A French Affair

by Jennifer Bohnet

  ‘I like to walk in the countryside, cook delicious meals for my friends. Your grandchildren? How many ’ave you?’

  Belinda kept the thought that Alain’s own list of two things wasn’t exactly fun-filled either to herself, and answered his question about her grandchildren. ‘Two. A boy and a girl – they’re twins. They’ll be three later this year. Do you have any?’

  Alain nodded, a wry look on his face. ‘I ’ave a son, but no grandchildren yet.’

  The arrival of their food at that moment stopped Belinda asking him about his son and for several moments they were silent as they both tucked into their crêpes. Once her initial hunger had been satisfied Belinda looked at Alain.

  ‘I’ve a couple of women coming in tomorrow at two o’clock about the receptionist job. Can you be around to meet them?’

  ‘Are they local? I might already know them.’

  Belinda glanced around the bar. ‘One of them is sat over there with Bernie. The woman with the blonde hair tied back. She’s been helping around the site and asked me if we’d consider her. She’s never done a receptionist job before, so we’d have to train her from the ground up. Says she’s computer-literate, though, which is a bonus point.’

  ‘That’s Marie,’ Alain answered. ‘She’d make a good receptionist. She’s personable and good with people. She’s got my vote. So don’t waste your time, cancel the other interview. Would you like another drink?’

  Belinda laughed and shook her head. ‘I can’t do that. No more wine, thanks, but I’d like a coffee please and then we’d better get back.’

  Alain ordered the coffees as an assistant cleared their plates. ‘You see your daughter and her family while you’re in the UK?’

  Belinda nodded happily. ‘Yes, she lives in the same town. I’ve missed her while I’ve been here, but we don’t see an awful lot of each other anyway. We’re both so busy. I do get to babysit once a week while she and her husband have a “date night”. And we have Sunday lunch together once a month in one of the hotels.’

  When the waiter brought their coffees, he placed the bill on the table and Belinda reached for her purse to pay her share. Alain stopped her.

  ‘I pay for lunch,’ he said.

  ‘No, I’ll pay my share,’ Belinda said.

  ‘Please, I insist. Take it as an apology for my behaviour when you arrived.’

  Belinda looked at him, a half-smile on her face. ‘You’ve already apologised for that, but thank you,’ and she put her purse away.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Alain said.

  ‘You can, but I reserve the right to remain silent.’ Belinda looked at him as he carefully replaced his coffee cup on its saucer.

  ‘Do you remember that first day when you arrived and I told you I didn’t want you ’ere and you stormed off saying you, and I quote, “sure as ’ell” didn’t want to be ’ere. Why was that?’

  ‘As I remember it, I quoted your own words back at you. So I could ask you the same question.’ Belinda closed her eyes and sighed. ‘It’s personal and, actually,’ she opened her eyes as she spoke and looked at him, ‘I’d really rather not talk about it right now, especially in a public place.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Alain said. ‘I was just curious.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s go. I pay the bill and see you by the car.’

  A gentle rain was falling as Belinda waited outside for Alain under the shelter of a nearby tree. She glanced at her watch. Lunch had taken less than an hour. There was time to do something she’d been putting off ever since she’d arrived for one reason or another. And if she didn’t come back, would she ever have the chance again? Could she ask Alain to take her somewhere, no questions asked?

  As he appeared and they got in the car, Belinda took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry if I was rude back there. Would it be possible to take a short detour? There’s something I’ve been meaning to do for weeks, ever since I got here in fact.’

  Alain glanced at her, curious. ‘You going to tell me why?’

  ‘When we get there I will,’ Belinda said quietly.

  ‘Okay. Where are we going?’

  ‘Huelgoat direction via the scenic route, not the N164, for about five kilometres.’

