The Traveller’s Daughter

The petite figure lowered her cardboard, and her bold red-lipsticked mouth twitched into a tight smile. Her glossy brunette hair was slicked back into a bun, and she was wearing a white trouser suit with the kind of killer heels that would have some women stalking along like an ostrich. Kitty adored them instantly and felt a stab of kinship at the sight of them. She could also sense from the woman’s stance that she meant business and would see an in-depth conversation as to where she had found such gorgeous footwear as a frivolous waste of her time. The hand she held out in greeting was dainty and smooth, free of rings, her nails perfect half-moons painted in a clear, shiny polish. Her whole demeanour oozed with an understated professionalism and Kitty realized she was one of those rare species of women that could wear all white and not get a mark on it.

“I’m Simone Cazal, Monsieur Beauvau’s Assistant, we spoke on the phone. I am so pleased you have come, and I welcome you to France.”

Jeez, for a little girl Simone sure had a grip and a half on her, Kitty thought, wishing she’d let go of her hand. Her English thankfully was much better than Kitty’s non-existent French. As she released her hand, she was relieved to be able to cross the language barrier off her mental ‘why this trip was madness’ list.

“The car, it is outside.” With that, she gave a come, come wave of her hand before turning and gliding in the direction of the nearest exit.

She was so elegant, so…what was the word she was looking for? So French! That was it, Kitty thought, watching her in awe before tottering along after her. Not even her beloved Alexander McQueen wannabes could stop her feeling like an unglamorous Heffalump clad in jeans in the presence of such effortless style. Not for the first time, she cursed the impromptu nature of this trip and wished she’d had the time to head back to London to pack a wardrobe suitable for a trip to France. Instead, she was stuck with the bare necessities she’d stuffed into her wheelie-case when she’d headed up to Wigan. Oh well, there was no point worrying about it now, she decided. As the glass doors slid open, she blinked at the bright blue sky that greeted her.

The car, a sleek Peugeot, pulled up with precision timing as Kitty nearly collided into the back of Simone who had come to a sudden kerbside halt. She barely had time to enjoy the balmy Marseille breeze before a stocky man with a shock of silver hair, dressed in a dark suit got out of the car. With a nod in Simone’s direction, he made his way around to the rear of the car to open the boot then turning his attention to Kitty, he muttered something guttural at her. She smiled blankly back at him in that I haven’t a clue what you just said, but I guess it was something along the lines of give me your bag way as he retrieved her case from her. He placed it in the trunk and closing the boot made his way around to the passenger door. He opened it for Simone. She gave a brief nod of thanks before sliding into the seat and reaching for her seat belt. She was obviously used to being driven around, Kitty thought, as he opened the back door for her, and she ducked into the car mindful of not doing something dumb like bang her head. She smiled up at him. “Gracias.”

A flicker of amusement flashed across his craggy, clean-shaven features before he closed the door, and she felt her cheeks flame. He’s French, Kitty, you idiot, not Spanish! she told herself as she buckled in. Settling back in her seat, she decided that from now on her best course of action was not to speak unless spoken to. It was a shame because she had hundreds of questions she’d like to ask Simone about her mother and Midsummer Lovers, but she supposed they could wait until she got to Uzés.

The chauffeur got in and turning to Simone fired something off in French. It elicited both a tsking sound and an annoyed expression from her before he started the engine. He pulled away to navigate his way deftly out of the airport. Simone angled her head toward the back seat and Kitty leaned forward to hear what she had to say.

“We will have to take the scenic route because there has been an accident on the motorway and the traffic it is very bad. It is most annoying because it means I will have to ring Christian and tell him we will be delayed.” She pursed her lips. “Our schedule is very tight. He won’t be happy.” As she turned away to make the call, Kitty heard her make more of the tut-tutting sounds. She doubted the people involved in the accident were very happy either.

She kept her opinion to herself, though, offering up somewhat lamely. “Oh dear, that’s a shame.” Simone wasn’t listening, and Kitty looked out the window. She was secretly pleased with the turn of events in so much as the scenic route around Provence’s back roads sounded much more exciting than a featureless trip down a motorway.

She’d only ever been to France once before, and that was for a long weekend in Paris with Damien. It had not been long enough by far. She closed her eyes for a moment recalling how they had left their hotel room in the Latin Quarter to explore the famous area’s winding, cobbled lanes. Damien had set a pace that was far too fast for her liking. She had thought, as she paused to press her nose to the window of a patisserie, that surely Paris was a city in which to meander? The patisserie had the most gorgeous array of glossy baby fruit tarts, macarons, éclairs of all colours and flavours as well as other delectable treats that she had ever had the good fortune to lay her eyes upon. How she had wished she could bypass the young girls serving behind the counter and head straight through to the kitchen to watch the artisan bakers’ at work. Damien had pulled her away before she could get a foot in the door, though, eager to get to the Louvre and tick off another sight on his Paris in three days list.

She opened her eyes again; Simone had begun talking into her mobile, and as the car passed over a speed bump, Kitty felt an uncomfortable sensation. Oh bugger it, she should have gone to the loo while she had the chance. She glanced back over her shoulder at the airport terminal watching until it disappeared from view.

