The Legacy of Lucy Harte

by Emma Heatherington

  He looks at me with puppy-dog eyes beneath his floppy, dark fringe, which really could do with a trim.

  ‘I fully understand you are a very busy man, but it did seem a bit rude. Apology accepted,’ I tell him and I start to walk towards the gîte again as he follows me.

  ‘I really didn’t mean it. It’s just I am so busy and my work is unfinished.’

  ‘Yes, your brother mentioned you live near here but that you are a very private person,’ I tell him. ‘I understand. It may have been cheeky of me to ask when we had only just met.’

  ‘No, no, you were not cheeky,’ he says so earnestly. ‘I think it is nice that you are interested. And yes, I live just a bit further up the river, in a studio with a bed and a small kitchen. I live in my workspace. I live and breathe my art at the moment. Pretty sad, perhaps.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Not really. Each to their own. I have met artistic types like you before. I get it totally.’

  He looks defensive and rubs his beard.

  ‘I am truly not a boring or a nasty person, Maggie,’ he says. ‘Nor am I always this, how you say, scruffy? I am just so, so busy right now. Time is ticking on me. I feel the pressure. It makes me mad.’

  I look down onto my place, or his place, or whoever’s place and then back at him to see a sadness in his eyes, a loneliness and I am tempted to invite him onto the deck for a beer and some wine and a chat about art, but then I don’t because if he said no, I would dread ever bumping into him again, as unlikely as that may be.

  He lingers, as if he wants to say something too, but then he doesn’t, so it’s up to me to end the conversation.

  ‘Well, it’s nice to put a face to the name and I look forward to seeing some of your work around town,’ I tell him, realising that I am speaking very fast but he seems to be able to keep up. ‘I am fascinated by art of all sorts. Really fascinated.’

  ‘You are? Really?’

  ‘Yes, very much so. I studied it many years ago,’ I say proudly. ‘Back in Ireland.’

  ‘Ahaa, so you are artiste also?’

  ‘No, no, I wish I was.’ I shake my head. ‘No, I am not an artiste. In my dreams I am many things, but in reality I work in real estate. I can be pretty boring too. And sometimes selfish and grumpy. We are all only human.’

  Gerard looks out towards the bridge and changes the subject entirely.

  ‘You are here to see the bridge, my brother tells me? It is quite spectacular, yes?’

  ‘It sure is,’ I reply and we both stand and stare for what seems like minutes. ‘Anyhow, I’d better let you get back to work. I need to get some sleep so I can be a proper tourist tomorrow and not sleep my time away here in Millau. Seeing the bridge and reading some trashy novels are about all I have planned so far. I need to try and plan some more.’

  He looks a little disappointed and I sense he doesn’t talk to a lot of people very often, or not lately, anyhow.

  ‘Perhaps… yes, I better get back to work then also. Work, and a few beers and snacks is what I have planned. As well as being boring and trying not to be grumpy. Bon nuit, Maggie.’

  ‘Bon nuit, Gerard.’

  He leaves and I wave back at him as I make my way into the cottage with a smile.

  ‘Oh, and happy painting!’ I shout at him as he walks along the pathway.

  ‘Ha! Happy painting,’ he repeats and laughs as he waves back.

  I wasn’t meaning that to be so funny…

  I go inside the cottage and close the door, and then I bolt the lock and pull all of the curtains. Gerard seems like a deep, gentle soul behind his initial tone, but as friendly and vulnerable and pleasantly charming as he seems to be, I cannot afford to be complacent on my first night here.

  I put a match to the fire, put on my pyjamas and find my new novel. Then I pour myself a glass of wine and relax under lamplight and the blaze of the fire. This is cosy. This is peaceful. This is just what the doctor ordered.

  I spend the next few days in blissful solitude, not moving too far from the gîte apart from taking my car down and parking it outside, going to pick up some groceries when I need them and I’ve stocked up on another two particularly ‘so bad they are good’ novels, which I read in the sunshine in the blissful haven of the patio with its spectacular views.

