by Lucy Coleman
We can still make things good between us, Anna, but you need to talk to me. Please, just talk to me. I love you, my darling. Karl x
I throw the phone down on the bed in anger and Ziggy rolls over, temporarily disturbed. My reaction is partly due to the fact that my eyes are filling with tears. I don’t want to cry for a guy who can’t understand that what he wants isn’t what I want. I even gave up my beloved cat baby for him and Ziggy was my only comfort during some very emotional times. Everything still centres round work for Karl and I know how his mind operates. Knowledge is power to Karl and it gives him the edge. Well, perhaps unwittingly I gave him the edge. People laugh at the old phrase pillow talk, but when two people who work in the same organisation are sleeping together they talk about everything, whether it’s confidential information or gossip. I realise that I’d stopped trusting Karl a while ago and looking back there were even times he accused me of withholding information from him. I’d simply held things back, not out of self-preservation and the fear of people realising how close we were, but because I’d begun to feel used.
My dreams are troubled and the dawn chorus is a welcome sound, a distraction from the turmoil inside my head. Maybe selling the house is worth consideration as then it means I can start over again in another city and cut all ties.
*
When Sam arrives, I’m perched on a stool and scraping the last of the mortar mix off the tin lid and into the gap in front of me.
‘Ah, stool height already. Impressive. Is that better on the arms?’
I nod, stifling a yawn.
‘Yes, but I think my leg muscles are going to be challenged when I’m on the bottom three rows. It will be either bending or kneeling and that’s sure to hurt.’
We exchange smiles.
‘You sound like you didn’t sleep well. Everything okay?’
‘Fine, just one of those nights. That was a great view, by the way.’
‘Some people hate wind turbines but I find them fascinating. I love that gentle swoosh, it’s calming. And there’s a majesty about them, plus of course it’s a green way to generate electricity. Where’s that box of yours?’
I’d totally forgotten about it again and I walk over to the window sill to retrieve it. I hold it out to Sam, who picks it up and immediately tries to prise off the lid with his hands.
‘Ah, you’re right. The wood is warped. It’s clearly very old and the carving is quite intricate. It smells musty but it’s made of hardwood – maybe oak – so it hasn’t rotted and it’s probably been in that wall for a long time.’
He shakes the box but I can’t hear anything moving inside as the wood is so solid.
‘Well, it’s not full of gold coins because it’s not that heavy. I can probably get the lid off with a chisel but it might damage it. What do you think?’
I bend to wash off my tools in a bucket of water, ready to think about making up a new mix of mortar. I squeeze out a cloth and hand it to Sam.
‘Here, give it a wipe with this and go for it. It will probably end up on the fire with the rest of the furniture Dad’s going to be burning today. It’s a pity the damp has got into it, though, as it’s a pretty box.’
By the time I return carrying a full bucket of mortar mix, Sam has started work. I glance across to see he managed to get the lid open and has placed it on the stool.
‘It seems you have found some treasure, after all. And the box isn’t in that bad a condition after I scraped the muck away. If you look closely, I think you can make out the initials M and L, carved into the top among the scrolls. It might even be valuable if the jewellery inside is the real deal.’
I pull off my gloves and pick up the open box. There’s a delicate, gold coloured brooch inset with tiny pearls, a silver locket, two hat pins and a beautiful ring.
‘Do you think that’s a diamond?’ He sounds a little excited about the prospect.
I hold the ring up to the light and it sparkles. The stone in the centre is probably the biggest single stone I’ve ever seen up close. Around it are four smaller stones forming a cross.
‘It looks old, maybe Victorian, even. I’m not sure though; I’m no expert when it comes to jewellery.’
‘No engagement rings in your past, then?’
Sam’s throwaway comment makes me look up. ‘No, and there probably never will be.’
He immediately spins back round to continue running some tape down the joint between two sheets of plasterboard. ‘Sorry, it’s none of my business.’ He throws the words over his shoulder as I slip the contents back into the box.
‘Time to get back to it. This wall isn’t going to repoint itself.’ I know I sound a bit moody but that’s one topic I won’t get drawn into discussing.
I head out into the sunshine again to get some water to clean off a few of the stones before I continue with the repointing. I can’t help wondering why anyone would need to hide away something so beautiful and, no doubt, meaningful. Time to do a little research I think, as clearly this property has a past and someone round here must know something about it.
Ziggy appears, slowly making her way down the path towards me. She stops to sniff every single flower and watch every bee buzzing around the blooms. Then she finally offers up her back for a stroke and I can’t help smiling. When humans are stressing you out, or work seems like a chore, an animal is there to remind you that life is only as hard, or as complicated, as you choose to make it.
When I go back inside we continue to work in silence. It’s quite a relief that Sam doesn’t want to talk all the time as I like to concentrate on the job in hand. Physically it’s tiring, but my mind is beginning to feel a lot less cluttered. Even Karl’s constant texting is no longer a cause of stress. I didn’t respond to his email yesterday and this morning there wasn’t anything new in my inbox. Perhaps it’s beginning to sink in at last that whatever we had is over.
