We negotiate a roundabout and pay the toll for the bridge. And then suddenly we are swept into the air on a soaring arc of concrete that, these days, spans the channel separating the Île de Ré from the mainland. For a moment I regret that there’s no longer a ferry to catch; I would have enjoyed retracing that step of my grandmother’s journey. Has the bridge made a difference, I wonder? Has being physically tethered to its motherland made the island lose the sense of otherworldliness, that feeling of stepping off the edge of the world and out on to the ocean that she talked about?
To our left I glimpse the serried ranks of cranes in La Rochelle’s busy port, which stand to attention behind the busy to-and-fro of white-sailed yachts in and out of the harbour.
‘Look, Finn, can you see the boats?’ I try to distract my son from his rocking. It’s been a long day’s journey for him and he’s never comfortable in unfamiliar surroundings.
And then I look to the right and I catch my breath. For there is the Atlantic, a sweep of green water, dappled golden over shallow-lying sandbanks, just as Ella must have seen it that first time. And far out, along the horizon, is a strip of deeper colour, a wash of green-blue that is hard to define. ‘Viridian,’ I murmur. ‘The colour of the ocean beyond the point.’
I needn’t have worried. The island – changed though it must be after all these years – is still an island. I sense it immediately. Even though it’s now referred to as ‘the Twenty-First Arrondissement’ because allegedly le Tout-Paris comes to holiday here in its chic little towns and on its beautiful beaches, there’s no way this low-lying land of salt-marshes and sand-dunes can ever be truly tamed: it will always belong more to the ocean than to the land.
We pass fields of wildflowers, where cornflowers, poppies and Queen Anne’s Lace weave their own exuberant version of the French flag, and fields of purple scorpion weed abuzz with insects. The lush, fresh green of vineyards is interspersed with the old gold of cornfields, scarlet-spattered with yet more poppies. The soil at the roadside is sandy, bound by sprawling tendrils of wild vines which have escaped from the constraining trellising of the vineyards and made a bid for freedom amongst the spikes of silver sea-holly and santolina that thrive in the salty air.
Following the directions Caroline has sent, we turn off the main road and into Sainte Marie de Ré, where Dan negotiates the car through the narrow streets between rows of whitewashed houses. And hollyhocks. They are still here, just as Ella described. Tall spires of tissue-paper flowers in shades of raspberry, apricot, cream and plum.
I glance again at Caroline’s letter. ‘Turn left, following signs to the campsite. Pass the vineyard on your right-hand side and just beyond it you will find the house. Sandrine will leave a key on the terrace at the back, under a blue ceramic pot of geraniums. Make yourself at home. I shall be staying in the apartment above the gallery in Saint Martin, and I look forward to meeting you all the day after you arrive. Come to the gallery at midday and we will go and have some lunch together and make our plans.’
I’m here because Ella asked me to come. When Robbie and Jenny went to collect her things from the nursing home they found a note in the drawer of her bedside cabinet, addressed to me.
It had been an emotional few days; first, the phone call from Robbie to say that she’d gone, and then the conversation I’d had with my mother, telling her about the manuscript. She’d answered the phone in her customary way, with a crisp, ‘Rhona Mitchell speaking.’ Her voice became a little more gentle though, softening when she realised it was me, and she’d asked as fondly as always after Finn and Dan. But when I broached the subject of Ella’s funeral, that defensive tone returned.
‘I don’t know when I’m coming up,’ she’d said. ‘The timing’s not very convenient. I might not even be able to get away.’ There was a finality in the way she said this that allowed no room for argument, so I let her words sit there, heavy as a gravestone.
‘Okay, Mum, but listen, there’s something I need to give you. So, if you’re really not going to come for the funeral I’ll have to send it to you. And I want you to promise me you’ll read it. Will you?’
‘What is it?’ She was suspicious now, distrustful. ‘Something your grandmother’s cooked up?’
‘Please, Mum. Just read it. Then we can talk afterwards.’
She’d sniffed, and I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was a scornful sound or an attempt to disguise the fact that she was crying.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Of course, I’m okay. Why shouldn’t I be?’ A pause . . .
