Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel

by Laurette Long

  ‘But the reason I’m telling you this, my dear, is that after James, afterwards, I decided that my life had only one course. A career. I put my head down and went blindly onwards, ignoring any other possibilities, any opportunities that may have presented themselves. That did present themselves.’

  Both women were silent now. Looking at her aunt, Caroline saw vestiges of the once- beautiful girl she must have been.

  How different her life might have been. Even when she came back to take care of Caroline and Annabel, she had been a striking woman with a striking personality. There must have been men who would have jumped at the opportunity of making a life with her.

  ‘The thing is,’ Margaret said finally, ‘just because of one false start, don’t go thinking you’ve lost all your chances. Don’t lock yourself away from other people behind a wall of self-sufficiency. We all need somebody, all of us. If you see an opportunity, Caroline, take it. Seize it with both hands.’

  Caroline found herself unable to speak, affected by the sadness of what might have been.

  ‘My dear, you’re still so young. Yes, I know you think that’s not true, that 30 is some terrible landmark, but it’s not. You have a whole life to live, if only you’ll allow yourself to do so.’

  Caroline was deeply moved. She knew that what her aunt said was true, she recognised only too well her tendency to assert her independence, to face up to life with squared shoulders.

  She recognised also that what her aunt was giving her, had always given her, was the chance to be a child, a daughter, to lean on someone else, to listen to advice and not to have to give it.

  Impulsively, she kissed Margaret’s cheek.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you for, well, for telling me all this. For telling me about James. I am so sorry. I had no idea. And I wish...’

  The look in her eyes completed her sentence.

  Margaret nodded, held her niece close.

  They both heard the sound of the ancient trolley creaking its way along the corridor from the kitchen. With a last squeeze, Margaret gently unclasped Caroline’s arms.

  ‘Tea’s here.’

  Birdie appeared in the doorway pushing a trolley laden with sandwiches, scones dripping with honey, robust tiers of fruit cake and a fragrantly steaming tea pot.

  ‘About time too,’ remarked Margaret with asperity. ‘Can’t you see the child is starving?’

  She rapped the floor impatiently with her stick and sat up.

  Behind the wing chair, Birdie pulled a face at her friend’s ramrod straight back.

  CHAPTER FIVE. FRIDAY 28 MAY

  Titus had always known the trick of pushing open Caroline’s door, even when she thought it was firmly shut. Sure enough she woke next morning to a wet Labrador nose.

  ‘Titus, oh no, make an appointment with your dentist!’

  Titus grinned, slobbered and leapt on to the bed. Or rather it was an attempt at a leap, ending up more as a scramble.

  ‘Yes yes old boy, ugh, just turn your head a bit...’

  Titus suddenly found a flea that needed attention. Thankfully, Caroline flopped back against the pillows.

  The sun was filtering through the curtains, casting a golden dust throughout the room. It lit up the old floorboards polished to a grainy darkness, fell onto the brightly woven rugs.

  Caroline stretched and blinked, taking in the familiar surroundings of her old bedroom. An ancient wardrobe stood in one corner, its carving matching that of the bed head. Underneath the window was the desk where she used to do her homework. It had always wobbled; her eyes travelled downwards to the piece of cardboard wedged under one of its legs to keep it steady. On the bookshelves were her old favourites, ‘Black Beauty’, ‘Anne of Green Gables’, ‘The Secret Garden’. As she basked in the warmth of the sun falling on her face she caught the smell of bacon frying. She turned her head to squint at the alarm clock. Half past ten! She had been asleep for hours. A good, relaxing, restorative sleep.

  ‘Titus. Bacon? Baacooon???’

  Titus stopped his flea murdering and came to attention, his melting brown eyes fixed on Caroline.

  ‘Breakfast old boy, go on, bacon!’

  Titus slithered off the side of the bed and hustled to the doorway, casting an enquiring glance over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes boy. I’m coming.’

  As she drew back the curtains a glorious morning greeted her. Lawns and flower beds basked in the sun. She pushed wide the casement windows and leaned out, breathing in the scent of grass, listening to the birdsong.

  ‘Willowdale, mon amour!’

