Chapter 11 #2
“Unlike me,” I say wryly. “Do you mind if I take some photos?”
“Of course not.”
I start work with Jackson tomorrow and an idea has been forming for the rebrand. The images will help when I run it by him.
étienne nods downriver. “The next one’s this way.”
We continue along the rocky riverbed. The water is so low that it slithers like a brown snake through a mini canyon, tumbling in tiny waterfalls as it makes its way toward the Eau de Sainte églantine factory and beyond.
“So what have you been up to in the last ten years?” étienne asks as we cross over at a narrow point in search of the most viable path.
“I went to university to study marketing, got a boyfriend, got a degree, lost a boyfriend, got a job, lost a job, got a job, quit to come here.”
He snorts with amusement at my summary before saying, with meaning, “So you did move on at one point.”
I glance at him.
“From Jackson,” he clarifies.
“Oh, the boyfriend. Yeah, I’ve dated other people. How about you? How did you and Eve meet?” I ask carefully.
“Through Lise. Eve came to train and to spend time with her sister. She was here for two and a half years and we got together about halfway through that time, but after the Paralympics she wanted to go back home to be with her parents.”
I work through the timing in my head. She won bronze two summers ago—it doesn’t sound like they were together when she died.
“You didn’t try to do long distance?”
“She wanted a clean break.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I understood. We need to climb out here,” he says.
The river has widened again and soon it will be impossible to cross without getting wet.
I climb up the steep bank behind him. The Eau de Sainte églantine bottling factory looms directly in front of us.
It’s right at the end of the high street: a busy road lined with plane trees, shops, bars, and restaurants.
It’s not uncommon in France to have a factory right in the middle of a town—the symbiotic relationship between workers and residents is a source of pride here, not something to be hidden away.
Like Chateau Angèle, the factory is built of limestone, but that’s where the similarities end. It’s art moderne in design: an unembellished large, flat-roofed rectangle, narrow in width, but extensive in length, hugging the river on one side and the road on the other.
The land on the other side of the river has always been a bit of a wasteland, with only the old pavilion, a tabac, a shabby café, and low-rent apartment buildings in the vicinity.
But the bridge by the factory has been well-maintained and as we walk alongside baskets of purple petunias, I realize that they’re hanging from the railings Mellie pointed out twenty-one years ago: they’ve each been designed to look like flower stems, complete with metal leaves.
A new restaurant has opened up on the other side of the river, and on the back wall is the painting that reminded me of a Disney princess.
I smile up at her. She’s very similar to the artwork on the garage, but twice as big, with a washed-out yellow dress that gathers in pleats as it falls to the ground and waist-long curly auburn hair flowing as though caught in a breeze.
Behind her is a similar decorative circle, and following the curve of her dress at the bottom are the words Sainte églantine in elegant cursive.
“I’m so happy to see her again,” I say. “I thought I’d dreamed her up until I saw the one on your garage.”
“You look like you’ve been reunited with an old friend.”
“I have.” I give him a meaningful look and his lips curl up at the corners. I return my gaze to the painting. “She made me feel, I don’t know, safe or something. I’d wandered off from Mellie and I was lost and so homesick.”
“Homesick?”
“I was only six when I first started spending my summers here.”
“Because your mum was working overseas?”
“Yes.” She used to work abroad, but only during the school holidays so that I could come to stay with Mellie. The rest of the time she was based in the UK.
“Is she still an aid worker?”
“She is. I’m surprised you remember that.”
Back then I wasn’t even sure he understood me all that well. I’m a fast talker—it was hard to break the habit of a lifetime—so I knew some things were going over his head. His attention used to fix on my lips when I spoke. I recall liking that at the time.
“Where is she at the moment?” he asks.
“Botswana. She goes wherever she wants, whenever she wants these days, but she still avoids high-conflict zones, thankfully.”
I get out my camera phone to take some photos and he nods toward the old pink-and-white pavilion opposite the factory. “The last one’s over there.”
The pavilion has a domed roof and is circular in design with one door and several window openings that have all been boarded up and are marred by graffiti. étienne navigates his way between the weeds and brambles growing up around it and yanks at one of the boards.
“What are you doing?” I ask with alarm, feeling as though the factory’s huge rectangular windows on the other side of the river are a dozen giant eyes watching our every move. “You’re breaking and entering!”
He scoffs and pulls off the board, leaning it against the building and climbing over the low windowsill into the pavilion.
“Are you coming?” he calls, his voice reverberating around the inside space.
I carefully make my way to the window and then I breathe in sharply, because not only is she—Sainte églantine—there in all her glory, but the entire interior of the pavilion is decorated.
It’s as if there are windows within the windows—the walls are covered with an intricate design of vines and flowers, birds, butterflies and bees.
Sainte églantine stands on one wall between two tall window openings, and for the first time she’s looking straight at the viewer: her eyes are blue.
A crown of yellow flowers sits on top of her head and orange ribbons flow from her dress, intertwined with a daisy chain.
It’s the prettiest painting yet, and the best preserved.
étienne sits down on a window ledge and stares at her. I sit down beside him, feeling a sudden, powerful surge of grief for his mother and everything he’s lost.
“I’m so sorry about your mum.”
I hear him swallow, but he says nothing in response and we just stay there quietly for a couple of minutes, staring at the art.
I remember that he always was comfortable with silence.
Jackson tends to fill gaps in the conversation and shine light on darkness, but étienne can sit in sadness and still find beauty.
“Why is this place boarded up?” I ask after a while.
“Ask Jackson’s grandfather,” he murmurs.
“Albert owns this pavilion?” My heart lifts. “But that’s perfect. I could ask him—”
“No,” he cuts me off. “The last thing I want is for you to draw attention to it. If he tears this building down, I’ll lose another piece of her.”
“Albert wouldn’t,” I say quickly. “I could ask him to restore it. Maybe it could even form part of the rebrand.”
“Is this about work?” he asks sharply, turning to look at me.
“No!” I exclaim. “I just wanted to see your mother’s art.”
But it’s not the full truth, because I have been looking for inspiration and I’m pretty sure that I’ve found it.