Return to the Little French Guesthouse

by Helen Pollard

  As did mine. ‘Damn and blast.’ I sighed. ‘I… Sylvia and Frank Thomson have been married for fifty years – how many people achieve that? Ten different factions have driven or flown to France to celebrate it with them, one from halfway around the world. This can never happen again in their lifetime. Enough has gone wrong – or almost gone wrong – already. And we’ve put so much effort into it. I wanted it to be perfect.’

  He squeezed my hand. ‘You are such a soft touch.’

  ‘Yes, well, you can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way.’

  When he only grunted in reply, I scanned the instruments. ‘Shame it wasn’t their sax player that’s ill.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  I searched his face. ‘You know why,’ I said gently. ‘Maybe Alain could have played.’

  Rupert’s lips tightened into a thin line.

  Sensing our despondency, the sax player began talking to Rupert again, lifting up the sax in one hand and the clarinet in the other, the rest of the band all chiming in with their opinions.

  Frustrated, I demanded, ‘What are they saying?’

  Rupert looked at the ground. ‘He says he can switch instruments depending on the piece of music. He plays sax and clarinet, so he’ll switch to whichever is more dominant for each piece they’re playing.’

  ‘That’s… Wait! He’s a sax player, but he can play clarinet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So if he plays clarinet, they are down a sax player, after all…’

  Rupert just frowned, but I knew he was softening towards Alain – he’d been touched by what Jonathan said about short lives and friendship, and the only reason he had for not making up now was pride.

  ‘Alain told us he played with these guys a couple of times a few years ago.’ I stood with my hands on my hips, the band looking on bemusedly. ‘We have a chance to make this perfect for Frank and Sylvia.’

  I turned to the sax player and switched to French. ‘If we know someone who plays this,’ I asked him, pointing to his sax, since I didn’t know the word for the thing, ‘is that good? And you could play that?’ I pointed to the clarinet.

  He answered in accented English to be kind. ‘Maybe, but only if he plays jazz. And he may not know the songs we play.’

  ‘He does know jazz. You played with him before. Alain Granger.’

  The man frowned. ‘Alain?’ And then his eyes lit up. ‘He is very tall, yes?’ He held his hand way above his head to make his point.

  I laughed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘If he could come, we could do something. It would be better than four.’

  Rupert looked absolutely exhausted, and I wondered if I’d gone too far. ‘Emmy…’

  ‘Rupert, we’ve ascertained that they could make a better sound if Alain came. Whether you ring him is up to you.’ I decided to push my luck – what did I have to lose? ‘I’m sure Alain would be happy to do you this favour. That’s the kind of friendship you have. I know you want to see him, really.’

  ‘And how will that look? Me only speaking to him because I need a favour?’

  ‘It would look as though you’re willing to speak to him, which would be a step forward.’ A couple of guests appeared on the patio. ‘I need to get this party started. You can decide whether your pride’s worth the loss of a good friend.’

  When he stalked off to the house, I turned back to the band.

  ‘Alain?’ the sax player asked hopefully.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘We will do our best, anyway.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I wandered across the garden, weaving between the guests starting their special evening, hoping Rupert would see sense – but suspecting he wouldn’t.

  I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the moment. Ryan had done a fantastic job with the lights. They made the garden look so pretty. The guests were all dressed to the nines, ladies and girls in summer dresses, blokes and boys in jackets and ties. I got the waiting staff circulating with drinks. Once everyone was served, one of them could begin taking trays of food around, while the other manned the bar.

  Rupert came back out, but I couldn’t read his look – sulky or sheepish? He dutifully plastered on a smile as he began to circulate.

  Once everyone was outside, the band began to play. As Alain had suggested, it was no cacophony of modern experimentation – just a mellow rhythm that floated across the courtyard and gardens.

  Julia came across to where I was hovering near the drinks, in case there was a run at the bar, and gave me a tight hug. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Thank you so much. This is so perfect.’

