Barbara Taylor Bradford - Remember

Her days were slow, lazy, without pressure, and she had done nothing more complicated than walk around the grounds and the woods close by, and swum in the pool. The fresh air and exercise, and Amelia’s delicious cooking had done her good; in the evenings she had read, listened to music or watched French television in the library, although mostly she had found herself tuning into CNN, being such a news addict.

According to Guillaume, Clee had recently installed cable to pick up the American news network. ‘For his work, you know, Mademoiselle,’ Guillaume had found it necessary to add, and she had turned away to hide the small, amused smile that had touched her lips.

Nicky shifted slightly on the chaise, reached for the citron pressé, took a long swallow, enjoying the tart taste of the lemonade.

It was the last week of June and already hot, although not yet unbearable. Amelia had told her only this morning that July and August were the worst of the summer months in this part of Provence. Blistering was the word she had used. Then Amelia had suddenly launched into a little histoire about the Mistral, the dry north wind that could blow so furiously even in the summer, bringing with it havoc. It came whistling down to the south from the Rhône Valley, and it was often the first real warning of mean weather brewing. Amelia, like most Provencaux, blamed a variety of problems and ailments on the Mistral.

‘Animals can go mad. And people,’ she had confided somewhat dolorously as she had poured Nicky a second cup of café-au-lait. ‘It causes migraine. And la grippe. And toothache. And earache. And sometimes in winter it can blow for as long as three weeks. It destroys property! Uproots trees and flings tiles off the roofs! Quel vent!’ And then with a typical Gallic shrug she had hurried off to the kitchen to refill the coffee pot and warm up more milk for Nicky.

Just as Clee had suggested she would, Nicky had fallen in love with Amelia. The housekeeper was small, stocky, and obviously a very strong woman physically, undeniably Mediterranean with blue-black hair pulled back in a bun, eyes like black olives and a nutbrown complexion. Forever laughing and smiling, and always in a high good humour, she went through the farmhouse doing her vast number of chores like a whirlwind. Or the Mistral perhaps. She cleaned and polished, washed and ironed, baked bread and cakes and tarts, prepared the most wonderful meals, and arranged the beautiful vases of flowers and the decorative baskets of fruit that were all around the house.

Like Amelia, Guillaume was a typical Provencal. He was as brown as a berry with a weatherbeaten face from being outdoors, jet-black hair spreckled with grey, and kindly, humorous brown eyes. Medium in height, and very muscular, he tackled every job with the same vigour and enthusiasm as his wife.

He swept the yard, the outdoor dining terrace and the barbecue patio, cleaned the pool, kept the garden and the orchard spruce, and attended to the little vineyard. This stretched out behind the farmhouse, and covered about four or five acres. Guillaume did the spraying, the cropping and the pruning, and he and Amelia, with some local hired help, picked the grapes, kegged the wine and bottled it.

‘Some of it is sold. Some we keep for ourselves. And for Monsieur Clee, naturellement,’ he had explained to her when he had taken her around the property yesterday, pointing out many of its distinctive features.

Amelia and Guillaume had a son, Francois, who was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris, of whom they were very proud; Nicky had already heard rave notices about him from his doting mother. Their two daughters, Paulette and Marie, were married and lived in the village, and were frequently pressed into service at the farm whenever Clee had more than one guest.

When Clee had called from Moscow, on the night of her arrival, he had described Amelia and Guillaume as the salt of the earth. Now she knew exactly what he meant. They were devoted to him, took care of the farmhouse and the land as if they themselves were the owners. The house they lived in adjoined the main farmhouse and was entered through a door opening off the kitchen. It was built of the same local stone, pale beige in colour and weathered by the years, and had an identical red-tiled roof, heavy wooden shutters and doors painted gleaming white.

Both houses were visible to her from the pool area where she was sitting, and it seemed to her that they appeared to grow up out of the earth, as if they were part of the land itself. And in a sense, they were. The farm and its out-buildings were a hundred and fifty years old, so Guillaume had told her, and they did look as if they had been there forever.

Everything about the farm fascinated Nicky; she was beginning to realize how much she enjoyed being in the country, close to the land. It was easy to see why Clee loved the farm, although he was not able to come here as often as he would like. During the two years she had known him, he had talked about this place occasionally, and she understood why his voice changed slightly whenever he discussed his home in Provence. It was a very special corner of peace and beauty in the troubled and turbulent world.

Nicky stayed outside until almost six o’clock, enjoying the changing light as the sun slowly began to sink down behind the rim of the distant dark hills. Then she took her book and glasses and walked slowly up the flagged garden path to the house.

Climbing the two staircases to her rooms under the eaves, she thought of Yoyo, as she did at some moment during every day. His whereabouts were unknown, and this was the only thing marring her stay here. She and Clee had looked hard for him in Beijing before they had left for Hong Kong. He had disappeared. But then so had most of the other student leaders. ‘Gone underground,’ Clee had said to her, and she had hoped this was really the case, that he had not been arrested.

She and the crew and Clee had hung around Hong Kong for several days, hoping he would show up, but he had not and in the end they had had no alternative but to leave.

Nicky’s only consolation was that Yoyo knew where to find them. She had given him her business card in the first week she had met him, as had Arch and Clee. She could only hope that he would be able to get himself out of China, using the money they had given him.

At one moment she had thought about writing to him at the Central Academy of Arts, but had resisted, knowing that a letter from a Western journalist could easily create untold problems for him. Who knew whether the mail was censored or not? In her opinion, it most probably was these days. And a letter from her might cost him his freedom. Or his life.

Sighing under her breath, Nicky pushed open the door to her rooms and went in, trying to set aside her worries about Yoyo. She was helpless. There was nothing she could do except pray he was still safe, and that he would find a way to escape to the West.

The scream shattered her nightmare.

It echoed around the bedroom and seemed to pierce her brain, almost as if she herself were screaming. Nicky sat up with a jerk, instantly wide awake, her face and arms bathed in sweat. She tilted her head and listened, blinking as she adjusted her eyes to the dimness of the room.

There was no sound except for the faint ticking of the clock on the bedside table, the rustle of the leaves on the tree outside the window as they brushed against the panes of glass.

Had she herself screamed out loud during her frightening dream? Or had it been someone else? Someone outside? She was not sure, and just to make certain she climbed out of bed and went to the window. She looked out. The sky was dark, cloudless. A full moon was slung high above the old stables, and it cast a silvery sheen over everything in the yard, throwing into focus the cypress tree, the old wheelbarrow planted with flowers, the garden seat, the flight of steps leading down into the orchard. But there was no one out there, so it was not possible that anyone had screamed. Except for her, of course.