I hold my breath as Finn clambers out of the car at last – he’d refused at first, so we’d left him sitting in his seat as we opened up the house and began to unload the bags. He sat there with his comforter, crooning softly to himself, which is one of his self-soothing techniques when he’s feeling anxious or stressed. Dan and I exchanged a guarded glance, both wondering whether this trip was going to turn out to be another horrible mistake to add to the list of abortive attempts at holidays we’d had in the early days, before we gave up trying.
I pretend to rummage in one of the bags as Finn walks up the path and stands in the doorway, his slight frame backlit against the sunshine beyond. A waft of breeze lifts the white muslin curtains on either side of the French doors in the kitchen and they billow voluminously, filling like the sails of a ship. Automatically, I tense, bracing myself for his high-pitched scream if he is panicked by this unfamiliar sight. But, to my amazement and relief, he begins to laugh. I feel my shoulders drop as they relax, and I laugh too, with joy, at his rarely heard response. Because he laughs so seldom, it’s all the more precious when he does.
He points. ‘Look, Mummy, it’s ghosts. Friendly ones, like Casper.’
For a second I wonder whether he truly is seeing spirits, whether his mind allows him to glimpse worlds the rest of us cannot. And it seems plausible that he might, because the house feels full of friendly ghosts. It’s already welcoming and familiar, even though we’ve only just walked into it, filled as it is with the spirit of Marianne’s gentle kindness, and Monsieur Martet’s love for his family, and Christophe’s passionate sense of beauty. But when I turn to follow Finn’s gaze, it’s just the joyous, billowing dance of the curtains in the sea-breeze that is amusing him so.
‘Come upstairs and see your bedroom. I think it might have curtains like that too.’
With calm acceptance, he takes my hand – another treasured rarity – and we climb the stairs together.
‘I like holidays, Mummy,’ he tells me as he stands on the bright rag rug in his room, watching as I open the shutters and allow the sunlight to flood in. I know better than to scoop him up in my arms and hug him tightly to me, even though, instinctively, it’s still what I yearn to do. But I hold my hand up, fingers spread like a starfish, and he presses his own tiny starfish hand against mine in our agreed gesture of love.
I nod, smiling into his wide green eyes, so like the eyes of his great-grandmother in the photographs when she was young. ‘I like holidays too.’
After supper, he settles under the counterpane on his unfamiliar bed without a murmur. I pull the shutters to, but leave the window open, drawing the curtains across. ‘Look,’ I whisper, ‘the friendly ghosts are keeping you company.’
He nods, his expression grave as usual, and spreads his comforter on his pillow so that the familiar smell of home will keep his night terrors at bay.
‘Good night, Finn. Sleep tight.’
I tiptoe back downstairs to the kitchen, where Dan is running water into the sink to start the washing-up. ‘Leave that,’ I say, handing him a towel to dry his hands. ‘Let’s go and sit on the terrace and finish our wine.’
He pulls me to him and I bury my face in the comforting breadth of his chest. We haven’t shared a moment like this for ages. It feels good to stand here like this, together.
With his arm around my waist, he guides me back to the garden and we sit at the table picking at the cheeses and the bowl of glossy cherries that Caroline had left for our arrival, sipping the dark red wine in our glasses. Dan raises his glass to mine with a soft clink. ‘Here’s to Ella, who brought us here. What a paradise it is.’
‘To Ella,’ I echo. And I smile as I reach for my husband’s hand, our fingers interlocking. We sit there in silence for a while, watching the stars come out as a crescent moon, delicate as an eyelash, drifts in the dark sky above our heads. I breathe in the honeysuckle-scented air and I remember Marianne.
I don’t know whether it’s the wine, or the novelty of sitting out so late in the warm night air, or perhaps it’s the fact that the two of us are light-headed with relief – and not a little disbelief – that Finn seems so relaxed here and that we are finally having a family holiday. But suddenly I feel closer to Dan than I’ve done in ages. Years, in fact. The ten long years since Finn was born.
