Gwennie's Girl Page 27

  They ate Filets de Perches and Filets de Perches and Filets de Perches—on the terrace of Le Vieux Navire which served nothing but these delicious small fish caught in the fresh waters that lapped its old village. Then they ate more Filets de Perch at Lacoustre near Versoix where sunset was a gentle spectacular turning the silver sheen of the lake to pink opal and then to old lavender before the moon took her turn. Then they ate even more Filets de Perch at the Bagatelle, a bustling “cheap eats” place near the Gare Cornavin and at the Cafe du Soleil still clinging to its reputation as the meeting place of the Avant Garde but now more a place for busy bureaucrats. Of course, they ate other things but the Filets de Perches with elegant crisp “pommes frites” and a green salad swimming in creamy dressing to be mopped up with crusty soft-centred bread was hard to beat.

  Some of Lizzie’s favourite winter restaurants were less attractive in summer. The Mirador in the pedestrian walkway leading down to the Pont de Mont Blanc was lovely in winter with dark tables and mirrors and long snowy cloths wrapped around the waists of the waiters. But in summer, as more tables scrambled outside next to McDonalds and the Cafe de Paris, service and quality of food became “for the tourists”. They still cooked the best salade de foies de volailles, and it was only when Lizzie wanted this combination of fresh crunchy greens and soft, herbed livers that they ventured there in the season.

  There was one magical weekend when Lizzie and Sam stayed at the Chateau La Perouse that belonged to a colleague. La Perouse was about an hour and a half drive from Geneva into France. After leaving the Autoroute Blanche, they drove through Meillonnas and followed the road through fields of silky green to Treffort, a village out of the story books, a quiet tangle of streets winding up to the old Catholic church and a stone wall that was the keeper of an old house with a beautifully curved turret and discreet gardens. The houses were golden stone facades with deeply polished shutter eyes and entrances under moustache lintels. In Treffort, there was a Cave where local wine could be poured into your own plastic container and was good to drink with cheese from the dairy in the centre of the square. The dairy also pumped creamy milk into your own containers and sold butter in rich golden slabs.

  Close by was the restaurant run by Christophe and Mireille. They had lived and worked in Manhattan for a while but had happily returned to Treffort with their young son, Florian. Forget Maxims. Forget any restaurant in Paris. This was where you could eat the best food in France. The sauce of friendliness and warm welcome probably made the difference. The first time Lizzie ate at Christophe’s was late one night when she and a couple of others had been helping the colleague move into La Perouse. By about nine thirty on a cold October night, they were tired and grubby and hungry. As they drove through the village, everything was closed but there was a light on behind one restaurant so Lizzie knocked, hoping to be told where they might find somewhere to eat. Mireille answered and listened to the story, then called to Christophe and they talked together in very fast French.

  ‘Come in,’ said Mireille. ‘Sit and rest. We can give chicken to two and beef to two. Christophe will cook for you.’

  It was bliss. Hot soup appeared after piquant olives and tiny cheese puffs. The chicken was famous. Mireille smiled, ‘It is red, white and blue our chicken—for France, maybe.’

  The chicken from this area around Bourg-en-Bresse was justly famous, birds with blue legs, red combs and white feathers. That night, they came in a white wine sauce with potatoes sliced into cream and pepper with a topping of melted cheese. There was a salad melange. Then fromage blanc, the white pot of soft cheese eaten either with salt or with sugar and cream, that always made you think it would be too much, but never was. Then dessert: one crème brûlée and three serves of ice cream.

  ‘I think, for you, the crème brûlée,’ decided Mireille for Lizzie. She knew a girl who liked her food, when she saw one. How else did Lizzie get this shape? The crème brûlée, a soft layer of rich custard under a crackling, scorched film of sugar became Lizzie’s all-time favourite dessert.

  On later trips, she would telephone from Geneva that she was coming down and, always, Christophe had crème brûlée for her. The feast finished after midnight with coffee, melting petits fours and four lifetime fans of this particular French chef.

