Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Thanks so much for seeing me, especially on a Sunday afternoon,’ blurted out Felicity, as soon as Madame Bisson opened the door. Slow down , she told herself, be cool … and promptly tripped up the step on the way in. Madame Bisson caught her in surprisingly strong arms. Felicity caught a scent of lavender and white musk.
‘We knew you’d come eventually. Just maybe not this soon!’ she said, laughing lightly.
‘I’m only staying for a few days,’ said Felicity, apologetically.
‘It’s fine. Honestly. Come on through.’
Felicity followed her along the hallway anxiously and there, sitting in a small but very comfortable-looking lounge, with the fire blazing and an ancient chocolate Labrador asleep on a rug, was, presumably, Mr or Monsieur Bisson. His face looked rumpled, as though he may have been napping. The dog raised its head and wagged its tail in greeting but didn’t get up. The room smelled of elderly dog and Old Spice.
‘Have a seat, my dear,’ said the man in a clipped British accent, waving his hand, and she took a seat opposite him. He gestured towards a teapot and cake stand on the table between them, encouraging her to help herself. Oh God help me , she thought as she lifted the heavy pot and poured the rather stewed tea carefully into a delicate china cup on their beautifully white tablecloth. She could feel Bisson studying her face intently. Her hand was shaking just a little but she managed not to spill it.
When she looked up, he smiled easily. He had crinkles around gentle brown eyes, a balding greying head and shoulders that were slightly hunched against the back of his armchair. He was resting his slippered feet on a carpeted foot stool. She would have guessed he was about ten years older than his wife.
‘So, my dear,’ he said when she was settled and had recklessly begun munching on a piece of Battenburg without anticipating that, of course, they’d be expecting her to speak.
His wife (‘ Cherie ’) seated herself on the large sofa next to Felicity.
‘Tell me what you want to know,’ he said, gently.
Felicity hastily swallowed a mouthful of somewhat dry pink sponge, and said, ‘Tell me everything you know about Le Manoir, please.’
Mr Bisson (‘Albert,’ he said, ‘but everyone calls me Bertie’) told her what he knew. He told her the history of the house, when it was built, how it had housed a minor royal for a few years, how Queen Victoria had once visited for tea during a tour of the area. All things she already knew from her own research. She listened patiently, nodding politely, and let him speak. His words washed over her, they had a lovely, poetic quality, and she felt a bit sleepy in the warm room. It occurred to her how safe she felt with these people. She didn’t find that often. Whatever you do, Felicity, don’t fall asleep in this random stranger’s house. That would be terribly bad form.
When he finally finished, she thanked him and then took a deep breath.
‘Can you tell me why the family left, monsieur?’ she said, tentatively. ‘Your wife mentioned that it’s owned by the bank now? Is that correct?’ She picked up another piece of cake without thinking about it, then decided it would be rude to put it back on the plate and shoved it into her mouth in one go instead.
‘It’s Bertie, my dear. And one question at a time, if you please,’ he replied, not unkindly.
‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ she managed to mumble, trying not to spit pink crumbs all over the carpet.
‘It’s okay, my brain just works a bit slower than it used to, that’s all. Yes, it’s owned by the bank. It was repossessed about twenty years ago when they could no longer afford the bills. Family break-up, as I understand it. I suppose it was an expensive place to keep.’
Felicity nodded. She swallowed the last bit of cake and opened her mouth to respond, but no words were available to her, suddenly.
‘I heard they moved to England,’ he continued, studying her closely. ‘Somewhere up north, I believe. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific.’
She nodded again as a single tear escaped from her eye and wandered down her cheek. Keep it together , she told herself sternly.
‘And you were the photographer, right?’ she said, thrusting the newspaper clipping towards him, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.
Bertie took it but didn’t look at it. ‘Yes, I was the photographer.’
‘And…’ She trailed off, her voice catching in her throat. ‘And did you know the family at all?’
‘A little,’ he said, nodding his head slowly. Then he looked at her with solemn eyes. ‘You look just like her, you know. Except for the red hair, of course. That’s all yours.’
Felicity’s heart started to flip and bang against her rib cage.
‘Really?’ she said, not able to say more.
‘Indeed.’ His cheeks flushed. Could it be the heat of the room? ‘She was very beautiful. Incredibly beautiful,’ he said, fondly, looking down at the clipping for the first time. ‘I loved to take her photograph.’
Felicity glanced at Cherie, who was staring down at her hands fixedly.
Then suddenly it all became clear.
‘She was looking at you,’ she said, before she could filter it. ‘In the photo. She was staring at you.’
Bertie looked at her steadily for a moment, and then nodded.
‘They were lovers, for a time, yes,’ came the voice of Cherie from her right, quiet but very firm. ‘It was a long time ago.’
Felicity nearly stood up but controlled the impulse. She considered reaching for her cup – just for something to do really – but she didn’t trust herself not to spill it this time. Instead, she grabbed a nearby cushion and hugged it tightly against her lap. Bertie and Cherie waited patiently.
Things just got weird.
‘Sorry, can you just say that again?’ she finally managed.
Bertie laughed then, and it was a light and lovely and unexpected sound.