Sitting here beside my husband, holding his hand in the soft glow that escapes through the slats of the shutters from the lamp that lights the night in Finn’s bedroom, to keep the terrors that torment him at bay, I know what a toll all of this has taken on Dan and me. But the Île de Ré seems to be weaving its subtle magic around us, just as it did around Ella and Christophe all those years ago, binding us to one another again, reminding me how much I love this man who has shared the struggle to understand our son and to try to get him the care he needs. I’m reminded of Ella’s single-minded determination when it came to caring for Robbie through his battle with polio, cajoling the authorities into providing the right treatment for him. I must have inherited that gene from her, I think, and it renews my sense of purpose to think that, in some way, she will be with me to keep on fighting for Finn, whatever the future may hold. It’s a frightening prospect, to put it mildly. How can we create an environment where he’ll feel safe? What will happen when he outgrows the specialist school where, even now, the resources and support available for him are limited? Will he ever be able to work? To support himself? And the unthinkable thought is always there, the dread that consumes me in the sleepless hours on my worst nights: what will happen to him when we’re gone?
As if he’s read my mind, Dan laces his fingers over mine, and I turn to smile at him.
‘It’s been tough, hasn’t it? You’ve been a star, Kendra. Keeping it all going while I’m lazing about at home.’
‘It’s hardly your fault you lost your job. And you never laze at home. I know what hard work Finn is. You’re doing a fantastic job. He loves having you there to look after him. Look how he enjoyed the gardening project while it lasted. How he loves working with you in the allotment.’
Dan nods. ‘He does, doesn’t he? You know, I’m really rather proud of our vegetable patch. And the other day, after we’d visited the City Farm, he told me he wants to make it bigger and maybe get some chickens too.’
I laugh. ‘Can you imagine what the neighbours would have to say about that?’ Our pocket handkerchief of a suburban plot is no smallholding.
‘It would be great, wouldn’t it, to move to the country some day? Finn definitely seems more relaxed in a rural environment. Just look at how well he’s adapted to being here. We could have a proper vegetable garden, maybe an orchard too like that one’ – he waves his wine-glass towards the trees just visible beyond the gate at the far end of the garden – ‘Finn could learn some proper gardening skills, maybe get a job at a plant nursery eventually, or on a farm . . .’
‘Would you enjoy that, do you think? Giving up city life and moving to the country?’
He’s silent for a few moments, contemplating. ‘Do you know? I really think I would. I’d like to be my own boss, start some kind of project of my own, something creative that Finn could be part of. Be master of my own fate, for once, instead of reliant on other people’s business for my salary. Or lack thereof!’
In the dim light, I glimpse the way his mouth turns down, a flicker of despair contorting his features briefly. But he pulls himself together, as he always does, protecting me from his sadness and his frustration, his sense of failure.
‘What about you?’ He squeezes my hand again gently. ‘What would you do if we won the lottery?’
I laugh again. ‘We’d better start buying tickets!’ Then, more seriously, I say, ‘I’d love it, I think, living in the country. I could write, and help with Finn, and collect the eggs from the chickens and cook you both delicious, nourishing meals with our homegrown produce.’ I sip my wine. ‘Isn’t it a pity that the city is where the jobs are? The minor flaw in our cunning plan.’
Dan stretches, leaning against the back of his chair, raising his face to the starlight far above us. He sighs, a despondent breath of frustration. Then turns to face me again, leans in to kiss me. ‘At least we are dreaming. And that, in itself, is progress. I’ve just realised that I stopped dreaming a long time ago. It’s time we started again. Life is definitely the better for it.’
I smile, remembering my grandmother’s words. ‘Ella once said something very much along those lines too.’
He releases my hand and draws a finger along my jaw-line, caressing it softly. ‘You have the same-shaped face as her. I only realised it when I saw the photos of her when she was young. How lucky I am. I love you, Kendra.’
And I realise in this moment that he is my first love and my lasting love. Together, we are Finn’s parents. Together, we will make it work, whatever life sends our way. And that – I see suddenly – is all that matters.
My eyes meet his and I notice that they are the clear blue of a summer’s sky: the sadness, the fear, the guilt and the pain that have clouded them so often of late, have all been washed away. His gaze is unequivocal.