  I eat baguettes with cold meats and salad, warm crepes with chocolat, fresh fruit from a little market stall I have discovered accidentally, sparkling water and, of course, the odd obligatory vino.

  I am at ease. I am totally at ease and it is pure heaven.

  Flo sends me the odd text but says she doesn’t want to distract me from my time out, as does Kevin, who I totally forgot to tell I was leaving and who was afraid I had been kidnapped or locked myself in the apartment for good.

  ‘I hope you are training!’ he messages and then follows up with another to say that I have officially his permission to take it easy until I get back, but to be prepared as then he is going to kick my butt into shape for our run.

  I enjoy the silence and when the silence gets a little lonely, I listen to classical music on a radio in the little kitchen or watch the rowers glide up and down the River Tarn or the hang-gliders sail across the sky. I look out onto the bridge and see the chains of traffic whirr across – it is by no means just an ornamental masterpiece but a very practical and busy four-lane motorway up there and as yet I have no desire to venture onto it, but I will do it before I go, just for Lucy.

  As the days drift by, I allow myself to wallow in self-pity over Jeff, when the notion surfaces, and there have been times when I have sporadically burst out crying when I think of him with Saffron that day in Tesco, his hand resting on her hip. On her fertile, child-bearing hips …

  Then at other times I deliberately give my mind a reality check, where I remember other elements of life with Jeff and how, for example, I could have never experienced this current feeling of empowerment and independence and dare I say, contentment, when I was with him.

  He would be climbing the walls by now, demanding we draw up an itinerary, rating restaurants and taxis and any service providers for his obsessive reviews on TripAdvisor and complaining about the price of everything.

  He would be looking for dust on the mantelpiece, complaining about the weather, which would be either too hot or too cold and looking up reasons as to why the cottage might get a bit chilly at night. I can just hear him…

  ‘It must be damp, Maggie. I will have a word with that Gerard guy. He should really clean up his act a bit instead of hibernating with his art and go get a real job. Artist, my ass!’

  Despite the very odd minor slip, my rose-tinted glasses are totally off when I look back on our relationship and I can now acknowledge some of the finer detail that I perhaps ignored at the time. I am finally moving forward in my new life without Jeff. I am doing it. It is real, and I am dealing with it. Go me.

  The doorbell of the cottage rings for the first time in three days and its loud shrill goes right to my core, taking me out of my list-making exercise, which I realise I have spent over an hour on. I haven’t heard from Starling or Anton since my arrival, so perhaps this is a routine mid-week check to see if all is okay at Maison d’Henri. They are either very relaxed or else very busy, as I really thought I might have heard from Starling by now since she was so friendly when we first met.

  I scrunch up the shreds of paper and throw them in the bin, check my hair in the mirror which is more birds’ nest than ‘bohemian chic’. Oh dear. I push back the loose strands and go to the door, but there is no one there.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out into the balmy afternoon. ‘Hello?’

  I look up and down the riverbank, but there is no sign of anyone I know and then I see a package propped alongside the pot of the ash tree that sits by the front door.

  Mademoiselle Maggie is written in chunky black marker on a rather large box wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. I am totally intrigued.

  I go back inside, set the box on the dining tabl
e and untie the string, and then I carefully tear back the brown paper and lift the lid off the box to find a set of oil paints, a palette knife and three blank canvasses. There is a small white envelope stuck to the side of the box which I open and read.

  Just in case you get bored reading your trashy novels, I thought you might like this. There is an easel behind the bathroom door. Happy painting. Your fellow artist, G.

  Well, that has floored me.

  Gerard left me all of this? I am so moved and touched, not to mention thoroughly delighted to have some paintings to work on in this idyllic landscape. Happy painting. So he does have a sense of humour after all. I am flummoxed at his generosity and I go back outside and up onto the walkway to see if I can catch up with him to say thank you, but there is no sign.

  I go back inside and carry the box through the cottage and then further through the bedroom onto the patio and I prop up a canvas on one of the chairs while I go and fetch the easel. Sure enough, there it is and I wonder how I have never noticed it before.

