‘1953, he died. He was thirty-three years old.’ She sighed. ‘We had a blissful six years together, five of them as a married couple up on his hill near Plascassier. I say his hill, but it was ours. The theatre has been my universe for decades, but if I had to pick five years out of my life to live again, to cherish, it would be those rural days hidden in the hills with Charlie. I loved him deeply and felt safe and cared for by him. In spite of Leo Katsidis’ treatment of me – well, today, if he behaved towards a budding young actress with such disrespect, she would bloody well take him to court. In spite of that frightful day, I still harboured dreams of working in the cinema. Katsidis humiliated me. He ground my confidence into the soles of my shoes and destroyed my ability to enjoy a healthy sexual relationship, but he never killed my vitality, my spirit. It took a beating, I’ll admit, but my drive and zest for life were resurrected. Thanks to Charlie.
‘When I married him, I fretted that I wouldn’t be able to make marriage work, that I wouldn’t be able to give myself to him, to trust any man again. But that perfumed hillside and Charlie’s loyal gentle heart healed me. It was five years before I even thought of going back to the studios in Nice.’
‘What was Charlie’s reaction to the news?’
Marguerite Courtenay sighed, slipped off one of her shoes and scratched her leg with the sole of her foot. ‘Well, he died before I played in another film. He wasn’t so happy about the idea. He expressed his disappointment, begged me to be content with all that we were building together, but he didn’t stop me. He never tried to stand in my way. After he was gone – what bleak, lonely days they were – I was incapable of farming the land alone. I hadn’t the strength or skills. Acting was my only path forward. There, I could bury my grief in worlds of make-believe.’
They were walking slowly side by side towards the old port. Kurtiz was asking herself whether her dear old nan would have liked this part of the world.
‘Did Charlie allude to his family life back in England?’
‘Very little. He was cagey about his past. Well, most of us were back then. We were all hiding our scars of war. He did tell me that his father was an apple farmer from Kent.’
Kurtiz smiled, inexplicably warmed by the idea that her grandfather – could she genuinely think of this man with another name as her grandfather? – had been generous of spirit and not controlling. And it was a fact that Laurence, little Laurence, four generations later, was his identical twin. Or as alike as a small boy and a man can be. There was no doubting the bloodline.
Charlie Gilliard was Robert Lord. He had survived the war, somehow or other.
‘It hasn’t changed much, this town hall, certainly from the exterior. I can still remember the room, down a corridor to the left, where the registrar conducted the ceremony. It was all over in fifteen minutes.’
‘Shall we grab a quick coffee and be on our way? It’s close to midday. They’ll be waiting.’
Kurtiz was at the wheel again. The old Mercedes chugged and spluttered as they ascended the winding lanes and made their way out of Cannes to Grasse, then followed the signs to Plascassier.
‘All these roundabouts. They weren’t here in my day. Good Lord, such construction. No wonder I have been inundated with letters from estate agents begging me to part with the land. In the early days I refused to sell to spite that horrid agent of ours from the perfume factory, Arnaud. And then I thought, why sell? My career rewarded me well. Dear Henri, my second husband, much older than I, was a very wealthy businessman. I didn’t need the money and I enjoyed the idea of the land still being here, of Charlie’s flowers growing wild, reseeding themselves year after year. Rather as if Charlie was being born again each spring. No ghastly housing estate erected over them. Wait! Turn right here and then first left. Good Lord, I remember it as though it were yesterday, and there should be a gate around five hundred metres on the left.’ The car windows were wound down. A breeze was blowing, bringing with it fresh spring scents.
‘Ah, smell it, this perfumed land. It’s bringing it all back. After this bend, you’ll spot the gate.’
As they rounded the corner, a display of balloons of every colour greeted them. A forest of happiness. Lined up along the wall, on lengths of string held fast to the surface with stones. Each balloon defying gravity, bobbing, dancing in the spring sunshine. Each sported a handwritten greeting.
‘Welcome!’
‘You are home again!’
‘Bonjour, Marguerite!’
