‘Yuck,’ said Edith. ‘This isn’t how Isaac Forest looked the last time I was here.’
They climbed from the car and stared in silence. Even Finnegan sat still and quiet, his head tilted to one side.
The entire valley had been cleared of its trees. The wide, open space was a mess of sawdust, branches, woodchips, muddy machine tracks and stumps. The stumps bled sap, thick and sticky like treacle. New wounds.
Freja reached up and took hold of Tobias’ hand. ‘A massacre,’ she whispered. ‘Everything is ripped and ragged and raw.’
She looked back at the strip of forest through which they had just travelled. There were ancient oaks and towering pines, a carpet of grass and tiny yellow flowers and clumps of soft fungi. Reminders of the beauty that had once filled this valley.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ asked Cosette.
‘And why?’ asked Christophe.
‘Money,’ said Vivi. ‘Look at those piles of timber over there by that hut. They are long and straight and filled with many years of growth. Timber like that is extremely valuable.’
‘But beautiful forest is even more valuable,’ said Freja. ‘Priceless. Irreplaceable!’
‘Oui,’ said Edith. ‘This is wicked.’
‘But not criminal, I’m afraid,’ said Tobias. ‘Logging is allowed.’
‘But where will the deer and the rabbits and the mice live?’ asked Cosette.
‘And the ducks!’ cried Pippin. ‘What about the ducks? They will have to lay their apples on top of the tree stumps. The foxes will see them and steal their apples and make them into tarte tartin, and there will never be another pink duckling hatching in Isaac Forest ever again!’ Pippin buried his face in Cosette’s overalls and began to weep.
‘I say,’ cried Tobias, ‘this is not the cheering picnic I’d imagined. I think it might be time for Plan B.’
‘What’s Plan B?’ asked Freja.
Tobias tugged at his ear. ‘Plan B is to fly by the seat of our pants. Jump in the car. Drive, look, listen, wonder . . . In other words, there is no Plan B.’
‘An adventure!’ cried Vivi. ‘Wonderful!’
They travelled westward, through hills and valleys, farms and villages. Tobias pulled baguettes and chunks of cheese from his backpack and they ate hungrily, the wind from the open roof blowing the crumbs into their hair.
They drove through fields of sunflowers, the giant yellow heads nodding in the breeze.
‘Look!’ cried Freja. ‘They’re waving and wishing us a grand adventure. Each flower is smiling and singing, “Bonne journée! Bonne journée!”’
‘And look at those strawberry fields over there!’ cried Christophe. ‘Every strawberry is bobbing up and down on its little plant, begging us to pluck it and eat it. “Bon appétit! Bon appétit!”’
Tobias chuckled and, miraculously, produced a paper bag of strawberries. The sweet, tangy fruit filled their mouths and tummies. Pink juice ran down their chins, drying to a sticky jam in the warm, dry wind. Finnegan lurched about licking faces until the back seat was a rabble of arms and legs and tails and tongues and giggles and squeals.
And then, like magic, a calm settled over them all. It was early afternoon, sieste time, and Pippin fell asleep in Tobias’ lap. Finnegan stretched across the children’s knees and snored. Vivi seemed to have mastered the art of driving at last and they glided through Provence as though in a dream — a dream filled with red poppies and hilltop villages and limestone outcrops and pine-covered ridges and valleys full of green wheat and sunshine and wind and, finally, miles and miles of lavender. The flowers had just come into bloom and the entire countryside was bathed in purple.
‘Lavender,’ sighed Vivi. ‘The most beautiful of Provence’s flowers.’
‘Maman says lavender calms people,’ said Edith. ‘That’s why she gives lavender perfume to Mademoiselle Roux each Christmas. She needs it, because teaching Christophe frazzles her nerves.’
‘And that’s why Papa makes tiny lavender cakes for us when we are worried about something,’ said Cosette.
‘Lavender cakes,’ muttered Christophe, then shouted, ‘I’m starving! When’s the picnic?’
‘We’ve been eating all the way!’ cried Edith.
‘But Christophe is right!’ cried Tobias. ‘Our goal was to have a jolly picnic in a spiffing place, and where better than amidst the lavender fields of Provence?’