  On one occasion after another sumptuous meal, which, by the way, cost not much more than one main course in Geneva, Mireille brought out a casserole of chicken thighs in a tomato sauce. ‘Take it with you. Eat it tomorrow. But bring back my dish!’

  Gourmet leftovers, what a restaurant.

  When they finally celebrated the occupancy of La Perouse, they invited Christophe, Mireille and others from the village. Although most had lived there all their lives, often passing the Chateau, they had never been inside. It was quite a party. La Perouse was actually a couple of kilometres outside Treffort up a road that turned and twisted through woods but gave wonderful views of the village clinging to the hillside.

  Lizzie loved showing it to Sam. She loved showing it to everyone. Gwennie would have loved this place, this experience. What a repertoire of roles she and Nanna could have played between them in a setting like this one. Why didn’t Gwennie have the chance? Why didn’t they both have the chance? All that working. All that caring for Lizzie and for lots of other people. They deserved to have something like this, deserved it more than their wimpy girl. Don’t you cry, Lizzie. Don’t you dare. Don’t you be stupid enough to be lonely for them again. It’s not fair. OK. It’s not fair. That’s the way it is. Sure you still miss them. You probably always will miss them. They didn’t abandon you on purpose. It wasn’t something they did deliberately. They died. It happens. Stop crying inside yourself. It happens. It happened.

  ‘Drive slowly, now. You’ll see it on the left any moment.’

  The car crawled slowly and then, there it was, the front grey stonewall with two giant chessboard pawns guarding the wrought iron gates. Sam was impressed. Everyone was always impressed. At the end of the long drive, they could glimpse the roof and the tower. To one side was a tiny stone structure that had once housed poultry and a small smokehouse. Lizzie had brought some kids here once, and they had enjoyed convincing themselves that La Perouse was haunted when they had come running back inside with eyes like saucers.

  ‘There’s a cat’s head with glass eyes and there’s a cross nailed above it,’ they had gasped.

  ‘A cat’s head?’

  ‘Not a real cat but a cut-out of a head with glass eyes that stare at you and a cross. It’s evil spirits. This place is haunted.’

  But it wasn’t. It was a place that welcomed you that was redolent of families, love and happiness which was why the kids felt safe enough to play ghosts and explore. When they found “Claude” they were almost delirious with the thrill. In front of the main building was an extensive rough stone cowshed about the size of many suburban houses in Australia but all cobwebs and musty mangers. When you walked around it to the paddock entrance there was an opening under it, and here reposed the remains of Claude under a gravestone that now formed part of the foundation of the cowshed. Claude had been responsible for the glory that was La Perouse for it was he who had acquired the old farm cottage and had extended it and made it into a Chateau. Alas, poor Claude that he now held up the cowshed.

  Lizzie instantly invented a tradition. ‘If you want to spend the night at La Perouse, you must first be taken and introduced to Claude. Once he knows who you are and that you are an invited guest he will welcome you and let you sleep peacefully. But if you don’t meet him…if he thinks you are an intruder…’ She stopped and gave her most theatrical shudder. ‘Then…who knows what might happen in the dark dead of the night when Claude feels that he must protect his property. Who knows…’

  She let her voice fade to a whisper. The kids loved it, so a story was born and a tradition established with everyone meeting Claude before spending the night in the old Chateau.

  It was looking particularly lovely when they came up
the drive late on this summer’s afternoon as the sun was past its peak, and the light was beginning to take on the luminosity that it would hold for the twilight hours. The outer walls were all grey golden stone. In the centre was the oldest section where the door opened onto a flagged room that had two levels above it, each with two more rooms and on one side was the barn, two marvellous levels of open space, high ceilings and huge double doors that swung open to let light stream in from under high eaves.

  What a gallery it would make, Lizzie often thought. Or a self-contained apartment with a potbelly stove and thick red, peasant rugs.