‘Hello, Flower Lady!’
‘Ha-ha! Look at this!’ exclaimed the old woman, lifting her feet and clapping her hands.
Kurtiz smiled. Typical Lizzie to make Marguerite’s homecoming into a party.
‘They’ve done some serious work here. It must have been exceedingly overgrown.’
‘Lizzie told me Pascal has bought a chainsaw and cutter.’
From the sale of Tufnell Park, Kurtiz had given them the money for the agricultural machinery. The gate was open, awaiting them. She hooted and pulled in, parking beneath an almond tree, which might have been planted by Charlie. Or not. She had still not finally decided whether she should think of the man whose land she was now walking across as her grandfather or someone she didn’t know whose name had been Charlie and, like Oliver, hated violence and had died too young.
An arrow on a stick painted with pale purple letters read: ‘Half a House Standing: This Way. Welcome.’
They strode in the direction indicated, stepping down a steep slope, looking out for Lizzie and little Laurence, but it was another who came into view first. Long dark hair so curled it looked like ringlets. Lean. There was something of the shepherd about him. ‘Bonjour.’ He waved.
‘Who’s that?’ whispered Marguerite, a little alarmed. ‘I might need you to give me your arm. I’m not the girl I once was for these inclines. I need a pair of striped espadrilles,’ she laughed, ‘to negotiate the brambles and tree roots.’
Kurtiz was waving. ‘It’s Pascal. Laurence and …’ Her sentence hung in the air. She’d leave them to reveal the surprise. ‘He’s Laurence’s father.’
‘Handsome,’ cooed Marguerite.
They descended the hill slowly, taking care that Marguerite didn’t twist an ankle. As they reached the shallow where the land bottomed out, Lizzie came striding into view. She was wearing a floral peasant dress. From beneath the bosom it hung loose, flowing like that of a young hippie from the sixties. A flower girl. How such an image suited her. Pascal took Marguerite by the hand, after introductions, hugs and kisses, and led her in a stately fashion to what remained of the house, to where, alongside it, there was the broken structure of a patio sheltered by strong stately almond trees in young fruit. Above, wooden beams, old railway sleepers, had been hollowed by woodworm and years of no protection against the weather. ‘I’ll soon fix these,’ Pascal assured them.
Marguerite was turning in circles, her fingers pressed against her cheeks. ‘Oh, we breakfasted here … We ate by candlelight just there. Charlie built this terrace. I handed him the nails!’
Laurence was hanging onto Marguerite’s skirt, expressing a desire to dance with her. Pascal was arriving from the makeshift kitchen with chilled champagne. ‘We invested in a mini fridge after I got the electricity reconnected.’
Lizzie was padding to and fro, placing dishes of crisps and olives on the table, securing paper napkins beneath them so they wouldn’t be blown away in any wind. ‘I need to sit down,’ she panted, hands pressed against her extended belly. Each had been given a glass. Nothing as elegant as champagne flutes: a pack of half a dozen wine glasses from one of the supermarkets in Grasse. Pascal was pouring bubbly into them, moving from one woman to the next. Lizzie held her hand over her glass. ‘I’ll have juice.’
‘Just a sip, chérie, to toast and welcome our very generous guests.’
She conceded with a grin. She’d caught the sun, Kurtiz noticed. It suited her. Freckles aplenty.
Pascal raised his glass into the space between
them all. ‘To Marguerite,’ he said, ‘for her gift to us. For offering us a future beyond our wildest dreams, and to my, erm, not quite mother-in-law, Kurtiz, for being, well, very cool.’
‘And to Charlie,’ butted in Lizzie.
‘Charlie? Yes, my dear, dear Charlie, whose dream this was.’
‘And the next Charlie. Charles Oliver. I know the name’s a bit sentimental but it’s what we want to do, isn’t it, Pascal?’
‘To Oliver and Charlie and Charles Oliver.’ Kurtiz smiled.
‘Congratulations,’ whooped Marguerite.
The young man, more herdsman than urban suit, nodded and wrapped his arm round Lizzie’s shoulders. ‘To those who have passed this way and those still to make an entrance.’