  Sitting in the car listening to the mesmeric swish of the windscreen wipers swiping rhythmically across the screen, Belinda wondered if she was doing the right thing. She should have done this journey alone, not dragged a man who knew nothing about her past life along because she didn’t want to go alone. Alain wasn’t a total stranger, but it wasn’t fair on him. On the other hand, it was because of the question he’d asked that she’d impulsively decided to go. It would have been far more sensible to have asked Fern to have taken a detour when they’d met on Sunday for lunch.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, realising the crossroads they needed were approaching. ‘Turn left here.’

  The narrow road twisted and turned, a tall church spire guiding them into a small village.

  ‘If we can park near the church,’ Belinda said quietly.

  Alain parked, turned the engine off and turned to her. ‘And now?’ he asked, his voice gentle, his attitude concerned.

  Belinda gripped the door handle and pressed it down, ready to push it open before answering.

  ‘My paternal grandmother lived in this village. I lived on a smallholding a few kilometres away from here from the age of one until I was seventeen when… when I left.’ Belinda pushed open the car door and got out, relieved the rain had stopped. Without waiting for Alain, she walked towards the open gates of the churchyard and immediately turned left along a path. When he caught up with her, she said, ‘It’s strange, isn’t it, the things you remember? I haven’t been in this churchyard for nearly forty years, but I know exactly where the old family grave is.’

  A minute later she stopped in front of a gravel-filled plot with a carved granite angel standing at its head. Of the names carved on the lichen-covered headstone, it was just possible to make out part of the names and the dates from the eighteenth century. The last name was still clearly visible: Martha Odette Rochelle Belrose. 1915–1979.

  ‘I was twelve when she died and missed her so much,’ Belinda said quietly. ‘I spent a lot of time with her. She’d have been spinning in her grave if she’d known what was going to happen five years later.’ Belinda stopped speaking and blinked rapidly.

  ‘You okay?’ Alain asked.

  Belinda nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You like a few minutes alone? I see you back at the car,’ Alain offered.

  Belinda shook her head. ‘I’ve been wanting to come and pay my respects for a long time. I just couldn’t face it alone,’ Belinda said. ‘When – if – I get back after Easter, I’ll come with flowers. Thank you for bringing me today.’ She gave Alain a wobbly smile. ‘We’d better get back.’

  She was relieved when Alain turned and began to walk back to the car and didn’t press her for details on what had happened five years after her grandmother had died.

  ‘Your turn,’ she said as they drove out of the village.

  ‘My turn?’

  Belinda nodded. ‘Yes. You know a little now of why I didn’t want to be here, but why didn’t you want me here?’

  ‘That, I’m afraid, I’m not going to tell you today. As you said earlier, it’s personal and I don’t wish to discuss it.’

  Belinda opened her mouth to protest and closed it again. If Alain didn’t want to tell her, she couldn’t make him. She hadn’t told him the full story surrounding her grandmother either. Some things were better kept private.

  16

  It was a subdued Belinda who arrived back at the auberge that evening. She said a quick ‘Hi’ to Fern who was in the kitchen preparing dinner, before declining to join her for their usual cup of tea and going straight to her room instead. When she went downstairs ready for dinner at seven o’clock, she made a concentrated effort to try and push all thoughts of her grandmother out of her mind.

  ‘You’re quiet tonight. Bad day at the office?
’ Fern joked as she placed their starters and wine on the table.

  ‘So-so,’ Belinda said. ‘Been a funny day really.’ She took a forkful of the green salad that accompanied the walnut and onion tart Fern had made. ‘I had lunch at Yann’s with Alain – which was unusual in itself. Afterwards, he took me to see my grandmother’s grave.’

  Fern stared at her, guessing that this had been an emotional visit, and waited for her to continue.

  ‘I have nothing but good memories of my mami. I loved spending time with her – I learnt a lot from her. Sitting out in the garden on summer evenings with a book in her hand, reading until the light had gone, was her idea of a good time. She loved gardening and reading.’ Belinda smiled. ‘She taught me how to make lace too. She was one of the last women in the village to make the traditional Breton lace coiffe. She wore hers with pride every single day. Hers was a simple head covering, not for mami the ridiculously tall hats that still come out for fetes and festivals these days.’ Belinda took a sip of the wine Fern had poured her earlier. ‘I can still probably make a lace collar but, sadly, her cooking skills didn’t rub off on me.’

