CHAPTER 4
Her voice is thin and trembling. ‘I didn’t know where else to go.’ Rhi’s face is haunted. ‘Oh, Del …’
I step forward and in two big strides I’m enclosing her in a hug. It’s the only thing I think of doing, just like Fabien did. I hold her tight.
‘You came here. Henri’s home. It was the right thing to do,’ I say, into her thick, soft hair.
She’s tense in my arms, clearly still trying to hold it all together.
‘Come in,’ I say, above the noise of the tree being sawn up by a local tree surgeon, assisted by the pompiers. The gendarmes are looking on and accepting coffee from the shopkeepers.
I raise a hand to them, acknowledging them, as does Fabien, thanking them for coming so swiftly. He follows us inside and shuts the door.
I lead Rhi through the kitchen to the narrow wooden stairs up to Henri’s apartment. It’s quieter than downstairs, I think, away from the bustle of the tree removal outside. We climb up, past all the framed photographs on the walls of Henri as a younger man, holidays in Brittany with his family, life here at the bistro in the early days, friends and special guests who have visited, then of him and Rhi in the setting sun. We step onto the landing and into the big open-plan room over the kitchen and restaurant, zoned into the salon, with a sofa, the dining area and the kitchen, with a separate bedroom and bathroom. It’s a lovely light space. But perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to come here.
Everything is how it was when Rhi and Henri left, only occasionally returning to check in with us and plan their next adventure.
She looks at the big wooden desk, then at the captain’s chair, with Henri’s indentation on the worn tapestry cushions where he would sit to do his paperwork. Not that he enjoyed paperwork, but he did like sitting at his desk, with the long shuttered window in front of it, looking down on the street below.
Rhi walks in slowly, then goes to rest her hand on the back of the chair, as if imagining him there. Then, as if the reality hits her, she dissolves into tears. I lead her to the sofa that’s positioned to look out of another window, to the cream stone apartment opposite over the bistro. Cheerful voices from below rise to us, in contrast to the feeling in the room right now.
I sit beside her and look up at Fabien. His face shows his shock and I can’t work out who to comfort first.
‘Perhaps a cognac?’ I say quietly to Fabien. He nods, goes down to the restaurant and returns with three glasses and a bottle of Henri’s favourite on a wooden tray.
‘It was very quick and peaceful at the end,’ says Rhi, clutching a fistful of tissues, her nose red and eyes swollen. We are all sitting in the salon, around the circular golden-edged coffee table, with the bottle of cognac on it. We have a glass each, and some coffee, from the brew I put on to give to the pompiers. No one has touched their coffee or the biscuits I insisted Fabien bring up with it. It was more of a knee-jerk reaction, an attempt to take the edge off the pain that’s almost palpable.
‘You should have rung,’ I say gently.
‘I wanted to,’ Rhi says, shredding the tissue and taking a large gulp of her cognac, ‘but I couldn’t say the words.’ She coughs and blows her nose on the shredded tissue. Fabien silently passes her another. ‘The hospital contacted his children obviously. They are his next of kin. I spoke to them briefly, told them he hadn’t been alone, but I felt like I was talking about someone else. Not Henri. My Henri. I didn’t know how to say the words … Until now.’ She takes a deep breath, says, ‘Henri’s dead,’ and dissolves again. I watch helplessly as my friend’s heart breaks in two.
‘Where is he now?’ I ask, hoping that practicalities will help us negotiate this huge sorrow.
She puts her hand on her large handbag. ‘In here,’ she says.
‘In your bag?’
She nods.
‘Like I say, I didn’t know what to do. I told his son I would bring his ashes home. We were in Bora Bora at the time. Had to get to New Zealand …’ she stumbles, swallows ‘… to bring him home.’
‘Well, you got yourself here. That was the right thing to do. Do you want to stay here in the apartment or come back to the farmhouse with us?’
‘I …’ She looks as lost as I know she’s feeling.
‘Stay with us at the farmhouse,’ I say, taking control of the situation.
‘Oh, I don’t know … Maybe I should go back to the UK. Back to where I left off before …’ She takes a shuddering breath.
‘Stay,’ I insist, wanting to take care of her, wanting us to be together while this news sinks in. ‘Stay, just for a while. At least until after the harvest.’ I’m thinking on my feet. ‘The pickers are arriving soon. I need all the help I can get. Please do.’ I try to smile, hoping I’m helping, but it hurts.