  She’d always been interested in houses, seeing the way their owners had put their stamp on them, feeling their ambience. But nothing compared to Willowdale. On the terrace below, the white wrought iron table was set for breakfast. It was laid with her aunt’s morning china, blue and white. Someone, probably Birdie, had added a small vase of primroses. Pansies bloomed in the terracotta pots that edged the steps down to the garden.

  As if she’d read her thoughts, Birdie stepped outside carrying a tray with a silver toast rack, a dish full of marmalade and an elegant coffee pot. Caroline smiled. The coffee was for her.

  ‘Something smells good!’

  Birdie turned and squinted up towards the window.

  ‘Ah there you are! We were just getting ready to hack through the enchanted forest.’

  Caroline laughed.

  ‘No need. A prince came along. Hairy, with halitosis.’

  ‘Oh that dreadful creature. He knows he’s not allowed in your room. Send him downstairs.’

  ’It’s done. He’s probably in the kitchen hoping a sausage will jump off the counter into his jaws.’

  ‘Did you sleep well my dear? We thought we’d have breakfast outside, it’s such a lovely morning.’

  ‘I’ll be right down.’

  ‘Oh Caro, just a second!’

  Birdie tiptoed as best she could in her sturdy brogues over to the wall beneath Caroline’s window, pressing a finger to her lips and wiggling her eyebrows up and down. After a quick look over her shoulder she began to mouth an incomprehensible message. Finally, her face red with exertion she hissed with penetrating sibilance:

  ‘Don’t forget the Birthday!’

  ‘Right! Don’t worry Birdie! It’s here!’ Caroline mouthed the words ‘her present’ and the two of them exchanged a series of conspiratorial nods and winks, with Birdie finally backing away, giving a ‘thumbs up’ sign as she disappeared into the house.

  Caroline was still laughing to herself as she pulled on her dressing gown. It was like being in a play. An old-fashioned 1950s piece where all the actors articulated loudly and made sweeping gestures. Where the actresses wore tweeds and the actors smoked pipes. Where the audience clapped and booed and laughed and everyone went home happy.

  Margaret had just sat down and was trying to hang her stick on the edge of the table when Caroline crept up behind her and deposited a noisy kiss on the crown of silky grey hair.

  ‘Happy birthday!’

  She pirouetted round to stand in front of her aunt, clutching the bulky parcel she had wrapped the previous night.

  ‘Good heavens child! Don’t tell me you’ve been spending your money on presents for an old lady! There’s nothing I need and in any case I shan’t be around for much longer.’

  Her words were greeted with a chorus of groans from Caroline and Birdie.

  ‘I’d better take it back, get a refund, what do you think Birdie?’

  Margaret sniffed.

  ‘Oh alright then. I suppose it’s not every day one gets to the ripe old age of eighty. And I did hear someone on television say that nowadays eighty was the new sixty.’

  Caroline laughed and held out the parcel to her aunt, whose eyes were gleaming with anticipation.

  ‘Open it, open it,’ urged Birdie, unable to sit still.

  ‘Surely it can wait until the child has had her breakfast,’ said Margaret innocently. ‘Oh very well then, if you insist.’
<
br />   Her hands trembled as she unwrapped the paper.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’

  The exclamation left Caroline in no doubt as to her aunt’s pleasure. Margaret blinked as she gazed at the box, running her fingers over the wood, exclaiming with delight as she opened it up and saw the blue velvet interior.

  ‘It’s lovely my dear, simply lovely. I shall never use it.’

  ‘Auntie M!’

  ‘Oh no. It’s far too beautiful. I shall put it in a cupboard, somewhere safe.’

  Birdie gave a snort.

  ‘Don’t believe a word she says, Caroline, by next week there will have been at least half a dozen unprintable letters written on it!’

  Birdie’s cheeks were pink with pleasure for her friend.

  ‘I’m a spoiled old woman,’ said Margaret. ‘Come here and give me a kiss my dear. Thank you so much. And look, this is from Birdie.’

  She leaned back to show her niece the antique brooch edged with heavy gold that was pinned to her dress.

  ‘Oh it’s lovely Birdie! I’ve never seen such an unusual cameo.’