  ‘Tch – how many people can say they can make a lace collar?’ Fern said. ‘At least you’ve got happy memories of your grandmother.’

  Belinda nodded. ‘True.’ She was quiet for a moment or two, concentrating on eating her starter. ‘Delicious as per usual,’ she said, placing her knife and fork down on the plate. ‘The problem is negative memories tend to overshadow everything else if you’re not careful. I’ve been guilty of letting certain unhappy memories do that for a very long time.’

  ‘Is this to do with leaving France? You told me when you left but not why,’ Fern said quietly. ‘Did you not want to leave?’

  ‘No. I begged and pleaded with my mum to let me stay behind,’ Belinda answered. ‘Even when we got back to England, I kept on and on at her to let me return. Threw all the tantrums a teenager is so good at.’ She sighed. ‘It was weeks before Mum finally gave in and told me that Dad had been having an affair.’ Saying the words out loud to Fern brought the long-ago scene from that dreadful afternoon thirty-five years ago flooding back into her mind. Belinda gnawed on her bottom lip and closed her eyes before she began to talk about the scene that had finished her childhood and fractured her family…

  For the last time, the school bus had dropped her at the top of the lane and she’d swung her bag happily as she strolled homewards. She’d finished with school. The last Baccalauréat exam, the dreaded chemistry, had been taken, she could now forget all about chemical reactions because they would have no relevance in her life ever again. She’d felt free and wonderful, with the summer stretching ahead of her. She was a country girl at heart, had never known anywhere else really. She loved the changing seasons here in Brittany (sometimes all four in a day!), the magical light that had drawn famous artists down the years to paint, the sense of history that pervaded the crop circles and the ancient woods. Of course, she’d loved visiting nearby towns, Pontivy, Carhaix, Quimper for shopping, but the thought of living in such close proximity to other people had made her shudder; she was always glad to get back home. Even if it meant eating her mum’s home-made pizza rather than being able to go to a McDonald’s like her friends who lived in a nearby town.

  The thought of a summer of working weekends in the village café, riding Lucky, her pony, helping her dad with the animals and haymaking and then, in the afternoons and evenings, hanging out with her friend, Amelie, made her smile. And this was the summer, too, that Dad was going to prepare her for taking the driving test. He’d bought the car he’d promised to give her, a fun 2CV painted sunshine yellow, months ago, and had sat at her side as she’d driven it around the smallholding, getting used to steering it and changing the gears smoothly. ‘A natural driver,’ he’d called her. ‘Take after me you do.’ By the end of summer, she’d be as free as a bird, driving here, there and everywhere.

  Strolling up the lane, she’d thought about Dominique, the local heart-throb. Maybe she’d be casually driving through the village and see him. His eyes would light up as he saw her and he’d jump into the car and she’d drive them to the coast for a picnic. She remembered thinking, yeah, like that was going to happen.

  As much as she might daydream and imagine herself and Dominique cast as Sandy and Danny in her favourite film, Grease, Belinda had a streak of realism in her – she knew it was never going to happen. She wasn’t his type – unlike Sandrine, whose parents ran the local bar. So, this summer, the last one before college in Rennes in the autumn to study Accounts and Business Management, she was going to give up having a crush on someone unobtainable (because that’s all it was, right? A crush) and enjoy being free of all the responsibilities everyone assured her would start once she was out in the big bad world.

  Her mum’s car had been parked in front of the granite-built mas and unusually Belinda didn’t have to struggle to open the blue wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the smallholding as they were propped open. Belinda saw her parents standing by the car, her mum making angry gesticulations at her father, her father raising his arms in a useless protest. Butch, the sheepdog, was barking frantically at them both. Something terrible must have happened. She’d never known her parents to behave like this. Belinda remembered quickening her steps until she was running towards them.