  Yet another door that opened with a heavy key that belonged in a gothic novel led to the main living quarters. From the paved entry, they went up a wooden staircase to the first floor and right into a kitchen that was all wood and copper but had a modern stove and a refrigerator, hot water and a table for sitting around and eating, drinking, talking and laughing.

  Once, in winter, Lizzie had been staying with a group of friends and had awakened to hear a car outside at daybreak. It was the local gendarmerie; two of the most knock-down-dead gorgeous, young Frenchmen she had ever seen. They had seen the gates unlocked and had come in to check that all was well. Lizzie invited them in for coffee—thankfully, they had some croissants. They sat in the kitchen and talked for a couple of hours, and it was an early morning riot as other guests came blearily in to the room and found the “Flick” having breakfast.

  Next to the kitchen was a formal dining room with fireplace and ceramic heater. Both these rooms opened out onto the stone walled terrace that caught the evening sun and was sheltered from the wind. There were lots of other rooms. Up one more flight of stairs were more bedrooms, but Lizzie’s room was a bedroom on the same floor as the kitchen and dining room. It was covered in blue-and-gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper on the walls, ceilings, doors, cupboards: a tad overdone, but beautiful against the polished floorboards. When she opened the double shuttered window, sunlight filled the room and brought it to life. After she and Sam drifted through the rest of the rooms, they came back and sank into the creamy linen pillows that still smelt of summer grass and rich countryside.

  It was a magical weekend. They walked in the fields, which were filled with knee-high yellow flowers, well, knee-high on Lizzie. Their jeans were coated with gold dust from the pollen and when Sam laughingly pulled her down onto the warm earth they both emerged looking like creatures from fantasyland. In one paddock were a stallion and two mares. The stallion had perfected the head toss that shook his locks flying around his classic profile. Thousands of teenaged girls were probably practising to get that toss exactly right.

  Lizzie and Sam sipped their aperitifs from long stemmed (alas, plastic) glasses on the terrace, ate at Christophe and Mireille’s and made love with the moon shining in through the open shutters. She felt at ease with this man. He did not crowd her nor interrogate her nor even seem to want to change her. Over the months, they had slowly found out something of each other’s backgrounds so Sam was no longer a two dimensional figure to Lizzie. He was an only child of elderly, now dead, parents with no siblings and no long-term previous entanglements but he was “not a monk”. Well, as a war photographer, he was probably the antithesis of a monk.

  ‘But I am a serial monogamist, Lizzie. What about you?’ he had asked, and Lizzie found she was relieved to know and to answer similarly.

  Gradually over time, he had drawn Lizzie to talk briefly about her own history, and already he seemed to understand her love of Gwennie and Nanna. So there was a comfortableness about being with Sam but, really, they lived and enjoyed the present. They could talk about their work and the state of the world and books and films without ever seeming weighed down or burdened. They shared many of their ideas and opinions especially about the international scene of NGOs and governments. It was gentle between them. No pressure. They both loved to eat good food, drink good wine and they liked, mostly, the same music. He was fun, caring and a great lover, generous and attuned to her moods. Yes, it was gentle between them. No pressure.

  ‘Would you think about marrying me?’ The words forked through the air, shocking Lizzie out of her drowsiness as they pulled up in front of her apartment building on Sunday evening.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Oh come off it, darling girl, you heard me. Will you think about marrying me?’

  This is so sudden, almost dropped out of her mouth. Why did he have to spoil everything? Lizzie did not want to get married, not ever again. She liked her life the way it was. She loved her life the way it was, including her love life. No pressure. Bloody hell, she had tempted the fates and they had been listening.

  ‘Lizzie, we don’t have to have a wedding.’

  Well, thanks for that!

  ‘We don’t even have to make it legal if you’d rather not.’

  I would definitely rather not.

  ‘I would just like us to be together, make some sort of commitment, that sort of marrying is OK by me if that’s what you would rather.’

  Oh, shit, shit, shit. Now it was all going to be spoilt.

  ‘Lizzie, look at me.’

  She did.

