Jenny had taken to singing choruses of rock and pop songs Luc had no idea about. She’d bounce along trilling words that didn’t make sense to him that seemed to be playing constantly on the radio. ‘It’s by The Kinks, Dad,’ she’d said, eyes shining, as though that should explain everything. He’d quickly learnt not to try to fathom the tastes of the young and London was certainly a modern city that was sloughing off its conservative cocoon and emerging like a wild, theatrical butterfly into the new decade. Fashion, art and music all pointed to a new age, where everything from hallucinogenic drugs to bright, psychedelic colours were apparently the norm and everyone spoke with great optimism and hope for the future. Given that they were talking about space travel and walking on the moon, Luc had decided that nothing should surprise him.
Jenny was soaking it all up and had even dared to ask him if she could have a miniskirt from Bazaar, which she’d insisted on being taken into when they’d roamed through Knightsbridge. He was noticing so much about Jenny; most achingly that she was, as her mother had often quipped, thinking like a young woman a decade older than her years. Jenny’s keen eye for fashion was responding swiftly and enthusiastically to all that was on show, and in their hotel of an evening she had her head buried in women’s magazines. His daughter seemed determined to own two items.
One was a miniskirt by Mary Quant, which was black with white polka dots and a contrasting striped belt, and she also yearned for perfume from Chanel in Paris. Apparently her mother had spoken affectionately of it.
Luc could not smell the No.5 fragrance without being reminded of Colonel Kilian. Over my dead body, he told himself, will I allow my daughter to smell of that perfume … that man. It was petty of him – insecure, even – but he didn’t care. Chanel No.5 didn’t use lavender, to his knowledge, so he felt even further justified in his attitude. What he couldn’t deny, though, was the beauty of the scent. Majestic and haunting, it spoke of a bright sensuality, lingered for days, and might be that fashion brand that Lisette had hinted at. Maybe they could produce a perfume … ‘Bonet’. He tested it in his mind. It sounded perfect.
‘You’re too young for perfume,’ he’d replied. ‘But we’ll discuss the skirt,’ he said before she could leap in and debate with him.
As a special treat he’d booked tickets for them to see the West End smash-hit production of Oliver, which they both enjoyed immensely. Now Jenny had a new song in her mind to sing repeatedly in a pretty reasonable cockney accent. ‘Consider Yourself’ permeated the rest of their time in the capital, whose weather had taken a turn for the worse: they were waking to foggy, cold mornings and what Jenny termed as ‘freezing’ nights. Luc finally relented and took her to see Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard in a special midnight rerun of the runaway-hit movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s, despite his reservation that it was far too grown up and that surely Walt Disney’s 101 Dalmations was more suitable. But Jenny insisted and he understood why when the eccentric, extroverted lead character first lit up the screen and Jenny sighed at her dress and pearls, her huge sunglasses and her gloves, casually eating a pastry and drinking a takeaway coffee as she pauses to look into the display window of Tiffany’s in New York. Audrey Hepburn was captivating for him too, but he suspected Holly Golightly was about to become Jenny’s new idol and fashion icon.
‘She’s wearing Givenchy, Dad,’ Jenny sighed and he had to smile quietly in the darkness at the combined lust and wistfulness in his daughter’s voice. How would Launceston, let alone Nabowla, ever be enough for his little girl after all these experiences?
With only a day left, Luc had taken Jenny on the train down to Hampshire, back to Pierrefondes Avenue where Lisette’s grandfather, now in his early nineties, shuffled around the downstairs of the home Luc had visited many times during the late 1940s. He hadn’t really wanted to see it again. If he was honest, he didn’t want to see his wife’s grandfather again either. It brought the pain of losing Lisette too close to the surface, but he knew it was important that Jenny meet her great-grandfather.
Colin’s eyes had been rheumy and he moved slowly, painfully. The nurse called in while they were there for the second time that day to ensure he took his tablets. A housekeeper called by daily as well. There was no doubt that the old man was being well cared for and he seemed determined to remain in the house, rather than ‘rot in a nursing home’, as he’d said.
