for you,’ says Starling with a bright smile.

  Great. I like Anton already.

  ‘It is a gîte belonging to his brother Gerard, a little cottage down by the river with the most spectacular views of the great bridge you have come to visit,’ she tells me. ‘It is private and homely and it is available at the moment, so if you like it, you can have it.’

  A gîte… a real French cottage by the river? This is too good to be true.

  ‘Gosh, Starling, that sounds absolutely perfect. Is it close by?’

  She nods enthusiastically.

  ‘Just a short walk from the town centre, but Anton is on his way to speak to you directly with all the details,’ she says. ‘He is on the phone to Gerard now, though he won’t be long. Enjoy your wine, Mademoiselle. And once again, welcome to Millau.’

  Chapter 24

  ‘You must be Mademoiselle Maggie?’

  I look up moments later and then stand up and remove my sunglasses to greet Anton, the owner of the café-bar. He is not what I expected, though what I did expect I cannot really explain.

  ‘Bonjour Monsieur,’ I reply and he kisses me on each cheek.

  He is a tall, tanned, bald man of around fifty, I am guessing, and he is a bit rougher around the edges than I thought he would be, though handsome all the same. He wears a bottle-green apron over his working whites, which look like they are in need of a wash and he has a dark stubble on his chubby face.

  ‘Have a seat, please,’ he tells me in word-perfect English and once again I kick myself for not being more fluent in his language. ‘So you are interested in our gîte? I can give you keys – you can check it out and, if you like it, it’s yours for your stay.’

  ‘Yes, yes it sounds perfect,’ I respond with gratitude. ‘And merci for the vino as well.’

  I know I sound ridiculous mixing up my French and English. I should really stop trying and just stick to one, which will be English, of course, seeing as my French doesn’t stretch to a full conversation.

  ‘It is warm, it is clean, but I have to say, please don’t mind my brother who lives nearby,’ says Anton. ‘He is turning into a grumpy old man and doesn’t like to be disturbed, but he has agreed to let you stay for as long as you need it.’

  ‘I am here to see the bridge,’ I tell him, as if it’s the most important thing in the world to me – well, it is right now, I suppose. ‘Is it near?’

  The man chuckles as though he has heard it all before.

  ‘You can see the bridge from the gîte,’ he assures me and I gasp with excitement.

  ‘Really?’

  He nods his head.

  ‘You can look out on it every single day when you wake up, or last thing at night, or stare at it all day, if you must!’ he says. ‘Stay as long as you need to. Starling will show you the way.’

  I smile from the inside out. This is more than I could have dreamed of. I want to pinch myself to see if it’s all for real? A view of the bridge from my own little gîte!

  Well, Lucy Harte, it looks as if everything is falling into place. I feel at home with these people already, almost like a sense of familiarity with their warm welcome and willingness to help out a stranger to their town. I know you are near me, making sure everything goes according to plan. Thank you!

  The old Maggie would have been petrified of making this trip alone, but now I am not afraid at all despite the language barrier and the distance from home. I am not alone, you see. I have Lucy and I also have a strange feeling that all of this is meant to be and I can’t wait to see the bridge and where our adventures will take us next.

  We fetch my bag from my hire car and then walk through the streets, further into the town, past boulangeries, patisseries, the piano-bar that Starling loves so much, a range of restaurants of various themes and then down a side street and onto a rocky, secluded path that takes us down a stepping-stoned hill towards the river bank. Two canoeists race up towards the majestic bridge in the foreground and the evening sun is beginning to set. The scene is truly breathtaking.

  ‘This is a shortcut for when on foot, but when you get your car in the morning you can drive along the road,’ says Starling, ‘and avoid the risk of breaking your ankle like we are doing now.’

  ‘It’s okay, I am fairly fit these days,’ I assure her. ‘I can’t wait to go running along the river bank tomorrow, when I get my bearings.’

  ‘Ah you are a runner? Then you will fit very well in. Millau is a very sporting town,’ Starling tells me. ‘Canoeing, rafting, paragliding… you see it all here and it just adds to the visual beauty of the place.’

