CHAPTER 25
Graham’s face is in his napkin and he is weeping openly.
None of us knows what to do or say.
Finally he lifts his head. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, reaching with a shaking hand for water.
‘Don’t be sorry. We’re just worried about you,’ I say.
‘Was the dessert that awful?’ Ed is concerned.
Graham gives a little laugh, and Keith hands him a tissue, telling him to blow.
The candles flicker on the table.
‘It wasn’t the dessert, not in that way. It just … it reminded me of being seven. At boarding school. I was very lonely and lost. But I remember the custard tarts and the cook. She was fabulous. It made my time there bearable.’
‘You were sent to boarding school at seven?’ Jen says.
We’re all horrified.
He nods. ‘It’s how you learn to keep things to yourself. Not to show emotion. Not to show weakness. Not to show you’re hurting.’ He turns to Keith. ‘I’m so sorry.’
And we all hold our breath, praying it hasn’t come to this, that they’re going their separate ways.
Keith is staring, wide-eyed, at him. His bottom lip is quivering.
‘I know I don’t say how I feel very often, and that annoys you,’ Graham goes on. ‘And I know I’m too critical of you when you cook for me, and you’re just trying to make nice things, and I’m always too worried to eat them in case I put on weight. And I know you didn’t want to come on this trip and really want to go home …’
No one moves.
‘… but I miss him too. I miss our boy so much. I thought, like Jen, that travelling would help ease the pain. I know you miss being at home, and if you want to go back, we will. I love you and I don’t tell you enough. I’m sorry … I love you, and the home you’ve built for us.’
‘And I love you, you silly sod!’ Keith says. ‘I love the family we made, even if he’s not with us right now. We still have each other.’
‘Yes,’ says Graham, his voice catching. ‘I’m sorry I made you come away.’
‘It’s okay. I’m glad you did. I like it here.’ Keith smiles, plants a kiss on his lips and they stay like that for a moment or two. Then, as they break apart, they smile and we find ourselves clapping and waving our napkins as if they had just married.
‘Now, who’s for another custard tart?’ asks Ed, and everyone puts up their hands.
We move on to coffee and stories from the band – and the pickers, all sharing their tales of travel, life on the road.
Something is flapping over the wall. Another napkin. Maybe one of ours flew off when we were waving them. I see it again, like a … white flag?
The gates to the courtyard open and the mayor and Carine come in, their napkins clearly stolen from l’expérience.
‘May we come in?’ says Carine, contrite.
I fold my arms like a stern head teacher. ‘How was dinner?’ I ask.
‘Small!’ they say at the same time, and laugh.
‘Is it true you cooked Henri’s daube tonight?’ the mayor asks, looking pitifully pleading through his round glasses.
‘Among other dishes.’ The smile returns to my face.
‘What else?’ the mayor asks.
Jen tells of the dishes on the table. Who they belonged to and why they’re there.
The mayor nods, understanding.
When I’ve let them salivate a little, I say, ‘Come on, there’s plenty left,’ and pull up another couple of seats at the table.
‘This is proper home cooking,’ says Serge, having another helping to keep the mayor and Carine company.
This feels like a battle. One I want to win. Clearly this town isn’t big enough for me and Zacharie.
But what am I going to do next?
As the meal draws to a close, Fabien kisses the top of my head and follows the other band members to the parked van. They return with their instruments. And in no time, there is jazzy blues playing out from the courtyard. Faces pop in around the gate, people leaving l’expérience, and soon the courtyard is filling with people dancing and clapping.
Fabien presses me to him between songs and whispers in my ear, ‘I have news.’ I look at him curiously. ‘I will be home soon. One more week. They have found a guitarist.’
Suddenly I want to cry. ‘You’re coming home?’
‘Yes, in a week. At the end of the harvest.’
I hug him tightly, then let him rejoin the band for a final number.
Later that night, as Fabien joins me in our room, and the rest of the band bed down in the barn and the minibus, it’s the joy that I remember most about the evening. The fun and the laughter.
‘A complaint about the music?’ I’m staring at the local gendarme, having waved off Fabien and the band the following morning. I’m still wondering about Monique doing her early-morning yoga on the terrace and trying to shake away the image of her supple body. Mine aches.
The gendarme is looking out over the lavender field as the team pick in the early-morning sunlight.
‘Who complained?’ As if I need telling.
‘I can’t say, I’m sorry.’
‘No licence? It was just Fabien, in his own business, with his band.’
‘Oui, je sais,’ says the gendarme. ‘But I’m obliged to tell you. No more live music without a licence.’
The sooner I get the restaurant back, the better. But how?