That would teach her for indulging in yet another cup of coffee followed up by a glass of pinot gris all before ten o’clock just because she could. It wasn’t every day she found herself on a business class flight to France. As she’d sipped on the fruity wine and stretched her legs out, she’d told herself she deserved it. What had happened to her in the last twenty-four hours was enough to drive any girl to drink. And she didn’t need much of a nudge when it came to a glass of vino at the best of times!

Now, she watched as the urban scenery of terracotta roof tiles gave way to leafy tree lined roads. The shades of green forming an arbour over the car were soft, almost as though they’d been brushed with silver. She sat forward in her seat eagerly as she spied the open fields beyond the trees. They were filled with sunflowers beginning to take a cautious peek at the world. The rolling hills in the background were smattered with medieval villages and she wished she had time to go and explore their charms. She wondered if her mother had passed down this road with her boyfriend all those years ago and looked out at the same views she was now soaking up. It was a scene that surely, apart from the tar sealing of the roads, would not have changed in the last few hundred years let alone fifty.

She glanced at Simone, toying with the idea of asking her for more information about the history of the photograph that had brought her here. Simone had put her phone away, but her head was now bent as she tapped away with urgent fingers at her iPad. Not wanting to interrupt her, Kitty settled back into her seat trying not to think about the fact that actually, she really did need to go to the loo. She crossed her legs. It was no small feat in the back of a Peugeot, and she jiggled her foot to distract herself, but as the car hit a pothole, she realized she had reached the point of no return.

“Um excuse me, Simone.” She leaned forward and tapped her on her shoulder.

“Oui.” Her tone was curt as she looked up from whatever it was she was doing and twisted round in her seat to see what Kitty wanted.

“Er, is there any chance we could stop at a restroom please?”

Simone’s expression was blank.

“Um, loo er, you know, toilet?” A bog, a crapper she mentally added, desperation making her crass.

“Er oui, toilette?”

Yes, wee, wee, wee! Kitty nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, toilette please.”

“Non, sorry.” Simone turned back to her iPad and began swiping at the screen again.

Kitty was having none of it and she tapped her on the shoulder again. “The thing is Simone I really, really need to go.”

She paused mid-swipe but didn’t bother to look around this time. “In France, Mademoiselle Kitty we do many things well. Amour oui, cuisine oui, histoire oui, public toilettes non.”

“But I won’t make it to Uzés. I have to go now!”

The desperation in her tone must have gotten through to Simone because she leaned across and said something unintelligible to the chauffeur before turning her attention to Kitty.

“I have asked Pierre to stop up there.” She waved her hand in front of her and Kitty peered through the gap in the seats. At the sight of the shops ahead, she found religion. “Thank you, Lord,” she whispered silently.

Pierre indicated left and pulled into the car park coming to a halt in front of a patisserie. A quick sweep of the block confirmed to Kitty that this was her best shot for a loo. The hairdressers at the end of the block was shut, and she didn’t rate her chances of the furniture shop having a public amenity. She flung the back door of the car open half expecting Simone to clap her hands and say. “Chop, chop we haven’t got all day.” She didn’t say a word, though, as Kitty knock-kneed headed in the direction of the patisserie. Pushing open the door she saw that there were no other customers in there. Her mind automatically registered that the glass-fronted cabinet held a delicious array of baguettes stuffed full of savoury goodies and cream filled cakes. She wondered what would happen to all that gorgeous food at the close of business which going by the ghost town outside wouldn’t be far off. Stop thinking about food, Kitty she admonished, arranging her features into a smile, and concentrate on the job at hand.

“Une toilette, merci?” she asked the woman behind the counter who was wielding a broom, hoping her pitiful attempt at French would soften her austere features. Her hair was stretched tightly back and knotted into an unflattering bun. Kitty knew she had read somewhere that the French appreciate tourists making an attempt at speaking their language.

“Non.” She didn’t stop in her sweeping shaking her head vigorously to emphasise her point.

Not one single hair on the woman’s head had moved out of place during this exchange much to Kitty’s fascination. Her panic, though, was making her feel nasty and she wanted to shout back at the women. “Oh go and eat some cake you skinny old cow.” But she didn’t fancy getting smacked with the broom, so instead, she bit back the retort and hobbled out of the shop.

Pierre was leaning against the car smoking, and Simone was still sitting in the passenger seat doing whatever it was she was doing on her iPad. It was no good, Kitty thought; she had to go. There was no way she could be bounced around in the back of that car for the duration of the trip to Uzés even if it were only half an hour up the road. Her eyes strayed over to the scrub filled lot beside the patisserie, and she made her mind up. There was nothing else for it; she’d just have to hope she could find a particularly leafy dandelion to hide behind.

