Chapter twenty-seven

O

n Monday morning Charlotte kissed Andy goodbye as he left for work, the big smile on both their faces testament to how the weekend had panned out. She stretched languorously as she headed upstairs to shower and dress. Andy had proved to be quite the romantic, suggesting they went to the cinema on Saturday evening to watch a romcom, Couples Retreat. A tale of four long-married couples who needed to re-invigorate their relationships, it had been both fun and thought-provoking. Charlotte had appreciated Andy’s willingness to see a film many men would have avoided. They had joked together in the bistro afterwards as they enjoyed a meal and a bottle of wine, arriving home in a relaxed and amorous mood.

Sunday had seen them touring the island by car, stopping off at the west coast beaches for bracing walks while the wind fashioned white caps on the waves. Wrapped up in warm jackets and scarves, they ran along the golden sands and peered into rock pools teeming with tiny life. Andy introduced Charlotte to the tucked away bays of the north-west, complete with small boats bobbing about on the swirling sea. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her along the sand and over rocks and by the time they arrived back at the car, their faces were flushed from both the exercise and sheer joie de vivre. Charlotte felt as if transported to another life – as if she had stepped out of her own skin and into someone else’s. Her heart thumped with exhilaration at the chance of a fresh start, and in such a beautiful place as Guernsey. And with this gorgeous man who kept smiling at her with his soft brown eyes.

The memories whirled in her brain as Charlotte readied herself for the day. Skipping about the bedroom to the sounds of Island FM on the radio, she slipped into jeans and sweater while wondering how best to spend the day. She decided to phone Jeanne and ask if she could call round to her house in Perelle, not far away.

Jeanne was happy to agree, suggesting late morning while Freya had a nap. Charlotte collected her research together before tidying the kitchen and bedroom. Some plumping of cushions on the sofa and the cottage looked neat and tidy. She had watched and learnt from Louisa over the past few weeks, picking up the basics of housework. It had never been an issue previously, as she had never considered not having cleaners and housekeepers. In the long-term she knew she would not want to be without at least a cleaner, but was happy to manage for a little while. Perhaps it was time to let go the “daughter of the manor” persona. Not completely convinced, she closed the front door.

Charlotte had not been to Jeanne’s before and kept an eye out for the lane off Route De La Perelle. A hundred yards along on the left and she pulled into the drive of Le Petit Chêne, a double fronted cottage to the side of which she spotted an old-fashioned orchard. Sniffing the air, Charlotte was assailed by the invigorating scent of the sea, and thought how wonderful it must be to live yards from the beach. She knocked softly and Jeanne appeared within seconds.

‘Charlotte! Great to see you again. Please come in.’

Jeanne’s blue eyes sparkled and her long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, giving her the appearance of a teenager rather than the thirty-five-year-old Charlotte knew her to be. Marriage and babies obviously suited her. Jeanne led the way into the kitchen, asking if she would like tea or coffee.

‘Coffee, please. What a lovely room, Jeanne. And so homely, with a clever mix of old and new,’ she said gazing around at the butter-cream painted units, old pine table and enormous dresser displaying blue and white china. ‘This was your grandmother’s cottage, I believe, yes? And Andy said you renovated it yourself. I’m impressed!’

Jeanne laughed. ‘With the aid of a great team of builders! I chose everything, though, and did some of the decorating. Nick came into my life about then and when we got together he made loads of stuff,’ she said, pouring hot water into a cafetière. ‘Let’s go into the sitting room, we can relax on the sofa.’

Charlotte followed her across the hall into a bright, warm room with chairs and sofas nestled around a log-burning fire in the inglenook fireplace. Bright rugs covered the oak floor. Jeanne placed the tray on a low table and Charlotte sat down, sinking into feather-cushioned softness. Once Jeanne had poured the coffee she joined her on the sofa.

‘Well, this is nice. I don’t often get anyone popping in these days, people think I’ll either be walking around like a zombie or trying to soothe a screaming baby,’ Jeanne said, passing her a mug.

‘I must say you look wonderful and not at all like a zombie! Freya must be about two months old now, is she sleeping through the night?’

‘Yes, for the past couple of weeks. Bliss! And she’s so good during the day, a little angel. I’ve been very lucky,’ Jeanne said, curling her feet under her legs. ‘How are things with you? A little bird told me you and Andy were an item. Is it true?’

Charlotte admitted it was and told Jeanne she was staying with him until she returned to England in two weeks. And she might be back after catching up with her business. Jeanne said she hoped to see her return and they went on to discuss the research. Charlotte handed over copies of her notes and conclusions together with Madeleine’s diary.

‘Thanks. I plan to start my book soon so this is a godsend. What about yours? Have you been inspired to get back to it?’

