The next week at the campsite sped past as Belinda got to grips with a mountain of things. One of the first things she did, unbeknown to Alain, was to save everything on the office computer to a memory stick and download it onto her laptop. That way, there were no arguments when Alain wanted to work on the computer. It also had the added benefit too that she could work from the comfort of her own room at the auberge of an evening before wandering downstairs to enjoy a nightcap with Fern.
The amount of work that needed organising threatened to overwhelm her a few times, there was so much. Her to-do list was endless: organise five or six local women to clean the cabins, the café and the manager’s house; a team of men to pressure-wash the shower and toilet blocks before painting. Alain took over the job of organising the outdoor teams of workers, leaving Belinda to deal with the teams working inside. In addition, there was the website to bring up to date, pods for the glamping area to source, lots of new equipment to order, not to mention finding staff for the season.
A routine established itself over the course of that week and the days continued to fly by. Every morning, she left the auberge just before eight o’clock, stopped in the village for a couple of croissants and a salad baguette for her lunch. Fern had lent her a cafetière and she’d stocked up on ground coffee from the village shop, instant coffee being one of her personal bêtes noires. By the time Alain strolled in at about ten past eight the coffee was ready. Over a quick coffee and croissant, they caught each other up on how things were progressing and what their individual plans were for the day. At midday Alain disappeared for lunch, leaving Belinda to eat her baguette and deal with her emails. The afternoons followed a similar pattern with them both concentrating on their allotted tasks. Belinda shut down her laptop around four thirty most days, said goodbye to Alain and made her way back to the auberge.
Although there was so much to do, the campsite was definitely beginning to respond to all of the noisy cutting down, pruning back and mowing work that had happened over the last few days.
One lunchtime after everyone including Alain had disappeared for an hour or two, Belinda decided to eat outside in the sunshine. The only noise she heard as she made her way along the path towards the river was the tweeting of various birds. Belinda recognised the call of a blackbird, pigeons cooing away in the tall pines and a chaffinch singing perched amongst the burgeoning branches of an oak tree before hearing a noise that stopped her in her tracks. The whrrr-tapping sound of a nearby woodpecker. A sound she hadn’t heard in years. A sound that took her right back to her childhood home, where it had been a noise that was taken for granted in the background of life.
A picture of the old stone mas that had been home for so long floated, unbidden, into her mind as she walked. A simple two-storey building, it hadn’t been a prestigious place, shambolic described it better. A shelter built long ago by a Breton farmer to house various animals and his family. Down the years, it had been enlarged and converted in a haphazard manner, the cows moved into a separate shelter and their previous accommodation had become the kitchen of the house. Belinda smiled, remembering how her father had done the final conversion and turned the old milking parlour at the back of the house into her bedroom. She’d loved that room, with its view out over the countryside and the field shelter for Lucky.
Lucky. That had been the hardest part of that awful day when her life had fallen apart. Knowing she was leaving the pony. Inconsolable, she’d cried for hours until her mother snapped at her. ‘For God’s sake, Belinda, shut up. I feel like crying too, but it won’t solve anything. Lucky will go to a good home. Your dad will make sure of that.’
Belinda did stop crying eventually, but only because she didn’t have any tears left to spill. Years later, she’d realised her difficult relationship with her mother had started its downward spiral that day with her lack of empathy over leaving Lucky. It was a breach of the mother–daughter bond that had never completely healed. Jean’s refusal to allow Belinda to even mention, let alone contact, her father ensured the fracture remained. Belinda was convinced her mother’s barely audible last words, ‘I’m so sorry’ and the deathbed promise to ‘Go and lay the ghosts’ she’d been coerced into making had been her mother’s final plea for forgiveness.
Belinda came out of her reverie with a start as BB gave a short sharp bark before racing off, heading for the cabin where Bernie lived. She hadn’t had a chance to question Alain about Bernie, they’d both been so busy. Perhaps this was her chance to get to know him. As she hurried to catch BB up, she saw a man weeding the small patch of garden that surrounded the cabin. The ginger cat was curled up fast asleep in the basket of the bicycle that was propped once again against the fence.
‘Bonjour,’ she said when she reached the man and held out her hand. ‘I’m Belinda Marshall. I was hoping to see Bernie.’
The man patted BB before he straightened up and shook her hand.
‘Demat. Bernie.’ He prodded his chest with a finger.
The two words caught Belinda by surprise. Not so much the word demat, which was the Breton word for hello and one of the few words she remembered in her very limited Breton vocabulary. The real surprise was the man himself. For some reason, she’d been expecting Bernie to be in his teens or early twenties maybe. This man had to be in his late thirties or even possibly early forties.
‘You’re Bernie?’ she said, looking at him. ‘Do you speak French or English?’
He smiled and shook his head before saying something rapidly in Breton.
Belinda frantically tried to remember the few words of Breton her grandmother had taught her so long ago. She knew a lot of the older generation still railed against the use of French and tried to stop what they regarded as their true language from dying out. She suspected Bernie had been force-fed the old language from an early age.
