2009 – January – Guernsey
‘Can you tell us, Mr Roget, what made you decide to open La Folie Natural Health Centre? Was it something you’d always wanted to do?’ The obviously pregnant reporter held a microphone to his face, her hazel eyes focused on his.
Malcolm had expected the question and carefully considered his answer. It would be almost the truth, he told himself.
‘I’ve long held an interest in the natural approach to health and healing as practised in the East. I spent some time in India and that’s where I met up with my manager, Paul England. He provided the inspiration for a centre and I provided the wherewithal and background experience.’
‘Thank you. I understand that you used to be in the hotel business. Is that where you gained your experience?’ She smiled at him as if it were just the two of them enjoying a cosy chat, rather than an island’s worth of TV viewers watching and listening.
‘Yes, I ran a small chain of hotels in Canada and I flatter myself I know what comfort and service guests require. Although La Folie is not a hotel, the principle is the same.’ He waved his arms around the entrance hall where a discreet desk acted as reception, manned by an attractive young woman in a white uniform. ‘I leave the therapy side of things to the experts, headed by Paul.’
Malcolm noticed the reporter – now, what was her name again? – ah, Nicole Tostevin, that was it, shift uncomfortably on her feet and invited her to sit down. Moving over to a pair of elegant armchairs by the desk, she flashed him a grateful smile.
‘Thank you. I understand that you have a connection to Guernsey, Mr Roget. It’s rumoured that the body that was found in the grounds a few months ago was that of your father, who once owned this house. Is that true?’
He kept his expression neutral, aware of the camera focusing on him.
‘You know how it is with rumours! My mother was originally from Guernsey and that’s the only connection I have. She told me stories about it when I was a lad and I promised to bring her back one day.’ Sadness clutched at his heart as he remembered that time. His mother, worn out from building up her hotel business, had taken to her bed with what everyone thought was exhaustion, but proved to be a malicious form of cancer. In an effort to cheer her up he’d said that as soon as she was well enough to travel, they’d fly to Guernsey and stay in the best hotel the island possessed. Betty’s face had lit up and for a few moments they were swept away by their plans. But days later she was dead.
‘Mr Roget? Are you all right?’
Malcolm shook himself and forced a smile, the smile of the consummate businessman.
‘Yes, I’m sorry. My mother died, you see, and never did return. So it was with mixed feelings that I considered coming here myself. But,’ he waved his arm around the wood panelled hall, ‘I’m very glad I did. And I have high hopes that the centre will be a great success.’
Nicole gave him a sympathetic look.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your mother. I’m sure she would have been very impressed with what you’re doing here, Mr Roget. As is everyone I’ve spoken to. So, you have no knowledge of the man whose body was found?’ Mm. I’ll give Nicole her due, she doesn’t give up easily! But I can’t tell her the truth, not yet. Not until…
He shook his head, warding off further questions by suggesting that he gave her the grand tour of La Folie and Nicole signalled the cameraman to follow them. By the time they had peered into lavish bedrooms, immaculate therapy rooms and the cosy dining room, Malcolm hoped that the subject of the body could be dropped. He liked the young woman, who seemed particularly keen to see what work had been done on the old place. It wasn’t until they were standing in the garden and she dismissed the cameraman, that he found out why she was so interested.
‘I have a confession to make, Mr Roget. My mother and I inherited this house from my grandmother in 2007. She and her husband bought it from the States of Guernsey after the war. So I certainly do have a connection to it!’
‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that!’ He thought back to the negotiations to buy the house. He remembered that two women were involved but hadn’t registered the name of Tostevin.
She must have seen his puzzled look as she went on, ‘I wasn’t married then so I signed under my previous name of Oxford. My mother’s called Mrs Bourgaize and my grandmother was Mrs Ferbrache. It gets a bit complicated!’ She gave him a hesitant smile.