‘Yes I have and with nothing else to distract me, I can use the next two weeks to write.’ They went on to discuss the writing process and Jeanne shared what worked for her. Charlotte lapped up the chance to talk to a fellow writer. Their conversation was finally brought to a halt by a thin wail emanating from the baby monitor in the kitchen. Jeanne leapt up, saying she would be right back.

The cry became a gurgle and Charlotte heard Jeanne soothing her daughter before she returned downstairs.

‘Here she is, Charlotte, I don’t think you two have met. May I introduce Miss Freya Mauger.’

Deep blue eyes surveyed her from under a mop of dark hair and Charlotte smiled, reaching out her finger which was promptly grabbed in the tiny fist. Freya smiled and she was smitten.

‘Isn’t she adorable? I haven’t had much experience of babies, but would love to hold her if she’d let me.’

Jeanne laughed. ‘Only for a moment as she’s anxious for her feed. Here, as long as you support her head she’ll be fine.’ She handed over the baby, wearing a miniature-sized top over leggings, and Charlotte held her like she would a precious antique, with ultimate care. Freya wriggled in her arms, bringing her head up level with Charlotte’s. She watched a big toothless smile appear before a fist reached out to grab her hair. ‘Ouch!’ she cried, gently releasing the tiny fingers.

‘That’s why I keep my hair tied back most of the time,’ Jeanne said, with a grin. ‘She’s just started to smile so you’re honoured to receive one.’

Freya’s face crumpled and she let out a piteous cry, prompting Jeanne to take her back.

‘Time for her feed. You don’t mind do you, but I’m breastfeeding.’

‘Absolutely not. Unless you’d rather I left?’

‘Don’t be silly. Let me get comfortable and we can carry on chatting.’ Jeanne settled into an armchair and Freya must have realised lunch was on the way as she stopped crying and nuzzled into her mother. Once she was feeding happily, Jeanne continued their earlier conversation, all the while stroking Freya’s downy hair. Charlotte was mesmerised by the baby and when Jeanne turned her round to feed off the other breast, caught a glimpse of a contented smile. Although immersed in their tête-à-tête, a part of her mind was diverted once more by the idea of what it would be like to have her own child. Could it be possible? With she and Andy becoming closer, it might. Her worry about not having maternal instincts began to recede as, touching and holding baby Freya had tugged at something in her psyche. And heart.

Her inner soul-searching was brought to a halt when Jeanne unplugged Freya from her breast and lifted her onto her shoulder to rub her back. Charlotte, glancing at the clock, realised she had been there for nearly two hours and it was time to leave the little family in peace.

Standing up, she said, ‘Thanks for the coffee and chat, but I must be going.’

‘It was lovely to see you and you must pop round again. Freya seems to have taken a shine to you,’ Jeanne said, getting out of the chair. As they reached Charlotte’s side, the baby’s head swivelled round and she smiled and gurgled. The women hugged and Charlotte dropped a kiss on Freya’s head as she said goodbye.

Once in the car, she waved at a smiling mother and daughter before turning round and heading back to the main road and home. She fizzed with excitement at the thought of actually starting her book, revved up by Jeanne’s genuine support. In her head Charlotte started mapping out the initial chapters, now clear about the starting point of the novel. Part of her was not yet convinced her writing would be any good, but Jeanne had pointed out it was normal for even successful authors to write several drafts before they were happy. But intruding into these plans was the image of a baby girl with big blue eyes and an infectious smile. Did Andy want children? She had no idea. It would be safer to concentrate on her writing.

The first time Charlotte sat down and typed “Chapter One”, she froze. It was if all the words had deserted her. Then, slowly they came back and, whether it was rubbish or not, she continued typing more freely. The next few days passed in a pleasant routine of writing interspersed with an occasional walk or drive to clear her head. Andy remained the chef but Charlotte helped with preparation and shopping. She dug around in his collection of cookery books and found one for beginners by Delia Smith and began to read it secretly, wanting to surprise Andy with a meal when she felt more confident – and competent. She started with the proverbial boiled egg for lunch one day and soon progressed to a cheese omelette, which, although not by any means looking like the ones she had been served in restaurants, tasted fine.

The evenings were spent cosying up on the sofa after supper, listening to music or watching television. Fortunately they shared similar tastes in both: listening to a mix of classical pop artists like the Stones and Queen and younger stars like Amy Winehouse and Coldplay and watching dramas and comedy. It was fun exploring each other’s interests and tastes and Charlotte began to feel as if she had known Andy for far longer than the actual six weeks it had been. She attributed the improved, easy flow of her writing to the effect of being in a loving relationship and hoped it would continue. Not just the writing, but the wonderful closeness with Andy; something she had never experienced with Richard.

On Friday morning, as Andy was leaving for work, Charlotte announced she would be cooking dinner that evening.