  ‘I can see that already. It’s to die for.’

  We reach the bottom of the steps and she stops to point out the bridge in the distance. Birds swoop below it, just above the canoeists and the sun sits perfectly, like a big orange ball, right behind it. If this was a movie, there would be a big classical soundtrack now reaching a magnificent crescendo as I see the full bridge in all its glory for the first time.

  It is perfect.

  ‘Wow!’ I exclaim and I am sure my jaw has literally dropped. ‘Holy flippin’ wow!’

  I wish Simon could see me now. I lift my phone and take a photo and I send it to him and he messages me right back a photo of him smiling and I just know he is as proud of this moment as I am.

  I’m here, Lucy Harte. I’m really here. Can you see it? That’s your bridge, Lucy! That’s your dream, right there!

  I forget totally that Starling is standing, waiting, beside me.

  ‘I… I’m sorry, Starling, but do you mind if I just take a moment. This is what I came here for and I want to just –’

  ‘Of course,’ says Starling and she moves towards the pathway. ‘I’ll just go inside. Take your time. I’m in no hurry at all.’

  I look to my right and briefly watch her disappear into a light-stone cottage, which is built into the hilly river bank, only its rooftop and half of its back wall visible from where we stand, but for now I need to take this all in. I need to focus on Lucy.

  I stand there and breathe right to the pit of my stomach and stretch my arms out as far as they go and I throw my head back and close my eyes and I move round and round in circles and stop before I get dizzy.

  ‘I hope you are here, Lucy! I really hope you can see what I can see!’ I tell her out loud. ‘That’s your place, right up there! The tallest bridge in the whole wide world! I found it for you, Lucy! We found it! We are here!’

  My heart is beating faster than it has in any training session with Kevin, in any moment with Tiernan Quinn, in any fit of bad temper at Jeff’s antics with Saffron, in any anticipation of seeing John Joe – this is the big one. This is the one that was top of Lucy’s list and the one that she wanted, I imagine, to experience the most.

  ‘Let’s see where I am staying,’ I whisper to her and I walk down the hilly pathway to the front of the gîte, already in love with what I see before we even go inside. Lilac bushes line the way to the stone porch, where a potted green ash tree grows right up over to frame the doorway, which is painted a cool pale blue. It is wonderfully inviting and I cannot wait to see more.

  ‘Who is the lucky owner of this paradise? Did Anton say it belongs to his brother?’ I ask Starling as I step into the open-plan terracotta-tiled floor that covers the living and dining area, with a step up into a cute compact pale-blue kitchen, fully equipped with all the mod-cons I will need for my stay.

  ‘It’s Gerard’s, yes,’ she tells me. ‘But lately Anton and I have been making sure it is kept well as Gerard is really busy right now. Isn’t it heavenly?’

  ‘It really, really is. It’s so perfect.’

  Starling shows me how to work the cooker and small washing machine and then leads me through a Venetian-style white door, which leads to the bedroom and en-suite. The walls inside the bedroom are rough stone like on the outside of the cottage and voile cream curtains hang from a window that looks out onto the
lush green of the Tarn Valley. This is exceptional. How on earth did I manage to get so lucky?

  A patchwork quilt, which Starling explains was made by her fiancé Bernard’s grandmother, who used to own the cottage, covers a cosy-looking double bed and I want to jump into it already.

  ‘There is a heating system, if you need it,’ she lets me know, then shows me how to use it, ‘or there is always the open fire in the living area. It can get quite chilly at night here, so don’t be afraid to switch it on. We won’t mind at all. Oh, and if you need to stock up on wine and food, there is a supermarché open until ten most nights on Boulevard George Brassans. You won’t miss it.’

  I start to laugh with nerves and Starling looks at me as if she has said something wrong.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she asks. ‘It really can get cold at night. Don’t be fooled by the day- time sun.’

  ‘No, no I believe you! I… I just can’t believe all of this!’ I tell her and I fan my face as I feel myself overcome with emotion. ‘I mean, here I am in the most beautifully spectacular place I have ever seen in my whole life and I have no idea how it happened. Well, I do know how, and that makes it even more wondrous. I am so, so grateful.’