  ‘For Pete’s sake, woman, don’t look so stricken,’ he added ruefully. ‘All I did was ask you to marry me. Some people wouldn’t think that was the end of the world.’

  Why was she so upset? Because she wanted it to go on the way it was, gentle and no pressure. ‘Listen, kiddo, I am not putting you under any pressure.’ That was one of the comfortable things about Sam; he always knew what was happening without needing long, “deep and meaningful” explanations. But this was pressure.

  ‘Lizzie, stop doing that silent panic thing of yours and concentrate for a minute.’

  What silent panic thing?

  ‘Listen. Listen and concentrate that rapid fire brain of yours for just one minute.’

  She made herself focus and concentrate.

  ‘I am going to Thailand.’

  So what? He had been to Thailand lots of times. ‘I am going for a few months, maybe six months.’

  What sort of assignment could take six months?

  ‘You remember that friend of mine, Bob?’

  No, never heard of him.

  ‘…the one with the agency in Cyprus.’

  Oh, that Bob.

  ‘He wants to start a new agency in Asia.’

  Nice for Bob. What does this have to do with me, with us, with getting married?

  ‘Lizzie,’ he admonished. ‘Stop wondering and keep listening.’

  I’m listening. I’m listening.

  ‘Good,’ he answered the unspoken protests. ‘He wants me to join up with him, take on the Asian outfit, really get it started. Then we could cover two regions. We’ve got the contacts. We’ve got the capital. It could be really exciting. You know how much I like the Thais…’

  And I like you, Sam.

  ‘I’ll have to give it some time, get an office, studio and equipment. It means lots of fighting about permits, but I don’t think that will be a problem if I’m bringing in capital. There are some really exciting young photographers working in the region now…’

  That’s twice you’ve said “really exciting”.

  ‘It would be a chance to help them develop and get Asian photos of Asians on the market rather than always being seen through a European or American perspective…’

  You’re excited about this idea.

  ‘They need to produce technically acceptable stuff for outside media…they can do that. The region is exploding. They just need to learn more about our markets—particularly for the NGO community. I know they can do it. I’m sort of excited about it all.’

  “Sort of”? Why haven’t you mentioned this to me all weekend? Why spring it on me now?

  ‘Lizzie, in a minute you are going to have to say something, my love.’

  Why are you calling me your “love”?

  ‘Lizzie, listen, I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with
you.’

  Ooh, no-o-o.

  ‘Yes, I do. I’d like you to come away with me next week.’

  ‘I can’t. I have a report to finish.’

  ‘Yes. Dumby, but that’s not what we are talking about, is it?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Look, I know you have your job and your life here, and I know how important all that being safe and independent is to you. I don’t want to mess up anything for you. I just love you, and I want to be with you.’

  Then why are you going to Thailand?

  ‘I’m going to Bangkok to give this idea a go. I don’t know what’s going to happen.’

  I do. I’ll never see you again unless I go with you and become a housewife again. I can’t do that. I can’t do that. I love it here.

  ‘I’m not asking you, not really, to come with me…’

  Why not? Why aren’t you asking me to come with you?

  ‘I’m not asking you to come with me now because….’

  Bloody hell! Is this man a mind reader! I haven’t said anything out loud, have I?

  ‘…because I don’t think it would work for you. I’d love you to come but I want you to just think about it, think about us, think about us together. There are so many things we could do. You would get plenty of assignments if we were based in Asia…but that’s not important.’

  It’s important to me, mate.

  ‘I don’t mean it’s not important to you…’

  He’s doing it again.

  ‘What would be important would be whether you would be happy living with me, would we be happy living together? As a couple? I don’t know, Lizzie. We’ve both been used to being solo but I love you and I’d really like you to think about it.’

  Long pause.

  ‘Come on, Fast Annie, say something.’

  ‘This…’

  ‘If you say, “This is so sudden”, so help me, Lizzie, I’ll quote you!’

  She had to grin. ‘I almost did say that…Sam, I don’t know. All my instinct has been to avoid anything like this…you knew that…I thought that was what you wanted too.’