She took a deep breath, wiped her hands on her apron, and forced a smile. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’
He narrowed his eyes to look at the paw-shaped name badge pinned to her apron. ‘Are you Jane Bowland?’ He sounded surprised – disappointed, almost.
She nodded. ‘I am.’
He took something out of his pocket and handed it to her. The music box, of course.
‘This may sound a little strange,’ he started, ‘but could you tell me if you bought this music box from Mrs Moonshine’s shop?’
It had been stupid of her not to realise that the music box could be traced back to the shop, and Haven Bridge. She should have ripped the label off before taking it to Paris.
She tilted her chin. ‘Yes, I did.’ There was no need to mention she had bought it at her grandmother’s request.
Once again, he looked taken aback. ‘I see. May I ask why you left it on Henri Beaufort’s grave at the Père Lachaise? He is – I mean, he was my grandfather.’
Now came the tricky bit. She wiped her hands on the sides of her apron. It was hard to make up stories when a man with eyes as deep and dark as a moonless night stared down at her.
‘I grew up listening to your grandfather’s music. I was very sad to hear about his death and I wanted to pay my respects.’ At least that was the truth.
Grégoire Beaufort frowned. ‘But why choose this particular music box, with that particular song?’
She lowered her gaze and started rearranging the pup-muffins. ‘It was the only one in Miss Moonshine’s shop, and I happen to love the song.’ It sounded lame, but with luck he would believe her.
‘You played it last night in the pub, didn’t you?’
She looked up. ‘How do you know?’
‘I’m staying at The Old Bull, and I heard you from my room upstairs. I thought you played it well.’
She gasped and her heart bumped to a stop. Grégoire Beaufort, the world-famous concert pianist, who had performed in the most prestigious concert halls in the world, said she played well?
‘Really? You’re not just saying that to be kind?’
He smiled, a dimple appearing at the side of his mouth, and her heart skipped another beat. It was no wonder her grandmother had fallen for Henri Beaufort if he had smiled at her that way.
‘I never say things I don’t mean,’ he said. ‘I thought you played with great feeling.’
She had no time to bask in the compliment because Mrs Graham walked into the café with her bichon frisé in tow.
‘Jane, love, can I have a cappuccino and one of your apple muffins for my little Oscar? And try not to make any mistake this time. The carrot cake Dixie sold me last week gave him dreadful wind.’
‘I’ll bring them over straightaway.’ Jane smiled apologetically at Grégoire Beaufort. ‘I’m sorry. I need to see to the customers.’
‘Of course. Thank you for taking the trouble to go to Paris and pay your respects to my grandfather. It was very thoughtful of you. I will put the music box back on his grave. Goodbye.’
He looked so sad suddenly that guilt tightened her chest, and she almost called him back to tell him the truth. She bit her tongue, reminding herself she had lied for a very good reason. The trip to Paris had almost killed her grandmother. Meeting Henri Beaufort’s grandson may cause her to suffer another heart attack, one which could be fatal.
Chapter Four
Grégoire stood on the pavement outside the café, hardly noticing the shoppers who brushed past him, the busker belting out an old Bob Dylan song near the packhorse bridge and the children feeding bread to squabbling ducks on the riverbank.
This trip to Yorkshire had been a waste of time. He should pack his bag, return to the airport and fly back to Paris, but the thought of his grand piano standing like a silent reproach in his apartment, and the long list of emails and phone calls from his agent that he had to return, turned his heart to ice.
Looking around, he spotted the sign for The White Lion pub where Miss Moonshine said Liszt had once stayed and resolved to go there for a drink before leaving, in tribute to the old master. Right now, however, he fancied a walk to clear his head, so he started towards the canal.
The towpath was busy with joggers, dog-walkers, and families. Barges painted cheerful reds and deep greens lined the canal, with people out on deck, watering plants, carrying out repairs or sunbathing, a mug of tea or a can of beer in hand.
Sunlight sparkled on the water. Trees and overgrown bushes swayed in the gentle breeze, letting out scents of earth and vegetation, and their reflection rippled on the surface of the canal. Overhead the sky was a pure blue. If it weren’t for the muddy puddles on the path, he could think he had dreamt the torrential downpour the previous day.
