A French Affair

by Jennifer Bohnet

  Belinda sighed. Jane was right. It wasn’t forever. She’d agree to go, keep her head down, concentrate on work, stay on site and ignore everything else. If the opportunity came up, maybe she would try and do something about those ghosts. And the good thing was she’d be back home ready to pick up her normal routine with the hotels in time for high season and summer.

  3

  To Belinda’s unspoken relief, her departure for France was delayed until late February by two things. The first was the fact that the Plymouth–Roscoff ferry was out of service in the New Year for six weeks of maintenance. The second was the organising of BB’s pet passport with all the necessary vaccinations and form filling.

  As soon as she had a definite date for leaving, Belinda googled the nearest village to the campsite and booked herself in for a couple of nights at the Auberge de Campagne. That way she could check out the state of the cabins before living on the site. No way was she in the mood for slumming it in less than ideal conditions.

  Despite the hotels being quiet in the first few weeks of the New Year, the days at work were busy for Belinda. Determined to leave everything in order for Nigel and Molly to deal with while she was away, she spent hours on the computer organising things.

  In the evenings of the week leading up to departure day, she cleaned the flat until every surface shone, emptied the fridge of its meagre contents and washed every shelf before switching it off. Anything to take her mind off the impending situation.

  Her clothes were washed, ironed and folded ready to be put in the suitcase. Before she could reach the large suitcase that she’d stored in the understairs cupboard the day she’d moved into the flat, she had to practically empty the cupboard of stuff she’d shoved in there – out of sight out of mind, for the most part: vacuum cleaner, ironing board, wellington boots, a small fan heater and a large cardboard storage box with a lid.

  She’d found the box in the bottom of her mum’s wardrobe two years ago when she was emptying her house ready for sale. A brief look inside then had told Belinda it was just a collection of letters, photos, old passports, official letters and the odd keepsake from her childhood, so she’d put it to one side for when she had a moment to go through it. The moment had never arrived.

  Pulling out the suitcase, she pushed the box to the back of the cupboard and replaced everything else in front of it, promising herself that she’d finally go through it all when she returned from Brittany.

  Belinda placed the suitcase on the bed and began to systematically place things in it. BB whined and jumped up onto the bed and sat on the open lid, regarding her reproachfully. Picking him up, she cuddled him. ‘Don’t worry, darling BB, you’re coming with me.’ The dog licked her hand and didn’t protest when she set him down on the floor.

  Two evenings before she left, Nigel and Molly joined her for dinner in the Dartmouth hotel, to introduce her to Alain Salvin, the campsite manager, via a video call. Despite her apprehension about the whole campsite business, Belinda couldn’t help but be curious about the man who would be her co-worker in Brittany.

  ‘What qualifications does this Alain Salvin have? Is he an experienced campsite manager?’

  Nigel shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask. Our friends’ recommendation was enough for us.’

  Belinda stared at him. That was most unlike Nigel.

  ‘He’s local, so he knows the area, he speaks some English and he’s a capable outdoor type, good in an emergency, according to them. You can ask him yourself later.’

  But Belinda, determined to do just that, never had the chance.

  Once dinner was over, tablets were produced, numbers tapped in and they waited for the French connection to join them.

  Alain Salvin, when he appeared on the screen, was not the young man she’d been expecting. This man to whom Nigel was introducing her was in his late fifties with a certain roguish Gaelic look about him.

  ‘Hello, Alain. I’m looking forward to joining you in Camping dans La Fôret later this week,’ Belinda said, trying to strike the right note before she began questioning him.

  ‘Bonjour.’

  With that, Alain disappeared from the screen and the connection was lost. Nigel swore under his breath and spent several moments trying to regain a connection before throwing his hands up in the air in disgust and muttering something rude about technology.

  A frustrated Belinda could only sigh. At least she could now put a face to the name Alain Salvin. Finding out about him would have to keep until she was on site.

