The French Promise (28 page)

Their week in England had frankly been a blur. Luc walked Jenny around London, using a map against the unfamiliar territory until she complained of
blisters. At night she loved to see the lights of London, although the majority of streets were illuminated with the viciously orange sodium lamps, but Piccadilly was a riot of neon that took their breath away.

He enjoyed how charmed she was by even the most simple of experiences, from the first of the Christmas street lanterns being hung in Regent Street, to eating roasted chestnuts from a street
vendor. Jenny wasn’t fond of the claustrophobic Underground trains, despite their speed; she far preferred to ride upstairs on the top deck of the red buses that groaned around the streets, clogging London’s boulevards but giving her a bird’s-eye view of the shops, the traffic and the endless stream of people. She chatted to the bus conductors as though they were acquainted and loved handling
the unfamiliar coins.

Her favourite haunt was around Carnaby Street and Luc had laughed aloud – his first genuine piece of amusement since the family deaths – when Jenny had cut him a withering look as he’d surreptitiously appraised a young woman in a yellow and black houndstooth-checked skirt and purple tights.

‘Mrs Murray at school said a lady’s skirt should never rise above the knee,’
she said, looking vaguely impressed nonetheless. ‘Lucky Mum’s not here to see you staring.’

Suddenly, it was all right to talk about Lisette and Harry again. He and Jenny had existed alongside each other since the drowning in a frigid, bleak atmosphere where even to mention the names of the dead felt wrong. And now – overnight – with a change of scenery, it felt natural to do so.

‘I’m shocked
by all of this colour,’ Luc said. ‘London’s gone mad. Last time I was here, everyone wore grey or black. Except your mother, of course, who looked like a goddess in pale blue. But now look at it … and it’s not even summer.’ It was a woeful defence; the girl had strolled by on long slim legs and wearing a tight sweater over large, high breasts, and he defied any red-blooded man not to let his gaze
linger appreciatively.

Jenny had taken to singing choruses of rock and pop songs Luc had no idea about. She’d bounce along trilling words that didn’t make sense to him that seemed to be playing constantly on the radio. ‘It’s by The Kinks, Dad,’ she’d said, eyes shining, as though that should explain everything. He’d quickly learnt not to try to fathom the tastes of the young and London was certainly
a modern city that was sloughing off its conservative cocoon and emerging like a wild, theatrical butterfly into the new decade. Fashion, art and music all pointed to a new
age, where everything from hallucinogenic drugs to bright, psychedelic colours were apparently the norm and everyone spoke with great optimism and hope for the future. Given that they were talking about space travel and walking
on the moon, Luc had decided that nothing should surprise him.

Jenny was soaking it all up and had even dared to ask him if she could have a miniskirt from Bazaar, which she’d insisted on being taken into when they’d roamed through Knightsbridge. He was noticing so much about Jenny; most achingly that she was, as her mother had often quipped, thinking like a young woman a decade older
than her years. Jenny’s keen eye for fashion was responding swiftly and enthusiastically to all that was on show, and in their hotel of an evening she had her head buried in women’s magazines. His daughter seemed determined to own two items.

One was a miniskirt by Mary Quant, which was black with white polka dots and a contrasting striped belt, and she also yearned for perfume from Chanel in Paris.
Apparently her mother had spoken affectionately of it.

Luc could not smell the No.5 fragrance without being reminded of Colonel Kilian.
Over my dead body
, he told himself,
will I allow my daughter to smell of that perfume … that man
. It was petty of him – insecure, even – but he didn’t care. Chanel No.5 didn’t use lavender, to his knowledge, so he felt even further justified in his attitude. What
he couldn’t deny, though, was the beauty of the scent. Majestic and haunting, it spoke of a bright sensuality, lingered for days, and might be that fashion brand that Lisette had hinted at. Maybe they could produce a perfume … ‘Bonet’. He tested it in his mind. It sounded perfect.

‘You’re too young for perfume,’ he’d replied. ‘But we’ll discuss the skirt,’ he said before she could leap
in and debate with him.