He dug his hands into his pockets, and his fingers touched the music box. He had been a fool to come here. When Barry had told him where to find Jane Bowland the night before, he had truly believed he had found the woman his grandfather had loved so much. It wasn’t the name his grandfather had mentioned, but people changed name sometimes, especially artists and performers.
But Jane was only another of his grandfather’s groupies. A surprisingly young one, with her bright blue eyes, smooth pink cheeks and pixie-styled blonde hair, but a groupie nonetheless.
His grandfather had always had a lot of female fans. A charismatic pianist and conductor, he had, in his heyday, been a playboy. Women had followed on tour, forcing their way into his hotel rooms, throwing themselves at him at parties or swooning in his arms after his concerts. Henri used to joke that his life as a classical musician had been a farce, and in many ways as outrageous as that of a rock star. His funeral service had been a bit of a circus too, with crowds of tearful elderly women gathering at the Père Lachaise, holding single white roses – Henri’s favourite – in their black-gloved hands.
‘Hi there. Or should I say Bumjor! Oops, that sounded a bit rude, but I was never any good at French at school, even though it’s a sick language.’
Grégoire looked at the young woman in front of him. She had a head full of dreadlocks and piercings sticking out of her ears, lips and nose. Her leggings and top were black, tight, and slashed to shreds.
‘You’re the French guy who was in the café earlier, aren’t you?’ The girl’s lip-piercings moved in the most disturbing fashion as she spoke. Grégoire repressed a shudder and focused on her kohl-lined eyes.
He nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I work at the café, although not for much longer if I carry on mixing up the pup-muffins. The dogs aren’t bothered, though, it’s their owners who make a fuss.’
Confused, he stared at her. What was this talk of dogs and muffins?
Then he understood. Of course! That explained the name of the café – Man’s Best Friend– as well as the strange smell and the dog paraphernalia for sale. ‘You sell cakes for dogs.’
‘Yep. Jane bakes them. She bakes biscuits too.’ She counted on her fingers. ‘Cheese, sausage, bacon –you name it. The dogs love them. She got an award last year, you know. She took me to the ceremony. We got dressed up and I even got an awesome new piercing. There.’ She pointed to an arrow sticking out from the side of her ear and looked at him expectantly.
Grégoire forced a smile. ‘Hmm. Yes.Very nice.’
‘Did you meet Jane when she went to Paris with her gran?’
He held his breath. ‘Jane went to Paris with her grandmother?’
The girl nodded. ‘Poor Joyce had a heart attack when they came back. It was touch-and-go for a while, but she’s all right now.’
‘Jane’s grandmother is called Joyce?’
The girl rolled her eyes. ‘That’s what I just said.’
‘Then I must return to the café and talk to Jane at once.’
She shook her head, her dreadlocks swinging around like Medusa’s snakes. ‘She has gone home to the farm for Arthur’s party. She made him a sick cake. You should see it. She must have used at least two kilos of carrots.’<
br />
It sounded revolting, but perhaps Jane’s son loved carrots. He remembered Barry had mentioned that it was his third birthday today.
‘Where is the farm?’
‘It’s on the top road. You can’t miss it. There’s a big gate with Bowland Farm written in white above it. It’s not a proper farm anymore, mind. Jane and her gran only have rescue animals now.’
‘Thank you very much, mademoiselle.’
She beamed him a smile. ‘Oh, that’s so chic, but you can call me Dixie.’
He’d better hurry back to town and find a toyshop. Bringing the boy a present might help Jane and her grandmother overlook the fact that he was gate-crashing their party.
An hour later he parked by the side of the road near the entrance to Bowland Farm and grabbed the bag with the wooden train set he had purchased. In front of him fields stretched in the sunshine, dotted with grazing sheep and covered with a carpet of buttercups, red clover and meadowsweet. Stone walls criss-crossed the hillside, a tower rose on the hill opposite, and clumps of trees nestled in dips and recesses. The warm breeze carried sounds of sheep bleating, leaves rustling and tractors humming. On a warm and sunny day like today, this was a glorious place to be.
