Chapter 9
There was a queue in the boulangerie, and only one woman behind the counter.
Maxine watched her briskly serving customers.
She was probably in her mid-twenties, languid, smiling easily.
Her dark hair was pinned up; thick coils spilled onto her shoulders as she chatted to a small woman in a mackintosh, her French careful and remarkably easy to understand.
Apparently, her little girl was naughty – Maxine thought tetue must mean headstrong – and someone called Gisele was taking a few days off because her mother, who lived ten kilometres away, was unwell and Bastien – whoever he was – was driving her there.
The woman paid and left, offering a courteous ‘bonjour’ to Maxine as she passed.
The next customer was a tall man and Maxine listened to see if she could translate.
He spoke in a rush – apparently he had a meeting at the town hall and was late.
The young woman behind the counter soothed him with some pains au chocolat.
He then wished her a good day and asked her to give his regards to her mother.
The assistant turned to Maxine with a broad smile. ‘Et, madame – qu’est ce que vous prenez?’
Maxine had rehearsed the list in her head. She asked for two croissants and a baguette. Then she noticed an interesting loaf on the countertop and asked the young woman what it was.
‘C’est un pain de seigle.’
Maxine wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was dark and healthy-looking. ‘Oui, s’il vous pla?t.’
The assistant reached for the loaf. ‘Tranché?’
Maxine frowned – she didn’t understand.
‘Would you like it sliced?’ the assistant asked in a perfect English accent.
‘Yes – oui…’ Maxine stammered and watched her place it in a machine and press a button.
The bread was wrapped, Maxine paid for it all and left the shop feeling that her French wasn’t nearly as good as she’d thought it was, although she’d understood perfectly well what the assistant had said to everyone else.
Then she realised: she was English. Of course she was.
Maxine was delighted – she’d come back tomorrow and ask her when the markets were, which places were good to visit. She put the bag in the car and drove back to Clotilde’s Cottage.
She was half expecting to see a motorbike outside – perhaps J-F might be back with a bottle of wine – but there was no one to be seen. Maxine was surprised to feel a little disappointed, but the sun peered from behind a cloud. Breakfast in the little garden would be nice.
After she had eaten, Maxine placed her laptop on her knee and began to research.
The nearest town to Plouvannec was Chapellin, where there was a large supermarket and a variety of shops.
A river ran through the town, which had plenty of restaurants, a cycling club and canoeing.
There were lots of beaches nearby; she could surf, walk on the headland.
There was a club de randonnée, which meant rambling.
That might be a good place to start. She’d meet local people in the countryside, see the best beauty spots.
There were standing stones to visit, monuments of historical importance, markets selling local produce. She’d have plenty to keep her going.
She wondered what to pick first to fill the morning.
Her legs and back were still a little stiff after sleeping in a tiny bed on the ferry.
She fancied a walk on the cliffs to stretch out and there was an access point just beyond the house with the tower.
She could easily reach it from Clotilde’s Cottage, so she pushed her feet into sturdy boots, grabbed a jacket and set off.
The house on the cliff was called Rose Falaise.
Pink cliff. She strode up the winding path that ran parallel with the cliff house and followed it around the headland.
Within moments, she was face to face with a stunning view across the bay, the sea splashing against rocks, surf spattering.
In the distance, she could see the typically French outline of another town, a sparse gothic-style church with a spire silhouetted against a cloudy sky.
She breathed in the salty tang of the sea, pushed her hands in her pockets and surged on.
Maxine walked and walked, the sea to her right and across undulating cliff tops beyond. With each step, her mind began to work, and new thoughts came.
Everything was suddenly simple. Life without Russell would be best in the long term. She’d known that for so long. Hope had clouded her judgement.
Terry and Jo needed to work at a future, together or apart. And Andy would always be the love of her life, but perhaps that love had held her back. Her heart had frozen.
Her foot stumbled on loose stones and she almost tripped. Being deep in thought had made her careless, but her mind was clearing – she’d tried hard to make it work with Simon, with other partners and, finally, with Russell and she had failed.
Maxine asked herself why. Then the answer came at once and took her breath away.
She remembered Andy’s voice, clear as a bell. ‘I’m going to find our home… and wait for you.’
That was the problem. She’d wanted to believe that he was waiting for her.
Maxine trudged on. She wasn’t sure what she believed – was Andy in heaven? It was a romantic idea that he’d be there watching over her.
Maxine looked out to sea, at waves thrashing against rocks, the deep ocean dark and still. It came to her.
She had walked far enough. She had missed Andy for long enough.
At sixty-one years old, she wouldn’t live the rest of her life in mourning.
She’d live for herself.
Moving faster now, sure-footed, skipping across stones, Maxine felt strong, in control, with a new understanding of who she was.