  Starling shrugs and smiles like she is very used to such a reaction.

  ‘I must confess that we don’t advertise this place, ever,’ she tells me. ‘We just let it out to people who we think might make good use of it. It’s a special place where special things happen, and it’s not for just anyone.’

  Her eyes dance as she speaks and I become more in awe of my new friend.

  ‘I am so, so grateful,’ I repeat and I follow her outside through a side door off the bedroom that leads to an enclosed patio, which is overlooking the river. Two coloured chairs, one purple and one lime green are perfectly placed at a little white table.

  ‘So would you like to stay here?’

  I nod and I am not sure if I should hug her to show my gratitude. I don’t know if that would be too familiar, since it’s essentially a business transaction. Or is it? I don’t think I know what is going on any more, nor do I want to.

  ‘I told Anton earlier you have a good heart and he said okay,’ says Starling and she holds my hand for a second when handing over the keys.

  ‘What makes you think I have a good heart?’ I ask her, a cool breeze washing over me and shivers rising on my skin. ‘You only just met me a few hours ago.’

  ‘Oh, I could tell the moment I saw you,’ says Starling. ‘Now I better go and meet my darling Bernard for dinner. If you need anything, just call me.’

  She hands me a business card and I stare at it and then look back at her.

  ‘Thank you so much, Starling,’ I say. ‘I am so grateful for all your help today.’

  ‘Au revoir, Maggie,’ says Starling, her dark hair swishing as she walks. ‘Call me if you need me! Don’t be a stranger!’

  And then she is gone, leaving me to my own devices under the shadow of the world’s tallest bridge, just as Lucy dreamed of visiting one day.

  I sit down on the brown-leather sofa in the living room and take in my surroundings, which will be my home for a whole week, then I look at the business card in my hand and I see the official name of the gîte for the first time – it is called Maison d’Henri.

  The gîte is called Henry’s House.

  Henry is Simon and Lucy’s little brother, who survived the accident. Henry is who Lucy wanted to take to the bridge one day. I feel a shiver run over my skin and I rub the goose bumps from my arms. Perhaps I am like Simon now, looking for constant signs of reassurance to keep Lucy with me. Perhaps they are merely coincidences. But whatever they are, they keep showing up and I can’t ignore them.

  I go to the window and look out onto the Millau Viaduct in the distance, thinking of Lucy and Simon’s little brother whose body is trapped in the mind of a child back in Glasgow and whose dreams were killed off on the day that Lucy went to heaven.

  I couldn’t take Henry with me, not this time anyhow, but it looks like part of Henry might be here with me in spirit after all.

  Chapter 25

  As the evening sun drops down behind the bridge, I wander out from the cottage and up the stone steps that lead back into the town to grab a few essentials from the supermarché. I have no idea, of course, where Boulevard George Brassans is but I am confident I will find it.

  It’s closer by than I think and I take a shopping basket and explore all the goods it has to offer, picking up some fresh bread, cheese, a few cold meats and two bottles of delicious red wine.

  ‘You are staying at the gîte by the river?’

  I am at the till when I hear a gruff, heavily accented voice behind me and it makes me jump.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  I look up at a tall, bearded, dark-haired man who is clutching a six-pack of beer under one arm and a baguette under the other.

  ‘You are staying at the gîte? I saw you earlier, with Starling. You’re the Irish girl, oui?’

  He is blunt, his tone slightly rude and I am totally flustered as I unload my groceries from the basket, feeling totally exposed as this strange man watches my every move. And then it clicks with me.

  ‘Ah, yes. You must be Gerard?’ I say, finally putting two and two together, though he is much younger than the old, greying man I had imagined. I almost say grumpy Gerard, but thankfully I don’t. ‘It’s your place, right? It’s very beautiful.’

  He nods and then looks away. Then he looks back. He smells like tobacco and methylated spirits and looks like he hasn’t washed properly for weeks and his clothes are splattered in paint of all sorts of colours.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that it is my place, but my brother likes to think otherwise sometimes. I am not as grumpy as he may have told you. I am just younger and busier and much more interesting than he is and sometimes he gets jealous.’