Our lunch break is a short one. We sit in the garden with Mum and Dad to eat cheese filled baguettes and the first of the greenhouse tomatoes. Mum makes a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and sparkling water that is really refreshing. In between eating I tell them about the discovery of the jewellery box and start quizzing them about the previous owners. The property was purchased from Monsieur and Madame Allard, but as Monsieur Allard died during the process, Mum and Dad were unable to find out much about the place. Madame Allard speaks very little English, as I’ve witnessed, having relied upon her husband who seemed to have been quite fluent. The house had been empty for a while after being let out for several years, when it suddenly came up for auction. Monsieur Allard bought it, hoping to persuade Madame Allard to move in. He eventually gave up on the idea and decided to sell.
Once we get back to work, I can’t stop thinking about the mystery of the hidden jewellery box and eventually I turn towards Sam. He senses me watching him and stops what he’s doing.
‘What is it?’
‘How’s your French?’
He shakes his head. ‘I knew you’d ask me that. You want to speak to Madame Allard, don’t you? Well, it’s pretty good but she’s a very private woman and I’m not sure how she will react if we descend upon her.’
‘Leave that to me. What are you doing this evening?’
Sam continues to skim the trowel over the surface of the wall. ‘OK. I’ll pop home to change and then I’ll head back here.’
‘Dinner will be on me, after we’ve spoken to Madame.’
*
I hear the scrunch of tyres on gravel and look out to see Sam parking up. He isn’t driving the van but a beaten-up old Citroën. The pathway to Madame Allard’s stone cottage is immaculately swept and there isn’t a weed to be seen. As Sam leans forward to raise the lion’s head door knocker, I hold the small basket of freshly picked tomatoes in front of me.
‘Bonsoir, Madame Allard. Anna vous a apporté un petit cadeau du jardin.’
Sam doesn’t sound that comfortable speaking French, although his accent isn’t bad.
�
��Bonsoir Sam, bonsoir Anna.’
She looks a little hesitant, although she seems to be delighted to see us. I present the basket to her and she smiles warmly back at me.
‘Pour moi? Vous êtes très gentille, Anna, merci. Entrez, entrez.’
She holds the door open so we can enter. It’s dark and very cool inside, but she ushers us on through and out into the back garden. She indicates for us to take a seat underneath a large apple tree.
Sam and Madame Allard exchange a little conversation that I can more or less follow. She’s saying we should call her Honorine and I nod and smile so she’s aware I understand what’s being said.
Sam starts to explain about the jewellery box and I pull it from my handbag to show her. She raises her eyebrows, nodding in acknowledgement of such a fine item. He explains that I’d like to return the box to its rightful owner, if I can locate them. Then he asks her about the initials carved into the top and whether it means anything to her.
I will admit that Sam loses me as they both speak too fast for me to catch more than a few phrases that mean anything at all. He’s very gentle and respectful as they converse and it’s rather touching.
As Honorine talks she keeps engaging me, as if we are the ones conversing, so she understands that Sam is asking on my behalf. He turns to me to interpret.
‘Honorine says that the previous owners were Tony and Yvette Waverley. Tony was English but Yvette came from Lyon. They lived in the house alone together for about six months before a young boy arrived. He was about eight at the time, she thinks. His name was Thomas and people assumed he was a Waverley. He was privately schooled by one of the local teachers and it seems he spent a lot of time with Honorine. She became very fond of him. He told her once that they weren’t his parents and that his mother had died. She says he mentioned his mother’s surname, but she can’t remember it.’
‘What happened to them? Did they all move away?’
Sam turns in his chair to face Honorine and continue the conversation. When he turns back there’s a frown on his face.
‘No, it seems that when Thomas was sixteen he went away. She said he suddenly disappeared, but I don’t think she means in a suspicious way, as in the police being involved. A few weeks later the Waverleys moved away, too, and the house was let for a couple of years. When it came up for auction it was a surprise. Her husband bought it because it was cheap. She said he always had an eye for a bargain. It remained empty for a few years before Honorine managed to persuade him to sell it. He tried to convince her to move there but she said nothing was going to make her give up her home of many years. She wasn’t at all happy about the idea of cleaning a large, empty house that she didn’t want at her age and said he was a silly old fool. Unfortunately, as we know, he died while the sale to your parents was going through.’
‘Well, that’s something. But it’s a little sad. I wonder if the boy was the couple’s grandson?’
Sam thanks Honorine and she reaches out to take my hand. Her fingers are chilly, despite the balmy evening, but her eyes are full of warmth.
‘A good boy. Kind boy. Sad. They were not loving people. You speak Bastien Deniaud. I had card a few years ago.’ She impresses the words upon me, not letting go of my hand.
‘I’ll try to find him. Thank you, Honorine, every little piece of information is a great help.’
She moves closer, takes both my hands and raises them to her lips. I’m touched and can see that this boy meant something to her.
Don’t We All Have At Least One Little Secret?
As Sam and I walk back to his car he turns to look at me, his forehead knotted into a deep frown.