  By the time she’d reached her parents and yelled, ‘What’s happened?’ her dad had started running his hands through his hair, a sure sign that he was upset. Her mum was trying to push a suitcase into an already full car. Neither of them had noticed Belinda’s arrival.

  ‘Mum? Dad? What’s going on?’ Belinda remembered staring in astonishment at the car, the inside stuffed with boxes, several small suitcases and a jumble of coats and boots all flung in on top.

  ‘Get in the car, Belinda,’ her mum had said, finally registering that she was there. ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘Jean, we need to talk. All of us. You can’t leave like this. Belinda might not want to come with you.’

  ‘She’s coming, whether she wants to or not. One thing she’s not doing is staying here with you and your… your… Get in the car, Belinda.’

  ‘Not until one of you tells me what the hell is going on.’

  ‘Don’t swear,’ her mother had answered automatically. ‘I’m leaving your father and you’re coming with me.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to – which I don’t.’ Bewildered Belinda looked from her mum to her dad. The last thing she needed was to have to choose between them but if she had to she knew which it would be. She loved her mum but there was no way she wanted to leave either her dad or the smallholding.

  ‘You don’t have a choice, you’re under age.’ Her mother had pushed another bag of things into the back of the already stuffed car and slammed the boot shut.

  Belinda hadn’t moved. ‘Why are you leaving Dad?’ she demanded.

  Her mother’s shoulders sagged. ‘Because he lied to me and I won’t stay around to be the laughing stock of the village. I’ve packed up most of your stuff – clothes and things. Dad will pack the rest up and send it on. Please just get in the car and we can leave.’

  Belinda could see her mum was close to tears. She’d never seen her in such a state before. Her dad never, ever lied, always said he couldn’t abide people who told lies, so what was that all about? She’d sighed and walked over to her dad, gave him a hug and said quietly, ‘I’ll go with her for now, but I’ll come back tomorrow and talk to you.’ When he shook his head, she insisted, ‘Yes I will.’

  ‘Belinda! Now!’

  ‘Okay. I’m coming. See you sometime tomorrow, Dad.’

  She’d pretended not to see the knowing look that passed between her parents as she got in the car and pulled her seat belt on.

  ‘So where are we staying? Please not Agatha’s!’

  ‘We’re catching the evening ferry and going to live in England,’ her mother had answered as if it was the most natural thing in the world
to be doing. She’d started the car and turned the wheel slowly until the car was facing down the drive.

  A jolt had gone through Belinda’s body at her mother’s words and she’d felt physically ill. ‘What? I don’t want to live in England,’ she’d shouted and struggled to undo her seat belt as her mother revved the car and started to drive down the lane. ‘Stop the car and let me out. I want to stay here. You’ll ruin my life if you take me to England.’ Belinda forced down the bile that was forming in her throat at the thought of losing touch and not seeing her dad regularly.

  ‘No I won’t. I’m giving you a new one. You’ll soon get used to living in England. And the fact we’re never coming back.’ As the words sank into Belinda’s brain, her mother had wound down the car window and yelled at her husband, ‘I hate you. I’ll never forgive you and I’ll make sure Belinda doesn’t either.’ She’d revved the car even harder, spinning gravel from out under the wheels as she sped down the lane.

  Belinda took a deep breath.

  ‘The next day when we arrived in Devon and the knowledge that the only life I’d ever known and wanted was over sank into my numb brain, I was finally physically sick.’ As she finished telling Fern the sorry tale, Belinda’s voice cracked. ‘She never did forgive him, she refused to tell me the whole truth about what had happened or to let me contact him. This is the first time I’ve been back to Brittany since we left.’

  Fern stared at her. ‘Belinda, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. My marriage didn’t have the most civilised of break-ups, but I did try to make sure the children had a relationship with their dad.’

  ‘My mother was so bitter, it coloured the rest of her life. It wasn’t until she was ill and dying that she seemed to regret things. Even extracted a deathbed promise from me to return and lay a few ghosts.’

  Fern looked at her questioningly, but Belinda shook her head.