Colours of the South

by Leah Hope

  Gil didn’t quite see things as black and white. Maybe as a man he knew what his gender was capable of but the real reason was more down to his being a victim of infidelity himself. As much as he knew that Sylvia had been a good wife and mother, he knew also that wasn’t always enough. He had tried to be a good husband to Pamela, damn it, he had been a good husband! He had shown her nothing but love and respect at all times. He had indulged her, probably over-indulged her if he were honest, and their sex-life had been amazing. At least it had been for him and he had assumed it was for his wife too. How wrong could he have been? It had been the ultimate insult that Pamela left him for another man, or a “real” man, as she had cruelly taunted him afterwards. The fact that the other man had been so much richer than him and better connected socially being lost on Gil. He couldn’t keep his wife happy where it mattered and that had hurt him, hurt him deeply. Maybe it was for this reason alone that he found it easier than his sister to see Frederick as a man, not just as his father. He had been tempted more than once to broach the subject with his mother but thankfully he thought better of it. As long as neither of her children raised the possibility of her husband’s infidelity, Gil hoped his mother would not be tempted to think the unthinkable. Deep down though, he knew that was probably wishful thinking.

  One afternoon, a few weeks after his father died, Gil had been hunting through his father’s things for an insurance policy. As might be expected of someone of his profession, Frederick had been meticulous when it came to financial affairs. Everything had been exactly where it should have been. Sylvia had however mentioned to Gil that she thought a small life insurance policy was missing, so he set about to look for it. Having tried all of the obvious places with no luck, he opened the door of his father’s bedside cabinet, more in desperation than in hope, while his mother was enjoying a hot bath. Rummaging inside, amongst a couple of paperbacks, a stash of peppermints and a supply of clean handkerchiefs, Gil came across a large brown paper bag. Although he felt uneasy going through his father’s personal possessions, he decided he had no option but to open the bag, as he had tried virtually everywhere else. There was no policy as he had expected but instead Gil found a pair of gold, drop earrings, nestled in a small white presentation box, clearly meant for his mother. Also in the bag was some wrapping paper, adorned with Christmas robins, and a matching, unwritten, gift-card. The receipt clearly showed that the earrings had been bought on 20 November, from Roebuck’s, a jewellers just off the high street. So much for the theory about a last-minute shopping trip, Gil thought in dismay. He stood up, put the contents back into the bag and went into his bedroom. He looked briefly around the room before placing the bag inside his own bedside cabinet. He decided he would speak to Bridget later about his find; she would know best if they should wrap the earrings and give them to Sylvia, as Frederick had intended, or if that would simply be too much for her.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Gil after he and Bridget had almost sent themselves mad with questions in the weeks following their father’s death, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent explanation to all this, but the frustrating thing is, we’ll probably never know the answer.”

  However, any suspicions that Gil and Bridget continued to harbour about that fateful afternoon were soon forgotten, as they became increasingly lost in grief. The earrings lay unwrapped and forgotten in Gil’s bedside cabinet.

  Chapter Four

  Gil and Bridget looked after their mother as best they could but it soon became apparent that she would need full-time care. Medical opinion could find nothing physically wrong with her and she would probably “come round in time”. But Gil and Bridget both knew that she had lost the will to live and prepared themselves for a lifetime of care. Without a second thought, Bridget announced to Gil that she would give up her job in order to look after their mother full-time. Gil pointed out that their father had not been a banker for nothing and had left the family comfortably off. They were well able to afford to pay for whatever care their mother needed. “But they wouldn’t love her, would they?” had been Bridget’s response and Gil knew that further argument was pointless.

  Gil and Bridget quickly settled into a very different way of life but neither were discontent. Gil worked longer hours at the garage, saving every spare penny for his own business. Bridget’s devotion to caring for her mother was unflinching and she met all of Sylvia’s constant demands for cups of tea or for, “one of those lovely little pink cakes you make,” day and night. She ran the household as if it was her own little hotel, but it was cooking for her mother and brother that gave Bridget her greatest pleasure. There would be fresh bread, jams and marmalades for breakfast, homemade biscuits for their elevenses, wholesome soups or salads for lunch, cakes and pastries for afternoon tea, Sylvia’s favourite time of the day, a two-course lunch each evening and a Sunday roast which would leave them all fit to burst. She didn’t regret giving up the job she loved for one second but the arrangement left Gil feeling increasingly guilty and uncomfortable. He did what he could but knew that his sister was shouldering the biggest share of the burden of care. He would lie awake at night wondering how he could ever pay her back, until one night, not being able to cope with the guilt any more, Gil decided that they must get some help, regardless of how much Bridget objected. He resolved to speak to his mother the next day to get her support for his plan as she too, worried about how hard Bridget worked. He knew they would need to present a strong, united front against Bridget’s undoubted opposition.