  ‘You’re welcome. That’s a beautiful dress.’ She looked a different woman in the floaty, floral number.

  ‘And the woman in it is beautiful,’ Robert said, joining us. ‘Your eldest nephew wants to know if we can come back here as a family every year, my love.’

  Julia laughed. ‘Only if he wants to see me go even greyer than I already am. Where is he? I’ll tell him he can organise it next time…’

  They strolled off across the garden, hand in hand, and a pang of loneliness punched me in the gut.

  I snuck a glass of wine before circulating, then grabbed a bottle and began topping up the guests, agreeing with their delight over the pink sunset and the sweet scent of the roses. As the band played on, I heard at least two jazz fanatics lamenting the absence of another wind musician.

  I gritted my teeth and looked over as the clarinettist took up the sax again. He caught my eye and raised his eyebrows hopefully. I shrugged and shook my head, and suddenly felt that I had to stand back from all of this. I put the empty wine bottle down and made a beeline for the house.

  It was cool and quiet, leaning against the bare stone wall next to the kitchen window. Even if everything worked out at La Cour des Roses, was it enough for me any more, without Alain?

  As if in answer, I heard footsteps coming across the gravel from the lane and turned. I couldn’t see his face in the bright lights shining from the house, but there was no mistaking his height. Or the instrument case in his hand.

  I let out my breath on a long sigh of relief and hope. Rupert had called him. And maybe, just maybe, we could put this behind us, all three of us.

  Alain didn’t see me, but Rupert saw him. I held my breath as Rupert strode across the patio to the courtyard, reached out for a handshake, then draw Alain into a quick hug. I hardly dared believe that Rupert had made the call. And that Alain had accepted his plea for help.

  As Alain started across to the marquee, I stepped out from the shadows of the house, and as though he sensed it, he turned back. ‘Emmy.’

  ‘Hi. Thank you for coming.’

  ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’

  ‘Rupert was worried it would look like he only called you because he needed your help.’

  Alain shrugged. ‘It’s a start.’

  I nodded. ‘I want you to know… He’s already beginning to soften a little, Alain, but it’s taken a lot for him to do it. To call you.’

  ‘I know. And of course you wouldn’t have had anything to do with trying to persuade him?’

  I arranged an innocent look on my face. ‘Who, me?’ I took a long look at his handsome face. ‘And I also know it’s taken a lot for you to come.’

  He took his sax out of its case, then dared a kiss on my cheek. ‘Duty calls once in a while. Do I at least get a beer?’

  I grinned and went to fetch him a bottle. When I got back to him with it, the band had finished the number they were playing, and there were friendly greetings and a few minutes’ discussion over which numbers Alain felt he could safely join in with before they were back in action. I stood at the bar and watched him adjust to their playing, tentative at first, then growing more confident as he got into it.

  The sound was sexy. Alain was sexy, his lips at the mouthpiece, his long fingers at the keys, his shoulders twisting slightly to the music as he played. I didn’t know much about it, but I figured he w
as pretty good for an amateur.

  He was handsome and versatile and kind and forgiving, and I wanted to be with him more than I could ever express.

  ‘Happy now?’ Rupert was at my shoulder.

  I turned to him. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Will you… Will you and Alain get back together?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I hope so. He wants to. I just couldn’t… because of…’

  ‘Because of me and him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you can feel free to go for it.’ He nudged my arm. ‘You’re a good friend, Emmy. And I need to remember that Alain is, too.’

  While I helped with drinks and food, cleared away litter, made sure the band got regular refreshments and took sneaky peeks at Alain playing, some of the family danced on the lawn, especially Sylvia and Frank – with each other, with their children and with their grandchildren. Dusk headed towards dark, and Julia came over to request that the champagne and cake be got ready. She asked for a drum roll and stood on the patio, where the family gathered around her.

