Page 28 of Summer at the Château
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Gwen was making a start on clearing the various urns and pots that were dotted around the terrace and garden one afternoon so they could be replanted after a planned visit to a garden centre at the weekend, when Marcel made an unexpected appearance.
‘What are you doing here? Not your normal day?’ Gwen asked, smiling at him.
‘I ’ave brought you lettuce, tomatoes, peppers. I thought it enough to begin, oui?’ Marcel held out the small wooden pallet box filled with plants.
‘Merci,’ Gwen said as she followed him past the dilapidated orangery to the kitchen garden.
‘I stay and ’elp,’ Marcel said, placing the pallet box down. ‘The tomatoes will go there, at the back, the peppers there and the lettuce near the front,’ he said, pointing out the patch of ground he’d cleared ready for planting.
For the next hour Gwen dutifully followed behind Marcel, pushing the plants firmly into the ground and then watering them with the hose.
‘This hose makes life so much easier than a watering can,’ she said.
‘My papa ’e had the Quiltus pipe the water ’ere and instal the ’ose when the kitchen garden and the orangery were in constant use,’ Marcel said. ‘J’ai adoré l’orangerie when I was growing up. With its citrons, orange and grapefruit trees, always the smell it was wonderful in the spring with the blossoms. And the pêches, mm.’ He glanced in the direction of the orangery. ‘A shame it falls into disrepair so bad. Peut-être Madame Sampson, she restore it?’
Gwen shook her head sadly. ‘Not in her plans at the moment, but never say never.’ She carefully watered the last of the lettuces before glancing up at Marcel. ‘Did Monsieur Sampson ever say to you he’d like to restore it?’
Marcel nodded. ‘I only saw ’im the once, after he moved Justine and her son into the cottage, before that we talk on the telephone, but he talked about ’ow he wanted to restore it.’
‘I love the baskets Justine makes. So clever. And little Ferdie is so sweet.’
‘She keeps ’erself to ’erself that one,’ Marcel said. ‘Works ’ard. Not an easy job doing the markets.’ He bent down and picked up the empty pallet box. ‘Bien. I ’ave finished here. I see you next week – unless I see you at the Fest-Noz tomorrow night?’
‘A Fest-Noz involves dancing, right?’ Gwen said, her face lighting up at the thought, even if it would be just Breton dancing. ‘When and where?’
‘Begins at six o’clock at the village school and is always good fun. A bientôt.’
‘A bientôt,’ Gwen echoed, inwardly vowing to mention the Fest-Noz to Pixie over supper.
After Marcel had left, she washed her hands and went up to her room for her iPad before coming back down and sitting at the kitchen table. Time to check on some addresses, starting with the Paris one. She hadn’t got very far when she’d tried before.
Taking a deep breath, she carefully typed in the name A. Dubois and, opening her old address book, copied the Paris address into the search bar. Not recognised. She typed the house number and street name alone. Nothing came up. The Dubois family appeared to no longer own the Paris house. Next she tried the Roscoff address. This time, the name ‘Puglisi, Anton’ came up.
Gwen closed her iPad and the address book. That was that then. The Dubois family had clearly sold on both houses. She was a silly old woman expecting to find him still living in one or other of the family houses over sixty years later. Things didn’t work like that these days. People moved about. It was probably for the best – what would they have found to say to each other in all honesty. No, it had just been the foolish dream of an old lady.
She patted the lighthouse brooch that she wore every day now. She had her memories. They would have to be enough.
* * *
That evening, as the two of them ate their chicken salad sitting out on the terrace as usual, Gwen said casually, ‘You remember it’s a fête day again tomorrow? The last one of the month.’
‘Another one? That must be at least one a week all through May,’ Pixie said. ‘The French certainly love their fête day holidays.’
‘Marcel was saying earlier that there’s a Fest-Noz at the school tomorrow evening. It’s in aid of the school funds. I thought it would be fun to go.’
‘Do you want to go? I’m not sure Breton dancing is my scene,’ Pixie said.
‘The fact that I bought the subject up should tell you that, yes, I would like to go,’ Gwen answered crossly. ‘You don’t have to get up and dance if you don’t want to, although I shall. I rang Anouk earlier and she said the three of them are going, so it would give you a chance to catch up with Fern. She was asking how you were you. You also promised that we would have fun this summer. Hasn’t been much evidence of that so far.’ That might be a bit of a below-the-belt remark, but Gwen didn’t apologise for it.
‘Okay, we’ll go to the Fest-Noz tomorrow,’ Pixie agreed, before finishing her salad and reaching for her wine glass.
Gwen sighed. She was beginning to suspect that Pixie was still locked into grieving for Frank and, as well as keeping her distance from Justine and Ferdie, was using writing as an excuse not to socialise at all, even with Fern and Scott. Although Saturdays and Sundays, when Pixie didn’t shut herself away writing, and they went out and about were always good fun.
In truth, she was quite happy herself spending time at the château doing the gardening, preparing meals, chatting to the builders, walking into the village to have coffee with Anouk. She was as busy here as she had been at home, apart from the OldTyme Dancing Club, but the dancing tomorrow was sure to be good.
* * *
