A Springtime to Remember

by Lucy Coleman

  It wasn’t until I returned home though, that I realised how close Jake’s new property is to both Shellie and me, being less than a ten-minute drive from Bourton-on-the-Water.

  As Elliot negotiates the lunchtime traffic, I reflect upon the fact that you never know from one day to the next what life will throw at you.

  I lost a boyfriend but gained a brother.

  ‘You are fine with this, aren’t you?’ Elliot asks, checking for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Yes. What impressed me was that Jake hasn’t waded in throwing money at us and trying to take over. He’s brokered a deal and it works all round.’

  ‘It’s such a relief to hear you say that, Lexie. After the turmoil of the last couple of months it’s going to be nice to pay ourselves back and get those credit cards cleared at last. And to know that we have some good pay days coming our way. The Gardeners of Versailles – a Modern-Day Legacy is going to be a big success, I know it, and this is just the beginning for us.’

  It’s true enough, everything is looking good, but for me the world is tarnished, because my heart is in tatters.

  Right now, all I have is work to keep me going.

  I’ll survive because life goes on and I’m back spending lots of time with Maisie and contemplating the arrival of little Arlan, Harry, or Thomas – whichever name ends up being chosen. Then there are Jacob and Reece, two live wires who tire me out after just an afternoon, so I have no idea how Brooke and Mum cope. But they do. So, I’m counting the blessings I do have and trying not to dwell upon this enormous sense of loss that is constantly hovering around me like a cloak.

  After cutting all contact with Ronan the day of that fateful visit, filming wasn’t quite the same for the rest of our stay. Yvette stood in for him and Ronan refused the ex gratia payment Elliot offered by way of compensation for the cancelled sessions.

  I had no involvement with it whatsoever and was surprised when I received a recorded delivery from Ronan with the three missing notebooks inside. Clearly, he’d finished with them and I didn’t even have the heart to see for myself what he had discovered. I felt that my grandma’s memory had been betrayed by a man I’d trusted implicitly. Not just with her things but with my heart. I slipped them back into the box and sealed it this time, ready for the journey home.

  Look ahead, Lexie, I keep reminding myself. Look ahead.

  ‘This is it,’ Elliot confirms, pulling up at a barrier and punching in the code Jake texted him. The car park is small and there are only two free visitors’ spaces left, marked up ‘Betterwood Productions’.

  ‘Nice,’ I comment, thinking the old Jake would have said anything outside London was a huge mistake. But he lived his life out of hotels, as we both did, Monday to Friday, in those days. Getting home each night wasn’t a priority for either of us.

  By contrast this high quality, period building on Woodstock Road is a prime city-centre location, refurbished to a very high spec indeed.

  ‘Ready for this?’ Elliot asks and I nod as we make our way to the rear reception door.

  We aren’t kept waiting for long and Jake himself appears as the lift doors open.

  ‘Welcome to Betterwood Productions,’ Jake says, stepping forward with a big smile on his face. He shakes Elliot’s hand enthusiastically and throws his arms around me in a brotherly hug.

  ‘I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad,’ he adds.

  ‘Pretty good, actually. This is very smart. It’s a beautiful building, Jake.’

  He nods. ‘A lucky find. Right, follow me and we’ll organise some coffees.’

  There are three floors, and he whisks us straight up to the top and into a ridiculously large conference room. It has the most enormous table I’ve ever seen.

  ‘It came with the building,’ Jake informs us. ‘It’s growing on me. As you can see, we don’t use this room for meetings, it’s my office by default. The acoustics aren’t good because of the high ceilings and how often do you have this many people in one meeting? So, I work my way around it.’

  That’s obvious from the various folders that are stacked in neat little piles at regular intervals.

  ‘Looks like business is brisk,’ Elliot remarks.

  ‘I’m not complaining, and the interest in your series has been beneficial all round. Please take a seat. Let’s use this end of the boat, as I call it.’

