Page 39 of The Village Cafe in the Loire

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, just… it is sad, isn’t it, that I hadn’t seen her for so long when she died. I wish now that I’d tried a bit harder.’

‘Come on, it wasn’t as if you were close.’

‘We were once though. And she was fond of me, fonder than I’d realised.’ Becky had raised her finger and traced the outline of a tree over the glass. ‘I didn’t know she didn’t really… have anyone. I mean, she had lots of friends. But no real family.’

Amber had put her arm around her friend. ‘Well, sometimes friends can be just as important than blood ties,’ she’d said.

Becky had nodded. She hoped what Pascal had said was true, and that Maud had had some friends who’d become like family. ‘Still…’

‘Come on, Maud wouldn’t have wanted you to feel guilty, I’m sure,’ Amber had said.

‘I guess.’

‘Perhaps it’s the universe’s way of telling you to spend more time with your mother?’ Amber had suggested, looking at her friend askew.

‘Yeah. No. I don’t think that’s it,’ Becky had replied, laughing.

‘At least we know where you get your artistic flair from.’

‘My artistic flair?’

‘Yeah. You know. Advertising. Thinking up new concepts. Thinking about what appeals,’ Amber said, shrugging as they turned back towards the stairs. ‘And your drawing.’

‘My drawing? I never draw!’

‘You’re kidding, right? All those doodles on our shopping lists, the pictures you put on that little white board where we’re meant to write reminders. I always thought they were really good.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Maybe you should experiment a bit.’

Once they’d finished, Pascal made them coffee and they both joined him at the counter, leaning against the worn wood and chatting. ‘It’s a lovely place,’ Amber said. ‘I can see why you wanted to stay here.’

Pascal nodded. ‘Yes. I have made a good home here. Although I’m leaving soon. I will miss this place.’

‘Becky’s been showing me Maud’s photographs,’ Amber continued. ‘She was pretty good, wasn’t she?’

‘Oui, she is an artist, it is sure. It is a little messy down in her studio, but I left it just as she liked it. And have you seen the pictures in her bedroom?’

‘Studio?’ Becky said, confused.

‘Oui, of course. I thought you said you had shown Amber Maud’s works?’

‘Well, yes, the ones on the walls.’

Pascal laughed. ‘Then you have not seen anything! Let me get Stéphane to mind the café for a moment and I will show you!’

Moments later, Pascal opened a door she hadn’t acknowledged before and saw, instead of a cupboard interior as she’d imagined, that there was a set of stairs leading down into darkness. Snapping a light on, he gestured that they should follow him.

‘This is where we get murdered,’ Amber whispered into Becky’s ear, and she almost laughed out loud.

The dark stairwell opened out into a generous cellar space. The building was built onto a slope, meaning that one side of the basement was officially underground, the other had window spaces at the top where the room emerged from the soil. Light flooded the room and illuminated the white walls, lines stretched with photos pegged as if Maud had just stepped away. There were piles of paper, a door reading ‘Dark room’ and camera equipment piled on tables and shelves. ‘Oh,’ Becky said suddenly. ‘I remember this!’

She did – following Maud into the darkness, feeling a little frightened until the light had snapped on. The memories were vague, like a whisper of fog on a winter’s evening. She breathed in the air and inhaled the specific mix of ink and paper and purpose; all with just a touch of Maud’s lavender perfume still lingering from the last time her aunt was there. Her mind raced – and then she was there, sitting by Maud’s side in the garden, sketching a sunset. Trying her hand at mixing paints and coming up with brown almost every time. Another summer, somewhere in a field of sunflowers. Maud laughing and taking her picture. The feeling of being seen and cherished and just so utterly happy.

The tears were unexpected, welling painfully in her eyes and spilling over almost before she knew it was happening. With Pascal and Amber still looking at propped up paintings and studying the room, Becky was able to wipe the wetness with her sleeve and steady her breathing. Still, when Pascal turned, it was clear she was upset. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked.

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