Sea of memories, p.19
Sea of Memories, page 19
The bar was busy, but Heather and Ella managed to find a space on one of the leather banquettes while John pushed his way through the throng to buy drinks. It was ages since Ella had been in the Café Royal – or anywhere else much, come to that – and she gazed about happily, taking in the Victorian splendour. They had to shout to make themselves heard above the hubbub of noise that reverberated all around them, rising towards the elaborate ceiling and the mahogany balustrade of the mezzanine above, where diners were enjoying their meals at damask-draped tables.
A sudden crescendo of laughter and applause from the balcony made Ella glance up. It was somebody’s birthday and a waiter had brought a dessert lit by a candle to one of the tables.
And then Ella froze, her glass halfway to her lips. The light of the candle briefly illuminated the faces of the couple it was intended for. Her husband’s features were thrown into relief. And then, as she watched, Angus leant forward to kiss the hand of the woman sitting across from him.
Ella lowered her glass slowly on to the table before her, stunned. The noise of the bar faded and, for a moment, all she could hear was the sound of the pain that roared in her ears like the crashing of waves.
‘Ella? Are you alright?’ Heather’s touch on her arm brought her back. ‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet all of a sudden.’
With an enormous effort, she pulled herself together. ‘Er, yes, I’m sorry. It’s just a bit hot in here. And perhaps I’m not used to being out so late,’ she joked feebly, grateful for the numbness that was replacing the sensation of shock, allowing her to function. She tried to sip her drink, choking it down, nausea rising in her throat, longing to get out of there and back to the safety of her own home. Only it wasn’t safe any more, she realised. It wasn’t what she’d thought it was at all. Her home, her marriage, her family: they were all a sham. Her hand shook so violently that she spilled her drink down the front of her dress, the liquid spreading dark as a blood stain over her breast.
John Wilcox downed his pint. ‘I agree. It is a bit crowded in here. I’ll go and get the car. Bring it round to the door, shall I?’
Ella gathered up her jacket and her handbag. She was desperate to get out of the bar before Angus saw her. ‘Why don’t we all go? A breath of fresh air would be nice.’
But, as she stood, she saw him glance down and then stiffen as he recognised her. She turned her back on him, struggling to find the sleeve of her jacket, dropping her bag on the floor in her agitation.
John bent to pick it up. ‘Come on, Ella. I don’t think you’re very well. Let’s get you home.’ And Heather took her arm, solicitous, and led her out into the night, away from the cacophony of laughter and the sight of Angus’s horror-struck face.
He tried to tell her it was nothing, that the woman meant nothing at all to him, that he’d succumbed to a moment of madness as he’d felt so lonely, so rejected by Ella. But all she could do was shake her head, distraught, her arms braced across her body, her hands clutching her elbows as she tried to contain the anguish that was threatening to tear her apart.
When she could finally speak, all she’d been able to say was, ‘I have to get away. I’m taking the children. I have to get away . . .’
‘Please, don’t do this, Ella.’
She’d snapped at him then, lashing out in pain. ‘You have no right to ask anything of me, Angus Dalrymple. I need to get away, to take some time away from you. I can’t think straight. Perhaps the distance will give me some perspective. And it will give you time to decide what you really want.’
‘I don’t need any time. I know what I want. I have always known what I wanted, Ella, and it’s you. And our children. The affair is over. I promise. It’s over and nothing like that will ever happen again. But I need you to be present, Ella. You haven’t really been here, in our marriage, for a long, long time now. We both need to make an effort.’
Her wounded expression had cut him to the very core. ‘I’ve tried so hard,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t have anything left over any more.’
The silence that followed was a terrible one, filled with the voiceless scream of recrimination and blame.
He’d lifted his eyes to hers, slowly, wretchedly. ‘Alright then. Maybe you should go to France for the summer. Perhaps you’re the one who needs some time to decide what you really want.’