  ‘It belonged to my mother,’ said Birdie. ‘She was the same type as Margaret, small and fine-boned, the sort who can wear cameos.’

  Caroline didn’t miss the note of wistfulness in her voice. She glanced at Birdie’s hands, clasped before her, large, square-fingered capable hands, the skin roughened by housework and gardening and felt a sudden pang. Had there ever been a James in Birdie’s life?

  ‘How about a cup of tea?’ she asked, lifting the heavy teapot and filling up the cups of the two women with the strong brown liquid they drank incessantly.

  ‘The sausages!’ Birdie gave a startled cry and rushed indoors, reappearing some minutes later with a platter of bacon and sausages, somewhat crisp around the edges but basically unharmed. Caroline fell upon the food ravenously while the two women exchanged glances of approval.

  After breakfast the three of them took a stroll round the garden. Margaret walked with difficulty, leaning on the arm of her niece, pausing frequently, while Birdie made little rushes at offending sprays of foliage with her secateurs. They had an elderly gardener, Soames, who came in twice a week to tend the flowerbeds, but the rest of the time it was Birdie who kept the garden in shape. They inspected the spring vegetables, late this year, neatly laid out in rows. Caroline, casting a glance at Birdie, wondered how much longer she would be able to do the kneeling and bending. Beyond the vegetable garden, fruit bushes grew, and further still, an orchard opened out, covered in fading blossom. In the distance across the fields rose the church steeple of Ravensfield village.

  ‘The first really warm day of the year,’ marvelled Birdie, perspiring slightly in her tweeds. ‘Especially for your birthday, Margaret.’

  ‘What time did Annabel say they’d be here?’ Caroline hoped her voice conveyed nothing more than casual interest.

  ‘She just said some time after lunch.’

  Her aunt paused for a moment to rest.

  ‘Julian had to go into the City this morning. They’ll probably turn up in time for tea.’

  But in fact the three of them were still sitting over their post-lunch cups of coffee when they heard the sound of Julian’s BMW turning into the drive. It pulled up before the steps in the obligatory shower of gravel. Annabel was at the wheel.

  Caroline caught her breath as she went forward to greet her sister. She looked stunning, her hair caught back in a white silk scarf, her face tanned golden by the Greek sun. For a moment she looked so much like their mother that Caroline felt her heart miss a beat.

  ‘Darlings! Whoohoo! What a simply glorious day!’

  Julian had hurried round to help her out of the car. She was wearing fawn trousers in a silky material, impeccably cut, with a blue silk top under the deceptively casual jacket, which thought Caroline, looked a lot like Armani. Around her tanned neck several fine gold chains were wound in careless profusion.

  ‘Annabel my pet, you’re looking so well.’

  Margaret kissed her niece and turned to greet Julian.

  ‘How are you Julian? So kind of you to give up your holiday weekend to come and visit a couple of old women.’

  ‘Nonsense Miss MacDonald, I’m deeply flattered to have been invited and on this weekend in particular.’

  The voice was well-modulated, the handsome face politely attentive. He could have been a young royal, thought Caroline, who had never seen Julian anything other than the model of reserved affability, his rather old-fashioned manners polished by years of public school education and the obligatory three years at Cambridge.

  ‘Lovely to see you, Caroline.’

  He leaned forward to kiss her cheek and she caught the smell of expensive aftershave and was uncomfortably aware of her faded Levis and flat sandals.

  ‘Caro you sneaky thing! You beat us to it!’ said Annabel, giving her sister an air kiss on both cheeks.

  ‘Your sister came down yesterday and has done nothing but sleep since she arrived,’ said Birdie ushering everyone towards the table where the coffee things still stood. ‘I’ll go and put on a fresh pot, shall I?’

  ‘That would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble,’ said Julian, sitting down in one of the garden chairs and loosening his cravat.

  A cravat? thought Caroline, watching in fascination. The pair of them looked as though they had just stepped out of an advertisement in ‘Tatler’.

