Fourteen
E mma had gone to bed late the previous night, after spending hours on Google searches. ‘Pascal Lamartine Saint Jean de la Forêt Morvan’ first—nothing had come up—then ‘Lamartine’ and ‘Morvan’—still nothing. ‘Pascal Lamartine’ had yielded the social media profiles of only four men, none of whom matched the approximate age the Pascal she was looking for must be, and none of whom had any connection with the Morvan.
She tried ‘St Jean de la Forêt, Morvan’ and came up with a brief Wikipedia page, offering bare details about how this tiny Morvan hamlet dated from the early Middle Ages, its population dwindling over the centuries till it was almost uninhabited. Aside from the usual location map, there was a blurry photo of a scatter of stone houses and a village well. And that was it for St Jean de la Forêt.
The search around Morvan yielded pages about the region: history (including a theory that it was connected with the ‘real King Arthur’); ecology (there was a massive national park there); towns; customs; demography; tourism; local news, etc. No mention of Lamartines, though.
It frustrated Emma, who was used to finding information on almost any subject on the internet. Finally, in desperation, she’d even applied the Google Lens app to the photo of her mother in the long grass, trying to focus it on the spire or tower in the distance, hoping against hope that it would come up with a location. Of course, it was in vain, with the app coming up with ridiculous options, such as Cleopatra’s Needle in Paris.
Looking at those useless search results, a wave of grief ambushed her and tears filled her eyes. She’d been so excited after seeing Charlotte, thinking she was closer to finding out what her poor mother had wanted to tell her that day. But now the answer felt more elusive than ever. Finally, exhausted from crying and staring at the screen for too long, she had shut down the laptop and gone to bed.
When she woke, her eyes felt gritty and her head ached. Feeling better after a shower and a couple of paracetamols, she found her grandmother at the kitchen table, busily making mayonnaise, a list of the final things she had to buy at her elbow. There’d be shopping first—the markets to buy fresh vegetables and cheese, roast potatoes from the local rotisserie, fresh bread from the boulangerie and from the local butcher, the poulet fermier , they’d ordered a traditional free-range, corn-fed farmhouse chicken. The main course would be that chicken, roasted to golden perfection and served with a sauce made of its own cooking juices, with lemon, garlic, salt, pepper and tarragon, accompanied by the rotisserie potatoes and a selection of seasonal vegetables—Mattie was to decide exactly which on the spot in the markets. There would also be two starters: smoked salmon with a cucumber salad and boiled eggs with home-made mayonnaise. There would be a green salad and cheese, after the main course, and then Charlotte had promised to bring some cakes. It was a veritable feast! Simple and sumptuous, just like Mattie had said.
‘Bonjour, Mattie.’ Emma dropped a kiss on her grandmother’s head. ‘Can I do anything?’
‘Pass me the salt and pepper,’ said Mattie, doing a final turn with the whisk and looking in satisfaction at the bright yellow emulsion of egg yolk and oil. She took the salt and pepper from Emma and ground some in. ‘Now all it needs is to go in the fridge and set nicely. I’ve already boiled the eggs, they’re cooling.’
Emma covered the mayonnaise bowl with some cling wrap and put it in the fridge. ‘Mattie, you are amazing! I feel useless.’
Mattie patted her hand. ‘You can make that delicious vinaigrette of yours. And you can carry all the things home from the market. Then you can slice tomatoes, wash lettuce, set out the salmon and the eggs, arrange everything on platters. And set the table. But right now, you can make me some more tea and yourself a cup of coffee. Is that enough work for you?’
Emma laughed. ‘Sure.’
‘I am so very glad you made contact with Charlotte,’ Mattie said, suddenly changing the subject.
Emma kissed her. ‘Me too.’ Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘Can I ask you something, Mattie?’
Mattie smiled. ‘Whatever you want, my darling.’
‘Why was Maman so distant with you and Pappy?’ She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. It’s probably not something you want to talk about, it’s just that I don’t understand.’
Mattie reached over and touched her hand. ‘I do want to talk about it, sweetheart. But I’m not sure I can really explain it, except to say that Corinne saw the world differently from how Alain and I did. We loved her dearly, but it wasn’t always easy to understand her. She could be very black and white, even as a child—shades of grey troubled her. But in adolescence, things became really difficult for her. I think she suffered from a feeling she didn’t fit in, and to defend herself she became quite intolerant and haughty—to us, and others. We tried to be as accommodating as we could, but maybe that was a mistake. Fighting with her would have made it so much worse though.’ She sighed. ‘By the time she left, she wasn’t overtly angry or resentful, as she had been as a teenager, but she was no more communicative. And in a way, when she went, it was a relief. We thought that the trip to Australia would do her good, that she’d come back with a new perspective …’
Emma knew what had happened next. Corinne hadn’t come back to Paris with distance and time having softened her views. Instead, after months of little contact beyond a brief call to announce her safe arrival in Australia, and a few postcards, she’d informed them of three dramatic things: that she had borne a child, that she’d met Paddy, and that she wasn’t coming back.
‘How did you feel when she told you that I was born?’ Emma asked.
‘It was a shock, as you can imagine. We’d had no idea she was even pregnant in the first place, we’d never met a boyfriend and she’d not even mentioned anyone before Paddy—and we knew he couldn’t be your father because of the timing. So learning about you was both thrilling and worrying, because we didn’t know how she would manage, we wanted to help. But she told us not to be concerned, she was fine, you were fine, and she sent us that photo. I can’t tell you how much that delighted us.’
Emma knew the photo she meant. It was of her as a bald, bright-eyed baby in a bouncer and was in a silver frame on the mantelpiece in the living room.
