Page 75 of From Notting Hill with Love…Actually
“Oui, she is out in the back just now. One moment, I shall return.”
While we waited, I glanced at some of the bags beautifully displayed on the glass podiums and shelves. I didn’t bother glancing at the price tags, though. No point.
Presently, Chantal returned with an elderly woman dressed entirely in black. She was holding on tightly to Chantal’s arm for support; and was almost bent double as she hobbled across the shop.
“This is Marie,” Chantal said. “She is the grandmother of our manageress. She likes to come and sit in the shop with us for company since her husband died, but they do not let her sit out front.” Chantal put her hand to the side of her mouth and whispered to us. “They say it will…’ow you say…er…put the customers off?” She found Marie a seat and helped her into it. “She does not speak any English, but I shall try and ask her what you ask me.”
I nodded and smiled at Marie. She stared hard at me over her tiny pince-nez glasses.
Chantal then presumably asked Marie the same questions we had asked her. But it was hard to tell—I could only really pick out the word Rosemary.
Marie shook her head vehemently.
“She says no,” Chantal translated unnecessarily.
“Or Rosie?” I asked, looking at Marie.
Again she shook her head.
I turned to Sean. “We may as well just go; this is getting us nowhere.”
“English,” Marie said.
We all turned to look at her.
“English,” she said, pointing her bony finger at me.
“Yes, that’s right, I am.”
“Vivien,” she said, nodding.
“No, my name is Scarlett.”
She nodded again. “Oui…Scarlett…Vivien. Da, daa, da, daa. Da, daa, da, daaa,” she hummed.
“Come on,” Sean said. “Let’s go, we’ve still got one more shop to try yet. Plus,” he whispered, “I don’t think this old bird is all there.”
“No, wait,” I said, listening to Marie hum. “Can’t you hear what she’s singing? I think it’s the theme tune toGonewiththeWind.”
We all stood and listened to Marie humming. She stopped and smiled a toothy grin at us.
“Vivien,” she said again, pointing at me. Then she spoke to Chantal in French.
“What’s she saying?” I asked.
“She says you look like Vivien.”
“Who, Vivien Leigh?”
Chantal asked Marie.
“No,” Chantal explained. “A woman that used to work here. Marie says she very much loved the cinema, and her favorite film, she remembers, wasGonewiththeWind. So the staff, they called her Vivien, as it sounded more French.”
“More French than…?” I asked hopefully. “What was her real name?”
Again Chantal spoke quickly to Marie.
“She does not remember her true name, I’m afraid.”