  It does look rather like a boat, oval and shiny. But it’s a beautiful room with tall, very elegant sash windows and reclaimed wooden shutters pulled back to let the light flood in.

  That’s yet another surprise I never expected, to be doing ongoing business with my brother.

  It seems everyone is happy these days. Well, almost everyone.

  ‘I’m a little early, Mum,’ I say, as she answers the door. She leans in to give me a hug, before I even have chance to place a foot over the threshold.

  Stepping inside, I still find it strange walking into this compact little house she seems to love so much.

  ‘Time for a cup of tea, then, Lexie, before we head off. It’s so nice to be able to pop into town for lunch together like this. I’m glad things are working out so well for you and Elliot.’

  Life is less pressured when you have a little money in the bank and another project lined up ready to go. Once my contract ends as a presenter for Morning Sunshine, I’ve already told them I won’t be available and that this will be my last job as a presenter.

  ‘Life is a lot easier these days, thankfully. How are the boys?’

  Mum turns to look at me, kettle in hand.

  ‘Poor Brooke. She tried them in separate bedrooms, then felt guilty for splitting them up. They are happier together, but they wake each other up. It’s very weird. It’s like they sleep in turns. And they are all Mumma again, at the moment; which is upsetting Jake, of course, because only a couple of weeks ago they were shrieking and clinging to his leg as he tried to leave for work in the mornings. But that’s how it is with kids.’

  As I look around, virtually every single thing I see is new, just the odd item Mum would never part with. None of them have any value. I thought she might feel sad getting rid of the accumulation of almost thirty years of stuff in the old house, but quite the reverse. She said it was cathartic, although she did shed a tear as I stood next to her when she turned the key in the door of the family home for the very last time.

  But Jake was right. When I arrived back from France and visited the house for what was to be the penultimate time, I saw it with fresh eyes. Why hadn’t I noticed how tired it was looking and how many things needed attention? I guess when you know and love a place, you don’t see it afresh every time you’re there; it’s imprinted on your memory. I felt sad, but also glad that she was moving on then, because finally I knew that it was the right thing for her to do.

  ‘I’m glad you came early, because we need to have a talk. A serious one.’

  I pinch a biscuit off the plate she carries across to the table and add half a spoonful of sugar to my Earl Grey tea before sitting down.

  ‘Serious? That’s sound ominous,’ I joke.

  ‘It is,’ she sighs. Mum sets herself down opposite me rather heavily, as if she isn’t relishing the thought of what she’s about to say.

  ‘I had a phone call from Ronan. I have no idea what went wrong between the two of you, but he was very emotional. He asked if he could send something through to me in the post. It’s a book, and he really wants you to read it.’

  ‘He rang you?’ My voice instantly ratchets up a level.

  ‘Yes. He said that if he sent it to you, he was worried you would destroy it. And there was something in his voice… well, I felt sorry for him, Lexie. It wasn’t so much what he said, but the way he said it, and he was so apologetic. And earnest. And regretful. And sad.’ The way she’s labouring this doesn’t bode well and her voice is unusually firm.

  ‘Was he, now? Manipulative is another word for it,’ I retort, barely able to keep the bitterness out of my voice. There was no way I could
tell Mum what happened.

  She leans across the table, placing her hand on my arm to grab my attention.

  ‘My gut feeling is telling me that if you don’t read it, it’s a decision you might regret forever. I have no idea why, but I can’t shake it off and it’s worrying me. So, no ifs, no buts, please, honey, just do as I ask as a favour to your old mum. It’s only a collection of words strung together, after all. What harm can it do? Humour me, because, whatever he’s done, he feels this is meaningful to you. And to him.’

  Withdrawing my arm, I prise off the parcel tape securing the flap of the padded envelope and reach inside, sliding out a hardback book. Turning it over and glancing at the cover, I look across at Mum and see that her eyes are sparkling.