  He looks so grumpy and moody as he says it, which makes me laugh and then he smiles, looking embarrassed and his green eyes meet mine for the first time.

  ‘You don’t want to know my family problems or my grumpiness, right?’ he says, laughing now. ‘I am sorry. Can I start again? I am Gerard.’

  This time he extends a hand and I greet him back with a handshake. Boy, he is strong and his hands are that of a physical working man.

  ‘You are a painter, yes?’ I ask, stating the very obvious.

  ‘Oui, an artiste. How could you tell?’

  ‘Your clothes?’

  ‘Ah, my clothes! Of course! Sorry. That was my attempt at a joke,’ he says, looking down at the very obvious. ‘Perhaps I am not very funny. I’m much better at being grumpy.’

  He brushes his wavy dark hair off his face and I notice that underneath the beard and the paint and grime is a very handsome man. He is in his early forties, I’d imagine, and in great shape; big and strong and very, dare I say, manly.

  ‘Are you any good at painting while being grumpy?’ I ask him, bagging my groceries as his turn comes to pay the cashier.

  ‘Oui,’ he says with a smile curling on his lips. ‘I am ‘so, so’ at painting. Is that what you say in Ireland? So, so?’

  ‘Monsieur Gerard is being very modest,’ says the cashier, speaking to him under fluttering eyelashes. ‘He is our local celebrity. He is quite famous in our region and his paintings are everywhere you go. They are very… amazing.’

  He smiles. She swoons.

  ‘So you are good, then,’ I say, lifting my bags. ‘Maybe sometime I will get to see you at work before I go home?’

  Now he looks grumpy again now. Not as smug or even playful but more grumpy than before.

  ‘I am sorry, but no, you cannot see me. I am very, very busy working for a grand exhibition,’ he tells me, as the cashier watches on, still slightly star-struck. ‘I only come out once a day for essentials. You won’t see me again, probably. I am too busy. Nice to meet with you, Mademoiselle.’

  He holds up the bread and beer and I nod in mock understanding, suitably r
ejected and totally cut to the bone.

  ‘Oh okay. May-maybe on my next visit,’ I suggest. ‘Nice to meet you and good luck with your work.’

  Asshole.

  I cannot wait to get away from him.

  ‘Merci,’ he says and the cashier strikes up a conversation, thankfully distracting him as I walk outside.

  Perhaps I am over-sensitive but his words have really pierced me deep.

  It’s just rejection, I hear John Joe’s voice in my ear. Nothing more, nothing less, just rejection and it will pass.

  It’s just downright rudeness, actually! I was just being polite! I don’t really give a shit about his artwork! I continue to lick my wounds as I walk through the winding streets across to the stepping stone walkway that leads to Maison d’Henri and try not to take his rejection so personally, like it’s not as if he knows me. If he wants to be so rude to people he has just met, then that is his problem. Not like he is Vincent van bloody well Gogh!

  ‘Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle, please, can you wait?’

  I am halfway down the little steps that lead to the riverbank cottages when I see Gerard hurrying behind me, following me down, carrying his beer and bread like they are precious cargo, which I suppose to him in his hibernation state, they kind of are.

  ‘Oui?’

  Oh, how I wish I could speak some more French! There is so much I would love to shout at him, the arrogant ‘so and so’, in his own native language, which sounds much more angry and passionate than English right now.

  ‘Please wait on me,’ he pleads.

  I walk on defiantly and then I change my mind and stop. Just because he is rude doesn’t mean I have to be too.

  ‘Thank you, please,’ he says as he comes closer.

  It is getting dark now and I realise that I am standing by a river in a place I have only arrived in, with a man I just met in a supermarket and I have no idea if I am safe or not. If Flo saw me now she would be worried sick.

  ‘I hope I wasn’t nasty to you back there,’ he says and a new kindness in his voice puts me at ease, erasing the bite of his words in the supermarket. ‘I think it came out all wrong. I haven’t spoken English so fluently in a while and perhaps my words and tone were more aggressive than I intended. Please accept my apology.’