Page 67 of Love In Provence
‘Don’t be sorry. We’re just worried about you,’ I say.
‘Was the dessert that awful?’ Ed is concerned.
Graham gives a little laugh, and Keith hands him a tissue, telling him to blow.
The candles flicker on the table.
‘It wasn’t the dessert, not in that way. It just … it reminded me of being seven. At boarding school. I was very lonely and lost. But I remember the custard tarts and the cook. She was fabulous. It made my time there bearable.’
‘You were sent to boarding school at seven?’ Jen says.
We’re all horrified.
He nods. ‘It’s how you learn to keep things to yourself. Not to show emotion. Not to show weakness. Not to show you’re hurting.’ He turns to Keith. ‘I’m so sorry.’
And we all hold our breath, praying it hasn’t come to this, that they’re going their separate ways.
Keith is staring, wide-eyed, at him. His bottom lip is quivering.
‘I know I don’t say how I feel very often, and that annoys you,’ Graham goes on. ‘And I know I’m too critical of you when you cook for me, and you’re just trying to make nice things, and I’m always too worried to eat them in case I put on weight. And I know you didn’t want to come on this trip and really want to go home …’
No one moves.
‘… but I miss him too. I miss our boy so much. I thought, like Jen, that travelling would help ease the pain. I know you miss being at home, and if you want to go back, we will. I love you and I don’t tell you enough. I’m sorry … I love you, and the home you’ve built for us.’
‘And I love you, you silly sod!’ Keith says. ‘I love the family we made, even if he’s not with us right now. We still have each other.’
‘Yes,’ says Graham, his voice catching. ‘I’m sorry I made you come away.’
‘It’s okay. I’m glad you did. I like it here.’ Keith smiles,plants a kiss on his lips and they stay like that for a moment or two. Then, as they break apart, they smile and we find ourselves clapping and waving our napkins as if they had just married.
‘Now, who’s for another custard tart?’ asks Ed, and everyone puts up their hands.
We move on to coffee and stories from the band – and the pickers, all sharing their tales of travel, life on the road.
Something is flapping over the wall. Another napkin. Maybe one of ours flew off when we were waving them. I see it again, like a … white flag?
The gates to the courtyard open and the mayor and Carine come in, their napkins clearly stolen from l’expérience.
‘May we come in?’ says Carine, contrite.
I fold my arms like a stern head teacher. ‘How was dinner?’ I ask.
‘Small!’ they say at the same time, and laugh.
‘Is it true you cooked Henri’sdaubetonight?’ the mayor asks, looking pitifully pleading through his round glasses.
‘Among other dishes.’ The smile returns to my face.
‘What else?’ the mayor asks.
Jen tells of the dishes on the table. Who they belonged to and why they’re there.
The mayor nods, understanding.
When I’ve let them salivate a little, I say, ‘Come on,there’s plenty left,’ and pull up another couple of seats at the table.
‘This is proper home cooking,’ says Serge, having another helping to keep the mayor and Carine company.