‘They’ll carry me out of here in a box,’ he warned without any embarrassment that his only granddaughter and great-grandson had recently been put into the same.
Their reunion had been every bit as painful as Luc had anticipated, and he could only wish that the old man was lost to dementia so the agony of Colin’s three favourite women dying before him wasn’t etched in his expression. Luc knew the feeling all too well and had been lost for words as their gazes had first met; a brisk, gruff hug had spoken plenty and Jenny’s presence certainly eased their conversation away from sadness into bright, sparkly questions about everything from the photos of her great-grandmother to whether he might like to visit them in Australia.
Luc didn’t ask but guessed even dear old Peanut had passed away and smiled at a photo of the small dog on the mantelpiece. He looked extremely comfortable in Granny’s embrace and had clearly made himself at home with the elderly couple.
‘The house and contents I’m leaving to Jenny,’ the old man had said quietly to him later that afternoon, while he sucked gently on a pipe and caught the last bit of the sun’s warmth for the year. They were watching Jenny dangle a twig in the garden pond while admiring the goldfish. The men sat back against the warm brick wall where Luc recalled the hydrangeas in summer would flower theatrically, spilling huge mop-head blue blooms in all directions. He remembered how proud Lisette’s grandmother used to be of that plant. He missed Marie here – the place felt as empty without her as the farm did without Lisette.
‘She’s too young to understand,’ Luc commented, even though he knew Jenny would understand all too well.
‘Yes, but one day she can live here or sell the place as she chooses and live off its proceeds. I’m just happy to know I’ve provided my great-grandchild with an English base. I’d like her to know a bit about England.’
Luc nodded. ‘She’s in love with London already, if that’s any consolation.’
‘Are you taking her to Eastbourne?’
‘No point. And I would find it painful.’
‘It’s not about you, Luc. It’s about her. You need to give her all the memories of her mother, where her brother was born, where you come from, your and Lisette’s early life, early marriage. Don’t let her grow up dislocated like your wife.’
Luc cut him a sharp glance but the old man was ready for him.
‘I’d take you to task if you claimed you loved her any more than I did, son, but I’m capable of seeing Lisette clearly. Maybe you can’t.’ He shrugged and tapped his pipe out against the wall in a practised way. ‘There was something about my granddaughter – it was always as though she was deliberately hurtling to an early death, like her mother before her.’ His voice grew thick as he stabbed his pipe towards Luc now. ‘You make sure you break that mould with this one.’ He tried to stand and fell back into the chair. A look of absolute disgust ghosted across his expression. ‘Look at that. So ruddy helpless I can’t even get to my feet. The world’s not long for me, Luc. I refuse to live in it if I’m helpless.’ Another sharp look won him a chuckle. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll wait until you’ve both gone,’ he reassured, amused by some private joke. ‘I’m glad you came. More glad in fact than you can know. I wish Marie could have met Jenny – she’s uncannily like her mother.’
Luc sighed. ‘Most of the time I feel grateful for that, but there are times when I find it hard to look at Jenny.’
‘Get past it. She needs every ounce of you now, boy. Stay involved in her life.’
Luc had hugged the old man again and begged himself not to blurt out something empty like ‘See you again’ – which they both wou
ld have known was a lie – but her grandfather winked.
‘Your English is really good now, lad. If you stay here long enough, you may even learn how to play cricket.’
Luc had grinned. ‘Oh, believe me, I’m having to learn it fast living in Australia. I hear our team won the Ashes.’
‘Bah! That ruddy Benaud and his men.’
