The Traveller's Daughter

by Michelle Vernal

  Thanking him for the effusive compliments she sat down gingerly. She wished she’d had time to pick up some antihistamine cream. She’d spotted a pharmacy’s green cross blinking amongst the other shops on the shaded main road as they’d driven through the busy town. She hadn’t dared ask Simone to get Pierre to stop the car again though, not after the wasp debacle and so had missed her chance. Instead, she’d sat with her nose pressed to the window and gazed at the crowded pavement cafés and pretty shop frontages sheltering beneath their red awnings. She’d tried to imagine her mother as a young girl wandering amongst them. All the while she kept her hands tightly clasped as she resisted the urge to stick her hand down the back of her pants and scratch the sting. The sensation of which had recently moved from the burning pain phase into the intense itching stage.

  Pierre had navigated his way expertly around the ring road surrounding the town before pulling into park in the graveled grounds of a Cathedral. Its spire Kitty thought, resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa rearing up lopsidedly against the bright blue sky. As she got out and pushed the car door shut behind her, she spied an old woman sat on a cushion in the shade of the Cathedral’s grand entranceway. She was plump and swarthy with grey hair peeking out from under a headscarf. Her skirt was voluminous and black Kitty noticed, staring over at her with open curiosity. It was bunched around a stout set of legs she’d crossed at the ankles. Kitty watched for a moment as a group clad in standard issue cargo pants and comfortable walking shoes with cameras dangling from their necks to reinforce the fact they were tourists approached the entrance.

  The gypsy woman picked a bowl up from the ground next to where she was sitting and shook it at them. Kitty saw the spark of hope that had flared in her eyes at their approach die as they ignored her and disappeared inside the realms of the Cathedral. How very Christian of them she thought, feeling a surge of anger. How dare they treat the poor woman as though she were invisible! She opened her handbag, rifling in it until she produced her purse. Unzipping it she gazed at its contents in dismay. She’d not had time to change any money into Euro’s and pound coins would be of no use to the Romany woman. She felt a tap on her shoulder; Pierre had gotten out of the car. She watched as he thrust his hand into his pant pocket to produce a few shiny coins that he held out for her.

  “Merci.” Kitty grinned getting it right this time.

  He nodded and slid back behind the driver’s wheel beside Simone, who was finishing a phone call. Kitty strode over to where the woman was sitting and dropped the coins into her bowl; she was rewarded with a toothless grin. She smiled back at her and was about to turn away when something in the old woman’s nut brown eyes made her hesitate. She beckoned for Kitty to come down to her level. So, for the second time that day Kitty found herself squatting down as she let her take hold of her hand.

  She admired Rosa’s rings and made a comment Kitty could not understood before her rough fingers stroked the back of her hand in a familiar manner. Then, after a moment she turned her hand over and stared intently at her palm before running her index finger down the different lines. All the while she was muttering softly, and Kitty wished she knew what it was she was saying. She hoped from the gummy grin she got when the woman finally looked up at her that whatever words of wisdom had just been imparted they’d all been good. As she released her hand, Kitty stood up hearing Simone call out.

  “Mademoiselle Kitty! Come, come.” She clicked her fingers in the same manner she had used at the airport. Kitty knew that if she had an umbrella to hand she would have held it up like a tour guide as she stalked to the carpark entrance before striding across the road.

  Kitty nodded goodbye to the old woman before scurrying after Simone. She was surprisingly fast for such a little lady she thought, puffing as she followed her click-clacking heels down a cobbled street. She knew she had better be careful not to do an ankle injury on her own too high heels. She moved into the shade afforded by the tall buildings. They were all joined to one another forming a sinuous, mellow stone arc. When they reached the end, she saw that it had bought them out into what had to be the town’s main square.

  She didn’t have time to pause and admire the ambience of the shaded square though, or search for the spot where her mother had stood when Midsummer Lovers was taken because Simone had taken her by the elbow and was steering her toward a nearby café. She weaved her way expertly through the outside tables filled with lounging tourists and locals alike. She pushed past the harassed looking waiter with his pen and pad in hand as he stood in an effeminate stance, finally coming to a halt at the table where the man Kitty had just sat down opposite had been enjoying his tipple in the mid-day sun.

  Now, she sat with her hands clasped in her lap. She felt like she was watching a friend board a plane to an unknown destination as Simone retraced her steps back from where they had just come leaving her alone with Christian Beauvau. She had told them she would meet them both back at la maison before saying au revoir. Somewhere at the back of her mind Kitty knew maison was the French word for house, and she was curious to see where they would be staying but first things first. “It’s nice to meet you too Monsieur Beauvau. Thank you for paying for my flight over here and for arranging to have me picked up.”

  “You are welcome and no more of this Monsieur Beauvau. It makes me feel old to have a young woman address me so. Call me Christian oui?”

  “Er oui okay.”

  “So firstly I thank you for coming to la belle town of Uzés which holds very happy memories for me and did so for your maman too. I am so pleased you have agreed to make the recreation of Midsummer Lovers possible. I trust you are happy with the remuneration Simone discussed with you. Oui?”