As a special treat he’d booked tickets for them to see the West End smash-hit production of
Oliver
, which they both enjoyed immensely. Now Jenny had a new song in her mind to sing repeatedly in a pretty reasonable cockney accent. ‘Consider Yourself’ permeated the rest of their time in the capital, whose weather had taken a turn for the worse: they were waking
to foggy, cold mornings and what Jenny termed as ‘freezing’ nights. Luc finally relented and took her to see Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard in a special midnight rerun of the runaway-hit movie
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
, despite his reservation that it was far too grown up and that surely
Walt Disney’s 101 Dalmations
was more suitable. But Jenny insisted and he understood why when the eccentric,
extroverted lead character first lit up the screen and Jenny sighed at her dress and pearls, her huge sunglasses and her gloves, casually eating a pastry and drinking a takeaway coffee as she pauses to look into the display window of Tiffany’s in New York. Audrey Hepburn was captivating for him too, but he suspected Holly Golightly was about to become Jenny’s new idol and fashion icon.

‘She’s wearing Givenchy, Dad,’ Jenny sighed and he had to smile quietly in the darkness at the combined lust and wistfulness in his daughter’s voice. How would Launceston, let alone Nabowla, ever be enough for his little girl after all these experiences?

With only a day left, Luc had taken Jenny on the train down to Hampshire, back to Pierrefondes Avenue where Lisette’s grandfather, now in his
early nineties, shuffled around the
downstairs of the home Luc had visited many times during the late 1940s. He hadn’t really wanted to see it again. If he was honest, he didn’t want to see his wife’s grandfather again either. It brought the pain of losing Lisette too close to the surface, but he knew it was important that Jenny meet her great-grandfather.

Colin’s eyes had been rheumy
and he moved slowly, painfully. The nurse called in while they were there for the second time that day to ensure he took his tablets. A housekeeper called by daily as well. There was no doubt that the old man was being well cared for and he seemed determined to remain in the house, rather than ‘rot in a nursing home’, as he’d said.

‘They’ll carry me out of here in a box,’ he warned without any
embarrassment that his only granddaughter and great-grandson had recently been put into the same.

Their reunion had been every bit as painful as Luc had anticipated, and he could only wish that the old man was lost to dementia so the agony of Colin’s three favourite women dying before him wasn’t etched in his expression. Luc knew the feeling all too well and had been lost for words as their gazes
had first met; a brisk, gruff hug had spoken plenty and Jenny’s presence certainly eased their conversation away from sadness into bright, sparkly questions about everything from the photos of her great-grandmother to whether he might like to visit them in Australia.

Luc didn’t ask but guessed even dear old Peanut had passed away and smiled at a photo of the small dog on the mantelpiece. He looked
extremely comfortable in Granny’s embrace and had clearly made himself at home with the elderly couple.

‘The house and contents I’m leaving to Jenny,’ the old man had said quietly to him later that afternoon, while he sucked gently on a pipe and caught the last bit of the sun’s warmth for the year. They were watching Jenny dangle a twig in the garden pond while admiring the goldfish. The men sat
back against the warm brick wall where Luc recalled the hydrangeas in summer would flower theatrically, spilling huge mop-head blue blooms in all directions. He remembered how proud Lisette’s grandmother used to be of that plant. He missed Marie here – the place felt as empty without her as the farm did without Lisette.

‘She’s too young to understand,’ Luc commented, even though he knew
Jenny would understand all too well.

‘Yes, but one day she can live here or sell the place as she chooses and live off its proceeds. I’m just happy to know I’ve provided my great-grandchild with an English base. I’d like her to know a bit about England.’

Luc nodded. ‘She’s in love with London already, if that’s any consolation.’

‘Are you taking her to Eastbourne?’

‘No point. And I would find it
painful.’

‘It’s not about you, Luc. It’s about her. You need to give her all the memories of her mother, where her brother was born, where you come from, your and Lisette’s early life, early marriage. Don’t let her grow up dislocated like your wife.’

Luc cut him a sharp glance but the old man was ready for him.

