Page 17 of A French Affair
‘I was born in England, but my dad was French.’
‘When did you leave? And why?’
Belinda gave a rueful smile. ‘The day of my last Baccalauréat. As for why…’ She saw Sandrine coming towards them with their starters and fell silent as she reached their table, trying hard to ignore the scrutinising look Sandrine gave her as she placed the salad in front of her. Maybe she did recognise her.
‘Bon appétit,’ the waitress wished them both before walking away.
‘I have to admit I’m surprised Sandrine still lives in the area,’ Belinda said quietly. ‘She was always moaning about the place, saying she couldn’t wait to leave and get a proper life.’ She smothered the thought that she, on the other hand, had never envisaged leaving, she’d loved living in Brittany – before that life had been snatched away from her.
‘She was working here the first time Laurent brought me and that was a good few years ago now,’ Fern said.
Belinda, realising she hadn’t answered Fern’s last question, decided a change of conversation was needed, otherwise her lunch was going to be ruined by ghosts from the past and the presence of waitresses in the present.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask, do you know anything about Bernie? He appears to be a permanent fixture on the campsite.’
Fern nodded. ‘Everyone in the village knows Bernie’s story. He was a surprise menopause baby. His two older brothers had left home before he was born and his parents, particularly his father, were resentful that they were back in the throes of bringing up another child that they didn’t particularly want.’ Fern sighed. ‘And when it was discovered that he had a bit of a problem mentally, they were, let’s say, bitter about it. You know the saying – it takes a village to raise a child – well, that’s what happened here in a way. Everyone used to look out for him and when his father threw him out about six years ago after his mother died, the village rallied around to make sure Bernie always had somewhere to go and something to eat. I think he’s been living on the site for about five years now, since his father died anyway. He’s a very kind, gentle man and absolutely marvellous with animals.’
‘So if I were to insist he has to find somewhere else to live and leave Camping dans La Fôret, I’d be labelled the big bad newcomer. Great.’ Belinda sighed. ‘He only speaks Breton though. How do people communicate with him?’
Fern gave a wry smile. ‘More people than you’d expect still speak Breton around here. And, between you and me, I think he understands basic French. He always seems to understand anything I say to him anyway. I’m pretty sure too that Alain speaks a little Breton.’
‘It doesn’t sound as though his continued presence is likely to cause problems,’ Belinda said. ‘And if it does, I’ll leave Alain to sort it out.’ She looked at Fern and hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything on the village grapevine about Alain? About why he’s gone to the UK this weekend?’
Fern shook her head. ‘No, sorry, I’ve not heard a thing. Not that I hear much anyway.’
Ten minutes later after they’d both enjoyed their first course a young girl appeared to clear their starter plates, followed by Sandrine, who placed their roast beef main courses in front of them.
Conversation between them ceased for several moments as they both tucked in to their meals. When they both muttered ‘Delicious’ at the same time, Belinda laughed before whispering, ‘Not the same without a Yorkshire pud though, is it? I bet you make wonderful Yorkshire puds.’
‘I do,’ Fern said. ‘I’m renowned for my Yorkshire puds.’
‘Did you ever go to the café on the campsite? I’m curious about what sort of food they offered there. Chips with everything or something more upmarket?’ Belinda asked.
‘I don’t think it even opened in the last two years,’ Fern answered. ‘Campers used Yann’s Bar and occasionally I got a few evening reservations for dinner. What sort of food are you planning?’ She sighed. ‘It’s the kind of place that years ago I would have loved to have taken on. So much potential there.’
‘I’d like to go more restaurant-type food rather than café. It’s such a wonderful setting for functions too. But the site will need a more basic café too.’ Belinda shrugged. ‘We’ll see. Whatever I suggest, Alain is sure to argue against.’
‘You two still not getting on?’
‘We’ve established a fragile truce. Not sure how long it will last, to be honest,’ Belinda said. ‘I’m beginning to feel there’s something under the surface ready to explode, but I have no idea what.’ One thing she did know though was that as an expert in keeping secrets, she could always second guess when someone else was hiding something.
12
The ginger cat was sitting on the top step by the door and mewed at her hopefully as Belinda unlocked the office door early Monday morning. She’d made her way to the campsite at the usual time, stopping in the village to pick up croissants and her lunchtime baguette on the way. If Alain didn’t turn up, she’d share the plain croissant with BB and the ducks down on the river.
‘Morning, Ging,’ Belinda said, bending down to give the cat a stroke. She really must ask Alain what the cat’s proper name was.
Ging followed her into the office, jumped onto the desk and curled up in his usual position out of BB’s way. The two of them had settled down well together, even played sometimes, but BB was liable to get overexcited and would receive a sharp tap on his nose when he upset Ging.
While the computer booted up, Belinda made herself a coffee and found herself thinking about the last couple of weeks. The days had gone so quickly, it was hard to believe that this would be her third week at Camping dans La Fôret. Another two and she would be heading home for the Easter holiday rush in the hotels and spending time with Chloe and the twins. She knew Alain was planning on having some of the caravan places and tent pitches open for the holidays as a trial run before the official opening on the first of June. Part of her was disappointed that she’d be missing the arrival of these first visitors, but Belinda was longing to see the family again, even if only for a week. Skype calls just weren’t the same.
Outside, she could hear voices and car doors slamming as the men working outside and the cleaners arrived. Today, the men were pressure-washing the area down by the café and the cleaners were going to start on the last of the cabins. She’d give both teams half an hour and then wander down and see how they were all doing, make sure they had all the tools they needed as Alain wasn’t here.
The morning passed quickly as Belinda did admin jobs on the computer, checked out a couple of suppliers and did some more work updating the website. She was about to start researching the location of the nearest makers and distributors of pods and tree houses when BB pricked his ears and she heard a car door slam. Alain was back.
But it was a stranger who opened the office door and gave her a cheerful ‘Bonjour’ as he walked in. He held out his hand for her to shake. ‘Hervé Bois.’
‘Belinda Marshall. Bonjour,’ Belinda answered, wondering if she was supposed to know who this smartly dressed and good-looking Frenchman was.