  Kitty nodded liking the way he pronounced Uzés, Oo-zez. It seemed to just roll off his tongue. “Um yes, thank you it’s very generous. About the photograph Mr er Christian the reason I decided to come and do the shoot was in the hope that you might be able to tell me the backstory behind Midsummer Lovers.”

  He lifted his sunglasses pushing them up onto his head, and Kitty was surprised at the intense green of his eyes against the leathery lines surrounding them. “Ah oui your belle maman when I came to England to say my goodbyes to her and to ask how she felt about me contacting you regarding this anniversary photograph told me of this. She said you know nothing of her life before she met your father. She chose always to close the door on her past and only look to the future.”

  “But you contacted me despite this?”

  “But you see she did not say non. Your maman, she wanted you to come here to Uzés because she felt it was the right time. She had her reasons for this as you will find out in a little while.”

  It was like having a carrot dangled in front of her nose Kitty thought, not wanting to interrupt in case she missed a vital clue in the puzzle.

  “Rosa was such a wonderful woman. My commiserations for your loss ma chérie. To lose your maman it is a very hard thing.” He reached over and touched her forearm. It was a warm and kind gesture befitting the inflection in his voice when he spoke of her mother.

  Kitty stared hard at him trying to comprehend that her mother had known a man such as this as well as she obviously had. He must have cared for her because he had come to see her one last time in the UK. Christian was so very different from her mother’s friends that Kitty had known. There was the staid bunch of women from the book club that all fancied themselves intellectuals. As for their old neighbour Dorothy with the hyena laugh, it had seemed when Kitty was growing up that she was forever popping over for cups of tea and slices of cake. Rosa would sit quietly not able to get a word in edgewise while she babbled on about who had done what to whom. She was so busy pondering the differences between them and this flamboyant Frenchman with his deep tan and silver ponytail that she barely registered him clicking his fingers to grab the waiter’s attention. It was a gesture she would have found embarrassing had anyone else done it. But Christian, for some reason could get away with it.


  “You will drink the red wine oui? It ees very good.”

  She nodded dumbly. Red, white, she didn’t care so long as it was made from a grape and had an alcohol base. She finally managed to form the words to ask the question that had sprung to the front of the forming queue in her mind. “So did my mother keep in touch with you in the years after you took the photograph then? Because I never even knew that she had been to France let alone once posed for what became a famous print. The first I heard of Midsummer Lovers was when you contacted me. I have to say it came as a huge shock to find out my mother was in it and at such a young age too.”

  Christian ordered her drink and then looked at her pensively for a moment. “I am sorry for this shock you have suffered. I can see how hard it must be to learn of your maman having had a life with another man before your père. You must remember that one relationship does not detract from the value of the other though Kitty. What you need to understand is that the allure of Midsummer Lovers lies in the very fact that Rosa and Michael did not pose for the photograph.”

  “I don’t follow sorry.”

  “That day I had focussed my camera to take a picture of the café scene where we are sitting now – it has not changed in fifty years you know, but then I saw them. They were strolling along, Michael pushing that cursed bicycle with Rosa by his side just over there.” She followed the direction of his gesticulating hand almost expecting to see the girl her mother had once been, and her eyes fell on the sun ripened, stone building that framed the right-hand side of the square. The bottom of the building had archways cut into the stone to provide a shaded walkway alongside the row of shops that were recessed back into the building. Above the arches loomed another two floors and with their wrought iron balconies and faded blue shutters, Kitty was guessing they were apartments. How wonderful to fling open your windows each morning to gaze at the bustling square below she thought, waiting for Christian to continue.

  “I have never again seen such naked adoration on a woman’s face as I saw on Rosa’s that day when she looked at Michael. I owe my career to their amour.”

  Kitty squirmed in her seat at this waxing lyrical talk of naked adoration and amour where her mother was concerned then wished she hadn’t as she felt a painful throbbing start up.

  “When I captured that moment between them it was real and the beauty and the magic of that is what reached out from the photograph to grab people here.” He thumped his chest. “That split second decision to point my camera at them and push the shutter changed the course of my life,” he frowned. “Of course this for me now is where the challenge will lie in the photograph I will take of you and Jonny tomorrow. It will not be easy because the expressions Michael and Rosa had on their faces were, as I said, genuine.” He shrugged. “Still, this is what I am getting paid a ridiculous sum of money for so we can but try.”

  Kitty hadn’t thought about was required of her for the shoot, she’d been too busy focussing on finding out about her mother. It seemed that knowledge was going to come at a cost. She’d never been very good at drama and now here she was being paid handsomely to feign total adoration for someone she’d never even met. Oh well she thought, helping herself to another sip of her wine, which combined with the hot sun was making her feel magnanimous, as Christian had just said, she could but try.

  “And oui to answer your question I have kept in touch with your maman over the many years that have passed since that day. We have written to each other to keep track of one another’s lives because after everything that happened we became good friends. Of course too there were the royalties from Midsummer Lovers I used to send her.”

  “Royalties?”