There was nothing else to say, although the awkward moment of farewell had been sidestepped and then they were gone again, returning to the station in a taxi and rattling back on a train to Charing Cross, picking up their luggage from the Thistle hotel and returning to the station, now bound for Dover where they would hopefully seamlessly connect with the ferry to Calais. It went smoothly and within hours they were on the observation deck with a chilling wind stealing their breath. The early evening lost the violet hue of the English Channel and moved into the inky darkness of the waters of La Manche – the French name for the narrow arm of the Atlantic Sea that cut between the Sussex and Norman coasts. Looking down, the waters were black and shapeless, with rolling waves they couldn’t see but could certainly feel buffeting the side of the ship. Jenny showed no sign of it but Luc felt nauseous and refused to join her inside the ferry, where cloying smells of diesel fuel and engine oil mixed with the blanketing staleness of old Horlicks and Bovril. The sea should smell fresh, he thought, but again all he could smell was tangy seaweed. Jenny had gone in search of a cocoa but he had insisted on going out onto the unsheltered deck, despite the light drizzle that he could see illuminated by the ferry’s lamps, and inhaling as much frigid, salty air as possible to calm his heaving belly. He remembered this feeling now from his days rowing out to the lighthouse; he’d conquered it then but it seemed the lack of sailor’s legs was a permanent affliction, as his voyage to Australia had attested. Lisette had laughed gently at him then, teasing that a man of the mountains should never trust the sea. She was right. He understood mountains – unyielding and honest in what they presented; they never lied. But oceans were unpredictable, fathomless, and murderous.
The sea killed and it wasn’t choosy.
Neither of them had discussed it but he knew Jenny wasn’t thrilled to be on the water either, however, it was the fastest way to get to France and her eagerness to see Paris outweighed her fears.
Predawn the following day they were easing into the dimly lit harbour of Calais. Like Dover before it, it appeared rough and unwieldy – a hotchpotch of industrial-looking buildings and the smell of Gauloises cigarette tobacco reaching Luc before anything else could. Ah yes, this was France! He smiled in the darkness and then felt a hand take his.
‘We’re here,’ Jenny said, looking relieved.
He nodded, pulling her close, too choked up to speak. This was the trip he had planned to bring his wife on; they’d so often talked about returning to France together and walking a Paris not draped in swastikas or kowtowing to the barking of German orders. He had longed to show Lisette his Provence … his Saignon … most of all, his lavender fields. But now he would do that with their daughter. It had to be enough – he had to make sure it was enough and that Jenny never felt his wistfulness.
But she was so much keener than he gave her credit for.
‘Dad … I wish Mum were here to share this with you.’ He looked down at her pale face in the ghostly lightening of dawn’s first stretch and sodium lamps. ‘I imagine you’re thinking about her,’ she said, gravely. ‘So am I.’
Luc felt a pang of guilt ripple through him that he’d already failed to mask his hurt. He stroked her smooth cheek.
‘But she is here,’ he said, mustering a smile. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing first to Jenny’s heart and then to his. ‘And here,’ he said, cupping her face. ‘You are the image of your mother except a lot more beautiful.’
She searched her father’s face and he knew she was unsure of whether he was just placating her.
‘I mean it, Jen. You remind me of Mum every moment of the day but you’re also your own person and you’ve still got a lot of growing to do. I can’t wait to see who you’re going to be and what you’re going to achieve. Don’t ever feel that I’m not proud of you or not happy to be sharing this journey with you. You’ve made it special already and of course it would be perfect if Mum and Harry were here with us too, but we both have to stop wishing they could be.’
Jenny suddenly wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘I love you, Dad. I know Harry found it easy to say it to you both but I don’t. But it doesn’t mean I don’t want to say it often. But I’m worried about you. You keep disappearing in your thoughts. I’m nervous that you’re missing Mum too much.’
He held her close. ‘I miss her every minute of every day. I miss Harry so much it hurts. But I’m in control of that sadness, I promise. I just have things on my mind.’
‘About the business? The testing went so well …’
He nodded. ‘No, I’m not worried about the business at all, I promise.’
‘Returning to France after so long?’
Luc smiled. ‘I’m hesitant, yes.’
‘I can’t wait to see Paris with you. I can’t wait to see your village and the lavender.’
‘The lavender will have gone wild.’
‘Who cares? It’s yours. And you said we’ve already claimed back the farm – it’s just a matter of sorting out some legal papers.’
