The first sketches were of scenes from the island: a sea-scape with dunes and sea-grasses in the foreground; a row of fishermen’s cottages with hollyhocks clustered against the white walls; the orchard at the back of the house, with Anaïs cropping the grass beneath the trees; Christophe’s sister and mother sitting on the terrace, Caroline deep in a book, his mother intent on a piece of sewing in her lap. But then she turned a page and found a sketch of a young girl, standing on a jetty, with one hand holding her wide-brimmed hat on her head, her skirts blown by a sea-breeze. And on each page that followed was another sketch of Ella. Some were just a few simple pencil lines which caught a gesture or expression that she recognised as her own. Others were more detailed where he had evidently spent time working on them.
The final drawing in the book was of her asleep just now, the crook of one arm covering her eyes, her fingers curling open in a gesture of abandonment, innocent and trusting, and so tenderly drawn that it made her catch her breath.
Caroline stirred, waking, and Ella quickly closed the book and handed it back to Christophe. He stood, stretching the cramp out of his legs, and then prodded his sister with his bare toes. ‘Come on, you two sleepy-heads. It’s time we headed for home.’ And with that he busied himself, unfurling the sails and making ready the boat, his movements followed with thoughtful distraction by Ella’s wide-eyed gaze, as she absorbed the truth and the beauty of what she’d just seen.
2014, Edinburgh
‘Are you sure you’re warm enough, Granny?’ I arrange the fine woollen shawl around Ella’s shoulders before sitting down on the bench beside her.
‘I’m fine. Stop fussing, Kendra! This is just lovely, what a good idea.’
On this autumn afternoon there’s still a little gentle warmth in the air and the sky is a surprising deep blue. The yellow-brown leaves that remain on the trees are perfectly still on this rare, wind-free day. I was the one to suggest we venture out into the nursing home’s garden for once, rather than staying inside in the stifling cocoon of Ella’s room, a suggestion which evinced a surprised smile from the receptionist as she dug in a drawer for the key to unlock the back door, but one which Ella accepted with alacrity. We sit with our backs to the grey stone wall that encloses the patch of neatly trimmed lawn and the angular rose beds where one or two late blooms cling on doggedly and raise our faces to the low-angled sunlight.
Ella sighs with pleasure. ‘What a treat. Somehow it seems all the more precious when one knows it won’t last much longer.’
I’m not sure whether she’s referring to the fact that winter’s just around the corner or whether it’s something more final that’s on her mind. I take her hand in mine, meaning to comfort her, but finding that the touch of her gnarled, age-worn fingers gives me reassurance instead. There’s a lump in my throat, all of a sudden, and I’m not sure whether it has more to do with the thought of losing my grandmother or the kindness of her touch. Now I come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time Dan and I held hands or touched each other with anything more than a perfunctory peck on the cheek in passing. Her touch reminds me, too, of how I long to be able to hold Finn’s hand in mine; what it would mean to be able to give him that reassurance of love and support. I swallow hard and squeeze Ella’s hand gently in return.
She smiles, looking down at our clasped fingers. ‘Look at your lovely smooth skin, so unlike mine. These awful age-spots. All that sunshine takes its toll over a lifetime. But, oh, it is so wonderful to feel it again!’
She closes her eyes, and I wonder whether the sensation of the sun’s warmth on her face transports her back to those heady days of her first summer on the Île de Ré.
As if she can read my mind, she says, ‘How is the writing coming along?’
‘Well, I think. Would you like me to bring it with me next time and read you what I’ve written so far?’
She releases my hand with a soft pat and rearranges a fold of the shawl. ‘No, I trust you. And I want you to write the story your way. You can read the whole thing to me once it’s finished. But feel free to ask me any questions. Some of my memories are a bit sketchy these days so I may have missed things out when I’ve been rambling into that machine.’
I shake my head. Her recordings are coherent and fluent, making it easy to weave the threads of her story; and the photos help me to picture it all just as it must have been. In fact, her words on the tapes come across as stronger and more confident than her usual speaking voice, making her memories seem more real, more firmly rooted in her mind, than her life today.
Closing her eyes again, Ella speaks softly now. ‘Sometimes it takes time to get to know people – and some we can never really know. But others you can know in a heartbeat. That’s how it was with Christophe and Caroline. I suppose innocence helps . . . childhood friends, first loves. Life gets a lot more complicated as it goes along. But it was life itself that I fell in love with that summer, Kendra, not just the island and the Martet family, but all the possibilities and the hope that that awakening brought with it. It opened my eyes to what life could be.’ She glances at me, a look that is penetrating, as if she can see beneath the surface and into my soul. ‘Have you ever felt that way?’
In the clear autumn sunlight, her eyes are a vivid green flecked with gold. Just like Finn’s, I think, and I know that she glimpses the sadness that flickers across my own face before I can disguise it beneath another smile.
‘When I first met Dan, yes. I’d had a few boyfriends before him, but no one special. But when I met him I knew. In a heartbeat, like you said. And we were both full of the confidence and hope of youth then too. But, like you say, life happens. The hope gets buried under all the other stuff that comes along. And the confidence gets eaten away . . .’ I tail off, my throat constricting again suddenly. I don’t often admit to anyone – least of all myself – just how difficult things are at the moment.
We sit in silence for a moment. And then Ella takes my hand again, giving it a squeeze. ‘Never lose hope, Kendra. Even when everything else is gone. Life without hope is a living death. Hope is what makes us human. Without it, we are in danger of losing touch with what it is to be alive.’
I nod. ‘But sometimes it’s just easier not to. Hope hurts.’
She glances at me again, with that deep green gaze of hers. ‘I know it can do. But in my experience, when you’ve lost so much, feeling that pain just might be better than feeling nothing at all.’
Her words – and her look of profound sadness as she utters them – make me think again of her estrangement from my mother. Does Ella still hope for a reconciliation? Before it’s too late? Writing her story seems to be linked to that somehow, although I still don’t know how or why. But maybe the act of sharing it with me and of knowing it will be there on paper after she’s gone gives her hope of some sort too. At the very least, perhaps it gives her a sense of purpose – or is she simply doing this as a way of trying to encourage me to heave myself out of the rut I’ve found myself in? I thought I was supporting her in coming to visit, but I have the distinct impression that I am gaining far more than I’m giving . . .
The last rays of sunlight slip down behind the wall and the shadow that has been creeping across the grass towards us veils Ella’s face. She shivers slightly. ‘Come on, that was nice while it lasted, but it’s time we went in now.’