A Springtime to Remember

by Lucy Coleman

  While I love the more formal displays around the palace, this is a riotous, tumultuous display that delights the eye as it searches out hidden treasures. A trailing ivy hangs down over some clipped bay standards in elegant pots, which are covered in the start of the new season’s growth. A bucket full of vibrant yellow daffodils partly obscures a common Buxus, shaped into a ball.

  I’m so caught up with my thoughts that I don’t notice that Ronan has returned, until a bunch of sweet-smelling narcissi is thrust under my nose.

  ‘These are for you,’ he says with a flourish. ‘And I have a surprise. Come this way.’

  He steps back inside the shop and I follow a pace or two behind him. He introduces me to the woman behind the counter, who gives me a big smile. I’m surprised to discover she isn’t French, at all, but German, and she indicates for us to weave behind the point of sale and out through a door to the rear.

  It’s a large room with several tables, where they assemble the bouquets and prepare the flowers for display. An older Frenchwoman greets us, and Ronan enters into conversation with her. She pulls a bunch of keys from her pocket and leads us out through the exit and up a metal staircase. Inserting the key and swinging open the door, she indicates for us to go inside.

  ‘Madame says before her family took this over the flat above the shop was rented out. Her granddaughter lives here now; she’s a student.’

  I nod in the direction of Madame, giving her an acknowledging smile as we look around.

  ‘I told her that we believe your grandma stayed here back in the sixties.’

  It’s a small flat consisting of three rooms. The kitchen-cum-sitting-room isn’t big enough to house a table, but instead there is a small breakfast bar. The bedroom is a reasonable size, although the bathroom is rather cosy. While the balcony to the front is bijou, the French doors leading out let in lots of light and it’s big enough for two small wrought-iron bistro chairs. But it’s the flower boxes and tubs that turn it into a garden.

  I wonder if it was like this when Grandma was here.

  ‘Has it always been a florist’s shop, can you ask?’

  Ronan turns to ask the question and I gaze around, taking in the rustic panelling above the small open fireplace. The walls are painted a very soft sandy yellow and are contrasted by the cornflower-blue covering on the sofa. It’s charming and has a delightfully cosy feel. There are no ghosts of the past here, despite its age.

  ‘Yes, she believes it has been a florist’s shop for a long time. Maybe even back as far as the sixties.’

  ‘Merci, Madame. C’est adorable.’

  And it is.

  We make our way back outside and I hold the little bunch of flowers Ronan gave me up to my nose, drawing in a deep breath.

  ‘They’re beautiful, Ronan.’

  ‘I thought you’d like them,’ he replies as I give him a grateful smile.

  ‘I might as well leave the car here in case I can’t get a space closer to the cottage.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘It would be nice if we could really confirm this was where Grandma stayed, wouldn’t it?’

  Ronan steps back to let someone pass and then strides forward to walk alongside me.

  ‘I haven’t given up. Perhaps she’ll mention it in one of the other notebooks. I can see why she’d have chosen that particular flat though. It couldn’t have been more perfect and everything she would have needed is within easy walking distance.’

  ‘It’s funny, but I can’t ever recall hearing her speak any French at all. I wonder how fluent she was. Oh, I have so many questions whirling around inside my head,’ I reflect, as we enter the gates to the courtyard.

  ‘Well, let’s spend a couple hours researching and see if we can’t gather a few more facts together. Darn it – I’ve left my notebook in the car. I’ll just pop back and get it; I won’t be long.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I turn around to see that Renée’s front door is open and she appears, giving me a wave. I smile back at her before letting myself into number six. Leaving the door ajar for Ronan, I head upstairs to throw open the windows wide, then pop the flowers into a vase.

  Life is so different here; even though there are a few things about which I could sit and worry, I’m feeling relaxed. Is that the spell cast by Versailles, or because I feel so content?