  A day later, the last weekend in February, it was time to leave. But not before first dropping in on Chloe, Max and the twins. Belinda read several bedtime stories to the twins and kissed them goodnight after promising to bring them a present each back from France. She made her way downstairs and enjoyed an early supper with Chloe and Max before hugging them both and leaving to drive to Plymouth to catch the cross-Channel ferry for an overnight sailing to Roscoff.

  Thankfully, the crossing was calm, but sleep eluded her and she tossed and turned the night away. Even knowing that she’d be returning for a week to help out over the Easter holiday when the hotels were busy didn’t help. She had to survive until then, first.

  4

  Sitting in her car the next morning waiting for the queue of cars in front of her to start leaving the ferry, Belinda set the satnav for ‘Camping dans La Fôret, Finistère’.

  A feeble sun in the grey sky failed to break through to clear the early-morning mist that hung over the countryside as she left Roscoff behind her. Belinda took her time driving along, enjoying the surprisingly traffic-free roads taking her past field after field that would soon contain the artichokes and the renowned onions of the area. Trees with their bare branches stood tall alongside roadside hedges that were half the height of the Devon ones she was used to. Later, on the windswept Parc d’Armorique, as she reached the top of a hill, Belinda had a misty glimpse of a view that on a clear day would stretch for miles and miles away into the distance.

  When BB whined at her from his seat alongside her, she pulled into a lay-by at the top of one of those hills, unclipped his seat belt harness and slipped his lead on before getting out of the car. Once the little dog had sniffed the new smells and peed, Belinda put him back in the car. She sat for a few moments looking out at the wild open moorland in front of her. Strangely familiar and yet new and unseen.

  Not one hundred per cent comfortable with driving her beloved Mazda MX5 on the ‘wrong’ side of the road, she’d set the satnav to find the quietest route. Now, obeying its directions and leaving the wide-open space of the moor, Belinda found herself driving down quiet side roads taking her deeper into the heart of Finistère close to the border of Morbihan.

  Driving through in some cases deserted villages and small hamlets, she experienced several unexpected feelings of déjà vu. Feelings she pushed firmly away, but her sense of unease grew as her destination drew closer. Long shut-down memories began to surface despite her attempts to keep them buried. She really didn’t want to be here in Brittany. To remember. She couldn’t – wouldn’t – allow herself to think about the past.

  A quick glance at the satnav display on the dashboard indicated that she was nearly at the end of her journey. The next village with its ‘Welcome’ sign on the verge confirmed the fact that the time to change her mind and carry on driving until she was far away was running out. She barely registered the school or the church as she approached the main street. The aroma of freshly baked bread from the boulangerie drifted past her nostrils as she reached the centre of the village and her stomach rumbled, reminding her about her decision not to eat breakfast on the ferry. Another hundred metres and the village was behind her and she was approaching a T-junction.

  Belinda gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white as she fought the desire to turn round and go back to England. To tell Nigel and Molly that she couldn’t do it and resign, like she should have done in the very beginning. She was experienced enough now to get another job. />
  Seconds before the satnav announced ‘In twenty yards turn left’, Belinda saw the ‘Camping dans La Fôret’ sign on the verge, pointing down a narrow tree-lined track. She stretched out her left hand and turned the satnav off. This was it. The point of no return. If she turned onto the lane, she would be committed to stay and do the job Nigel expected her to do.

  Sitting there, her foot on the brake, Belinda mentally gave herself a good talking-to. She was a grown-up for goodness’ sake, no longer an impressionable teenager. That person had put the past behind her years ago and got on with life, never dreaming that one day she would be forced to once again come face to face with it. But maybe she was overreacting? After all, it had happened thirty-five years ago. Times were different. People were different. She was different.

  Determinedly, Belinda lifted her foot off the brake and pressed the accelerator, turning the steering wheel slowly as the car moved forward onto the lane.