She nods and sniffs.
Fabien’s phone rings. He looks down at it, rejects the call and pockets the phone.
‘I’ll give you some time. Maybe have a rest,’ I say to Rhi, despite the chainsaws and shouts from the street where I can hear that the olive tree is being removed from the front window. I’m not sure rest will be possible, but maybe some time on her own, with her memories here …
I reach out to touch Fabien’s hand as I cross to the stairs, trying to process the news. Henri’s gone yet everything feels as if he’s here, all around us. I run my hand along the wooden wall, almost feeling his presence. Henri is the beating heart of this place, not just of the bistro but of the town. Everything good that happens here is down to Henri. How can he not be alive?
I hear Fabien speak to Rhi, then follow me downstairs, giving Rhi the time she needs in the apartment on her own.
‘She’s going to have a lie-down and then I’ll bring her to the farmhouse,’ he says, as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. The smell of the bouillabaisse, which Henri taught me to make, is like a hug. And I feel like falling into Fabien and letting the world around me disappear. He hugs me. A Fabien hug. I want to collapse into sobs and stay in his arms. But I can’t. I have to be here for Rhi. And to let others know. He kisses the top of my head, then lifts it a little so our foreheads meet, comforting each other. The time will come soon when we can take in this news together, talk about it, cry, rage at the unfairness. But, right now, we’re not ready.
I lean against him. ‘Merci,’ I say. Thoughts are whirling in my head. People we need to inform. People who will want to grieve for him, shopkeepers and suppliers, those he’s helped, like the people at the riverside clearing. His community.
‘I’ll go and speak to the mayor and Carine. Do you want me to tell Stephanie or will you?’ asks Fabien.
‘I will,’ I say. I pull out my phone to message her and ask her to meet me at the farmhouse.
‘Okay.’ He kisses the top of my head again, leaving his lips there for a few seconds. I want to stay in the moment for ever. I close my eyes tightly. But I have to move. There are people who need us right now. We have to stay strong.
He pulls away and, with a glance back at me, leaves from the front door. The tree surgeon and pompiers are packing up, pulling off their helmets and jackets as the cold wind has dropped. The air is warmer.
Let’s hope the mistral has done with creating havoc now, I think, as I watch him go. My aching heart wants to hold on to everything dear to me, including Fabien.
That night, I fall into bed, exhausted. Rhi is tucked up in the farmhouse too, back in the room she stayed in when she first visited and met Henri. I can hear her snoring – the medication the pharmacist suggested for a good night’s sleep must be working.
I could barely get myself to bed. Ralph is curled up in the kitchen. I keep remembering the shock and pain on Stephanie’s face when I told her about Henri. She may not be my daughter or younger sister, but she’s as close as it gets. She’s family and I’m hurting for her. She’s lost the man who was a rock for her when she had no family at all. I wish I could take away her pain.
I slide under the light covers, the window open, and outside just the merest whisper of wind in the trees. I can smell the ground where the lavender is planted. It’s nearly in flower and the fragrance will soon be here, a scent that never fails to calm me, even the thought of it. But tonight is different. I lie there, thinking about Henri, Stephanie and the shopkeepers who came to speak to me once word had started to spread through the town.
Fabien slides in beside me. I’m usually asleep before he comes to bed, after dropping off a house clearance at the brocante. I’m exhausted after an early start with another in the morning.
He runs his hand down my arm, and then across my stomach. But I feel nothing. I know he’s trying to comfort me, but I don’t know what I want. I feel numb. His hand moves across my body. I’m usually excited and energized by his touch, but not tonight. I kiss him lightly on the lips and tell him I’m tired. Like so many other times recently, I turn away, expecting sleep to come quickly. But not tonight. Tonight I curl into a ball trying to stop the words running around my head: Henri is dead. Nothing can change that. Fabien eventually turns away from me, his back against mine. Something I thought would never happen. Later that night, when neither of us is sleeping, I hear him leave the bedroom and head for the spare room next door. I feel wretched for me, for Fabien, because of Henri. Maybe Fabien needed holding, comforting. Tomorrow I’ll put it right with him. Tomorrow I’ll show him how much I love and appreciate him. Because I do and I need to make time to tell him. We need to be there for each other. I can’t let the mistral make any more trouble than it already has done. They say trouble comes in threes, but tomorrow I’m going to make sure nothing happens to affect Fabien and me.