Caroline insisted on coming to meet them at the station on the mainland. ‘Don’t worry. I need to come to buy materials for the new gallery in any case: I’ve moved to bigger premises, in Saint Martin on the harbour-side. It’s a better location, as well as having more space; more tourists pass by there than in Sainte Marie. So I’ll be coming over anyway and I don’t want you and the children to have to trail from the train to the ferry with all your luggage. It’ll be even more of an adventure for them, taking the car across.’
Ella almost wept when she saw her old friend standing on the platform. She lifted Robbie down from the train while Rhona struggled to help with the bags. Caroline enfolded her in an embrace that felt at once so strange and so welcome that Ella truly had to fight back the tears.
She was still reeling from the shock of discovering Angus’s affair and from the strain of the past few weeks. They’d put on an act for the children, although Rhona, always sensitive to the undercurrents of emotion that flowed between her parents, had become more anxious than ever, her wide, serious blue eyes watching her parents’ every move as she tried to make sense of the atmosphere of anger and pain that hung in the air like the smell of something burning. ‘I want you to come too, Daddy,’ she’d begged, clinging to him as he saw them on to the train at Waverley.
‘Come on, Rhona. Mummy needs you to help her. Now, you’re going to send me a postcard every week, remember? And take lots of photos to show me. I’ll be here when you get back, waiting for you all.’ He’d met Ella’s eyes as he’d spoken that final sentence, the lightness of his tone belying the strength of his message to her. Then he’d kissed her, awkwardly, on the cheek and watched his wife and children climb into the carriage of the train that would take them away from him for the summer.
Ella felt strangely off balance, and not just as a result of their long journey. Once they’d stowed their luggage in the boot of Caroline’s car and driven the short distance to the ferry embarkation point, she was overwhelmed by a flood of emotions that surged through her as the Île de Ré came into view. The children bounced with excitement on the back seat as they saw the boat approaching, reminding Ella of the day when she’d stood in this same place, watching the boat that was coming to carry her across the water to the island.
Memories crowded back, of impressions and sensations and the voices of Marianne and Monsieur Martet, both now gone. Memories of Christophe. She wondered what his life in Paris was like these days, but there would be time to ask Caroline. She settled back in the passenger seat, easing her back, which was stiff from sitting on trains for so long. She took a deep breath of the sea air and felt the tension in her shoulders ease a little. She seemed to have been carrying herself so carefully for so long, trying to hold it all together, as if she would splinter into tiny pieces if she relaxed for one second. But now, away from home, away from Angus’s wounded, guilty eyes, the luxury of the long summer holidays stretched before her. She looked forward to introducing the island to her children in the coming weeks; and she hoped it would be a time of healing so that she could find a way to carry on, somehow, the life that seemed to have come to a dead stop.
‘How does the car get on to the boat?’ Robbie asked, leaning forward between the front seats to watch as the ferry drew up alongside the quay. A smell of diesel mingled with the salt tang of the sea on the warm air that wafted in through the open windows of the car.
‘There, look.’ Caroline pointed. ‘They will put ramps in place. Once all those cars have come off, we will drive on.’
‘Can we take a picture? I want to show Daddy that we went on the ferry.’
‘Here, give me the camera and I’ll take one of the three of you. Stand a little closer, there, that’s good, now smile!’ Caroline handed the camera back to Ella and then helped Robbie climb back into the car again. ‘Come on now. We don’t want to be left behind! We’ll be on the island in a hop and a skip and a jump.’
Ella joined Caroline where she sat on the terrace. The table had been cleared whilst she was upstairs putting the children to bed and now all that was left was the remainder of the bottle of white wine that had accompanied the evening meal and their two glasses, sitting alongside a pitcher of white roses whose petals were illuminated in the glow from a candle lantern.
‘Here.’ Caroline topped up one of the glasses and pushed it towards Ella. ‘Did they go down okay?’