‘I see. How interesting. So it was your grandparents who tidied up the place and started a growing business after the war?’ He buzzed with excitement as Nicole told him what she knew of her family’s involvement in La Folie. They continued talking as Nicole led the way around the garden, explaining how much her grandmother had loved it. Malcolm had thought it perfect too, and only let his gardener carry out the minimum of remedial work. Although little was in flower in the winter, the garden was full of the muted colours of green hedging and shrubs, with white hellebores peeping out alongside snowdrops and a few early crocuses. And of course, there was the sea, spread out beyond the hedges and the cliff path. His mother hadn’t been one for gardens, but she had loved the sea, telling him how much she missed the view from La Folie.
As they retraced their steps toward the house, Malcolm laughed.
‘What’s so funny, Mr Roget?’ Nicole asked, her hand resting lightly on her stomach.
‘Please, call me Malcolm. It’s occurred to me that you must be a very wealthy young woman, if this was your inheritance. So you don’t need to work!’ He smiled at her.
‘You’re right. Thanks to my grandmother’s generosity I’m financially secure. My husband Ben’s a doctor and we both keep pretty busy. I love my work and didn’t want to give it up. But now…’ she patted her bump and smiled.
‘When’s the baby due?’
‘In April, in the spring. I can’t wait!’
He nodded. ‘Well, take it easy, my dear. And if you’d like a massage or some other pampering, please be my guest. It’s the least I can do for a former owner!’
Nicole smiled. ‘Thank you. I could always report on my experience in my programme and gain you more guests.’
‘Now that is a good idea! By the way, I'm late registering with a doctor, would your husband take me on?’
Nicole said he would be happy to, explaining that he had been her grandmother’s GP. Malcolm noted his contact details before saying, ‘Now, I must introduce you to La Folie’s manager, Paul. Without him, this centre would not exist…’
He was glad of this opportunity to earn good publicity for the centre. The digging up of his father’s body had created a flurry of prurient prying, but Inspector Ferguson had managed to keep the identity secret. The police agreed that it was better not to alert Archie Blake, assuming he was still alive. And having invested millions in the project, Malcolm wanted it to be a success, untarnished by stories of murder. It wasn’t for the money. He was financially secure, but the idea of failure was anathema to him. Something he’d learnt from his mother. He had to succeed – for her sake, not his.
Once the TV crew had left Malcolm was able to relax and decided to ask Paul to join him for a beer. As he waited for him to finish talking to one of the therapists, Malcolm recalled how they had first met. Not a propitious occasion.
‘What a load of old codswallop! I can’t believe people pay good money to hear such rubbish,’ Malcolm muttered to his neighbour in the meditation group. The young man turned round, looking surprised.
‘Oh! So why are you here if you think it’s rubbish?’ he asked, his blue eyes boring into his.
Malcolm shifted in his seat. ‘I was talked into it by a friend who persuaded me it would do me good. But I can close my eyes and picture a flower without paying out good money for the privilege. Thought TM was more than that – supposed to be transcendental isn’t it? I don’t feel any different!’ He stood up, disliking the pungent scent of incense clinging to the saffron-robed followers of the guru seated on the dais. The bearded man, for one, looked beatific. And so he should, charging so much for nothing!
The young man smiled. ‘Well, it does take time, you know. Took me weeks to really let go when I started. This your first time?’
‘Yes, and my last! I don’t wish to be rude, but I’d like to go and get a drink. Could do with a whisky.’ Malcolm moved towards the door, wanting to leave the ashram and head back to his hotel, but the man stayed by his side.
‘You’re not staying in the ashram?’
‘No, I bought a daily pass so I wouldn’t be stuck here with a load of weird…’ He stopped, and then continued, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that–’
The man laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I used to think that people who came here were weird too! But I assure you, they’re not. Or at least most of them aren’t! Look, I don’t have any classes for a while, how about if I take you to a great place for a drink? My name’s Paul England, by the way.’ He held out his hand and Malcolm shook it, giving his own name and deciding that he hadn’t anything to lose by joining him. Paul certainly looked normal; tall, slim with blue eyes and blonde hair, he could pass for Nordic but for his name and voice.