  It is two in the afternoon and I am feeling sleepy but I can’t resist the urge to get stuck in and paint the beauty that lies before me. I decide to have some coffee to perk me up and soon I am perched in my own little outdoor studio, a palette knife in my hand and a new wind in my sails.

  This truly is the life. I could get very, very used to this.

  Chapter 26

  Later in the evening, I am slightly tipsy and I truly believe, in my little haze, that I have created an artistic masterpiece on my first canvas painting, courtesy of Gerard. I have used almost a rainbow of colour – greens, blues, purples, yellows and pinks – to depict the rolling valleys that cushion the Tarn River and I am totally delighted with myself.

  So delighted in fact, that I think I deserve some chocolate to celebrate, so I go inside and check my stash in the kitchen, but one chunk from the last bar in the cupboard is not going to satisfy my craving.

  I check the time and to my surprise it is only 9.30pm, so I still have time to pop to the supermarché for more supplies. Excellent.

  I pull on a cardigan over my shorts and vest and grab my purse and keys, then make my way up the bank and into the town, feeling quite the local now that I have been here almost four days and know my way around so well.

  I have only three days left and it saddens me greatly to even think of leaving the Tarn Valley. I could stay longer, that I know, but my brother is making plans to come home to Loch Tara and I want to be back and settled into my own real life before then.

  I enjoy the cool breeze of the air conditioning in the store and go straight to the confectionary, knowing if I browse at all I will end up buying more food that I don’t really need.

  ‘You just missed your friend,’ says the cashier and I recognise her as the same girl who served me on the night I met Gerard in here. It seems like an eternity ago.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Gerard?’ I ask her. ‘He’s a kind man. He gave me some paints to make use of my time here.’

  ‘Oui,’ she nods. ‘I think he likes you. I think he likes you a lot. There was chemistry.’

  ‘Chemistry?’ I can’t help but laugh. All I can remember is his rudeness and how I walked away so hurt, but he was quite friendly until I mentioned seeing his work. Then our second conversation when he caught up with me, well, that was sweet, not to mention the box of art materials he left for me on the doorstep. But chemistry? Nah!

  ‘I am renting one his properties,’ I tell Cilla Black, the matchmaker behind the counter. ‘I think it was just conversation.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she tells me emphatically. ‘A lot of girls would wish to be you. He doesn’t talk much to anyone. He is a very beautiful creature, inside and out. So creative and talented and so, so handsome.’

  Her eyes widen and she swoons as she speaks, then swallows when she finishes and I am entranced by her observations.

  ‘Well… well, that’s interesting,’ is about all I can muster and I open the chocolate bar and put a chunk into my mouth right there in front of her. ‘Au revoir, et merci.’

  ‘Au revoir!’ says the cashier, which I take as my cue to leave and I wander out onto the streets, contemplating whether to go back to the cottage, as I always do, or to check out Starling’s favourite piano bar, Le Bouchon, to see if it’s as good as he made it out to be.

  I am hardly dressed for socialising and, come to think of it, I don’t have a lot of clothes with me to do such a thing, so I decide to go back to my corner and admire my painting, then have an early night. Perhaps I will take the car up to the bridge tomorrow and do what it is I first meant to do when I came here.

  I step down the stones to the cottage a little more cautiously than normal, feeling ever- so-slightly wobbly and giggly and I inwardly congratulate myself for finding this little state of happiness all by myself. I am not depending on anyone while I am here. No Jeff to please, no Mum and Dad to depend on, no cocoon of work for routine, no Kevin to keep an eye on things, no Flo to call on when I tremble, just me. Just me, myself and I, and aren’t I doing so well?

  ‘Just me,’ I say aloud and smile to myself, bobbing along down the steps until I reach the bottom.

  ‘It’s a sign of insanity when you talk to yourself, you do know that, Mademoiselle Maggie.’