Ella nodded. ‘It’s hard to tell whether they’re more excited or exhausted. Robbie’s out for the count already. He asked me when we can go and see the boat that we’re going to do the sailing in, but by the time I finished answering he’d already fallen asleep! And Rhona can hardly keep her eyes open, although she’s determined to read another chapter of her book before she turns out the light. She loves the room, especially the vase of flowers on the dressing-table. And they both absolutely adore you already. I knew they would.’
‘Well, the feeling is entirely mutual, I can assure you. And since it looks increasingly unlikely that I will ever have any children of my own, I think I shall borrow yours instead.’
‘Have you not met anyone?’
‘There’s an artist I see from time to time, when it suits us both. But he’s definitely not a family man.’ Caroline paused, taking another sip of her wine. And then she said, ‘And, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I have the strength to bring children into a world where there are people capable of doing what they did to my mother. And to Agnès and her children. No, I’m a career woman and it’s better this way. It’s my choice. Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m content and fulfilled. And I shall very much enjoy being a special “aunt” to Rhona and Robbie.’
Caroline reached out and held Ella’s hand briefly, before releasing it to take another sip from her own glass.
‘So. We have many weeks in which to catch up, although after all these years maybe even that won’t be enough time. But perhaps we should begin with you. Do you want to tell me what happened to make you change your mind and come to the island for the summer after all?’ She shot Ella an astute glance. ‘I’m guessing whatever it was may be the cause of those dark circles beneath your eyes.’
They talked late into the night. They scarcely noticed as the candle in the lantern burned low and then guttered in a pool of its own wax, flickering twice before finally dying, to the disappointment of the moths that had gathered on the glass.
‘Oh, Ella, I’m so sorry that you are suffering this way.’ Caroline picked up a petal that had dropped softly on to the table from one of the roses, stroking its silken softness with her finger. ‘In my solitary state, I have often envied you your husband and your family. But I do see that it’s not all plain sailing. I remember my mother saying once, when we were out in Bijou, that the secret to making a marriage work is a lot like sailing a boat: if you have too much anchor and no sail then you will feel trapped; but if there is too much sail and not enough anchor, that doesn’t work either. You need to try to find the balance between the two and then steer a course that is true. And, she said, the way you do that is with the compass of your morality and the rudder of your soul.’
Ella smiled. ‘It sounds complicated. But then marriage is complicated, as I’ve found.’
‘Well, I hope this summer will give you the time and the space you need in order to get yours back on to an even keel.’
Caroline paused, raising the rose petal to inhale its rich scent.
‘But Ella, there is something I must tell you. When I first wrote suggesting you come for the holidays, I told you that Christophe would be in Paris. Well, in the end his plans changed, before we knew that your own would as well. He is on the island.’
Ella kept her eyes downcast, running a fingertip around the rim of her wine-glass. But her hand trembled and so she dropped it, quickly, into her lap, hoping that Caroline hadn’t noticed.
‘Where is he?’
‘Don’t worry. He will not come to the house, unless you say it is alright for him to do so. He’s staying above the new gallery in Saint Martin – there’s an apartment there. He’s perfectly comfortable, there’s space for him to work, and Bijou is moored in the harbour just in front of the building, so it’s ideal for him. He and I have discussed your visit. He realises it could be awkward for you. With the children here . . . and we’d wondered whether Angus might come too, after all, at least for some of the summer. Although I don’t know whether that would have made it more or less awkward. Christophe would love to see you all, but only if it’s what you want.’
Ella was silent for a few moments. Then she turned to Caroline, her expression unreadable in the shadows. ‘Of course, I’d love to see him. And I’d love the children to meet him too. I’ve told them all about the Martet family, what good friends you all were to me when I was here for the first time nearly twenty years ago. I just wish that they could have met your parents as well.’
Caroline nodded. ‘Very well.’
The tone of their words was nonchalant, but carefully so.
In the darkness, something seemed to have shifted. It was hard to say what, exactly. Perhaps it was just a change in the breeze, which caused the white rose in the pitcher to release its remaining petals on to the table all at once; perhaps it was the delicate wash of light that flooded the darkened garden suddenly, as the full face of the moon appeared above the dunes beyond the whitewashed wall.
