T Williams - To Provence, with Love

‘Is Miss Beech up? I’m supposed to meet her at nine.’

Claudette glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘I would think so. I expect she’s in her study. Do you know where that is?’ Faye shook her head. ‘It’s the door right opposite the door to the dining room. You can’t miss it.’

‘Shall I take Marlon with me?’ The lower part of Faye’s legs were wet now, where the damp dog had rubbed himself against her. She saw Claudette’s eyes register the fact.

‘No, he can stay here with me until he’s dried off. Marlon, go and lie down.’ She pointed towards a dog bed to one side of the big range cooker and Faye was impressed to see him obediently trot over and slump down as instructed. ‘Good dog. You go on through, Faye. I’ll bring you both some tea in a little while.’

‘Thank you so much, Claudette.’ This would have been a good moment for Faye to tell Claudette she shouldn’t bring her too many of her wonderful biscuits, but her attempt at self-denial faltered and she said nothing. She was realistic enough to acknowledge that her resolve wouldn’t have lasted anyway when she smelt the next freshly baked batch.

She slipped through the door, closing it behind her, and walked along the corridor to the study. The door was open and a fine old grandfather clock was striking nine as she tapped on the door.

‘Come in, Faye, come in.’ Miss Beech had installed herself on a lovely old leather sofa and there was a big cardboard box on the floor in front of her. She was dressed in a long skirt and a voluminous but gorgeous linen blouse that somehow just emphasized how tiny and frail she really was. She wasn’t wearing make-up this morning and it showed. ‘I hope you slept well.’

‘Really well, thank you, Miss Beech. What about you?’

‘I was fine until the rain started. That woke me up and then I spent a long time trying to get back to sleep. I did a lot of thinking, though, and I’ve come to a conclusion. I really don’t want this to be a “kiss and tell” sort of book. We’ve all got skeletons in our cupboards if you look closely enough. I’d hate to think that my story might cause rancour in a community that’s been so good to me. Yes, I’ve met my fair share of bastards, but I’ve met a whole lot more good, decent folk. Last night you talked about “warts and all”, but I’d prefer it to be a celebration of my life and all the wonderful friends I’ve had the good fortune to make, instead of one of those rather nasty books that sets out to destroy other people’s reputations. Are you happy with that as a brief?’

‘Very happy, yes. And that way we won’t have any legal complications if it ever gets into print. That was going to be one of the first things I wanted to talk to you about. I loved Eddie’s anecdotes last night and it’s going to be great to include that sort of thing, but I’ll ensure that we pick the nice ones, rather than anything cruel or controversial. That way we should keep the lawyers off our backs.’ Faye glanced down. ‘So, is this the famous box?’

Miss Beech nodded and reached down, scrabbling at the cardboard as she tried unsuccessfully to bend forward enough to delve inside. Faye immediately saw the problem and picked the surprisingly heavy box up and set it down on the sofa between them. Miss Beech made an immediate dive for a cluster of battered diaries, held together with string, and handed the package across to Faye.

‘Here, Faye, your fingers are going to be better than mine at untying knots. Oh, dear, you’re going to get all dusty.’

‘These are old clothes. I’ll be fine.’ Faye made short work of undoing the string and arranged the diaries in chronological order on the coffee table in front of them. They covered most of the years from 1950 to 1980. She looked across at Miss Beech. ‘Where would you like to start? The beginning?’

‘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.