‘I have one request, if I may,’ begged Marguerite. ‘Have a large family. Don’t stop at two. As many children as you can afford. I will help you. Keep livestock. Grow flowers. Fields and fields of flowers. And you will bless the memory of my Charlie, if you do.’
‘Lizzie’s going to turn this into an organic flower holding. Organic essences and essential oils. It’s the new Grasse, Marguerite. And while she works, I’ll rebuild the old property and bring up the children. We’ll do you and Charlie proud, I promise.’
‘Can I dance with you, please, Granny Marguerite – now, please?’ Laurence was still tugging at her skirt.
Marguerite placed her champagne on the table and led the small boy beyond the patio, stepping down on to flat grassland. She began to sing. A song from long, long ago. ‘La Mer’ … ‘“The sea with summer clouds dancing …”’ She took Laurence by the hand. Boy and octogenarian began to swing, to pirouette, twist and turn, giggling, swaying, while the others looked on, sipping their champagne and then, before long, they were all singing: ‘La mer … la mer …’
‘We’re at the sea, Charlie,’ chanted the old woman, clapping and laughing with tears rolling down her face.
‘Thanks for all this, Mum, from the bottom of my heart,’ croaked Lizzie, raising her glass. ‘It’s Heaven, beyond dreams.’
‘It’s Marguerite you have to thank for signing this place over to you. My contribution is minor by comparison.’
‘You’ll come and spend heaps of time with us here, won’t you?’
Kurtiz looked her daughter full in the face. What a truly lovely young woman she had blossomed into. ‘Is that what you want, really?’
Lizzie, big-bellied, embraced her mother. ‘I want us to get to know one another and be friends, women and mothers.’
Kurtiz, a little overwhelmed, turned her head and watched as the old woman and the small boy pranced and spun, twirling in ever-widening, giddying circles, heads thrown back with euphoric joy. She lifted her camera and took a series of shots. Then, the camera hanging loose on its strap, Kurtiz continued to gaze upon them. In her loose white silk blouse, with her arms outstretched and her white crinkly hair lifting in time to the movement of her body, Marguerite looked to Kurtiz like a bird taking flight. A dove of peace. Or perhaps she was an angel. Yes. Lizzie and Laurence’s and, soon-to-be, Charles Oliver’s very own guardian angel.
‘Marguerite slipped into our lives on the very darkest of nights, and has never left us since.’ Kurtiz’s train of thought was broken by Pascal leaning into her and topping up her glass. ‘Merci for everything, ma belle-mere. I am so happy that you and Lizzie are reunited.’
Mother and daughter smiled. They raised and clinked glasses. ‘Thank you, Pascal, and here’s to absent friends.’ At that moment, a message on Kurtiz’s iPhone buzzed in her pocket.
Paris, May 2016
Kurtiz was outside at a table on the pavement. It faced across the busy street towards the Théâtre Marigny in the gardens of the Champs-Élysées. She was idly watching the philatelists, a gathering of old-timers in rimless spectacles and cardigans, shuffling to and fro on the park benches, huddled over thick, scruffy albums of stamps, discussing, assessing, exchanging. A curious passion, but each to his own. The restaurant where she was waiting was Le Berkeley. The chestnuts in the public park would soon be in full flower. The citizens of Paris were slowly venturing out from beneath the unthinkable to return to the cafés along the boulevards, to stroll or cycle the canals, congregating in public places after a winter of mourning behind closed doors. They were welcoming the season, warming to spring, its buds bursting with new life. The healing power of regeneration. The light of the sun, and the iron resolve that gave no one the right to scotch the way they chose to live. La Liberté.
She had flown north with Marguerite that morning after a magical and therapeutic week en famille in the south. Oliver would have enjoyed it too. He would have made a perfect grandfather. The powder blue Mercedes had remained with the youngsters on the farm. Marguerite had offered Kurtiz a bed in rue de Charonne for tonight, which she had declined. She had an appointment. But, first, she paid a visit, a pilgrimage to the Bataclan, closed for the foreseeable future, to lay flowers and a candle. She wept there for Oliver, who was at rest now in England, and for all those whose lives had been taken during that abominable night.