  Gil was unable to entirely explain how the ensuing conversation with his mother had ended up with Sylvia offering him enough money to buy his own garage. Bridget was furious when she found out, “What do you think you were playing at?” she yelled. “Don’t you realise how vulnerable she is, how could you even think of taking advantage of her?”

  Gil was horrified. “But I didn’t Bridge, we were just got talking about work and the garage and I mentioned how hard it was to carry on there, after Pamela and all that, and she just came out with it. She asked me why I didn’t set up on my own, and when I said I was saving up, she asked me why on earth I hadn’t asked her to help. I said that I wouldn’t hear of it but she said that you and I were her life now that Dad was gone and she would do anything for us. He left her very comfortably off you know Bridge, and I’ve managed to save up quite a bit, now that I don’t have the Lady Pamela to keep. It would make such a difference if I had my own garage and I don’t think Mum’s going to take no for an answer.”

  “We’ll see about that!” replied Bridget tersely as she stormed upstairs.

  Half an hour later it was a very contrite and very flushed Bridget that came downstairs. “Ok,” she announced to Gil, “you can have your garage, but as for getting someone in, forget it!”

  Six weeks later Gil had given Dave King his notice and was the proud owner of a little backstreet garage in a rundown part of town. He couldn’t have been happier if he had won the pools.

  After several years of struggling to make much more than a basic living from the garage, Gil struck lucky when the surrounding area was chosen for an extensive urban redevelopment scheme. Buildings which had been boarded up for years were converted into flats and a brand-new shopping mall sprung up, almost overnight. Gil was initially worried when he heard about plans for a new “pedestrians only” zone which would incorporate his end of Smith Street, fearing that traffic would by-pass his garage completely. His worries proved to be unfounded when he learned that the plans for Smith Street were confined to a small area at the Harbour Road end where a new block of expensive flats was to be built at the Harbour Road end, leaving the area around the garage untouched. Gil soon reckoned that flats meant people and people meant cars, some of which would break down and all of which would need servicing.

  Eighteen months on, when Gil had more work than he could have ever dreamed of, he took on Mick Sumner, an experienced mechanic he had cheekily poached from Dave King, together with a young apprentice. Mi
ck was a godsend, an intuitive mechanic who was also brilliant with customers, but best of all, he and Gil got on like a house on fire. Business continued to thrive and Gil began to harbour thoughts of expansion. Parking in Smith Street was becoming something of a nightmare as it seemed almost all of the flats were occupied by two car owners. Consequently, many of the locals from other parts of the town now chose to take detours to avoid the congestion. Gil began to look around for alternative premises and after an intensive search, found just what he was looking for no more than half a mile away on Harbour Road itself. The position was ideal as more than half of the traffic leaving or entering the centre of town would have to pass by the forecourt. Business was soon booming again.

  Life carried on very pleasantly for Gil and Bridget; money was plentiful and they settled into a routine which suited them both. Their comfortable existence shaken only when Sylvia died suddenly, but not entirely unexpectedly, in her sleep thirty years after Frederick had been killed. The look of disbelief never left her face and she died without achieving “closure”. Unbeknown to her, the police investigations had long since been wound up due to lack of any real evidence or even the slightest lead, although the case remained officially open. Gil and Bridget’s initial suspicions about what their father might have been doing on the day he was killed were consigned to the distant corners of their memories; there was no mystery, nothing to unravel, it had simply been an accident.

  For the first time in their lives, Gil and Bridget took stock. They were in the enviable position of owning a large house outright, a sizable sum of money safely invested, and another windfall when Sylvia’s estate was settled, plus Gil’s income from the garage.

  “Do you know, if we were both ten years younger, we’d be snapped up as ideal marriage fodder,” quipped Bridget as they took tea and homemade Madeira cake in the garden one surprisingly warm, spring afternoon.

  “Well fifty is the new forty, so they say, so I haven’t given up hope entirely!” Gil laughed as he helped himself to a second wedge of cake. “This is delicious by the way!”

  “I think we’re both a bit too set in our ways now to start a life with anyone else, but I can’t help thinking that we need to do something with our lives, before it’s too late,” said Bridget sternly. “As you know, I don’t begrudge a second I spent on looking after Mum,” she went on, “but I’ve never seen anything of the world, or done anything remotely exciting or adventurous, I would like to travel a bit before I get too old and creaky.”

  “What about a holiday?” replied Gil, who had been having similar thoughts. “Give us both a bit of time to think, take stock.”

  “Perfect,” came his sister’s rapid reply.

  Chapter Five

  Six weeks later Gil and Bridget they were on board a ferry from Dover to Calais enjoying a late “continental” breakfast of coffee and croissants. “I can’t believe that we live half way between two major ferry ports and we’ve never been across the channel,” said Bridget, spooning the froth from her cappuccino.

  “Don’t forget I had that day trip with the lads from the garage a couple of Christmases ago,” said Gil.