  ‘A Year at Versailles by Ronan O’Byrne. Oh, my! It’s not what I think it is… is it? I mean, I know he was helping you with your research, but you said it didn’t really go anywhere. I will admit I was more than a little disappointed. I felt the time had come and I’m curious to know what happened.’

  I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out as a crushing feeling wells up in my chest. He published it even though I had hoped he’d respect me enough to avoid putting me and my family through this.

  ‘Oh, and Ronan asked me to make sure you read the inscription first,’ she adds, insistently.

  With trembling fingers, I turn over the first two or three pages until I spot a hand-written note. It’s penned in ink and signed by the author, as if it’s an official copy from a book signing.

  ‘What does it say, Lexie?’

  I read the words out aloud in a faltering voice.

  ‘From Ronan to Lexie.

  Copyright Alexandra Winters 2018.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise, without the prior consent of Alexandra Winters.

  * * *

  Copy #1 of a print run of one.

  The author holds no rights whatsoever to the content contained within.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not really an inscription at all, is it? Don’t they usually print the copyright details as standard?’

  I gaze across at Mum, my eyes smarting as I hold back the tears. I feel a mix of anger, loss, self-pity even, and most of all regret for my part in this. And now he’s dragged Mum into it without understanding how it might change the way she remembers her mother. Mum’s hopes are up and now she’s intrigued.

  ‘One copy, Lexie, that’s all that exists,’ she utters excitedly. ‘He’s written this just for you, honey.’

  ‘And you believe him when he says that there’s only one copy of it?’ I scowl, holding it up and staring at it as if it’s some sort of booby trap.

  ‘I do. Why would he have any reason to say that if it wasn’t true? Now I understand why he rang to enlist my help. You aren’t speaking to him any more, are you?’

  Mum is looking at me and trying to work out why I’m being so negative.

  ‘No, I’m not, and he can’t earn any money from a print run of one, can he? So that makes no sense at all. Have you considered that there might be information in here that isn’t true, or was never meant to be shared?’

  The look Mum gives me makes me cringe. Her frown tells me I can’t wriggle out of this. She’s known from the moment I returned that I was keeping something from her.

  ‘Ronan said that once you’ve read it, he hoped you would allow me to read it too, so I doubt that’s the case. Obviously, he doesn’t want to upset you, but if you destroy it then it’s lost to us all, forever. He’s taken the trouble to write an entire book just for you – that thought rather takes my breath away.

  ‘Look, Lexie, I don’t know what caused you to fall out, but this means a lot to him and I think you should do as he asks. Can’t you do this one little thing for me? If you don’t like or agree with what he’s written, you can burn it. But a man who goes to this much trouble deserves to be given the benefit of the doubt. If only once.’

  What has he done? Now he has Mum on his side, and she’ll think less of me if I totally ignore her advice. Guilt tugs at me as I can’t ignore her right to read this for herself, because everything in that box belongs to her, first and foremost.

  ‘How did he get your number?’

  ‘Now don’t be cross. People do things for all sorts of reasons and someone close to me gave it to him. I don’t want to tell you who that was, until you’ve read the book. I’m not going to say another word, but when you’ve read it, I hope you will at least share your thoughts with me.

  ‘Now, drink your tea and let’s enjoy a wonderful lunch. I want to ask your opinion about something, just in case you think what I’m planning is a little… silly.’

  Mechanically, I stir the tea and then sip it as if what I’ve just learnt isn’t in the least bit upsetting. Mum knows what she’s doing, and she won’t let up until I’ve read the darn book.

  Annoyingly, my eyes keep straying to it on the table next to me. The cover is a photo of the florist’s shop where we eventually discovered Grandma had stayed when she was in Versailles. It’s one of the photos Ronan took and texted me when he popped back to his car that day.

  ‘Right. I’m ready to go whenever you are,’ I inform Mum in the brightest voice I can muster.