She was early. Impatient. She flicked her phone and read her messages. One, undeleted, from a week back: I should have mentioned it when we met in London last year. Ann and I filed for divorce. It would be very fine to see you again when you are next in Paris. I miss you, Alex.
Another, just in from Lizzie: We love you, Ma. Come and spend some summer hols with us. Come for my twenty-first birthday. Stay for Bastille Day. We can go to the beach. Celebrate together. Be with us for the birth of Charles Oliver. Merci pour tout. L & P xx
She typed her response. Dearest L & P, Merci for the invitation. Would love to. Let’s check dates soon. Love and peace to you both, Mum xx As she was pressing send, a shadow came to rest above her, blocking out the late-afternoon light. ‘You waiting for someone?’
She lifted her head, recognizing the voice, and beamed a smile. He was looking fit. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘not any more.’
An Air France pochette landed on the table beside her elbow. She frowned. ‘I seem to remember that, once upon a time, I promised you a visit to a vineyard. No war zones. Two tickets from Charles de Gaulle to San Francisco. Ten days in the Napa Valley. I thought we’d have dinner tonight across the road at Le Petit Palais – I booked for eight – and we’ll leave bright and early in the morning for the airport from my place. What do you say?’
She dithered, delayed. Uncertain.
He sat opposite, cupped her hands. ‘Time to begin to live again, Kurtiz. Because if you don’t, they win. They’ll have murdered you too.’
She nodded, loss surging, and then, slowly, her features relaxed, releasing hesitant laughter. Time to begin to live again? ‘Is that an order, Alex?’
Je suis Charlie
In memory of all those innocents who lost their lives or were injured in the Paris atrocities of November 2015. Each had a family. Every one of those families has stories to tell, losses to learn to live with.
Nous sommes tous Charlie
Acknowledgements
I watched the unfolding of the November 2015 Paris atrocities on television with my mother. Rarely has any news coverage so affected me. To such an extent that I put aside the book I was just beginning to write and settled to this one, The Lost Girl. Three months later, my mother died. It was a grim and very challenging period for me. Through all that followed a group of friends stepped forward and held me up. In no particular order, Pat Lancaster, Rhona Wells, Chris Brown, Marie McCormack, Mae Garrod, Mary and Tom Alexander, Jane Bullock, Bridget Anderson and Liz Gruenstern. Thank you, each of you, profoundly. Your friendship has been healing.
My husband, Michel Noll, has proved yet again that he is a man in a million. I am very fortunate to have him at my side. Mille mercis, mon cher.
Frank Barrett and Wendy Driver at Mail on Sunday Travel for fine parties and professional support.
Jonathan Lloyd, my terrific agent and friend: you have been such a hugely supportiv
e voice throughout the process of bringing this book to publication. Hugs and thank you, kind sir. At Curtis Brown literacy agency, I want to say a big thank you to the super girls Alice Lutyens, Lucia Walker and Melissa Pimental, and to Mark Williams and Katherine Andrews in accounts.
Lastly, top billing for the fine team at Michael Joseph, Penguin, that has made the book possible. I want to thank my editor, publishing director Maxine Hitchcock, for her continuous support and editorial feedback that has helped make the difference. A big thank you, Maxine. Matilda McDonald and Nick Lowndes for allowing the everyday publishing details to be smooth and hassle-free. A big shout out to my meticulous copy-editor, Hazel Orme – it’s great to work with you again – to Claire Bush for marketing magic; to Sarah Harwood, my new publicity gal; and to Cliona Lewis, Penguin Ireland.
Thank you.
THE BEGINNING
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MICHAEL JOSEPH
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published 2017
Copyright © Carol Drinkwater, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover images: girl © Trevillion Images; Paris landscape © Getty Images
ISBN: 978-0-718-18312-7
The Lost Girl Page 34