news.’
‘I’m thinking about it. It all rather depends on what Will’s up to. He’s… um… hoping for big things.’
‘It would make you very happy,’ he said simply. ‘I know it would.’
I allowed myself the merest moment of reprise, of what-might-have-been-possible. ‘Dad tells me that Château d’Yseult has been bought by the Americans. Has that caused a stir?’
‘I think we will get used to it,’ Raoul said. ‘Or, rather, I think we French have to get used to it.’
Chloë’s flight was on the thirteenth of July and I struggled against feeling superstitious.
The day before, we drove over to Ember House to say goodbye to my father. Before lunch, we walked around the garden and came to a halt under the beech in which, many years before, my father had built me a tree-house.
‘Don’t look down,’ I called up to Chloë, who had decided to climb it.
Don’t look down . My father had taught me that – advice that is perfectly obvious once you have received it, but not before.
‘Don’t worry,’ said my father. ‘Let her be.’
‘Stop fussing, Mum.’ Chloë swung herself up into the first fork and straddled the branch. ‘Look at me.’
‘She’s just like you,’ remarked my father fondly.
‘Was I as pig-headed?’
‘Probably I can’t remember.’
I bent down to tip a stone out of my shoe. Tucked into the tree roots were green, vivid moss and the remnants of the miniature cyclamen I had planted over the years. Cyclamen should never be in pots. They belonged outside in the cool, drenched damp of an English spring. ‘I wish she wasn’t going, Dad, but I know she must. It seems a sort of… end.’
‘It isn’t an end, believe me,’ he said, and tucked my hand into his arm. ‘Hang on to that.’
Chloë scrambled up to the second fork in the trunk where, I knew, the bark was smooth and flecked with lichen, and the branches were wide and generous. Perfect for the lonely, perennially grubby girl who had made it her den all those years ago. Chloë hooked her leg over the branch and settled back. ‘I’m probably looking at what you looked at.’
‘Probably.’
She squinted across at the remains of the platform. ‘All the planks look rotten.’
‘Be careful.’ A breeze rippled the leaves. I knew that sound so well. In the end, I had known the pathway up that tree better than the stairs in the house.
‘I drank my first bottle of cider up there,’ I said, to my father, ‘and practised swearing.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I used to prowl underneath, just to make sure you were all right.’
‘Really, Dad? I never saw you. I always thought I was the clever one.’
‘And so you were, Francesca.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘But I wasn’t a complete fool.’
I looked at him. However much I tried to ignore it, my father was growing older. Fright drove a stiletto into me. ‘Why don’t I take some work back with me, if I’m to come back to work properly, why don’t you give me some stuff today?’
He paused and laid his hand on my arm. His touch was a brittle leaf. ‘Why don’t I?’
‘Guys, I’m coming down.’ A moment later Chloë landed beside us. ‘Got moss all over my jeans, Mum. And this is my travelling pair.’
It was not really necessary for me to brush and pat Chloë clean but, since I would not have her for much longer, I allowed myself to fuss. It gave me an excuse to smooth back her hair and run my hands over her shoulders to check they were not too thin. Close your eyes, I told myself. Savour and memorize: imprint the feel of her.
Will – of course – could not come to see Chloë off. ‘Send my dearest love… and, Fanny, give her some extra money. From me. I’ll pay you back.’ Nor did Sacha. ‘At a gig.’ So I drove her and her rucksack to the airport, where we met Jenny and Fabia, her travelling companions.
The three girls listened in silence to the three mothers while the final lecture – stick together, spiked drinks, drugs,
‘I’m thinking about it. It all rather depends on what Will’s up to. He’s… um… hoping for big things.’
‘It would make you very happy,’ he said simply. ‘I know it would.’
I allowed myself the merest moment of reprise, of what-might-have-been-possible. ‘Dad tells me that Château d’Yseult has been bought by the Americans. Has that caused a stir?’
‘I think we will get used to it,’ Raoul said. ‘Or, rather, I think we French have to get used to it.’
Chloë’s flight was on the thirteenth of July and I struggled against feeling superstitious.
The day before, we drove over to Ember House to say goodbye to my father. Before lunch, we walked around the garden and came to a halt under the beech in which, many years before, my father had built me a tree-house.
‘Don’t look down,’ I called up to Chloë, who had decided to climb it.
Don’t look down . My father had taught me that – advice that is perfectly obvious once you have received it, but not before.
‘Don’t worry,’ said my father. ‘Let her be.’
‘Stop fussing, Mum.’ Chloë swung herself up into the first fork and straddled the branch. ‘Look at me.’
‘She’s just like you,’ remarked my father fondly.
‘Was I as pig-headed?’
‘Probably I can’t remember.’
I bent down to tip a stone out of my shoe. Tucked into the tree roots were green, vivid moss and the remnants of the miniature cyclamen I had planted over the years. Cyclamen should never be in pots. They belonged outside in the cool, drenched damp of an English spring. ‘I wish she wasn’t going, Dad, but I know she must. It seems a sort of… end.’
‘It isn’t an end, believe me,’ he said, and tucked my hand into his arm. ‘Hang on to that.’
Chloë scrambled up to the second fork in the trunk where, I knew, the bark was smooth and flecked with lichen, and the branches were wide and generous. Perfect for the lonely, perennially grubby girl who had made it her den all those years ago. Chloë hooked her leg over the branch and settled back. ‘I’m probably looking at what you looked at.’
‘Probably.’
She squinted across at the remains of the platform. ‘All the planks look rotten.’
‘Be careful.’ A breeze rippled the leaves. I knew that sound so well. In the end, I had known the pathway up that tree better than the stairs in the house.
‘I drank my first bottle of cider up there,’ I said, to my father, ‘and practised swearing.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I used to prowl underneath, just to make sure you were all right.’
‘Really, Dad? I never saw you. I always thought I was the clever one.’
‘And so you were, Francesca.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘But I wasn’t a complete fool.’
I looked at him. However much I tried to ignore it, my father was growing older. Fright drove a stiletto into me. ‘Why don’t I take some work back with me, if I’m to come back to work properly, why don’t you give me some stuff today?’
He paused and laid his hand on my arm. His touch was a brittle leaf. ‘Why don’t I?’
‘Guys, I’m coming down.’ A moment later Chloë landed beside us. ‘Got moss all over my jeans, Mum. And this is my travelling pair.’
It was not really necessary for me to brush and pat Chloë clean but, since I would not have her for much longer, I allowed myself to fuss. It gave me an excuse to smooth back her hair and run my hands over her shoulders to check they were not too thin. Close your eyes, I told myself. Savour and memorize: imprint the feel of her.
Will – of course – could not come to see Chloë off. ‘Send my dearest love… and, Fanny, give her some extra money. From me. I’ll pay you back.’ Nor did Sacha. ‘At a gig.’ So I drove her and her rucksack to the airport, where we met Jenny and Fabia, her travelling companions.
The three girls listened in silence to the three mothers while the final lecture – stick together, spiked drinks, drugs,
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