  Alain came to stand with Rupert and me, his hand lightly on my shoulder, and we hung back, waiting for the correct moment to pop the corks. Julia’s speech was surprisingly short and to the point, thanking her parents for all they had done for their family over the years and wishing them many happy years to come. Her brother Chris told a short anecdote that made everyone laugh. The tent crowd sang a love song in folk style, for which the jazz band cheered and applauded good-naturedly. One of the smaller grandchildren read a simple poem she had written for them.

  Already tired and tearful, it threatened to tip me over the edge into an emotional wreck.

  And then Frank made a short speech. Struggling a little over his words, but with determination, he expressed his thanks to Sylvia, simply for being his wife. To his family for being a source of pride and joy and for arranging such a wonderful holiday at such a beautiful place. And to me and Rupert, for making it all happen.

  The champagne was opened, the cake was presented – and oohed and aahed over – and, sadly, cut.

  We had done it, and it had been worthwhile and appreciated. We couldn’t ask for more.

  Rupert plucked up a glass of bubbly for each of us and chinked his against mine.

  ‘To us, Emmy, and to La Cour des Roses.’

  ‘To us.’

  And against Alain’s. ‘And to friendship.’

  Alain smiled. ‘To friendship.’

  We sipped our bubbles, and then Alain joined the band as they began to play night-time music. I listened to him play, laughed at the antics of the children – now a little giddy or tired or both – and watched the dancing.

  Rupert took my glass from my hand. ‘One dance, Emmy?’

  He led me onto the grass and held me lightly in a traditional ballroom stance as we moved around the lawn, allowing the music and the relief to wash over us.

  I’d never been christened or baptised, so I didn’t possess godparents. And I’d never thought much of it, or thought I needed any. But I figured I had an honorary godfather now, in the form of this man waltzing me around his garden, and I couldn’t be more grateful for his presence in my life – and that his rift with Alain was showing definite signs of healing.

  As the number ended, Alain tapped on his shoulder. ‘May I?’

  Rupert winked at me and went off to waltz a five-year-old young lady in a frilly party dress around the flowerbeds, much to her delight. We could hear her giggling sweetly, and it made us both smile.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be playing?’ I asked him.

  ‘They’re doing a couple of numbers I don’t know.’

  ‘How convenient.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ He pulled me closer, and I rested my head against his chest as he guided us around the lawn between the other dancers and giddy children.

  ‘Emmy, you do know I’m in love with you, don’t you?’

  The words murmured in my ear had my feet stumbling a little. I pulled back and looked into his face.

  ‘I should have said it before, but I didn’t want to scare you off. And then when I thought I’d lost the chance to say it… Well, I’m going to make up for it now. I love you, Emmeline Jamieson.’

  His lips came down to meet mine in a kiss that was long and tender, as though he was frightened I would break. Or pull away.

  I did pull away, eventually. Long enough to stroke my finger along the light stubble at his jaw, but not long enough to lose my nerve. ‘I love you, too.’

  His eyes widened, as though he hadn’t dared hope I would reciprocate, and his Adam’s apple moved in his throat. His hand snaked around the back of my neck to pull me back into a kiss, deeper this time, so it had my head spinning and my limbs weakening.

  When we finally remembered we were at a public event – with children present – we shuffled apart a little and continued to dance.

  As Frank and Sylvia brushed past us, Sylvia whispered, ‘Looks like a keeper to me.’

  I beamed back at her. ‘I think you might be right.’

  She lifted her hand to stroke Frank’s cheek. ‘I’m quite a good judge of these things, Emmy, though I say so myself.’

  23

  The next morning, Alain left early, knowing I had a busy day ahead.

  Our goodbye kiss was relaxed – something that could not be said for our frenzy the night before, when we’d collapsed into my bed in the early hours of the morning, exhausted but desperate for each other; desperate to cement the reunion we’d begun in the garden, dancing through the twinkling lights, and to finally acknowledge that we were making love, not just having great sex. As we lay together afterwards, I’d promised myself that I would not be letting this man go any time soon.