Tobias had barely closed his mouth at the end of his sentence when Vivi veered off the road and screeched to a halt in front of a stone farmhouse. She jumped from the car and rapped on one of the window shutters.
A stout woman wearing a floral dress and white apron opened the door. She and Vivi exchanged words and laughter. They pointed at the lavender field and the sun and nodded.
‘Bienvenue! Welcome!’ sang the lady. ‘I would be delighted for you to picnic in my lavender fields. Touch!
Smell! Pick! And may you take some of the sunshine and joy from my farm when you leave.’ She blew them a kiss and disappeared inside.
The boys, the twins, the dog and the writer tumbled out of the car and ran with Vivi, deep into the lavender, searching for the perfect picnic spot. But Freja dawdled behind. Strolling along a row of lavender bushes, she ran her hand over the top of the flowers. The perfume wafted up around her, the fresh herbal goodness filling her nose, her lungs, her entire body. Her mind filled with visions of clean white sheets, sunbeams and fat furry bees. She turned slowly around, her eyes drinking in the sea of purple that seemed to spread beyond the lavender bushes and into the sky, turning the air from blue to lilac.
Freja picked a lavender flower, rolled it between her hands and held it up to her nose. ‘Perfect,’ she sighed. ‘A field like this could heal anything — a broken heart, a sore head, a tummy ache, a bad temper.’ She giggled. ‘Mimosa Astérisque should do her daily yoga in a field of lavender . . .’
And then, of course, she thought of Clementine. ‘Mummy Darling Heart,’ she whispered, ‘if only you could walk here with me.’
Kneeling in the dirt, she picked the fattest, brightest flowers with long silver stems and twisted them into a wreath. A wreath to send to Clementine. Pressing it down over her golden curls, Freja smiled up at the sun and the eagle that was soaring overhead, and willed the vision and all the goodness it contained and all the love in her heart to soak into the lavender wreath.
‘Freja!’ Edith and Cosette ran down the hill towards her. ‘We’re setting up the picnic. Come quickly before Christophe eats it all.’
Vivi spread a large yellow quilt beneath an olive tree, then filled the space in the middle with chocolate éclairs, madeleines, a large cherry tart and her own famous macarons — pink, yellow, mint green and lilac.
Christophe grinned and stuffed a macaron into each cheek.
Pippin snuggled up to Freja. ‘It is a feast most delicious, is it not, Freja Peachtree? My heart is beating joyfully at the thought of all the good things that will soon be dancing in my belly.’
‘Ah, but the best is yet to come, King Pippin!’ cried Tobias. With great ceremony, he unzipped his backpack and pulled out a Thermos of hot water, a canister of tea leaves and a very special teapot.
Pippin squealed and clapped his chubby, little hands. ‘Monsieur Happleby! This is the best day of my entire life! It is a teapot most splendid! A teapot shaped like a duck. The most beautiful duck in all of France.’
Pippin threw himself at Tobias, shouting, ‘I love you! I love you! I love you!’ Then grabbing the teapot, he smothered it with kisses. ‘Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! And I love you too, my beautiful ducky friend!’
Vivi threw back her head and laughed until she snorted.
And then they were all laughing. Pippin giggling down the spout of his teapot. Edith and Cosette howling, clutching at one another. Christophe spraying madeleine crumbs into Freja’s face. Finnegan dashing back and forth, barking, licking, dribbling. Vivi and Tobias, their eyes locked in love.
When the laughter settled, Christophe brushed the crumbs from Freja’s cheek and passed her a lemon macaron.
Freja looked down at the macaron, then back to Christophe. She wondered if he knew how amazing it felt for her to have other children as friends. A miracle! A miracle of which Christophe had been a huge and wonderful part.
‘Thank you for being my friend,’ she whispered.
Christophe tilted his head to one side and Freja worried that he was about to say something really stupid, like, ‘God bless you, my child!’ or, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Can I have that macaron back?’ or, ‘I don’t suppose you have a chocolate croissant in your pocket?’
But he didn’t.
He scratched his head and smiled and said the loveliest thing possible: ‘Thank you for being my friend, Freja Peachtree.’