Squatting down and knowing full well she was delusional if she thought she was hidden from view, the relief a split second later was immense. When she’d finally finished and done a little jiggle, she began the task of trying to pull her knickers and jeans back up without actually standing up. Her thigh muscles were getting the best workout of their lives. The job was almost done when she registered an intense burning sensation in the right cheek of her bottom. As her hand automatically flew around to pat the spot she almost lost her balance. “Calm down, Kitty,” she muttered, steadying herself. The sight of her rolling around on the ground with both her undergarments and jeans sailing at half-mast would not be a good one. Twisting her head back over her shoulder, she was just in time to spy a self-satisfied wasp buzzing toward a little mound on the ground. It was only a short distance from where she was crouched. She realized with some dismay that she’d just squatted beside a wasp nest, been stung for her effort and that it bloody well hurt!

With one last herculean effort, Kitty eased her pants up over her stinging cheek. As she stood up and glanced back at the little mound, she saw a cluster of the wasp’s humming little buddies emerging. The bastard had told them lunch was served she thought, charging back across the lot toward the car. She ignored the woman in the patisserie window who was busy wagging a finger at her and shouted at Pierre to get back in the car. She couldn’t see his expression as he ground his cigarette out, so intent was she on reaching the sanctity of the back seat. It was with huge relief that a moment later she flung the door open and threw herself into the seat. She slammed the door shut before she could be swarmed.

Simone turned to look at her and raising one eyebrow asked. “Better?”

And so it was that thirty minutes later Kitty arrived in the beautiful, historic town of Uzés with a rapidly swelling derriere and a dwindling sense of pride.

Chapter 8 (#ulink_13257b7d-d009-575d-8d13-c797cd2abcd1)

Marry a mountain girl and you marry the whole mountain – Irish Proverb

“I am Christian Beauvau,” a man with an impressive head of silver hair swept back from his face and knotted at the nape of his neck in a low ponytail said. He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. Dark glasses covered his eyes and he was sporting a dodgy tan. It made his teeth that were bared in a wolfish smile appear almost neon in their Hollywood whiteness. His suit, Kitty noticed, was white like Simone’s, but unlike hers, his had a tell-tale red wine stain on the lapel. The stain’s culprit was in the half drunk wine glass on the table he had gotten up from. It stood next to a little dish filled with olives and an empty bowl of mussel shells. To her surprise, he placed his beringed hands on either side of her face and studied her for a moment before exclaiming, “Tu es tres belle! You are beautiful just like your maman. It is such a treat for me to feast my eyes upon Rosa’s daughter at last.” His breath smelt garlicky, but it wasn’t unpleasant she thought, as he released her face and waved for her to sit down in the empty seat opposite him.

Thanking him for the effusive compliments, she sat down gingerly. She wished she’d had time to pick up some antihistamine cream. She’d spotted a pharmacy’s green cross blinking amongst the other shops on the shaded main road as they’d driven through the busy town. She hadn’t dared ask Simone to get Pierre to stop the car again, though, not after the wasp debacle and so had missed her chance. Instead, she’d sat with her nose pressed to the window and gazed at the crowded pavement cafés and pretty shop frontages sheltering beneath their red awnings. She’d tried to imagine her mother as a young girl wandering amongst them. All the while, she kept her hands tightly clasped as she resisted the urge to stick her hand down the back of her pants and scratch the sting. The sensation of which had recently moved from the burning pain phase into the intense itching stage.

Pierre had navigated his way expertly around the ring road surrounding the town before pulling in to park in the gravelled grounds of a Cathedral. Its spire, Kitty thought, resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa rearing up lopsidedly against the bright blue sky. As she got out and pushed the car door shut behind her, she spied an old woman sat on a cushion in the shade of the Cathedral’s grand entranceway. Kitty stared over at her with open curiosity. She was plump and swarthy with grey hair peeking out from under a headscarf. Her skirt was voluminous and black. It was bunched around a stout set of legs she’d crossed at the ankles. Kitty watched for a moment as a group clad in standard-issue cargo pants and comfortable walking shoes with cameras dangling from their necks – to reinforce the fact they were tourists – approached the entrance.

The Gypsy woman picked a bowl up from the ground next to where she was sitting and shook it at them. Kitty saw the spark of hope that had flared in her eyes at their approach die as they ignored her and disappeared inside the realms of the Cathedral. How very Christian of them, she thought, feeling a surge of anger. How dare they treat the poor woman as though she were invisible! She opened her handbag, rifling in it until she produced her purse. Unzipping it, she gazed at its contents in dismay. She’d not had time to change any money into Euro’s, and pound coins would be of no use to the Romany woman. She felt a tap on her shoulder; Pierre had gotten out of the car. She watched as he thrust his hand into his pants pocket to produce a few shiny coins that he held out for her.

“Merci.” Kitty grinned, getting it right this time.

He nodded and slid back behind the driver’s wheel beside Simone, who was finishing a phone call. Kitty strode over to where the woman was sitting and dropped the coins into her bowl; she was rewarded with a toothless grin. She smiled back at her and was about to turn away when something in the old woman’s nut brown eyes made her hesitate. She beckoned for Kitty to come down to her level. So, for the second time that day, Kitty found herself squatting down as she let her take hold of her hand.