To Provence, with Love

‘No, let’s start in 1956. That was the year I got my first part in a film.’ Miss Beech hesitated. ‘My first speaking part, that is. Just think, in 1956, I was only twenty-two.’ She looked across at Faye. ‘That’s even younger than you are now, my dear.’

‘Erm, Miss Beech, that’s another thing I was wondering. Are you happy for me to mention your true age? I know some ladies like to subtract a few years.’

Miss Beech smiled. ‘No, publish and be damned, Faye. Tell them the truth. I was born on 17th March 1934 on the outskirts of Plymouth, and I don’t care who knows it.’

‘So you’re from Devon?’

Miss Beech nodded. ‘That’s right, a West Country girl.’ She looked up. ‘Where were you born, Faye?’

‘Salisbury. That’s almost West Country, isn’t it?’

‘And your father, what did … does he do?’

‘He’s an architect.’ She smiled at Miss Beech. ‘Quite a good architect, actually.’

‘And you didn’t fancy following him into architecture?’

Faye shook her head. ‘I’ve always had this thing about language and the written word. And that’s why I’m here.’ She leant over and picked up the diary with 1956 engraved on the cover in faded gold paint that was peeling off the brown leather. Wiping the dusty little book against the leg of her shorts, she handed it across to Miss Beech. ‘Let’s see how many memories this unlocks.’

Together, they spent a fascinating morning, interrupted only by a volley of barking as a distant bell rang and the postman came and went, and regular visits from Claudette, bearing food and drink. By lunchtime they had barely got through the first of the diaries and a handful of photos, and Faye still hadn’t seen any of the pages of notes Miss Beech claimed to have made, but she had already accumulated a mine of information.

As the hours went by and Miss Beech still showed no inclination to talk about her childhood and early years, Faye decided that she wouldn’t press her at this stage, but would begin writing from 1956. The early years could be added as and when the old lady decided she wanted to talk about them. From time to time there had been a hint of her youth, but nothing of substance. Hopefully, that would emerge later on.

Towards the end of the session, they started talking about Faye herself. Miss Beech demonstrated that her memory was still very good. ‘So, what about Didier? Are you over him now?’

Faye looked up and gave it some thought before replying. ‘I think so, or at least I’m getting there. At first I was angry, then sad, and then furious again. Now I’m just glad it’s all over.’ As she spoke, she was still turning the question over in her mind. No, she couldn’t really say she was completely over Didier, but there was little doubt that here, in such different surroundings, she had barely thought about him for a good while. That had to be good news.

Miss Beech nodded approvingly. ‘We need the downs in this life to help us appreciate the ups, you know. However badly it hurts at the time, it’s all good experience and it’ll make you better able to appreciate it when the real thing comes along.’ She gave Faye an encouraging smile. ‘And it will. Love’s like that.’

‘Well, for now, apart from my dad, there’s only one love in my life and he’s lying on the kitchen floor, drying out.’ As she said it, an image of the man from the lavender farm flitted briefly across her mind, but she made short work of chasing it away. ‘I was just thinking yesterday that even if James Dean came walking in the door, I wouldn’t be in the slightest bit bothered.’

Miss Beech didn’t respond, but Faye could read a considerable amount of scepticism in her eyes.

***

When Faye went back to her flat at lunchtime, having successfully persuaded Claudette that she really couldn’t eat anything more after consuming no fewer than four gorgeous, still-warm biscuits in the course of the morning, she made herself a mug of coffee and settled down to write up her notes.

At around four o’clock, she noticed the sky outside beginning to brighten and by half past four the first rays of sun were peeking through the clouds. The rain had finally stopped and Faye knew what she wanted to do. She put on her clumpy old walking boots, grabbed a jacket, and went over to the kitchen to see if the dog was interested in a walk. No sooner had her hand landed on the lead hanging on the back of the door than Marlon was at her side, raring to go. She was just clipping it to his collar when the kitchen door opened and Eddie came in. He was moving very gingerly and Faye raised an eyebrow as she greeted him.

‘Hi, Eddie, feeling a bit sore today?’

He gave her a smile and a nod. ‘Hi, Faye. Yes, it’s this damp weather – it plays hell with my hip. So, are you taking our friend out for a walk?’

‘Yes, I need the exercise and I’m sure he’s happy to go out. Any suggestions where to go?’

‘Long walk, short walk?’

‘Longish, I think. Say, an hour or a bit more.’

Eddie glanced at his watch. ‘Well, if you want a longer walk, you can turn left out of the gate, walk up to the top of the hill, and then if you turn right just after the big olive grove, you’ll find yourself on the open garrigue. Follow the track and it’ll take you to the top of the hill. The views from up there should be fantastic after all the rain.’ He looked down at her feet approvingly. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve got a solid pair of boots. It’ll be a bit soggy up there.’ He grinned. ‘I gather from Claudette you lost a shoe yesterday.’

‘Claudette finally managed to get him to give it up with a bit of bribery.’

‘Here …’ Eddie reached for the biscuit tin. ‘Stick one of these in your pocket. Marlon can’t refuse them.’

‘He’s not the only one. I took one with me last night just in case, and I found myself nibbling it as I walked along.’ Faye wrapped the fresh biscuit in a tissue, wondering how long her willpower would last this time.

She followed Eddie’s instructions and headed up the hill. The olive trees as described by Eddie were unmistakable, their misshapen trunks often thicker than her waist. No doubt they were tens or, more probably, hundreds of years old. She turned off as instructed and soon they were splashing along a rough track that led in the direction of a scrappy clump of trees on the hilltop.