  My phone pings, and then pings again, and again. I grab it out of my bag and see that Ronan has taken some photos of the front of the little florist’s shop. In between them is a photo from Shellie of Maisie in her onesie, snuggled up on the sofa.

  ✉︎ Thought you’d like these. I’m on my way back.

  Ronan texts.

  It’s then that I notice I have a missed call. I don’t recognise the number but it’s local and I redial.

  ‘Hello, this is Lexie Winters. I missed a call from you?’

  ‘It’s George, Lexie. Solange was kind enough to give me your number. I wondered if you were this way at any time, whether you’d like to call in. On your own, that is.’

  I’m rather dumbstruck. This is the last thing I expected.

  ‘Of course, I’d be delighted. When would suit you best, George?’

  ‘Any evening from five o’clock onwards. You’ll find me in the garden.’

  It all goes quiet and I realise he’s pressed end call. I have been summoned. The question is, should I tell Ronan?

  When he returns, it occurs to me that George might simply be looking for a little company and I decide not to say anything. We spend half an hour sharing our notes and then Ronan grabs the next notebook in the new sequence.

  It isn’t long before he’s reading out little bits to me.

  ‘Now this is frustrating. Clearly, she’s gone to dinner with someone, but she doesn’t say with whom. Well, not a real name, or anything, but I think she did that on purpose.’

  I look at him, rather mystified.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, maybe in case she lost a notebook, and someone picked it up and read it. Have you come across any mention of “the Terrier”?’

  ‘Terrier?’

  ‘I think it’s a nickname. She’s mentioned it twice so far.’

  ‘So, someone whose name began with T?’

  ‘Maybe. I hope that will become clear at some point. She just says, “The Terrier is angry with himself, tonight” – would you say that about an angry dog?’

  I shrug and we return to our reading material. Several hours pass and although I’m engrossed, I’m conscious that I promised Maisie I’d call her. As I make a move, Ronan says it’s time he headed for home, anyway.

  When I see him to the door, I step down into the tiny space rather than hanging back on the stairs. I look up at him and we very naturally find ourselves in each other’s arms.

  ‘It’s been a lovely afternoon,’ he whispers into my ear.

  As our lips draw nearer, I close my eyes and suddenly my heart feels as if it’s about to leap out of my chest. It’s beating so fast that I fear Ronan will hear it, but I can tell he’s feeling the same way. A kiss that starts off rather gingerly quickly increases in intensity and we sort of fall back against the wall with a gentle thump, as my arms go up around his neck, drawing him even closer.

  I feel light-headed, relieved to give in to the desire that is flooding through me. As we draw back, the look on Ronan’s face tells me everything I need to know.

  ‘I think it’s time to agree that we’re fighting the impossible, Lexie. It might not be what either of us planned, so I want you to be sure before we take that next step. Sleep on it, lovely lady, because I don’t want this to screw things up between us. All I can tell you is that whenever I’m around you I can’t help the way I feel.’

  He leans forward, resting his forehead against mine, and the temptation is to grab his hand and drag him back upstairs. But I love that he’s thinking this through because it shows my opinion of him is correct. Ronan is a man whose feelings run deep and he’s not a user. I’m safe when I�
�m with him and, while there are no guarantees in life, my mind is already made up.

  ‘Thank you for the perfect end to a perfect day, Lexie – whatever you decide going forward. And enjoy your Skype session with your niece.’

  My mind is racing after Ronan leaves, but I need to slow things down and focus, ready for my chat with Maisie. Afterwards, I decide to relax with a glass of wine, before tidying up. When I finally flop into bed, I can hardly keep my eyes open and it doesn’t take long for me to fall into a dreamless sleep.

  This morning I awake refreshed and full of energy. I end up running a little late, fussing over my hair and then laughing at myself as I realise it’s nerves. Something I haven’t felt over a man in a long time. I needn’t have worried, because the moment I walk into the café Ronan puts down his coffee cup and stands to kiss me. Not quite as passionately as our kiss last night, but unashamedly on the lips. Regardless of who might be watching, he doesn’t care, and when he pulls away, he gives me a beaming smile.

  ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘Like the proverbial log. And you?’

  Ronan pulls a face. ‘I did a lot of thinking. Regrettably, some of it was about work.’

  That makes me smile. ‘It sounds like a heavy night.’

  He shrugs his shoulders and I note the concern reflected in his body language. What’s going on between us is one thing, work is another, and I admire him for that.

  ‘You need to see this, Lexie – we can do better.’

  As we go over yesterday’s interview, he’s right. I came across as a little stilted during the intro as I could tell Ronan was on edge and two of the shots where he panned around are a little shaky. In hindsight, we should have done a few practice runs, but the pressure was on to just get things rolling.

  I check with Solange and she can’t see a problem with us doing an adhoc bit of filming. She does warn me that it’s very busy today, but we decide to go for it, anyway.

  ‘It has to be a seamless transition between Elliot’s filming and mine, Lexie. Anything less will be second-rate and I can’t live with that.’

  After a quick call to Cameron and a change of clothes, we head back to the gardens mid-afternoon to re-shoot the beginning. Once we find a quiet corner away from the crowds, it doesn’t take long, but the sun isn’t at a good angle and it’s a bit stop-start at first. Unfortunately, Cameron finds it a bit of a struggle at times, competing with the level of background noise. Eventually, we’re all happy.

  Ronan is looking much more confident handling the kit and it has been worth redoing it, simply to boost his confidence. It’s yet another cost to accommodate, but in terms of team building between the three of us, we’re all feeling much more positive.

  Thoughts of Ronan continue to fill my head on the way to see George. Not least, guilt over whether I should have come clean about the visit. But Ronan headed off on a high to research a new lead and I didn’t want to spoil his mood.

  ‘Hello, George,’ I call out, announcing my arrival.

  He turns in his seat and gives me a welcoming smile. ‘You came, then.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t want to come and while away an hour in such a peaceful setting? Besides, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse, and you knew that.’

  He at least has the decency to give me a slightly sheepish look.

  ‘Please, take a seat. Help yourself to a drink from the tray.’

  There’s a bottle of red wine and a jug of water. I opt for the water, pouring myself a large one to quench my thirst.

  ‘I’m driving,’ I say, raising my glass to him, and he lifts his own in return.

  ‘It’s true I don’t get a lot of company. I’ve never been a very sociable man. People tend to annoy me very quickly. I like peace and quiet to think, but many gardeners are like that. We get used to our own company, you see. I never was a game player and I always said it as it was. Some folk think that’s trite; I call it honesty.’

  ‘Where are you from originally, George?’ I enquire, unable to place his accent.

  He laughs. ‘The Lake District. I have fond memories, but it was a hard life in those days. My father was a sheep farmer.’

  George lapses into silence and I’m content to sit here for a while with only my thoughts to keep me occupied.

  ‘I’ve nothing against Ronan seeking answers,’ George’s voice suddenly booms out. The tone implies that might not be true, because he sounds angry to me. ‘But I’m no fool.’

  ‘I don’t know what you think I know, George, but the reality is that I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m here with my business partner, Elliot, for three months to film an independently produced series about modern-day gardening at Versailles. My only interest in the past is a personal one.’

  He stares at me for a moment and then grunts.

  ‘He likes you,’ he says.

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Ronan. Do you trust him?’

  What sort of a question is that?

  ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘He thinks I had something to do with his grandfather’s suicide.’

  ‘Suicide?’ My mouth goes dry.

  ‘Ah, so he hasn’t told you everything, then?’ There’s an element of satisfaction in his tone that makes it sound like some sort of accusation.

  I put my glass down firmly on the table with a bit of a bang. If George wants to play games, then I’m done. Easing myself up off the seat, he then makes a motion with his hand for me to sit back down.