  “Oh yes, the booze cruise, I’d forgotten about that, but that doesn’t really count as you never got further than the hypermarket!” Bridget said with a scornful laugh.

  As they hadn’t been able to agree on a destination for the holiday, Gil’s choice was Spain but Bridget preferred Italy, they decided they would take the ferry to France and, somewhat romantically, see where the road took them. Gil was more than happy to leave Mick in charge of the garage for six weeks, especially now that the team of mechanics he left behind had swelled to four. They decided to head towards Rouen and find a little country hotel to spend the night. Gil estimated that about three hour’s driving was more than enough for his first real foray on the “wrong” side of the road. With Bridget somewhat nervously in charge of map-reading, they found themselves heading out of Calais and on foreign roads for the first time in their lives.

  Five days later they were not much further south as Bridget had fallen completely and utterly head-over-heels in love with France. She was constantly asking Gil to stop to look at “that amazing church”, or “this gorgeous little village.” She was as excited as a child in a sweet shop and although Gil was frustrated at their lack of progress, it gave him enormous pleasure to see his sister so happy.

  Midday on day five brought them to the village of Saint-Rémy-la-Forêt which, apart from its twelfth century church that had some interesting stained glass, was otherwise unremarkable.

  “Do you fancy stopping here for something to eat?” said Gil, who had already spotted a pretty little café on one side of the square.

  “Ooh, yes please,” replied Bridget, who was already drooling at the prospect of yet another French lunch.

  “Come on then,” said Gil, parking the car in a little street leading from the square, “if we’re quick we might get that last free table on the terrace.”

  An hour later, having dined on steak-frites followed by fresh fruit salad, Gil sat back in his chair finishing a “grand-crème” while Bridget wandered around the square. She noticed that it wasn’t really a square at all as it was clearly rectangular. Dominating the opposite side of the “square” to the café, stood a decent looking hotel, where diners were also finishing their lunch on a packed terrace. On one of the adjacent sides was the Mairie, complete with tricolore. Bridget was delighted to see that there was a window-box full of brightly coloured geraniums at each of the Town Hall’s windows. Facing the Mairie across the square were the usual array of shops that seem to adorn every French village; a pharmacy, a couple of gift shops, a mini-market, a boulangerie, a patisserie and a greengrocer’s. Bridget looked briefly in the windows but it was the estate agents on the corner that caught her eye. Ten minutes later she re-joined Gil.

  “I’ve just been looking in that estate agent’s window, you won’t believe the prices.”

  “Well I know property is much cheaper here, well it is if you believe all you see on those programmes on the box. You need to be careful buying overseas though, it’s not the same as the UK, I’ve heard of people losing everything or having to pull their house down. It’s a bit of a fool’s paradise if you ask me. No, I think you can’t do better than invest in good old blighty, you know where you are there.”

  “I’m not suggesting we rush into actually buying anything but it can’t do any harm to take a look inside. There’s a couple of lovely properties in the window, I think I might go in when they’re open and get the details.”

  “We’re on holiday Bridge, we’re not here to buy a house,” said Gil rather tetchily, suddenly realising that events could be beginning to spiral out of control.

  “I know that, but where’s the harm in just looking?” said Bridget, smiling sweetly.

  Gil knew from the familiar, determined look on his sister’s face that there was no point in arguing. “Ok then, but we are just looking, right!”

  “Of course, the shops don’t open again until two so you just order us another couple of coffees and I’ll go and have another quick peep in the window.”

  An hour later Gil and Bridget were walking out of the square either side of Stuart McKenzie, Immobilier, who was doing his best to answer Bridget’s torrent of questions about the property that they were about to view.

  “It’s been empty for about six months, it’s owned by a couple of Parisians who’ve used it a holiday home and they’ve spent quite bit on it over the years.”

  “So why do they want to sell?” inquired Bridget, looking down at the details Stuart had printed off for her.

  “They’re getting on a bit now and are spending less and less time here so they’ve decided to cash in their chips, so to speak, it’s a good price though, they’re looking for a quick sale,” Stuart replied. Gil began to feel the net closing.

  By now they had reached the top end of the square, where the little café where they had had lunch was still
busy with a handful of later diners still lingering over their coffees. Stuart led them through a narrow little street to the left of the square, across the main road, turned sharp left and was now confidently striding up a short, rough track that led to the property they had come to see. The little cottage that now stood in front of them was picture postcard perfect, at least Bridget thought it was.

  “Oh it’s lovely, isn’t it Gil?” gushed Bridget. “Cherry red shutters, how pretty!”

  Gil was non-committal, attempting to curb his sister’s enthusiasm, but any lingering hopes he had that Bridget would be satisfied with “just a quick look” were rapidly disappearing.

  There were two windows on the ground floor of the cottage, with a door in between, and two matching windows above. It reminded Bridget of houses she had drawn as a child. There was no front garden as such, just a small rough patch of ground, obviously used as a parking area. Bridget hoped there would be at least a small garden at the back.