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Wow! You mean actual cooking, not a bring-to-life in the microwave affair?’ he said, grinning.

‘Yes real cooking, if you don’t mind. I’ve been reading a how to book and think I can manage to cook a simple meal now,’ she said, suddenly not so sure of herself.

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine and I look forward to this evening. But don’t stress about it as we can always go out if necessary,’ he said, giving her a kiss.

Once Andy had left she pulled out her faithful Delia. Although Charlotte had thought it would be complicated, she realised an easy option would be roast chicken, requiring little input from the cook once it was in the oven. Delia had made it sound simple and, to be sure, Charlotte phoned La Folie’s chef, Chris.

Initially they discussed his latest book, which he was about to send for editing. Then she mentioned her desire to cook a meal and, once he was over the shock, he confirmed her choice was a good one and suggested she bought a ready-stuffed, basted chicken to make it easier. And a ready-made gravy. Heartened by this advice, she completed her shopping list and set off for the M&S Food Hall in St Martins.

After her groceries were packed away, Charlotte settled back to her writing, losing herself in the story as it appeared as if by magic on her laptop screen. Such a contrast to how it had been a few months ago. She took a brief break for lunch, a homemade tuna salad, and continued tapping away through the afternoon until, with a shock, she realised Andy would be home in little more than an hour. Within twenty minutes the chicken was in the oven and the potatoes were ready to follow shortly. She had bought ready prepared vegetables to save time and was planning to steam them later. Pleased with her efforts, she opened a bottle of wine ready to greet Andy on his return. It was the weekend and they could relax.

He arrived minutes later, sniffing the air as he entered the hall.

‘Something smells good. All under control?’ he asked, pulling her into his arms. She let her head fall onto his chest, her hands settling on his lower back. Andy seemed to enjoy it.

‘Of course,’ she replied at last. ‘Dinner will be served in about thirty minutes and the kitchen’s out of bounds till then. You’ll find wine and glasses in the sitting room and I’ll be with you in a minute.’ A quick check all was well and Charlotte joined him on the sofa. Andy had poured two glasses of wine and raised his saying, ‘To your first meal!’ She laughed and touched glasses before taking a well-deserved sip.

‘Lovely. How was your day?’ she asked, curled up beside him.

His face clouded. ‘That no-good cousin of mine has really done it this time. He’d only been out of prison for a few days after the last punch up, when he got high on booze and drugs and got into a fight with a guy a lot smaller than him. Upshot was, the other man ended up seriously hurt and is in hospital with a fractured skull and smashed up face. He might even lose the sight in one eye,’ he said, sighing.

‘Oh, how awful! The poor man! And what about Dave? What’s happening to him?’

‘He was arrested and charged with GBH and has been sent to Les Nicolles, our local prison, for two years. In the past he’s got away with heavy fines or a few weeks banged up. It makes me embarrassed to be a Batiste.’

‘It’s not your fault, Andy. Perhaps it’s a good thing your side of the family is not accepted by Harold’s side, means you can remain distant to what happens with them.’ She thought back to her meeting with Maud. ‘I bet his grandmother will be upset. Despite her being married to Harold, she came across as quite a decent old lady. What’s his mother like?’

‘Cath? I don’t know her that well. I occasionally see her out shopping and we nod, but don’t speak. Looks like someone beaten down by life, in spite of being fairly well off. I understand Harold settled something on her when Uncle Gregory died. Explains why Dave’s turned out as he has. His mother bails him out when he’s in trouble and he still lives at home – at twenty-nine!’ He shook his head in disbelief.

‘Cheer up, don’t let it stop us enjoying ourselves. I’ll finish the cooking and will give you a shout when it’s ready,’ she said, dropping a kiss on his head as she stood up. Taking her glass with her she disappeared in to the kitchen. The vegetables were arranged in the steamer and the chicken taken out to rest. All looked – and smelled – good, and Charlotte sipped her wine while wondering how to carve a chicken. Thinking it might be a man’s job, she asked Andy if he would mind doing it while she served up the accompaniments.

‘This looks wonderful. And you’ve done it all yourself? I’m impressed,’ he said, grabbing the carving knife and fork. Minutes later the food was set out on the dining table and Charlotte beamed with pleasure, her face flushed from the heat of the kitchen. She held her breath as Andy took his first bite.

‘Delicious!’ he cried, leaning over to kiss her. ‘For someone who’d never even boiled an egg, you’ve cooked a great meal. My first attempt was spag bol, and I used a ready-made sauce.’

Her face grew hotter as she basked in his praise, sending silent thanks to Chef Chris for his useful advice. Perhaps this cooking lark was not as difficult as she had imagined – although this early success wasn’t likely to induce her to spend too many hours in the kitchen. She much preferred to write now it was flowing at last.

