Frank looked mystified but he agreed readily enough. ‘I’ve got a very good thriller on the go,’ he said. ‘I’ll find a comfortable spot in the sun and be ready whenever you are.’ He bent to kiss her cheek. Beryl thought, not for the first time, what a very kind man he was and how glad she was that she was going to be marrying him.That was definitely one of my better decisions, she told herself with a smile, and it was nobody’s business but theirs. Time to stop wondering how the news would be received and begin to revel in the joy of being treasured again. Beryl went up to her room to tidy up and collect her sun hat, then quickly took the stairs down to the hallway and out of the front door before anyone could spot her and ask where she was going or offer to join her.
Out in the street, Beryl heaved a sigh of relief. She loved her friends, but this was one mission she needed to take alone. Then it occurred to her that she’d forgotten to ask Vee where Yolanda lived. To go back inside would probably involve answering questions as to why she wanted to know this, so she decided to take matters into her own hands. She headed for the square and found the café already open for business and the young waiter wiping tables ready for the morning coffee rush, if you could call it that in such a peaceful village.
‘Bonjour,’ she said to him, with as much confidence as she could muster, trying to dredge up a bit of creaky schoolgirl French. ‘Ou est Madame Yolanda, mon amie?’
He looked at her in bewilderment for a moment but then his expression cleared. ‘Ah, oui. Madame Yolanda. Elle est…’
After this came a long description in rapid French which involved many gestures towards the other end of the village. Sensing Beryl’s confusion, he seized her by the arm and began to tow her up the street, talking all the time. When they reached the bend in the road, he paused and said very slowly, as if to a small child, ‘A droit, et encore a droit.’
Very pleased with himself, he performed a few more dramatic pointing actions and waved Beryl on her way with a merry ‘bon chance’ as he left her.
Beryl called out her thanks and carried on walking until she met an opening between the houses heading right. She sincerely hoped that was what he’d meant as she picked her way over the grassy humps in the middle of the narrow lane. When she saw another turning and spied a tiny cottage under a sheltering bower of trees, she had a hunch she’d found the right place. Sure enough, at a table outside the door sat Yolanda with a large bowl and a chopping board in front of her. She was concentrating hard on her task which, Beryl realised as she approached, was the cutting up of a very large amount of apples. Hearing the snap of a twig underfoot as Beryl came closer, Yolanda looked up.
‘Oh, hello, Beryl,’ she said. ‘I wondered when you’d turn up. I’ve been expecting you.’
‘You sound like a Bond villain,’ said Beryl, somewhat nettled at this lukewarm welcome. ‘Shouldn’t you have a cat on your knee?’
Yolanda gave a bark of laughter. ‘My cat’s out doing what she’s meant to do; catching rats,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down. I’d make coffee but I need to get these done. I’m making a load of apple tarts for tonight and I’m behind with my jobs.’
‘Want a hand?’ Beryl said. It might be easier to broach the subject on her mind if they were both busy doing something mundane as they talked.
Yolanda got to her feet without another word and made her way inside, stumbling slightly on the uneven flagstones. Beryl thought it looked as if Yolanda’s sandals were on their last legs and was thankful for her own sensible shoes, bought especially for walking and well broken in before they’d started their holiday.
The other woman was soon back, carrying an extra board and a sharp knife. She pulled out the only other chair for Beryl, who sat down and prepared to make herself useful. ‘I’ll peel and you chop,’ Yolanda said. They worked in silence for a few minutes. It was very peaceful in the garden. The sound of the bees humming away as they flitted from flower to flower was timeless, and Beryl’s mind wandered back to her childhood when she’d often sat in a cottage garden very like this one, giving her grandmother a hand to prepare fruit and vegetables.
‘So, I expect you’ll be wanting to dig up the past?’ said Yolanda, still peeling apples neatly and placing them in a bowl of water between them, ready for Beryl to do her bit. ‘There’s been quite a bit of that in the last couple of days. I must say it’s about time.’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Beryl. ‘And you know all about burying your painful memories, don’t you?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Beryl shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s a conversation for another time. I’ve got more pressing things to discuss with you today. Although now I’m here, I hardly know where to begin.’
Yolanda smiled, although there was an underlying hint of sadness there. ‘Start with what’s in your heart,’ she said.
The years rolled away as Beryl let her mind wander to the painful days when she’d realised that her beautiful son was gradually slipping away from her. Patrick had always been so sunshiny as a little boy, but his teen years seemed to bring him nothing but trouble. The culmination of all the stress had been during that fateful summer of 1985, when he’d tried so hard to be one of the cool gang, but had only succeeded in isolating himself even more.
‘I guess what I want to know is whether your niece… whether Venetia had anything to do with the way my Patrick suffered at school,’ Beryl said, getting the words out with difficulty.
‘Have you asked her that question?’ Yolanda’s voice was stern now. Beryl pulled a face and shook her head.
‘Is there any point? She’s bound to deny all knowledge of what went on.’
‘You mean with the fire in the churchyard and what happened afterwards?’
Beryl bit her lip. The night of the fire held one of her worst memories of that summer. Patrick had come home smelling of ash and cinders, tearing through the house and straight into the bathroom. She’d heard the bathwater running but had not understood at the time. When the police came calling the next morning, Patrick had been in bed with what he’d said was a bad migraine. He’d always suffered from these so Beryl had no compunction in telling the two officers that he was too ill to be disturbed. To her everlasting shame, she’d lied for Patrick, saying he’d been at home with her all the previous evening, as he wasn’t well.
She took a deep breath and relayed this information to Yolanda, then braced herself for a scalding response. Instead, she was met with what felt like a sympathetic silence. Taking courage, Beryl carried on.
‘I’ve always wondered if he set the fire himself,’ she said. ‘I thought it was probably a dare. And I decided that the classmates who dared him to do it were most likely to be that Rhonda’ – she spat the name out with venom – ‘and… Venetia. Patrick was always trying to impress those two. I think they made him very unhappy with their teasing. It was the start of his… mental health issues.’
Beryl had never used those terms in relation to her son before this, even in her head. She raised her eyes to meet Yolanda’s gaze. There was a short silence. Then Yolanda cleared her throat. ‘I think we both know that’s not the case,’ she said gently.
35
By the time evening came and a very fine cassoulet had been eaten, accompanied by the usual copious amounts of wine, everyone was in the mood for a party. Simone beamed round at her guests. They’d all made a special effort with their remaining clean clothes and looked very smart.
‘We’ll go along to the square in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to miss the start of the performance.’