‘I can say it now, I suppose,’ he said, smiling at her. She could see how handsome he must have been, still was, really, with those lovely deep brown eyes. ‘I was in love with her. Your beautiful mother. Jocelyn.’
It had been a long time since she’d heard anyone say that name. The tears began rolling in earnest down Felicity’s cheeks and Cherie put a gentle arm around her shoulders.
‘She was beautiful,’ she said, quietly.
‘That was the day we met,’ he said, his eyes on the clipping. ‘I thought it was the most boring assignment on the island. “Go cover the garden party at Le Manoir,” they said. I nearly didn’t go. But the moment I set eyes on her… she was just captivating. The most perfect subject. Look at her. Just look at her.’
Cherie shifted slightly in her seat, her arm dropping from Felicity’s shoulders.
Felicity cleared her throat.
What the hell have I stumbled into?
‘And you… you’re the reason my father walked out?’ she said slowly, as realisation after realisation washed over her.
‘I’m the reason,’ he said, serious then. ‘I knew she had a family, and I should have just stayed away. But I couldn’t help myself. I sent her a present for Christmas, left it on the doorstep, that’s all, but your father found it and somehow he knew straight away what was going on. Must have already had his suspicions, I suppose.’
‘What did you give her?’ said Cherie, a little more sharply than perhaps she had intended. She visibly checked herself and then got up and started busying herself clearing away the tea things.
Bertie gave a little smile.
‘It was a paperweight,’ he said. ‘Just a paperweight.’
Felicity let out a little gasp. ‘It wasn’t just a paperweight.’ She almost shrieked. ‘I bet it was a red glass heart. I still have it.’
Bertie looked at her, astonished.
Felicity nodded.
‘She kept it,’ he said with a secret smile.
‘Yes,’ said Felicity. ‘She kept it.’
The paperweight was the thing.
In fact, the paperweight was the only thing Felicity really had of her mother’s these days, apart from a few scarves and a couple of her old books. For as far back as she could remember it had taken pride of place on their mantelpiece, in their tiny mouldering cottage. It was a deep ruby red and perfectly shiny and flawless, or at least most of it was. Ominously, it had an almighty crack down the middle that at some point had been fixed with amber-coloured resin. Felicity had always assumed it was a flaw in the glass but now she wasn’t so sure.
‘Can I see it?’ said Bertie conspiratorially, as Cherie bustled out of the room to put the kettle on.
‘I don’t have it with me, I’m afraid.’ It would be a bit weird if I did .
‘Oh. Oh well, that’s okay. Anyway, your father was so furious he walked out the very next day. Dreadful, really, to leave you children like that.’
‘It really was.’ She paused. ‘At least it makes a little more sense now,’ she said, conscious she sounded a little pointed.
Bertie looked tired. ‘I was young and very, very stupid. I’m so sorry, Felicity.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, not sure if it was okay or not. It was a relief, in some ways, to find out there was a reason. It had been her mother who was cheating. Of course, it was. It made so much more sense. Their father had walked out on them because she was cheating.
Bertie was staring at the photo again. He seemed sweetly unashamed of his love for this lady, despite his wife being present.
As Felicity looked at him, something dawned. She realised she knew him. Had seen him before.
‘You came to our house for dinner!’ she said, suddenly.
Bertie looked up at her in surprise.
‘I did. Fancy you remembering that. You were so tiny. I came for dinner not long after the garden party. I brought my girlfriend at the time, actually. I don’t even remember her name, isn’t that dreadful? I thought that would serve as a good cover because, really, I just wanted to see your mother again.’
‘I remember, you brought her flowers and she looked so happy. We got to stay up late that night. We got the leftovers, always our favourite.’
‘Your mother was a terrible cook,’ said Bertie, fondly. ‘But the caterers were bloody fantastic.’
Felicity laughed. She couldn’t remember the food from the caterers. All she remembered was helping her mother make the hors d’oeuvres. Early 90s style, of course. Prawns on Primula on Ritz crackers and mushroom vol au vents. Classic.
‘And my dad?’ she said, cautiously. ‘Do you think he caught on at that point?’
Bertie looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t know. I could never work your father out. He looked like a movie star, such a handsome man, but he always seemed cross. Like maybe your mother didn’t love him like he wanted her to. He seemed so…’
‘Unpredictable,’ said Felicity, feeling treasonous.
‘That’s it,’ said Bertie quickly. ‘You could never tell what he might do.’
‘Yes,’ said Felicity. You have no idea.
‘He came to see me after that Christmas.’
Felicity went cold. ‘What did he do?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing exactly. He came to see me, to look me in the eye, I think. He was so furious. He threatened to “make the lights go out”, if I recall. I stood up to him. I was braver in those days. Later on, it turned out, he was cheating on your mother too. We only found that out when he moved in with his bit of stuff and her children.’
So, her father was still a bastard, just as she had always suspected. But he hadn’t been a completely mad bastard. At least he’d had his reasons. Even if walking out on Boxing Day was still an unbelievably horrific thing to do, he actually had his reasons for doing it, and – weirdly – that meant a whole lot.