  Oh, well! If it isn’t Mr Artiste Extraordinaire himself standing on the pathway with his bags of groceries! The one I probably wouldn’t see again as he was so busy! Quelle surprise…

  ‘Hello, I mean, bonjour Monsieur Gerard. Thank you for the paints. I was pretty blown away by that, I have to admit. Really, really blown away. You are much kinder than you pretend to be.’

  He kicks the stones and shrugs with a smile.

  ‘I thought it might keep you, what can I say, entertained.’

  ‘It did. It is still keeping me very entertained. How’s your work going? Are you nearly done?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Alas, no I am not yet. I wish I was,’ he says. ‘But the good news is that they have given me an extension, so I can breathe a little bit easier now. And take it easier. Take some proper breaks instead of staying up all day and night.’

  He takes a big deep breath in and then out again, just to make sure I know what he means.

  ‘Well, that’s good news. So, are you painting tonight or are you on a break?’ I ask him. It sounds suggestive and I don’t mean it to be. Shit.

  ‘Actually, no, I am not painting tonight,’ he tells me. ‘I am finished for the evening and I was just stopping by on my way back from the store to see if you fancied a walk.’

  What?

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, Mademoiselle… you. I still feel so bad about our first encounter, so I thought I’d try and show you the real me. Perhaps you don’t care to see that, though.’

  The cashier is right. He is very handsome, but I am very not interested.

  ‘I am here for a very specific reason,’ I try to explain to him. ‘You don’t have to make an effort with me. You really don’t.’

  ‘You are here to see the bridge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But not for you, it’s to see it for a friend?’

  ‘Oui.’

  Word sure travels fast around here!

  ‘That’s very intriguing,’ he says and he licks his top lip. I shouldn’t notice that, but I do. ‘So, can I show you the bridge from where I like to see it?’

  ‘You mean not from the top? I kind of have to see it from the top.’

  ‘My way is nicer.’

  ‘My way is more important.’

  ‘To your friend, right?’

  ‘Yes, to my friend.’

  ‘So, can I show this much nicer way to you, for you?’ he asks and I don’t know how I am supposed to refuse. I think of what John Joe told me to do. He said to do some things for myself as well as for Lucy.

  ‘Okay, let’s go, then,’ I tell him and we walk towards the direction of the bridge, which is still about a mile away. We both barely s
peak until we come to a wooden building with a little walkway that leads out onto the river.

  ‘Your studio?’ I ask and he nods.

  ‘My home,’ he says. ‘Have a seat here and I will be right back. Please don’t go anywhere. I will be back in a second.’

  He guides me to a chair that sits outside the studio and, just as he promised, he is back within seconds, having left his own bags indoors.

  ‘Come,’ he says, reaching for my hand and he pulls me up from the chair. I stumble and bump into his chest, much to my utter embarrassment, and we begin to walk again, this time a little bit more relaxed than before.

  ‘Where did you learn such good English?’ I ask him as we walk along the wooden walkway across the water in the dusky air. ‘You Europeans really do put us Irish to shame when it comes to learning languages.’

  He seems chuffed at the compliment.

  ‘I went to a boarding school in South London,’ says Gerard. ‘A very posh boys’ school and then university outside of the city which taught me a lot about art, education and, of course, a whole lot about life.’

  He is very serious and I am very intrigued. A posh boys school in South London? And a London university… and a lot about life too… I don’t doubt it for a second. I wish he would shave off his beard so I could get a proper look at him. I’m all for beards and freedom of expression and the au natural look, for sure, but his is kind of hiding his face a bit too much. I bet he has a lovely face underneath his beard.

  ‘I went to a convent school in Ireland,’ I tell him. ‘But you probably could have guessed that already. You can sometimes see my halo in the moonlight.’

  He laughs and stops for a look.

  ‘Yes, I knew that for sure. And there is the halo shining bright. An angel in disguise.’

  He tilts my chin back and holds my gaze and I feel a surge of electricity, or is it lust, run through me. He is a very handsome man and I cannot deny that his kindness has made him very attractive, but I must be careful not to get carried away just because he touches me on my chin.