Or perhaps it was something less tangible: a barely perceptible awareness in each of the two women that fate, like the swinging needle of a compass, had turned to point towards the possibility of another path. One that, until that moment, had been unimaginable.
‘Good morning! Hello? Coucou! Where are you all hiding?’ The house was still and silent as Ella came downstairs the next morning. She’d slept soundly, for once, worn out by all that travelling. And, having closed her bedroom shutters, she’d not realised how late it was.
A note sat in the middle of the kitchen table, weighted down by the fruit bowl: ‘Mummy. We have gone to have breckfast at a caffy. In Saint Martin. We will bring you back a crussent. Or Caroline says you can come and find us on a bike at the gallery. Love from Robbie XXX’
For a moment, Ella toyed with the idea of staying put and enjoying the peace while Caroline entertained her children. But she couldn’t resist the thought of joining them, not wanting to miss out on the children’s excitement. And the thought of a croissant and a café au lait, sitting in the sunshine on the quayside, was just too tempting.
She hadn’t been on a bike for years, and wobbled slightly as she set off up the sandy track between the neat rows of vines. But she quickly regained her confidence and was soon pedalling along the road that led to the north of the island. The roadside was lined with wildflowers, a petit point of Delft blue, magenta and silver-grey against the raw sienna of the grasses. The ever-present ocean breeze made the hem of her sun-dress flutter about her knees and lifted her hair from her shoulders, cooling the smooth skin of her neck even as the sun warmed her cheeks and forehead.
‘Oops, I’ll get freckles,’ she thought, remembering her seventeen-year-old self’s preoccupation and smiling as she did so.
Reaching Saint Martin, she rattled across the cobbles in the Place de la République and then turned into one of the steep, hollyhock-clustered streets that ran down to the port between whitewashed houses. The shops and cafés were already abustle with holidaymakers. She got off and wheeled her bike, taking in the snug harbour filled with boats and looking out for Caroline and the children in case they were sitting at a table outside one of the cafés. It was easy to spot the gallery, which faced her from the other side of the stone bridge that separated the two bassins of the harbour, with Caroline’s name painted on the canvas awning that shaded its windows from the sun. And her breath caught for a moment when she saw Bijou, just as Caroline had said, moored in front of it.
She propped the bicycle against one of the iron stanchions holding the chain that encircled the harbour’s edge and stepped into the coolness of the gallery, a bell sounding faintly from an inner room as she crossed the threshold.
She stood stock still, gazing round at the paintings that lined the walls. They were all Christophe’s work: sea-scapes and beach-scapes, interspersed with portraits of fishermen, a woman leading a donkey, workers in the salt-pans. In one corner was a separate display of several fine ceramics, alongside works by a sculptor – a local man, she later read in the accompanying catalogue – which sat on individual plinths.
She turned back to look more closely at one of the paintings, of wind-blown grasses in the dunes, clouds scudding across a summer’s sky.
And then she became aware of another presence in the room: a quality in the silence of the holding of a breath; the sensation of a pair of eyes upon her.
She turned.
He stood in the archway that led to the inner room. Watching her.
Without a word, she stepped swiftly across the space between them and put her arms around him. He hesitated. Then she felt him embrace her back.
When she could speak, she stepped back to look at him properly, blinking the tears away. ‘There you are. The man who came back from the dead.’
His face was thinner, lined now, and his hair was dusted with silver. His eyes were dark as the ocean deeps, and as hard to read.
He smiled, but it was one of the saddest smiles she had ever seen. ‘Ella. You have grown even more beautiful over the years. How I have longed for this moment, and how I have dreaded it. Knowing that it would be impossible to see you, and impossible not to.’
‘Sometimes I think life itself is impossible,’ she replied. She raised a trembling hand to her chest, as if to try to calm her heart which was beating so fast.