Mattie continued, ‘Corinne made it clear she wanted no questions, and we respected that. We were glad she kept us regularly informed of your progress and it was such a delight when we came out to Australia when you were nearly three. It was clear that Corinne was so much happier in Australia than she’d been in France, so even though our visit was short, we returned with much lighter hearts. And then that visit when you all came, and you, my darling, were such a delightful, inquisitive, joyful child—I can’t tell you how happy it made us both.’
In a shaky voice, Emma said, ‘I loved it too, and I’m very sorry I didn’t try harder to persuade Maman to come again. And after I left home, I should have come to see you and Pappy well before he …’ She couldn’t say any more, her voice was suddenly choked with tears.
‘My darling,’ said Mattie, taking her hand, ‘you were a child, it wasn’t your responsibility. We knew our daughter, and accepted her as she was, even if at times we wished the situation were different.’ She looked straight into Emma’s eyes. ‘And later—well, here you are now, and that is an immense joy to me, even more than you can imagine. I know Alain is smiling down at us right now. So don’t be sorry, my dearest child, and don’t think you have to fix the past. Your mother and I made our own kind of peace with each other, and you and I can’t let regrets and what ifs taint the present.’
Feeling you didn’t fit in, and wanting to make a new start in a new country was understandable, Emma thought. But why did that have to mean freezing out the people who loved you? And why couldn’t you love both places, the one where you were born and the one you chose to live in as an adult? Even in such a short time here, Emma felt as though she could. But I am not my mother , she thought. She was very different from me. If I am to try to come to terms with it all, then I have to accept that, and not grudgingly, but generously, lovingly, as Mattie clearly does . She squeezed her grandmother’s hand.
‘And now,’ Mattie said, her tone changing, ‘we still have a lot of work to do. Shall we finish breakfast and go to the market?’
Everything was done. The table was set, the starters and salad rested on platters and in bowls, the green vegetables were in the pan ready to quickly steam, the rotisserie potatoes were keeping warm, the white wine was in the fridge and the chicken was roasting very nicely in the oven. In the living room, a tray with glasses, various bottles of aperitifs, and bowls of nibbles waited for pre-lunch drinks. Emma could not keep still, checking and rechecking everything, much to Mattie’s amusement. ‘No need to be so nervous,’ she said, ‘it’s only lunch.’
You could have fooled me , Emma wanted to say, all those elaborate preparations we’ve been making , but actually she was annoyed with herself for being so jumpy at the idea that Marc-Antoine was coming, because what did it matter, really? Except that mixing her mother’s old friend and Mr Big Shot probably wasn’t the best way to learn more about her mother. He would want to go on about his shiny new job and they’d all have to sit there and listen.
A short time later, Charlotte and Elise arrived, the latter carrying a big cake box, the former a magnificent bouquet. After a flurry of greetings and introductions, Charlotte handed the flowers to Mattie, who exclaimed, ‘How absolutely glorious!’ Her eyes were full of tears as she put her nose to the beautiful, fragrant flowers, breathing them in. ‘Peonies. You remembered.’
‘They are in honour of Corinne,’ Charlotte said. ‘And the other flowers mean consolation and memory, always in our hearts.’
‘What a wonderful choice,’ Emma said.
‘Oh, we didn’t make it—the bouquet was made for us by one of the most extraordinary florists I have ever come across,’ Charlotte said, smiling. ‘I think you’ve met her before. Arielle Lunel.’
‘I certainly have,’ said Emma happily.
They had just deposited everything in the kitchen—the cakes in the fridge, the bouquet in a vase which would go into the living room, when the entry buzzer in the hall sounded again. ‘Emma, can you go and get that?’ Mattie asked. Emma went, reluctantly, but not wanting to show it.
‘Hello,’ she said into the intercom. ‘I’m buzzing you in now.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask who it is?’ came the amused voice of Marc-Antoine.
‘I hardly think that’s necessary,’ she said stiffly, ‘you’re the only one missing.’
Now he sounded perplexed. ‘The only one missing?’
Of course, he didn’t know about Charlotte and Elise. ‘We have two other guests. So, do you want me to let you in or not?’
Too late, she realised the rudeness of her words, but she couldn’t take them back. Flustered, she immediately pressed the button. ‘Everyone’s in the living room,’ she stammered, when he came in, ‘we’re going to have a drink first.’
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘then I better give you this.’ He handed her a bottle of chilled champagne. His voice was equable, but he was unsmiling.
‘I believe congratulations are in order,’ she said, feeling like a fool. She should simply usher him through and not make things worse by gabbling.
‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘And I look forward to meeting the other guests.’ This time there was the ghost of a smile on his face. Amusement that he’d embarrassed her? Relief that he wouldn’t be stuck talking to her all afternoon?
‘Hello, my dear Marc-Antoine.’ Mattie came into the hall, wreathed in smiles. He bent down to kiss her on both cheeks. ‘Come through and meet Charlotte and Elise. Has Emma told you about them?’
‘In a way,’ he said, shooting Emma a look that she tried to ignore.
‘Emma, my darling, can you take that bottle into the kitchen, open it and bring it with some champagne glasses to the living room?’
Emma was relieved to have a few moments alone to regain her poise. She had to calm down, and not react to Marc-Antoine in that absurd way. She shouldn’t be so bothered by his presence, but his easy, affectionate familiarity with Mattie emphasised all too clearly the fact that, until now, she had not been a part of Mattie’s life in the way he had, and that hurt. But it wasn’t only that. It was something about him , something that put her on edge, that made her act all wrong.
It was going to be a long lunch.