  ‘Mr Julian Bartholomew Courtenay and his glamorous fiancée, Annabel Gwendoline MacDonald, took a Bank Holiday spin through the English countryside in their latest model BMW sports coupé. Their sparkling presence was a must at the jolly 80th celebrations in honour of Annabel’s Aunt Margaret, doyenne of Willowdale Farm, a charming 18th century residence that has been in the MacDonald family for simply aeons. Annabel’s elder sister Caroline was one of the merry revellers, disguised as Sarah Lund in a pair of old jeans with her hair in a ratty ponytail. You could have fooled us, Caroline! Maple-glazed nightingales and a ceviche of sea urchins were served with the celebratory tipple. By Jove.’

  ‘Earth to Caro!’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Caroline sat up straight.

  ‘I said, dear sister, did you come down yesterday evening?’ said Annabel, sitting next to her fiancé and putting a protective hand on his arm. ‘The traffic must have been horrendous.’

  ‘No, I took an extra day off. I’m not indispensable,’ she added, in answer to her sister’s surprised look.

  ‘Really darling? I thought the place fell apart if you weren’t there to drill the troops. Oh Jules! The cadeau!’

  Annabel sprang to her feet again and threw her arms round Margaret’s neck.

  ‘Happy birthday dearest Auntie Mags!’

  ‘Steady on child you’re choking me to death,’ protested Margaret, patting her niece’s back.

  Julian had gone over to the car. He returned bearing a box wrapped in gold and white paper with an enormous bow. Birdie clapped her hands. Watching her aunt remove the layers of tissue, Caroline wondered what her sister had chosen. Her taste was unerring; she always seemed to know just what people secretly desired.

  There was a little gasp as Margaret lifted a delicate porcelain figure of a shepherdess out of the tissue paper. It was exquisitely worked, and the pale tints of the porcelain enhanced the fragile beauty of the little girl. On the card accompanying it Annabel had written:

  ‘To Aunt Margaret with dearest love Annabel and Julian.’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ breathed Margaret holding the figure reverently. ‘Meissen. It will go beautifully with the others.’

  Aunt Margaret was a collector of porcelain. But in recent years, with antiques programmes on television every day, and everyone trying to find a hidden bargain, she had been unable to keep up with the prices. Caroline hazarded a shocked guess at what the figure must have cost. She too watched the antiques programmes. Julian’s face wore a look of beaming satisfaction. Well, if that wasn’t a proof of love... There was n
o way Annabel could have afforded to buy such a piece. In any case she spent nearly everything she earned on her wardrobe.

  ‘Do you really like it?’ Annabel purred with satisfaction. ‘I spotted it the other week in Sampson’s. I knew I had to have it, but he already had a buyer. But we got it in the end darling didn’t we?’ She cast a look of triumph at Julian and squeezed his arm.

  Margaret showed them her other gifts, which were dutifully admired, and the conversation turned to the programme for the weekend. The village of Ravensfield had a little organic market on Saturday mornings. Annabel said she’d like to buy some local cheese to take back to London.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind Auntie Mags,’ she added, ‘but I’ve invited a friend for tea tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course not my dear.’ Margaret sounded slightly surprised. ‘A friend from London you mean?’

  ‘Well yes and no. He’s a friend of Julian’s actually. Edward Rayburn. But his parents live right next door, at The Limes, maybe you’ve met?’

  Caroline came to attention. Edward Rayburn? Wasn’t that the person Annabel had mentioned on the phone, the one whose family owned the villa in France? For the first time since she’d arrived the ramifications of Wednesday’s conversation hit her full force. She had more or less given her word to Annabel that she would join in with her ridiculous scheme. Of course her sister had fought dirty to get what she wanted. What had she said exactly? Two weeks? Two weeks cooped in a villa with her darling sister and a bunch of people she’d never met? Annabel’s London friends were all young and trendy, terribly self-assured and knowing, twittering non-stop like a flock of starlings about the latest must-have handbag and who was cheating on who and did you know so-and-so had had Botox injections, yes really! She could hardly stand one evening with them, let alone two weeks. A nightmare. She’d be like a fish out of water. And why had her sister been so insistent on her presence? Something was going on. She would have to find a way to get out of it before it was too late. She suddenly realised what her aunt was saying.

  ‘…as I said we know the younger son very well, he’s often with his parents at the village shows, but we’ve never met Edward.’