Echoes of voices singing ‘Happy Birthday to You’ reached him, and he hurried down the muddy track towards the farmhouse.
The front door was closed, but the voices came from the back garden. He made his way around the house and reached the garden gate as Jane carried the most hideous birthday cake he’d ever seen across the lawn. Almost a foot high, and made of compacted brown mush, it was decorated with what looked like mint sweets and gingerbread men.
Poor kid, he thought, shaking his head. There weren’t even any candles on that ugly cake, just three huge carrots. Come to think of it, where was the boy? There were no children running around or playing in the garden.
Jane set the cake on the garden table, turned away to pick up a glass of champagne, and saw him. Her smile vanished at once.
Behind her a donkey ambled across the lawn and stopped dangerously close to the cake. Grégoire opened his mouth to shout a warning, swung the garden gate open and walked in. He didn’t see the pile of dung until it was too late. His foot sank into it with a wet, squelching sound. He slipped, lost his balance, and fell backwards. The train set flew up in the air and landed on the grass with a thudding noise.
Everybody turned to stare as he cursed in French and scrambled to his feet, his hands covered in muck, his trousers soiled, his dignity dented. And from what he could see, it had all been for nothing. The donkey’s muzzle was now buried deep in the birthday cake.
Jane rushed to his side. Her blue eyes sparked with fury. ‘What are you doing here? You have to go.’
‘Et bien…thanks for your concern,’ he replied stiffly. ‘I don’t think I broke any bones.’
‘I don’t care if you broke all the bones in your body. You have no business being here.’
She was right, of course.
‘Who is this, darling?’ A woman called from the other end of the garden.
Jane whirled round. ‘It’s all right, Grandma. It’s just someone asking for directions.’ Turning back to him, she pulled on his sleeve to drag him out of the garden and hissed, ‘You must leave now.’
Ignoring her, he bent down to pick up the present. The colourful wrapping paper was ripped and stained, showing the picture of the wooden train set.
‘Here. I’m sorry the paper is soiled. It’s for Arthur. I hope he likes it.’
She looked at him as if he had lost his mind. ‘What are you talking about? What would Arthur do with a train set? Never mind. You must go.’
He handed her the present anyway. ‘I am sorry to intrude on your party, but I need to talk to your grandmother.’
‘She doesn’t want to talk to you, and I don’t want your stupid present. My donkey may be clever but he doesn’t play with trains.’
‘Your donkey? Non – you don’t understand. This is for your son. Arthur.’
She pointed to the donkey, which had by now eaten its way through half the cake. ‘This is Arthur. It’s his birthday. He’s three today. Now please come with me. I don’t want my grandma to get upset.’
‘Why would I get upset, love?’ an elderly woman asked. She had short white hair, and bright blue eyes – the same as her granddaughter’s.
Grégoire took one look at her and swallowed hard. He had found her–the woman he’d been looking for.
Chapter Five
Jane looked at her grandmother. Her face was pale, but her breathing sounded even and she wasn’t clutching at her chest.
‘Are you Joyce Granville?’ Grégoire asked in a hoarse voice.
Jane’s grandmother nodded. ‘That was my maiden name. I’m Joyce Bowland now.’
‘I am Grégoire– Henri’s…’
‘Grandson, yes, I gathered that much. You look just like him.’ Joyce’s eyes softened and she pointed to his trousers. ‘Look at the state of you. Come into the house with me, and we’ll get you cleaned up.’
She held out her hand. ‘Help me. I am not as strong as I used to be.’
Grégoire looked at his dirty hands. ‘But I’m filthy.’
‘I’ve run a farm for the best part of forty years, my lad. Muck doesn’t bother me.’
He smiled, took her hand and linked arms with her.
‘Jane, my darling, please see to our guests, and tidy up your donkey’s mess. Oh, and put that train set away,’ her grandmother instructed as she walked past, looking suddenly very small and frail as she leaned on Grégoire Beaufort’s arm.
Jane picked up the broken biscuits and chewed carrot stumps Arthur had left on the lawn and shoved them into a rubbish bag.