Later, as they sat together on the sofa, Andy said, ‘Work was good today. Not only did I finally win the planners round about the old farm redevelopment which has been dragging on, but I also managed to convince them my design for a big house extension’s in keeping with the area. They’re such dinosaurs! It’s taken months to get permission even for the extension and I was worried my client would go elsewhere. Still,’ he said, kissing her nose, ‘it’s sorted now and he’s over the moon.’

‘Well done, so we have something else to celebrate. To your extension!’ she said, giggling.

He wasn’t able to resist her deep laugh and it wasn’t long before they were rolling about on the sofa in helpless laughter, having placed the glasses out of harm’s way. Charlotte was pleased they could forget about his family problems for a while, knowing Andy was still upset with Jim over his reluctance to explain why he hadn’t claimed his inheritance.

After a lazy day on Saturday, Charlotte and Andy joined Malcolm, Gillian, Louisa and Paul at Le Fregate as Malcolm’s dinner guests. Gillian had phoned during the week to invite them and Charlotte was delighted to accept as part of an acknowledged couple. The conversation and wine flowed freely and, together with excellent food, made for an enjoyable evening. It looked to her as if Gillian and Malcolm were as loved up as ever and wondered how long it would be before he popped the question. Which would mean Gillian facing the same choices as she was over Andy. Life was never simple, she thought, as they said their goodbyes.

Andy was keen to go for a long cliff walk on Sunday and they started out from Petit Bôt Bay planning to walk to Jerbourg before having lunch at L’Auberge restaurant, a few metres inland. He had said he wanted to show her something after lunch. Charlotte was intrigued and when she asked what it was about, he refused to say. As they walked along the exposed cliff tops a strong, chill wind buffeted them, trying to force its way through the layers of jackets, sweaters and scarves. Once around Icart Point and dropping towards Saint’s Bay they enjoyed much needed shelter until they hit Moulin Huet Bay when again they did battle with the wind. It was only when they reached the wooded valley did it became still and they stopped for a break, looking down at the bay with its sprinkling of rocks. The tide was out, exposing a patch of golden sand.

‘Pretty, isn’t it? Louisa and I walked along here in the spring but I haven’t been around in the summer to see it at its best.’

Andy cupped her face in his hands. ‘I hope you’ll be here next summer, and the next and the next…’ he said, dropping kisses on her lips, cheeks and forehead. She let out a long breath.

‘It’s what I hope too,’ she murmured, licking off the salt from his kisses.

‘Good, and in the meantime we’ve still nearly a week to enjoy together. And I, for one, mean to enjoy every moment I can. Are you ready to press on? My stomach’s telling me it’s lunchtime,’ he said, accompanied by an audible rumble.

‘Let’s go.’

The walk up and along the cliffs overlooking Moulin Huet was hard work, but rewarded by the views back along the coast to Saint’s Bay and Icart. As they stood for a moment to catch their breath, Charlotte said, ‘I can understand what attracted Renoir to this bay. It’s got craggy rocks of all shapes and sizes and lovely stretches of golden sand. No wonder he painted it so much!’ She spotted a distinctive crocodile shape of rocks seeming to swim out to sea. Pointing, she asked, ‘Do those rocks have a name?’

He followed the line of her finger. ‘Yes, the Pea Stacks, although I’ve no idea how they got it. There’s so many rocks around here, making it pretty treacherous for boats. You have to keep your distance when sailing round from Jerbourg. Dad sometimes fishes here but he knows the waters like the back of his hand. Come on,’ he said, grabbing her hand, ‘you can have a good look on the way back. I’m hungry!’

Andy led the way from the cliff path, heading inland towards, among other places, L’Auberge restaurant on the other side of La Route de Jerbourg. Charlotte was glad of the chance to refuel and rest. Her legs ached and they still had to walk back to the car at Petit Bôt. With a grateful sigh she slid into a chair, her eyes drawn to the outline of Herm, partly hidden in cloud.

‘I’ve been to Jerbourg before, with Louisa, and we thought the views were fantastic. It was such a clear, sunny day we even saw Jersey.’

‘Yep, it’s one of the best spots for island watching. When we’ve finished our meal we’ll walk down to the Point,’ Andy said, picking up the menu.

‘Sure, anything, as long as I can rest my legs for a while,’ she said, smiling at him.

Forty-five minutes later, after a filling Sunday roast and a glass of wine, they headed outside, walking along the narrow road past the Jerbourg Hotel and through the car park. Andy caught her hand and walked carefully towards the edge of the small bay, stopping above a natural finger-shaped causeway pointing out to sea. A white squat building perched at its tip. Some kind of lighthouse, she guessed.

Andy flung out his arm. ‘Here’s where it happened. Where my grandfather was killed.’