Moments later they sat outside in a whitewashed bar overflowing with tubs of olive trees and exotic flowers Malcolm did not recognise. The aroma of spices and fragrant flowers made a confusing mixture and Malcolm felt light-headed. The heat didn’t help, either. Paul ordered a whisky on the rocks for Malcolm and a beer for himself.
‘So, what brought you to Mumbai? Not the ashrams, I’m sure!’ Paul said, grinning.
‘No, you’re right. I had some business to attend to and one evening got into a conversation with a fellow guest in the hotel. I happened to mention that my doc had told me to slow down, that my blood pressure was way too high. And this guy told me how he’d spent time at the ashram and how much good it did him. Had to admit he did look pretty good for his age. I’d put him at about sixty but he was seventy-five; a few years older than me.’ Malcolm sipped his whisky. ‘Gave me a shock and made me think I should try it, too. But, as you gathered, I wasn’t much impressed.’ He took another sip.
Paul laughed. ‘So I noticed! But there’s a lot more to it than one hour of TM, Malcolm. I’ve been involved in yoga and meditation for years and, believe me, it does work. But you have to be patient and not give up after the first attempt. Let me explain…’
He went on to give Malcolm a potted over-view of Eastern medicine, suggesting approaches that might be of benefit to him. It transpired that he’d been working in natural health centres in the UK for years and came out to India for what he referred to as a field trip every year or so, picking up new ideas along the way. A qualified yoga teacher, Reiki Master and herbal practitioner, he now managed a centre in London. But he really wanted to get out of the city and live by the sea.
‘Although I’m a Londoner by birth, I’ve always preferred to be near the sea. My artist parents were archetypal hippies, travelling whenever possible, and they brought me with them to India when I was quite small. They often headed to the coast to pitch camp and I thought it was magical.’ He sighed and took a sip of beer. ‘Unfortunately, I have to go where the work is. But if the chance to run a health centre by the sea came up, I’d grab it.’
‘Is there good money to be made in that business? I’d always seen it as a bit fey, all sandals and brown rice.’
Paul grinned. ‘You’d be surprised! Things have moved on apace since the 70s. As long as the facilities are top rate then people are prepared to pay thousands for a week’s stay. Personally, I’m not keen on the financial aspect; I like to focus on getting people well, on all levels, mind, body and spirit. There’s so much dis-ease nowadays…’
Malcolm felt the familiar tingle of an exciting idea. Is this something he could be involved in? He needed a project to occupy him now that the business was sold. He’d felt so empty these past months but this young man, with his beliefs and enthusiasm, bubbling with vibrant health, seemed like the answer to his prayers. He wanted to ask more questions.
‘Sorry, I’ve got to shoot or I’ll miss my next class. Perhaps another time?’
‘Of course. When are you free?’
Several meetings later and they were firm, if unlikely, friends. Paul agreed to help Malcolm improve his health – providing Reiki healing, personal meditation sessions and a foul-tasting herbal concoction, all of which left him feeling better than he’d done for years. He became a firm believer in what he’d once thought to be codswallop and had nothing but respect for Paul. He could understand why people might want to visit a centre that offered such healing and asked Paul if he’d be interested in working for him if he were to invest in a centre. Paul agreed instantly, on condition that he found a place near the sea. Malcolm smiled his agreement and shook on it. And his quest for the ideal place began.
That had been two years ago and now here they were, about to open their centre. Right by the sea, as agreed. Malcolm smiled inwardly at the journey that had brought him full circle, back to the place where he was conceived. And if it hadn’t been for the hand of fate – or in this case, Archie’s – where he would have been born and grown up to inherit from his father. That thought made him scowl. I still have unfinished business to attend to. I haven’t forgotten, Ma.