  “Oui royalties. I made a lot of money from that photograph of your maman and Michael so it was only right that I share it with them although we never put anything, erm how you say? In writing.”

  Kitty frowned; the solicitor hadn’t pointed out any ongoing payments from anybody let alone a French photographer being paid into her mother’s account when he had wound her Estate up. As far as she had known Rosa had lived quietly off the savings her and Peter, who’d been an accountant and had earned a more than comfortable salary had accumulated over the years. She’d had the proceeds of sale from Rose Cottage and her constant downsizing too.

  Christian saw her frown and explained. “You are wondering where this money is now eh?”

  Amongst a million other things Kitty thought meeting his gaze, yes she was.

  He smiled. “Don’t worry I am not pulling a fast one on you.”

  His use of such an American phrase sounded odd Kitty thought, finishing what was left in her glass as she listened to his explanation.

  “When Rosa married she no longer wanted this money and the memories it brought with it. Your père, Peter was her fresh start and so she asked me to forward any further monies to her sister, Kitty Rourke. The money it goes to an address in Ireland.”

  Her mother had a sister? She had an aunt she was named after still living in Ireland! Her mind raced wondering whether she looked like Rosa, and whether they both had that same stubborn streak that Kitty had railed against so many times. She was glad when Christian ordered her another glass of wine. She had the feeling she was going to need it to try and process what she had just learned and what exactly it was she would do next with this information. Her mother obviously had fond memories of her sister or she wouldn’t have named her daughter after her. This woman, Kitty Rourke as far as she knew had never tried to track Rosa down though. So would she appreciate a visit from her sister’s daughter all these years later? And Kitty already knew that she would have to find this woman, her aunt.

  Christian remained silent watching the myriad of thoughts skip across her features as he sipped his drink and waited for her to speak.

  “I didn’t know mum had a sister I always thought – well that’s the thing I don’t know what I thought.” Kitty took a deep breath. “Please Christian that’s why I have come. Tell me everything you know about who my mother was before she met my father.”

  He nodded not looking surprised by her request before piercing an olive with a toothpick and popping it into his mouth. Kitty watched him chew it in frustration waiting for him to finish; he took his time.

  “I think your maman kept her secrets because she wanted to forget about the gypsy in her oui? It was a part of her past she would always associate with her family and with Michael.”

  “What gypsy in her?” She stared at him blankly thinking about the old woman at the Cathedral. She was nothing like Rosa, her descent was Romany not Irish. Perhaps he meant that when she was younger she had been a bit of a free spirit or something? Well, that was a given Kitty thought, she had been cavorting around the French countryside with her boyfriend when she was barely out of nappies after all. Still it had been the sixties so maybe she was into all of that peace and love stuff.

  “Rosa and Michael, they were how you say? Travellers.”

  “Yes well, they must have been if they were in France together.” It was hopeless Kitty sighed and wished her wine would hurry up; they were getting lost in translation.

  “Non.” He shook his head and speared another olive. Kitty wanted to slap it out of his hand and tell him he wasn’t allowed another until he’d bloody well gotten on with it and told her what she wanted to know. He studied the glossy, black fruit for a moment. “I mean Travellers who are from an erm, what is the word I am looking for? Ah oui that is it, er tribe or maybe clan.”

  The penny dropped as her wine was placed down on the table. “Merci.” She said to the waiter who merely nodded before disappearing back inside the darkened café interior to collect his next order. She took a sip of the red liquid trying to process what Christian was telling her but barely even tasted it as it slid down her throat.

  Her mother came from a family of Travellers. He was talking about those people she’d see in a convoy on the M5 from time to time or taking over fields with their camps. They’d been on the news over t
he years too up in arms about being moved on and claiming they were getting a rough deal. There were two sides to every story though, and the farmers whose land had been taken over by them claimed the Travellers always left a ton of rubbish in their wake. Kitty shuddered; she didn’t even want to think about that reality programme where the gypsy girls all tried to outdo one another with their ridiculously huge wedding dresses. The girls and their families came across on the screen as a course and uneducated people. The men all smoked, seemed to like a fight and used the ‘f’ word a lot and if that tele show had been anything to go by then the girls all fancied themselves as Beyoncé. They were fond of orange spray tans too and had accents so thick she could hardly understand what they were on about.

  Her mother didn’t smoke, she’d never had a spray tan and there was absolutely nothing rough around the edges about Rosa Sorenson. The only time Kitty could remember her swearing was the day her car had been wheel clamped most unfairly. It was an event that would make the mildest mannered of person’s use bad language and even then her mother had only used the ‘b’ word. She was well read too and loved a game of scrabble. It always brought out her competitive side. No, Kitty decided, this Christian Beauvau fellow must have his facts wrong. He’d spent too much time soaking up the Mediterranean sun over the years. Just look at his skin for goodness sake! You could cover a settee with it. The sun must have cooked his brain that was all there was to it.

  “You are shocked? I can see that I have shocked you once more by telling you this oui? Your maman she has made a new life for herself with your father. She became a different person. It was her way of dealing with her grief when Michael died so suddenly.”