The girl pretends not to take any notice, but I imagine she’s actually listening.
“I wish someone would take it under their wing and look after it.” Millie rises. “Now let’s go inside and make hot chocolate for everyone.” She leaves the plant there.
Millie leads me inside the café so we can make hot drinks for everyone.
I keep glancing through the large glass front to check on the girl. She hasn’t moved. “Who is she?”
Millie breaks chunks of chocolate into a large saucer of milk and cream. “Her name is Lou. The staff at the centre are worried about her. She came with her mother a couple of months ago, but she never talks. They hope a little engagement might help.” Millie adds a couple of cinnamon sticks and some shards of broken almond-shells.
“I offered to do this demonstration mostly for her sake. Planting and gardening can be very therapeutic. But in some cases” – her eyes flick to the girl still standing on the jetty, not even looking at the hundreds of pretty potted shrubs and trees – “it takes time and a lot of patience.”
“You seem to know a lot about this.”
“Not me.” She laughs. “There’s a therapist who comes to the centre twice a week. She explained that trust can’t be forced any more than a rosebud can be made to bloom faster by pulling the petals open by hand. Sometimes, you must let things improve very slowly.”
So, they had a therapist at this women’s centre. It sounded like a well-organised operation. “Do you have a lot of domestic violence here?”
Millie shakes her head. “No, but these women come from anywhere. Initially, it was supposed to be from the Channel Islands. But in the last couple of years, they started coming from the mainland. It’s a good place to hide.”
Hide. Yes. Just like me. “Who pays for it?”
“It’s a charity. They hope to raise enough to pay for a full-time therapist, because the current two-days-a-week is nowhere near enough.” Millie removes the milk from the heat before it boils and stirs it with a whisk, the melting chocolate swirls in dark circles which slowly fade into the mix. She places a sieve over a jug and pours everything slowly. Rising steam fills the kitchen with the rich smell of almond and cinnamon.
I help her pour the hot chocolate into mugs for the girls, but my mind is still on what she told me.
After we hand out the drinks, I bring her back to the topic.
“You say it’s a charity. How do they raise their funds?”
“I think they have a few endowments. We usually do a fundraiser sale on New Year’s Eve to help.”
This doesn’t sound like much. “Why don’t they apply for government funding?”
Millie gives me a gentle smile. “What government? You forget we’re not in the UK now.”
Of course not. I make a start on the washing up while Millie chats to some of the girls who have questions. The girl, Lou, is still standing alone, slightly hidden behind a potted olive tree, as if trying to avoid notice. She clearly needs more help. Help which, by the sound of things, the centre can’t afford. They need a good fundraiser, which they probably can’t afford either. Unless… Unless…someone could do the job and be paid a percentage of funds raised that way the centre wouldn’t have to pay anything upfront. Someone who can search for grants and corporate funding.
Women escaping domestic violence is a cause that is bound to generate interest and sympathy.
“You know I might be able to help. I know a little about private donations and business sponsorship, you know, discovering less-known avenues for raising money.”
“Why don’t you speak to George. I know the Lady Isobel Centre is very close to his heart, it was his idea to set it up four years ago.”
“Where can I find him?” I ask a little too eagerly. This is just the kind of project I’d love to be involved in. Survivors of abuse who need a helping hand to make a new start. What an idiot I’ve been looking for work online when right here on my doorstep is a charity that might need my skills. My eyes go to that poor girl, Lou. God only knows what she’s been through; it’s not right that she can’t have proper help.
Excitement must radiate off me because Millie is quickly serious. “You will have a chance to talk to him at the Christmas lunch.”
I blink, slightly confused. “Christmas lunch?”
“Yes, you’re coming to the hall, you and Brandon. Haven’t you received the invitation?”
Chapter Fifteen
Lessa
Brandon hasn’t heard of the invitation either. He goes to the front door where a collection of paint-spattered sheets are piled behind the door. Sure enough, he finds several letters hidden under them.
The letter from Lord Du Montfort is instantly recognisable by the cursive calligraphy on the front and the logo on the back of the envelope. La Canette’s coat of arms is an indigo shield with a crown and three fleurs-de-lis.