Jenny was right once again. He liked the way she could slice away all the irrelevant anxieties, cutting straight to the bone of any issue. What she didn’t know, of course, was his real reason for coming back.
The ferry lurched and suddenly they could hear French being yelled on the shore and men were scurrying about in the shadows. The morning was breaking sluggishly, hinting strongly at winter, and he was sure it would be a grey, drizzly day. Not a perfect welcome home or ideal for Jenny’s initial glimpse of Paris, but Luc was a firm believer that everyone fell in love with the City of Light at first glance anyway.
Within forty minutes, passports had been checked and they were loaded onto the train, which was gathering speed through the rail yards before slithering through the back ends of suburbs, southward-bound for the great Gare Saint-Lazare in Paris that he remembered well.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Luc had booked them into the Grand Hotel. A short walk from the station, it had been the original Terminus Hotel built for the Grand Exhibition of Paris in the previous century. Another cavernous marble-clad foyer greeted them. Its dramatic double-sided staircase, which ascended from the back of the foyer into the gods through huge archways, was a flight to a purpose-built walkway directly into Gare Saint-Lazare.
The head concierge saw them admiring it. ‘The only way in Paris to transfer from a hotel onto the ships without getting a drop of rain on you, sir,’ he’d pointed out with pride. ‘So from our lobby you can travel to Dieppe, then to Newhaven in England to pick up the cruise ship and on to New York.’
‘Oh, I see. Jen, this hotel was really built to service the great transatlantic voyages between Europe and America.’
They’d checked in and while the porters sorted out the collection and transfer of luggage, Luc and Jenny stepped into the lobby with its mirrored ceiling. Enormous crystal chandeliers hung from it, twinkling lights reflecting all around them.
Jenny gave a soft whistle. ‘This must be costing you a lot, Dad.’
Twenty-five francs per night didn’t seem overly expensive to Luc. ‘So long as you’re happy,’ he said, not wishing to burst the bubble.
‘I love it. It’s so … so …’ She couldn’t find the word for it.
‘So French?’ Luc finished for her with a grin. ‘This sort of grandeur and mix of styles is called La Belle Époque.’
Jenny cut him a glance of surprise. ‘How do you know that?’
He laughed. ‘You think because I’m a farmer I’m uneducated?’
She frowned, shrugging.
‘Well, you’re in my part of the world now. You’ll see this grandiose styling throughout Paris,
especially in the hotels.’
‘I’m impressed, Dad.’
There were two small elevators but they chose to climb a different marble staircase set back to the side of the foyer, up to their room on the second floor. It was a corner guest suite so views were afforded from various angles.
‘We’re very close to L’Opéra,’ he explained to Jenny, who despite the cold hung out of the window, brimming with excitement as she gazed out at Paris. He pointed left. ‘We can walk it in a couple of minutes.’
‘And the Galeries Lafayette?’ she enthused.
‘Well, you have been doing your homework,’ he said. ‘Right there, in fact. In front of you. That’s the back end but if you spat you could hit it.’
She smiled. ‘Even more exciting than Harvey Nicholls.’
‘Really?’
‘When I’m back at school, what do you think is going to sound more impressive? “I got this skirt in London” or “I bought this bag in Paris”?’
‘The second, of course!’ he said.
Jenny grinned. ‘I have to sleep before we go sightseeing.’
‘Groovy,’ he replied deliberately and watched his daughter cringe.
‘Dad, don’t embarrass me.’
‘Embarrassing you is the last joy left to me,’ he said and tickled her.
‘Dad, no!’ she squealed, laughing.
He stopped, suddenly aware that other guests might not appreciate their noisy fun. ‘I’m having a shower and then I’m taking you to a very special place for an early dinner,’ he promised.
By the time he emerged from the bathroom in his robe, drying his wet hair with a thick white towel, he found his daughter still fully dressed in her coat and sprawled in a deep sleep across her bed. It was early afternoon and the shower had woken him. He dressed hurriedly, locked Jenny into their room and headed down the few flights of stairs to find a phone.
The French Promise Page 26