Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
Still, Juliette wanted to extend some personal hospitality, and this seemed the perfect way to do it.
The house she was looking after might have been small but there was enough room in the garden to accommodate everyone.
Véronique lent her some picnic rugs and she bought some cheap beach towels for people to sit on too.
Nico fixed up a sail shade and they tied silver balloons everywhere.
Although everyone was invited to bring something to eat (finger food only), Juliette was planning a grand a?oli as backup – platters of fresh vegetables, shrimp and salt cod, with (naturally) bowls of a?oli in the centre, for dipping.
There were crusty baguettes, too, and she’d assembled every available bucket or basin, which she’d fill with ice nearer the time to chill the rosé.
The glasses were on loan from the wine merchant and could be returned without having to be washed, which was a bonus.
‘I’ll buy some ice on the way home,’ she told Nico, checking her watch. ‘You remember I have to go to Avignon this afternoon? Sorry, I’ll be as quick as I can.’
Monsieur Paincheau, the gardener at Chateau Albertine, had texted her a couple of days before to say that he’d been in touch with the person he’d mentioned, a certain Francoise Fayol, who knew a great deal about the place since her grandmother had lived in Les Roches during the war.
Madame Fayol had moved to Avignon, and Paincheau had met her when the chateau was last for sale and she’d come to have a look around.
She’s happy to talk to you, he had written, and given Juliette her number.
The only problem, Juliette found out when she called, was that Madame Fayol was shortly leaving for a week’s holiday in Spain and the only time they could possibly meet was Thursday afternoon.
If it had been anyone else, Juliette might have been tempted to postpone till the next time she was back in Provence, but her curiosity was whetted: Francoise Fayol was particularly interested in social history and had made a special study of Chateau Albertine, given her family connection.
‘Although my grandmother never worked there, she knew everyone who did,’ she told Juliette on the phone.
‘I loved her dearly but she was quite the gossip. If your grandmother spent any time at the chateau, my Mamie would have come across her. I actually interviewed her about those years and made a recording, and I’m so glad I did. The stories she had to tell!’
So how could Juliette resist? She had to force herself to stick to the speed limit on the drive towards Avignon. Francoise Fayol lived on the ?le de la Barthelasse, an island opposite the city between two branches of the Rh?ne, with a view across the river to the famous bridge.
‘But what a lovely spot, Madame Fayol,’ Juliette said when they met. ‘I had no idea this island even existed.’
‘Francoise, please,’ she replied. ‘Come in, Juliette, and excuse the mess. I moved here five years ago from a house twice the size and still haven’t found a place for everything.’ She looked to be about Juliette’s age and had a freckled, anxious face, framed by short auburn hair.
‘It’s very good of you to see me,’ Juliette said, making her way past a stack of crates, suitcases and a bicycle leaning against the wall. ‘I know what it’s like, getting ready to go away.’
‘I always end up packing too much.’ Francoise twisted her fingers together with a nervous laugh. ‘But please, find a seat where you can.’
The front room of the cottage was crowded with furniture.
An open suitcase took up most of the floor, spilling out blouses and sweaters (for Spain, in September?), and the couch was piled with several more layers of inappropriate clothes.
Juliette cleared herself a space and sat down, while Francoise perched on a stool and twittered about the difficulties of downsizing after a divorce.
‘I don’t want to take up too much of your time,’ Juliette said eventually, taking Alison’s album out of her bag, ‘but you might be interested to see these photographs of the chateau. The current owner found this book in the loft and lent it to me.’
Francoise moved a tweed coat out of the way and sat beside her on the couch.
‘Oh, but these are marvellous!’ she breathed, her eyes lighting up as she looked at the first few pages.
Then, jumping to her feet, she lifted a tablecloth beside the couch to reveal a filing cabinet underneath.
‘Let me just find my notes in case I need a reminder. Ah, here we are.’ And she pulled out a folder labelled Chateau Albertine.
As they looked through the album together, with Francoise providing a commentary, the pictures came to life.
The elegant couple were Count and Countess de Courcy, Raymond and Blanche, the chateau having been in the de Courcy family for generations.
Their sulky-looking daughter was called Amélie and their blond son Fabrice.
The family history was a sad one: the count had died of a stroke in 1938, and then Fabrice had been taken prisoner by the Germans when they invaded France in 1940, and was later shot while trying to escape from Colditz Castle in 1944.
Amélie had had an affair with a Communist, ending up pregnant out of wedlock and estranged from her mother; her son, the countess’s grandson, had died of a drug overdose in the 1960s.
‘Yet look at them in their prime,’ Juliette said. ‘You’d think they had it all, wouldn’t you?’
They had come to the blank pages. ‘1939,’ Francoise said. ‘I suppose once war broke out, taking photographs no longer seemed appropriate.’
‘No, keep going,’ Juliette told her. ‘The pictures start up again but they’re not so posed: more like behind-the-scenes shots of daily life.’
‘Let’s see, my grandmother told me the countess was making do with a cook/housekeeper and a gardener during the war . . .’ Francoise flipped open her folder. ‘Odile and Georges Leclerc, that’s right. They lived in the gate lodge with their daughter.’
‘She’s still there,’ Juliette said. ‘The daughter, I mean. Did you know that? And look, here’s my grandmother.’ She pointed to the pictures of Mémé driving the trap, working outdoors – and then finally standing with her hands on her hips, arching her back as she looked towards the mountains.
‘What a lovely picture,’ Francoise said. ‘So she was pregnant with your mother in this photograph?’
‘No,’ Juliette replied briefly. ‘My mother was born in America, after Mémé had married again and emigrated. Her first husband died, you see.’ She didn’t feel like going into the whole story with someone she’d only just met.
‘Francoise, you mentioned recording an interview with your grandmother. Do you think I could possibly hear it? Maybe you could send me a link to the audio?’
‘I don’t have such a thing,’ Francoise replied, looking worried. ‘I only have a tape, but you’re welcome to listen to that. If I can just remember where I put it . . .’
Juliette checked her watch surreptitiously as Francoise rifled through books and papers on the desk and various side tables before uttering a triumphant ‘Aha!’ and holding a cassette aloft.
Then, of course, the machine to play it had to be located, and the tape wound to the right spot because, Francoise said, there was a lot of irrelevant chat at the beginning.
‘Please don’t apologise,’ Juliette told her. ‘It’s so kind of you to go to all this trouble.’ Although she was starting to think she should make her excuses and leave, otherwise the pot-luck supper would be relaxed to the point of chaos.
‘Here we are,’ Francoise said at last, pressing the ‘Play’ button with a clunk. ‘Now I think you’ll find this interesting.’
A firm voice rang out into the room: definitely elderly, but full of life. ‘But of course, everyone in Chateau Albertine had something to hide,’ Madame Fayol said, and the hairs stood up on Juliette’s arms.