  After breakfast, I sat with Julia over a final coffee before she drove her parents to the airport. She was relaxed and amiable – the lines had lessened on her face, and she soaked up both the morning sunshine and Rupert’s perfect coffee with equal pleasure.

  ‘You are so lucky, living and working here,’ she said.

  ‘Ha!’ I spluttered on my coffee, then laughed. ‘I know I am, in theory. But as you’ve gathered, the last few weeks haven’t been too peaceful. We’ve had quite a few… issues.’

  ‘Because of Gloria?’

  ‘Not all of it. But she didn’t help matters.’

  ‘But it’s settled down now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Julia smiled. ‘I was hoping so, because I wondered if you’d ever considered running residential courses here?’

  I hid a smile. ‘It’s crossed our minds, but we’ve never done it before.’

  ‘I’d be happy to discuss it, Emmy, once I’m back in business mode. Would you be willing?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Robert has asked Rupert about next spring, by the way. We want to come for a fortnight, and if my parents are well enough, maybe they could join us for a week of that.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful.’

  When they all left, there were hugs and quite a few tears.

  ‘Hang on to that handsome saxophone player of yours,’ Sylvia told me as she embraced me. ‘He’s madly in love with you. I could see it in his eyes.’

  ‘Leave the poor girl alone,’ Frank said jokingly as he ushered her into the car. ‘Not everyone wants to be…’

  ‘Consigned to fifty years of wedded bliss like us?’ Sylvia finished for him.

  Frank winked, and they were gone.

  The marquee was taken down, with marginally less cursing and swearing than when it went up. The caravans and tent left the same day, as did Donald and Patricia – much to Donald’s confused protests, bless him.

  The only things I was truly pleased to see go were the portable toilet and the tambourine.

  Only the Australians and Wendy’s family remained, staying in the gîtes till Saturday, and then we would be on to non-Thomsons in the guesthouse – which, it occurred to me, would feel quite strange.

  Rupert was quiet that after
noon, as we sat with a well-deserved beer in the garden.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked him.

  ‘S’pose.’

  ‘You should know by now that you don’t get away with answers like that. What’s up?’

  ‘Other than that I’ve rung the death knell on my marriage and my wife turns out to have had very few redeeming qualities after all, and one of my best friends had to fend off her advances in our own home while the other best friend is barely this side of death’s door?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He sighed. ‘I’ll be sixty soon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Sunday.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Been trying to suppress it. I didn’t mind hitting forty or fifty, but sixty feels distinctly over the hill and heading rapidly down the other side. Jonathan being so ill hasn’t helped. A glimpse of mortality, I suppose.’ He glared at me. ‘And no, I don’t need a pep talk, Emmy, thank you. But I know I’ve been acting oddly lately – or more oddly than even events here might dictate, anyway – and you deserve to know why. Now that you do, I don’t want to hear another word about it.’

  I nodded as my brain whirred. Rupert shouldn’t be depressed about being sixty. He was healthier now, he had all his friends, he had Gloria (the dog) doting on him, Gloria (ex-wife) off the scene, his business was doing okay, and now that I was here, his workload was reduced. Somehow, I needed to show him that life was good, and it was the same whether he was fifty-nine or sixty. Not much of a tall order there, then.

  My mother’s call later that afternoon was perfect timing.

  ‘Mum, can I pick your brain?’

  ‘Of course. What’s left of it. What do you need?’

  ‘A list of games you played at birthday parties when you were a kid. And a list of party food too. Can you send it later today?’

  ‘Yes, of course, darling, but what do you need that for?’

  ‘It’s Rupert’s sixtieth and I want to throw a party. He was joking with a friend a few weeks ago about bob-a-job week and naff kids’ party games, so I thought maybe I could take him back to his childhood. You’re his age, so who better to ask?’