  The gate at the campsite entrance was hanging off at a drunken angle to one side, a weather-beaten ‘Fermé’ sign pinned to the top bar. The first thing to put on her to-do list. Belinda forced herself to drive slowly, zigzagging the car up the potholed driveway that seemed to go on forever. The second thing to go on her to-do list. Finally, she pulled up in front of two tired-looking wooden buildings. One had the word ‘Shop’ above its doorway and sun-faded posters advertising bread, drinks and ice creams. The other had a shallow flight of steps leading to the door and the words ‘Reception – Accueil’ in faded paint across the top of the door.

  Her heart thumping, Belinda parked the car alongside an ancient mud-splattered 2CV, picked up her laptop bag from the passenger seat, got out, promised BB she’d let him out again soon, slammed the door and looked around.

  What on earth had Nigel and Molly been thinking about? The photos they’d shown her hadn’t looked like this. The place was so run-down, it was a joke. Like most campsites in France, Camping dans La Fôret had closed over the winter – if indeed it had even been open last summer. Looking at the sorry state of things, Belinda doubted that there had been many customers even if it had been open. She sighed. Without even having seen the complete site yet, she doubted that June next year was a realistic date, let alone June this year – a mere twelve weeks away.

  She opened the laptop bag and pulled out the folder Nigel had given her with the details, plans and a few out-of-focus pictures that she’d slipped inside. With no website to study, the folder contained minimal information. Alain Salvin, would be there to greet her when she arrived Nigel had said and he would give her all the information and help she needed.

  Presumably the old 2CV was his car and the light was on in reception. Surely he must have heard her arrive? Why hadn’t he appeared to greet her? It wasn’t as if there were hordes of cars or people descending on the place. It would have been good manners for him to come out and greet her. They were, after all, going to be working together. It was hardly the most promising of starts and Alain Salvin had lost a number of brownie points, as far as she was concerned.

  Belinda took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, pulled her five foot three inch body up to its full height and climbed the steps to the reception. She didn’t bother to knock before she opened the door and walked in. ‘Bonjour.’

  A large ginger cat curled up on the desk asleep opened its eyes briefly and looked at her, but the man concentrating on the computer screen in front of it didn’t even deign to look up before saying, ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  Belinda, recognising Alain Salvin from the brief look she’d had of him the night of the supposed video call, could feel her anger rising as he continued to ignore her. A course in front-of-house etiquette wouldn’t go amiss. Belinda tapped her foot, decided to count to ten slowly and then, if he was still engrossed on his computer, she’d leave and start to explore outside by herself.

  She’d reached nine and was about to turn and leave when the man looked up and stared at her for several seconds with an unfathomable expression on his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was hard.

  ‘Bonjour. I don’t say welcome to Camping dans La Fôret because I sure as ’ell don’t need or want a troubleshooter ’ere.’

  His rudeness took her breath away. Talk about a frosty reception. Belinda took a deep breath. ‘Well, Mr Salvin, that makes two of us then. Because, to quote you, I sure as hell don’t want to be here,’ and Belinda glared at him before turning on her heels, marching out and slamming the door as hard as she could behind her.

  Shaking, she got in the car and sat with her bowed head resting on the centre of the steering wheel for a moment, trying to pull herself together. BB, sensing she was upset, gave her a gentle nudge with his nose, while guilt crowded in on Belinda. She shouldn’t have reacted like that. Totally unprofessional of her. But who exactly did Alain Salvin think he was? Nigel had never said a word about the manager being a man with a serious attitude problem. And how exactly was she going to deal with him?

  Sitting there Belinda inwardly berated herself. ‘You’re here to do a job. A job you know you’re good at. Take notes, make plans and draw up a working campaign and then get Nigel to employ someone else to see it all to fruition.’

  Before that happened though, she’d talk to Nigel and tell him exactly what she thought of his new manager. Monsieur Salvin had shown her he was the sort of person who couldn’t deal with authority and to whom compromise was a dirty word. The hospitality industry didn’t need rude employees like him and the quicker Nigel sacked him, the better.

