Page 17 of Summer at the Château
Tired and cross at being interrupted, she remembered irritably signing her signature, not questioning or even looking at what she was signing. No wonder her signature looked a little scrawled. Frank, she now realised with the benefit of hindsight, had chosen a moment when she would be unlikely to ask questions. Well, at least she could now assure Jean-Yves the next time she saw him that she had signed the paper, even if it had been unknowingly.
Pixie sat back in Frank’s chair. What had been on his mind that afternoon? He could have told her then it was the final ownership papers for the château, so why hadn’t he?
Pixie stretched out her hand and picked up the silver framed photo of the two of them on their wedding day that Frank had kept on his desk forever. Down the years when she’d suggested changing it for a more up to date one of the two of them, he’d refuse. ‘Happiest day of my life’ he’d say. ‘Looking at it always reminds me how lucky I am to have you.’
Pushing back on the chair, Pixie stood up. Installing another woman in the grounds of the château they’d bought together didn’t make sense, whichever way she looked at it. She wished Gwen’s charitable suggestion that Frank was maybe giving someone a helping hand was behind everything he’d done, but in her mind, that idea didn’t hold water. If it was the case, he would have discussed it with her before going ahead, instead he’d acted in secret, keeping everything from her. Hopefully next week when she met the tenant in the cottage at least one of her questions would be answered – even if the answer was unpalatable.
Pixie sighed as she replaced the château folder in the desk drawer before going across the landing and into her own study. There was still a lot to organise before they left in six days. She’d promised Gwen she’d print out the photos of the château she’d taken on her phone and give her copies to show her many friends in the village.
Waiting for the printer to do its stuff, Pixie looked around her office and thought about what she needed to take to France. Notebook, laptop, printer, reference books, desktop computer. She stifled a sigh. The days had long gone when all a writer needed was a pen and paper, but did she need to transfer her whole office to the château?
By the time the printer had finished the photographs, Pixie had decided on her essentials: laptop, her big-screen iMac and the printer. Notebooks she could buy in France and she’d google any research she needed to do.
Pixie flicked through the photos as she picked them out of the collecting tray. There were three of the parkland and one of the lake. Inside the château, there was one of the main sitting room, one of the grand staircase with its suit of armour on the landing and one of the kitchen. She put those seven to one side. There, that should be enough for Gwen to show off with to her friends. The remaining photos were of the other bedrooms and the bathrooms and the empty rooms on the third floor.
Glancing at one of the empty room photos that was out of focus and preparing to throw it away, Pixie froze and stared at it, not believing what she was seeing. In the middle of the out-of-focus fuzz, there was an image of a man with his arms held open in welcome, looking straight at the camera and smiling at her. It couldn’t possibly be Frank, could it?
It took several minutes to make her thumping heart and shaking body calm down as she stood there muttering to herself. ‘You’re being irrational thinking the image is Frank. Besides, there is no image. It’s a figment of your imagination. It’s just an out-of-focus photo. It’s impossible.’
* * *
The evening before they left for France, Gwen walked down to the village hall to say goodbye to her friends for the summer and to enjoy a final session of OldTyme Dancing.
Everyone wished her well, told her they would miss her over the summer and oohed and ahhed over the photos Pixie had printed out for her.
‘Bit posh that. You won’t want to come back. Looks lovely though – reckon the club ought to organise a coach outing there – you got enough bedrooms to put us all up!’ were just a few of the comments that came her way.
Brenda, a widow and her closest friend in the village, was pleased for her but admitted that, selfishly, she wished Gwen wasn’t going for the whole summer. ‘I hope you have a lovely time even though I’ll miss you. Evenings like this won’t be the same without you. Not sure I’ll bother to come very often.’
‘Brenda, don’t talk rot. Of course you’ll still come here every week, you’ll set otherwise. Got to keep those hips wiggling!’ Gwen wiggled her own hips around to emphasise the point and Brenda laughed.
‘Make sure you send me the occasional postcard.’
‘I promise.’
Gwen’s favourite dancing partner, Freddie, came over at that moment and whirled her around on the last foxtrot of the evening.
‘Keep an eye on Brenda for me while I’m away, she dances a good waltz, and she needs a bit of cheering up,’ she said quietly as the dance finished.
‘Will do,’ Freddie said. ‘Don’t worry about her – enjoy your summer. I hear there’s a tango class starting up in September, so make sure you’re back in time for that.’
As she and Brenda made their way to the door at the end of the evening, Freddie called out.
‘Gwen, you make sure you look after yourself with all those Frenchies – we all know what casanovas they are.’
Gwen turned and waved. ‘Bit late for that advice – been there, done that, got the T-shirt as the old saying goes.’ Chuckling to herself at the thought of watching out for French casanovas, she made her way home.
Once home, she poured herself a small medicinal brandy as a nightcap and carried it upstairs to the bedroom. Her packing was done – two suitcases this time. One was closed, the other open, ready for her toiletries bag and night dress in the morning.
Thoughtfully, she took a sip of her drink. The visit to France at Easter had been for Pixie’s sake and this long holiday over there was for her too, but it occurred to Gwen after she’d brightly thrown the ‘been there done that’ quip back at Freddie that maybe it was time for her to deal with some unfinished business.
Placing her drink on the old-fashioned bedside table with its cupboard underneath, she opened the door and took an old address book and a small drawstring bag off the shelf.
The address book pages fell open to reveal an old black-and-white photo. A swing was hanging from the bough of a tree, a small boy and girl were squashed together on the wooden seat, while standing behind was a taller, older young man holding the swing steady and with a little girl in his arms. The four of them were smiling happily at the camera.
Gwen looked at the photo for several seconds before replacing it between the pages of the address book and purposefully crossing to the open suitcase and placing the book in an empty elasticated pocket on the inside of the case. Picking up the drawstring bag, she eased it open and carefully took out the object inside and held it in the palm of her hand.
Memories of long ago began to crowd into her mind as she stared at the small enamel lighthouse brooch. This small inexpensive piece of jewellery had meant the world to her over sixty years ago, even now her heart quickened as she looked at it, wondering if she should do what she longed to. It was far too late to change anything, but maybe the truth was still out there, if she was brave enough to try and find it.
