The palace doesn’t open on Mondays, so today is a free day to catch up on my own admin as well as some office work. I’ve been to the supermarket to stock up on supplies, as I’ve invited Ronan over this evening to see if he’s found out anything about Grandma’s time here. After a leisurely stroll back to number six, even before I can turn the key in the door, I hear someone call out.
‘Excusez-moi. J’ai une livraison pour vous.’
Turning around, an older woman is walking towards me with a parcel in her hands. Her silver-grey hair is tied neatly in a bun and she’s dressed entirely in black; her skirt is ankle-length and even though it’s an unusually warm spring day she’s wearing a long black cardigan over her blouse.
‘Ah. Merci, madame,’ I offer, as I take the parcel from her, wondering what on earth it could be. She indicates that she had to sign for it, and I can see a Royal Mail special delivery label with a bar code. I give her a warm smile of thanks.
‘Je m’appelle Lexie Winters,’ I add, feeling it would be rude not to introduce myself.
‘Ah. English!’ she exclaims. ‘I am Renée Duval. You stay here long?’
‘Twelve weeks,’ I reply, and she frowns. ‘Douze semaines,’ I clarify.
‘Ah. Bon.’
She nods her head in acknowledgement, then heads back to the cottage, opposite.
I open the door then slide the sizeable box under my arm as best I can, in order to grab the carrier bags. It isn’t easy negotiating the stairs as I puzzle over the unexpected delivery. Not many people know I’m here and I haven’t ordered anything. I’m so curious that I dump the bags down and carry the box across to the table before unpacking the shopping.
It’s obviously from the UK and when I turn the box over, I see it has one of Mum’s little flowery address labels on it. Grabbing a knife to slit it open, I end up sitting down on a chair with a bump as I stare at the contents. It’s full of palm-sized, spiral-bound notebooks. I pick one up and see that the paper inside is plain, like an art pad, and, flicking through, I see it’s full of Grandma’s stylish handwriting, interspersed with drawings of flowers, plants and trees. These little vignettes jump out, tantalisingly. Tucked alongside them is a folded sheet of white paper, which I slide out.
Hi Honey
Your dad once said I was being silly hesitating over when exactly was the right time to hand this box over to you. Now you’re in Versailles, walking over the very ground your grandma walked so many years ago, the time has come. I will admit I am nervous about what you might discover. But history can’t be rewritten – it is what it is.
When I had the awful task of going through her things, I found this hidden away at the back of a drawer. There was no letter but if you look closely your name is written in pencil inside the lid. I opened one of the small notebooks and realised that France was a dream my mother had to let go, but it still meant a lot to her. Oh, her passion for plants and nature in general always shone through and she shared that with us all, but I still can’t bring myself to go through the contents of this box.
In the end, what’s contained here turned out to be the sum total of her career. After she returned to the UK, she made the decision to devote her time to supporting the man she loved and to have and nurture a family. Unlike the memory box, which contained a wealth of old photos, letters and general items she happily shared, this is different.
I believe that she kept her notebooks because at some point she wanted to share her adventure with you, honey. That’s why I could never bring myself to pore over them; maybe she didn’t want to upset me. Or maybe it was because you had a very special bond with her.
You know that I don’t really believe in all that psychic stuff… too airy-fairy for me, but – and it’s a but that sent me scurrying to parcel this up and send it off to you – last night I had a dream. I rarely remember what happens once my head touches the pillow, but I woke up to find tears on my cheeks, convinced your grandma had come to visit me. As I opened my eyes, I swear I could still feel her presence and smell her perfume.
Shellie said you were intent on trying to discover whatever you can about your grandma’s time there. So, I’m sending this to you by recorded delivery because I think it was a sign. Even if it was only my conscience telling me it was wrong to hold out any longer.
At some point, depending upon what you discover, maybe we can talk about the part of her life she kept very quiet. Without a doubt, you are the one who is most like her in so many ways. If there are lessons to be learnt, then maybe that’s why she kept them. Perhaps Versailles was meant to be a part of your journey, too, although how could she have known that? It all sounds a little silly, but I’m feeling very emotional about the past, today.
Anyway, honey, please don’t go putting too much pressure on yourself. I’m so proud of what you’ve achieved already. I worry that you will follow in your brother’s footsteps. Always remember that success shouldn’t come at the cost of one’s happiness in life.
Enjoy experiencing spring in a wonderful and very special setting. But I’m marking each day off on my calendar until your safe return, because life isn’t quite the same without you here.
Love Mum. x
I swallow a lump that has risen in my throat. My heart is thumping in my chest and my stomach begins to churn. I stand, busying myself by putting away the contents of the carrier bags while I try to get my head around Mum’s letter, and the level of trust she’s putting in me. She’s torn about whether or not she wants to know what really happened. Reaching for the lid and turning it over, sure enough I see my name staring back at me.
What if this reveals not just the contents of a box, but a secret that changes my perception of Grandma Viv forever? Is it possible that the wonderful memories I have of her could be tarnished by what I might find? Do I have the right to do what even her own daughter can’t bring herself to do? But then again, Grandma could so easily have destroyed the notebooks, and no one would have been any the wiser.
With so much apprehension and doubt swirling around in my head, I go over and place the lid firmly back on the box. There’s a supper to prepare and I want to impress Ronan after he was kind enough to put so much effort into our cosy little meal. Reading the notebooks is something I’m going to have to think long and hard about before I go any further.
When Ronan arrives, he steps inside with a big smile on his face and thrusts a small bunch of pretty pink tulips and a bottle of wine into my arms. We’re beyond shaking hands now, I realise as he’s leaning in to kiss my cheek. The space is so confined it’s impossible to avoid each other anyway. I return his smile, tilting my head to alternate cheeks. I can feel myself blush as I turn to head up the stairs.
‘Well,’ he comments as he follows behind me, ‘something smells good.’
‘I hope you’re hungry, I’m cooking my mum’s favourite recipe from the seventies, based on a French classic.’
He laughs out loud, slipping off his jacket. ‘That would be coq au vin, then. Actually, the modern version has barely changed and it’s still very popular.’
I will admit the smell is amazing and it’s my go-to dinner party dish. I’m pleased at Ronan’s response and I head over to the kitchen area to put the flowers in a vase of water.