Then she’d said, ‘Don’t go to the trouble of sending whatever it is. Of course, I’ll be there. We’ll stay at Robbie’s. It will be a good opportunity to come and see you all as well.’
‘Okay, Mum, it’ll be lovely to see you.’ I’d hung up the phone and let my hand rest for a moment on the kintsukuroi bowl which sat on the kitchen-dresser weighting down the sheets of paper that tell Ella’s story. I ran my finger lightly around the rim, feeling the almost imperceptible ridge where the vein of gold joins the deep blue shards of pottery, binding them together.
‘She’s coming,’ I’d whispered. Although I don’t know who I was telling it to, standing there in my empty kitchen.
Then I’d picked up the note, written in Ella’s shaky italic script, and re-read it.
My dearest Kendra,
You have been my faithful ally, writing down my story so that Rhona will finally understand. I hope that she will forgive me, although I accept that forgiveness may be too much to ask. But her understanding of the truth will be enough. So you have given me peace of mind, at last, and for that I thank you.
You’ve already helped me so much that I hesitate to ask more of you. But I would like you to go to the Île de Ré, sometime when you can manage it amongst the many demands of your busy life. Would you do that for me? Go to the island and find Caroline. She knows my final wishes.
I should so like you to meet her. And perhaps you might enjoy a visit to that place – I know you’ve grown to love it already through writing about it. I hope you will find some of the freedom and peace there that the island has brought me over the years.
Thank you for being such a wonderful granddaughter. And thank you for telling my story.
Your loving grandmother, Ella.
So my mother came to Scotland for the funeral and we all hugged one another and cried as Ella was laid to rest alongside Angus, her lasting love.
I gave my mother a large envelope, containing the manuscript, and a wrapped box containing the bowl. ‘Open the box after you’ve finished reading this,’ I told her.
She nodded briskly and, without giving them a second glance, stowed both envelope and box into the capacious bag in which she’d brought presents for Finn. I haven’t heard from her in the past fortnight, so I don’t know if she’s begun to read Ella’s story. Or if she’s finished it and decided not to mention it yet. But I understand that she needs time. Plucking up the courage to face the truth may take a while; realising how much more there was to her mother’s story – and her father’s – and allowing the defences of her anger and pride to be dismantled will take considerably longer.
In the back seat of the car, Finn is growing restless. He’s never been on such a long journey before and we’ve been nervous about how he may react to being in strange surroundings. We usually stay at home in the holidays, so that he can be in his familiar environment and stick to his usual routine. Any changes can agitate him, although it’s been a while since he last had a full-blown meltdown. But Dan and I had decided that our need for a holiday outweighed Finn’s need for the safety of familiarity this time, and Caroline’s offer of use of the house was just too tempting to pass up.
Dan’s been struggling, I know, no matter how manfully he’s tried to pretend otherwise. The community garden’s been closed down: government cuts, no funding. That seemed to be the final blow to his confidence. Still jobless, he’s picked up bits of work here and there, doing the accounts for a couple of small local businesses, work that he does late at night once I’m home and can take over Finn’s care. I know how tough it is for him, and how desperately he needs a break – in all senses of the word.
‘You alright back there?’ Dan glances anxiously in the rearview mirror.
‘We’re nearly there, Finn,’ I soothe him. ‘What a good boy you’ve been. Just a few more minutes.’ As I hand him his comforter, a worn scrap of blanket he’s had since he was a baby, I notice he’s bitten his lips until they’re cracked and bleeding. He hangs on to it tightly, bringing it close to his face to smell its reassuring scent of home.
‘Look, there! That must be the house. See, Finn? The white house with the pale blue shutters.’
Dan pulls up on to the sandy verge, alongside the whitewashed wall that surrounds the house and its garden. I’d half prepared myself to be disappointed, expecting that it might be run-down now, the garden overgrown or – worse – levelled to a patch of easily maintained lawn. But Caroline and her assistant Sandrine – the granddaughter of the original Sandrine and Benoît – have looked after the property with loving care over all these years. It’s just as Ella described it and I feel a sense of excitement and relief.