‘I’d take you to task if you claimed you loved her any more than I did, son, but I’m
capable of seeing Lisette clearly. Maybe you can’t.’ He shrugged and tapped his pipe out
against the wall in a practised way. ‘There was something about my granddaughter – it was always as though she was deliberately hurtling to an early death, like her mother before her.’ His voice grew thick as he stabbed his pipe towards Luc now. ‘You make sure you break that mould with this one.’ He tried
to stand and fell back into the chair. A look of absolute disgust ghosted across his expression. ‘Look at that. So ruddy helpless I can’t even get to my feet. The world’s not long for me, Luc. I refuse to live in it if I’m helpless.’ Another sharp look won him a chuckle. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll wait until you’ve both gone,’ he reassured, amused by some private joke. ‘I’m glad you came. More glad in fact
than you can know. I wish Marie could have met Jenny – she’s uncannily like her mother.’

Luc sighed. ‘Most of the time I feel grateful for that, but there are times when I find it hard to look at Jenny.’

‘Get past it. She needs every ounce of you now, boy. Stay involved in her life.’

Luc had hugged the old man again and begged himself not to blurt out something empty like ‘See you again’
– which they both would have known was a lie – but her grandfather winked.

‘Your English is really good now, lad. If you stay here long enough, you may even learn how to play cricket.’

Luc had grinned. ‘Oh, believe me, I’m having to learn it fast living in Australia. I hear our team won the Ashes.’

‘Bah! That ruddy Benaud and his men.’

There was nothing else to say, although the awkward moment
of farewell had been sidestepped and then they were gone again, returning to the station in a taxi and rattling back on a train to Charing Cross, picking up their luggage from the Thistle hotel and returning to the
station, now bound for Dover where they would hopefully seamlessly connect with the ferry to Calais. It went smoothly and within hours they were on the observation deck with a chilling
wind stealing their breath. The early evening lost the violet hue of the English Channel and moved into the inky darkness of the waters of La Manche – the French name for the narrow arm of the Atlantic Sea that cut between the Sussex and Norman coasts. Looking down, the waters were black and shapeless, with rolling waves they couldn’t see but could certainly feel buffeting the side of the ship.
Jenny showed no sign of it but Luc felt nauseous and refused to join her inside the ferry, where cloying smells of diesel fuel and engine oil mixed with the blanketing staleness of old Horlicks and Bovril.
The sea should smell fresh
, he thought, but again all he could smell was tangy seaweed. Jenny had gone in search of a cocoa but he had insisted on going out onto the unsheltered deck, despite
the light drizzle that he could see illuminated by the ferry’s lamps, and inhaling as much frigid, salty air as possible to calm his heaving belly. He remembered this feeling now from his days rowing out to the lighthouse; he’d conquered it then but it seemed the lack of sailor’s legs was a permanent affliction, as his voyage to Australia had attested. Lisette had laughed gently at him then, teasing
that a man of the mountains should never trust the sea. She was right. He understood mountains – unyielding and honest in what they presented; they never lied. But oceans were unpredictable, fathomless, and murderous.

The sea killed and it wasn’t choosy.

Neither of them had discussed it but he knew Jenny wasn’t thrilled to be on the water either, however, it was the
fastest way to get
to France and her eagerness to see Paris outweighed her fears.

Predawn the following day they were easing into the dimly lit harbour of Calais. Like Dover before it, it appeared rough and unwieldy – a hotchpotch of industrial-looking buildings and the smell of Gauloises cigarette tobacco reaching Luc before anything else could. Ah yes, this was France! He smiled in the darkness and then
felt a hand take his.

‘We’re here,’ Jenny said, looking relieved.

He nodded, pulling her close, too choked up to speak. This was the trip he had planned to bring his wife on; they’d so often talked about returning to France together and walking a Paris not draped in swastikas or kowtowing to the barking of German orders. He had longed to show Lisette
his
Provence … his Saignon … most of all, his
lavender fields. But now he would do that with their daughter. It had to be enough – he had to make sure it was enough and that Jenny never felt his wistfulness.

But she was so much keener than he gave her credit for.

‘Dad … I wish Mum were here to share this with you.’ He looked down at her pale face in the ghostly lightening of dawn’s first stretch and sodium lamps. ‘I imagine you’re
thinking about her,’ she said, gravely. ‘So am I.’

Luc felt a pang of guilt ripple through him that he’d already failed to mask his hurt. He stroked her smooth cheek.

‘But she is here,’ he said, mustering a smile. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing first to Jenny’s heart and then to his. ‘And here,’ he said, cupping her face. ‘You are the image of your mother except a lot more beautiful.’