She smiled at him and raised her hands in defeat. ‘Desolé.’ A conversation was obviously not an option. Not knowing what else to do or say, she waved her right hand in farewell before saying, ‘Bye-bye, à demain,’ trusting that he would know and understand the phrase, and calling BB to heel, Belinda walked on down the path.
Five minutes later, sitting on the bench overlooking the river, she took a bite of her baguette and thought about Bernie. When Alain had told her Bernie’s father had thrown him out, she’d immediately thought of a troublesome teenager, not a full-grown man. Bernie gave her the impression of being a gentle soul who liked a simple life. The fact he only understood Breton though must be a problem for him. Not many people these days spoke the old language, so meeting people and making friends must be difficult. And what was she going to do about him living in the cabin? Having met the man, she felt sorry for him and disinclined to move him on, although that would be the sensible course of action. If he remained, would it upset people? What would holidaymakers think of him when he didn’t reply to them? She’d talk to Alain again about Bernie before she spoke to Nigel to explain the situation and ask what he wanted her to do.
Belinda watched as a trio of ducks performed a fly-past before settling on the river. She sighed. It really was a beautiful spot. There was even a small sandy beach further along. It was easy to imagine families enjoying holidays on the campsite when it was fully operational again. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was in Brittany, she might even be tempted herself.
Pulling a small piece of ham out of the baguette, she gave it to BB before finishing the rest and getting to her feet. ‘Cup of coffee back at the office for me, water for you, and then it’s work again.’
There was no sign of Bernie as they walked back past the cabin and the bike had gone too.
Once she’d made her coffee, Belinda sat down and emailed Nigel and Molly with an update of the progress so far and querying the delivery for the new equipment Nigel was sending over from England. She also asked whether a decision had been made about running or leasing out the café. There was a lot of work to be done to get it up to the necessary hygiene requirements, but some of the expense of buying new catering equipment could be passed on to a tenant if they leased it out.
Around mid-afternoon she went across to the manager’s house to see how the team she’d organised to clean it were getting on. They’d started on the bedrooms and the bathroom that morning and everything upstairs was sparkling. Now they were working their magic downstairs. The sitting room and the small sunroom looked far more inviting than when she’d first seen it. In the kitchen, the loose covers from the small settee were whirling around in the washing machine, whilst the vigorous use of steel wool on the oven was getting rid of seasons of grease.
Thanking everyone for their hard work, Belinda returned to the office, deep in thought. A few more days and she’d be able to leave the auberge and move into the house. Leaving Fern and the auberge would be a real wrench though. The two of them had become firm friends and Belinda worried about leaving her alone. The campsite house would be basic accommodation, nowhere near as comfortable as the auberge, but living on site had always been the intention. At least there was a usable bathroom and the kitchen was adequate for her needs. Belinda sighed. She’d talk to Fern tonight about moving out and also insist that they went out for lunch one Sunday, her treat. Maybe they could meet up at least once a week while she was in France.
Alain was in the office when she pushed open the door, staring intently at the computer and muttering under his breath. Belinda hesitated, before moving to his side. Relations between them had been less strained recently but she was still wary of upsetting him and opening herself up to more rude comments.
‘Problem?’ she asked.
‘For me, not you,’ Alain answered, closing the email programme he had open on the screen. ‘I ’ave to deal with something this weekend in the UK. I’ll see you Monday morning peut-être.’ He picked up his jacket from the chair, looked at her, went to say something, changed his mind and walked out.
Belinda stared after him. What the hell? He couldn’t just walk away with no explanation, even if it was a personal matter. Maybe she could have helped, if only he’d told her. Belinda took a deep breath. Over the past week or two she’d realised that Alain Salvin didn’t confide in people or ask for help. But it was that ‘perhaps’ at the end of his last sentence that stayed in her mind and worried her.
Back at the auberge that evening while they ate dinner, Belinda told Fern she’d be moving out – probably at the end of the next week.
‘The cleaners have worked really hard on the manager’s house and I always intended to live on site as soon as possible. Just waiting for the bedding and other stuff from Nigel to arrive.’
Fern’s face fell. ‘I’m going to miss you.’
‘Not half as much as I’m going to miss you and your delicious food,’ Belinda said. ‘I’m only up the road, a nice afternoon walk for Lady. Once I’m settled in, I’ll make you cheese on toast one evening.’ She finished the last mouthful of rich chocolate mousse that Fern had made and replaced her spoon. ‘That was delicious.’ She glanced at Fern, who was still looking downcast. ‘Cheer up. The tourists will be arriving soon and you’ll be buzzing. I’ve got Sunday off and thought we could go out for lunch? My treat. You’ll know the best place to go. Book a table and we’ll be ladies who lunch, okay?’ Belinda smiled when Fern nodded her agreement. If only there was something tangible she could do to help ease the lingering grief in her friend’s life.