Eighteen
T he last time Charlotte had been in étretat, she’d been a mother with three lively children under the age of eleven, a business that had taken off after years of hard slog, a gorgeous husband, and parents who were always delighted to see them.
It had been a lovely family holiday—even if not strictly speaking a beachy one, though the children and Tom, who never seemed to feel the cold, had a dip in the chilly waters of the Manche, the Sleeve, otherwise known in English as the Channel. Meanwhile Charlotte and her parents had sat chatting on the pebbly beach in the shadow of the spectacular cliffs and rock formations made famous by great painters like Monet and Matisse. They’d browsed in the picturesque town, the children buying funny souvenirs; eaten delicious meals; read the motley collection of books in the shelves of the holiday house—including mysteries by the town’s other claim to fame, author Maurice Leblanc, who’d created the gentleman burglar Arsène Lupin—and played dominos and Monopoly.
The house had beautiful views across the cliffs and the sea, but no TV, no internet and mobile reception was so patchy that Tom and Charlotte had simply turned off their Nokias. So for the whole of those ten days, the family had lived in a timeless bubble. Some days were punctuated with small events: going to the market, watching the fishing boats coming in, visiting the Arsène Lupin museum, trying their own hand at sketching the cliffs. But mostly, the family slid into a gentle pattern of doing nothing much at all, except being together.
No wonder Elise had such fond memories of it, Charlotte thought, glancing sideways at her daughter as they walked together on that same pebbly beach, in the shadow of those much-painted cliffs. She had fond memories of it too, but they were bittersweet now, for her parents were far away, having retired to Tahiti where her mother originally came from, and Tom—well, the laughing man who’d swung his daughter and her younger brother, Jamie, round and round on the beach, who’d gone on bug-hunting expeditions with his eldest son, Theo, and indulged his parents-in-law’s reminiscences, that slow-burning yet passionate man who made love so exquisitely that even now the memory of it sent tingles down Charlotte’s spine—that man seemed to have vanished, leaving a stranger in his place. And the pain of that struck her again, so sharply that she had to quickly turn her head away and stare at the sea, trying to stop the tears from falling.
‘Marm,’ Elise’s voice was soft. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ Charlotte said in a not-quite-steady voice. ‘Just a bit nostalgic.’
‘Oh, Marm .’ The name she’d adopted long ago for her mother, halfway between English and French, made Charlotte feel even more unsteady. Elise looped her arm in Charlotte’s, and said quietly, ‘Are you and Dad splitting up?’ To her horror, Charlotte burst into tears.
She hadn’t cried in such a long time. Not even in all the long bruising weeks watching helplessly as Tom turned into an unreachable stranger and her understanding of her own life began to disintegrate. Now she sobbed in Elise’s arms as if she was the child in need of comfort. Elise simply held her, her warmth conveying more than words. It was one of the things she’d loved about Tom, his warm kindness when you were hurting, his instinctive knowledge of when to speak and when to shut up. She had to learn that skill, but it came naturally to him. Except for now … and that thought made her weep all the more.
Presently, though, the storm passed. Charlotte took a deep breath. ‘Forgive me, darling,’ she said shakily. ‘You really didn’t need that.’
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Elise said, relinquishing her hold and looking directly at her mother. ‘You don’t have to be so brave all the time, you know. I need to be let in. I’ve felt for some time that you were unhappy and that things between you and Dad weren’t what they once had been. And Theo and Jamie feel the same.’
‘You’ve been speaking about this with the boys?’ Charlotte asked, dismayed.
Elise shrugged. ‘You know we talk a lot. They were just nervous about broaching the subject.’
‘So they sent you as emissary,’ Charlotte said, with a faint smile. Wasn’t that always the way! Elise the middle child, the mediator, the one who was sent to plead their case to parents, grandparents, teachers.
‘I wasn’t sent ,’ Elise said, with great dignity. ‘I decided it was time, especially now that you’re away from home. Besides Dad has gone into full tortoise mode, so we can’t get through to him.’
Charlotte stared.
‘Dad’s doing that thing tortoises do,’ Elise explained, ‘they go into their shell if you look at them, and they pretend they’re really a rock. You can rap on their shell all you like but they’re much more patient than you are, so you give up and go away, which is what they want.’
Her tone was light but her eyes were sad, and Charlotte felt a lump in her throat. Taking her daughter’s hand in hers, she said, ‘Exactly.’
‘What’s up with him, Marm?’ Elise said now.
Charlotte shook her head. ‘I wish I knew, darling. But he’s in full tortoise mode with me too. And it’s been very hard to live with. It’s affected everything. I can’t seem to concentrate like I used to.’
Elise squeezed her hand. ‘That’s why you’re here, in France.’
Charlotte nodded. ‘I hoped it might give me space.’ She had been worried about the children finding out, but now, as she looked at her daughter’s loving, concerned face, she felt relieved. She still had no idea what she would do. But unburdening had definitely made her feel lighter.
‘And has being away given you space to think?’ Elise looped her arm in Charlotte’s once more as they set off again across the beach.
‘Not enough to come to any conclusion yet,’ Charlotte said, honestly. ‘But it has given me a little perspective, especially since I met Emma and her grandmother, who are trying to make sense of much harder things …’ She smiled mistily. ‘I feel so confused.’
‘Me, Theo and Jamie, we all love you so much,’ Elise said, gently. ‘And we love Dad too—though we are also angry with him, because how can’t he see what he’s doing to you?’ Charlotte sighed but said nothing, and Elise went on, her voice quavering, ‘We would be happy if you two could sort it out, and we would be sad if you broke up, but it wouldn’t stop us loving you both. So you don’t need to worry about us.’
Charlotte stopped. Wordlessly, she hugged her daughter and they held each other for quite a while before resuming their walk, their conversation turning now, by mutual, unspoken agreement, to lighter, happier things.