The path twisted and soon she was parallel with the cliff house. She watched a black car glide up the drive and pause outside.
The wind took her hair and Maxine shivered.
A man dressed in a black suit clambered out of the vehicle and stood still, his hands clasped.
The door to the house opened and two men stepped forwards; one had dark hair, the other’s was paler.
They shook hands with the driver and it was clear this was a sombre moment; someone had died.
Maxine remembered the first lines of the poem she’d read at Andy’s funeral:
I wrote your name in the sand,
but the waves washed it away.
One of the men looked up and noticed her, the one with pale hair, his face expressionless. She raised a hand, in acknowledgement, in sympathy, and hurried down the path.
Maxine reached Clotilde’s Cottage and noticed a little blue Renault parked outside on the gravel. She was puzzled. She was even more surprised to find the front door ajar and music blaring inside. She recognised the song, ‘Do it Like a Dude’ by Jessie J – Gráinne used to love it.
She stepped into the living room. A slim woman in jeans was wriggling and dancing, her back to Maxine.
In one hand she held a full glass and in the other a cigarette.
She shook her dark hair, kicked out, screamed the words, dancing for all she was worth.
She whirled round, still dancing, and suddenly, she opened her eyes wide. ‘Oh, la vache!’
Maxine wasn’t sure why she’d said something about a cow. She watched as the woman hurriedly stubbed out her cigarette on a saucer and waved her hand in the air to dispel the smoke. She pulled a shocked face. ‘Vous m’avez abasourdie!’
‘Pardon? Did you say I surprised you?’ Maxine tried slow English. ‘I live here. I’ve rented this place from Fliss Beaumont.’
‘Oh, of course – Fliss gave me a key. She lets me come here…’ The woman began to speak in hurried French. Maxine wondered how many more people Fliss allowed to use the cottage.
The woman took a deep breath and switched to halting English. ‘I’m a friend of Fliss. I come here sometimes to escape.’
‘What do you need to escape from?’ Maxine asked.
The woman shook her dark hair. She looked to be in her mid-forties, her skin was sallow, her eyes dark-ringed, but she had a ready smile. ‘I make coffee and we talk. You are the loueuse?’
‘The renter, yes.’ Maxine put out her hand. ‘Maxine.’
The woman offered a limp handshake. ‘I’m Béa.’ She had a high, nervous laugh. ‘I didn’t know Fliss had a renter.’ She led the way to the kitchen, filling the kettle, banging mugs. ‘We have coffee.’
Maxine was still mystified. ‘Why do you come here?’
‘Because I’m married,’ Béa poured hot water onto the coffee. ‘I come here to escape. My husband makes me mad. Then I dance to release all the…’ She said the next words in French. ‘Frustration. Tension.’
Maxine understood. She took the mug of coffee and sipped slowly. ‘Tell me about your husband.’
‘He’s called Louis. I marry him many years ago. Now he tells me what to do all the time. And he likes me to rest. So I tell him to get off his cul, so we can go out, but he says that I should be quiet. Louis says it’s bad for me to have fun, so I come here and smoke by myself.’
‘To calm down?’
‘Exactly.’ Béa led the way to the living room and threw herself onto the sofa, coffee mug in hand. ‘At home, Louis will not allow cigarettes.’
‘I’m not really keen on them either.’ Maxine sniffed the air.
‘Oh, merde! I’ll spray the scent of flowers before I go.
’ Béa hunkered down on the sofa, rearranging cushions, clearly with no intention of leaving.
Instead, she gazed at Maxine with inquisitive round eyes.
‘So, tell me – you come here on holiday? Fliss didn’t say.
I thought she was here. Oh no – she’s in England.
I remember. But she did not tell me about you.
Are you here by yourself? I admire that. Louis can be un fils de pute.’
Béa certainly wasn’t mincing her words about her husband and Maxine wondered briefly why they were still together if he was the son of a – what she’d just said. Maxine realised she was still wearing walking shoes. And she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She said, ‘Béa, would you like a sandwich?’
‘Yes. I make it for us both.’ Béa leaped up. ‘I look in your fridge when I come here. You have cheese. Chicken. And bread. We can have lunch.’
‘We’ll make it together,’ Maxine said. The company would be good. Béa was bright, funny and a potential ally; she had local knowledge and she certainly wasn’t dull. ‘You can tell me all about Louis and suggest things I can do while I’m here.’
‘I will, of course – that would be génial,’ Béa said confidentially. ‘I know the best places to eat and all the local men – who’s handsome and who’s rich and who to avoid. What do you say?’
‘I say, oui,’ Maxine said. She felt pleased to have made a friend. Maxine liked Béa immediately. ‘It’s a shame you’re driving, or I’d open a bottle of wine.’
‘Oh, don’t worry – I’m French.’ Béa shrugged. ‘One glass will not matter.’