Page 13 of Summer at the Château
‘That’s such a shame. You clearly love it here,’ Fern said as they made their way downstairs. ‘The place suits you – you look completely at home. Is there no way you can keep it?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Pixie shrugged. ‘I just have to accept things don’t always work out as you want or expected. Curveballs of life and all that.’
‘I certainly know all about those.’ Fern smiled as Scott placed his arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug.
Out on the terrace, coffee, cake and conversation flowed for an hour before Fern reluctantly stood up, saying she had to get back to the auberge.
‘If, when you’ve sold the château, you want to visit any time, there will always be a bed for you at the auberge. As a friend, not a guest,’ she hastened to add. ‘I’d love it if we could keep in touch.’
Pixie felt her eyes brim with tears at her kind words. ‘Thank you, I’ll definitely keep in touch,’ was all she could manage to stutter.
Standing on the front terrace with Gwen, waving goodbye as Scott drove them away, Pixie sighed.
‘I think Fern and I could have been good friends if I’d ever come to live here.’ She’d forgotten what it was like to have a close girl friend since becoming a full-time writer. When she’d been working as a journalist, there had been one close friend for a time, but only a handful of other women she called friends. Sadly, over the years, life had taken them all in different directions and she’d lost touch with everyone. Of course, these days she met fellow writers when she went to book signings and publisher’s events, but making new friends had proved to be difficult. Pixie turned to go back inside. ‘Come on, let’s clear the coffee things away. It’s gone twelve, we need to think about lunch.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Honestly, all we seem to do here is eat and drink. It’s a good job we don’t live here permanently, it would be a full-time battle to keep off the pounds.’
‘Why don’t we skip lunch? I’m not hungry after that cake and coffee. We could have an early dinner instead.’
‘Are you sure?’ Pixie glanced at her mother. ‘It would give me a couple of hours to get some more writing done.’
‘This place inspiring you, is it?’
‘More a case of my deadline is getting closer.’
‘You go and write then. Don’t worry about dinner, I’ll see to it.’
Before she settled down in the sitting room with her laptop, Pixie stood for several moments looking out over the gardens. Fern’s comments earlier had upset her because over the weekend she had started to feel completely at home here, had even begun to think about a few improvements she would like to make and was cross that with the way things were now it could never be her real home.
And Gwen had been right too when she’d asked the question about being inspired. It hadn’t been the pressing deadline alone yesterday afternoon that had made the words flow, it was the whole ambiance of this place that had affected her.
Settling herself in a chair and opening her laptop, Pixie sighed. There was no question about it, she had to sell the place now she was on her own, but did she have to sell in a hurry? It would be wonderful to spend some more time here. Frank had been here more than once, a tiny jealous voice in her head said. Maybe she shouldn’t rush to put it on the market, keep it as a second home and come over as often as she could? Delay the inevitability of selling up for what, one or two visits? Or maybe even spend the summer in France?
Pixie tried to push away that thought as it arrived with a sharp intake of breath, but it refused to leave. Spend the summer here – could she? Write her next book in the peaceful surroundings. Was it possible? As a glimmer of hope flooded through her, Pixie decided she’d talk to Gwen about it later, because if Gwen didn’t agree, the idea was a non-starter anyway. There was no way she’d abandon her mother to life in the UK whilst she lived and experienced the Breton lifestyle over the summer.
* * *
Left to her own devices, Gwen pottered around, tidying up the kitchen, checking on the food for their evening meal – the last of the lamb, salad and pasta, with the remainder of Fern’s gateau for dessert – before making herself a cup of tea and sitting out on the terrace to drink it. And to think about the first and only time she’d visited Brittany before.
Since that early-morning breakfast in Roscoff and the stroll around the harbour with Pixie, forgotten images from over sixty years ago had floated into her mind during the past few days. When Anouk had mentioned places up on the coast worth a visit as they’d chatted that morning, more disjointed memories had flitted into Gwen’s mind. Wandering around the ancient town of Morlaix. A picnic near Callac.
She was beginning to regret saying no to Pixie when she’d asked if there was anywhere she’d like to go while they were over here, wishing she’d said‘yes’instead. But what was the point? Walking around Roscoff itself had been enough to stir her decades-old memory pot with all its regrets and longings.
The childminding job that long-ago summer had come out of the blue and was the result of some serendipitous events. Friends of her parents, the Widdicombes, had left the West Country for London and knew a French family who were looking for help with their children over the summer in France. A job they thought Gwen, who often looked after their two toddlers when they returned to Devon for holidays, would be perfect for.
Once they knew Gwen was interested, they’d arranged everything. She’d found herself caught up in a whirlwind of organisation, including applying for her first ever passport. Finally, when it was all arranged, she took the train to Paddington, where Mrs Widdicombe had met her and taken her home. Sitting in the kitchen drinking tea, Gwen had dared to voice the worrying question. ‘What happens if the Dubois family don’t like me when they meet me?’
‘Unlikely, my dear, so don’t worry about that. They know how fond of you I am and that I trust you to look after my two. Anyway, you’re on a fortnight’s trial and if you are unhappy or things don’t work out, they will pay you and buy your ticket home. They’re really nice people, so I’m sure you’re all going to get along just fine.’ And so it had proved.
The next day, Gwen had been shown some of the London sights and in the evening both the Widdicombes had taken her to London Victoria station and waved her goodbye. Gwen, clutching her passport, had boarded the night ferry train from platform two and at 9 p.m. it had departed for Dover and the Calais ferry on the first part of the eleven-hour journey.
From the moment she stepped out of the Gard du Nord concourse, Paris had seduced her. To her twenty-year-old mind, it was the most beautiful city she’d ever seen. Given that she’d only been to London and Bristol at that time, both of which were still recovering from the bomb damage of the war, she realised the comparison was unfair.
The more she explored Paris, with its handsome buildings, the Seine running through the very heart of the city, the numerous palaces, flights of steps and Montmartre – oh, how she loved that place – the sheer romanticism of everything had enchanted her, and she’d never wanted to leave. But in true Parisian tradition the family decamped to their summer house for the month of August, leaving the sweltering city to the tourists.
The prospect of decamping to the countryside of Brittany for the whole of August wasn’t something she’d looked forward to, as much as the Dubois family assured her she would enjoy her time there too. A smile played around Gwen’s lips as she remembered. The family had been right. Brittany too, had enchanted her. Besides, she met the love of her life that month in Brittany.
A movement down by the lake caught her gaze and she saw two deer grazing. For several moments she watched, before they trotted away, the white underneath of their tails flashing as they bounced in the direction of the fields beyond the copse. Pixie would adore knowing that there were deer on her land. Such a shame that she was hell-bent on selling the place before she had a real chance to enjoy it.
Gwen sighed. She’d admitted to being dubious all those years ago when Pixie and Frank had told her they were buying this beautiful château in France, but in the last few days she’d come to realise how special the place was, especially to Pixie. The strain that had been etched on her daughter’s face in recent weeks had softened, she’d relaxed, and this morning, with Fern, she’d smiled more than she had in a long time. Gwen knew without a doubt, it would do her good to do her grieving over the loss of Frank here. A place they had both loved, but Pixie’s only true memory of the two of them together here was from ten years ago. There would be no ghosts of Frank jumping out to hijack memories of holidays or birthdays spent here or point out how different everything now was. She could make new memories for herself in this beautiful place.