  Casually sliding the book back into the padded bag, I pop it into my handbag, knowing that I’m going to need nerves of steel before I can begin turning those pages.

  29

  A River of Tears

  Oh, how I cry. Throughout virtually the whole one hundred and eighty-three pages. I read through the night and don’t finish until other people are getting up and thinking about breakfast.

  I retired to bed early, armed with a fluorescent-pink highlighter pen, more than ready to challenge every single assumption and accusation. Instead, I spend much of the time wiping off the tears I miss that end up plopping down onto the pages, for fear they will leave a stain.

  I cry for Versailles, for the trees, for Fabien the Terrier, for my grandma – the Rose – and for the Bulldog too. Even the Spaniel, George, brings a tear to my eye as I realise, as brusque a manner as he has, he tried his best to be a peacemaker and calm the often- troubled waters.

  When I read the final page, I sit and sob my heart out. Instead of the recriminations I expected to find, Ronan pays tribute to each of the characters who were involved in my grandma’s year at Versailles.

  The verdict? Ronan finished by making a statement so profound that I feel ashamed I have ever doubted him for even a second.

  My dearest Lexie, my love

  I cannot take any credit for writing this story. I was merely the scribe. It was not an easy tale to research, or to recount, but I truly hope I have done it justice in your eyes.

  What leaps off the page, now it is done, is the compassion that was extended to a troubled man who loved the gardens of Versailles more than he loved life itself. Something that you know I always suspected was the case but struggled to accept in my heart. And I hope you can understand and forgive me for that, because coming to terms with it was a truly painful process.

  I’ve learnt that the nature of life is that everyone’s journey is different and, therefore, no one should ever stand in judgement of another. Not least because they have not travelled that same road. Instead, it’s wise to feel grateful if one’s own road is less arduous, or one is simply better equipped to deal with the harsher realities of life.

  The truth is that for me this turned out to be a humbling journey of my own. One that would allow me to cross paths with the woman I believe I was destined to be with forever.

  Lexie, I’ve waited all my life for you without even knowing it and I messed up. I’m sorry for that; sorrier than I could ever express to you in words. As I pulled together the final strands of this story, I realised that if your grandma had not spent that year in Versailles, our paths might never have crossed.
You were drawn here because your curiosity sparked an even greater interest in the uniqueness of a place of wonder.

  And, poignantly, if my grandfather had not taken his own life, then maybe I would not have become obsessed with unravelling the mysteries of the past, while researching the history of it.

  I found myself wondering, though, if that had not been the case, might we have both visited Versailles at some point in our lives and passed each other by as strangers, as we strolled through the gardens? And that, I knew, would have been another tragedy.

  So, when I say that we have the Rose and the Terrier to thank for bringing us together, I do not say that lightly, for I believe it to be true.

  This story is their legacy to us and it’s the reason we found ourselves together for our own springtime adventure in Versailles. Every breath I’ve taken, every single little thing I’ve done so far, led me to this one defining moment when I wrote THE END.

  Finally, I have become the man I was supposed to be, and you helped to give me the strength I needed to accept a very painful truth.

  So, my darling Lexie, this book is my gift to you and along with it goes my heart, forever.

  ‘Lexie… it’s Mum,’ her voice croaks down the line. ‘Oh, honey… I… can’t stop crying!’

  She sobs intermittently and I wait patiently while she blows her nose and sniffles.

  ‘I’m brokenhearted, I really am. I knew she loved my father, but I had no idea just how much, or what she’d been through. And that poor man, Fabien. Such suffering, such intensity it literally tears at one’s heart and soul.’

  ‘I know. It left me with such an overwhelming sense of admiration for a woman whose strength and compassion went way beyond anything I could ever have imagined. She will always be my inspiration.’

  ‘She’d be so proud of you, Lexie. And how beautifully Ronan told the story. Moments of anguish, pain and tenderness literally jump off the page. The words will stay with me forever.’