‘Why did you say you’d try to find him? He could be anywhere.’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘A young boy comes to live in a foreign country with a couple who clearly aren’t his parents. And I seriously doubt an adult would hide some valuable jewellery in a hole in the wall. What if the box belonged to his mother? It might be all that he has left of her.’
Sam stops and turns to face me, his eyes searching mine.
‘Now that wouldn’t even have occurred to me. So, what’s the next step?’
‘Well, according to Honorine, I need to speak to Monsieur Deniaud, so that’s what I intend to do. I chatted to him briefly at the party the other night and he seemed very approachable. And his English is much better than my French.’
‘Well, good luck with that. If there’s a secret here then maybe it’s not a good idea to start digging up the past. If you do find this guy, it might resurrect feelings he’s finally managed to distance himself from. No amount of money can compensate for reliving painful memories. Look, I know you’re only trying to do what you think is right, Anna, but be wary of getting pulled into something you don’t understand and making it worse.’
I can tell from Sam’s warning that it’s obvious this touches a nerve with him for some reason. Truthfully, I wish I hadn’t discovered the box. But I did and my instincts are telling me that it means something to someone and maybe, as time went on, whoever owned it simply forgot where it was hidden.
‘Point taken and I’ll tread carefully. Now, where are we going for dinner? As I said, it’s my treat.’
He smiles, swinging open the passenger door so I can slip into the seat.
‘I have just the place in mind. A friend of mine owns a rustic little restaurant overlooking a lake. We’ll get a discount, so it won’t break the bank.’
Out of the blue, an image of Karl’s face appears in my head and I’m whisked back in time to a romantic dinner to celebrate our six month anniversary. Everything was perfect that night. No expense was spared and he made me feel that I was everything to him. Am I blaming Karl for my own insecurities? Was I the one putting up barriers and now I’m trying to put the blame on him for yet another of my failures? I shake off the thought by thinking about Thomas Waverley.
*
Rustic is rather special when your table looks out over a beautiful lake surrounded by tall trees, filtering the ruby red rays of a beautiful sunset. Inside it’s like a big log cabin. There’s a wood burner in the corner, but today the windows are open wide and overhead fans help to dispel the heat a little.
We both opt for the prix fixe menu. With a petite tarte flambée to begin, so light and crisp it melts in the mouth. The moules frites are accompanied by chunks of crusty baguette to mop up the sauce. The air is filled with the aroma of sweet onions, intermingled with the tang of fresh mussels and a slight smokiness from the white wine which has a hint of oak. I pass on the dessert options but Sam happily tucks into baked peaches with ice cream. It does look good but I’m full.
‘That was delicious but I feel bad we didn’t pay the full price,’ I admit as we wander outside.
‘It was payback time, so don’t worry about it. Mates rates. I do a bit of work for them and it’s only money, so I never charge them the full price. Do you fancy a walk along the beach?’
‘Yes, that would nice.’ I look at Sam, thinking that when he’s relaxed he’s easy to talk to but when the subject strays onto something personal it’s not long before he clams up.
‘This is a great little resort,’ he offers. ‘People stay in cabins dotted around the site and there’s plenty for families to do with nature trails, horse-riding and various water sports. They organise a lot of activities in July and August, so it’s popular with the locals, as well as tourists.’
‘You do a lot of work here?’
He nods. ‘Quite a bit.’
I slip off my shoes, letting my toes wriggle around in the sand. A large group of adults are clustered around a barbecue. Within shouting distance, their children are dashing about throwing balls up in the air and taking great delight in kicking up their heels as they run to catch them.
‘This area is a wonderful place to live and bring up a family,’ I comment, thinking out loud.
We amble back to the car, side by side.
I remember Mum mentioning he’d bought what she d
escribed as a wreck of a barn. Why is he willing to do work for someone else where he isn’t able to charge them the full rate? Sam’s quite a conundrum at times.
‘Mum said you had your own project you’re working on. How’s that going?’
He glances my way, but his eyes are back on the road before I can interpret the look.
‘It’s between here and St-Julien. It’s very much a work in progress.’
‘So, living here was a part of your plan, too?’
Another fleeting, sideways glance.
‘There are worse places to live.’
Ooh, was that telling me to mind my own business, I wonder?
‘A lot of British people fantasise about moving to France and renovating a property. The reality is it’s a lot of hard work and then there’s the problem of how you earn a living. I really hope Mum and Dad can earn enough to keep their dream alive because it would break their hearts to have to head back to the UK.’
Sam doesn’t reply and he drives on in silence for a few minutes before suddenly pulling off the road and driving a few hundred feet up a narrow track.
‘Welcome to my little piece of France,’ he declares, turning to stare at me as I try not to look surprised.
In front of us is a huge stone barn, sitting like a dilapidated blot on the landscape. It’s surrounded by a well kept grassy area and there is a tired looking caravan standing alongside.
‘This is home.’
It looks nothing at all like a home.
It wasn’t quite what I was expecting. Clearly, he lives in the caravan and while the barn has obviously had a new roof, the two wooden doors forming the entrance are so old they’re almost falling off the hinges. It’s the only opening and there are no windows on this side of it.
‘The sheep still come up to the garden wall wondering why they’ve been evicted.’