  ‘I had to check. Whatever I tell him, which is nothing as yet, he wouldn’t believe anyway. Fabien Arnoult was a troubled man in here.’ He taps his forehead with his finger. ‘It’s not what Ronan wants to hear. He says this is my last chance to get some facts down in black and white, because he’s adamant about publishing that third book. I’m not saying it’s a personal witch hunt, because he is a historian and the truth matters to him, but he also wants closure. The two don’t sit well together in this case, Lexie, believe me – but Ronan can’t see that.’

  ‘Closure?’

  ‘He won’t admit it, but I believe he feels his grandfather committed suicide because people turned against him. The project Fabien was in charge of was closed down due to lack of funds. He took it very personally and the truth is that everyone knew he had a point. It wasn’t that the chief gardener – or any of his peers – disagreed, but his plan could never have been put into action. There was some convoluted idea about drilling holes and using nutrients to force the tree roots to grow downwards, instead of spreading out sideways. Oh, it all sounded plausible and I suppose it could have worked, but at what expense? The gardens have always been the paupers when it comes to distributing funds because there never is enough money to go around.

  ‘If Fabien had been born in the 1600s, he would have emptied Louis’ coffers quicker than any of the gardeners of that time. To Fabien it was a travesty not to be proactive. The truth is that the gardens of Versailles were doomed to change over time, regardless of what anyone did. Fabien couldn’t bear that thought and refused to accept it was inevitable.’

  My stomach begins to churn. So, it was Fabien’s project – why didn’t Ronan tell me? I wish I’d known earlier that his grandfather had committed suicide – for Ronan that must have been a particularly bitter blow, as his grandfather was the only male influence in his life. If he believes his grandfather was wronged, then how can he objectively listen to what George has to say?

  ‘I’m prepared to talk candidly to you, Lexie. But only you. You can record the interview, but I don’t want Ronan to be a part of it. The facts are what they are and I’m the only one left who knows what really happened.’

  I don’t quite know what to say and it takes me a moment to gather my thoughts.

  ‘George, I… look, I think what you have to say is important and should go on record, even if it isn’t a part of Ronan’s research. However, it’s going to have to wait until Elliot is back, if you want it to be documented but would prefer
it wasn’t Ronan doing the filming.’

  I can see by the look on his face that his mood is changing towards me. I need to be very careful not to alienate him in any way.

  ‘Of course, Ronan is looking for answers. I understand that and it’s only natural given the circumstances. Please don’t hold that against him. But you’re right, it’s too emotive for him to be involved directly. But at some point in the future he will need to face up to what happened, and I understand why this is important to you, as well. I want answers about my grandma, not to publish, but so that my family can understand the other side to the woman we knew. So, I doubt that Ronan is looking to blame anyone, he’s just seeking the truth. Surely you can understand that?’

  He narrows his eyes, turning to look at me.

  ‘I knew her,’ he declares. ‘So did Fabien.’

  George presses his lips together as he gazes out across the river. My heart sinks as the silence grows and it becomes clear he’s not going to say any more.

  How can I gain his trust?

  ‘I would dearly love to learn a little more about her time here, George. Was she happy? Did she make friends with anyone in particular? Was she sad to leave?’

  His look is almost a scowl as the memories come flooding back and a sense of anger takes over.

  ‘You’ve grown close to Ronan. There’s no point in trying to deny that you were defending him just then, when you don’t even know the half of it. We’re done. I can’t trust him and now I can’t trust you.’

  I end up leaving with nothing else to go on, thanking him for his honesty, but worried sick about how I’m going to handle this new information. The reality is that I don’t know much more than I did before the visit, although my suspicions have been confirmed. There’s obviously a story to tell and George may well be the last surviving person who knows what happened. My instincts are telling me that we’re not done here and I simply have to sit and wait for the next call. He wants to set the record straight and time is running out.

  Only now, do I finally understand the dedication in Ronan’s first book, to his grandfather whose spirit lives on in the gardens he loved more than life itself.