  5

  Sitting in the car, Belinda struggled to stop her hands shaking as she took her mobile out of her bag and tried to compose her thoughts. The text she’d promised to send Nigel was brief and to the point:

  Arrived. Talk later.

  She switched her phone to voice message, knowing that Nigel was likely to ring her back immediately, demanding to know what she thought of the campsite and, right now, she was incapable of talking to him coherently. Besides she’d not seen anything yet apart from the tatty reception cabin and the rudest man she’d encountered in a while. Even if she marched straight back in and demanded that Alain Salvin gave her an immediate guided tour of the place, she doubted he’d oblige. Which meant she needed to revise her original plans for the rest of the day.

  She scrolled through to the notes app on her phone and read the list of the things she’d planned for this first day. Site visit. Take photos. Make notes. Start to formulate a campaign of improvement. Check-in at the auberge. Belinda glanced at her watch. Midday. Right, time for Plan B. Go to the village, explore what was on offer, maybe have a coffee if there was a café. Buy a ham and cheese baguette from the boulangerie for lunch. Find the auberge. Return to the campsite and explore by herself. She didn’t need a guided tour. In fact, it was probably better to be alone to uncover the horrors that she suspected would be lurking everywhere.

  She picked up her tote and Buddy’s lead. She’d leave the car here and walk back into the village. The exercise would do her good and the fresh air would clear her head. Maybe even give her some idea on how to deal with Alain Salvin.

  ‘Come on, BB. Time for your first walk in France.’ The dog wagged his tail as she clipped his lead on and licked her hand.

  Belinda took her time walking to the village. It was good to stretch her legs and BB was beside himself with all the strange smells he discovered in the grass-covered verges. The absence of traffic allowed Belinda to look around at the surrounding countryside. Too early in the year for any crops to be growing, but she could see several tractors in the fields, spreading the muck she could smell and spraying fertiliser over the earth. Smoke was rising out of a nearby farmhouse chimney and a cluster of wind turbines in the distance were turning.

  The boulangerie, when she reached it, was closed for lunch. The village shop too had the shutters pulled down, the cardboard clock sign on the door pointing to 2.30 for reopening. Belinda sighed. She’d forgotten about the irritating F
rench habit of shutting up shop for a couple of hours in the middle of the day.

  Outside ‘Yann’s Place’, opposite the church, four cars were parked in a row and Belinda made her way over the square towards it. Hopefully it would be a bar-cum-restaurant and she’d be able to at least buy a sandwich and coffee.

  A short silence greeted her entrance as she pushed the door open and walked in, as people glanced up and gave her a brief stare before dropping their gaze.

  The man behind the counter called out a welcoming ‘Bonjour’ as Belinda made her way towards an empty table in the corner.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Belinda replied politely as she settled BB at her feet under the table. ‘Une café au lait, s’il vous plaît.’

  Waiting for her coffee, Belinda studied the blackboards fixed to the wall advertising cassoulet as the ‘plat du jour’ and other meals and snacks, including savoury crêpes. A crêpe and a glass of rosé for lunch would be perfect. She wasn’t that hungry.

  ‘You like to eat?’ the man asked, placing her coffee on the table.

  Belinda hid a smile. Her accent had clearly given her away as English. Good. The locals probably wouldn’t be eager to engage her in conversation now. She certainly didn’t intend to get involved in the local community or make friends with anyone while she was here.

  ‘Please,’ and pointing to the end blackboard, Belinda ordered a ham and egg crêpe and a glass of rosé.

  ‘Bien. Five minutes.’

  The man returned to behind the bar and called her order through to someone in the kitchen.

  Sitting there sipping her coffee, Belinda looked around. It wasn’t a big bar, but it had a welcoming vibe to it, which the wood burner burning away in the chimney recess at the end of the room enforced. She could imagine the place filled with locals on a winter’s weekend evening happily warming themselves by the fire and enjoying a glass or two of Brittany cider. Perhaps the bagpipes currently lying on a table near the fire would be picked up and traditional Breton songs would be sung.