‘Who is Mr Gorgeous? Do tell.’ Sandra Haworth’s eyes shone with curiosity.
The other women flocked around her, asking questions. He sounded foreign. Was he French? Did Joyce and Jane meet him during their trip to Paris? Why did Joyce look so tearful? And who was the train set for?
Sandra was one of the town’s chief gossips. Her brother-in-law worked for the local newspaper, so Jane must take care not to reveal too much. Should the press get wind of the story that Grégoire Beaufort, the world-famous pianist turned recluse and grandson of a music legend, was at Bowland Farm, they wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. Not to mention that Joyce’s past could be splattered all over the news.
‘He’s nobody special, just an old friend of Grandma’s visiting from Paris.’
‘He looks pretty special to me.’ Sandra clicked her tongue. ‘Very dark and handsome, even covered in muck.’
‘Especially covered in muck!’ Pauline Thompson patted her brown curls. ‘I like my men dirty.’
Brenda Roberts drained her glass of prosecco. ‘I wouldn’t mind cleaning him up with my own fair hands. Do you think he needs help showering?’
‘Shh!’ Jane’s face was burning. What if Grégoire heard them?
‘Oh, give over playing the prude.’ Sandra poured herself the last of the bubbly wine. ‘You have eyes like the rest of us. The man is a dish.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’ It was a lie. Of course she had noticed his soulful eyes, the cute dimple at the corner of his mouth when he smiled, and his tall, athletic figure. She had even noticed that his aftershave smelled like a summer garden after the rain. Right now, however, he must smell of Arthur’s droppings.
She faced the three women. ‘Ladies, thank you so much for coming. Pauline, are you all right driving Brenda and Sandra back? Great. Then I’ll see you all tomorrow at the rehearsal. Two o’clock sharp.’
Ten minutes later, after more laughing, innuendo and salacious jokes about sexy French men and steamy showers, the three women left. Jane picked up the train set and walked into the farmhouse, where Joyce sat at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of water.
‘Grégoire is getting changed. I gave him a pair of your granddad’s trousers and put his in the washing machine. He can have them back t
omorrow when they’re dry.’
Jane put the train set on the table and crossed her arms. ‘I’m sure he can sort out his own laundry. Why is he even here? I don’t want him upsetting you. I don’t want you to get hurt.’
Joyce smiled but there were tears in her eyes. She cradled her glass in her hands. ‘I have hurt ever since I left Henri over fifty years ago, my darling. Don’t get me wrong, I loved your granddad. We had a good life here, and I don’t regret a moment of it, but part of me always wondered what it could have been if I had stayed in Paris. If only I had taken the chance…’
‘He never forgot you either.’ Grégoire stood in the doorway, wearing khaki corduroy trousers that were too big for him. He glanced at the train set and smiled. ‘I hope I didn’t ruin your birthday party, even if I made a complete fool of myself.’
Jane couldn’t help but grin back. ‘And I am sorry for shouting at you when you slipped in Arthur’s poo. It was rude of me.’
They looked at each other and her breath hitched in her throat. The kitchen with its pine units and green walls receded and became blurred, until all she could see clearly was him. Her heart beat fast and hard, her body tingled all over.
‘Please sit down, both of you, you’re making me dizzy,’ Joyce said, breaking the spell. She turned to Grégoire. ‘How did you find me?’
‘I traced the music box you left at the Père Lachaise to Miss Moonshine’s shop. She wouldn’t tell me who bought it, but recommended I stay at The Old Bull. That’s where I heard Jane play La Javanaise.’
‘She did it on purpose,’ Joyce whispered. ‘She knows Jane always closes her set with the same song. Why have you come here? It’s been so long since Henri and I were…friends.’
‘He told me about you in hospital. He wanted me to find you and give you this.’ Grégoire pulled his wallet out of his breast pocket and extracted a gold and mother-of-pearl pendant in the shape of a rose.
‘He had it made especially for you.’
Joyce’s fingers shook as she took the pendant. ‘A white rose, Henri’s favourite. He used to say I was his white rose.’
Miss Moonshine's Emporium of Happy Endings: A feel-good collection of heartwarming stories Page 11